A Trained Penis III

Within hours the kink returns... at least thoughts of quirkiness return. No television, no radio, no music, Molly left me in the small farm house, partially restored by friend George but lacking many of the entertaining diversions of my New York apartment. In turning off all the lights, I am in darkness and the thoughts percolate.

How much has Molly planned and how much of her afternoon antics were spontaneous? Having ankle shackles stowed in her bag certainly required forethought. And whereas normally, even when cuffed, I could somehow squirm about and turn on some lights, Molly produced a longer chain before departing. Where did that come from?

Yes, my hobbled feet are further restrained, right ankle cuff secured to an antique radiator in the living room.

So how much have my warped desires awakened something within Molly? Restraining me with so little room to maneuver isn’t part of my thing... whatever that is.  

And who is the friend joining Molly for dinner? Despite my nervous cross examination, calling out to her as she prettified herself in the bathroom, nothing was divulged.

Then there’s that look as she spoon fed me the bland oatmeal... something I have not eaten since childhood. She seemed to enjoy my helplessness, pinching and squeezing my right nipple when I stubbornly refused more spoonfuls. More Schadenfreude.

In the darkness, the quiet, no sounds other than the serenade of frogs and insects, I ruminate on some foreboding comments. During my feeding, Molly was insistent that I describe my feelings when she withdrew her stroking hand, the sunny afternoon of CFNM ending so... so... ruefully I suppose is the word.

Ruefully for me any way, as I recall Molly gleefully capturing my frustration with the camera.

“It... it... felt... well like something good was about to happen... but didn’t.”

“Like a sneeze?” Molly inquired. “One that just doesn’t come?”

“Yes,” amazed that she could so adequately describe the combination of pending ecstasy and disappointment.

“Suppose it was your last, Jack?” her tone quite plain... innocuous.

At that point I paused, pretending to masticate the horrid oatmeal, gathering thoughts.

What was Molly inferring?

“How would you feel about that... your last orgasm meekly drooling to the soil,” the words further stimulating... stimulating something within.

“Why would it be my last?” finally finding a response.

“Answering a question with a question.... tsk, tsk.”

With that, bowl of blandness consumed, she snickered and arose from the table, washing, rinsing, then departing for the bathroom.

My reflections become unfocussed as nature calls. And of course the bathroom cannot be reached. I had not given that a thought while Molly was chaining me to the radiator. So now the boredom shifts to panicking thoughts... soiling the carpet of my good friend George. Curious how given a specific time, one can manage to somewhat relax and hold. But given the unknown... at what time Molly will return and release me... significantly increases the concern of embarrassing oneself.

The urge increases and I make the mistake of standing. The weight shift seems to further press my bladder and the need becomes dire. In the moon lit living room I spy a decorative bowl filled with fake fruit resting on a low coffee table. It will have to do. I am gladdened to find I have enough slack on the chain. I position and release, splattering the faux fruit, chagrined in knowing Molly will be miffed. Still the release is most welcomed and I am heartened with the realization that, upon Molly’s return, I will finally be freed from bondage in order to clean up my excretions.         

A Trained Penis II

“And now you’re limp,” Molly mockingly points out. “Sore? Did I get the lotion on in time?”

In the kitchen of my friend George’s old farm house I sit, chagrined and well worn.

Molly’s ankle shackles proved to be exhausting. Not so much the weight, which was felt, but the fact that during the return trek from the ridge, the short chain afforded the most limited of steps. So as Molly strolled freely, her long down hill strides quick and effortless, I had to shuffle, rapidly pressing forward my bare feet at more than twice her rate of pace. She giggled like a school girl, turning her head to view my male package as it flopped about most comically.

And yes the sun tan lotion was timely applied, no sun burn. But Molly’s nimble fingers worked the lotion with fervor, my erection gleefully standing in salute. Finally came the command.

“Let me know when you’re going to spurt for me,” her voice low and sultry.

