The Party Boy

Chapter One “Oh he’s adorable. You keep him hairless? Presents his balls nicely.” “I keep him as presentable as possible. Well groomed, well exercised, well cleansed, inside and out.” The boldness of the typical questions initially surprised me. Then I subsequently learned that most times, women outside the presence of the male gender, but for Jack, of course, will invariably let down their hair, their language becoming salty, the subject matter of conversation turning ribald. This woman is comparatively tame, but then we’re ‘entertaining’ in Greenwich, a rather upscale Connecticut community. “May I touch him?” “Of course, he’s here to amuse.” And we’ve already been paid, up front, I think to myself. So be amused. The woman of some fifty years, appearing rather prudish, apparently related in some manner to the bride, steps forth and palms the meaty low hanging testicles of Jack. At this point in our side business of offering CFNM parties (clothed female, naked male) my partner flinches not, despite being without sight and not knowing where an exploring hand will light. I keep Jack hooded at the beginning of every session. He better stays in what I term subspace, very tame, very meek, nicely accepting of his role of subservience to women. The woman’s actions bring forth much tittering from the other attendees, all female. And I marvel at the trendy societal change in a bride’s wedding shower. With women’s liberation such are becoming more akin to the raucous gatherings of a bridegroom’s bachelor party. And here we are. Having force fed two quarts of water to prompt the penile phenomenon termed ‘piss proud’, primed Jack with Cialis, plus always denying him normal s*x, the woman’s touch, though brief, serves as a catalyst for tumescence. Jack begins to harden. And whereas he’s not the biggest boy I’ve m*********d in my career as governess, he’ll put on a good stand for the group. Nicely cut, within moments he’ll be displaying a tummy thumper, the swollen tip of his ten inches pressing against his lower belly. Hopefully the bride won’t be too envious... or too demanding of her Beau on wedding night. Sure enough Jack steadily engorges, and the tittering transforms to outright shrieks of laughter. “That’s amazing,” the woman said somewhat sheepishly. “I hope I was not being brash.” “It’s what he’s here for,” I offer in comfort. And it is. Jack will be showing more maleness before night’s end, all subdued to me, his directing partner. “How is it... well they hang so low? My husband’s... well his are different.” Yes, the women come completely out of society’s demanded role of priggishness at these gatherings. Which is another reason to keep Jack hooded. Presumably he will never know or be able to recognize the woman who just fondled him. And the group of women quickly realize this. “He’s been infused. Every week for a few months, I siphoned saline into his scrotum, turning it into a big red balloon. It stretches the skin over time and as you will agree offers a certain... well, I call it ambiance.” Yes, if you’re in this business of putting the male anatomy on display, one must have something prominent to display. With Jack’s testicles now hanging at mid thigh, it tends to gather attention. “Are you a Dominatrix?” one of the younger attendees inquires, an apparent bride’s maid. I smile wanly. “When he was young, I was his governess. Suffice it to say Jack has been acclimated to obey me. “I should add ladies that you’re all free to touch and explore while he’s hooded. He will not resist... not even talk. He’s well trained.” The girl’s question brings memories. As I reach for a glass of wine, the waitress obviously suppressing mild shock, my mind flashes back...