By Greta Pommer – Illustration by Sardax

Daphne Blaine crossed her legs prettily and looked down at Edgar Wrightwell who squatted miserably before her on the lushly carpeted floor of the limousine. Edgar was naked below the waist. A heavy straightjacket pinned his arms behind him, its straps cinched tight.

Daphne Blaine’s creme-colored slingback pumps with their wicked high heels and ultra-feminine toe bows had been untidily kicked off and had ended up on the floor beside where Edgar squatted. Daphne wore sheer glossy stockings that fit every curve of her legs perfectly.

Daphne’s stockings sported big flirty toe and heel reinforcements and the seams that ran up the back of her shapely calves were arrow straight. Daphne wore a tight creme-toned suit with a snugly hemmed form fitting skirt and a fashionably flared blazer. Her white high-collared blouse was stiffly starched. Daphne’s dark hair was up in a tight bun that was impeccability itself. Daphne’s alluringly petite figure and sweetly innocent face belied a heart that delighted in the humiliation and discomfort of the helpless.

Daphne Blaine’s size five feet had the highest arches that Edgar Wrightwell had ever seen, and her toes looked exquisite, snugly ensconced as they were in the daintiness of their sheer nylon embrace. Daphne tiptoed her left foot prissily on the carpeted floor of the big automobile and wiggled the pert even toes of her coyly arched right foot-scant inches from Edgar’s nose.

“What’s the matter, Edgar sweetie?” she cooed, her voice dripping sweetness and mock sympathy. “Did you expect your ride to tour the Research Institute to be different? Hmmm? Did you?”

Edgar Wrightwell couldn’t answer. A black rubber ball gag filled his mouth and was fastened about the back of his head far too tightly for him to reply. Edgar was a man well past middle age, and as a wealthy tabloid journalist he was used to being treated with deference and respect–at least by by his underlings in the multi-million dollar publishing enterprise.

Edgar Wrightwell was shocked at the particularly nasty turn events had taken in the last several hours.

There he squatted “bottomless” and totally helpless. The utter indignity of his predicament was not lost on him at all. His straightjacket pinioned his arms so tightly he could barely breathe. The straightjacket’s rear hem was fastened with leather straps to two steel rings. One steel ring was built into the limousine’s floor and the other protruded from a recessed fixture in its ceiling. When Edgar struggled in his bonds the creaking of the leather straps was an audible testimony to the futility of his efforts. To add insult to injury he was acutely aware of his nakedness and his knees had begun to ache.

“Is his penis hard, Daphne?” enquired a smug conceited voice from behind Edgar Wrightwell. Anna Masters, the director of the Research Institute, was seated immediately behind him on the plush tooled leather elegance of the limousine’s forward facing rear seat.

Daphne Blaine sat in front of Edgar on an equally luxurious rear facing jumpseat. Edgar was naked below the waist, absurdly helpless and surrounded. The dark tinted windows of the big automobile assured the complete privacy of its passengers and communication with the driver in his forward compartment was by phone only. There was no window between them at all.

Edgar’s heart sank. Every mile that fell away beneath the tires of the big limousine was taking him further from the world he controlled and the circles in which he moved toward the unknown. “His penis is soft and limp[” Daphne replied, more than a trace of scorn in her voice.

“Perhaps he is nervous and needs time to be acclimatized to his new surroundings. Rumour has it that he has sampled several of the pretty young female employees that slave away underpaid in the offices of his tabloid. Of course there he’s the one calling all the shots, isn’t he?”

“I’m sure you are correct, Daphne,” Anna Masters observed. Her voice was clinical and indicative of an extremely high degree of education. “Indeed, his lack of control in this situation is responsible for his temporary lapse in sexual vigour, of this I have no doubt!” Dr. Anna Masters wore patent black sling-back pumps with pointy closed toes and very high heels. Her stockings were seamed flesh-tone harmony points that complimented her red floral print dress most suitably indeed. Dr. Masters wore a black velvet blazer and a pair of dark rimmed glasses completed her authoritative ensemble. Her blond hair was worn in a short bob and this effect added sensuality to her look without in any way diminishing the severity of her demeanor. Dr. Masters personified the scientific curiosity of a stern and dedicated researcher.

“Perhaps if you manipulated his sexual organs just a bit, Daphne,” Anna Masters suggested maliciously. “It might help him relax and we could see what he is made of –in a manner of speaking. I think we both might forgive him if he developed an erection under the encouragement of a little genital stimulation.”

