The Party Boy

Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

My thoughts truncate as I note that Jack, hands remaining on head, raises one finger.

Ah, all that water. He has needs and the timing is perfect, the many women acclimating to the presence of a naked sculpted yet well subdued male.

The next segment of the entertainment is included in our base fee, and prearranged with the hostess.

“Ladies, my companion Jack has a need,” I announce reaching into my large decorative over-the-shoulder bag. “Should any of you care to observe, he’ll be utilizing the back deck.”

The hostess showed me the way and suggested a convenient isolated spot while arranging our bridal shower tête-à-tête. I thus reach in my bag and extract a slim p***s leash... actually to be wrapped about the low hanging scrotum, but I term it a p***s leash.

This always makes an impression, leading a man about by his balls... a mirthful impression. And the girl who inquired about my position of prospective Dominatrix is intrigued. Others laugh.

Remaining hooded, Jack must follow my gentle tugs as this smiling Governess pulls to tautness and steps towards the sliding glass door. Jack must follow, of course.

The pending darkness of a summer evening looms, but enough light remains to properly amuse. And as Jack steps awkwardly, I am pleased to see the Cialis works as prescribed, a raging hard on bobbing with each step, mesmerizing the assembled female crowd.

This portion of our show has been ingrained in Jack’s psyche for many years. As stated, from the first day of assuming my duties, I took over his toilet... at least while not at school. Yes, I supervised closely, training him to urinate and stop, later holding his p***s, squeezing off the flow until he learned to do it himself on my command.

As a result, our offering of CFNM entertainment is de rigueur amongst those providing kink. So to a corner of the deck, secluded as suggested, I guide a sightless Jack, pressing his shoulders to signal him to kneel.

“It’s the garden, Jack,” I whisper, alleviating him of concerns over soiling our hostess’s home.

Next I stand behind. Like the trained circus animal Jack has become, he knows he will perform for me... perform for all women. I wait until the many observers have assembled.

“I’m sure most of you are repulsed by male sloppiness in terms of bathroom use and urination. I have thus trained Jack to perform when and where I dictate,” I proudly announce.

“But he’s stiff,” a woman of age points out.

“Training... and an ingrained need to please, ladies.”

With that I lean, whispering into Jack’s left ear the sibilant sounds taught in potty training a child.

“Pssst... pssst.”

Jack clenches his stomach muscles, abdominals I have forcefully had him perfect. His p***s waggles, the angle of erection slightly dipping. Then comes a forceful gush, arching upwards, between the railings of the deck and streaming to the garden below. Yes, the women are impressed. But there is more.

“Jack that’s enough,” all knowing the bladder remains in need.

Jack obediently curtails the flow. I pause looking to see the many aghast faces, a woman’s command so promptly obeyed.

“Now you may finish for me,” my follow up command coming after many, many aggravating moments... for Jack.

The stream resumes. For $300 dollars I let him finish. I explained to our hostess that for an extra stipend I will have him turn on and off the flow many times. She did not express interest. I am sure some are disappointed.

Waiting in my hand is a tissue. I dab his p***s tip, a chore I have so often undertaken since youth.

“Come, Jack,” pulling his leash for him to right himself, I note that he blushes.

Yes, the masochism of the subordinate male. Psychologically, they never seem to fully acclimate to their own needs... they never seem to want to...

I lead him back to the living room in silence, my ears soaking up the many excited comments.