The Cuckold & The Cuckoldress

Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

Such an ignominious manner in which to be introduced to the staid grandmotherly Mrs. Larson, sitting naked on the lap of the imposing Miss Marsha, being orally teased by the equally naked Johnny.

Gray hair tied in a tight bun, her burning blue eyes seem to dance in viewing the comeuppance of the male. She finds equivalent delight in seeing me squirm... in humiliation?.. in ecstasy?

“Is this the one?”

“Yes, Mrs. Larson... to be conditioned, as discussed. His wife has... hmm... issues.”

Miss Marsha signals Johnny to cease. Am I disappointed when he shuffles away... tongue and lips withdrawing? My homophobia suggests no... yet my libido wants more.

“With that little thing, I can understand why,” bringing me to further blush as my erection stands freely for examination. “Well, I can’t fit him while he’s like that. I’ll band him while it’s deflating.”

Relieved of the headlock, once again I sense Miss Marsha’s power as she lifts to return me to the floor. For some reason I meekly place my hands atop my head, posing for this unknown woman. For some reason knowing that she enjoys examining. Why do I have this innate desire to comply?

This Mrs. Larson, appearing prim, more likely to be doting over grandchildren rather than compliant naked males, finds no reservation with the prurient scene. Instead, very businesslike, she assesses, seeming to enjoy my emotional discomfort. Then she places a duffel bag on a nearby table, extracting instruments, some thick strips of powder blue cloth, an open steel collar matching that of Johnny and odd looking pieces of gleaming stainless steel.

“You’re Andy Peters, I assume?”

“Yes Ma’am,” my own politeness bringing surprise.

“Your wife gave me your credit card information. You’ll see charges on the monthly bill. The wrist and ankle bands are of nominal expense. But the collar and this... this costs money,” holding before me a mesh cylinder of steel. “Made to order. Hopefully the measurements are good. Need a good tight convincing fit to properly deflate the male ego... should any remain, ha, ha, ha.”

She also presents a ring, a tube, a one inch post... all of matching steel... and some tiny padlocks.

“From Germany. The craftsmanship is impressive... always impressive. But let’s start with the right wrist. Be a good boy for me,” gesturing to the referenced limb.

I am a good boy, presenting my arm so obediently. Why?

A cloth strip encircles. The woman draws it tight. Then one of the padlocks is slipped through grommets and clicks closed.

“Left wrist.”

I again comply, staring at the restraint about my right. The cloth, thick as stated, is of coarse canvas. Embedded within is a one inch ring of notable gauge. The sound of another click distracts and I look to see my left wrist similarly bound.

“Turn and lift your left foot.”

I do, the firm gripping hands of Miss Marsha reaching forth, holding my hips to steady me. Mrs. Larson’s left hand grasps the offered foot. But before another length of canvas is applied, her right hand slips between my thighs, brazenly cupping my testicles. She gropes, seeming to assess.

“Yes, not very well equipped. Another beta male, Marsha. I’m sure the wife’s issues will be adequately addressed,” the words coming with a sardonic snicker.

She squeezes. I gasp in pain. She laughs. Then slides her hand further forward to find my erection, bending it downward with untoward force. Another gasp. The woman shies not in handling the male.

“He enjoys being handled, offering himself, exchanging what little dignity he has for the deviant thrill of submitting. Johnny, I’m going to need ice for this one.”

Johnny dashes from the bathroom, as the hand finally withdraws and my erection comically snaps upwards. Then the left ankle likewise bears a locking strip.

I think about her actions... her words... and of most concern my somatic reaction. I stiffen more.

Right ankle encircled, Mrs. Larson grasps the collar.

“Not yet, Mrs. Larson, that’s for another time, when he’s fully conditioned and has capitulated,” Miss Marsha offering a reprieve.

I am relieved. In making sales calls, the collar would need explanation... or bring need for noticeably distracting covering in the summer heat.

Johnny returns, delicate hands offering a bowl of ice.

“I’ll need that stool, Marsha. May as well do it here... make it quick.”

As Miss Marsha stands, my arms are drawn behind my back. There comes another click, my wrist bands summarily connected, the embedded rings offering instant restraint. I am then guided to the stool, Miss Marsha positioning herself at my back, firm hands to my shoulders. She pushes, her strength not to be countered as I am bent at the waist, stomach to rest on the stool.

“Spread for me like a good boy,” Mrs. Larson politely commands. “Ice him down, Johnny. I need him shriveled, flaccid and numb.”

Though I lurch, powerful hands lift my restrained arms to hold me in place as Johnny reverses his efforts, my male bits immersed in the frigid bowl. Meanwhile Mrs. Larson fidgets about, snapping on latex gloves then arranging the pieces of steel. When she steps to my side holding before my eyes a long curved needle, I lurch again, its sharp point ominously threatening.

“Just a quick jab, Mr. Peters, and we’ll soon have you locked and under complete control. You may miss that little thing, but not any woman in need, ha, ha, ha.”

I am to be pierced, I realize, and the cylindrical shape of the steel mesh suggests Mrs. Larson’s words will be followed by daunting deeds.