Chapter 5: The Shame Game
I don't like the idea of being seen naked by a stranger, not one bit, and yet I do, and that's what it's all about, isn't it? It's that part of me projected into my Mistress as a crude plea to be humiliated. Tis one of those rich cravings originating in a dimly lit fold of my cranium, a fissure of gray matter most perverted, a long darkened iter hollowed out by mother, maybe. It appears through a janus-faced personification both feared and idolized by me, yet recognized by my Mistress for what it is, what I both loathe and require, a treasure for her.
I shudder before my Mistress with tingly anticipation, awaiting her next command. And to think, she would never have considered becoming a mistress if not for me, and today she's all but mastered the art. She's already practiced in the art of spanking, and I dare say it's become a punishment to avoid. I no longer toy with the idea of teasing my Mistress into a spanking me, instead I obey, or cry trying. Now I'm always trembling, as I should be, and I cover in goose pimples to her every sound. I always want to stay and run away at the same time -and I don't want to know why.
It took a few faint-hearted attempts before my Mistress realized her potential and rightful place, but from there she blossomed. She has since promised me more humiliation than anyone could endure, and I'm both frightened and excited. She's also promised to go gently, taking things slowly, giving me time to adjust and adapt to the new role she is developing into a plan for me. And she's already promised me a whole new level, and that's why I'm about to spend my two week vacation at her home. She promises to have me disgracing myself in public within days, and like all decisions forced by fate, it gnaws at my stomach and clutters my mind with thoughts gone berserk. It keeps cock drooling and testicles churning. I no longer doubt my Mistress, after all, here I was in the hallway of my apartment building embarrassing myself with actions most brazen.
My Mistress has come to know me well, inside and out, and was about to fix me up good, real good. I've taken a wonderful monkey on my back, and with her help I'm mainlining shame. She's leaving me a junky for embarrassment addicted to mortification, and yet sometimes I return from somewhere. Then I look around and wonder where and who I am, not believing or understanding who I was. But I'm unwilling to leave the warm wet grasp of her hand, the one she permits me to slosh around in. It's true my mind is dominated almost entirely by my penis, and my Mistress counts on it. She understands my cock and balls only too well and is mastering me through them. Her left hand reduces me to putty, and the right keeps me jumping. I am being broken gently while being roughly reshaped to suit her whims. I will soon be a toy puppy at the feet of my Mistress, re-created for her amusement and most importantly, for her self-esteem.
I was sloshing around in the sloppiness of my Mistress's hand, humping her fist like a husband his wife on their wedding night, the hallway echoing with the sloppy sounds of my happy dance, and though sure someone would hear, I didn't care. My Mistress allows me to go on for quite some time, bringing myself to ejaculation over and over again, provided I don't shoot my load. In return, I put on quite a show for her, a very obscene display that keeps her in tears of laughter, and happy as a new mother. I always make the best of it, damn the neighbors.
Today I found my Mistress right again, that I would eventually stop agonizing over being seen. She said I would no longer care if the neighbors were home, why should I? I would no longer concern myself with people falling over in laughter simply because I loved being a puppy to my Mistress. Soon I would do anything to 'fuck' the hand of my Mistress, and I threw my arms up and back in ecstasy as I humped. With eyes closed I kept my pelvis gyrating, fucking my lover like never before, my Mistress's left hand. Like a pair of teenagers, we fucked in the hallway of my apartment building, while my Mistress put on one of her favorite acts. Standing over us fully dressed and looking bored, she began tapping a foot while humming some obscure tune.
I put one hand against the nearest wall for support and allowed my eyes to flutter. I knelt with my legs spread sufficiently enough to provide me thrusting leverage, which I used with abandon. A pool of lubricant had already formed on the rug below my pistoning organ. The pool was connected to and fed by lubricant oozing from my hard-on, long thick strands of pre-cum swinging and swaying with each full stroke. Both the hand of my Mistress and my boner were soggy wet, dripping in my nectar. My knee pads were slipping in my sweat and I was fighting to stay balanced enough to keep my penis sloshing. No marriage bed could have been sweeter, no harlot racier, no Romeo hotter, I was the happiest guy on earth.
All I could think of was the next impending orgasm, their approach being all that was beginning to matter. Though I'm rarely allowed an orgasm, I live for continuous onsets. Finally the need to orgasm overwhelmed everything else, displacing all other needs. Mistress is the giver of life through the rite of orgasm. She could have led me into a crowded street at that moment, but her friend appeared at the landing.
