Taming the Virile Male

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

“Okay. Look down. Watch carefully. I want you looking while all that buildup is expelled. Right here on the apron now.”

Her smooth but firm words pluck me from my daydream. I obediently gaze downward as the probing fingers of her left hand begin to penetrate my rectum. My masturbatrix always finds my prostate with surprising ease and there is heightened embarrassment as my anus yields. Then comes the strange uniquely male sensation of both discomfort and peculiar pleasure as the fleshy pulp within is manipulated, pressured by fingertips which have so often kneaded the hidden gland. I tremble and she knows she has found the spot.

“Oh yes, Captain. Your prostate is begging for attention.”

My erection remains pointed down as her right hand strokes in earnest. She can feel my advanced state of arousal, my need to climax. Instead of release, she works her hands to build more lust, demonstrating her control. My gland both celebrates and recoils with the pain pleasure. I so much wish to surrender. I am helpless. A moan escapes. She smiles.

“Yes, such a good boy, but so full of nastiness. Would you like to come for me? Hmm? Shoot all the gooey buildup?”

She gently strokes as she taunts. My need is indeed dire, yet her right hand merely pumps with wary steadiness and her penetrating fingers pressure more.

“You know the position.”

Yes, I do. I straighten my knees so that my feet no longer dangle off the table edge but instead jut forward to the left and right of her hips.

“Spread nice and wide, arch your back. You’ll feel better.”

I comply, pushing my feet as far apart as possible, sitting well-spread, back straight with my lower spine curved. The required posture adds something to the process. Indescribable for me, the experienced woman understands the male anatomy and knows that the prostate becomes more accessible and the rigid posture does something to the ganglia in my back. I feel my p***s stiffen even more.

“Say the words for me.”

I am shaking. Perspiration exudes. I once again must submit, mentally and physically, to the woman who so masterfully controls my most pressing need. I concede, as I have so often, sitting so awkwardly while she works, playing my p***s like a musical instrument.

“May I please come for you?”

Two more strokes A smile... a wry smile.

“Such a good boy.”

She looks into my shamed eyes. Once again I have surrendered completely, begged for release. Her smile broadens but remains devilish as she moderates her strokes and allows the need to build.

“Yes... you may.”

She slowly lessens the aggravating angle of my erection. I dutifully explode... on cue... in response to her governance... not mine... precisely where she wants to see my essence linger.

A splat soils the black rubber apron. She makes me watch as her fingers manipulate, maximizing the pleasure and the explosions of thick whitish sperm. To the physical act of submitting to her demand for climax is added the psychological burden of having to assume the correct posture and to observe. A woman controls my most basic male need.

My p***s softens yet she endeavors onward, as suggested, working my flaccid p***s like a cow’s udder while my prostate is continuously massaged. She coos words as if soothing an irascible infant, describing the steady oozing flow with matronly pride. When the reddened yet satiated appendage finally stops dripping she withdraws her hands and steps back.

“Very good, Captain. You’re becoming quite accustomed to a woman’s touch. You’re probably ready for the next step.”

The thin chain is clipped to my testicle rings. The glow of post coitus gratification begins, in better times, with welcomed sips of fine wine and quiet conversation after normal copulation. My masturbatrix retreats beyond the cell doors. With the glow comes peculiar emotions... ignominy... degradation... a heightened sense of subservience.

I have indeed performed like a trained circus animal... coming as required... and only after beseeching a woman for relief. With each of her visits my psyche seems to sink further into an abyss of disgrace.

“The Princess will be happy to learn of your progress,” my tormentress suggests as she turns off the light and pushes closed the cell door.

With those ominous words, I lower my feet and slide off the table, listening to her Pollyannaish words of greeting as she moves to the next cell to perform her wizardry on the next prisoner.

As embarrassing and mentally burdensome as her visits are, any human contact serves to break up the hours and hours of monotony. Other than her pumping hand, the only contact I have is with a pretty young strumpet who spoon-feeds me and a nurse who twice weekly rolls in a cart, undertakes a most revealing sponge bath, and inspects very inch of my nakedness.

I pace about my barren cell. Ironically, the entrance, comprised of a dozen or more vertical steel bars resting on a hinged frame, is rarely locked. The presence of the imposing steel is symbolic more than functional. The real constraint is the thin chain bolted to the middle of the concrete floor and casually clipped to a pair of rings encircling my testicles.

I am held captive by my balls. The restraint is both functional and symbolic. Having one’s testicles ringed is an unforgettable procedure and the daily mental burden of knowing that escape is more than probable if one is willing to sacrifice two small organs is wearing. An initial stab of unbearable pain and the rings could possibly be slipped off. And then it’s out the unlocked cell door and... and where?

My pacing continues. My cell is surprisingly large but the length of my chain only allows me to circle the middle. I suppose contemplating escape is a daily pass time for every prisoner. But since I do not know where I am nor the layout of the building, detailed plans cannot be formulated.

Still the thought of stepping back until the chain tightens, then leaning further, bearing the incredible pain as the sensitive scrotal flesh stretches and my gonads ache unbearably, watching as perhaps my eggs yield and the small rings slowly slide away, is so tempting.

But I am drained. My masturbatrix has milked me of both physical strength and the will power to tolerate such agony. I sit, then lean back on the simple mat forming more of a rodent’s nest than a bed. Between my buttocks, I can feel the pleasant squishiness of the lubricant used to open my sphincter.

Though humiliated, I am spent and satiated. I close my eyes and with the pending sleep comes the recollection of my introduction to incarceration.