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I am sickened by the meekness of my words and do not fully understand my own request. But sitting naked with the beautiful and domineering Miss Denise manipulating my male gland deep within brings a desire for intimacy which the hood precludes.
I so much wish to look into her eyes as, to emphasize her words, her unyielding hand squeezes in torment. I feel her power in the depths of my bowels and oddly I feel a need to watch her ply he
r craft.
It is an interrogation technique with which I am all too familiar. Years ago in a Bangkok cell, she peeled away all mental and physical covering and all resistance. I then most ashamedly bared all to her... my very soul.
The process was regimented, thorough, complete. Within months everything was taken from me, and I was never given a reason. And there has been a never ending search to get it back.
Hands work about my neck collar. I hear snaps. The hood is drawn away. My eyes involuntarily close as I am once again illuminated in the bright ceiling spot light. In finally prying open one eye, I note that a smiling Mae Lee stands to my right side holding the hood and Miss Denise is on my left. A cushy chair has been drawn to where the stunning woman, still attired in evening dress, sits. Her blue eyes sparkle with delight. In her left hand is the puffolator with tube connected to my anal insertion. In her right is a glass of white wine. As my eyes adjust, I look down to see an enormous erection, oozing fluid causing the purple head and stiff shaft to gleam. It seems as if it is no longer attached, belonging to someone else. Yes, to Miss Denise, who with a simple squeeze can make my penis stand and dance.
“Amazing, the male anatomy, don’t you think Bobby?”
My tormentress leans, reaching out with a glass laden hand. A finger extends.
“So much time and effort in keeping this little thing satisfied.”
The knuckle of her index finger diddles the most sensitive underside of the glans. Her touch feels exquisite. Then she mockingly holds it upright to show the gooey moisture.
“So much naughtiness and bad behavior...”
She laughs. In any other place, in any other setting, it is a most pleasant laugh. But I shudder in hearing it again. I have never been able to share in Miss Denise’s mirth.
In being with her again, naked and thoroughly restrained, memories of Bangkok return. The entire ordeal unfolds as if I am watching a movie. Though I am in a funk, the mental montage resumes with another visit to the British nurse, the only interlude punctuating those initial weeks of four point restraint.
Chapter Eleven
“Concentrate, Mr. Dawson. You must be acclimated to the presence of women by now.”
The nurse held a beaker in her left hand and my penis in her right. I stood with hands on my head as my three guards smirked in observing the white uniformed woman control, insisting on a urine sample.
Finally a flow began and I provided the sample. The beaker filled rapidly and I was commanded to stop. I writhed in discomfort as the nurse took away the sample and leisurely returned with a basin. She resumed holding my penis, and I finished my business. My antics brought laughter from my audience.
“OK. Now for some posing. Just a little procedure so I can judge your muscle tone. Over here please, Mr. Dawson.”
With so many electrical cattle prods standing at the ready, I without delay pranced in the intended direction. In the center of the washroom was a small pedestal about two feet high.
“Up you go, stand facing me, extend your arms, pretend you’re a swan, with wings. Be a good boy... obey.”
The surface was small and I almost had to stand with one foot atop the other.
Still I knew to obey. Yes, ‘obedience’, I told myself. The many days of bondage and supplication had taken their toll. There was nothing, no command, no demand, no directive to which I would not robotically respond.
“Now lean forward... careful... and lift your right foot. Yes... that’s good boy. Show yourself to the guards... yes they like docile, well disciplined men.”
I shakily stood on one foot. I had not used any muscles in days. I was weak and lack of use had atrophied all toning.
“Now, push your foot back and lean more. Oh yes, your balls hang so nicely when displayed like that.”
I struggled to maintain balance. Then I realized the clever nurse was affording me exercise but in such a humiliating fashion!
“Now, let’s see if you can become erect. Show the girls how obedient you are, how much you enjoy pleasing. Close your eyes if you wish but don’t fall. The prods are standing ready.”
The many days of forced chastity... the exhibition of my nakedness... the humiliation... the authoritative voice commanding me to display a stiff manhood. Yes, I slowly engorged to the sound of the tittering guards. I became a living statue, the virile male, humbled but erect.
I was commanded to switch feet. Then the nurse put me through a variety of poses, all quite challenging and quite revealing of my freshly shaved flesh. Muscles were stretched, guards were entertained. I was mentally taken down one more notch.
With practice and a couple of painful zings of the prods, I learned to pose on the toes of my left foot, bent at the waist, arms straight out to my sides, right leg extended straight back. The nurse’s knowing hands gently guided to assure proper posture, as she termed it. I felt as if I had become a model for some sordid nude painting. The guards were enthralled as the nurse pointed out how nicely the pose displayed my erection with the testicles most vulnerably dangling beneath.
