Tie Me Chicago XIV

In finishing the paperwork I look up and realize two imposing women have been standing over me, ostensibly patient but both with hands on hips in a gesture of authority.

“Matt. We’re to prepare you. I’m Miss Theresa, this is Miss Monica,” the woman on the left introduces as she slips the questionnaire from the clipboard.

The clinicians! I assess. Though I am of size and well conditioned, these women, probably older than me in their mid thirties, are of size as well. Dressed in starched white uniforms, feminine shape is difficult to discern. But there is nothing unsightly, nothing to suggest any excess weight, nothing slovenly about their physiques.

Still, it’s their demeanor that more makes the impression. Dressed in uniforms of a different color, one can envision them tending to inmates at a penitentiary.  

“Come with us. Be a good boy. Follow.”

The words! Those of Miss Eve uttered many years ago... to Matt the brat... a soon to be tamed Matt the brat.

This Miss Theresa leads. I follow. A silent Miss Monica follows me.

“Enjoy,” calls out the receptionist, her brief farewell curious as I feel I am going to the gallows.

Through what I presume was designed as the dining room, Miss Theresa leads to the rear of the house. In entering a large chamber, the sense of turn of the century opulence terminates. The room has been converted... it is a salon... tiled floor, lower walls tiled, a steel and Formica massage table in the center, plumbing fixtures, steel cabinets, piles of towels and linen... all for the most part in the color white, the austere presentation notably contrasting the dark paneling and deep red carpeting of the abode. 

“Strip and sit,” Miss Theresa pointing to the massage table.

I pause. Long having left the care of Miss Eve, when stripping for a woman of authority brought thrill, concern in baring myself for unknown women has returned.

“You need to be prepared,” Miss Theresa sternly informs, looking at the completed questionnaire. “Miss Matsumoto is very particular concerning the Saturday evening presentations. Penis of eight inches. Last ejaculated a week ago,” reading aloud from the questionnaire. “You should stand nicely for us... assuming you’ve not been untruthful,” looking to me with a smirk. “So strip!”

******************************************************************************

I lie stripped naked, baring myself for the two dour clinicians, supine on the rock hard massage table as my entire form is subjected to what is termed preparation. Such includes a confirming measurement of my penis and the removal of hair... every strand... strong depilatory lotion... a straight edged razor for the sensitive pink flesh.   

I find myself hardening, not fazing the women, possibly bringing quirky delight.

This preparation reminds of Miss Eve of course, those Friday afternoons when she battled the onslaught of pubic hair, shaving with caring diligence.

I miss her. Since our separation, I have never developed what one would term normal relations with women. I date, I copulate, yet there is no intimacy. How can one explain that the apex of any sexual encounter for me is when a demanding woman penetrates me anally, diddles then counts to three?

The later years of escapades with Miss Eve, while she attended college and I completed high school, included thrilling yet frustrating lessons in female anatomy. Penis caged in steel, the jock strap was deemed superfluous for my chores in the lady’s locker room. And since my member was no longer considered threatening by those eschewing the male gender, not able to harden in mocking male triumph, I was permitted to gaze all I desired. And I did.

As stated, the women using the facility were young. serious in their exercise. And the resulting forms of pulchritude, one after the other parading from the shower, were breathtaking. Yes, I gawked, and yes they teased, some pointing to the mesh of steel and snickering... female triumph.

Scrubbing the floor one afternoon, the end of a particularly hard workout on a hot day, Miss Eve finished her longer more grueling regimen, strolling by as I scoured. She noted the rivulets of sweat, perspiring despite total nudity.

“You’re too wet to ride in my car, Matt,” peeling off her tee shirt.

I look up. She is sudoriferous as well, her tight sports bra soaked and clinging like wall paper.

“Come, the girls can’t be too upset when your penis is locked up like that,” beckoning for me to rise and follow.

What a glorious end to a demanding afternoon of exercise and chores. To her locker I watched mesmerized as my goddess stripped herself of the soaked gym garb, turned and let my eyes feast. As always the combination of power and perfect shape thrilled, the muscling flawless. I was too transfixed to move an inch as her hand lowered and a grip I know to be both potent and tender enclosed about the scrotal sac beneath the cock cage.

