0 comments/ 3940 views/ 1 favorites The Craftsman By: BlueByrd He putters with no particular deadline, but Sir is not your average, garden variety putterer. He is a journeyman carpenter and craftsman. He has, thus far in his short stay not only repaired, refastened, hauled out, lubricated, and painted this-and-that, he has reorganized the garage, rebuilt a rocking chair, restored an antique bookcase, and custom designed and built a new bookcase for the corner of her living room. But doing odd jobs is not what brings him to the quaint seaside cottage. What has drawn him here is his Little One. They had met online which is not all that unusual. That it was at an adult site meant that they were mutually interested in sex play and, like most people at such venues, they played anonymously. An innocuous, even if titillating pastime for grownups, neither one had any intention of ever meeting the other. For one thing, he thought they lived too far apart. He also figured a straight-laced, church-going, New England school teacher would never agree to meet some oversexed guy with an alias she met online at a porn site anyway. However, they could flirt like mad, volley erotic innuendo, and make overtly sexual posts that fed their libidos as they dallied in the threads without any reservation, forever. So much for forever. Come to find out it was not ME on her location but MA, which made her close enough for them to meet, and she turned out to be a bit less straight-laced than the Puritan-teacher stereotype he had going on in his head. Who would have guessed that she would come to agree to meet him? Certainly, it was not him, and most definitely, not her. It was decided they would rendezvous in a very public parking lot outside a well-known museum and from there they would go out to breakfast. And if all went well, they would get further acquainted touring the museum then part company. Sir, a man experienced in the art of seducing a woman, was positive if he could get her to agree to meet him, and he could kiss her just once, that they would ultimately have sex that very day. She knew if when he stepped out of his car he creeped her out in any way, they would be taking separate cars to breakfast and would likely not make it past coffee if she hadn't lost him in traffic before that. She fretted the entire way there, becoming more convinced with each passing mile that he was, likely, a serial killer; and she would be found some days hence naked, mutilated, and rotting in a nearby dumpster. She considered chickening out but shrugged off her nervousness and kept going. Taking less time than expected in the morning rush hour, she arrives first. She frets a bit more and moves her car around trying out several spaces in the nearly empty parking lot. "Okay," she thinks, "this is by nearest foot traffic and with a view of all the entrances and exits. What kind of car did he have? Shoot! She hadn't asked. What a nitwit. I must have been right out of my mind!" But sitting in the lot in the morning sun of what was going to become a beautiful spring day calmed her. "Girl, you have obviously watched just one too many episodes of Criminal Minds. Get - a - grip!" Not long after, Sir arrives in, what else, but the serial killer's vehicle of choice...an SUV. She wasn't sure how she knew it was him, but he seemed to know it was her, and he parked a space or two to the left and behind her. Fleetingly, a 'yup, I'm doomed' flashed across her mind, but it is followed just as quickly by an, 'oh, grow the frick up!' and she gets out of her car to greet him. She watches him step out of his Ford Explorer and inwardly gasps, "Oh my god, I have won the good-lookin' guy lottery!" Handsome, he had a genuine smile that lit up his face. He appeared to be a man comfortable in his own skin and with his masculinity, and his calm engendered confidence. Six-foot-two, he stood in front of her, hands on hips, tilting his head in a way that, curiously enough, made her think of John Wayne. What had she worried about? She was no kid, and she was a reasonably good judge of character. Besides -- who could fear John Wayne? Everything was going to be just fine. H e had asked her on the phone before they met if she would let him decide the timing of the first kiss to which she agreed; and so he was; and so he did. Right there in the parking lot before breakfast, he kissed her. And truth be known...the museum, two years later, is yet to be toured. "On the bed, now!" he commands snapping his fingers, pointing in a sweeping gesture towards the queen four-poster bed. Naked, she moves swiftly to obey, lying on the bed face up. Hands, palm up, rest on either side of her head, and he surveys her. He smiles appreciatively. Supple and naked, her soft,curly brown hair gently frames her face on the pillow. His Little One's legs spread apart quite naturally. She is so ready for him to come to her; to be inside