A Gift From James

“Face away from me, spread your legs and sit down on my lap.”

I complied and as I lowered myself she hiked up her skirt. I was in heaven. My naked legs were permitted to touch her creamy smooth flesh! Straddling her legs, she positioned me just about at her knees. She told me to stroke, a command I heard so many times, and I obeyed.

But for the first time, as my left hand toyed with my scrotum and my right dutifully smoothed its way down my youthful shaft, she reached under and between my buttocks and kneaded my perineum. I jumped. She laughed.

“Settle down James. That couldn’t have hurt.”

True. Far from pain, the divinely devious Eve had found an erogenous area I had never explored before and the touch of her fingers felt shockingly good. I resumed my efforts and she replaced her fingers. She laughed softly, apparently feeling something, probably the very root of ‘Little Dickey’ and the various male glands preparing to erupt for her.

The sensations were too much for my young system.

“Wouldn’t you like to come for me, James?”

Yes, she said that. Or at least she said something close to that. And I of course responded with the expected eruption of semen.

Over the weeks she had trained me to spurt on the towel. There was to be no evidence left on the shag rag. And besides, I think Eve enjoyed directing where her plaything should leave the evidence of her demented endeavors.

So the cloudy white goo shot forth and landed squarely on the towel. Eve was pleased and besides the obvious ecstatic physical relief that I felt, I was pleased that she was pleased.

My recollection ends when I feel a tug on the ‘man spreader’. I respond to the signal by pushing with my sphincter and for the first time in hours, I am no longer impaled.

D

Dinner went well. James has possibilities as a cook and maid, and he seemed to relish his time out of suspension and sensory deprivation. I even let him have a small plate of normal food. He will learn that good service has its rewards.

It’s a little after nine p.m. The train is speeding toward St. Paul, and I had James set up under the observation dome an ice bucket with a delicious after dinner wine.

As I sit in the stuffed swivel chair, a hooded James kneels with his head between my thighs, his lips methodically working my outer labia, nibbling ever so slightly as I have trained him. Over time he’ll slip his tongue in and lap upwards on my inner labia until he encounters my clitoris. Then he’ll suck in earnest. It’s nice to know I can relax and he’ll perform as expected.

The glass surroundings provide a romantic evening view of the moonlit countryside but also make the temperature a little cool. So as a concession I have draped a blanket over James’ naked form. When we arrive in St. Paul, Alice and Laitai will join me. Their inspection of James will be that much more dramatic when I snap away the blanket.

Laitai

Dr. Alice and I wait on the St. Paul train platform. She had picked me up at the airport in the late afternoon. We had shopped, gone to dinner and talked.

I was heartened to learn of her experience and her penchant for applying her medical skills to the benefit of the submissive male. A very magnanimous person, Dr. Alice, and I felt confident I would enjoy working with her on James.

Dr. Alice told me of the fortunate lottery winnings and suggested there would be no expense spared in bringing James to the ultimate submission.

So, when we shopped in a quaint area with numerous small shops, she suggested I acquire any equipment deemed suitable to our pursuits.

With that in mind, I could not pass up a curious leather-padded piece of furniture in the window of an antique store. I immediately recognized the utility of its design, but the ‘vanilla’ shop owner insisted it was a footstool, despite its rather large size.

Its highest point stood some two and one half feet off the floor and its top surface was sloped from left edge to right with a concave between the near and far edges. At the high end the vertical surface was not flat, but instead an upside down ‘V’ was shaped into the padding with a space at the very apex.

“Rather ungainly for a footstool,” explained the proprietor, “but it’s designed for people with leg problems.”

I managed to hide my smile. It was a birching stool, probably designed and built in Victorian England in an era when flagellating the buttocks of truculent boys was a common practice. The exceptionally low price evidenced the shopkeeper’s frustration in selling it. I thought it ironic that, placed in the proper store in San Francisco, it would sell for hundreds of dollars, if not more. And in this antique furniture store in St. Paul, the price was fifty dollars for anyone willing to carry it away.

Without having to explain anything to Dr. Alice, she quietly extracted the required cash and placed an extra twenty dollar bill on the counter.

“Send it to the train station this evening,” she firmly instructed the delighted owner. “Have it held for the westbound ‘Empire Builder’ arriving at 10:25 p.m.”

I examined our purchase as the proprietor wrote down the instructions. Sturdy iron eyelets, possibly early steel, were well secured into the heavy exposed oak wood corners. Many wrist cuffs and thigh restraints had been fastened to them. The scratched metal surfaces evidenced the futile struggles of boys who had chosen a life of belligerence and paid heavily for their transgressions.

I smoothed my hand across the concave top surface. How many tormented torsos had lain there, the curved sides hindering the natural tendency to twist and squirm under a firm, feminine hand wielding the chastising strands of birch. I envisioned the head of a struggling youth positioned at the low end, which forced the buttocks to perch atop the high end, forming an irresistible target. I moved to the high end and continued to brush my hand across the ‘V’. This was designed to force apart the thighs as the lad knelt. The missing apex provided a convenient gap where the penis and testicles dangled off the edge, the humiliation of thoroughly exposing his privates to the flagellator was deemed to be an appropriate addition to the catharsis of the physical punishment. And of course for the especially incorrigible young scamp, the well spread thighs also served to make vulnerable the most sensitive parts of the male anatomy to a simple flick of the castigator’s wrist.

It was designed for boys. But by simply raising the height it could easily be adapted for adult males.