“Come, I’ve bathed you often enough.”

During my tenure at the gym, I was not permitted to shower, riding home with Miss Eve in grimy gym clothes, eager for a hot shower. So I was somewhat excited when, using my balls as a leash, she led to the large open shower area. There I was privileged, for the most part, it was the first time I was to touch her chiseled form.

“I need to be freed... of the cage, Miss Eve,” I confessed in soaping buttocks of granite, feeling my penis swelling and fighting the steel.

As I recall, I was age 17 at the time, hormones raging, barely able to constrain myself between the ritual Friday afternoon bath and masturbation.       

Miss Eve smiled, parting her feet to offer better access to her inner thighs. There was not to be one inch of her flesh denied to my cleansing hands.

“Control, Matt. I have it and you need to learn it.”

Later, cleansed, showered and dressed, I was very disappointed when, in passing the reception desk of the gym, Miss Eve took the key to my cock cage but did not release me, as had been the normal protocol.

“I’ll bring this back later,” she announced to the smiling owner.

The woman of Sapphos laughed knowingly.

“It’s for the best,” was her only comment.

Thereafter, my self control, always questioned, was supplanted by Miss Eve’s control.

Tie Me Chicago XIII

My thoughts are interrupted when the young receptionist arises from her desk, clipboard and pen in hand.

“Forms, a questionnaire, and a release should you and Miss Matsumoto agree on modeling for us.”

I accept and scan. The top sheet is standard stuff, information required... name address, social security number... for when employing a person. The release also proves to be mundane, similar wording found on the forms of every ski resort... the facility not responsible for bodily harm, etc.

It is the questionnaire which proves to be disconcerting... much personal information... height, weight... ok... but last bowel movement... last ejaculation... penis size!

I look up in alarm. The receptionist anticipates my reaction.

“Oh don’t bother about the penis size. Most men lie and our clinicians will measure any way.”

What am I getting into?

 I read, I write, by rote... and my thoughts return... to Miss Eve.

******************************************************************************

I grew, not only in height and weight but in muscle tone. Miss Eve proved to be an admirable trainer, a life of athletics plus her college education served me well. We visited the gym regularly.

On Mondays we kick boxed, the rumors proving to be true, and the fears of her male compatriots well founded. For I learned more not only of the woman’s strength and power but her zeal and determination to conquer. It was too often that I was put to the mat. Our brief encounters in the ring attracted the other patrons, jeering with every thud as Miss Eve put me down.

Miss Eve also put me through a workout before every Friday afternoon bath. Yes, though advancing age precluded the need for supervision during my mother’s absence, I innocently suggested to my mother that Eve was a friend, that she visit the house and we work out together, my bath and its nirvanic ending not divulged.

And yes, the sensuous masturbation... penis for the most part untouched... continued... the warm spray... the count to three... the thrust of my hips... the clenching of the small but meaningful muscles... the spurt... on cue... Miss Eve’s sardonic snicker indicating she as thrilled as me with my obedience and discipline. The soothing warmth, the scented water, Miss Eve’s divine touch, all had the effect of a narcotic... I was addicted. And there was no doubt she in turn reveled in her control of the male phallus and its most significant function.

Though achieving the age when for most boys interaction with girls became an attraction, the untoward antics with Miss Eve... older than me by some five years... obviated any desire. There was no normal dating... no movies... no school dances. Succumbing to her, giving myself up at bath time, though only once per week, sufficed. Certainly worth enduring the frustration of self restraint.

As I matured, the gym owner developed concerns. It seems though some gym members were amused by my near naked endeavors in the lady’s locker room, others, presumably daughters of Sapphos like the owner herself, were intimidated. In hindsight, my penis, growing like the rest of me, strained too much the jock strap. The sole garment, outlining what Miss Eve described as a well tamed serpent, came to offer them limited comfort.