her. She had spent days making everything in the cottage ready for his arrival and smiles warmly sighing, "I am so glad you are here." Tall, fit, naked, he stands at the end of the bed, hands on hips, tilting his head in the same ole characteristic way that from the beginning made her smile and think of John Wayne. "I am going to hurt you, you know. And I will like it." "I know," is the whispered reply, "and I will like it, too." But first, he just must have her. He looks down at her, lying there so accepting, so vulnerable. Thoughts of her tight pussy and responsive body over take him. Her wetness is evident even as he stands over her at the end of the bed. He crawls onto the mattress, positioning himself over her - his Little One. He knows she is ready for him. She is always ready for him. Cock poised at the lips of her pussy, ready to plunge, she waits slightly quivering for the moment. He has been gentle with her submissiveness. In the past bound, blindfolded, and flogged at his will and whim, he could have made her a pain slut, but that would have spoiled her. The object is to keep her balanced. A woman with her exceptional sexual skill for pleasing a man, who is satisfied without being a pain slut, is not to be wasted but nurtured by a craftsman, a masterful Dom, who knows the value of such a prize. Right now, he can pleasure her, or bring her pain using only his cock. She is petite, and his hardened cock is more than enough to fill her. Even after accomplishing complete penetration, he still has two more inches to insert before he himself is fully balls deep inside. It is the perfect tool for pleasure and pain, and Sir uses it accordingly. On his knees cock waving, he moves up between her thighs, spreading her wider. He rocks his hips back and forth, inserting only the tip of his cock and then withdrawing. She never knows if he will drive his cock deep in one swift thrust, or if he will take his time. It has been a while, so odds on were with the swift thrust, but not this time. Leaning forward, he lets gravity assist, using his weight to push his turgid cock steadily inside. They both moan as the sensation of his cock filling and stretching her cunt that is accepting and closing tightly around his cock takes over. Reaching her womb, he knows she is filled, but he is not all the way home yet. Pressing on, he inserts that last two inches, burying his cock down to his balls, She arches her back and gasps with a hint of a wince as he punches in. "Are you all right, Little One?" he whispers. She smiles. "Yes," she breathes He pushes in harder. "And now?" "Yes," she softly groans, arching higher. It is the pain she craves. It is the pain that hurts so good that assures her of his possession and her rightful place. His dominance over her body established, he will next lavish tenderness on her. Backing off from her womb, Sir rhythmically uses his cock to stroke her pussy just deep enough to stimulate her G-spot. Soon, she is eagerly rolling her hips in order to meet his thrust and moaning with the pleasure of his stimulation. He closes his eyes as he does her, marveling at her tightness. Slowing the pace, he pauses to bestow what seems to be a thousand passionate kisses, stroke her cheek, gaze at her, and rest a bit. "How soft your skin is," he tells her, "and you are so pretty. You know that don't you? That you are pretty?" Adoring him, she cannot hide the fact that she cherishes him. Warmed by his tenderness he smiles at him. "If you say so, Sir, it must be true." Their sex play continues, and, now and again, he grabs her hair rendering her motionless. In his complete control, her attention is riveted on him and lavish now rapidly turns into ravish. He flips her over onto her stomach. His cock rock hard, her ass immediately high in the air, he finds her sweet tight hole and plows in. This is no longer about pleasing her. This is about his pleasure. He begins with a few gentle strokes, but they are soon replaced with thrusts to the hilt, thrusts that go deep, pound hard, increase in tempo and intensity and soon drive Little One across the bed to escape. But the headboard is as far as she can go. Mewling and moaning he pushes her to the edge of her endurance. Taking a few more thrusts, for good measure, he finally lets her up, and they both collapse on the bed. Little One, smiling, soon moves down his body. Resting her head on his belly, she tenderly cups his balls in her small hand and takes his still rigid cock into her mouth."Mmmm.... I do love the sweet taste of me on you." Gently touching her head, he fingers her hair, "You know I am not done with you yet." "That's good to know. That means I am not done pleasing you yet, Sir." "Coffee! Now!" he orders. Happy to please him and amused by his semi-put-on gruffness, she slips from the bed and heads to the kitchen. In the small cottage she can see from the kitchen into the bedroom where Sir, still