Chapter 10
The man named Milton knelt down at Robin's rear. He ran two hands appreciatively over the tight bulging mounds of his buttocks and Robin felt himself wince with revulsion. He stroked more firmly and pressed. Robin thought something catastrophic would happen. Something had to intervene to stop this, perhaps he would faint, perhaps die, he couldn't remain conscious while this was happening to him.
The effeminate man was feeling Robin's buttocks and then slowly he brought his hands up his legs, from the top of his boots, over the inside of the knees, up the inside of the thighs. He ran his fingers around the cuff of the leather shorts but these of course had been drawn tight and now the straining steel cables added to the tightening so that he found it impossible to get so much as a fingernail between flesh and leather. But the coursings of his soft fingertips, contrasting with the tight pressure of the rim of leather, served to raise feelings of such delicate exquisite tension in his skin that he thought he would....
And then suddenly the man kneeling behind him brought both hands up tight against the crotch. He finished up into the folds of leather and while the left hand kept up the pressure, the right hand moved back and up, deep in the groove between Robin's buttocks.
As if the humiliation wasn't enough, Milton now made a sudden grab for Robin's basket. He caught it in the full of his left palm in front and pressed up and squeezed. The shame for Robin was unbearable, the aversion was polar. He struggled at his bonds to get away but all that happened was that he fitted more snugly into Milton's obscene embrace and that the leather that held him became even more tightened and more restricted, compressing the blood that flowed through his veins and that suffused his skin.
The outcome was inevitable.
Robin's prick started hardening. It got harder and harder and longer and longer and forced its pressure against the leather and against Milton's hand.
Milton of course noticed it straight away. Undoubtedly that had been his obscene intent-or at least hope-right from the start.
"Ahah, what have we here!" he exclaimed with triumph. "Cocky-Robin's robin-cocky wants to say hello!"
His fingers traced the outline of the growing and lengthening member along the distended crotch. He rubbed his fingers backward and forward along the hard member under the skin-tight leather and Robin feared he could not control himself much longer and that sooner or later he would spill over with an ejaculation-under the caress of a man!
But Milton spared him that humiliation of his manhood-for the moment, anyway. He groped for the straps that held the triangular codpiece in place in the front of Robin's shorts, and with a bound Robin's cock jumped forth.
From long containment against the rough leather, Robin's cock had become red and engorged so that its color was fiery and angry. The perspiration that had been building up while he had been so tightly arrayed, to which added perspiration had been added while he was exerting himself physically whipping the spread-eagled Lizbeth, and the perspiration successively of his fear, his humiliation, his binding and finally this perverse assault, had caused his cock to be deeply bathed so that in addition to its redness it was now wet and glistening along its entire length. In that position, hunched forward, with his cock protruding red and slimy from his breeches, it looked just luce the penis on the larger of the canine species and those present in the room could not fail to see the startling similarity to the cock of an aroused St. Bernard and uttered words and phrases to that effect-to Robin's additional humiliation.
They let his cock hang down and out like that for ten minutes or so and-each time that it seemed to be flagging and possibly shrinking in size, someone in the group immediately applied pressure-with finger or knee or foot or boot-to the area of his crotch and his cock immediately assumed its previous length and hardness again.
"We haven't seen his darling botty, yet," Milton said after a while. He knelt down again, once more caressed the tensed buttocks with one hand and with the other hand he groped along the length of Robin's cock, starting at the tip, and holding it in a ring formed between thumb and forefinger. He slowly worked his way to the back of Robin's cock which was throbbing and jumping as if it had a soul of its own and had no connection with Robin, as if it was immaterial to it whether the hand that caressed it was male or female or human for that matter. Robin more and more felt his humanity slipping away from him and he saw himself now as a dog, a cur, a canine.
When Milton's hand had reached the root of Robin's cock, he spread out the fingers and groped the balls, feeling them through the wrinkled scrotum, rolling them against one another, bouncing them in his hands as if to judge their weight. He caught hold of one of the balls and, edging it between the tips of thumb and forefinger, he guided up the scrotum into the bony socket of his pelvis. The thumb followed its path and pressed at the entrance to the socket, keeping the testicle tightly in place and adding extra pressure that aroused an animal lust in Robin that he would at that moment have been willing to satisfy anywhere, whatever the sex or age or species or nature of the object that would have afforded him such a release. As if that were not enough, the effeminate Milton, with skillful fingers, proceeded thereupon to guide and push its fellow testicle into its appropriate socket and to apply pressure now to each testicle with thumb and finger.