So one day in arriving for a workout, the owner took Miss Eve aside, as usual never addressing me.

“If he’s to continue working here, have him put this on,” handing Miss Eve a box. “Make sure it’s locked in place. I’ll keep the key. It will be at the reception area ready for when he leaves.”

In the box was a chastity device... steel... expensive... ineluctable. The woman owner spared no expense in ostensibly protecting her clientele.     

Taking the box, a smiling Miss Eve led me to the locker room, commanding me to strip. She handed me the device, its manner of fit self evident.

“Look at the good side, Matt,” her words coming as I clicked closed the lock. “No one will complain about you watching in the locker room now. You’re effectively neutered while wearing this thing. The girls can’t complain... and you can learn all about the female anatomy.”

Smiling, she reached down and gave the steel mesh penis cage a brisk tug. Yes, ineluctable.

Tie Me Chicago XII

My sister graduated high school. It was then off to college for her, close enough to be home for major holidays, weekend visits rare. Miss Eve also graduated and decided to matriculate locally, majoring in physical therapy. With required courses in health, biology and anatomy for Miss Eve the Friday afternoon visits became defacto real life laboratory lessons, no part of my nakedness to escape her palpating fingers and examining hands.

With sis well away, my mother’s Friday bridge club occupying her well into the evening, clothing for me was no longer deemed necessary. I was stripped naked before mother’s car left the driveway.

Miss Eve and I would then work out to together, my physical efforts shamefully inadequate... initially. Me in the nude, Miss Eve fully clothed in sweats, she was given to picking me up and lifting me well over her head... with little expended effort, laughing as her display of puissance served as a catalyst for embarrassing but thrilling tumescence. She learned what excited, what aroused, playfully taunting... until it was bath time. Then her handling became more earnest, my continuing obsequious behavior earning the touch of her caring hand... and eventual climax, ejaculating for her further and further into the suds of the bubble bath. 

We became a curious item about town, she at six feet, me a head shorter but gaining. The gym was visited in unison. Showing me various exercises, she indeed worked me. I slowly became buffed and I also learned some anatomy.

The woman owner of the gym held males in disdain, my free use of the facility a favor to Miss Eve, even though chores were required as compensation. One of which was cleaning the women’s locker room.    

And that’s when the owner’s disdain became apparent.

“He’ll look more presentable in his jock strap,” the woman quips to Miss Eve. “If he’s going to traipse about in the lady’s locker room, he can at least offer the girls some entertainment.”

Talking directly to the Lesbian owner prohibited, Miss Eve nods on my behalf.

“And make sure he doesn’t stare. Most of the girls aren’t overly shy, but a gawking male is annoying.”

Miss Eve nods her concurrence, extending her hand palm upwards, with me knowing it is the gesture to dispense with my covering... tee shirt, running shoes, socks and shorts.

Thereafter the protocol was for Miss Eve to put me through the paces... numerous weights, cardiovascular work, calisthenics... strip to my jock strap to cool down... and attack the floor of the lady’s locker room. No mop permitted, bucket and brush, I scrubbed on hands and knees, occasionally glimpsing up, but knowing to never brazenly stare at the patrons in various states of deshabille.

It was tempting. Despite Miss Eve’s Friday afternoon baths, hormones flowed, priapism beckoned. The gym was for the most part used by shapely female athletes, not the social facility of middle aged housewives attempting to shed the detriments of the prior evening’s fudge cake.

On occasion, my uncovered buttocks received a playful pat. Condescending compliments flowed. ‘I should have one of these at home,’ the typical observation.

At times, I was greatly incentivized to face the floor and stay down. Certain girls, no shyness indeed, would exit the shower, in haste a toweled hand busily patting dry uncovered flesh, ignoring my presence but as stated, furthering my anatomical education. I would feel the jock strain with the resulting bulge. Such tempting moments.

Then came the day when Miss Eve cut short her workout, showering while I labored on the locker room floor. In the many months of her tutelage, the protocol was for me to be nude whenever feasible and of course for her not to deign in showing herself, however divinely molded in feminine athleticism. Thus her nudity was not... her body unknown to me.

