“Hold onto the chains, “ she commands.
I comply and she slowly slides the stool from under my feet. My weight shifts of course. I drop an inch or two, the thick collar catching me along with the nylon straps. I am suspended in mid air by my neck and thighs. I hold the chains dearly with my hands.
“Not bad,” Miss Benson observes, suggesting that her actions are the beginning of a process.
She spends several minutes tugging on the thigh straps. Her actions serve to further spread my thighs. When finished I find I am strangely comfortable, my entire weight borne by my neck chains and thigh straps. I can feel the cool basement air wafting over my obscenely exposed scrotal sac and something about the tension on my neck begins to send signals...those that are unwanted when the penis is so tightly infibulated.
“Let go of the chains, Willie.”
From her tool belt she extracts a set of handcuffs. I know to obey but as I do so more of my weight is borne by the neck collar. The effect is incredible. The twinge in my loins changes to outright pangs, undesired signals for my penis to engorge.
Miss Benson guides my hands behind me and I feel pressure then clicks as my wrists are cuffed behind my back. Something about the peculiar posture...standing in mid air, naked, thighs spread, neck tensioned...brings an insatiable urge for my penis to stand.
But it cannot, and the familiar pain begins as the sensitive tip forcefully abrades the plastic locking strand. I squirm in anguish, kicking about my feet. This brings a lecherous laugh from Miss Benson and serves to further tension my neck and spine, which in turn adds to my strange but dire need to tumefy.
“Yes, it’s an interesting dance, isn’t it, Willie? You can understand that the largest and firmest hard-on ever bestowed on the male is that experienced when executed by hanging. An odd reaction of the nervous system, wouldn’t you say?”
Miss Benson pauses to watch me struggle, and then casually returns the stool under me and unhooks the nylon straps. Gratefully I lower my feet to relieve the tension on my neck. A smiling Miss Benson unbuckles the stiff neck collar.
“Time to clean my boots,” she decries as she slaps my buttocks.
I dash up the stairs feeling lucky to be afforded such a benign task and knowing that I can return to flaccidity without having gone through the usual torment.
Chapter Sixty Three
Annette Benson
In planning a most debaucherous Saturday evening, I move the special reclining chair to the basement then retreat to my bedroom. Peetie sees me beginning to disrobe and knows to retrieve Willie’s hood. When I am in dishabille, Willie is made sightless. Those are the rules. For the neutered Peetie, his eyes can feast on my feminine charms all he wishes. His smoldering desire will not change the fact that his plundered scrotal sac has transformed his innate, once potent lust to nothing more than ridiculous idolatry.
He gapes at my well-trimmed mound of Venus. ‘What do you think you can to do with it?’ I am tempted to derisively inquire, but I resist.
I know that my overlarge clitoris invites his tongue, his only functioning sex organ as far as I am concerned. So I mockingly press my fingers onto my mons and lift, causing my hood to withdraw and better expose my stiffening bud.
I am sweaty and ripe from working in the basement and in viewing the reaction of my naked and neutered companion, other moisture forms. Peetie’s look of fixation turns to forlorn confusion as his olfactory nerves suggest that a tasty treat awaits, yet he has duties to perform. I gather some odoriferous essence and smear the wetness on his nose and upper lip.
“Put Willie in the hood and have him wait in the basement with my boots.”
A naked Peetie prances to the bathroom to begin the shower, and then bounds from the room with the hood. On Saturdays I like to relax in a most licentious manner. He understands that when off duty any reference to my boots signals amusements well outside the realm of law enforcement.
Hopefully Willie is through bringing my boots to a high polish, for when hooded he cannot ascertain the results accomplished by his assiduous tongue.
I stroll to the bathroom. Within a minute the streaming water turns to a steamy mist and my alacritous pet returns. I suppose he deserves a taste, my loyal and most obeisant servant strangely attaining the equivalence of sexual gratification in the most bizarre ways. So before stepping into the stall I once again reach to my mons and this time most obscenely splay my outer labia and raise my hood. Peetie falls to his knees.
