The Interrogator

“Yes, ma’am.”

“About what, Bobby? What would a well restrained and naked man think about while being tended to by a woman. Performing for her like a helpless child. Made to crawl about on all fours like a dog. Tell me.”

She uses her mocking tone, sardonically suggesting that in being so ignominiously presented, there must be prurient thoughts.

I pause. I quickly realize that if I do not speak, she will become insistent. I do not want to cloud the cordial atmosphere. The reminiscences of my sisters’ pranks are foremost on my mind. Therefore, though the stories are non sequiturs, I burble what first comes to mind.

She listens, encouraging me for details. I describe my masturbatory habits and just about every magazine and picture I can remember. The taste of bacon, though ever so slight, has me pining for more. But first I must speak while Miss Denise eats. I can hear her softly chewing with an occasional slurp of hot coffee.

I continue my story and reach the point of suffering the theft of my stashes, then relate my week of chasteness after masturbating ad nauseam for many months.

“Yes, boys tend to overdo things at that age. The deprivation of stimulus must have been traumatic for you. But the discovery by your sister must have been even more cathartic, having her observe while you stroked yourself. Curious how you so nicely ejaculated for her. It must have been very embarrassing for you.”

“Yes, ma’am. It was.”

“Not only didn’t you cease the nasty deed during the humiliating encounter, it did not inhibit you from continuing your practice. Only the missing pictures slowed your hand. You were quite the randy boy.”

“Yes, ma’am. More bacon?”

“Oh Bobby, you know you must ask nicely.”

“May I please have more bacon, Miss Denise?”

I envision her smiling, experiencing the ultimate in control.... the hand feeding of a begging male. But my humble words earn another tiny morsel and she presses it onto my tongue. It is excellent.

“So somehow, after a week without any motivating pictures, you arrive home and there on your bed is Raquel Welch. I recall the photo. She was garbed in scanty animal skins. It became a rather noteworthy poster. And the pose... so domineering... prehistoric woman as predator. Having so thoroughly analyzed you, I know it must have touched many buttons.”

Miss Denise laughs. It is a presumptuous laugh, irritating. Irritating because she is so correct and she knows it.

“And your reaction, Bobby? I can imagine, but I want you to express every detail for me.”

I do not wish to finish the story. But do I have choice? I need more food and long ago learned that Miss Denise’s presence comes with a price. Complete obedience.

“I locked the bedroom door and stripped. Playing with myself always felt better without any covering. Mother was out for the afternoon. I was no longer accountable to my sisters. The time was mine. The picture most enticing. My needs had built incredibly.”

“So you masturbated. Something you are no longer able to do. Lying down on your bed? In the bathroom? Details, Bobby.... every detail.”

“I laid on my bed. I like to play with my scrotum while stroking and am occasionally given to twisting the shaft. The lewdness of the picture, the showing of human flesh with the animal skins, the powerful pose, the domineering expression, the suggestive aura was well beyond that which I had accumulated in my various stashes. I remember my initial thought being that all had been lost and then returned tenfold in simple gesture. Someone’s beneficence. I did not stop to think beyond the priapic.”

“Think about what?”

“About who put the photo on my bed and why. As you stated I suppose males, laden with hormones, particularly after a week of inactivity, tend to overdo things.”

“Inactivity?” Miss Denise snorts. “You mean a week of not abusing yourself.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I feel myself begin to tremble with the remaining recollections of that afternoon. Miss Denise senses my reluctance.

“Coffee?”

“Yes, ma’am, coffee please.”

I open and feel a spoon touch my tongue and then tip to spill the black java, lightly sugared. I swallow.

“So there you laid, naked and stroking away...” Miss Denise prompts.

“The door knob rattled and before I could call out that I was sleeping, the door burst open. Though locked a key was found. And there stood my stepsister Sue, smili