Slave Man Milked, Orgasms Ruined
Grainger discovered his masochism in his late teens. He often wanked to fantasies of the school’s cheerleaders wearing only thigh thigh-high boots and bullwhips. Not that he would dare confess his secret needs to anyone.
School was the domain of jocks. Grainger was one of those nice guys who finish last if at all. The local college differed only in that the girls began a lifetime of cosmetic surgery. Their breasts suddenly expanded. Lips, thickened with collagen.
Lost in the violent tides of young lust, tears and masturbation filled Grainger’s lonely evenings.
He won a scholarship. One that supplied rent, food, books and tuition while in postgraduate school.
This collage still had jocks and repackaged women. They were not the elite. It was a rare place. One that rewarded scholarship and achievement. There were many hipsters, musicians and literati.
There was a munch group. The group met monthly, held fetish weekly parties.
Grainer knew he had to change. Misery steadily increased. He did not want to grow into a bitter old man.
He went to a meeting of the munch group. Most of the members looked normal. Banal. A few wore costumes. Always friendly to newcomers, the members allowed them privacy. Most had once known Grainger’s frustration. That he would progress at his own pace.
The first step had been difficult. He thought he would vomit from fear.
Going to a fetish party was just as difficult. Desperation gave him strength.
About half of the women and men dressed unusually. A few who noticed him at the munch group meeting, shook hands, encouraged him to enjoy himself. But did not intrude.
He noticed a blonde Domme wearing the thigh-high boots of his fantasies. In a room of colorful people, she stood out. Not only in physical attractiveness. She had the aura of authority more important than beauty. The posture of power transcends breast size.
She saw his stare. Returned it. Showing no interest, she turned away. Grainger struggled to stop looking at her. Embarrassed he left.
He attended meetings and parties. For a time, he did nothing.
One night he saw the blonde Domme. She sat on a big ornate chair. Her throne he thought.
By some miracle, Grainger summoned courage. He walked to front left side of her chair. Dropped to his knees. Bowed his head.
He wanted to look up and see her reaction. He made himself stay in place.
Nothing happened. Time dragged slowly. Grainger would tell people were leaving. He stood. She was gone.
He repeated this. The fourth time, she pushed the back of his head and with light strokes of her riding crop chivied him in front of her chair. The Domme used Grainger as her footstool. Immobile ecstasy.
She removed her feet, commanded, “Stand boy.”
He obeyed. She grabbed his shoulder.
She led him to a St. Andrews cross.
“Is this what you want?”
“Only if you do.”
The right answer. He did not presume to call her Mistress.
Thrilled, he flushed. She smiled.
“You may call me Ms. Newton.”
“Thank you, Ms. Newton.”
“Stand on the platform. Raise your hands, spread your legs.”
She locked Grainger in place.
Her light strokes stung without being vicious. To his virginal skin mere contact was exciting.
It was a long courtship. Ms. Newton while gentle, kept her distance. She distrusted men. So many submissive men tried to bottom from the top.
At first, she met Grainger only at the meetings and parties. Behind her impersonal façade, she steadily fonder of the ‘boy.’
Finally, she invited him to spend time in her home dungeon. He never presumed nor pushed.
Ms. Newton decided to see if Grainger wanted more than play. He spent evenings cleaning her home, doing many chores. Rarely did he spend the night. His work finished, she sent him home.
Nothing pleased her more than a service-oriented masochist.
One evening she ordered Grainger to strip and kneel. Then held out a metal collar.
“This collar locks when closed. Put it on only if you are ready to surrender your freedom. Only if you want to be my slave, my property. Forever.”
He tried to take the collar, Ms. Newton held it tight.
“Take it only if you are sure.”
He pulled it again. She let go. He put it around his neck, heard the lock click shut.
“Good boy, good slave. You may lick my boots.”
As his Mistress Owner, Ms. Newton was both stricter and more affectionate. Grainger continued his education. She commanded him to earn a Ph.D.
Adjusting to committed, lifestyle slavery was not always as simple and easy as it had been in his Femdom fantasies. Grainger struggled with chastity.
Ms. Newton promised him an orgasm every week. But did not guarantee he would enjoy them.
She chained him. Then removed his chastity device.
She whispered hot, arousing words in his ear. His penis always hardened. Then she walked away.
Grainger’s groin ached. She told him erotic stories. Touched his skin but never his penis.
Seeing her slave overwhelmed with lust, she inserted the prostate massager into his rectum. A few minutes later semen dripped out, fell on his legs and the floor.
He ejaculated but felt no pleasure, no relief. She milked him, ruined his orgasm.
Were he a normal man, Grainger would have felt cheated. But as a slave, he felt bound to accept Ms. Newton’s will.
Now, she positions him so that his ejaculate falls only to the floor. Then makes him lick it up.
Grainger enjoys real orgasms on Christmas and his birthday.