Daphne Blaine was happy to comply with Dr. Master’s suggestion. She uncrossed her pretty legs and sat forward on her jumpseat, both ankles together, her stockinged feet deliciously tiptoed on the carpet. She bent succulently at the waist and took Edgar Wrightwell’s soft penis gently between the thumb and forefinger of her left hand.

Daphne smiled knowingly and began gently stroking Edgar’s penis in that lewd fashion. Her strokes were skillful, light and rapid and the motions of her fingers on his penis made his low dangling scrotum flop and bounce in time. Edgar gulped behind his gag and began breathing heavily through his nose. Daphne giggled. “Oh, he likes it when I do naughty things to him between his legs!”

Dr. Anna Masters took the opportunity to give Edgar Wrightwell a lecture as Daphne Blaine continued her gentle manual stimulation of his sexual organs. “Tabloid journalists can be so irresponsible,” she said, her voice smug and matter of fact. “The stories about the Research Institute that you wrote are not only shocking and libelous, but lacking in depth and vision. You wrote solely based on hearsay from two disgruntled nurses who left my employ some time ago. Of course we were obliged to set you straight sooner or later!”

Edgar’s penis was now stiff and erect. His balls swung to and fro between his legs as Daphne Blaine fisted him, his penis sliding through the warm compelling clutch of her palm with each stroke. Despite his helplessness and the abject humiliation of his predicament, Edgar found the pleasures of the masturbation inflicted on him against his will to be most intense indeed!

“That’s right, Dr. Masters!” Daphne said firmly, nodding her head in emphasis while maintaining the unrelenting rhythm of Edgar’s masturbation all the while.

“The terrible things that he wrote about us! And I simply can’t imagine who would ever believe it all!” Dr. Anna Masters thanked her pretty associate for her support while retrieving a rolled copy of Edgar Wrightwell’s tabloid from her leather attache. “I have here your article and I’m going to read just a bit to refresh your memory.”

A female doctor and her nurses at a plush institute secreted deep in the countryside subject wealthy old men to degrading experiments that involve bondage, foot fetishism and hours of prolonged masturbation. The wealthy old men are told that they can sign away their fortunes and live out their lives carefree in surroundings of the utmost luxury. The brochures that promote the Research Institute also imply that there are lovely young women on staff who will see to their every sexual need as well. When they arrive at the Institute, they find things to be very different and often not to their liking at all. They are sexually relieved all right, but the nurses subject them to a very degrading form of slow masturbation that utterly robs them of dignity. The legal documents in which they signed over their entire fortunes are all ironclad so there is no means of escape. For if they tried they would simply be financially destitute.”

Dr. Anna Master’s smug conceited voice paused from her reading. “And then Mr. Wrightwell, you go on to quote the spurious allegations of my disenfranchised exemployees–Nurse Inga and Nurse Sally. Despite my many loyal and discreet employees there are always one or two in any large group who try to spoil everything. Well, we simply won’t allow it!”

“Yeah, we have other plans don’t we!” Daphne Blaine giggled. Edwin was at the end of his tether and she had found it necessary to stop stimulating his penis for a bit.

Instead, she contented herself with holding him by his scrotum and lightly kneading his testicles. Daphne snickered. “We would never masturbate old men at the Research Institute, would we, Dr. Masters! Of all the ridiculous ideas!”

“Precisely!” Dr. Masters exclaimed. “And that’s where our little friend here comes in. After an abbreviated treatment of re-educational therapy at our Institute we will have him so addicted to both masturbation and fetishism that he will be totally under our control. Our plaything and pawn if you will. Then we will release him and he will write a retraction to his offensive article. He will say he went undercover and penetrated to the source of the story at the Institute itself. And of course he found that both nurses were lying through their teeth. He will go on to write such a glowing review of our efforts that our enrollment prospects will increase tenfold. So you see Daphne, even the most difficult individuals can be retrained and made useful with a little honest scientific effort on our part.”

Daphne agreed wholeheartedly. “And I think your idea was brilliant too, Dr. Masters! Imagine offering him a nice limousine ride to our facility and plying him with drinks and appetizers the night before at a reception held in his honor. And of course he was thinking all the time that we were just bribing him and that it would do us no good.

