A Gift From James

Chapter One James I remember the first time the subject arose. We had just completed a lengthy, torrid session of lovemaking. By my count, D had three major orgasms judging from the spasmodic squeezes of her thighs and the sudden attempts to clench a non-existent handle of flesh on my back. And once again her sighs of gratification had involuntarily rolled from the depths of her throat. That was what always brought me to climax, listening to her husky but feminine voice turn to animalistic cries of passion. Well, we were wrapped in the afterglow of wonderful s*x and I wondered how I would recover the energy needed to dress. D dutifully reached down to remove the condom from my p***s. She was very neat, and before I would move always responded to concerns about wetting the sheets with a timely concession to tidiness regarding the unfortunate messy details of lovemaking. “Ever think of getting a vasectomy?” The subject was thus introduced. She knew I hated condoms. And my distaste became more evident each time the revelry of satisfying s*x had to be truncated due to the obligatory disposal of the slippery, semen-filled pouch. So her timing was exquisite, fully aware that I preferred to remain semi-catatonic, lying next to her over heated, naked body, inhaling the familiar but pleasant aroma of combined perfume and musky feminine arousal rather than dealing with mundane sanitation. But alas, her concerns forced her to gently slide the wet rubber from my flaccid but still excited manhood, pinch off the opening, and trudge to the bathroom. Thus, the seed concerning vasectomy was planted at that particular point in time when the use of a condom seemed most inconvenient. The retrieval and disposal signaled the end. I knew from countless Friday night dalliances that she would not return to bed, that the toilet would flush, that a fluffily robed D would quietly pad to the kitchen, and that the resulting smell of fresh brewed coffee was really a signal from her to commence my departure. As I dressed, I called to the kitchen. “You know I’ve never had children. Rather not close off that option right now.” My pitched reply sounded more like a futile protest rather than a steadfast ‘no’. My voice always came across as wimpy when I spoke to D. Not sure why. Probably because of her firm, no nonsense demeanor and the confident manner in which she carried herself. And there was her physical beauty, which also seemed to fill a room and deplete the oxygen required for speech. I crawled out of bed and began to dress. By habit I always folded and placed my clothing atop the large, curious dog cage in the corner of D’s bedroom. I had known her for over a year and had rarely heard her mention her old pet, nor had I seen pictures of him. She told me it was a large male mastiff that she had sent to a cousin’s farm, having finally deemed the suburbs too congested. “Never had him fixed,” she explained. “He was all right with me, but some neighbors moved in with children. I didn’t trust the situation.” I found it interesting that she never referred to the mastiff by his name. When I picked up my slacks my fingers touched the strong steel bars. He must have been a very strong dog if it indeed required some two hundred pounds of steel to confine him. And the relatively large spacing between the bars was an ominous indication of his size. I felt relieved that he was sent away. Each time I saw the cage, memories from childhood began to cascade. At one time my father raised minks. Beautiful but vicious, I was never permitted near the cages as a toddler. When my sister was born two years after me, mother became even more concerned about safety. Father kept at it until one day he commented that the market was soft and feed was expensive. The remaining minks were sold by the time I was four or five. But the cages remained in the yard and became great playhouses for my sister and me. And for Eve. Yes. Any memories of the cages brought back thoughts about Eve. She was a neighborhood girl of my age. Many afternoons she played with my sister and no matter the activity, Eve and my sister always seemed to gravitate to our back yard where the cages became a fantasyland for childhood play. A castle. A cavalry fort. A large doll house. Eve was a beautiful little girl. With her bright eyes and infectious smile she easily enticed me into playing along. It was quite a feat for her at that age. Boys didn’t normally participate in ‘girl’s games’ and although she promised not to tell anyone, afterwards she always did. I was always given some demeaning role to play. The butler serving tea. The groom for the imaginary horses. And then there were the times Eve became the Queen of some feudal land and I became a serf. And most times a naughty serf for whom Eve would find need to punish. “Take him to the dungeon,” she would roar in the mock authoritative voice of a ten year old. And my sister