Well, with all the thrill... naked, collared and leashed under the auspices of this playful yet controlling woman... it took not many strokes before I nodded.

With that, my playful friend turned wicked, withdrawing her hand and retrieving her digital camera. Unbeknownst to me, the video mode was preset.

Yes, she filmed the ruined orgasm, my neglected penis throbbing in need. With wrists remaining cuffed behind my back, my jism meekly oozed as I pulled mightily with my PC muscles in attempting to bring the ecstasy of normal ejaculation, my masturbating right hand struggling against its bond.

Was it the frustration or her laughter which most annoyed?

“Guess it’s time to take off the cuffs. Get a shower.”

“I’ll decide that,” Molly warmly apprizes. “It may be your fantasy... your game.... but I’ll make the rules.”

Having spent my load, hormone levels reset, for some reason her authoritative words don’t have the affect of arousal. Then it dawns, whereas I’ve had my jollies, in crass terms, Molly has graciously played along, sans any release for her. She is in need.

“Well, I can offer more attention without the cuffs and shackles.”

“You shot your load. Take a rest.”

“It really wasn’t shot, Molly. Just kind of oozed. Not very gratifying. I’ll reload while cooking dinner for you,” turning and pressing forth my restrained hands in seeking release.

“No. I’ll feed you. Then I have a dinner date... in Saratoga. An old friend from nursing school. You’d be welcome to join us except you only have a tank top, gym shorts and sandals. They won’t serve you in a good restaurant. Really Jack, you could have at least packed underwear.”

“That’s not kinky.”

“Not practical either,” Molly stepping out of the kitchen.

My quest for emancipation ignored, I sit on a kitchen chair, the quirky delight of bondage slowly transforming to exasperation. Then Molly returns, the few garments I wore on the drive from New York in her hand.

“You want kinky, you’re going to get kinky,” smirking in grabbing the car keys from the counter.

Helpless to intervene, Molly marches out the back door. I hear a click and then the slam of the car trunk. When she returns, her march seemingly triumphant, there are no clothes, no keys.

“No clothing. And the keys are well hidden in the yard, should you manage to exit the house to search.”

Standing arms akimbo, my beautiful Molly suddenly seems imposing. It’s that smile... Schadenfreude it’s termed.

“I’ll boil you some oatmeal. Then I need to change for dinner. Oscar’s, if you remember, is an expensive place... so I’ll take your credit card with me.”

New short story

I have published on Lulu 'A Trained Penis'. 12,300 words, $4.00.

Female Dominant, male submissive, CFNM, bondage, humiliation.

I will probably post another snippet or two here on the blog.

http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/a-trained-penis/19594237

A Trained Penis I

A new short story. Not sure how much I'll be posting.

Enjoy

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A Trained Penis

Copyright 2016

by Chris Bellows
 
“CFNM... clothed female, naked male. And we had to drive 100 miles up the Hudson for this, Jack? My apartment wouldn’t do it for you?”

“The weather’s good, and the country is nice this time of year. And New York apartments... ah... well... can be confining.”

“Yeah, confining for this,” the words snickered.

With her retort, Molly shakes the leash. Her playful jostling brings a smile as she looks down, her exaggerated stare mocking my turgid reaction. I am erect... for her. At least that’s what my demented mind tells myself.

“You’re fortunate to have a secluded place for this Jack. Probably get arrested anywhere else. And I worry about my complicity... what local ordinances I’m breaking, leading you about cuffed and naked.”

“It’s private property. Many acres, George has been purchasing adjacent parcels, so we can walk a ways. There’s a high point... with a nice view.”

Wrists cuffed behind my back, I nod in the general direction.

“Who’s leading whom? You’ll follow the leash. I just might take you to the main road and tie you off. You can waggle your erection for the passing cars,” Molly’s tone turning stern.

I so much enjoy it when she gets into her role. It’s... well... fulfilling.

