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And he cannot feel a thing. No ecstatic relief for my satirical subordinate. He has had his last climax. Orgasms are for me...the Dominant woman who owns his body and will soon own his soul.
I press the faux penis to his rectum and resume. When sodomizing Ted, I have never determined the limit to the number of clitoral and vaginal orgasms. The constraining factor has always been the strength in my thighs and legs...which unfortunately for Ted is considerable.
My watch reads 11:15. Such a delightful way to while away the time before Ted’s fateful trip. In, out, in, out...Ted grunts. He probably does not realize it...the headphones muffling his own voice.
Sometimes he squeezes which serves to add a luscious level of resistance and cause my insertion to brusquely friction my vaginal walls. He can be so thoughtful.
But alas all things must end.
I lift his arms high and bend to push my head and neck under them. I can feel his leather wrist cuffs on my back. My breasts press against his shoulder blades. This position serves to better pinion him and leave my hands free. For the coup de grace I reach around his torso and grasp each of his nipples. If he had any doubts as to who was forcefully sodomizing him before, all now leave. This is how I finish every strap-on session, working his nipples between my fingernails as I plunge as deeply as possible. He begins to shriek in pain...but he also nicely squeezes his cheeks, adding a wonderful degree of resistance, which my muscled thighs so easily overcome. But not before tossing off orgasm after orgasm.
Ted, you have been marvelously fucked and have not felt anything except pain. How delightfully Dominant.
Exhausted, I step back. I feel good. The dildo exits his anus with the sound of an amusing plop. The collectio
n bag is full of his ooze. I seal it and toss it into the freezer with the others. As stated, it can’t hurt to have one more sample.
I bask in the glow of complete gratification and a degree of revenge...with one final glass of Chardonnay. Ted reenters his world of deprived senses. His little rectum must be on fire yet I know with the unfelt hormonal release he also experiences a glow...though comparatively diminished to mine.
The counselor suggested visiting him on Constancia Island but only after proper regimentation. I will have to find a local boy toy during his sojourn.
Two can play this game, Ted.
The house phone rings. The turncoat doorman announces the arrival of the Society’s team.
“I hope Mr. Dalton is alright,” he utters sheepishly.
I don a robe. Minutes later when I open my apartment door, I understand why he expressed concern. Two women enter. One is pushing a stretcher draped with a white sheet. It is not often that I look eyeball to eyeball with other females. The white uniformed girls are huge and though young carry themselves with an impressive air of confidence.
“We’re from the Society, Mrs. Dalton. We move about under the guise of emergency medical workers as you can see.”
I just smile and nod.
“Your husband?”
I point to the bedroom where Ted remains in sensory deprivation. I follow the girl of some 22 or 23 years and am comforted when she expresses no shock or outrage.
“Well this should be simple enough. We’ll need to do some paper work, take some measurements and get your signature on a few forms. Do you wish to say good bye to him? If not we can take him just like that...as long as you’re willing to part with the headphones.”
I decline to bid adieu. Any departing message I have for Ted will be expressed on my behalf by the staff at Constancia Island.
I watch the procedures with much curiosity. Girl number one releases Ted’s ankle cuffs and with a combination of strength and adroitness pushes him about with soft but firm hands so that he sits upright on the edge of the bed. Unwelcome motion is discouraged with quick and vicious pinches to his nipples and testicles. It doesn’t take too many painful encounters to convince the deafened and blindfolded Ted to remain still unless directed to move...that he is in the hands of very skillful Dominant women.
Meanwhile girl number two stands with clipboard in hand. She talks aloud as she writes.
“Uncircumcised, nicely hung, evidences a degree of scrotal stretching...is that right, Mrs. Dalton?”
I nod.
“Mid thirties. Moderate degree of body hair. All brown.”
Then girl number one moves about with a tape measure calling out various measurements at the wrists, arms, chest, thighs, ankles. Girl number two records all.
“He’ll be scanned in upon arrival. But it’s best to have preliminary measurements in case more rudimentary restraints are needed before his physical.”
Girl one number measures Ted’s flaccid penis. An action which brings tumescence of course. But that seems to conform with the technician’s intentions, for she most dexterously strokes the growing organ and in an amazingly short interval has Ted standing.
“Eight and one half inches fully erect.”