lying on the bed, plays with his cock keeping himself hard. He, of course, can see her, too, as she busies herself making them coffee. She puts on, over her head, a flowered apron that ties around her waist. "June Cleaver," he thinks, "right down to the pearls." Her simple domesticity comforts as well as excites him, and as she hands him his coffee he touches her cheek and says to her, "You really do take care of me, Little One, don't you?" "I take care of you because you take care of me, Sir." "No, I take what I want from you." "But it is a gift I give you, Sir." "I am selfish, and I use you, Little One." "It is my pleasure to be so used. When I give to you, I get." He gestures to the heavens, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. The exchange is always the same. He considers what will come next. Ropes? A flogging with his favorite cat o' nine tails? Nipple clips? A crop? He loved her blindfolded and bound, skin aglow with the heat from the stripes he'd skillfully laid across her back and her pinked welted ass. Then again, there was always vanilla sex. He turned the options over in his mind. "Huh," he puzzled. "When had he ever wanted vanilla sex from a straight-laced church-going New England school teacher?" The answer was simple. He had wanted it ever since he had sampled her version of vanilla sex. Highly physical, emotional, and erotic, Little One's sexual blend made vanilla sex an equally arousing option; and he knew he would always come back for more. The Craftsman He putters with no particular deadline, but Sir is not your average, garden variety putterer. He is a journeyman carpenter and craftsman. He has, thus far in his short stay not only repaired, refastened, hauled out, lubricated, and painted this-and-that, he has reorganized the garage, rebuilt a rocking chair, restored an antique bookcase, and custom designed and built a new bookcase for the corner of her living room. But doing odd jobs is not what brings him to the quaint seaside cottage. What has drawn him here is his Little One. They had met online which is not all that unusual. That it was at an adult site meant that they were mutually interested in sex play and, like most people at such venues, they played anonymously. An innocuous, even if titillating pastime for grownups, neither one had any intention of ever meeting the other. For one thing, he thought they lived too far apart. He also figured a straight-laced, church-going, New England school teacher would never agree to meet some oversexed guy with an alias she met online at a porn site anyway. However, they could flirt like mad, volley erotic innuendo, and make overtly sexual posts that fed their libidos as they dallied in the threads without any reservation, forever. So much for forever. Come to find out it was not ME on her location but MA, which made her close enough for them to meet, and she turned out to be a bit less straight-laced than the Puritan-teacher stereotype he had going on in his head. Who would have guessed that she would come to agree to meet him? Certainly, it was not him, and most definitely, not her. It was decided they would rendezvous in a very public parking lot outside a well-known museum and from there they would go out to breakfast. And if all went well, they would get further acquainted touring the museum then part company. Sir, a man experienced in the art of seducing a woman, was positive if he could get her to agree to meet him, and he could kiss her just once, that they would ultimately have sex that very day. She knew if when he stepped out of his car he creeped her out in any way, they would be taking separate cars to breakfast and would likely not make it past coffee if she hadn't lost him in traffic before that. She fretted the entire way there, becoming more convinced with each passing mile that he was, likely, a serial killer; and she would be found some days hence naked, mutilated, and rotting in a nearby dumpster. She considered chickening out but shrugged off her nervousness and kept going. Taking less time than expected in the morning rush hour, she arrives first. She frets a bit more and moves her car around trying out several spaces in the nearly empty parking lot. "Okay," she thinks, "this is by nearest foot traffic and with a view of all the entrances and exits. What kind of car did he have? Shoot! She hadn't asked. What a nitwit. I must have been right out of my mind!" But sitting in the lot in the morning sun of what was going to become a beautiful spring day calmed her. "Girl, you have obviously watched just one too many episodes of Criminal Minds. Get - a - grip!" Not long after, Sir arrives in, what else, but the serial killer's vehicle of choice...an SUV. She wasn't sure how she knew it was him, but he seemed to know it was her, and he parked a space or two to the left and behind her. Fleetingly, a 'yup, I'm doomed' flashed across her mind, but