Miss Elizabeth's Captive

“Clean this and have it ready for when he leaves, Jamie.”

I guess sitting before the naked girlish figure with a raging erection would have been uncomfortable before the Saturday escapades. And adding to the stimulation there was the leather-clad Liz. So commanding... so authoritative. Some form of exposure seemed de rigueur for visits to Liz’s penthouse.

I stood, peeled off my suit jacket then let my soiled slacks fall to the floor. Jamie stared at my mammoth erection... a look of both envy and awe... as if in disbelief that a week before the entire organ had deeply plunged into his oral cavity.

As Jamie picked up the slacks and neatly folded them on the serving tray, I began to sit back down in tie, shirt and with erection poking through my underwear. Liz giggled.

“You look ridiculous.”

She reached over and removed my tie, then unbuttoned my shirt.

“Jamie rarely sees real men these days. He needs inspiration and you need to be comfortable.”

I took the hint as to what ‘comfortable’ meant. As I drew my arms out of the shirt, Liz carefully pulled the waist band of my underwear out and extricated Little Sam so that he stood outside the garment. She then slid it down, and just as with my slacks, I stepped out for Jamie to gather and add my shorts to the tray.

I sat. The leather was cool and the depravity of the scene settled in as Liz remained fully clothed with two entirely naked men... or at least one man and a...a what? I guess a eunuch.

Little Sam betrayed the perverse enjoyment I experienced by continuing to stand firmly. Jamie looked on with admiration and Liz...confident, authoritative Liz...stood over me, hands on hips.

“You’re nicely toned, Sam. Keep that gym membership.”

She was inspecting me like a cattle buyer at a stockyard...and truth be known...I guess I was for sale. I wanted to be with her, and my desire trumped all normal decorum.

Thus, I could think of nothing else than reach for my fresh margarita. I recalled reading on the Internet about some form of subtle D/s play...‘clothed female/naked male’ and tried to remember how the suggested scenes played out.

Then Liz resumed and Jamie ran on toes to the kitchen. The CFNM thought was lost.

“The psychological aspects of castration provide the most poignant thoughts. One day a male is fornicating with impunity... or rather perceived impunity... in manifesting nature’s dominance over the female... and the next day... well that’s the question. What does a man do without his precious gonads?”

She completed her question with a mocking intonation while sitting down next to me. She reached over and palmed my heavy sac as a way of illustrating her point.

“What would Sam do without these? Be like a little lost doggie who can’t find his way home...alone...confused...in need of guidance and direction?”

She let go... graphically making her point.

“Think Jamie could live without me? The male loses a lot of drive when the testosterone level plummets. Becomes lazy. If he can’t ball....then he can’t function. There’s no perceived purpose in life.”

Liz leaned, picked up her glass, sipped and swallowed. Her voice remained pleasant but ominous in completing her point. “Unless a good, firm woman provides such. And Jamie has much purpose. I see to that.”

She paused and I let the silence continue hoping that Little Sam would calm himself. But Liz was too ravishing, too commanding, to be ignored by my engorged little friend. His homage remained. I decided it was best to resume.

“But where does one acquire a Jamie, Liz? The yellow pages? Run a classified ad?”

She laughed.

“Do you really think the entire world is

comprised of Bible-thumping Christians? That there is a uniformity of morality and justice? Before last week you were not aware that castration was still used as a form of punishment, not to mention floggings. Why would you portend to suggest that a facility for transforming indigent boys into truckling servants would not exist?

“It’s not a question of supply, Sam. It’s a question of developing standards, procedures and a regimen to properly meet the demand.”

Liz stopped and reached for a cocktail napkin.

“You’re leaking,” she casually suggested.

Her left hand encircled the base of Little Sam and the right, napkin in hand, dabbed away prostatic fluid oozing from my penis. She wiped and cleaned so matter-of-factly, as if primping an infant while changing a diaper.

She released Little Sam and crumpled the napkin with a matronly smile.