Still Molly tugs in the suggested direction. As a photographer... amateur but accomplished... she likes good vistas. On this cloudless perfectly sunny day, I know it will please her... and I want to please.

“George have any idea what you do here when you visit his old farm.”

“No. Just a weekend out of the City. Told him you’d enjoy the scenery... you’d be taking pictures.”

“So I’m the beard. Molly wants to use her camera. Nothing about cuffs, collars, leashes and the lack of clothing. And didn’t you pack anything to wear? Thought we’d at least go to dinner.”

The rebuking words come as Molly casually strolls and I follow, doing my best in obedience by keeping tension off the leash.

My silence brings her to pause and peer back. She smiles anew, her free hand reaching for the digital camera about her neck. Proficiency attained, she snaps off a series, my erection I am sure centered in the frame.

“Very photogenic Jack. You were right to have me shave you. Lots of pink for the camera lens. But can’t you do that yourself?”

"Thought you’d enjoy that. Kind of a control thing.”

Molly nods, checking the photos for clarity then resuming, snapping the leash taut and seeming pleased to feel my head buck in response. Is she indeed enjoying her role? I so much hope so.

The trail ascends. I tell myself on the next journey to have footwear. Unbecoming, contrasting the thrill of total nakedness, sticks and pebbles bring pain and an awkward gait. My bare feet suffer.

Reaching the crest, I am heartened to see Molly beam in happiness. She somehow knows to tie off the leash, more and more readily accepting her role in continuing her aura of control and my sense of ownership. She sighs in giddiness reaching again for the camera. The view is breathtaking, this particular vantage point a major factor in closing the purchase of the aging farm... my friend George similarly impressed.         

“It’s lovely Jack,” turning the lens toward my bound nakedness and clicking away. “And I do believe you're getting harder.”

Her observation comes as she removes a canvas bag from her shoulder.

“Now. I don’t like the idea of you having so much freedom with your feet.”

Ankle cuffs! Black wrought iron, and a disturbingly short connecting chain. My heart leaps. Molly is readily stepping into her role. But wherever did she procure shackles?

“And I’d better get some lotion on you. The sun is strong. And your penis is so nicely exposed...”

'A Curious Arrangement'

From my latest short story, available in its entirety from Lulu as noted on my September 26 post.  This will be the only snippet. Enjoy. Meanwhile, comments and feedback are welcomed.

Next week, another short story. 

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A Curious Arrangement

Copyright 2016

By Chris Bellows

Pamela Owens pulls into the brick driveway 15 Rosedale Lane. She stops before the massive gate a finger pressing to roll down the window of her Mercedes. As she punches in the code for the ornate barrier, she notes a large envelope stuffed into the nearby mailbox. She lets the car roll forward, snatching the missive as the heavy ironwork swings open.

It cannot be mail, she tells herself. That is all forwarded to the attorneys. She notes the sender, MacAdam Dentler CPA’s. Yes, it’s the quarterly accounting report for Hanson Industries delivered by messenger. Tossing it to the passenger seat she guns the engine to proceed up the steep incline, entering the vast estate of Robert Hanson, wealthy entrepreneur, retired and now... well... how should one describe his preoccupation?

In slowing the car before the porte cochere, Pamela Owens recalls her first visit, the interview, the apprehension, the unknown, the Craig’s Listing vague, it’s wording cabalistic.

    Part time position for an experienced nurse offering treatment for a man with special needs. Must be physically capable, assertive, skilled in handling the incapacitated. Flexible hours, generous compensation for the applicant with an aptitude for exacting discipline.

Something intrigued. Something brought alarm. In the medical profession, one does not offer treatment or ‘handle’. One cares. And to have an aptitude for discipline? Exacting? How is one to interpret that?

Pam smiles to herself, now knowing the answers.

She grabs her bag and the envelope, steps from the car and enters another code for the front door. She must move quickly having forty seconds to enter and press a third code into the alarm system.

