Catamite

The hood was padded cloth, and went over his head, lacing up tight so that light was blocked out and he was warmed by his own breath. Muffled claustrophobia made him struggle.

“Why are you doing this!?” Masculine panic, with the tinge of a whine , tainted his voice as the ropes bit into his wrists. “My lady, what did I do?”

Annette had him rigged between two posts, arms over his head and stretched so he had to lift his heels off the ground. He was naked, his clothes thrown over a low tree branch.  As she’d spoken of, they’d gone for daily walks for the past two weeks. Sometimes she’d spend the full time with him making small talk, and sometimes she gave him twenty minutes before a bodyguard produced a hood and he completed the rest of his daily exercise, blind and helpless.

Sometimes he had a weird sixth sense feeling she was watching him during these periods. Once he’d very clearly heard her give him a direction: “A little to the left!”

Unfortunately he hadn’t listened to her, especially since her voice had come from his right side; instead, he’d gotten to his feet and plowed into a sapling. But otherwise it was a routine of isolation, except in the presence of Annette, with daily walks and long periods of boredom and solitude in his Spartan room.

But today instead of small talk of the hood, they’d walked into an overgrown English garden to where two thick, tall posts had been driven deep into the turf. At her order he’d stripped and let himself be rigged up, and now she was coming after him with a length of bamboo switch, thick enough to give visceral, gorge rising thuds.

“I will tell you when you fail me, Adam.” She took aim a second time, striping his bare, pale buttocks.

Phillip shifted again,  grunting.

Big hot welts, with double pain, all falling in a diagonal pattern of his ass. He tried not to vomit, afraid he’d splash up inside his hood and smother himself. This was a new sort of pain. The picana on flesh left horrible muscle cramps, but a cane gave abrupt instant pain followed by a hot ache.

Annette was hitting as hard as she could, admiring the way the marks rose up after impact. It was hard on her hands, but much harder on his skin. Fifteen hits and he was sagging in the rope, and she was behind him, arms around his torso, breathing heavily.

Phillip felt her press against him, her hands wandering and lightly pinching a nipple and then reaching down to cup his flaccid crotch. She thrust with her hips, groaning and making small noises of pleasure. Pulling the hood off, she walked around him and stood on the very tips of her toes to kiss his mouth.

She bit his lip, savoring his bare chest against her breasts, even if they were separated by fabric. Phillip watched her, pain drunk and confused by her flushed face and bold smile as she pulled the knots free from his wrists. He sagged and clutched the cheeks of his injured ass, Annette helping him collapse onto his side in the grass. On the ground she carried on her fierce assault of kisses, a barrage of light pecks on the face and neck followed by long lingering licks with her lips pressed to his.

“Good boy, sweet boy.” She crooned “Lovely boy. Yes, Adam, yes.”

Sweet nonsense soothed him . Presently Annette regained her composure and fixed her hair, smoothing out her skirts and resuming her customary blank expression. Only half dressed, out of charity for his bruised state, Annette helped him back to the house and into his room. Only after seeing he had a cool compress for his buttocks did she leave for her room so she could masturbate in privacy, three orgasms one after the other, mouth muffled by the back of her hand.

~~

Phillip lay face down on his bed, lying on a new feather pillow with his battered ass still throbbing. There’d been light pain killers with his meal, and the ache was bearable afterwards.  He’d taken a worse beating in the hands of the guards back in prison, with their fists and boots, but this was another novelty that was still threatening, but rather than giving him pride in his conviction it made him ashamed and awkward.

Capital city prostitutes that catered to the jaded tastes of metropolitan clients would offer flogging and binding as a novelty service. He’d been exposed to that once, mid way through university when he went out whoring with his friends and a plump woman with two bow decorated braids had tried claiming to be a bad little girl in need of a spanking. He’d passed her over in favour of a less creative red head with more straight forward services and put it out of his mind as a weird perversion some men paid for, but now he wondered if he should have learned more about the perversion.

How many straight laced society wives had a picana hidden away? The household acted as if this were perfectly normal.  Certainly Annette’s behaviour seemed to have no trace of remorse. Some days she treated him like a close friend and told him about the little details of her life, and some days something horrible would happen.

The next morning, after a breakfast in his room, a bodyguard came and got him. It was the bald one with no hair and a flat nose like a thumbprint, who communicated mostly in grunts.  Instead of their usual walk they went to Annette’s quarters and into a room he’d never been into before, her bedroom.

The bed was a huge four-poster with a canopy, much bigger than it needed to be to sleep one person, the curtains pulled back neatly but the bedding askew. Annette was seated in the bed, propped up by a stack of pillows. She was in a dressing gown, her hair loose and unstyled, spilling in parti-coloured waves down to her waist and her face without a trace of pigment. It occurred to him that he’d never seen her without makeup, in fact never saw any woman of the upper class without a mask of paint, including his mother.

“Come here, Adam. Here on the foot of the bed.”

He inched over. At her prodding he’d still kept up his habit of holding his arms behind his back, and he waited at a loose sort of attention by the right side bed post.

“On the bed.” She pointed impatiently.