would lead me to a cage, close the door and report to the Queen with mock gravity, “The prisoner awaits your sentence.” The first time I played along and just stepped out of the cage when I tired of the game. But the second time the game was proposed, the mischievous Eve, unbeknownst to me, had brought her bicycle lock. My enjoyment quickly turned to anger when I found myself locked away by two girls. Yes, I suppose I could have torn my way out, the wood and wire mesh having deteriorated over the years. But that meant explaining the damage to my father with the possible result of permanently losing use of our play land. So I sat while my fate was determined. And Eve could not help calling over more friends to form a jury, giggling away while my anger turned to frustrating embarrassment. Eve’s play always seemed to include some aspect in which she took devilish delight in degrading boys. Most boys would not play with her. Strange to think back, as angry as I was concerning Eve’s deception, she convinced me to play again. She always wore the prettiest smile when she organized her games... “When you want to get out, just ask,” was her simple suggestion. I did not realize that her definition of ‘ask’ was making me beg in front of my younger sister. Yes, she had tricked me again and the bicycle lock was finally released when darkness signaled the end of a long afternoon of play. No one wished to incur the wrath of our parents by being late for dinner and Eve removed the lock and ran off before I could exit the cage. I think that was the night I first m*********d. But the chronology of events becomes faded over the years. I put aside old reminiscences and moved toward the kitchen where D awaited, simultaneously slipping into my shoes and walking. “Do give it some thought, James. I’m as put off by condoms as you are. Consider it as a gift.” She handed me coffee as she spoke. It really came across more as an ultimatum than a suggestion. “I have a friend who can do it. We used to go to a winter spa together. It’s possible to combine a vacation along with the procedure. She can do it at the spa.” She?...D noticed my reaction. “Don’t be such a male chauvinist. There are many good female doctors. The procedure is more akin to getting a hair cut than a complicated operation. “And the spa is wonderful. It’s in the Canadian Rockies. Built by the railroad many years ago. The only way in and out of the facility is by train. They never dug any tunnels for roads and in the winter nothing gets over the mountains. The snow accumulates to amazing depths. “So you’ll get snipped, relax at the spa, and no one will infringe on your privacy.” D smiled with the thought. When she did so it always highlighted both her beauty and her strength. It was not a silly, mirthful smile. It was instead one of confidence, signifying hidden knowledge and wisdom, somewhat condescending, but in a pleasant way. We talked over coffee and I promised to give the vasectomy more thought. She hinted that it would make feasible longer, uninterrupted evenings. Afterwards, I again found her timing in making this suggestion to be exquisite. For thoughts of spending the night languishing in her warm bed and pressing against her hot body came to mind as the howling Midwest wind chilled me, while crossing the street and the car’s heater subsequently refused to function on the drive home. D James looks like a puppy and makes love like one. I always found it comical that in finally bringing myself to orgasm, James would quietly take credit with a childlike look of smugness. Little did he know what fantasies I had to conjure in order to achieve an orgasm with him. But letting my mind wander to find lustful thoughts was the easy part. The hard part was trying to endure the assault he manifested between my thighs in ‘attacking’ my love nest with his pusillanimous, semi-erect p***s. Still I liked him. But not for the reason he thought. If he only knew that the fantasy which most often brought me to ecstasy was one envisioning him in my dog cage, naked and well bound. Yes, James. D is for Dominant. The concept of having a vasectomy at my behest is only a start. Those puppy dog eyes of yours will soon belong to just that...a puppy. James The next few encounters with D became increasing decadent. The following Friday evening, in the middle of copulating, she wrapped her arms around my shoulders and rolled us over, my erection remaining firmly implanted in her sheath. She then pinned me down by the shoulders and rode on top! Her strength amazed me. First displaying the powerful finesse of a wrestler in rolling me over then riding me like a cowboy, wearing a wicked smile and making taunting comments until I ejaculated. Strangely, when I later thought about the pleasant encounter, it was not her actions but instead the timbre of her voice that haunted my subconscious. “Wouldn’t you like to come for me, James?” she