Miss Elizabeth's Captive

As my feet returned to the surface of the platform, the chains tightened. My neck collar, smoothly polished and designed for notable long term comfort, assumed the support of some of my weight. The moderate slack on the chains hooked to my testicle rings also dissipated, tugging my right gonad toward the right post and vice versus with the left.

Ms. Hobson looked on, beaming contentedly. Having a bound and naked male at her mercy not so much thrilled her as imbued an odd level of comfort. She looked as would a matronly housewife baking cookies for a clan of squawking children.

Satisfied, she took away the stool and returned to the open cabinet. She began to remove her clothing while resuming the fateful story of her late husband.

“And that’s how my husband’s philandering ended. Me sitting in the hospital coffee shop enjoying a hot cup of brew while the need for acute attention to his manhood amplified over time. And it’s interesting, Sam, my ostensibly contemplative pause. Observers would think I was frozen in consternation, my mind addled with the difficult decision.”

Ms. Hobson began to laugh wickedly. “It was quite the opposite. I was dreaming about a life of my control and my husband’s soon to be unsatiated needs. His balls were quite unaffected by the mishap. Dr. Wilson was very specific about that.”

I watch as the undressing continues. It is magical to see the drab, formless clothing shucked and the incredibly sculpted figure of a toned woman slowly appear from beneath.

As I found when Ms. Hobson visited me during recuperation, she is amazingly conditioned for a woman of some forty years and I begin to gawk as the brassiere is unhooked and the muscled giantess steps out of her panties. I feel myself struggling in my chains in a combination of fear, for a woman who so callously let her husband’s injured penis wither away in a hospital emergency room, and prurient admiration of a form wreaking of both power and beauty.

She turns to me in complete nakedness and smiles. It is not the coy and shy smile of a girl reluctantly exposing herself and overcoming modesty. No it is a confident smile, one exuding control. Ms. Hobson is physically alluring and she knows it!

“Over the years, I’ve come to foster certain rituals in these sessions, Sam. Good canings can be quite exerting and I have found limited covering to be comforting.”

Her breasts, though enormous, do not move or sway. The nipples are those of a pubescent girl in completely defying gravity and pointing skyward. Abdominal muscles ripple with hidden power and taper to where such seem to point to a pubes carefully trimmed of most hair.

She notices my intense, labored stare with the neck collar holding my head completely immobile and she shuffles to my front to afford a better view. She stands arms akimbo... and they are massive arms... better suited for pumping iron than pushing paperwork. Her large hands rest on hips visually enhanced by the narrowness of a very limited waist. Thighs understandably match her biceps and forearms in their evidence of extensive exercise. There is awe in watching the muscles there contract as she moves. My male eyes scan to between her thighs. An incredibly large and exposed clitoris captures my attention. Ms. Hobson notices my glance and smiles.

Little Sam waggles in tribute to a woman with whom the most able bodied man would not wish to physically tangle. Ms. Hobson is an Amazon, cleverly disguising her puissance with attire resembling potato sacks and the hairstyle of a dowager.

“Many years of youthful training. When my husband died, I returned to heavy exercise and took up martial arts.”

Meanwhile I understand the intended effect of having my collar so restrained. With many hours spent in suspension, I know Little Sam will show off, slowly changing from pink to red to purple as the peculiar result of tension on the male spinal cord forces uncontrollable erection. It has so amused Miss Elizabeth’s guests in the past and Ms. Hobson seems to find equal viewing enjoyment, stepping forward to toy with what feels like a cylinder of flesh sutured to my stomach.

“It so pines for release, Sam... a climactic discharge of all that nasty build up of semen. The testosterone spurs production yet a simple injection from Dr. Wilson’s hypodermic needle has denied him the means to ejaculate. Tsk. Tsk.”

Her face assumes a lugubrious look of sympathy while her fingers inspect and her eyes examine. Dr. Wilson’s handiwork fascinates, so quickly transforming my proud manhood from a sensual and somewhat attractive sexual implement to a narrow shortened strip of flesh, functioning solely to evacuate my bladder and amuse women of Dominance. I am thankful that it still engorges, but for what purpose other than to entertain Miss Elizabeth?

I can barely feel the caressing fingers and Ms. Hobson knows it.Next she kneads my ringed testicles and scrotum, grotesquely spread by the tugging chains. She seems to so enjoy the power, first restraining and then squeezing with impunity the male reproductive organs... and knowing that such continuously produce sperm with futility... male essence which cannot be ejaculated... she finds intriguing. The semen meekly awaits her harvesting hands.

Her left hand slides beneath to my perineum. The right strokes Little Sam. I can feel my organ physically move but there is little pleasure felt. My standing penis is for her enjoyment.

Meanwhile gazing at the enormous mammary glands not only amazes, it excites. Ms. H

obson has the breasts of a twenty-year-old beauty queen, and she exhibits such with haughtiness.

She steps away toward another cabinet. It opens, closes and I hear her step onto the platform behind me. She presses her nakedness against mine. I feel the stone-like nipples against my shoulder blades. Her hands reach around. Her fingers pinch my nipples, first most sensuously, then slowly firming. I believe I can feel the huge clitoris brushing against my buttocks.

“Yes, controlling a male’s libido can be most entertaining. I had to learn but I did so quickly. Poor husband could ejaculate no more, but what about his remaining organs? The prostate requires manipulation, the building semen needs release. But overall there is a need for emotional release... a catharsis of the psyche.”

I cry out as her grip on my nipples becomes viciously painful. She laughs.

“By the way, feel free to yell, holler, scream, plead, beg! The room has been sound proofed. Behind the paneling are layers of absorbent material.

“Yes, there needs to a rebalancing of the hormones. And such can occur with emotional trauma just as much as with ecstatic pleasure.

“Ever think about how good it feels after experiencing a very dangerous situation... driving at excessive speed.... sky diving... mountain climbing... escaping all unscathed? For my husband it was fast motorcycles and sordid dalliances with married women.

“Unfortunately in the end, he did not escape unscathed.”

I continue to cry out and groan as Ms. Hobson cruelly pinches and twists. Finally she releases and steps back.

I feel her hands on my buttocks. There is wet coldness.

“A special salve. It very nicely enhances the feel of the rattan.”