A Gift From James

“When aroused, the castrated male will feel as though he is about to sneeze but cannot. Each time it will be an initially pleasant but then increasingly frustrating sensation. For the rest of your life in every sexual encounter, you will experience the feeling that you are very close to climaxing but never will. And when you feel that way, as the mental torment grows, at your request, I will cane you, mercilessly. The pain will become your only relief. And you will ask for more and thank me for it.”

I had no reply to her taunts and could not satisfy her, yet Eve would not stop. I ground my hips toward her. She reached up and played with my nipple rings. I tried so hard to ejaculate for her. There was nothing. Not even the ‘dry’ climax of prepubescence.

Finally, I opened my eyes and looked into Eve’s. Beautiful but evil, we just stared as she smiled and stroked. I thrust my hips toward her in one last futile effort. She laughed harder and said again, this time in the feigned voice of the 13 year old girl in the basement...

“Wouldn’t you like to come for Eve, Jami?”

I turned to Ms. Laitai. There she stood, dour, perfect posture, white blouse, black leather boots and skirt. She looked back at me without expression. I never thought I would think of her canings as refuge, but I mouthed the words she was expecting. She in turn looked to Ms. D for guidance. My merciful owner granted me relief from the ‘sneeze’ that wouldn’t come.

“Eve, perhaps you’d like to watch Jami being caned.”

Laitai

Yes. My skills were at last put to the ultimate use.

Jami’s penis was ‘cliff hanging’, a term used by sexologists for the inability of the aroused organ to achieve orgasm. So common is it in the castrated male, and so m

entally torturous that most seek to entirely avoid situations where arousal may occur.

Avoidance was not possible for Jami.

Fortunately, I possessed the antidote.

With Ms. D’s suggestion I released Jami from his harness. With the spa’s thoughtfully designed rooms, it only required a few minutes and some simple lengths of cord to secure Jami prostrate on the floor. In deference to my observers, I positioned him with his head at their feet.

I made sure to restrain his ankles, so as to widely separate his legs. This configuration serves to part the buttocks and maximize the area of flesh exposed to the cane.

As a treat for Ms. D and Ms. Eve, Jami’s wrist cuffs were released from behind him then attached to cords hung from ceiling hooks. As I tightened, Jami’s arms were raised, then his shoulders and head until his face was at the level of Ms. D’s lap.

Even before I began, Jami’s nipple bells began to ring with his movements, and Ms. Eve smiled with the sound.

I selected a particularly long and thin cane. Such wears quickly, but the pain is most excruciating. And I did have a large collection from which it could quickly be replaced.

Jami

I discovered that evening how thin a line there is between pleasure and pain. And how being placed in the most debasing of positions, naked and prostrate before my childhood friend, can serve to so enhance the physical pain of a thorough caning. The mental trauma approached the level of the physical.

Ms. Laitai’s quick work in restraining me left my head just inches from Ms. D and Eve. I could almost lick their knees and could see that Ms. D wore no undergarments. With my arms held above, my spine was uncomfortably arched backwards but it would soon be of little consequence.

I only had to hold the position as Ms. Laitai anointed my buttocks with her special lotion. Then she began and the relative discomfort of my arched back paled in comparison to the searing heat.

My fortitude always seems to endure the first stroke. It’s the second where I choke back a scream. And of course with the third, I begin to ‘sing’. Loudly.

Once I can no longer hold back, the air just rushes past my vocal cords with gusto and with the start of my serenade, Ms. D always smiles.

On this evening with the tormentress of my youth sitting beside her, I involuntarily sang with particular volume, as Ms. Laitai forcefully applied the nastiest of implements.

As Ms. Laitai had explained to me, the catharsis chases away the frustration of the unachievable orgasm. And when Ms. D noticeably enjoyed the sound of my ringing bells and cacophonous song, I felt an odd gratification. I was serving her, pleasing her. And so when she hiked up her skirt and opened her thighs to reveal to me her beautiful pink pudendum, I sang to her with added zeal.

By the sixth or seventh stroke Ms. D extended her hand and dabbed away my tears. The tenderness with which she performed this function was always interesting when juxtaposed to the firm, painful strokes delivered by Ms. Laitai.

I licked her hand in gratitude. Eve laughed.

I nearly swooned somewhere near the twelfth stroke. I never count. It is Ms. Laitai who decides the final blow. Counting would merely add another dimension of frustration in attempting to anticipate a final stroke.

When my restraints were released, I crawled closer and placed my head between Ms. D’s thighs. There I licked and sucked as I had so ardently been trained. Ms. D’s sex was wonderfully fragrant, Ms. Laitai’s skill seeming to arouse her time after time.

Eve, impressed with my servility, laughed again, reached over and patted my head.