So many numbers!

Deed accomplished she pauses before a full length mirror in the foyer. Professionally attired in white, nurse’s cap included, she finds her reflection to be acceptable. At age thirty five, though no longer girlish, she considers herself remaining attractive. Running a hospital ward supervising a bevy of nurses has somewhat beleaguered but there is youthfulness. And regular gym workouts have forestalled the gradual plumping of approaching middle age.

She adjusts her cap, smooths her white skirt and reaches into her bag, grasping a ring of many keys. Looking at the envelope, she asks herself if she should bring it with her. Marked personal, confidential, for the eyes of Robert Hanson only, she shrugs and brusquely tears it open.

Robert Hanson won’t object.

Medical training extensive, business and numbers are not her thing. But she does know that nine figures... no decimals... is a large number. And she does understand cash... short term investments... and that Hanson Industries owns little else.

The assets of the active business sold months ago, Hanson Industries, now a holding company, is liquid... abundantly liquid. She can taste and smell the wealth. It brings giddiness, an odd rush in realizing that she is so close to financial liberation.

She tucks the report into her bag. She’ll bring it with her, perhaps Robert Hanson will have an opportunity to review it. But perhaps not. She’ll decide later.

Bag in left hand, keys in the right, Pam begins the journey, short but time consuming.

First comes the door yielding to the basement stairs. Two locks. Then a light switch, a single bulb illuminating below. Pam steps inward firmly closing the door to hear the latch and locks click, ensuring isolation. Down the many stairs, treading carefully in the dimness. The space is barren, some boxes, old tools. The emptiness, the bare concrete walls, bring a shudder. With the solid door above double locked, its thickness dampering any sounds, one could be trapped, die and not be found, strident pleas for help not to be heard. 

Pam Owens puts aside her bag. There’s a thin well worn rug to be rolled up. A trap door beneath. Three locks to be opened. The hatch is a heavy plate of steel, Pam’s physique is needed to lift... her physical capability.

Near six foot, her regular workouts challenging, still two hands are engaged and thigh and back muscles somewhat strain in raising. The door lifts. When arms offer a final pull and hands release, the plate of thick metal flips to the rolled up rug with a thud. Below is a sub basement, purportedly carved out of the rocky soil when the mansion was constructed during the prohibition era. It’s a secretive wine cellar, now otherwise utilized.  

Pam shudders anew peering down into the empty abyss.

“Close your eyes,” hearing her voice echoing below.

Her bag yields a flashlight. It beams permitting Pam to carefully negotiate the steep ladder like stairs. At the bottom she finds the light switch. With a click the surprisingly large chamber erupts, dozens of halogen fixtures turning the cave into a well lit Broadway stage.

Looking to the low steel barred cage, she sees the nearly naked form of her employer Robert Hanson. He moves. This always brings relief. He’s alive, eyes pressed closed, the extreme darkness ending in a painful burst of high wattage. Pam Owens takes a deep breath, fortifying herself, her ‘treatment for a man with special needs’ to begin.

“You need changing,” her admonishing tone both bold and commanding.
  
“I’m sorry Miss Pam. It’s been long since your last visit. It is morning?” the voice quivers in meekness.

“That does not matter,” the utterance stern.

Pam steps forth, selecting another key on the ring.

“Wrist first.”

Robert Hanson offers his right hand, the tethering chain clanking on the bars and concrete beneath. Pam once again unlocks. The manacle is superfluous, the formidable bars of the cage not to be breached. But in further restricting mobility, it is wonderfully symbolic. Even in the waist high cage, the movements of Robert Hanson... special needs Robert Hanson... are subject to another’s will.

“Ankle, “ Pam directs, moving to the opposite side of the cage.

Robert Hanson squirms, a second chain clanking as he offers his cuffed left foot. Though the chains are somewhat slack, the forced position is ungainly. Robert cannot turn in his enclosure, even rolling over a frustrating chore.