“Just a little taste, Peetie. Then a nice long shower.”
I stand and part my feet as my adoring lifetime oral servant crawls forward to begin his task. I will toss off a few mild orgasms, then be bathed by the most caring and worshiping hands imaginable. After which I will be ready for a long night of entertainment.
As his lips gather in my inner labia and suck with abandon, I cannot help thinking that if given the opportunity I would castrate him again…and again…and again. I know it is fantasy to think that removing imaginary testicles would further enhance his oral skills, but it is a delicious thought...applying such exquisite pain in order to intensify my pleasure.
Chapter Sixty Four
Willie
I know to sit upright on folded legs with thighs parted. My heavy sac touches the harsh utility rug of the basement. As mandated when hooded, my hands find the back of my head. I can feel the locking buckle that holds in place the tight fitting covering of latex.
I try to divert my thoughts, fully aware that I must control my willful cock; any state other than complete flaccidity causing great aggravation. But it is difficult since I have come to realize that whenever I am hooded some form of sexual dalliance is going on. And after Miss Benson’s demonstration of her handiwork, the parallel planks standing nearby, I know I will be tested. After all, it is Saturday night.
In the boredom and the darkness my mind wanders. And despite my attempts to think pristine thoughts, memories of the long summer with Miss Lenore and Miss Chloe, the divine Miss Chloe, come to mind. The nature of my thoughts is understandable since the last time I climaxed, my male seed exploding in celebration, was at the farewell party when I thought I would be returned to a life of normalcy.
Just one last scene of perversity, I told myself as I sat astride the diving board with anus impaled. The huge rubber dildo instantly brought painful engorgement. But then Miss Chloe not only rescued me, she touched me!
Her fingers toyed with my hypersensitive nipples and then the dreaded nail was removed for the final time.
In both pride and shame I put on an astonishing display, my freed penis seeming to grow to the sky. The women collectively cheered and laughed and I told myself that given the opportunity I would fill the pool beneath me with my essence.
But that was all that happened. Miss Chloe withdrew, laughing sardonically. And I just sat and sat, watching the women drink and talk. The whole time one of the women played with Peetie, having him constantly lick her crotch or retrieve a thrown rubber ball.
Prostatic fluid began to stream down my erect shaft and I became an object of amusement and derision. Then a passing woman stepped heavily on the diving board and gave it a vigorous thrust with her foot. As designed, the board jounced, which of course caused my impaling dildo to momentarily penetrate more deeply with one of the larger protrusions abrading my prostate gland. I remember crying out in both pain and enjoyment. And as the manipulating foot jounced again, the woman cackled and called out to the crowd, “Look girls, he’s being fucked up the butt.”
Well, this set the agenda for the remaining recreation. Over the next hour every attendee felt obliged to jostle the diving board and with it the penetrating dildo and my uniquely male gland.
But what concerned me most was my reaction. The intense shame in being so humiliatingly displayed seemed to spur more stiffness. When for some reason I waggled my erection while one woman rhythmically pressed her foot up and down, the crowd laughed and cheered. And so others that followed insisted that I
likewise waggle for them.
“Let’s see it perform again,” was the typical taunt as I felt the massive cone of rubber knead my tight rear aperture.
Yet I felt the satisfaction of retribution. There was an odd comfort in drawing attention from Peetie, in entertaining and being the center of attention...naked., arms bound., impaled, perched where no eyes could miss seeing my huge flagpole of flesh, sporting its proud purple tip celebrating its rare freedom.
And in feeling the ignominy, I became firmer still, my organ performing like a circus animal.
Well, with wine flowing, it finally became Miss Beverly’s turn, she having tired of toying with Peetie’s empty scrotum.
“Looks like I don’t even have to touch the thing now,” she commented in obvious reference to my penis and events at Miss Chloe’s birthday party.
