“Step up, please.”
I obey and resume my stance, every command seeming to add to Little Sam’s delight. She momentarily moves out of sight to my rear then with chains in hand she joins me on the platform.
“Keep your hands on your head at all times while in this room, Sam. It will always be the rule unless you are directed to do otherwise.”
Long fingers work about my neck collar. A chain is attached to the eye hook on the left side and strung to an iron ring on top of the left pole.
“My late husband encountered a challenge similar to yours. I married young and to a rather obstreperous and bold man. And whereas his boldness served me well, it also served other women. I tolerated it, biding my time, and then came a fateful night, an oil slicked section of road, and a powerful motorcycle which was as refractory as he was.”
She works the right side, continuing to recall her philandering husband.
“He skidded off the road into some construction equipment and was injured. And low and behold besides being knocked unconscious, his manhood suffered much trauma.”
The right side of my collar is chained. She adjusts to assure there is little slack then steps down.
“So after suffering the indignity of dozens of sordid trysts, I receive this phone call from the hospital. Trauma care can only be offered for so long and for so many steps without the consent of the patient or his next of kin. So with my husband in a coma, I rush to the emergency room and learn that only hours and hours of immediate and highly skilled surgery can save that which caused so much misery and interfered with a marriage of complete consecration.
“Yes, Dr. Wilson explained the procedure, the careful suturing of the various vessels, the grafting of skin, the painstaking care to ensure the erectile chambers remain expandable. She also emphasized the need for immediacy, holding before me the papers that needed to be signed.”
She moves to my front. A smaller chain is attached to my left testicle ring and strung to an iron ring on the middle of the left post. The right suffers a similar restraint on the right post. She adjusts to remove all slack.
“And so I calmly listened, Dr. Wilson plainly stated the obvious alternative to the risk. “‘He’ll lose it,’ was her blunt summation. ‘What’s left will have to be removed.’”
“I smiled and she seemed to detect something. She had obviously seen such thoughtful looks before emanating from women suddenly placed in a position of power over the vaunted male organ.
“‘Is there a coffee shop or cafeteria where I can think about this?’ I so pleasantly replied. And that’s where I stayed, Sam. Sipping coffee and contemplating.
“Step off the stool now, slowly and carefully,” she smoothly commanded in interrupting her story.
As my feet returned to the surface of the platform, the chains tightened. My neck collar, smoothly polished and designed for notable long term comfort, assumed the support of some of my weight. The moderate slack on the chains hooked to my testicle rings also dissipated, tugging my right gonad toward the right post and vice versus with the left.
Ms. Hobson looked on, beaming contentedly. Having a bound and naked male at her mercy not so much thrilled her as imbued an odd level of comfort. She looked as would a matronly housewife baking cookies for a clan of squawking children.
Satisfied, she took away the stool and returned to the open cabinet. She began to remove her clothing while resuming the fateful story of her late husband.
“And that’s how my husband’s philandering ended. Me sitting in the hospital coffee shop enjoying a hot cup of brew while the need for acute attention to his manhood amplified over time. And it’s interesting, Sam, my ostensibly contemplative pause. Observers would think I was frozen in consternation, my mind addled with the difficult decision.”
Ms. Hobson began to laugh wickedly. “It was quite the opposite. I was dreaming about a life of my control and my husband’s soon to be unsatiated needs. His balls were quite unaffected by the mishap. Dr. Wilson was very specific about that.”
I watch as the undressing continues. It is magical to see the drab, formless clothing shucked and the incredibly sculpted figure of a toned woman slowly appear from beneath.
As I found when Ms. Hobson visited me during recuperation, she is amazingly conditioned for a woman of some forty years and I begin to gawk as the brassiere is unhooked and the muscled giantess steps out of her panties. I feel myself struggling in my chains in a combination of fear, for a woman who so callously let her husband’s injured penis wither away in a hospital emergency room, and prurient admiration of a form wreaking of both power and beauty.
She turns to me in complete nakedness and smiles. It is not the coy and shy smile of a girl reluctantly exposing herself and overcoming modesty. No it is a confident smile, one exuding control. Ms. Hobson is physically alluring and she knows it!