I glance up, catching her amazingly chiseled femininity, momentarily stare, then immediately realize my transgression and return to my task... too late.

Bunched towel in her left hand, right hand to her hip is a pose of authority, Miss Eve comes to stand over me completely nude. While I feign unawareness, I feel the bulge, my swelling penis to challenge my only garment. Finally she speaks.

“Stare again and I’ll have you working without anything at all, Matt. You can show the girls that unruly penis of yours.”

I want to protest. It is Wednesday, my hormones burgeoning, anticipating our Friday rendevous... my bath... my display... my humbling exhibition of amusing virility.

Peripherally, I can see her calves, incredibly shapely but so toned, so strong. Thighs of tree trunks, but of equal attraction. Dare I shift to view higher? I freeze in concern, my scrubbing hand motionless and betraying my male curiosity. From above, I hear my idol chuckle sardonically.  

“Go ahead and look, Matt. Nearing age fifteen I suppose you need to learn a few things. But if you visually harass the other girls, it will be a long time before I bathe you again. And trust me, that jock strap will be denied. I may even have you work out in the nude. What do you think of that?”

I gulp. But with permission granted, I look up. My awe and admiration are well founded. With the layers of subcutaneous fat of most women limited, Miss Eve is a tigress, a powerful beast with rippling muscles not limited to arms and legs. The abdominals belie her gender. Still, as a male, as a hormone laden hound, my gaze goes to parts pink... fine pink folds of labial flesh peaking past plump labia majora. The breasts protrude firmly, advanced pectoral muscles disguising the depleted fat of mammary glands, nipples of cherry red.

She lets me assess then finally snorts slowly squatting and parting her knees to offer a most salacious unimpeded view of her quim.

“You’re precocious, Matt. You have no clue what you’re looking at, yet you gawk. Better get back to work... and remember my warning.”

Disappointingly, she rights herself. Stepping away, I know to go back to scrubbing, very much in need of my bath.   
     

Tie Me Chicago XI

The Highland Park mansion of Tie Me Chicago is easily found and recognized, depicted on the home page of the website. It’s large and majestic, built at the turn of the last century, no doubt by some wealthy industrialist.

Though a retail establishment, there is limited signage, no gaudy neon. A large brown wooden plank hangs from the porch, routed within and painted in gold are the letters ‘Tie Me Chicago’. It’s slightly before 7:00 p.m. and I note my hand somewhat shakes as I reach for the doorbell. It is then that I note a small sign, suggesting entrance without the need to ring. 

My arm moves to the door, hand twisting the knob, I step within. Somewhat assuaging my anxiety, I enter the parlor of what could be considered an opulent residence. There is nothing to suggest that risque and exotic artwork is both fashioned and sold in the premises. Instead the dark wooden paneling and rich dark red carpeting project a hominess. Only a reception desk, turned toward the entrance to greet visitors hints at the house being a commercial facility.

As I step inward, a pretty young girl hastily steps from an adjoining room, coffee cup in hand.

“You have an appointment?” her voice timid.

“I’m Matt, from the county fair,” gazing as the girl looks into a large notebook opened on the desk.

She appears familiar. Placing her is difficult until I realize it’s the clothing that proves troublesome. I have before seem her... on the Website, helplessly dangling from the ubiquitous circle of metal, her nakedness festooned with hemp. If I recall, a sizable full color print edition of her captive form... her submission to the skills of the Nawashi... was priced at over $1,000.

“Oh yes, Miss Midori has made a note here in the appointment book. You have not before modeled for her... not here. She has suggested there may be a miscommunication... that the atmosphere for Saturday evening modeling is rather... libertine. That you should be forewarned.”

Before I can reply, the front door opens. In steps a very well dressed middle aged gentleman, attire not surprising considering the surroundings and the upscale neighborhood. But with him is a younger male... collared... and on a leash... and not so much dressed as summarily covered in only a shawl... hands and arms not to be seen, the bare legs and feet telling.