cooed. “Be a good boy.” Spoken as if to a child by a forceful mother, I amazed myself with my own spermatic eruption, which filled the dreaded condom. On reflection, it seemed as if D had coaxed me to the edge and then finally permitted my spending with a simple suggestion of her authoritative voice. The following week she produced a blindfold and giggled evilly when I began to place it over her head. “I don’t think so, James,” she cautioned with admonition, her giggly voice quickly turning to an astonishingly commanding tone. “It’s for you.” She placed it over my head and we made love, with her again straddling my hips and pinning me to the sheets. It was different and delightfully sordid, but I missed watching her gorgeous breasts ripple with the thrusts of passion. In the darkness, her deep, smooth voice echoed in the caverns of my mind and again, on her verbal cue, she coaxed my climax. The following week she again placed the blindfold over my eyes. This time I removed it mid session, preferring the view of her firm torso and jiggling breasts to darkness. She stopped. “No. No, James.” With the curtailment of the pleasure, I let her replace the blindfold. Her message was received. No blindfold, no s*x. But then I heard the clinking of metal, the feel of cold steel on my wrists, clicks, and pressure. She handcuffed me! “This is for bad boys, James,” she declared in an even but matronly tone. She dismounted and pulled my restrained wrists over my head. Her soft laughter comforted me and I allowed her to play her game, my erect p***s eagerly anticipating her renewed attention. More sounds and a slight tug indicated my wrists were tied to the headboard of the bed. Then she disappeared, leaving me in my darkness with my erection, wet with her essence, pointing to the ceiling. Rather odd, I thought. But my years of love making with numerous partners had imbued me with tolerance. If it turned her on...it turned me on. She eventually returned and we consummated our coupling. Again, she voiced her permission and I emptied myself on cue. I didn’t seek to fully understand the power of her command. After all, the pleasure consumed me and it became an enjoyable means to an ecstatic end. There was no explanation of her period of absence and conversation during our post-copulation coffee returned to the subject of my vasectomy. “I spoke with my friend. She’s available for two weeks in February and would very much enjoy returning to Canada. She says vasectomies are regularly performed on an out patient basis. A health spa is as good as a doctor’s office in her mind. “It would be a nice present and you have some vacation time coming. I can block out my calendar...” I demurred and changed the subject noting that her resolve made her both a good lover and a pain with whom to discuss issues. But she was relentless on the subject. And curiously, each week she modified our routine to slide further and further into a libidinous abyss. I played along. Her pleasure heightened with each added toy and routine and her orgasms began to result in climactic paroxysmal squeezings of her Kegel muscles. I had never before experienced such a sensation. It was incredibly pleasurable. It felt as though my member was being manipulated by an extraordinarily strong, soft, and moist hand. But her newly found prowess caused some degree of consternation as I began to question the relative intensity of her prior orgasms, which I thought she found gratifying. During one steamy encounter, she shaved my groin and subsequently reshaved me each week. She said she liked the look of my organs and the feel of my smooth hairless scrotum. “It appears wonderfully vulnerable, James,” was her notable comment, as she gently but firmly drew down on my eggs, forcefully stretching out the pink sac. She began inserting objects into my rectum. Bigger and bigger. Each time making humiliating comments concerning the excited reaction of my manhood and the prostatic fluid pressured from my urethra. Then she would leave me lying there on the bed, blindfolded and bound, for how long I would never know. On one occasion I glanced at the clock before and after our session and was shocked to see the process expanded to over three hours. The anticipation of her return became a torturous mental game with my engorged p***s eagerly pining for her deft touch, expecting that at any moment she would firmly grip it and guide the tip into her warm, moist grotto. Kinky jewelry began to appear from nowhere. She trained me to ride through the agony of well-clamped n*****s, laughing when the strange combination of pain and pleasure brought me to explosive, voice commanded ejaculations. Finally, one night, the blindfold was replaced by a latex hood with a single opening for my mouth and nose. I was bound to the bed, naked of course. She put headphones over my ears, gently stroked me to full erection while inserting a huge obdurate object