She coats the entire surface of my hillocks.
“And so I introduced my husband to pain... deep gut wrenching pain. Executed under my control. He could only beg me for it, and when I condescended, I caned him unmercifully.”
She speaks in a firm, even but ominous tone. Fingers part my cheeks. My rectum is lubricated. Then I feel something pressing against my rear opening.
“I’m sure this feels familiar, Sam. An inflatable plug. You’ve enjoyed its invasive pressure before and in your altered state I think you’ll find the sensation to be most welcome.”
I hear a hiss of air and indeed feel the pressure. Little Sam waggles in response bringing an uncharacteristic giggle from Ms. Hobson.
She steps from the platform and returns to the tall cabinet.
“So I’m going to introduce you to the concept of cathartic pain. And I think afterwards you will feel much better. For a time the anxiety will subside... the need to fruitlessly stroke your numbed penis.”
Ms. Hobson draws from the cabinet a black leather garment. It is a narrow corset which she slips over her head and is barely able to glide over her mammoth breasts. She pulls laces on the sides to tighten and when finished, the Amazon stands with her already huge breasts remaining uncovered but plumped even more with nipples pointed higher. Her pubes remain uncovered. The garment hides none of her feminine charms, it merely highlights.
“But then the need will build again. And you will call me.”
Her soliloquy ends. She moves to the wall facing me and leisurely begins the process of selecting a cane. She swishes several through the air to the sound of a sickening whoosh.
“Smile for the camera, Sam.”
The termagant, her demeanor pleasant but dementedly unctuous, positions herself to my left side. I feel the tube attached to the inflatable anal plug moving. I hear a hiss. I feel pressure deep within my loins. I hear a whoosh then a crack, my moistened buttocks providing quite the percussive sound. I feel the most indescribable pain. The woman is an arsonist. She is setting me on fire. I scream. And with her final words I think about Miss Elizabeth, comfortably ensconced before a television monitor watching my slow execution in high definition. Between her thighs is an excited Jamie. She cannot watch, her tongue arduously works to please, but she can hear. And for her, I will sing.
I did not before understand all that Ms. Hobson explained about catharsis, emotional release, the escape from danger. But I will receive a very thorough and slow enlightenment. The second whoosh and resulting burst of agony is equally painful.
I begin to think of Miss Elizabeth’s recollections of the floggings at the Palace. How the prisoner would initially be shamefully erect and his executioner would slowly relieve him of the embarrassment, the excruciating pain eventually bringing flaccidity.
But Ms. Hobson knows to squeeze the puffolator to expand the plug and maintain pressure on my prostate. And Little Sam seems to ignore my suffering and continue his engorgement. He defies me, responding with delight to the attention brought by Ms. Hobson’s grasp on the rubber bulb, and proudly waggles, seeming to celebrate.
My restraints, chained neck collar and testicle rings, hold steady my torso, ingeniously presenting my immobile buttocks for stroke after stroke. But I can dance with my feet, and Ms. Hobson cackles as I indeed perform a jig. My hands dutifully remain atop my head for three strokes, then all discipline breaks down and with each subsequent stroke my arms flail about wildly. Yes, with my precious gonads tightly ringed and chained, I must moderate my movements.
At least a dozen strokes are applied. In the end my hands find comfort by disobediently grasping the testicle chains. That earns more strokes and I intuitively realize that my caning will not end until my hands resume their place of submission. I summon the energy, rapidly depleting with my convulsive reactions, and return my palms to my head.
Ms. Hobson stops.
The corseted form returns to view. She is perspiring and I understand the practicality of being mostly naked for the execution. Her powerful swings are tantamount to a notable level of exertion.
She pulls the tube for the inflatable plug between my legs. The enticing scent of feminine arousal fills the air. She sits in the throne-like chair still holding the puffolator. Her clitoris is swollen, its color purple. There is wetness streaming down her inner thighs. Ms. Hobson is a sadist, experiencing climactic pleasure in her brisk application of the cane to my buttocks.
She squeezes; my penis stirs.
“Stroke yourself, Sam. I think you’ll be surprised.”
I reach down. Little Sam is covered with gelatinous goo. My male essence has been whipped and pumped from me. Yet I felt nothing other than the cane searing the flesh of my buttocks and the inflating anal plug while weeks of spermatic fluid was expressed.
Ms. Hobson laughs with my reaction of shock.
“In a week, though you’ll hate yourself for asking, you’ll be calling for more.”
Chapter Thirty Seven
I kneel between the posts, recalling that first application of rattan. Ms. Hobson was prescient in suggesting that I would be calling her again. Despite the incredible gut wrenching pain of a firm caning, Ms. Hobson’s expertise in handling the altered male provided the relief I so much sought. Though I felt no ecstatic climax, in giving up my sperm, even in such an ignominious manner, my hormones were put back into balance. For a day or so I entered a state of strange tranquility... ending, of course, days later when Nurse Stenson’s hypodermic needle served to once again began the cycle of hormonal build up. And watching Jamie hungrily bring Miss Elizabeth to countless orgasms every night seemed to advance the rate at which I again approached priapism.
Jamie was so kind to me after that first caning. Ms. Hobson slid the tiny stool under my feet to relieve the tension on my testicle rings and neck collar, tossed a hood over my head, dressed and left. I dared not release myself, so I just stood until hours later Jamie entered, unhooked my bindings, attached a leash to my testicle rings and led me into Miss Elizabeth’s huge bathroom.
There it became my turn to frolic in the Jacuzzi while a naked Jamie tended to my numerous welts. His delicate hands were most soothing and in being naked and alone with Jamie, that alone made it worth enduring the cathartic agony.
For this second visit, Ms. H