And I felt her heavy foot begin. The diving board jumped, more than jostled, and I cried out in both surprise and sickening enjoyment as the large woman caused the dildo to thrust deeply then instantly withdraw as the board righted itself. She laughed and then there came the distressing flash of a camera.
With another heavy press of her foot, klieg lights immersed my naked form in a flood of illumination. Someone referenced a video camera but I could no longer see my audience, as I was intent on my physical response to Miss Beverly’s foot as it became more rhythmic in its manipulation of the diving board. And of course all this caused the reaction I shamefully hated yet found secretly thrilling, my splendid penis waggled in inviting both more observing eyes and more seemingly casual attention from Miss Beverly’s foot.
I closed my eyes. The conflicting thoughts began to overwhelm. The rocking diving board felt wonderful after many weeks of chastity. But to be so displayed and toyed with by the dreadful Miss Beverly...
I was being masturbated...yet no one was touching me! Miss Beverly’s foot fell into a distinct and firm rhythm which was internally so welcomed. And then she would suddenly cease and I would thrust with my own hips and buttocks to continue the jostling penetration without interruption.
This action caused the crowd of woman to raucously cheer. They knew’; they expected, as the video camera divulged the intention...
I was to be brought to climax...in full public display...with no other stimulation then the devilishly designed anal probe kneading my long neglected gland.
Calls of ‘Go Willie’, rang out as my need became critical, yet the action of Miss Beverly’s foot finally ceased completely.
And so in earnest I began riding the diving board and my buggering new rubber friend. The women wanted a show. I felt oddly obliged.
‘Do it for the camera now, Willie’ a vaguely familiar voice staunchly suggested. And something inside me agreed. An inner voice insisted, ‘please the women, please yourself’. And so I bounced myself about with my eyes closed..., soaking up the pleasure and the humiliation.
Then a voice squealed, ‘Look at Chloe’. And when I opened there she was, my succubus, herself lit up at the opposite end of the pool. She had removed all, even the strings and patches were gone. She smiled mockingly and waved. A voice taunted that with a strong ejaculation perhaps I could reach her. The verbal stimulus pushed me to the tipping point. And in seeing her divine form, completely naked for the first and only time, with a final climactic bounce, I erupted into the pool with an incredible explosion of sperm, a veritable fountain of primal sacrifice to my goddess. And then followed another and then another. The crowd reacted with unabashed enthusiasm. Someone commented that the camera captured everything. More sperm dribbled. Then I slumped forward, mentally and physically exhausted.
My basement reverie ends with the sensation of pain. My own thoughts have stirred my penis and the swelling tip greets the locking strand of plastic to foster suffering. Fortunately there comes the diverting sound of footsteps and the fragrant smell of expensive body soap. I know it to be that of Miss Annette.
“Good evening, Willie.”
I can feel the heat of her body as she positions herself standing before me. Her hands grasp my wrists to firmly pull my head. The large opening for nose and mouth is pressed again the smooth, warm flesh of her exposed thigh. Her musk mingles with the fragrances of her recent shower to become an alluring scent of freshly cleansed female ready for sex. When I extend my tongue to lick, as trained, I know her to be standing before me naked. After all, I am hooded. Those are the rules.
Chapter Sixty Five
Annette Benson
“My boots are nice and shiny, Willie. Good boy.”
I guide his mouth to my waiting sex. His tongue eagerly extends and I allow him a brief treat…a taste of my fresh pink flower.
I am completely naked, leading a leashed Peetie wearing his poodle paraphernalia. Despite a long and relaxing shower, the scene, causes my love pouch to begin to boil in juices. The tip of Willie’s tongue partakes of my honeyed essence.
It’s a tease of course. I have not quite deemed him orally ready to serve me there.
I step away, somewhat disheartened to find that no one can assist with my boots, but I manage to slip into the knee-high leather and Peetie gapes in awe at my authoritative image. The heels put me at well over six feet, and I tower over him.
