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“Jack, come into the kitchen,” I instruct as I have an additional thought. “Mount the table. Lie so that belt is about your waist,” I further instruct as I fill a bowl with warm water.
I have not lost my prowess, quickly encircling Jack’s waist and securing his wrists within the attached cuffs. Hands restrained.
I next release him from his cock cage, unlock the Prince’s Wand and slip away.
Straps with short tethers next circle his thighs just above the knees. I will milk Jack in the uncomfortable position, a very subordinate pose, mindful of being diapered as a toddler.
“Knees to your chest, Jack. Governess Kelly is not going to use up her relaxing Sunday mornings stroking your penis.”
He complies, of course, and I quickly attach the tethers to his neck collar, holding him supine, wrists restrained, knees to chest.
During my tendance, Jack slowly hardens of course, his long interval of chastity cruel, his system deluged with hormones. Just as when I cleansed him as a boy, I become clinical, ignoring his engorged condition, and work toward the goal of draining him... ever so slowly draining him.
He’s expecting the grip of my firm but gentle hand. He will receive elsewise.
I lubricate his anus. Again he expects the insertion of my fingers. Instead I slip within a rather stout probe with wires attached. When switched on it vibrates, Jack never before being so mechanically manipulated.
Lastly comes the bowl of soothing warm water. I place it on the table, lift his burgeoning scrotal sac and dunk it. Jack moans with the faint soothing delight.
He does not fully comprehend his treatment, all new to him. Yet he’s expecting pleasure, and in a way he’ll receive it... but it will not be the ecstatic pleasure the male beast covets.
“An hour or two should do the trick Jack, enjoy,” cruelly bending down his stiffness past his upturned thighs.
There I press the dowel against the back his thighs, horizontal and parallel to the table top. Against this slim length of wood I press the tip of his now raging penis. It’s wedged in an angle of denial. The organ’s need to right itself... desperately right itself... holds in place the dowel.
“It hurts Miss Kelly! I can’t stay like this!”
“Well, do the best you can,” I callously suggest, flipping the switch for the anal vibrator.
His penis cannot ejaculate held at such an angle... but it will ooze... and in fact fluid is already streaming. Yes, he will remain hard, the vibrator spurring stiffness, his subservient psyche broiling, his hormones overflowing.
“You’ll find if you squirm a little, roll your hips about, you’ll get more flow. But one way or the other, with the pressure and caressing of your prostate, you’ll be drained of all that build up.”
With that I step away, the Sunday papers beckoning...
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Halfway through the New York Times, the apartment doorbell rings. It can only be an internal visit, not having been alerted to a visitor by the security desk.
A tenant in need of emergency toilet cleaning?
I arise to respond. Pulling open the door, it’s Theresa. She is imposing in her uniform, as stated a very large and muscular woman of color.
“A package. Came yesterday but you appeared busy directing Jack on a leash,” she hands me a thick padded envelope. I know it to contain a replenishment of Jack’s testosterone.
“Thank you, Theresa.”
“You fixing something in the kitchen?” she inquires apparently hearing the buzz of Jack’s vibrator.
“No, I’m milking Jack. I’m a little worn pulling him about the city last night so I’ve dispensed with the usual manual effort.”
In being locked in his cock cage while serving Theresa, it dawns that she has never seen Jack’s somewhat impressive male equipment. And sure enough, her curiosity is piqued, inquiring before I can offer.
“That seems interesting. Can I see him?”
“Of course,” fully aware of Jack’s heightened humiliation in having a woman view his helpless state of bondage and exposure.
I lead to the kitchen where Jack remains on the table in the forced fetal position. It’s been nearly an hour since I turned on the anal vibrator. Yet sure enough Jack remains stiff as a board, the slim wooden dowel functioning to hold his erection at the awkward and most frustrating angle. Fluid streams in abundance, glistening in the kitchen lights. And as I suggested, Jack squirms, bucking his hips in a manner of faux copulation, appearing to be making love to the kitchen ceiling.
