Miss Elizabeth's Captive

Finally, Jamie raised his chin and spoke. “Good evening Mr. Sam,” the high pitched voice slurred, his tongue piercing continuing to impede speech. “Miss Elizabeth wants you in the examination room.”

Jamie stepped aside and I entered without further delay. Though hesitant about returning to the scene of debauchery, I also remained concerned about an elevator mishap.

I immediately headed for the examination room, listening to the taps of Jamie’s heels trying to keep up. I paused at the entrance to the hallway leading to the collection of bedrooms. I deliberately let Jamie go ahead. In the male world, watching is better than being watched, and my curiosity needed to see more of the blonde beauty.

Just viewing the small but well formed buttocks strain the thin satin skirt was stimulating and the sight helped ease my mind.

Though I had tried to prepare mentally for the return to Liz’s apartment, thinking about the videotape and the command to appear occupied much of my spare time over the past three days. Gym workouts helped, but Liz’s ominous promise of a surprise kept lingering. The arrival of the tape in my place of business was surprise enough.

Entering the examination room, I noticed things that had gone unseen the prior week. I glanced to the ceiling and spotted the pulley used to tension my neck collar. Then realized that the lighting was most elaborate and resembled that seen in an operating room, designed to eliminate all shadows. In one corner behind the door was a toilet. Not unusual except for the size of the room in which it sat. Another corner had a shower fixture overhead and a drain beneath.

Then I spotted the wrist and ankle cuffs awaiting me. Evilly comfortable, the fur lining designed for long term wear. As Jamie strolled to retrieve the collection of leather, short tiny balancing steps making his buttocks jounce, Friday night’s filmed ordeal flashed into my memory again.

“Miss Elizabeth, she like bondage,” the ingenue sententiously explained, holding up a wrist cuff and presumptively expecting my compliance.

I complied; of course, I complied. And in spurring the recollection of Friday by returning to the examination room, I realized I had no choice.

Tiny hands with shining nail polish worked to encircle my right wrist. And that was the final trigger. The same hands had worked me on Friday, and if such was recorded on tape, whoever possessed the resulting images owned my soul.

After listening to the sounds of ecstatic feminine pleasure, Liz and Jamie returned to where I helplessly hung, wrists and ankles secured, neck collar tensioned by cords emanating from an overhead pulley. Liz resumed her seat and retrieved the puffolator. She had a radiant smile, obviously basking in the afterglow of abundant sex, and squeezed to reintroduce my prostate gland to her controlling fingers.

Jamie positioned himself at my side, looking down at Little Sam with giddy admiration. Yes, my penis still stood and was oozing pre-ejaculatory fluid. I could smell Liz’s musky fragrance, a combination of the rare perfume and feminine essence, drawn by his arduous tongue and lips from her love nest. And it was not until I saw the tape that I realized that where Jamie stood, the manner in which he positioned himself, completely revealed my front... my standing erection, my shaved pubes and low hanging testicles... to the hidden camera.

Jamie was in on the conspiracy.

“You’ve been very patient with us, Sam,” Miss Elizabeth smoothly announced. “And it’s been a long evening.”

I had no idea of the time, but the passionate interlude which left me half hanging had indeed gone on for nearly on hour.

“And Jamie has something for you. He’s very compassionate, as you well know.”

And with that, it began.

Jamie half turned his nakedness and thrust his penis into my side. He leaned slightly and grasped Little Sam with a lubricated hand. He began licking my ear. It felt good. I enjoyed the fragrance of Liz’s sex, though receiving it second hand. But I was revolted. During the long session of oral service, my machismo had returned, notwithstanding my ardent sucking and licking of Jamie’s nipples.

But despite my repugnance, Little Sam defied me. He sent inordinate pleasure signals to my cortex. Jamie was not only skilled at fellatio. He had a talented touch.

But then the fun and games began in earnest. The tiny manicured hand pushed downward, angling Little Sam toward the floor. And then he stroked. And then Liz pulled on the pulley. And then Liz squeezed the puffolator. All this continued in a deliberate rhythm. The wet tongue licking my ear, the talented hand stroking, the pulley slowly increasing the tension on my spine, Liz’s controlling hand pressuring my prostate, all sent signals to Little Sam that his immediate cooperation in giving up sperm was more than warranted. Except that Jamie, thrusting his flaccid penis into my side, would not moderate the angle of my erection.

I moaned with the inability to culminate with an explosive climax. And I lurched and wriggled with abandon. Liz laughed and released some air only to within moments squeeze the bulb and refill the plug. And a smiling Jamie worked on, truly deriving pleasure from observing mine.

And this, dear reader, was on tape. No sight of Liz; just me getting the most amazing hand job from the blond ingenue, and there could be no doubt as to his true gender. Jamie angled himself to plainly present his tiny flaccid and impaled penis to the camera. I could only imagine what his diamond encrusted golden balls looked like on video.

I think my mind entered a state of nirvana. I do not recall how long I entertained my hostess and so lasciviously displayed myself before the camera.

Finally, deep in my subconscious, I remember Liz giving the command, “Bring him off, Jamie.”

Simultaneous to relinquishing the angle of my erection, Liz tugged the cord with firmness and filled the inflatable anal plug to its maximum. I exploded and thought I would be dehydrated from the fluids which forcefully departed and arched to the tile floor. There were at least four separate discernible squirts of semen before mere dribble announced that my organs were drained.

The cords attached to the pulley went slack. Someone unhooked my wrist cuffs and I slumped to the floor.

I had fainted. And when I came too, I spotted my clothes on the stainless steel table and there was no one to be found.

I removed the cuffs and dressed. In departing, I could hear the sounds of lovemaking and girlish giggling emanating from the bedroom across the hall. The knob would not yield to my hand. The door was locked and I took that as a hint that a gracious thank you and farewell was not expected.

I went home, the high level of emotion forcing me to think about my new friends: the authoritative and dashing Liz, the coy and pretty Jamie.

‘At least I was not flogged,’ I recalled thinking, comforting myself.