In his excited state, Peetie cavorts around me, a playful little poodle. I snap my fingers and point to the special reclining chair. Peetie knows to humbly move between the extended legs and patiently wait.
“Come, Willie.” I pinch the small plastic lock and tug upwards, which I love doing, essentially having a naked male by his foreskin. Thus Willie instantly arises, ready to step wherever his entrapped penis leads him. On this evening it’s to the completed suspension apparatus, newly installed.
I direct Willie to step up onto the stool and within minutes I have him once again collared with the broad straps looped about his thighs. Since he will be dangling between the planks for quite a while, I cuff his wrists with fur-lined restraints and secure them together behind his back. Such are mercifully much more comfortable than handcuffs.
During the afternoon I carefully measured the proper lengths of his restraints so I can confidently remove the stool to hang Willie and begin the curious cascade which will lead to incomparable tumescence. The tension on his spine will send signals to the ganglia and dendrites of the body’s richest collection of nerves. And in an enigmatic reaction, Willie’s penis will uncontrollably swell to enormous length and girth.
The process begins instantly, the penis tip struggling to free itself. I leisurely stroll to a cabinet and select a long and whippy cane knowing that poor Willie will soon be beseeching me for either penile freedom or release from his bonds.
For now, I will wait. Watching Willie’s feet spasmodically lurch about in what is morbidly known as ‘the hangman’s dance’ is intensely interesting. And on Saturday nights I like my amusements to be impressionable.
I palm the scrotal sac with my free hand. The smooth flesh is so vulnerable when denuded of hair. And since I can no longer experience the intoxicating sensation of holding Peetie by his balls, Willie’s must substitute...for now.
I toy, I knead, I caress. Willie becomes animated in displaying his reaction to the combination of pain and tender touch. But occasionally having a man’s erection completely under my control does provide enjoyment.
So I step away to find cutters and marvel at how such a simple implement can provide so much relief, for with a snip and easy tug on the lock, Willie’s long infibulated penis is free to swell and bloom.
So I snip and cautiously slip away the confining strip and lock. I step back and cannot control a broad evil grin. The purple tip seems to zestfully pop from its habitat, glistening notably in the light. Willie’s sigh of relief is heartening and I too am pleased in having such a virile organ under my control.
I diddle the sensitive underside, purse my lips and then blow. After weeks of entrapment it is incredibly sensitive and Willie’s willie waggles with the faint but welcomed ecstasy.
Oh...the power...
Remembering and wishing, I laugh, and Willie begins to dance anew. It is comforting to know that his motion will do little other than to increase the tension his neck and heighten the firmness of his standing penis.
To further tease him, I wrap my arms around his torso and press my flesh against his nakedness. He can feel the nipples of my firm breasts and his excitement is evidenced by more movement of his feet, the only mobile portion of his anatomy.
“You seem to enjoy dancing, Willie. Think you can do a jig?”
I laugh again and step back. Peetie and the reclining chair await. I have positioned the unique piece of furniture to the left of Willie’s frame so that he can’t watch.
Overall, I find myself spending an inordinate amount of time in the recliner. Many weekend mornings, for example, I will sit reading the newspaper and an accumulation of magazines while a most obedient and eager to please Peetie, attired in his poodle costume, kneels on all fours between my legs. Conveniently, the especially built recliner splits just below where my backside rests in the middle of the well-padded surface. The lower portion is shaped like a ‘V’ with left leg lying some 45 degrees to my left and right leg 45 degrees to my right. The design forces my calves and feet to rest at a level well above my bottom. And if I so choose, I can lower the upper portion so that my head, shoulders and torso rest most comfortably below my legs. Thus I am indeed reclined and the pose reminds me of sitting for a gynecological examination. Except that instead of the cold, gloved hands of an ObGyn, my privates are instead treated to the warm and wet tongue of my neutered canine friend.
The Chris Bellows' Collection Page 14