it is followed just as quickly by an, 'oh, grow the frick up!' and she gets out of her car to greet him. She watches him step out of his Ford Explorer and inwardly gasps, "Oh my god, I have won the good-lookin' guy lottery!" Handsome, he had a genuine smile that lit up his face. He appeared to be a man comfortable in his own skin and with his masculinity, and his calm engendered confidence. Six-foot-two, he stood in front of her, hands on hips, tilting his head in a way that, curiously enough, made her think of John Wayne. What had she worried about? She was no kid, and she was a reasonably good judge of character. Besides -- who could fear John Wayne? Everything was going to be just fine. He had asked her on the phone before they met if she would let him decide the timing of the first kiss to which she agreed; and so he was; and so he did. Right there in the parking lot before breakfast, he kissed her. And truth be known...the museum, two years later, is yet to be toured. "On the bed, now!" he commands snapping his fingers, pointing in a sweeping gesture towards the queen four-poster bed. Naked, she moves swiftly to obey, lying on the bed face up. Hands, palm up, rest on either side of her head, and he surveys her. He smiles appreciatively. Supple and naked, her soft, curly brown hair gently frames her face on the pillow. His Little One's legs spread apart quite naturally. She is so ready for him to come to her; to be inside her. She had spent days making everything in the cottage ready for his arrival and smiles warmly sighing, "I am so glad you are here." Tall, fit, naked, he stands at the end of the bed, hands on hips, tilting his head in the same ole characteristic way that from the beginning made her smile and think of John Wayne. "I am going to hurt you, you know. And I will like it." "I know," is the whispered reply, "and I will like it, too." But first, he just must have her. He looks down at her, lying there so accepting, so vulnerable. Thoughts of her tight pussy and responsive body over take him. Her wetness is evident even as he stands over her at the end of the bed. He crawls onto the mattress, positioning himself over her - his Little One. He knows she is ready for him. She is always ready for him. Cock poised at the lips of her pussy, ready to plunge, she waits slightly quivering for the moment. He has been gentle with her submissiveness. In the past bound, blindfolded, and flogged at his will and whim, he could have made her a pain slut, but that would have spoiled her. The object is to keep her balanced. A woman with her exceptional sexual skill for pleasing a man, who is satisfied without being a pain slut, is not to be wasted but nurtured by a craftsman, a masterful Dom, who knows the value of such a prize. Right now, he can pleasure her, or bring her pain using only his cock. She is petite, and his hardened cock is more than enough to fill her. Even after accomplishing complete penetration, he still has two more inches to insert before he himself is fully balls deep inside. It is the perfect tool for pleasure and pain, and Sir uses it accordingly. On his knees cock waving, he moves up between her thighs, spreading her wider. He rocks his hips back and forth, inserting only the tip of his cock and then withdrawing. She never knows if he will drive his cock deep in one swift thrust, or if he will take his time. It has been a while, so odds on were with the swift thrust, but not this time. Leaning forward, he lets gravity assist, using his weight to push his turgid cock steadily inside. They both moan as the sensation of his cock filling and stretching her cunt that is accepting and closing tightly around his cock takes over. Reaching her womb, he knows she is filled, but he is not all the way home yet. Pressing on, he inserts that last two inches, burying his cock down to his balls, She arches her back and gasps with a hint of a wince as he punches in. "Are you all right, Little One?" he whispers. She smiles. "Yes," she breathes He pushes in harder. "And now?" "Yes," she softly groans, arching higher. It is the pain she craves. It is the pain that hurts so good that assures her of his possession and her rightful place. His dominance over her body established, he will next lavish tenderness on her. Backing off from her womb, Sir rhythmically uses his cock to stroke her pussy just deep enough to stimulate her G-spot. Soon, she is eagerly rolling her hips in order to meet his thrust and moaning with the pleasure of his stimulation. He closes his eyes as he does her, marveling at her tightness. Slowing the pace, he pauses to bestow what seems to be a thousand passionate kisses, stroke her cheek, gaze at her, and rest a bit. "How soft your skin is," he tells her, "and you are so pretty. You know that don't you? That you are pretty?" Adoring him, she cannot hide the fact that she cherishes him. Warmed by his tenderness he smiles