And then you had me slip that little surprise into his drink and presto! He wakes up naked and straightjacketed. And before he knows it, he’s getting his limousine ride to the Research Institute all right, but it’s not going exactly how he expected.” Daphne giggled. “Not what he expected at all!”

Daphne had now resumed Edgar Wrightwe11’s slow masturbation. His hard penis had drooled a string of precum into her palm and its swollen head was turning a bloated strangled purple from her expert manipulations.
Daphne Blaine considered herself to be an artist when it came to the manipulation of the male sexual organs. And she considered her area of expertise to be an art form in itself. An art form that could be made either punitive or pleasurable depending on the whim of the masturbator.

“Don’t you think that a man’s scrotum is both a disgusting thing and a silly thing at the same time?” Daphne Blaine asked Dr. Anna Masters as she maintained Edwin’s genital stimulation. “I mean the testicles–the source of their manhood–are just vulnerably dangling there in that ridiculous little wrinkled bag, almost out in plain sight, and ever so easy for women to use in controlling a man and giving him either pain or pleasure, whatever they feel like doing!”

“The scrotal sac is one of many silly things about men in general,” Dr. Masters observed with a scornful tone to her professionally modulated voice. “I find it absurdly simple to twist a man about my finger in a very short period of time. The ridiculous equipment that hangs between a man’s legs is every woman’s aid in this respect.

And I do find it advantageous to keep the males in our Institute shaved about their penises and scrotums. It helps make them more docile and ashamed. Of course slow masturbation training is best in this respect,” she continued. “I find prolonged masturbation the best tool to make men obedient and weak-willed–just how they should be at all times!”

Edgar’s body abruptly tensed in his straightjacket and Daphne smiled to see his Adam’s apple bob up and down in a convulsive gulp. Dr. Anna Masters had reached through between his legs and beneath his bare bottom from behind to take him by his scrotum. She gently squeezed his testicles for a bit and then pulled downward on his scrotal sac–not enough to cause real pain but it added tremendously to the intensely shameful pleasure of the masturbation that Daphne gleefully subjected him too.

Edgar Wrightwell instinctively realized that he was in the hands of a master in the art of manipulating a male’s private pans. Daphne herself was a consummate expert in this regard but now he was experiencing the handiwork of her mentor and teacher. His heart thudded and his brow glistened with perspiration as both women manipulated his sexual organs.

“Be ready with the penis squeeze technique, Daphne,” Dr. Masters warned, a trifle bossily. “I’m not prepared to put him out of his misery and let you finish him off–not just yet! I find to really addict a man to masturbation, women need to play with his sexual organs for an extended period of time before permitting a climax. That way, when he is allowed to orgasm, the intensity will be such that he will find it addictive.”

Daphne knew all the signs of an impending orgasm in male masturbation subjects. As a nurse at the Institute she had participated in hundreds of sessions of slow masturbation training. She and a partner had once kept one old fellow on the verge of sexual release for three continuous hours. She loved to watch their penises twitch after the few final pulls and tugs that were designed to put them over the edge. Their penises would twitch spastically and then erupt in gooey cascades of thick white semen.

Daphne Blaine felt Edgar’s penis spasm in her hand.

She changed her grip immediately to cease the stimulation and grasped him by the base of his penis squeezing firmly.

Edgar’s penis reared between her fingers and for a moment she thought she had gone too far and had put him over the brink. But then Edgar’s penis reared again and but a single gob of sperm appeared, as if by magic, at the vent of the gasping slit in its tip. Just one single gob. Daphne giggled.

She loved stopping their climaxes in midstream. Edgar Wrightwell moaned pathetically. He tried to speak too but the ball gag muffled his words beyond recognition.

Anna Masters had handled Edgar’s scrotum until his climax was narrowly averted. Then as Daphne continued his masturbation–after waiting a few moments for the danger of full ejaculation to subside–Dr. Masters recrossed her legs and raised the pointy patent toe of her right high heeled shoe up under Edgar’s buttocks to gently prod his scrotum. She wiggled her foot, gently dandling his big testicles on the fastidiously polished pointy toe of her pump. Edgar moaned again at the humiliating intensity of these new sensations.

Poor Edgar! His masturbation was slowly continued for the duration of his ride to the Research Institute in the big automobile. Daphne had to employ the penis squeeze technique to avert his orgasm over a dozen more times.