Phillip noted that the ever present guards were no longer in the room. He gingerly put his weight on the foot of the bed. A soft mattress under a down duvet, but with a firm support somewhere beneath it.

Annette kicked a little, freeing her legs from the blankets. “I’m ill today and I want a distraction. I have a headache and I won’t be visiting or going to the committee meeting.”

“Yes, my lady?”

“Begin as instructed. Kiss my feet.”

She had pale, clean feet with unpainted toenails, a little cold when he pressed his lips to them.

Annette sighed as she felt him kiss her.  She didn’t detect defiance in her captive, just wary puzzlement, where he never met her gaze but every movement caused him to react a little. Now at her instruction, the kissed her soles and massaged her feet, letting his hands slide from her thin ankles, up her smooth bare thighs and past her knees. The dressing gown she wore was a filmy little satin thing, with a lace hem that only came to mid thigh.

Phillip was tentative as he past under the hem of the gown, hands slipping up the outside of her legs until the skirt was hiked up level with her crotch and his hands rested on her hips.

“Use your mouth.” Annette said, softly. Her hand found the back of his head, stroking his hair and guiding him so his lips were touching her skin. Ivory-white, lightly blue veined thigh met the warm full lips of a young man, and she tilted her head back, sighing with satisfaction as he kissed all over her lap.

“Use your teeth. Gently”

Phillip nibbled has way along the inside of her thigh where she’d lifted her leg up. He could see the dark curl of her pubic hair and the pink intimate folds of her vulva, and smell the clean female musk that emanated.

His erection was pulling taut in his pants. Annette had pulled the lacy front of her bodice down to expose one breast, and she was massaging the base and gripping the other tightly. Her nipples were small and pointed, rose pink areolas with jutting tips surrounded by unmarred cream. Without undergarments he guessed the size midway between a B and C.

“Come here!” She practically growled, and Phillip left off his nuzzling to kneel on the bed next to her.

A silk scarf around the wrists made an easy tie, a bit tighter than Phillip would have preferred, but a manageable way to have his hands held behind his back. Annette, with one breast still liberated from her top, thrust her hands down his pants and found his penis.

With the right kind of stimulation, it was the unerring talent possessed by most ypounger men, to be able to stand to attention even in the most bizarre and frightening of circumstances. Annette found little resistance when she freed him of his pants and lined him up, and no difficulty at all getting him inside her.

He did take ages to come, a gift of performance anxiety that wasn’t without reasonable motivation, but she enjoyed the long, steady pounding until he was all sweaty and dripping on her. His cock was just the right sort of size, not some monster favoured by pornography or a finger like stub from the other end of the spectrum, comfortable, warm and as obedient as any penis becomes when it’s inside a woman and conforming to her inner curves.

She always liked this part best, the ejaculation where suddenly the thrusting got very deep and very rapid. Maybe it was her imagination, but a spurting penis almost seemed to pulse hard enough to trigger the delightful, massage friendly nerves of the vagina.

“Well, that was worth doing.” Annette gently shoved her victim off her and wiped a stray drop of his sweat from her cheek. “You sweat like a pig when you…” she lingered on the right word. Make love? Have sex? Fuck? “Work.”

He hadn’t made her come. Ever nervous, even Annette’s bemused grin wasn’t enough proof he wasn’t going to get punished. Still, as his penis softened she remained unperturbed. She stretched and sat up.

“I needed that.” Some semen seeped, wasted and infertile despite biology’s valiant attempt to place it as far up inside her body as possible. Annette yawned. “Two years, more or less. I believe I’m going to like having you around.”

“My lady?”

“Two years since I have had the touch of a man, pets.” She ruffled his hair. “Hence why I decided to make you mine.”

The bathroom was already familiar, but this time they bathed together.

“I won’t summon a servant, Adam. You’ll be all the service I’ll need.”

Naked again at her instruction, she admired his soft cock with the tip modestly hidden in the cowl of his foreskin, but still wet from inside her. She always thought an uncut man looked shy and coy, for all that literature called the penis a source of potency.

At her instruction he washed clean in the shower, before drawing a bath and testing the temperature with his wrist.

Naked in the bath, Phillip saw her whole body uncovered for the first time. She’d pinned her hair up in a pile on her head, exposing the nape of her neck and her bare, slender shoulders. Her stomach was the ruin brought on by child bearing, all too typical on a pale woman of her age, but the rest of her body was supple and smooth, marked only by the faint blue of her veins and a few flat freckle-moles.

There was both an intimacy and a dehumanization seeing her like this. She was sighing in the hot, almost steaming water, casual and secure in a way that one only ever was with a lover or a servant. She was telling him about how she was due to do an overhaul of the inventory of the family properties, and gossip from her social life while he held a large towel and stood at attention.

Her hand idly reached out and brushed his thigh, beckoning him closer. She gave him a smile and caressed his ass, cupping his balls with her other hand, and leaning over the rim of the bath to reach him.

“Ah..!” she started engulfing his soft penis in her mouth and bobbing her head back and forth.  Phillip held the towel close to his body and sagged at the knees a little.