at him. "If you say so, Sir, it must be true." Their sex play continues, and, now and again, he grabs her hair rendering her motionless. In his complete control, her attention is riveted on him and lavish now rapidly turns into ravish. He flips her over onto her stomach. His cock rock hard, her ass immediately high in the air, he finds her sweet tight hole and plows in. This is no longer about pleasing her. This is about his pleasure. He begins with a few gentle strokes, but they are soon replaced with thrusts to the hilt, thrusts that go deep, pound hard, increase in tempo and intensity and soon drive Little One across the bed to escape. But the headboard is as far as she can go. Mewling and moaning he pushes her to the edge of her endurance. Taking a few more thrusts, for good measure, he finally lets her up, and they both collapse on the bed. Little One, smiling, soon moves down his body. Resting her head on his belly, she tenderly cups his balls in her small hand and takes his still rigid cock into her mouth."Mmmm.... I do love the sweet taste of me on you." Gently touching her head, he fingers her hair, "You know I am not done with you yet." "That's good to know. That means I am not done pleasing you yet, Sir." "Coffee! Now!" he orders. Happy to please him and amused by his semi-put-on gruffness, she slips from the bed and heads to the kitchen. In the small cottage she can see from the kitchen into the bedroom where Sir, still lying on the bed, plays with his cock keeping himself hard. He, of course, can see her, too, as she busies herself making them coffee. She puts on, over her head, a flowered apron that ties around her waist. "June Cleaver," he thinks, "right down to the pearls." Her simple domesticity comforts as well as excites him, and as she hands him his coffee he touches her cheek and says to her, "You really do take care of me, Little One, don't you?" "I take care of you because you take care of me, Sir." "No, I take what I want from you." "But it is a gift I give you, Sir." "I am selfish, and I use you, Little One." "It is my pleasure to be so used. When I give to you, I get." He gestures to the heavens, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. The exchange is always the same. He considers what will come next. Ropes? A flogging with his favorite cat o' nine tails? Nipple clips? A crop? He loved her blindfolded and bound, skin aglow with the heat from the stripes he'd skillfully laid across her back and her pinked welted ass. Then again, there was always vanilla sex. He turned the options over in his mind. "Huh," he puzzled. "When had he ever wanted vanilla sex from a straight-laced church-going New England school teacher?" The answer was simple. He had wanted it ever since he had sampled her version of vanilla sex. Highly physical, emotional, and erotic, Little One's sexual blend made vanilla sex an equally arousing option; and he knew he would always come back for more. The Craftsman F.X. Copeland parked his truck across the street from the Enright's Colonial house. Real nice, these houses, Cope thought to himself. He had grown up on the other side of Buttermilk Falls, in the tenements, but his Daddy had done some of the work rehabbing the various stately mansions here on Buttermilk Hill, and Cope had helped a few times when he was a little squirt. Cope got his toolbox and his manifest list and shut the truck door. Cope was a little fireplug of a guy, who wore a green coverall, but it was unwise to dismiss him—he was a craftsman of the first order. And how many other people knew how to build and repair chastity belts? A Copeland belt was a thing to be proud of. He'd fixed elevators for a while, and then he'd done HVAC, but the belt thing was up and coming. Cope walked across the street in his stolid gait, and rang the doorbell. A housekeeper opened the door. Yessir nice titties on them Hispanic girls, Cope thought cheerily. "You are Mister Copeland? Mrs. Enright waiting in the parlor." Cope entered the parlor, and yup, here's a looker. Mrs. Enright was blonde and she had a nice figure in that little black dress of hers. "How are you, Mr. Copeland? I am so glad you could come on such short notice!" "Oh, you call me Cope, ma'am...what seems to be the trouble? Y'all need a belt?" Carmel Enright smiled at the squat little man. Well at least he WAS a man, unlike Watson. Watty was constantly whining, and after she'd told him that she was no longer interested in sexual relations...and she began dating around a little, of course Watty had begun playing with himself. Disgusting...sneaking into her bathroom, jerking off while sniffing the panties from her laundry basket, and of course sneaking around, trying to get a peek of her as she showered or changed for her dates. Certainly, Carmel couldn't blame Watty for having a case on her...she had curly short blonde hair, and nice natural 36 DD breasts...very long legs and a