The debonair gentleman simply nods and proceeds into the adjoining room, collared companion heeling as would a dog. When the gentleman snaps firmly the leash, the lad lunges, the hem of the cape fluttering to briefly expose a parcel of smooth rounded buttock flesh. The scene makes no impression on the girl receptionist.

“Mr. ah... Mr. Matt,” the girl drawing me from my stunned silence.

“Well, my intention was to meet... and talk. I’ve only met Miss Matsumoto once... and it was briefly,” my composure finally returning.

“She does have a certain attractive savoir faire, does she not?” the girl beams in apparent admiration.

I nod in agreement, though ‘intriguing’ would be the word for my characterization.  

“Well, why don’t I have you prepared and afterwards you can discuss your evening’s participation with Miss Matusumoto. She’s tied up until eight,” the pun comes once again as the girl presses a button.

Have me prepared? Curiously forceful phraseology.

“Please have a seat, Mr. Matt. The clinicians will take you shortly.”

The girl points to a straight back chair to the left of the entrance door. Somewhat bewildered, the sight of the leashed man, possibly more aptly described as a boy, still lingers.

In thought, I sit. Needing to calm, my mind returns to Eve... Miss Eve...

Tie Me Chicago X

I nap, awakening late Saturday afternoon. There is enough time for a light meal then a shower. My mind remains reeling, the hour of my appointment in Highland Park approaches. 8:00 p.m. Then I recall the instruction to be there an hour early for ‘preparation’.

In the hurly burly of watching the teaser video clip, then recalling the eventful bath with Miss Eve, I have not given that much thought. There was no preparation at the Macon County fair. What is required in the studio of Tie Me Chicago?

Apprehension growing, perhaps I should cancel. As I retrieve my cell phone, phone number in the history log, I have second thoughts. Would I be permitted to reschedule? And if so, would  making another appointment put aside the need for this so termed preparation? Probably not. Maybe I should take some time off from work and visit Tie Me Chicago during a week day when it would be unlikely for Midori Matsumoto to be busy with prominent customers. Yes, just casually stroll in, say hello, indulge myself in the presence of the mysterious woman of Japanese culture, the noted Nawashi.

My internet search indicated there are very few accomplished female Nawashi’s, in my mind enhancing the intrigue... her aura. After cancelling, would she be likely to condescend and warmly welcome ‘Matt from the county fair’, as my name is undoubtedly logged into her appointment book?

No. I dress, deciding what is done is done. If I am once again going to be mesmerized by her presence, I must keep the appointment.

To the parking garage, I contemplate this quirky attraction to her. Am I placing myself in jeopardy? Possibly. I console, telling myself the woman is a professional. Obviously any serious mishaps in binding her models... and the website suggested dozens upon dozens... would certainly be known, splashed about in the press, possibly making a headline in one of the tabloids.  

And then I realize. Is it jeopardy, fear, awe of feminine power which attracts?

I unlock and enter my car. Start the engine. The drive to Highland Park is quick yet with so many recent thoughts of Miss Eve, my mind flashes back...

******************************************************************************

That initial bath, my nakedness immersed in both soothing bath water and the regal presence of the daunting Eve, was an awakening... an epiphany of sorts. Prior episodes of climax in which I sexually discovered myself... experimented... resulted in no where near the sense of ecstasy, the nirvana, felt as when I spurted for Miss Eve. With knees buckling, by the time she completed her slow count, frustratingly delaying the word ‘three’, my weight was entirely born by her left arm... thumb embedded in my sphincter, palm pressed to my perineum, fingers diddling my testicles. The demonstration of her power amazed.

And augmenting this power was the realization that she never touched my penis, only teasingly spraying, building this indescribable desire to empty myself... to perform... for her. Before that afternoon, ejaculation involved furtive stroking under the cover of bed sheets. The first time I discharged the effluent of puberty, I panicked, thinking I had injured myself. It was not blood, I recall thinking in seeing the gooey mess on the sheets. Realizing such evidence must be cloaked, I thereafter spurted into tissues. It diminished the thrill. And offered more evidence to be disposed of in secrecy. The process seemed sordid.