into my back passage, turned on a tape recording of static noise and apparently...she left. I don’t know how long I laid there. I could not see. The static was not loud but completely blocked my hearing. Strangely, it felt as though my erection strengthened judging from the throbbing. Whatever object she had inserted, it apparently stimulated my prostate even more than the others. I guess I slept. I’m not sure. I think I heard her voice through the headphones after what seemed like hours of nothingness. Then the voice faded and the noise returned. Finally, I felt her presence. Not straddling my hips but instead my head. Her feminine aroma became stronger and stronger until the warmth and wetness of her s*x met my nose and lips. I dutifully licked...and licked...and licked. Her voice briefly interrupted the noise through the headphones by way of some type of voice activated microphone. Softly but firmly the alto pitch instructed me in the art of c*********s. When a particular motion of my tongue pleased her, the very tip of my p***s received a barely perceptible brush of a feather. Conversely, her displeasure was evidenced by the twist of one of my n****e ornaments. She was insatiable and, with her persnickety neatness, I was strongly encouraged to take in every drop of her essence. “You know I don’t like wet sheets, James,” she cautioned me, and my tongue learned to capture every drop of her spendings. That night, for the first time she did not bring me to climax. After some dozen of her own orgasms her voice again interrupted the static to explain she was tired. “And I’m out of condoms, which brings me to the subject of my gift you don’t wish to discuss.” The vasectomy arose again. She stepped off me and released one of my wrists. By the time I finished removing the cuffs, headphone, hood and untied my ankles, the sound of running water told me she was in the shower. No smell of coffee greeted my nose, but instead my adjusting eyes spotted a hurriedly written note requesting that I be sure to engage the lock on my way out the front door. Removing the anal insertion was a struggle and I was shocked at its size and shape. Where would D find such an object? The drive home was miserable and lonely. My testicles ached. I was frustrated. D had never left me hanging before...but I also felt a strange inner satisfaction. Like a dog knowing that sooner or later Master would feed him, I felt the same with D. She would take care of me. The morning newspaper lying on the front seat was dated December 5. If there was to be a February trip to Canada, it should be arranged soon. D James was so laughable. He had no conception of his own submissive psyche. I had introduced many males to s****l servitude, but none fell into their subordinate roll so quickly. A male’s erection is like a barometer. And James’ manhood continued to forecast excitement despite my heightened level of control and the increasing applications of pain and humiliation. And his receptivity to sensory deprivation was wonderfully amusing. Over time, I think he’ll find himself encountering longer and longer periods under the hood. On one occasion I left him bound and naked in my apartment and left to work out at the gym. He never realized I was gone for over an hour and that my subsequent strong fragrance and wet skin resulted from a vigorous workout, not from the arousal of observing his helpless naked form. There was, however, a level of pleasure in sitting back with a cold drink and watching him squirm his buttocks against the special butt plug I inserted. I always found it interesting how few males understand their own organs. That the prostate begs for the attention afforded by a firm controlling female, yet the rectum resists, futilely in James’ case since I’ve worked him well open over the weeks. Well, James will learn more about his own male promiscuity. The trip to Canada has already been scheduled. I called his boss and told him I was planning a surprise vacation for James. The boss acknowledged he needed time off and graciously arranged to accommodate James’ absence. Meanwhile, I visited my self-storage locker. The steel handcuffs were too uncomfortable for truly long-term sensory deprivation and my dildo harness beckoned. I always purchased quality paraphernalia and sure enough when I opened my locker the collection of sturdy fur lined wrist and ankle cuffs was as good as the day I purchased them. And the harness still fit, somewhat tightly, but I attributed the snugness to my extensive exercise program and the resulting thickened layers of muscle. “Oh, James,” I thought, “what a trip you’re going to have.” Lastly I grabbed my medical bag. I had never told James that my bachelors’ degree was in psychiatric nursing. A suitable entree for my Ph.D. in psychology, working nights in a loony bin imbued me with much background concerning long term bondage. Some patients I had to restrain for days...