“Over the years, I’ve come to foster certain rituals in these sessions, Sam. Good canings can be quite exerting and I have found limited covering to be comforting.”
Her breasts, though enormous, do not move or sway. The nipples are those of a pubescent girl in completely defying gravity and pointing skyward. Abdominal muscles ripple with hidden power and taper to where such seem to point to a pubes carefully trimmed of most hair.
She notices my intense, labored stare with the neck collar holding my head completely immobile and she shuffles to my front to afford a better view. She stands arms akimbo... and they are massive arms... better suited for pumping iron than pushing paperwork. Her large hands rest on hips visually enhanced by the narrowness of a very limited waist. Thighs understandably match her biceps and forearms in their evidence of extensive exercise. There is awe in watching the muscles there contract as she moves. My male eyes scan to between her thighs. An incredibly large and exposed clitoris captures my attention. Ms. Hobson notices my glance and smiles.
Little Sam waggles in tribute to a woman with whom the most able bodied man would not wish to physically tangle. Ms. Hobson is an Amazon, cleverly disguising her puissance with attire resembling potato sacks and the hairstyle of a dowager.
“Many years of youthful training. When my husband died, I returned to heavy exercise and took up martial arts.”
Meanwhile I understand the intended effect of having my collar so restrained. With many hours spent in suspension, I know Little Sam will show off, slowly changing from pink to red to purple as the peculiar result of tension on the male spinal cord forces uncontrollable erection. It has so amused Miss Elizabeth’s guests in the past and Ms. Hobson seems to find equal viewing enjoyment, stepping forward to toy with what feels like a cylinder of flesh sutured to my stomach.
“It so pines for release, Sam... a climactic discharge of all that nasty build up of semen. The testosterone spurs production yet a simple injection from Dr. Wilson’s hypodermic needle has denied him the means to ejaculate. Tsk. Tsk.”
Her face assumes a lugubrious look of sympathy while her fingers inspect and her eyes examine. Dr. Wilson’s handiwork fascinates, so quickly transforming my proud manhood from a sensual and somewhat attractive sexual implement to a narrow shortened strip of flesh, functioning solely to evacuate my bladder and amuse women of Dominance. I am thankful that it still engorges, but for what purpose other than to entertain Miss Elizabeth?
I can barely feel the caressing fingers and Ms. Hobson knows it.Next she kneads my ringed testicles and scrotum, grotesquely spread by the tugging chains. She seems to so enjoy the power, first restraining and then squeezing with impunity the male reproductive organs... and knowing that such continuously produce sperm with futility... male essence which cannot be ejaculated... she finds intriguing. The semen meekly awaits her harvesting hands.
Her left hand slides beneath to my perineum. The right strokes Little Sam. I can feel my organ physically move but there is little pleasure felt. My standing penis is for her enjoyment.
Meanwhile gazing at the enormous mammary glands not only amazes, it excites. Ms. H
obson has the breasts of a twenty-year-old beauty queen, and she exhibits such with haughtiness.
She steps away toward another cabinet. It opens, closes and I hear her step onto the platform behind me. She presses her nakedness against mine. I feel the stone-like nipples against my shoulder blades. Her hands reach around. Her fingers pinch my nipples, first most sensuously, then slowly firming. I believe I can feel the huge clitoris brushing against my buttocks.
“Yes, controlling a male’s libido can be most entertaining. I had to learn but I did so quickly. Poor husband could ejaculate no more, but what about his remaining organs? The prostate requires manipulation, the building semen needs release. But overall there is a need for emotional release... a catharsis of the psyche.”
I cry out as her grip on my nipples becomes viciously painful. She laughs.
“By the way, feel free to yell, holler, scream, plead, beg! The room has been sound proofed. Behind the paneling are layers of absorbent material.
“Yes, there needs to a rebalancing of the hormones. And such can occur with emotional trauma just as much as with ecstatic pleasure.