But with Miss Eve, this passage of youth was transformed into something positive... neat... sweetly scented... clean... seemingly healthy. More importantly, with her words... her demeanor... her aura... I wanted to spurt for her... not for me... to please her with this exhibition of youthful virility. An exhibition totally under her control... ejaculating under her timing... her auspices.

Yes, I was made to perform for her... and it so much enhanced the delight... my loins obediently releasing to her count.  

And so I looked forward to Fridays. The baths became a ritual. I became a good boy for Eve... and my mother... and my sister for that matter. For any questionable behavior was reported as the trio congregated before my mother left for her Friday bridge club. Bad behavior resulted in a well supervised shower, the thrill of exposing myself remaining, but with no ultimate release.

Nightly stroking under the sheets was curtailed... at Miss Eve’s strong suggestion... though more of a demand. No more soiled bedding, no more encrusted tissues. And my performance improved weekly, when my penis was encouraged to amuse her.

Eve began to measure me. I was growing and recording weekly the length of my penis not only became a ritual of curious pride, but of ownership. The organ was more hers than mine. It was as if she was growing a tree... watering and fertilizing in hopes of a mighty oak.

To her dismay, pubic hair began to forest that which she took delight in laving with a soapy cloth. After a month, the decision was made to shave me. Eve told me the deed was with my mother’s concurrence, but I had no way of confirming that... a subject matter to be broached perilously... and I certainly was not going to contest the grooming of what she owned.

Yes, though singular, our camaraderie grew, she having weekly access to every square inch of my flesh, every week sensing my physical development with every swath of the wash cloth. And I in turn sensed her strength, her physicality, despite the tenderness in caring for me.

Within months, having measured both my penis and the girth of my burgeoning testicles, she one afternoon proposed an additional aspect to our relationship.

“You’re growing Matt. But you need shape,” speaking as I lie in the warm bubble bath, reveling in the glow of having spurted for her... not only on cue but the initial wad arched to the very end of the tub, an accomplishment earning accolades which made me blush.

With her observation she leans back in the stool upon which she sits, always being quite proximate when I am made to exhibit my naked form. Eve hikes up the sleeve of her blouse, uncovering first the forearm then the bicep of a professional wrestler. Huge, untoward for a woman, she smiles in seeing me gawk. Then she flexes, the bicep instantly curling into a massive hillock. My eyes rivet in awe, further amazed when she makes the muscle flutter, alternately relaxing and contracting. 

“I’m going to have you join me at the gym, Matt. I’m going to work you, have you perform for me a little differently. It’s for women only, but I know the owner. She’ll let you work out for free if you volunteer to perform a few chores.”  

How can I decline?.. more time with the woman I am coming to adore... she who owns, cares and knows so much of me... and my adolescent needs... my male adolescent needs.

Tie Me Chicago IX

As I sit back, eyes transfixed on the blank computer screen, the image of Eve appears. Always recalled as tall, a head taller than my growing frame. Blonde hair short, her numerous athletic endeavors obviating anything more stylish. Her posture is perfect, transformative years spent in training... gymnastics until her height precluded... later swimming, rowing, there were also stories of special classes in kick boxing, augmenting her aura, further alienating her from possible romantic interludes with boys deeming her to be physically daunting and superior.

The recollections resume where my mind turned off the memory tape, standing in a suds filled bath tub... naked... erect... hands obediently placed on my head.... blushing. Yet there begins the strange joy as surprisingly soft and gentle hands lave. My penis bobs... in celebration? In greeting? In invitation?

Eve laughs... a vengeful laugh? One of mirth? Is she enjoying me... or her new found power?

I want to lower myself into the water, cloak my nakedness in the foam of the scented bubble bath. But then again I don’t. My young mind is conflicted. So I stand and let Eve have her way, sensing the warm softness as her hand works, methodically but caringly, moving a little lower on my torso after each dunk of the wash cloth.

“You’re remaining nicely hard for me,” Eve notes.