Robin whimpered. He wanted to come. His sperm was boiling deep inside him, his sperm wanted to void itself into the hands of this man, into his mouth, into his anus, into any receptacle he could offer. His sperm knew it wanted release, his body was dying for the discharge of its tensions and the satisfaction of his lust.
But he couldn't. Robin was governed by inhibition. His inhibition told him that e could never, must never, dare never, achieve sexual release under the stimulation of another male, and his inhibitions effectively put a lock on his functions. His desire was bursting, exploding, tearing through him, but his inhibition, his knowledge of right and wrong, his fear of his own potential for perversity, constrained him. His moral censor would rather see him dead than give way to his animal needs under such circumstances.
He whimpered with the agony and the pain, the tension and the frustration. He sobbed for something to happen, something, anything...anything short of the ultimate in humiliation.
Milton continued the exploration of Robin's body with his gossamer-weight finger tips. He traced his way back and up from the buttocks, into the mass of hair, into the wrinkled folds. He touched the soft skin surrounding Robin's anus and Robin's body twitched with the essovatrition of the nerve ganglia, bucked and arched and sought to rise up and away from it-and into the pressure too, for his desires and his emotions were by now so confused that he bucked in two directions simultaneously: into it and away at the same time, rejecting and eagerly demanding.
But Milton's fingers did not grope into Robin's anus as he had feared and in a perverse way hoped, but further back and around and at the same time the fingers of the other hand were busy too, and before he knew it, Robin's ass stood fully exposed to the eyes of the beholders for Milton had deftly unfastened the buckles and straps and had removed the leather triangle that had strategically covered the rump area.
"And a pretty bottom, too," Milton said amidst much twittering laughter and ribald joking. It wasn't really: like Robin's cock it had been too long encased by the leather and had become both chafed and sweaty. A powerful smell arose from Robin's posterior, the sweat mixing with the fine smell of virile leather, the fear, the rage and the anger all adding their own flavors, plus not a small amount of musky sexuality-all of it seasoned to a gamy aroma by dint of staleness and the onset of microbe putrefaction.
It was a smell that might have been considered repellent to ordinary mortals but to those present in this room, who had themselves engaged in the past in all kinds of erotic excesses and who were arousing all their senses at the present instance by their observation and passive participation in the obscene rites, the masculine smell arising from Robin's loins served as an aphrodisiac. They crowded closer to poke and jab, to laugh and snigger, to grab, stroke and fondle.
Robin retched from the stomach and might well have thrown up in the excess of his disgust and self-disgust had not the pressure of the bench under his chest and the tightening of the leather straps around his torso acted as an effective inhibitor of his reflex muscular reaction. He retched and felt his head swim and tried to believe that he was falling into unconsciousness but nothing so fortuitous came his way. His senses remained acute-nay, they were heightened and each sensation in his body became magnified entirely out of proportion.
"A nicely bared ass, dear Milton." The voice was the voice of Arbella. It seemed ages since he had last heard her voice and Robin realized that, without realizing it, he had believed himself abandoned by her. To hear the voice, even in its mockery, restored some of his self confidence. "A nicely bared ass indeed. I think I shall take it on myself to take its virginity. No, no, dear Milton, not in the way that you would take it, that's hardly my way and anyway I think he needs more-as you, was it? Said-marinating first. No, I shall take his virginity in my own way."
Robin shuddered and thrilled at her words. His body tensed in fearful anticipation. His back arched to the extent permitted by his fetters. He felt his anus throbbing and images of Lizbeth's cunt swum in his mind. He could see the pulsating of the inner workings of her cunt, thrusting and pushing and straining as she was hung suspended from the frame, and he imagined his intestines must be pulsating in similar fashion, wet and pink, in and out of his distended ass-hole. He could imagine how they would be laughing and snickering at this sight.
"What!" He was shaken out of his thoughts by a line of fire that burned itself into the hemispheres of his exposed ass. His ears pricked up and he could hear the swish of a cane wielded at short distance and he knew that the imperious goddess herself, Arbella his chosen mistress, was about to land another stinging slap across his buttocks.