“Ever think about how good it feels after experiencing a very dangerous situation... driving at excessive speed.... sky diving... mountain climbing... escaping all unscathed? For my husband it was fast motorcycles and sordid dalliances with married women.
“Unfortunately in the end, he did not escape unscathed.”
I continue to cry out and groan as Ms. Hobson cruelly pinches and twists. Finally she releases and steps back.
I feel her hands on my buttocks. There is wet coldness.
“A special salve. It very nicely enhances the feel of the rattan.”
She coats the entire surface of my hillocks.
“And so I introduced my husband to pain... deep gut wrenching pain. Executed under my control. He could only beg me for it, and when I condescended, I caned him unmercifully.”
She speaks in a firm, even but ominous tone. Fingers part my cheeks. My rectum is lubricated. Then I feel something pressing against my rear opening.
“I’m sure this feels familiar, Sam. An inflatable plug. You’ve enjoyed its invasive pressure before and in your altered state I think you’ll find the sensation to be most welcome.”
I hear a hiss of air and indeed feel the pressure. Little Sam waggles in response bringing an uncharacteristic giggle from Ms. Hobson.
She steps from the platform and returns to the tall cabinet.
“So I’m going to introduce you to the concept of cathartic pain. And I think afterwards you will feel much better. For a time the anxiety will subside... the need to fruitlessly stroke your numbed penis.”
Ms. Hobson draws from the cabinet a black leather garment. It is a narrow corset which she slips over her head and is barely able to glide over her mammoth breasts. She pulls laces on the sides to tighten and when finished, the Amazon stands with her already huge breasts remaining uncovered but plumped even more with nipples pointed higher. Her pubes remain uncovered. The garment hides none of her feminine charms, it merely highlights.
“But then the need will build again. And you will call me.”
Her soliloquy ends. She moves to the wall facing me and leisurely begins the process of selecting a cane. She swishes several through the air to the sound of a sickening whoosh.
“Smile for the camera, Sam.”
The termagant, her demeanor pleasant but dementedly unctuous, positions herself to my left side. I feel the tube attached to the inflatable anal plug moving. I hear a hiss. I feel pressure deep within my loins. I hear a whoosh then a crack, my moistened buttocks providing quite the percussive sound. I feel the most indescribable pain. The woman is an arsonist. She is setting me on fire. I scream. And with her final words I think about Miss Elizabeth, comfortably ensconced before a television monitor watching my slow execution in high definition. Between her thighs is an excited Jamie. She cannot watch, her tongue arduously works to please, but she can hear. And for her, I will sing.
I did not before understand all that Ms. Hobson explained about catharsis, emotional release, the escape from danger. But I will receive a very thorough and slow enlightenment. The second whoosh and resulting burst of agony is equally painful.
I begin to think of Miss Elizabeth’s recollections of the floggings at the Palace. How the prisoner would initially be shamefully erect and his executioner would slowly relieve him of the embarrassment, the excruciating pain eventually bringing flaccidity.
But Ms. Hobson knows to squeeze the puffolator to expand the plug and maintain pressure on my prostate. And Little Sam seems to ignore my suffering and continue his engorgement. He defies me, responding with delight to the attention brought by Ms. Hobson’s grasp on the rubber bulb, and proudly waggles, seeming to celebrate.
My restraints, chained neck collar and testicle rings, hold steady my torso, ingeniously presenting my immobile buttocks for stroke after stroke. But I can dance with my feet, and Ms. Hobson cackles as I indeed perform a jig. My hands dutifully remain atop my head for three strokes, then all discipline breaks down and with each subsequent stroke my arms flail about wildly. Yes, with my precious gonads tightly ringed and chained, I must moderate my movements.
At least a dozen strokes are applied. In the end my hands find comfort by disobediently grasping the testicle chains. That earns more strokes and I intuitively realize that my caning will not end until my hands resume their place of submission. I summon the energy, rapidly depleting with my convulsive reactions, and return my palms to my head.
Ms. Hobson stops.
The corseted form returns to view. She is perspiring and I understand the practicality of being mostly naked for the execution. Her powerful swings are tantamount to a notable level of exertion.