heart-shaped ass, as one of her old boyfriends had once told her...her parents had been thrilled when she'd "caught" one of the rich Enrights...but rich men, though good to marry, weren't too good in the sack. She'd finally forbidden Watty to play with her breasts because he was always slurping at them greedily, it was quite digusting. This had been heartbreaking for him, as she'd waited a year after they'd started dating to let him touch them in the first place! And then, finally she'd told Watty she wanted him to stay in his own twin bed...and what does he do? Snivels, bitches, and masturbates...disgusting! Masturbation was such a disgusting, adolescent behavior in a man. Last night after she'd caught Watty messing around with her Victoria's Secret catalogue, she'd stripped him and tied him over a hassock and whipped him hard with his first wife's Amber cherry wood walking stick. Watty's first wife had presented it to Carmel the day before the wedding. "Watty's a dear boy, Carmel darling, but he is a whiner, and often throws tantrums if he doesn't get his own way...this will be of prime assistance in handling him." Carmel had been amazed how soon she'd needed the damn thing, he'd begun whining and bitching on the honeymoon, and she'd been glad of bringing it along to the hotel room! But now there was a bigger problem...with all the masturbation, Watty had become rather heavy lidded and lackadaisical...and she was so glad when she'd called the manager of the PainCafe, and he'd sent Mr. Copeland out. "Well, Cope," Carmel said, smiling. "I'm so glad you're here. I will send for Mr. Enright, and you can give him a measurement, or whatever it is you do." "Yes'm." Cope said as he brought out his measuring tape and his other tools. Damn this is a nice house, he thought. Oriental rug and all that. Cope's loving wife, Mrs. Copeland, often pestered him to go antiquing, and go to auctions, but they could never afford nothin' like this. Carmel left the parlor, and in a moment came back with a little bald man, who looked like Mr. Peterson, the patient in the old Bob Newhart shows when Cope was a boy. He remembered how he and his pals played a drinking game where you chugged a beer every time someone said "Hi Bob" Them was the days...yessir. "This is my husband, Watson Enright, Cope." Mrs. Enright said, smiling. Cope was almost sure, plumb sure that Mrs. Enright was waving her big bazoom at him, but of course he had to maintain seriousness. This was the client, after all. "Now Watty, I want you to take off your clothes, so Mr. Copeland can measure your private parts and lock you into something sensible, so I don't have to run around keeping your hands off your pecker." Carmel tapped Watty's chin with a red nail, and he blushed. "Look here, Carmel, I won't stand for this. I don't want to wear a chastity belt, and you're neglecting your marital duties by me. How dare you—" Mrs. Enright slapped her husband hard, and Cope goggled a bit. He was no stranger to witnessing these female dominated households, but he'd be damned if he'd let a woman slap him around like that. She'd be chewin' her teeth. "Now you take your clothes off right now. Or am I going to have to ask Mr. Copeland to lend me his belt?" Actually, Cope was wearing a coverall, but Carmel was too distraught to notice this. Watty Enright looked at his wife in horror. What was she thinking? God, what Watty had put up with for this woman. He'd met the curvy and enticing Carmel Bromden at the tony Bachelors and Spinsters Ball, a sort of gala for Buttermilk Falls's elite, a bit too old for debutante balls, but not quite married yet. And he'd gone crazy for her! He'd bought her jewelry, and taken her everywhere...he'd begged to touch her beautiful breasts, and bribed her in every way...and then she'd finally told him, "Watty, you can have all of me if we're married!" And then eight months into being married, she cut him off! "I'm just not that interested any more, Watty." Carmel had said to him one night, when she was wearing a delicious turquoise camisole, painting her nails and lolling her long legs on the bed in their master bedroom. "And as a matter of fact, I am getting rid of this big bed and we're going to have twin beds. I really don't need you slobbering on me all night long. Don't argue, or I may consider separate bedrooms." This had just made Watty crazy. And then at some point, she'd refused to let him see her naked...said it made him too excitable. Watty wondered whether Cordelia, his first wife was behind all this—she'd been quite the martinet when they were married. And so he'd masturbated a bit in secret, remembering, nay relishing the few times that Carmel had allowed him access to her beautiful, stiff areolas...what a hot girl she was! And now she didn't want him to masturbate. She said he was uninterested in helping her out, in remembering things when he was all spent. "I just think it's