“You smell. You happy to see your nurse? Glad to finally be changed?” the shackle released.

“Yes, Nurse Pam. I’d like that,” the somber voice somewhat gladdening.

Robert Hanson thrills. Limbs finally unfettered, he moves about in the small cage like a released zoo animal.

“Calm yourself,” Pam commands moving to a nearby wall.

There she retrieves a pair of Posey cuffs, nylon, lined in foam. She returns to the cage and Robert Hanson knows to present his wrists.

“How do you feel? Your proclivity well addressed? It’s been awhile.”

“I feel... I’m...”

“Kept? That’s the word you used during the interview. You wanted to feel kept.”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?” Pam reminds has she encircles right wrist then left.

“Yes, Ma’am. And owned.”

“Yes... owned. We’ll need to discuss that aspect. The sense of ownership... that’s somewhat incomplete, wouldn’t you say?”

Pam checks the securing Velcro straps, assuring tightness. She then twirls her index finger. Robert knows to shuffle about on his knees to turn. With a click, click, the Posey cuffs are secured together, rendering his hands useless behind his back.

“Bath first? Or feeding?” the tone turning maternal, as finally the cage door is unlocked.

“It’s not for me to...”

“I know, I know. I’m not ceding my authority, Robert, just curious as to what is your most urgent need. Ultimately I’ll decide.”

With Robert Hanson’s meek protest, Pam Owens’ thoughts return to the initial interview many months before...

The Arrangement III

“Ms. Juliette wants you hooded again. More visitors.”

She announces the intended adornment as she rinses his body with a gentle spray. The soap from the shaving and cleansing drips to the metal table, collects in the middle then forms a vortex as the cloudy water feeds into a drain.

Sizable wads of cotton are inserted into Chris’s ears. The black latex hood is unfolded and as expected fits tightly. Nurse Ingrid displays her strength in tugging it over Chris’s head. Fingers work to align the single opening with his nostrils and mouth. Blinded and nearly deafened, with his hands immobilized in firm yet comfortable restraint, Chris Bellows’ psyche continues to plummet. But his penis hardens more.

His right hand again reactively tugs against its bond. He so much would like to stroke himself for her.

“There are some men born to be bound and to serve, Mr. Bellows. You’re the essence of
submission.”

Her firmly enunciated words penetrate both cotton wads and hood, adding to his degradation. While speaking, she playfully taps his nose to illustrate her point. He can do no less then kneel and obediently listen. Does his penis stiffen further?

Then he feels more than hears the click of a leash on an eyelet conveniently welded to the front of the stock. Nurse Ingrid’s muffled instructions can barely be heard. He knows to follow the pulls and to carefully step off the table. It is exercise time and he feels the strange combination of pride, with his Viagra induced erection bobbing about with each footfall, and humiliation, in being led about by a woman, bound and naked on the end of a leash. The tightness caused by the anal plug is both uncomfortable yet pleasant.

Still he reminds himself that the arrangement is his desire. To be kept chaste and controlled... to better structure his life in order to write volumes and volumes of female dominant erotica for the concupiscent women of the world. In pledging his libido as collateral he will produce the most lurid of sexually charged tales. The hormones make such a difference. In his ten weeks of mental servitude and complete chastity he has produced his best work.

Is there a Pulitzer prize for such sordid composition?

He laughs at himself as his feet find the floor and follow the direction of his controlling, white uniformed virago. He knows that the treadmill will test his endurance... along with Nurse Ingrid’s cane bearing hand. He will walk, jog and run at her command. For how long he never knows. But by afternoon’s end he will indeed be well worked. And then he will be counseled. Ms. Juliette insists that the mind is more receptive when the body’s needs have been quenched. But not with the climactic relief of an orgasm. No, Mr. Chris Bellows will merely run and run and run. The Martin Rigid Stock, held high by a pair of ceiling chains connected at his shoulders, will ensure he does not stray or deviate from the task at hand. And crisp applications of a thin length of rattan will ensure a maximum effort.

