The Party Boy

“I’d like to buy some gym equipment. There is plenty of room in our wing of the house. I will supervise... assure that he’s well worked.”

“So good of you to add to your responsibilities, Miss Kelly,” the woman again readily washing her hands of Jack and his care.

And so, money being no constraint, I order exercise machines... a treadmill, stationary bike, universal gym. It’s equipment that I can use as well, I justify. And there is indeed an isolated room, a third floor attic, expansive, well windowed, with a high ceiling.

I’m going to work Jack. And it is most convenient that my ward neither has exercise attire nor did I think to order any from the equipment supplier. How thoughtless of me.

Chapter Twelve

The girl with questions of female dominance again approaches, breaking my train of thought.

“Suppose we’d like to augment that show. Can you jerk him off for us?”

“Of course, I keep Jack well primed. No party last weekend. So it’s been two weeks. And the testosterone injections keep him quite randy.”

“How much?”

“Ruined orgasm? Or do you want to see him spurt? It’s $300 for showing you all how far he can ejaculate. Ruined is extra. $100. It requires much feel and timing. Not easy assuring that he’ll just meekly dribble for you.”

I know the answer. This girl wants Jack to leave even more frustrated.

“Shush,” she advises, sotto voce. “I’ll just tell the girls you only offer ruined.”

Such a coquette, I cannot help thinking. The girl is young, cute and desirable... and eager to see a man humbled to tears.

When it comes to pending orgasms, I ruin with the best. And Jack hates it. And I love it. And with my medical training I win every time, with every weekend show expertly sensing the pending clench of the tiny ejaculatory muscles... knowing precisely when to withdraw my strokes... terminating handiwork which would otherwise put a man in ecstasy.

I see the girl working the crowd, most pitching in with twenties. A middle aged, well jeweled woman politely listens to the girl’s entreaty and withdraws from her purse a fifty. Yes, a lucrative Saturday night for Jack and me.

In awaiting the collection, my thoughts return to Jack’s alleged bed wetting.

Chapter Thirteen

Over the years, I became comfortable living in the mansion of Jack’s family. The bed wetting tale was just another fabrication, falsely evidencing Jack’s continuing need for a governess, despite his advancement into teen years.

The advantage of keeping him in panties transformed. Docility remaining, added to the benefits of having him furtively wear girly panties was the fact that a young male is unlikely to date, or least have sexual relations, while donning frilly undergarments. Plus I kept Jack’s body, though developing nicely with demanded exercise, smooth and hairless... legs and arms included.... a thorough body shave always offered at bath time. Thus if something coeducational did become serious, he’d have some tough explaining to do.

Added to this level of covert control was, of course, my supervision of glandular needs, i.e. in crass terms, the need to get his rocks off.

Yes, I milked him constantly, never deviating from the ritual of sitting him naked on my lap, penetrating fingers working his prostate, free hand ever so teasingly coaxing forth the flow of essence... never, ever stroking. Instead pressing downward on the tip, the distressing angle known to preclude ejaculation.

Yes, I know the male anatomy, know that in abridging

the ability of the ejaculatory muscles to spasmodically contract, Jack’s male effluent would instead meekly drool... and drool... and drool.

Oh, the humiliation was intense, for I would sit with me and Jack facing a mirror, his eyes not to avoid the sight of my governing hands, the puddle of resulting essence not to be denied.

Sometimes I would ice him if in a cruel mood, in so doing robbing him of just about all sense of a male sexual function. But most times letting him feel the ebb, his maleness uselessly dripping to the tiling, the slow hormonal change bringing ennui rather than the nirvana of normal male climax.

For Jack this was not a sexual thing. This was care offered by his considerate governess. Again the prostate milkings were always austere, no foreplay stirring arousal, no real intimacy but for the fact I entered him. In Jack’s mind, my milkings were the equivalent of brushing teeth.

But what of me? The question self posed.

Yes, supervising Jack’s prettified maleness brought needs. Plus I realized that introducing Jack to sexuality could not forever be forestalled. He did go to school. Classmates were dating. Hormone driven relationships were flaring. Despite the fact that I kept Jack well drained, I knew attraction to the female form would come. It was something I could delay in robbing daily of any building seed, but could not forever deter.

Thus the diaper. Jack would sleep with me... naked but for the imposing locking canvas. And since I prefer to sleep naked as well, modesty mandated he be hooded. He would feel my warmth, smell my femininity, in time taste me... but never admire... not visually.

Yes, it was time to introduce Jack to the opposite gender and the prospects of sex... under my terms.