"Wham!" it came again. He pictured her at work, despite his pain, conjured up a vision of that fabulous woman in black, tightly encased from head to toe in her suit of glossy leather, teetering on her high pointed heels. He saw that magnificent figure in his mind's eye, took in the way she bent, saw the swellings of her powerful muscles and the heaving of her breasts under their leather laces, saw the thrust of hip and thigh, the stance of boot, the raise of shoulder, the swing of arm. He saw the leather rippling with each motion, saw the reflection of light on the glossy black surface. He saw her in all magnificence and he regretted that in his position he found it impossible to see her in reality too. But what he imagined and what he could project was enough to raise his passions to a new height. He was being punished by the mistress-at last-and to be punished by her was in itself reward for there was no punishment without acceptance and where there was acceptance the basis of love was maintained. She punished him therefore she loved him. He was her slave, therefore he owned her love.
"Whack!" another swish of Arbella's cane. Robin's bottom had risen up to meet it like a lover purses his lips to greet his beloved. His bottom tingled all over and by the strange alchemy of the tortured soul, the pain was instantly transmuted into pleasure, the agony into joy and the fear into desire. His bottom glowed, his balls danced and his cock jutted forth and heaved up and down rhythmically.
Another blow and he could feel the pulsations starting in his groin. His balls were churning, his cock lay expectant, his whole being waited to express itself through the medium of his cock. Throb, throb, rhythmical throb. He was going to spend, he was going to thrust it forth, it would be a tribute to HER, a libation to the goddess herself. There was, he realized with the joy of abandon, no better way to serve her, no better way to express his love and his servitude, than by spilling his sperm as he writhed under her blows, spill it on the ground without demanding that she become the receptacle for him. He would do it for her, for love of her, for love of her domination and love of her power and love of his position of slave and victim.
For her, only for her.
And suddenly the blows ceased. His frustration knew no bounds. He felt the grief of his abandonment. She no longer cared, she no longer bothered, she was no longer concerned enough even to whip him. He wanted to worship her, he wanted to climax for her, he wanted to have an orgasm at her command. He was poised, he was ready.
Suddenly soft fingers were at his cock. Soft fingers were stroking and milking him, soft fingers.
He shut his eyes firmly and tried to believe that they were the fingers of the woman whom he wished to serve, but no stretch of the imagination, no desire however great, could make him conjure her hands in the place around his cock.
The hands were the hands of Milton. It was a man who would milk him of his tribute to his woman. A man would degrade him where the woman should have elevated him. He sobbed in his agony, sobbed with the betrayal, sobbed with the ultimate in frustration.
He tried to hold it back and let it come forth. The struggle was on. A decision would be hard to come by.
And then he felt a kick in his fundament. A boot in his backside. A resounding kick that jarred every bone in his body. A kick that was motivated, that could have come from no ordinary mortal, a kick from the boot that was the very extension of the noble Arbella. A kick of love. To her he could offer up his love, to the caress of her boot he could his semen, for her he would let it come.
A sharp heel dug into his anus. Dug in deep and joyfully rent the tender tissues. A sharp heel dug and tore and the boot twisted, the delectable black heel at the end of that incomparably beautiful boot that served as the extension of the woman he craved.
His anal virginity was being brutally taken in a manner that could not have been bettered, could not have been improved on. Voluptuous thoughts crowed into his head, and his body heaved and was suffused with love and passion and desire. He was coming for her, for her, only for her.
And suddenly his cock was taken into a soft hand that stroked and caressed it with the tenderness of a woman but that worked with the self-awareness and body-wisdom that only a male, a male who knew the secrets of his own cock, could bring to it.
His semen was spilling, his semen that was intended for a female. It was spilling, it was flowing, it was throbbing, it was coming. He wanted to rejoice, he wanted it to express the identity he felt with, the love he felt for, the admiration he felt towards, the woman who had made it all happen.
And at the last minute, after so many disappointments had been overcome, after he had applied so much restraint, after he had sublimated so much desire, it was being sacrificed not for her but for Milton, odious Milton, Milton the fag, the pervert, the eunuch.
And something fundamentally, something deep, told Robin that there was more than the purely symbolic in what was happening, for in surrendering himself to Arbella he was surrendering himself to some deeper instincts, deeper desires, perverse wishes he would not acknowledge.
And those feelings that had now surfaced-as the semen itself had surfaced after so much toil and repression-made him Milton's brother under the skin.
Milton's brother-or Milton's sister? It was all one.
And a secret part of Robin rejoiced even as the rest of him collapsed into uncontrolled sobbing at the loss of his innocence.