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“Such a typical male reaction.”
She steps to look directly into my face as I remain humbly per
ched on all fours atop the table.
“For me, Mr. Dawson, it was as simple as unloading a dangerous weapon. Or as gratifying as taking a vicious dog to the vet to relieve him of a lifetime of abhorrent behavior. We changed lives, Mr. Dawson. A couple of incisions, some snips, and some sutures and the feared male beast was transformed from virile lion to tame kitten. I enjoyed the work.
“Hands behind your head, remain kneeling. I’ll want a urine sample and while erect, I think Nurse Greta will enjoy watching your efforts.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I traverse the stairs at 209 Prince Street. I pause at Miss Denise’s sixth floor entrance and hear the laughter of many voices from behind the door. It becomes apparent why I am to continue on to the seventh floor where there is a separate entrance for her patients. The seventh floor is for business. The sixth floor of Miss Denise’s capacious abode is for living and the mirthful sounds suggest that a Friday evening cocktail gathering has begun.
Continuing upward to the seventh floor, at the top of the stairs there is a small landing area and a door. With a twist of the knob, I enter the plain linoleum floored hallway where Mae Lee walked me about last Sunday. In seeking my name in the dim light, I must step close to each door. It is curious to note that of the half dozen portals, two have names other than mine. Finally the Dawson name is located and I enter. It is the room where I spent most of the prior weekend.
There are instructions awaiting, simple and terse. After stripping, I am to return to the chair, impale myself on the anal insert and wait. Thus after removing my clothes I step to the chair, align and lower my buttocks and squirm. The lubricated length of rubber glides in and I find myself obeisantly sitting with my hands behind my head, feeling particularly naked in being denuded of all hair by Nurse Greta’s strong chemicals. Within minutes, Mae Lee enters, presses her finger to her lips to demand silence and wordlessly adheres the velcro of the nylon straps. Wrists, ankles, thighs. She is most firm. The collar encircles my neck, the headphones cover my ears, the hood slips on and I am returned to silent darkness.
All is familiar, except I feel my nostrils pinched. After a moment, when I open my mouth to draw air, a rubber tube is inserted. It slithers to the back of my throat, then I feel a larger ball of rubber greet my teeth. I feel fingers work behind my head to secure the collection of rubber in place. I am gagged and soon realize that the tube will facilitate watering. Whatever is injected therein flows directly to the back of my throat and must be swallowed. I cannot resist by spitting anything out, and of course I cannot speak.
Lastly, my anal insertion is moderately inflated and I feel Mae Lee’s powerful hand stroke me to bring erection. At least my penis feels erect.
Then the cycle begins. First comes the hydration. Squirts of water which I must swallow. Then within an hour there is bladder relief. Then comes release from the straps with painful kneading and massage, followed by the disheartening return to the firmness of the nylon restraints which once again commences the slow anguish of cramping muscles forcibly held motionless.
Did not Miss Denise suggest she would help me? Her comment about seeking to be controlled repeats and repeats. Yet, here I sit expecting therapy, a cure, and instead find that I have once again completely surrendered myself to the control of wicked women, one physically overpowering and the other mentally imposing. And of course, the frustration of being denied ejaculatory relief builds and builds.
Then I correct myself. Am I not denying myself ejaculatory relief? What is it that causes me to abandon the need and desire to climax yet constantly seek the company and attention of the female gender? It seems as if I am seeking something and cannot, will not climax until it is found.
With thoughts running rampant, the perceiving of time becomes infeasible when thoroughly strapped down and denied light and meaningful sound. Mae Lee’s hourly visitation is the only period of measure and after several cycles I soon lose track of whether she will next offer bladder relief or temporary release from the straps.
