Taming the Virile Male

Chapter One “I had many young men. And just like you every one of them not only stood so nicely for me but also watched so docilely while I stroked almost every night. Yes, they became very receptive to my touch. And when it came time for marriage, each made a wonderfully submissive husband, eager to perform the most demeaning and menial task in expectation of the soft, rewarding grip of a feminine hand. “Of course I had to teach their wives the proper technique. As you can imagine, every p***s is a little different. But with experience, a woman learns to sense the desired manipulation... you know... a little twist at the top of the stroke... perhaps a little jiggle of the gonads. A man’s needs become rather obvious when being masturbated... no disguised emotions... no facade of disinterest.” I humbly must listen and watch as this matronly woman, many years my senior, narrates and labors away. She fervently strokes my erect p***s with a touch which can only be described as heavenly. I would like to assist. My ingrained maleness tells me to gain control... to either reach down and finish the prolonged endeavor with one final climactic twist of my palm on the glans p***s, or to reach around my tormentress’ rubber apron and beneath her starched white uniform to explore between her thighs and return the favor of her teasing s****l benevolence. But alas, I can do neither. Twenty pounds of steel encumbers neck and wrists. Thus I sit in the mandated position on the small m**********n table, thighs obediently spread, back straight, trying my best to remain patient while the devilish woman has her way. As I have learned after many nights, it is she who is in control and I must, along with the abject humiliation, meekly absorb the indescribable and prolonged pleasure. I deliberately allow my mind to wander, mentally cloaking the humiliation. I recall that as a teenager, among my male friends, the act of ejaculation was referred to as ‘pulling the trigger’. As I am stroked my imagination visualizes me holding a gun in one hand, my erect manhood in the other. Strangely I am unable to fire, waiting until this unctuous woman in white gives the command. The daydream is a peculiar mingling of s****l fantasy with my military training, unable to pull a trigger, brought on I am sure by the aggravation of weeks of confinement and the degradation of having my p***s forcibly perform. While the thrill of her touch so excites, the notion of her dominion so humiliates. With the conflicting emotions I have learned to divert my thoughts, however difficult that is. I know I must bear the frustration of unsatiated pleasure until the woman slips the fingers of her left hand into my rectum, moderates the angle of my engorged phallus and gives an ultimate twisting stroke to finally permit my essence to harmlessly explode into her rubber apron. She will then quite thoroughly milk my maleness of every drop, cooing embarrassing words of encouragement as firm fingers dutifully drain my organs. Such will gratefully respond and give all, my softening p***s turning into a cow’s udder as the woman’s deft fingers squeeze from it every drop. Until that time, she knowingly keeps my erect p***s bent downward, whimsically kneading, caressing and fondling, fully aware that the forced angle makes eruption impossible. She is a master. And my initial resistance to her method of establishing control crumbled so quickly. Now, in a strange way... despite the price to be paid by my male psyche... I welcome her nightly visits. Yes, I watch and listen like a puppy in training, in expectation of a tasty tidbit, awaiting with tail wagging for the next command... in my case permission to ignominiously display my constrained male virility in order to be bestowed with the treat of dousing her rubber apron with my sperm. I try not to think about my beloved Mary during these mental ordeals. Her embrace, her kiss, the warmth of her flesh, the sound of her kittenish whimpers as my engorged manhood burrows into her sheath. Though the derived pleasure of being with her is ironically comparable to that accorded by my masturbatrix, Mary’s attention is affectionate... so warm and loving. In my cell, though the physical touch consoles, it is sordid... clinical... a function akin to having a bowel movement. No, I do not think of Mary. Thus my diverted thoughts wander to that fateful night of conflict. There is no point in concentrating on my pending climax. It is her charge to determine when and how I will spill my seed. And when she deems my p***s ready, it will perform for her like a trained circus animal. The night battle was fierce and seemingly quick. My company fought hard. The odds were against us. We were surrounded from the start. The element of surprise was apparently compromised by either good intelligence on the part of our opponents, bad luck or a breach of security on our side. The enemy troops were firing at our parachutes and those of us who landed alive were not able to coordinate a viable defense. Most of our soldiers simply ran out of ammunition, the ability to locate dropped supplies curtailed by the barrage of mortars and machine gun fire. Thus with an empty gun, I was captured along with countless others. And despite survival training, one can never be properly acclimated to the duress and mental supplication of being a prisoner. Overall, the assault was a disaster. A cease-fire was arranged within hours and our President, re-election pending, chose to sweep all events under the carpet. The treatment of prisoners of war was not discussed in the subsequent treaty. The hastily drawn document addressed those elements that were deemed more pertinent to a successful election campaign than the humane treatment of losing soldiers. Voters were not to be reminded of our futile effort. We were abandoned. In being captured, survival school training suggested that I expect the worst. I was prepared for physical abuse in being questioned... interrogated as to battlefield tactics, communication codes, military objectives, etc. What followed was the opposite. The cease-fire brought a degree of nonchalance from our captors. No one asked a single question as we were herded into an old barn and made to sit in coldness for hours. And such should have been of concern to me. Normal processing requires that name, rank and serial number be divulged and then passed on to the International Red Cross. The fact that no data was assembled on the dozens of men from my company should have been the first warning. We were to be among the ‘missing in action’ in my home country. There would be no inquiries as to our treatment as prisoners of war. We were not reported as being held captive, and after all, according to our ‘fearless’ leader, there was no war. So we sat until sometime the following afternoon. Then the supervising captor became busy on his radio, speaking in the foreign tongue, which we, in happier times, used to mimic as rapidly spoken gibberish. We mocked no more. In heavy accented English, we were commanded to stand and line up. With numerous menacing machine guns targeted at our group, we were directed to remove our pants and underwear. Then a wizened grimy veteran strolled down the line and gruffly covered every head with a loose canvas hood. It seemed like we remained standing for hours until a brisk waft of cool air told me the barn door had opened. Then there was gibberish... most deferential gibberish... and then a woman’s voice! In being so forcibly exposed to the opposite s*x, every convention for the care of prisoners was violated. What followed was a shocking introduction to our treatment. And I quickly learned that the conventions were meaningless. “Keep your hands on your head at all times!” the accented voice commanded. And so I stood. In the silence, rustling noises could be heard from my right. The woman’s voice sternly rang out ‘Nugat’... a word I knew to mean ‘No’. Then more rustling and the words ‘Shriften une’... ‘this one’. After several more proclamations, hands began toying with my genitals. In rolling my eyes downward, my lower peripheral vision and the loose hood permitted me to glimpse at dark, large but effeminate hands, one cupping my scrotum, the other stretching my flaccid p***s. I squirmed and a soft accented woman’s voice demanded in English that I hold still. Then she began to stroke and I was shocked at the level of skill used to quickly bring my p***s to full erection. Despite the cold... despite the strange circumstances... despite the adrenaline and high level of emotional fear... the hands worked me to full tumescence. Then I hard a soft feminine chortle and the words ‘shriften une’. Wetness was felt on my right buttock. Later I found that I was marked, a crude letter ‘X’ painted on my posterior. That simple marking sealed my fate.