a nasty habit" she'd said. Cordelia had been the same way...she'd denied him sex, but when she'd caught Watty playing with himself for relief, she'd bound him naked to the bed and rubbed cayenne pepper and Ben Gay to his genitals until he'd screamed, and then she'd spun him on his scorched privates and whipped his bare buttocks with her cherry wood walking stick...but to no avail! Now Watty stood feeling ridiculous, looking at Mr. Copeland, the chastity belt builder fellow, as his wife ordered him to strip naked in front of him! "I am so sick of this. Carmel was saying. "You are so full of shit, and I am tired, utterly tired of trying to get you to behave yourself." God, look at how she sashays around, Watty thought. He remembered taking her to a ball game one summer day...she was wearing this adorable tube top, her boobs almost spilling out of it, and she'd kissed his neck and made him all hard...but even then, he'd felt she was play acting, and her eyes had been intently on a handsome young guy on in the next row of seats. Watty knew at heart he was a Beta male—that his money, his stability made him interesting as a prize to a woman wanting to settle down, but most of them weren't all that interested in fooling around with him...it was regrettable. And now, of course, Carmel had no interest in him whatsoever. She still knew how to get stuff out of him. Just a week ago, after the no sex ban had been put in place, she'd crawled on his lap when he'd been reading the "Financial Times": and whispered in his ear about some Visa bill until he agreed to write the check...she'd been so hot in her nightie! He still remembered Carmel rubbing her full buttocks against his burgeoning penis...she had been so affectionate, so sweet, until she'd gotten what she wanted. And of course she wanted him to be horny, not to jerk off. How on earth could she manipulate him otherwise? Carmel smiled, and walked up to Watty. "You've taken too long, darling." She unbuckled Watty's belt and pulled his pants down, right in front of Cope. And then came his underpants—Cope noticed that he was wearing women's panties, what th'fuck was that about—and then bent her husband over the armrest of the chaise lounge. Carmel pulled Wally's belt out of his pants and looped it in her hand and began thrashing him—fifty times, while Cope watched. This was not a new scene to Cope, but again, he couldn't imagine what went on in these rich men's heads. Finally Carmel tossed the belt down, her husband was weeping, and she ordered him to strip, and poor Watty did, folding his clothes neatly as they'd taught him in ROTC. "Now step up here and let Mr. Copeland examine your measly crotch." Carmel ordered, and Watty did so, his stomach curdling as the little man in the coverall glided his fingers around Watty's cock and balls while wearing surgical rubber gloves. "Now what I want, Cope" she touched the little man's shoulder as he was still examining Mr. Enright's pubic area "Is a nice, tight fit, and a strong lock. I'll let him out now and then if he's a good boy, but much of the time he's going to be shut down in that area." Cope nodded, and took some measurements, and then arose. "You kin get dressed if ye want, Mr. Enright." Cope took the gloves off, and sat delicately in a Victorian balloon backed parlor chair, and consulted his notes. "No, I'm afraid not, Watty. Your behavior has been execrable today, and so I'm going to insist that you remain naked, and in fact, just stand there. If you give me any lip, I'm going to make you stand in the corner for the rest of the day, including when Pilar comes in to clean." Watty looked terribly sad, and a tear coursed down a plump cheek but he stood still, and Cope noticed that his peeter was getting a little bit of a hard-on. That kind of thing would end when he got locked up, Watty guessed. Carmel stood close to Watty, and began playing with his penis. "You're not going to get to jerk on this anymore, big boy. Mr. Copeland will see to that. Thank Mr. Copeland for his efforts on your behalf, darling." Watty looked stubborn. "I will not thank—"KICK! Carmel's knee crashed into Watty's testicles, and he buckled. He fell to the ground, and she pulled him up by his ear. "Now as I said, you are to thank Mr. Copeland. If you keep acting up like this, I'll make you kiss Mr. Copeland's muddy boots as well, Watson." Tears of humiliation sogged his cheeks, but Watty finally said "Th-thank you Mis-Mister Copeland for your efforts, sir." "Ain't no thang" Cope said cheerfully as he put his things away. "It'll take about a week, mebbe ten days? An' then I'll be back with your belt. It'll be comfortable, lessn' you get too horny, y'understand." Carmel kissed her husband's ear, much as she had some weeks before when she needed his attentions on her Visa bill. "Don't worry...Watty's going to learn to be a good boy, and not be so focused on sex. Right darling?" Carmel's