Having thoroughly revisited my Bangkok escapades, my mind wanders elsewhere. It rewinds well into the past, focusing on a normal childhood in a middle class family in middle America. Boring to the point that in recalling various snippets, I grow weary. Every childhood memory has me running about with my older sister, Kate and stepsister, Sue. And because they were older, the early years have me deeply immersed in girl’s games. No rough and tumble stuff for me. While playing house, I was the butler serving tea. Other roles had me equally subordinate. Since I was five years younger than my sister Kate and three years younger than stepsister Sue, there was not to be a time when I was in charge.
Then puberty struck and what little interest I had in girl’s games waned completely. But our secluded home in the middle of an old apple orchard did not give rise to many other after school opportunities. There were no other kids within walking distance. So in refraining from engaging in feminine activities, learning to cook and sew if I recall, I began to read. Lots and lots of reading. And of all kinds. And some stuff spurred prurient thoughts.
Yes, magazines, life style magazines for teens, became objects of literary devotion. Scantily clad rock stars, movie actresses, a photo of Las Vegas show girls was treasured as I recall. And of course, I discovered my penis. But unfortunately, my oldest sister discovered that I had discovered my penis. And that began a long battle of wits.
The reading became more and more focused on the prurient, prurient for early teens of course. And I developed quite the stash. Nothing outright obscene at that age, just an exposed thigh was enough to trigger fervent stroking of my penis.
With two older sisters, such activity had to be well concealed, of course. So I had various places where adoration of gams and burgeoning busts and the resulting furtive masturbation could manifest without interference. At least so I thought.
Yes, older sister Kate caught me. In hindsight I realize that a light shining in the basement in the dusk of late afternoon served more as a beacon for drawing attention to my lustful deed than to illuminate glossy pages. So as I sat focused on a photo highlighting the legs of Tina Turner, right hand gleefully frictioning my young but hard shaft, I did not hear sister Kate tiptoe halfway down the stairs. There she positioned herself to observe what I thought were stealthy undertakings as I worked myself into a sexual lather. In hindsight, I believe she craftily waited for near climax. Being five years my senior, she fully understood the male needs and purposely awaited as my breathing noisily quickened and my head turned from the page to better fantasize about the wondrously formed gams of the noted stage singer.
“Whatcha doing, Bobby?”
I immediately turned toward the stairs. Her innocuous words, ostensibly conveyed to commence teen discourse, not only startled me but instantly added an odd element to my endeavor. My heightened sense of guilt rose to overwhelm. And yet such seemed to bring forth an eruption of sperm.
I ejaculated to the sound of her voice, as in turning I more fully exposed myself and she uttered a feigned ‘Oh my!’. The intense ‘steam’ of apprehension caused my boiler to blow and I spewed my male seed before my sister.
I became apoplectic while sister Kate’s feigned shock quickly turned to girlish joviality. Yes, she laughed, having entrapped the male in his most vulnerable of moments. As I struggled to return a semi erect organ to its hidden lair, Kate’s young legs ascended the stairway, her excited voice calling out for Sue.
I was chagrined but ironically happy that my mother was not home. I hoped that the passage of time until she returned for dinner would calm Kate and pacify the need to disclose my cloaked afternoon activity. But it was too late to sequester my secretive endeavors from Sue. As I gathered up my basement stash, I could hear girlish giggles as Kate related the details of the male ‘boiler explosion’ to her stepsister.
Mother was not informed. But thereafter, meddling with my masturbatory habits became a game for my feminine siblings. And curiously, Sue seemed more enthralled with engaging therein than Kate. Whatever, with two sexually curious girls focused on my developing habit, surreptitious trips to the basement ended. I had other places to partake in the sin of Onan, and on at least two occasions, I found that a theretofore well concealed stash of spice was pilfered and replaced with cooking or sewing literature.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The steady hissing sound in my headphones slowly dissipates. At last something is happening! I hear a voice. I smell wonderful perfume. My benefactress! I am inspired to know Miss Denise is present. I finally will be released and in place of fathomless darkness, I will gaze at her beauty.
But nothing happens.