Finally he heard Dr. Master’s smug conceited voice ask Daphne to let go of his penis for a bit and let her have a turn at him. As Daphne did so, Edgar’s momentarily abandoned penis throbbed noticeably with every beat of his pulse. The bloated tip of his sex organ oozed a thin quavering string of pre-cum down onto the carpeted floor of the limousine. But then he felt Dr. Master’s warm knowing hand steal between his legs from behind and reach through under his buttocks. She pulled his penis back at an unnatural angle until its swollen gasping glans pointed toward the pointy toes of her fashionable high heeled shoes.

Dr. Masters twisted his foreskin a bit to give him maximum friction and sensation while holding his penis between the h~l of her thumb and her index finger. Then she worked him lightly and rapidly with short strokes, masturbating him in a way that he had never experienced in his life before. The poor fellow was panting through his nose now and drooling from the agonizing pleasure of the sensations that were mastering him. The cramping pain of his knotting thighs–a side effect of his uncomfortable squatting posture–and the tight misery of his straightjacket were all forgotten. His penis liberally moistened Dr. Master’s palm with gooey drops of pre-cum that formed with more and more regularity at its gasping tormented tip.

Then Dr. Masters changed her grip and took his penis in her fist–still holding it pulled back under his bare bottom at an unnatural and uncomfortable angle. “Make love to her fist! C’mon, Edgar–be a good boy and fuck her fist! Wiggle your bottom and fuck her fist like a good little man!” Daphne’s voice dripped with scorn as she bossily ordered Edgar to participate in his own masturbation. Dr. Masters even laughed herself as he complied The straightjacket and the leather straps that connected it to its steel rings allowed him just enough slack to wiggle by raising and lowering his buttocks over and over again. Of course this added to the cramping pain in his thighs but Edgar Wrightwell no longer cared.

He was simply desperate not to have the lewd sensations that he experienced–as his bare excited penis thrust through Dr. Masters warm skillful palm–ever end, not until he achieved his humiliating sexual gratification and had his messy climax. Dr. Masters held her hand still and Edgar flicked it, his drooling penis with its strangled bloated head sliding in and out of her clutching fist as he bounced his bound squatting body absurdly up and down.

He was desperately hoping that she would not take her hand away before allowing him his sexual release.

Dr. Anna Masters had no such plans. She smiled as she spoke to her cohort Daphne Blaine. “We’ll have no trouble making this one eat out of our hands now, Daphne. Look how easily he debases himself in order to experience a little fleeting pleasure–intense as it may be!” Daphne was openly laughing at Edgar, now abandoning all pretext of sparing his wounded pride. “He’s drooling, Dr. Masters, and his face is turning all red! Lets finish him off and drain him dry!”

Dr. Anna Masters cupped her free hand just under where the sliding tip of Edgar’s tool came thrusting out of her grip at the downward termination of each plunge.

Daphne raised her delicious little tiptoed feet and rubbed their stockinged soles all over Edgar’s sweating straining face to give him a female pheromone overload. Edgar kept thrusting madly. Fucking Dr. Master’s fist like an animal, mindless in its helplessness and its desperation for whatever form of release it was allowed.

A second later Egar’s penis reared and spasmed in Dr.Masters fist as his eyes twitched shut in response to an agonizing crescendo of pleasure. His breath fairly whistled out about the edges of his ball gag as his orgasm began.

The powerful searing squirts as the jets of Edgar’s sperm spurted into Dr. Anna Master’s palm–over and over again –were actually audible in their intensity.

Edgar’s climax was prolonged beyond all endurance as Dr. Masters skillfully intensified it with the grip of her fist on his penis as she rhythmically squeezed him, milking him in time to the spasms of his sex organ.

At last he sagged in his bonds, drenched in perspiration, exhausted beyond belief, drained of his manhood and nearly senseless. It was then that shame overcame pleasure and the totality of his degradation knew no bounds. He knew then that this smug conceited young woman whose hand was full of his carelessly wasted sperm had defeated him utterly.

Fifteen minutes later the big automobile was admitted through a wrought iron gate and growled up the long private drive to the Research Institute. Daphne Blaine and Anna Masters exited the limousine smirking. Edgar was placed in the charge of two sternly pretty nurses in tight uniform dresses, high heels and black rubber aprons.

Fifteen days later Edgar Wrightwell’s tabloid printed the only retraction in its history and the Research Institute’s clientele surged accordingly. Dr. Anna Masters became very wealthy indeed!

The End