Miss Elizabeth's Captive

Strange, but it’s a woman’s prerogative, I thought at the time. It was a letdown, but she was firm in her decision to depart.

Tonight, I expected more. And she again boldly commenced.

She unzipped me and brought to the firelight a very eager ‘Little Sam’. He was quickly brought to full tumescence. As stated, Liz was a most beautiful woman and my penis stood in admiration. Plus, since I’m circumcised high and tight, Liz enjoyed the clean-cut look as opposed to the looseness of the phalli in her home country. Thus her handiwork resulted in pumping with unabashed enthusiasm, despite being fully aware that Jamie was expected with a tray of coffee.

“You have something of which Jamie will be quite envious, Sam. I trust you’re not a selfish person.”

At the time, I thought her reference was once again to my superior circumcision, something with which I had little pride until weeks before when Liz so adoringly held it in her hands and so reverently described its contrast to males in her home country.

“Most have been cut very sloppily, Sam. I’m sorry to say that over the years the precision of Middle Eastern surgery has not been applied to the male appendage,” she explained as she gently stroked.

She laughed with her observation but I could not let her lighthearted comment pass. I asked the question.

“And how is it that you are so aware of the results of the procedure? I’ve seen many circumcisions in various locker room scenarios and would not for a minute portend to be an expert.”

Her subsequent reticence was noteworthy, perhaps contrived.

My question did not so much strike a nerve as it did stimulate thought. In the darkness I could not see her face, but surmised that the query gave rise to much rumination. With her answer, I realized that the pause originated not so much from the complexity of the answer but instead in how to best frame it for a proud but naive young Western male.

“Mother enjoyed watching the floggings, Sam. At a very young age, she dragged me along. At first I resisted and closed my eyes...feeling fright...concern, perhaps misplaced compassion. But later I put aside my youthful reaction to the anguish so demonstrably portrayed and instead reveled in the pageantry...the exactness...the finality of seeing a recalcitrant male flogged. In my home country there are no effective pleas, no quarter, no respite. A man is flogged, bound, naked...well displayed for all to see. And many times there is a very curious reaction to the whip. He becomes engorged, as if welcoming with his penis what his psyche so adamantly resists. Yes, Sam. I have seen so many...flaccid...engorging...erect, all begging for the attention of a compassionate hand. Some standing for the last time, depending on the offense.”

For whatever reason I changed the subject, chagrined to realize that the woman with whom I had been cuddling was perhaps more worldly and had experienced more carnal interaction than I could mentally fathom. I let the reference to ‘standing for the last time’ pass. It did not register.

Perhaps in prodding her memory, images better kept within precipitated her early withdrawal.

And now the subject seemed to arise again. This time with regard to Jamie. And of course the floggings came to mind. Though I had timidly changed the subject weeks before, continuous visions of a little girl watching grown men being whipped flashed into my imagination. Such were sexual fantasies really and I suppose it was the lurid shock which prohibited the thought from fading.

And now the ‘compassionate hand’, as Liz so warmly described what the condemned male organs sought, was tenderly stroking Little Sam. As stated, she had a marvelous, knowing touch for a woman several years shy of 30. In my experience, though being stroked by an ingenue as a randy teen can bring ephemeral pleasure, but in the long run the phallus requires a combined skill of pressure, timing and knowledge of the erogenous zones. Such are acquired over time and with experience. And as I watched Liz’s lotioned hand glide up and down my fully erect shaft, I reminded myself that the best ‘hand job’ I had ever experienced was from a woman in her sixties who had spent a lifetime as a masseuse.

I always prided myself on self control and knew that Liz did not want me to explode. Thus I needed to avert both her attention and mine, lest the ‘cream’ for the coffee be served prematurely.

“The floggings, Liz. Tell me about the f

loggings.”

As with my questions weeks ago about her knowledge of circumcision, once again she paused, encircling the base of my shaft and kneading my testicles with the aplomb I came to expect.

“Weekly events in the Palace Square. Crime in my country is limited and there is very little recidivism. Once a man has had a taste of the whip there is rarely a return to transgression. But there is enough first time thievery to make for an entertaining afternoon. And whereas most times the men are poor, old and unsightly, on occasion there would be a young male worthy of special consideration. At first Mother only had me watch the actual flogging. But when I got older, she took me to the preparation room where the prisoner was stripped and put into a yoke. Heavy wood planks about the neck and wrists.”

Her left hand moved from my scrotum to my shoulder and smoothed across to my throat to demonstrate her point.

“I had not before realized that one element considered meaningful to the procedure was the humiliation. So after being yoked, the prisoner is forced to drink much water. I suppose there are medical reasons for such in encountering the possibility of shock, but Mother explained that with the searing pain, the prisoner’s bladder would eventually open. And that of course so much added to the trauma…urinating uncontrollably in the Square before the watching throng.”

“How old were you Liz? It would seem to be rather shocking for a young girl to watch such events.”

“Yes, I suppose it was. But Mother so much enjoyed herself. She assumed I would also.”

Liz’s right hand remained steady, seeming to know that Little Sam needed a respite. She stared at the far wall in reflection.

“My first viewing was when I was 8 or 9.”

“And did you, Liz? Did you enjoy it?”

Another pause. There was a bump against the swinging door leading to the kitchen. The soft glow of the fire momentarily yielded to the harsh florescent lights of the kitchen.

Jamie entered with a tray of coffee. As I moved to right my clothing, Liz held firmly to my erection inhibiting any effort to zipper myself. She smiled.

“There is no need for modesty, Sam.”