And his erection will remain.

Ms. Juliette deems the sight pleasing for her and her guests. And Chris Bellows has no idea who the visitors are, how many, of what gender, or what level of interest they find in observing a bound, naked and erect male work under the exacting supervision of a dominant female.

Though the thought intrigues and his imagination wishes to muse, he knows to instead concentrate on his foot work. Stumbling results in scuffed feet and well striped buttocks. Therefore, despite the immobilizing bonds and sensory deprivation, his mind must focus on obedience... on compliance with the whims of the strict woman bearing the agonizing instrument of correction.

After connecting the rigid stock to the chains dangling above the treadmill, Nurse Ingrid straps a heart monitoring device around his chest. Then a rubber bulb is pressed against his lips. A firm hand squeezes his testicles until he opens his mouth to accept the molded object. It completely fills his mouth. A connecting hose will supply air. Electronic equipment will serve to monitor his breathing. There is also a connection to supply water when desired. Chris can push with his tongue and cool liquid will release into his mouth. In his first encounter with the device, thoughts of the local pet store where gerbils drank from bottles came to mind. But he learned to water himself in a short time.

As stated, Nurse Ingrid is relentless. There would be no pause for refreshments. And she can also water him as she chooses. With a press of a button, Chris’s mouth will flood. The only alternative to choking is to obediently swallow. 

A soft rubber clamp forces closed his nostrils. All life sustaining oxygen will be convulsively sucked from Nurse Ingrid’s tube. More control. The nurse regulates the very air he breathes. 

When he feels the canvas of the treadmill move, he obediently steps... and steps and steps. He can feel his engorged penis bob and when he envisions his own humiliation, it further stiffens. He sucks on the tube. He feels oddly thankful for the air.

Is that the sound of laughter?             

It does not matter. His task is to work. Without sight and with limited hearing his thoughts drift. An understanding of his humbled status develops. He is immersed. His air supply is monitored and controlled. The heart monitor announces the level of stress. Nurse Ingrid knows he can be taken further. He knows her learned hand is slowly adjusting the speed... searching for his limits. She will take him there and beyond. Gratefully he is permitted water. But on occasion, without warning, the crisp sound of rattan penetrates the latex hood and the wads of cotton. Then comes the burning pain, searing his cortex like a hot ice pick. The pain spurs his efforts, as intended. New limits will be found. The experienced nurse, reveling in the ‘unusual treatment’, knows better than he does and will extract more than he thinks possible.

His concentration drifts again as perspiration slowly drips to his ankles and moistens the canvas tread. Though the burning sensation from the brisk cane stroke subsides, salt from his own sweat irritates the abrasion, serving as a reminder of the price of indolence. The afternoon will be long and arduous. His mind enters a fog of complete submission. He is a machine with a very strict woman at the controls. His erection stands firmly. Is it the drug...? the stimulation felt by way of the intense humiliation... the reaction to the cane which is so idiosyncratic to the masochist... some latent enjoyment of being naked and bound under the firm hand of a women? Chris Bellows ponders as his feet pound a steady but demanding cadence.

Then there is more laughter. Who? It is the high pitched expression of merriment of a young woman. He is being displayed... putting on a show. He’s a trained circus animal with Nurse Ingrid as the ring master.

Nurse Ingrid presses the button and his thoughts are diverted as cool water fills his mouth. Gratefully, he swallows but she presses again. It floods his mouth and he swallows more. He has no choice. She is in command. He will drink if she wants him to drink.

The afternoon wears on in silent, black solitude. He can feel the treadmill vibrating more than hear its hum and when his own perspiration drips into his eyes he closes them, completely shutting out the paucity of light that breeches the thick latex hood. His sense of touch peaks with the sensation of sweat irritating his welts. And when Nurse Ingrid again applies the cane, the jolt of pain strikes his cortex like a lightening bolt.