Is it a taunt? Does she want me to soften? I just blush even more.

“That means deep within that you enjoy this, Matt. Despite your meanness, your sarcasm, your truculence, you enjoy pleasing and serving women... women like me. You need an authority figure, Matt. You want to be subservient, you just don’t let yourself.”

She lectures, her tone even, somewhat soft.

And her words give rise to thought. My father had died when I was a toddler, barely to be remembered. Initially I was helpful about the house, assisting my grieving mother, amenably performing household chores with little objection. Then came the hormonal changes of puberty. Yes, I discovered myself, down there, and when not stroking, I wished I was able to. Mood swings became quick and considerable. I became Matt the brat.

But now Matt the brat stands totally under the auspices of this woman of strength and determination. And stands naked... and stands erect... and stands relishing her touch... wishing that instead of the humiliation ending... that it continues... that her hand would lave lower. I so much need to be touched. Need to touch myself. Yet my hands remain in place, not to move, not to disobey.

Why?          

Reaching to my thighs, the free left hand playfully grasps a large tuft of my right buttock, squeezing firmly. It is a test, I realize, inviting me to protest as her fingers slowly tighten. I do not. I want that and the unspoken message is received. The soapy cloth of the right hand moves to work over my globes. Then there comes a pause as Eve reaches for a bar of soap. My gluteal cleft then becomes the center of attention, Eve smiling as with soap she lubricates between my cheeks. My penis bobs about with fervor.

“I know some things about boys... young or old, Matt. First that there is some nasty stuff that needs to be expelled. And second there’s a special place to be pressed to assure of its riddance. And afterwards, a boy becomes very calm, very docile, very eager to please and be good.”

With her words, I feel the thumb of her left hand press my anus. I am both alarmed and pleased when it slips inwards, the soapiness facilitating penetration. Then I find that indeed Eve knows some things, for the free fingers of the left hand slide forward and grasp my testicles.

I gasp with both the sensation and the sense of placing myself and my developing male organs under the control of a woman.    

She diddles and kneads, dropping the wash cloth from her right hand and reaching for the bath tub’s spray hose. Her penetrating thumb begins to caress as well, finding my prostate. With the intensity of the pleasure my knees begin to buckle and there is further tribute to her impressive strength as she holds me up with one arm, my weight shifting to my perineum. 

“This is going to feel very good, Matt. So good that I think you’ll want to show off for me... want to offer me that nasty stuff which makes you into a bad boy. But you’ll not spurt until I tell you. Be good. Obey me. It’s best for you.” 

With that, Eve turns on the flexible spray hose and adjusts the flow... slight and delightfully warm. She smiles, aiming the spray to douse my pubes, knowing of the ecstasy, knowing of the helpless but wonderful sensation in being penetrated... of having my little balls diddled... by a controlling woman!

When the warm wetness flows, circling about my pubes, avoiding direct contact where I most covet such, something within surrenders. More... please... at my penis tip!

Yes, take me, make me spurt, my mind reeling, silently beseeching. Instead her right hand just applies the spray, maneuvering about up and down, left and right, wetting my modest penis, but never the tip, glaring at my face, judging from my expression where my system is in the slow stultifying process of being masturbated by a spray hose.

“Want to come for me?”

I close my eyes and nod.

“No, no Matt. Open your eyes. It’s important for you to watch, fully understand what I am doing to you... for you. So on the count of three, I want you to thrust forward your hips, clench those little muscles, those used when you pee. And I’ll want you to squirt for me. You’d like that wouldn’t you? Present me with that nasty goo. Give it all to Miss Eve?”

As I nod again, she counts ‘one’. The thumb abrades with more vigor, the fingers squeeze my little balls, the warm spray is now directed at the underside of my upturned penis. It is divine.

Then comes ‘two’ and a teasing pause. I disobey, thrusting with my hips. I cannot help myself.

“No, no Matt, I am in control, you’ll come for me only when I decide.”

