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Even while deprived of the use of sight and hearing one maintains some sense of time, for awhile. So, when I felt Mistress Samantha’s gloved fingers abruptly withdraw from my anus followed by nothing for the longest period, I realized something was amiss. Professional dominatrixes work by the hour. The successful ones do not noticeably watch the clock but do tend to wrap things up, no pun, within the prescribed allotted time. None are going to sit about and watch ‘Gone With the Wind’ while a sub is enjoying a lengthy scene...unless of course they extract their hourly fee for the entire visit.
Then my scrotal parachute was attached and I became somewhat concerned. Evidently Mistress Samantha was going through the dresser drawer and had found a favorite toy. Clever how she attached it to my ankle cuffs. I could either stretch my balls or futilely struggle to hold my feet and ankles back near my buttocks. Maintaining either position meant slow suffering.
Then came the ice! It was not what I had scripted. Perhaps Mistress Samantha enjoyed innovating.
Then my numbing testicles just floated in the coldness and I slowly lost feeling where a man enjoys feeling the most.
When the stout tip of a dildo knocked, I knew it could only be one thing. My wife...my defacto owner...had arrived home! She was supposed to be in Chicago for another two days.
I could only lie and take the punishment...the extreme and seemingly endless sodomy that I experienced on most Sunday mornings. But with my genitals iced to complete numbness I could feel nothing but the pain of the penetration. Normally she slowly masturbated me, providing not only orgasmic relief, but this wonderful fulfilling sensation that the woman of my dreams was using me for her pleasure. That the sensations caused by my efforts to resist the long and undulating cylinder of rubber pleasured the woman I worshipped. This in turn pleased me and on cue I would do my best to ejaculate for her. She enjoyed giving the command. I enjoyed obeying.
Then there were different hands. Firm with feminine softness like Mrs. Dalton’s...and knowledgeable...fingers that were not only familiar with the male anatomy but comfortable working it. They poked, pinched and prodded...squeezing my testicles until I would do anything to curtail the dull ache. These hands worked with purpose and knew men and how to control.
What was happening?
The enema was beyond anything Mrs. Dalton had done before.
“Curiously controlling but sloppy,” she once exclaimed in shrugging off that manner of play.
And then the application of the cold water broke my limited fortitude. My bowels filled without relent as a soft warm hand checked the pressure on my lower abdomen.
There was more than one woman. As I felt the deep intrusive pain of the catheter, one hand holding my penis and another pushing the tube, a second pair grasped my testicles and used the pillowcase to steady my head.
And it was all done so agilely, like a well drilled athletic team. The injection turned the muscles in my legs to jelly. When a tube entered my mout
h, I seemed to welcome it.
I was then truly in sensory deprivation. The music stopped abruptly and turned to a fuzzy static. My wrists and ankles were secured and whatever had been injected robbed me of any desire to move anyway. No sight. I could not talk. With slight movements my shoulders and knees brushed against something. I was confined. I managed to lift my head and my forehead touched a firm surface...confirming I was in an enclosure.
What was happening?
But then whatever was injected took its course. I became torpid, not wishing to do anything other than explain to Mrs. Dalton. Perhaps kneel and beg her forgiveness. And I could not do so.
I had no opportunity.
I began to dream...perhaps hallucinate...and of course once again Mrs. Dalton became my Valkyrie...as with almost every dream. The woman of my fantasy rides a horse...a large white stallion. The beast is huge, powerful...galloping with a frenetic energy, which only the firm hands of my idol can restrain. He wants to run tempestuously yet the masterful grip of my beautiful but forceful specter uses bit and bridle to ensure that his friskiness is well constrained.
She wears black, so wickedly contrasting the purity of the snow white horse. Black leather gloves, ending at her forearms hold reins and a riding crop. Muscled biceps and shoulders are bare. A thin strapless black leather bustier snugly covers mammoth breasts, which voluptuously ripple with the canter. A brief leather skirt leaves brawny almost masculine thighs exposed. Black leather boots end at the knees. Gusts of summer wind and the cadenced motion of the horse cause the skirt to flutter. The resulting glimpses of pink feminine flesh draw the eyes and tantalize the imagination.
I stand naked and restrained. A stiff leather collar is clipped to a lanyard hanging from an overhead board cantilevered from a tall sturdy post. The thin but strong strand is short, forcing me to struggle to stand on my toes. My wrists are cuffed behind my back. In the late morning sun I perspire. Sweat drips into my eyes frustratingly interfering with my rapturous gaze of the puissant equestrienne.
She adroitly guides the horse around a large fenced pasture where I am tethered in the middle. I am aroused and the tension on the neck collar causes me to slowly stiffen. Watching her thoroughly command such a potent beast with her skirt flipping at times to completely reveal her well-trimmed pubes is stimulating.
When my penis stands at full salute she approaches, noticing its stiffness.
“You need to be exercised,” she smoothly comments with a knowing smile of supreme confidence.
The overhead beam is at the height of her shoulders. She releases the lanyard and with an effortless flick of her wrist applies a quick but surprisingly painful snap of her crop to my buttocks.
“Run for me,” she calmly suggests.
But I know it is a command and it is quickly followed by a second and more vicious stroke. Her voice is tranquil...but her crop hand speaks loudly.
I run. My erection bobs. She laughs and guides the horse to follow. She nimbly leans in the saddle to crop again. I run faster. My buttocks hurt but I strangely feel good. I am free and entertaining this amazing Dominant woman.
“Can you hold your erection and perform for me?” she so insouciantly inquires.
I am too winded to respond. But I know she will have her answer as I indeed run for her, perform for her, entertain her with my labored efforts to avoid the searing snaps of her crop.