It’s an odd form of sensory deprivation. He can walk and ran in place for his demanding nurse and he can occasionally feel his erection touch an extended thigh or thwack his abdomen after a cane induced lurch. And he knows there are others present. Certain high pitched verbal sounds, though not discernible, reach his ears. Is it his paranoia that turns the sounds to feminine laughter?

Nurse Ingrid varies the speed from time to time. Her skills apparently eclipse that of a nurse... week after week building his endurance as would a track coach.

“Good circulation is important for maintaining an erection,” she once lectured him on the second or third visit. “Your’s will become superb.”

He later wondered whether it was the level of his blood pressure or the ability to remain tumefied which would attain such a lofty goal.    

‘Superb,’ he thinks to himself as his feet endlessly thump the continuous circle of canvas. ‘Ms. Juliette wants me to be superb.’

More water is forcibly imbibed, then a firm stroke jolts him from his thoughts. The demanding nurse had slowed him to a jog for a brief respite and now the speed increases. He has learned not to mentally question his handler. She is observing his heart rate and breathing and is more aware of his output and potential then himself. He reacts as his trainer desires. He runs... and with his knees forced higher feels the engorged tip of his penis brush against the shorn flesh of his inner thighs.

The machine’s rotation steadily increases to what he has by now learned is the maximum. Nurse Ingrid will encourage him to meet the challenge with steady, moderate stokes. Not as firm as the corrective strokes, but painful enough keep his attention on the task at hand.

The sound and feel of his breathing seems to override all his usable senses. There are no other noises and the anguish of the cane is partially blocked by his mental reaches for more air. Chris runs at full speed for several minutes. By his estimate one or two minutes longer than he could ever drive himself.

Finally, the treadmill slows. He is walking and can feel perspiration covering every inch of his exposed flash. Water flows and he dutifully gulps. Fingers gently caress the underside of his frenulum. He knows it to be a reward and it indeed feels good. He has not touched himself there in so many weeks and to have the soft fingers of a woman tantalize his overly sensitive organ is exquisite. The high pitched laughter returns. His imagination flashes back to the circus. Who’s finger caresses? It is as if the ring master is letting inquisitive children pet one of the animals.

He is on display.

The machine stops. Chris Bellows stands in a puddle of his own making. Nurse Ingrid releases the chains. The heart monitor is removed. The mouth piece slides out. The leash is once again clipped to the front of the stock. Firm tugs direct him back to the examination table. His feet touch the stool. He knows to step up and kneel.

A heavy spray of cold water causes him to spasm, but is welcome. There is more laughter as his lungs contract and an involuntary throaty gasp is forced from deep within. His ignominious display continues. He is rinsed and cooled before his audience, the servile beast humbly kneeling for his handler.

He could never raise the fortitude to douse himself in such coldness. But bound and naked he has no choice. 

He feels the professionally tender touch of Nurse Ingrid as she pats dry his exposed body with a large fluffy towel. She places him in awkward positions, lifting one bent leg and then the other, ostensibly to dry between thighs, buttocks and around his groin. But he knows it is to more fully expose him to whomever Ms. Juliette has invited for an afternoon’s entertainment.

The nurse has been very discriminating with the application of freezing water. Despite the coldness, he has remained firm. And now in feeling her authoritative hands work with the soft warm towel where his own touch has been denied, the erection returns to full stand.

‘Control,’ he reminds himself. ‘The arrangement was to be controlled.’ 

The leash guides him off the table. He stumbles and earns a crisp stroke. He is indeed under control.

It is time for his ‘counseling’. With the show is over, Nurse Ingrid leads him to the formidable office domain of Ms. Juliette. He feels his erect penis bob in a demeaning farewell gesture to his unknown audience. He is tired. His mind is malleable but his penis remains standing in a lascivious tribute to feminine dominance. Ms. Juliette likes it that way.