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As we prepared for landing, she handed me a business card with her home phone written on the back.
“Next time you’re planning on playing with that, give me a call first. I’ll have some things I’ll want you to do for me.”
Well, after the examination in the lavatory her firm feminine voice caused an odd tingle...as if part of me was resisting while another part was memorizing the phone numbers.
After landing she paused at the exit while waiting for the door to be opened. She just looked at me.
“I work irregular hours...” was all the words I could muster.
Miss Dalton pinched my cheek as if I was a small boy.
“The business number is a direct line. And I’m sure my secretary may also find you amusing...”
She stepped into the jetway leaving the thought hanging with no further words deemed needed. My eyes followed her efficient and purposeful stroll to the main terminal. She did not look back. She knew I would call, and her presumption in knowing that I would indeed be using the phone numbers caused more conflicting thoughts of both stimulation and resistance.
Yes, I called. It was the following week during a layover. I was staying in a depressing motel in Memphis. My schedule was changed from the coast flights, which I enjoyed, to depressing commuter type flights. The hustle and bustle depressed me. I was stroking ‘Little Ted’ in an attempt to cheer myself but could not get Miss Dalton’s words out of my head. It was just before noon and I had to check out and be at the airport for a 3:00 p.m. departure.
So I called the direct line. A very young female voice answered. I gave my name as ‘Ted the flight attendant’ and was put on hold. Then the line clicked and I heard feminine laughter just before the sultry, firm voice of Miss Dalton came over the wire. She and her young s
ecretary Matilda had exchanged some amusing comments.
“Hello, Ted. I trust you’re calling for instructions.”
I overheard the high pitched youthful laughter of the secretary as I indicated that I was.
“Completely naked, Ted. And I want you to insert your right index and forefinger into your anus. Be a good boy.”
I explained that I was right handed and would need that hand to achieve gratification. I heard her laugh and comment to her secretary, relaying my concerns. I heard the young voice laugh more. I flushed in reaction. The two women were hundreds of miles away and were able to humiliate me.
“Stroke yourself with your left, Ted. That’s why you have two hands.”
To the sound of giggling I complied. It felt strange. I don’t think I ever used my left and certainly never before had fingers in my rear passage. I had always considered it off limits with regard to sexual release. I was to receive quite the education in that area of play.
I tucked the phone under my chin freeing my hands. Miss Dalton lowered the pitch of her voice as I stroked. She made me describe my erection and the sensations of impaling my own backside. Her voice became distanced and I could tell that on her end of the line she was sharing the receiver with her secretary. But I became too aroused to care.
“We can hear the sloshing sound of moist skin, Ted. You enjoy very quick strokes for a boy your age.”
They both laughed confirming my supposition on the sharing of the phone.
“Tell us before you ejaculate, Ted. Be a good boy. You’ll need to ask permission.”
I was mesmerized by her commanding words and within minutes was beseeching her for acquiescence. To a mirthful command of ‘Come for me’, I climaxed to the sound of much girlish giggling and my grunts of ecstasy. It felt strange. It was most embarrassing but it felt so good. I exploded like a randy teenager.
My box, or whatever contains me, jolts distracting me from my reminiscence. I am being moved. Whereas it was slightly cold it is slowly becoming warm. Then things settle down and I again feel the vibrations of an engine.
Chapter Five
Jasmine
I wave to the driver and he knows exactly where to turn the truck and back up to the door of the storage building.
Another arrival in Aruba. Two supply trucks have already come and gone and with this final delivery, and Motamba will arrive with the boat to return me and the supplies to Constancia Island.
Our little enclave on Aruba is well disguised and guarded. None of the locals realize it is the point of embarkation for Constancia Island, the exclusive island, really a sovereign country owned by Lady Constance Esterhoven. Constancia Island is twenty miles away, just over the horizon. Purchased in the 1920's by Lady C’s great grandfather it has been developed into a most unique vacation facility for its supreme ruler...the world’s most Dominant woman. It is also a training facility for recalcitrant males. Measuring some two miles by seven miles, women reign on Constancia and males serve.
The driver lowers the truck tailgate. Lying on top is the coffin-like transport box, which is used to deliver all males to Constancia. When it descends to the crushed coral surface I pick up one end and the driver assists in carrying the box into the plain cinder block temporary storage building. It is amusing to see him struggle under the weight. I find the task effortless. At six foot and one hundred and eighty pounds of muscle, my strength exceeds that of most males. He is impressed when I single-handedly pick up an empty box and return it to the truck. The transport boxes are identical and circulate throughout the world, stored in various locations to await the next male to be whisked away to Constancia.
I inspect the tag tied to the handle at the end of the arriving box.