She pulls the tube for the inflatable plug between my legs. The enticing scent of feminine arousal fills the air. She sits in the throne-like chair still holding the puffolator. Her clitoris is swollen, its color purple. There is wetness streaming down her inner thighs. Ms. Hobson is a sadist, experiencing climactic pleasure in her brisk application of the cane to my buttocks.
She squeezes; my penis stirs.
“Stroke yourself, Sam. I think you’ll be surprised.”
I reach down. Little Sam is covered with gelatinous goo. My male essence has been whipped and pumped from me. Yet I felt nothing other than the cane searing the flesh of my buttocks and the inflating anal plug while weeks of spermatic fluid was expressed.
Ms. Hobson laughs with my reaction of shock.
“In a week, though you’ll hate yourself for asking, you’ll be calling for more.”
Chapter Thirty Seven
I kneel between the posts, recalling that first application of rattan. Ms. Hobson was prescient in suggesting that I would be calling her again. Despite the incredible gut wrenching pain of a firm caning, Ms. Hobson’s expertise in handling the altered male provided the relief I so much sought. Though I felt no ecstatic climax, in giving up my sperm, even in such an ignominious manner, my hormones were put back into balance. For a day or so I entered a state of strange tranquility... ending, of course, days later when Nurse Stenson’s hypodermic needle served to once again began the cycle of hormonal build up. And watching Jamie hungrily bring Miss Elizabeth to countless orgasms every night seemed to advance the rate at which I again approached priapism.
Jamie was so kind to me after that first caning. Ms. Hobson slid the tiny stool under my feet to relieve the tension on my testicle rings and neck collar, tossed a hood over my head, dressed and left. I dared not release myself, so I just stood until hours later Jamie entered, unhooked my bindings, attached a leash to my testicle rings and led me into Miss Elizabeth’s huge bathroom.
There it became my turn to frolic in the Jacuzzi while a naked Jamie tended to my numerous welts. His delicate hands were most soothing and in being naked and alone with Jamie, that alone made it worth enduring the cathartic agony.
For this second visit, Ms. H
obson has my wrists cuffed, raised high behind my back, and chained to the posts. To ensure that I remain kneeling, my testicle rings are chained to rings at the bottom of the posts. I once again watch as Ms. Hobson disrobes and displays her amazing physique. This time Jamie gallivants about the room. Ms. Hobson stripped him of all clothing and in viewing the young hairless effeminate flesh, Little Sam reacts. I can lower my chin and see his stiffness.
“You’d be interested to know, Sam, that the Defford Industries deal was finally completed. A very lucrative fee for the firm, as well as my bonus, of course. And the financing for the Simpson Trading Co. will fund next week. That one is huge. I’m going to be a very well paid lady thanks to your efforts.”
Those were my deals! I cringe thinking of all my endeavors... years of negotiations, planning, meetings... ending with a substantial bonus... and even worse.., kudos from the Executive Committee... going to the benefit of my tormentress. And I will receive for my labors... a flogging.
“Something a little different tonight, Sam. Miss Elizabeth wants to be entertained.”
Ms. Hobson dons her corset. Jamie assists, dutifully tightening the cords on the side. When finished she drops to her knees and sucks on the penis-like clitoris. Without the Prince’s Wand forcing Jamie’s appendage to be stretched, I believe the size of Ms. Hobson’s massive bud would exceed Jamie’s flaccid penis.
“Such a good little castrate,” Ms. Hobson compliments the blond ingenue.
The pierced tongue slithers between Ms. Hobson’s labia. She parts her feet in welcome.
“My husband learned to be quite the cunnilinguist. I assume you’ve noticed my outsized clitoris. I made him suck for hours before applying the cane he so much desired. I made him earn his relief. When your tongue is properly stretched, Sam. You may want to explore there.”
The throaty laugh. “Enough, Jamie, the harness.”
Jamie prances to one of the cabinets. He returns with a black leather contraption and hooks it to grommets on the front hem of the corset. Straps run between Ms. Hobson’s thighs. Jamie moves to her rear and presumably threads the straps to grommets on the back hem.
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