There follows an interminable interlude of silence. Finally comes the word ‘three’... and with it the quick withdrawal of her left hand and the misdirection of the spray hose. I am aghast, the pleasurable input summarily curtailed. But I also spew my seed into the bath tub, the mass making a hissing sound as it hits the suds. There comes a second less formidable spurt then a drool of clear viscous fluid.

Eve, now Miss Eve to me, smiles in satisfaction, a look of Schadenfreude in having me masturbated with no penile contact... no direct manipulation. The supporting left hand lowers, allowing me to finally submerse my naked form in the warm soapiness.

I am drained, my young organs giving all. I enter a state of ennui... cleansed, emptied. I have been a source of great entertainment I come to realize, the humiliation intense.

But it feels so good... and Miss Eve knows it feels so good.

“So Matt, you be a good little boy for me. And good little boys get a nice hot bath. Every Friday afternoon.”

Eyes closed, I feel her hand slip under the water, tweaking my nipples.

I am owned.

Tie Me Chicago VIII

Late Saturday morning, having slept in,  I find myself returning to the provocative website of Miss Midori Matsumoto. The mystery of the unlabeled link button continues to intrigue. Is the casual viewer supposed to notice? Or is it there only for those apprized of its presence... its possibilities... that with a click of the mouse, Shabari depictions well beyond the artistically erotic, tasteful prints and photographs of the main page will glare forth... filling both the screen and the mind with evidence of feminine power... Miss Midori Matsumoto’s feminine power.

I am to arrive an hour early in Highland Park... having feigned awareness of the need for preparation. It’s curious. I needed not preparation at the Macon County fair. I extended my hand and that began the loss of self esteem... a temporary loss. From that point I was owned, a captive, lengths of rope enveloping both my form and psyche in the culture of ancient Japan.

Though the crowd of brawny farm workers was greatly enthused, I strangely becalmed. Ownership, capitulation, the realization came quickly that I was to succumb to she holding the free end of the rope. I became transfixed, attentive, focused... on she in charge. Bizarre, but the tent became empty... and I eager to perform for she with the power.... to release... conversely to keep me.

So the secret tab is again clicked. I further explore, suddenly realizing that as I scroll there are videos. How could I before miss such?    
 
More clicks and I find that the offerings are teasers, short clips of less than a minute, longer obviously more complete editions for sale... the price considerable. And such is conducive, correlating with the prices commanded for the masterful scenes of beautiful female models. After all, Miss Midori Matsumoto is a Nawashi... an acclaimed Nawashi... her work to be treasured.

I choose a scene. I click. There is a dark studio like room. Over head lights beam to project Miss Midori, attired in tight leather, and a naked young male obediently standing at attention. As the smiling Nawashi begins, reams of rope unraveling, I note that above is a large circle of metal, dangling from more rope of course. It is evident, the lad is to be suspended.

The mastery is also evident, nimbleness, quickness, exacting loops, placed perfectly symmetrical. With the torso encased, strands of hemp strung between the thighs, Miss Midori tugs at a free end in her hand, establishing her control. Her mouth moves, no doubt uttering a command. It is then that I have the wherewithal to reach forth and turn up the sound.

There comes shock. As Miss Midori leads the captive naked male to a stool resting under the large ring, through the speakers of my computer come the sound of voices, murmurs of approval... excitement... enthusiasm. And more shocking, the resonance suggests males... many... there is an audience... just as that observing me at the Macon County fair.

As the camera lens zooms inward, indicating there is also the presence of a photographer, the genitals of the captive male fill the screen... shaven... sizable as expected... and rapidly engorging.

The screen then slowly turns to blank, the teaser ending, and there comes the sound of cheers, indubitably male. 

I am apoplectic, staring into the blankness, the mouse held stationary as my homophobia rages. Realization that the priapic young male is to be put on display, made to perform for an audience of men... discerning... appreciative no doubt of the art form... but men! It galls. And I have an 8:00 p.m. appointment!

I need to calm myself. And for some reason thoughts of how many years ago the Amazon Eve trained this truculent boy, relieving him of belligerence, flash back into memory.