A Gift From James

“Hold,” is her final command, as her hands pull away from my nipples and she releases the long phallus from her harness.

I look over my shoulder to see the divine, latex-clad feminine shape retrieve my hood. She returns me to darkness and as expected the headphones are slipped over my ears.

The ‘man spreader’ remains inserted. I feel my testicles begin to ache. The more subtle pain signals from the parachute resume.

D

Not bad. As I have long suspected, James is quite the male whore. He tried very hard to please and his response to direction was adequate. It can be improved and after our visit to the spa he’ll have a lifetime of opportunities. It’s the attitude that counts more than anything, and he put my enjoyment well above the level of pain he had to endure. He’s learning that his suffering pleases me. And he’ll soon be put in a position where he’ll suffer often and the only pleasure he’ll receive well be vicariously through mine.

I pour a refreshing glass of Champagne and return to the couch, sipping slowly while watching James swing in harness and while relishing the afterglow of a most wonderful orgasm.

It’s nearly 5:00 p.m. I reamed James’ backside for over an hour. Time passes so quickly when engaged in passionate recreation...

I’ll let him hang a while longer. The galley has been well stocked with food. I’ll begin to mold James’ serving skills in another hour or so. Four hours in suspension is pushing the envelope for the initial episode. But over time, he’ll find himself comfortably hanging for many hours. Of course Laitai will be in charge going forward. She will determine the level of discipline and control required.

James

It feels as if I have just completed a most satisfying session of sex and I am perplexed. D did not touch my penis for the entire ordeal, just letting let it bob about as she thrust into me.

There seems to be no feeling of physical frustration in failing to achieve my own orgasm and mentally I feel somewhat invigorated knowing that D has used me to achieve hers.

The static of the headphones brings my thoughts back to Eve. There seems to be developing a mental connection between my state of darkness and static and long lost remembrances of the irritatingly assertive little girl of my adolescence.

I’m back in her basement reliving one of my many subsequent visits. The bright fluorescent lights seemingly illuminate memories I have tucked away in the dark corners of my mind.

It’s a few months after Eve had me strip naked and then inspected me in the first home visit. Her photo album was growing, for at times she would bring the camera down the stairs with her and snap some most embarrassing shots which she would then gleefully add to the collection. And add to her level of control, for she used the evidence of my sordid exhibition to the hilt, absolutely commanding when I would make an appearance and perform for her.

Eve’s mother had found a job, deeming her children mature enough and responsible enough to be left alone after school. Little did she suspect how mature Eve was.

Well, one can imagine to what uses Eve could put the quiet secluded area of the basement, knowing no one could possibly interrupt. No one that is except Eve’s younger brother, who thankfully was home after school three days per week.

But on Friday, Eve’s brother had band practice after school, and when my precocious tormentress would stop me in the school hallway to ‘invite’ me to her house, I would tremble in anticipation for the remainder of the day, knowing I would be hers for some two hours.

Obviously at that age, it was not physically possible to masturbate for the entire period. So Eve thought up the most lewd games to play, all with her fully clothed and me stripped naked for the remainder of the afternoon. Sometimes with camera. Sometimes without. The common theme being extreme exposure and humiliation. It was only the pending dinner hour that curtailed the ordeal.

And it was only at that appointed time when she allowed me to pleasure myself, tossing a towel to the floor and taunting me to aim carefully and thus ending the afternoon in a most demeaning climax.

She had taken to removing my clothing from the basement. Hiding it I knew not where, she reveled in the control it provided her. For without covering I could go no where, not that it was possible to disobey without threat of a photo being mailed home, or to my father’s office. Yes, Eve was that shrewd, well aware that mail sent to my house could be intercepted, she often showed me the envelope, pre-addressed to dad’s office, where I could only guess who would open it first and glimpse my naked, obedient body standing or kneeing in some perverse manner.

Taking possession of my attire gave her an added thrill. And after a time, each session ceremonious

ly ended with her ‘gifting’ to me my own garments, in mock condescension. In her own humorous way indicating that, but for her munificence, I would walk home naked.

“You may dress now,” her gracious consent vocalized with firmness.

Our deviant escapades progressed over several months of weekly meetings. She was fascinated looking at my developing body. The spreading patch of pubic hair made her quite curious and she gazed raptly at its weekly growth. And, of course watching me masturbate highlighted the afternoon. I think she knew that I ardently stroked myself to self-gratification with not only a mental image of her but also fantasizing over the touch of her hand.

So my memory of the progression of events was punctuated by that afternoon when she no longer just watched.

“I want to feel you shoot that stuff,” was her girlish phraseology.

At the time, she had me kneeling and bent over backwards with my legs tucked under me. The back of my head was touching the carpet. She often commented that ‘Little Dickey’ looked so big in that position and she often insisted that I assume it, as awkward and difficult as it was. It was in that position that she would measure me, as my purple pride stood straight up toward the basement ceiling. She seemed fascinated by the fact that it grew ever so slightly from week to week.

Well, she was sitting in her chair observing closely as always. She had learned that a short skirt assisted in arousing me, and as I lay on the floor, I could look up to catch flashes of her frilly underwear and her soft, smooth upper thighs. The later recalling of which, I may add, caused many a pleasant twinge of passion during late night masturbatory sessions home in my bed.

“Sit here, James. It’s my turn to play.”

As I responded to her rather forceful suggestion, she reached for the towel and laid it on the floor in front of her. This always signaled the beginning of the end and I quickly arose and stepped toward her.