hand stroked Watty's member and then she remembered something. "Oh yes. What can I do to keep him honest until the belt arrives?" Carmel tickled the burgeoning head of Watty's penis, and she giggled. "It's just that he's such a horny boy." "I have what I call my little coffin, ma'am." Cope said. It turned out that there was a tiny, six inch wooden box, with a hole in the end, and this was locked onto Watty's cock with a tiny padlock until he was ready for the real chastity belt. Carmel was excited, and gave Cope a hug, and he smiled good naturedly, and took his leave, wondering if these rich folks were insane. Cope's next stop was about a mile south, in mid town Buttermilk Falls. He walked to an apartment building and was buzzed in, and took the elevator to the 9th floor. He knocked on the door of 9J, and the door opened. "Hello, Mr. Kutlov!" Cope said, smiling at the serious young dark haired man who answered. "I got your piercing stuff, and the electronic connection." The young man nodded, and walked to the computer, clicking a button and suddenly a cartoon image of a red-haired hottie, much like Jessica Rabbit of the old movie came alive on the screen. "Hey there, Mistress Vivienne." Cope nodded. He felt a little ridiculous, as it was quite odd to have a client who was a computer generated image, but certainly he got paid especially well by these people. "Hello Cope" the cartoon babe said, smiling. "Were you able to get the needed equipment for Anson?" Mistress Vivienne was dressed in a cartoon belly shirt and cut offs, but then this image metamorphosed into her wearing a leather corset and holding a whip. "Yes ma'am, I got it fixed up nice. Kin we use yer mantelpiece, Mr. Kutlov?" "You have permission to speak, Anson!" the cartoon girl spoke, and suddenly she was in a bikini, riding a surfboard in the air over what appeared to be an animated New York City. "If he's a little hoarse, it's because it's the first time he's been allowed to talk in 72 hours, since his wife called." Anson Kutlov spoke. "Yes, of course it's fine. You can put the bolt in there, Mr. Copeland." Cope drilled a hole into the mantelpiece and attached an eyebolt to one of the ends. "Now, you'll have to undress there, Mr. Kutlov." Cope said, and the dark haired man took off all his clothes. Anson's balls were locked in a little steel pouch (a creation of Copeland's) that made masturbation impossible, but his cock stuck out of the hole of the pouch, and the underside of his glans was pierced with a little closeable hook. As Cope motioned, Anson moved his hips up, arching his back so that Cope attached the hook in his penis to the hook in the mantelpiece, which kept Anson Kutlov on his tippie toes, as the penis was locked firmly to the mantelpiece. Then Cope reached into his bag and brought out the electronic handcuffs, which he had also constructed, and he locked these on Kutlov's wrists, joining them behind his back. Now Anson Kutlov was on his toes, and when he relaxed, because his feet hurt, he felt intense painful pressure on his cock. This of course because the pull of an 180 pound man against a delicate foreskin was no picnic. "This is excellent" cried Vivienne from the computer screen. "Now as you have it fixed, Copeland, the handcuffs can be timed for up to twelve hours, am I right? And he can lock them on himself...and only I can unlock him early?" "That's right...if that's what you want, Mr. Kutlov?" asked Cope, mindful of a lawsuit. "You did sign a contract, sir." Anson nodded and smiled slightly. "It's all right, Mr. Copeland. Mistress Vivienne has me locked up, but usually every four hours I think she will agree to let me loose for a twenty minute rest, and to have a meal." Cope nodded. "Is everything else workin' all right. How about the whippin' machine?" Anson blushed as he looked towards the huge contraption in the corner of the apartment—a windmill with long strips of leather attached to it. When Vivienne ordered Anson to be whipped, he would go to the "machine" and lie across the painful sawhorse under the windmill, and then Vivienne would press a control button from her mysterious location, and the windmill would begin pumping and the leather strips would whack Anson's ass again and again, sometimes for an hour... Although Anson had never met Vivienne, and indeed would have been surprised to know that Vivienne was not only not a young woman, but was an incontinent old pornographer with a modem in a nursing home...but Anson was devoted to Vivienne anyway! And thanks to Copeland, his little torture chamber was in place. There were nipple clamps that could be attached and tightened from Vivienne's remote location, and also a closet that locked at will. There was some concern on Cope's part that a fire might start while Anson was attached or locked up, or bound to the whipping machine, but it wasn't his call. He just did the work, and collected the money!