The Interrogator

“It’s been suggested that you’re eager to talk,” she casually proclaimed, as if proposing a walk in the park or packing a luncheon for a pleasant Sunday afternoon picnic.

Mila slipped out the simple pin holding the board horizontally in place. She gently pressed on my right calve to swing the board, head rising, feet falling. I laid thoroughly strapped facing the woman who, with casual words and the simplest of directives, had made me suffer intolerably.

“I see you’re enjoying Mila’s tendance, Bobby,” her suggestive tone and mirthful eyes reacting to my erection.

Yes, the months of chastity, the forced nakedness, the unceasing bondage all contributed to shameless engorgement when being handled. And with Miss Denise’s presence, I knew the stiffness would not waver.

“Can he sit, Mila?”

My keeper nodded.

“Good. Keep him on the board for a few moments. I’ll get my equipment.”

“Extra rice if you’re a good boy, Bobby,” Miss Denise nonchalantly added as she pulled at the cell door to exit.

So aloofly offered, the pangs of constant hunger made my heart leap in response. Yes, I was ready to bare all to the prim and handsome woman. Whatever I had left, whatever remained after two months of abject groveling and insufferable agony, was hers. For talking, the whipmistress would never again be seen, the treatment of the British nurse subdued and more food!

Mila diddled my erect penis. Her touch felt wonderful, the tender skin there so long neglected. I wiggled it for her, knowing that she enjoyed the subjugated response to her touch, like a puppy wagging its tail.

So when the door opened and Miss Denise returned with a sizable case, she outright laughed at what greeted her. My stiff phallus was enormous and purple with the arousal of Mila’s manipulation. With the tiger bed holding my wrists high above and ankles well spread, I can imagine that my stretched form appeared to be all penis, at least it felt that way.

“Very good Mila. A couple of snap shots for the archives and then I’ll take one for your scrapbook.”

I was commanded to look straight into the lens of a digital camera as Miss Denise clicked away.

Then she ushered Mila into the frame and in what was seemingly a standard pose, the pretty young girl stooped slightly, cupped my balls in her left hand and smilingly looked into the camera as more clicks recorded the perverse scene.

Mila had the look of an accomplished hunter posing with a vanquished prey, her petite hand presenting a well restrained and naked male, proudly displaying his precious organs for the camera lens and for posterity to review in her scrapbook. I imagined that, if practical, she would have me stuffed and mounted.

My straps were loosened and I yelped as the returning circulation and rekindled nerves awakened an endorphin deluged cortex.

Still the momentary freedom was appreciated, and I knew by rote to keep my hands on the back of my head as Mila and her cattle prod directed me to the waiting chair. The lubricated anal plug stood in wait and after so much handling, I needed little guidance in impaling myself. Yes, I had learned much discipline over the weeks. Women were to be obeyed, instantly and without question. The threatening prod had become superfluous.

As noted, strapping down forearms, thighs and ankles was wickedly simple and under Miss Denise’s direction Mila also returned me to the high and stiff neck collar.

Meanwhile more equipment appeared from Miss Denise’s large case and I trembled when she held up a curious implement with a familiar puffolator attached. I had learned that such otherwise innocuous spheres of rubber could become the source of much torment. And this one was attached to other rubber objects with electrical wires dangling about.

She handed it to Mila and continued sorting out various devices, some requiring attachment to an electrical outlet. Meanwhile I was shocked to peer downward and watch as Mila, for the first time ever, outright stroked my erect penis in a masturbatory motion I had used on many lonely mornings, seemingly long ago.

“Nice and hard for me,” her mirthful voice encouraged.

And her hand felt exquisite, despite my unease concerning all the implements being unpacked and prepared. In many weeks, no woman had outright stroked me there. All touching was ephemeral and teasing. Now Mila handled with purpose, and in a final notably skilled twist, I almost erupted.

I was disheartened when her stroking abruptly stopped, and she began enshrouding my erection in canvas like material. I was fearful. My experiences in the cell suggested that some new form of torment was to be implemented. At that point in time, all interaction with guards and other women had involved enduring much physical and mental duress. Why would this be different?

“A penis cuff, Bobby. We are going to talk, look at some pictures and I’m going to record and analyze your response not only your words, but the response of your main erogenous zone.”

Wires from the cuff were connected to something in the case. Mila pulled back on my chair and my head slowly lowered to the floor. Miss Denise placed a device on the floor just over my head and pulled up a chair next to me. As she sat, Mila dimmed the lights.

“So now we will talk. I will ask questions and you will answer. Truthful answers. Complete answers. Extra rice awaits, Bobby, for good boys. But so does another trip to the discipline room...”

I first heard the familiar hissing sound and then felt my anal insertion swell, as Miss Denise made known her controlling hand. Then with more hissing, I felt pressure on my penis. The canvas encircling the shaft inflated. It felt similar to one of those devices to measure blood pressure, normally encircling the arm. Whereas it was not entirely unpleasant, it was disconcerting to realize that it was Miss Denise controlling the flow of air. It felt as if a hand was gripping my shaft. The sensation was strangely exhilarating after the many weeks of chastity.

“I am monitoring your heart rate, blood pressure, and the circulation in your pubes area Bobby. All recorded while we talk. The data will be quite indicative of your inner response. Choose your words carefully. Your verbal replies better correlate to the physical reaction measured by the instruments.”

“Think of all the gadgetry as a type of lie detector.”

Miss Denise arose from the chair she had positioned beside my reclining form. With the back of my head resting on the cell floor and head immobilized by the high stiff collar, I had to roll my eyes about to follow as she strolled. Yes, she had that walk. Feminine but authoritative. Not masculine but one exuding confidence. It confirmed her identity to me on a New York street and I recall vividly watching her fine form as I lay naked, my erection en