The Twighlight Zone Ch. 04

"You are Alan? Good. You are wearing the device? Better. If you are good, I will remove it when we are done. Follow me." She turned and walked into another room. She was so overwhelming that I couldn't even speak.

The room contained three tables covered with towels. On each table lay a naked and beautiful woman. Sexy doesn't come close to describing them. The workouts to keep bodies in that shape must take all day. Pain in my genitals as my erection was quelled brought me back to reality quickly.

"I will show you the techniques once. If I have to show you a second time, I will be displeased. Do you understand? Good." She had yet to wait for a response from me.

She got a robe and put it on over her dress. A small bottle taken from her pocket drizzled oil over the chest of the first woman. "You will give each of these women a massage. If they find it acceptable, you will be permitted to leave. Begin, here."

I moved over and began rubbing and massaging the first woman's breasts. I heard a loud THWACK a second before the pain shot through my thighs. Gloria had hit me with a split bamboo cane.

"Not like that, you idiot. Move your thumbs like this, you fingers like this. You're here to give her a massage, not feel her up."

That's the way my evening went. I would begin to massage, she would hit me, then correct my technique. I started to sweat profusely because I never knew where the next blow would land. My thighs and calves ached, my arms stung, and my fingers were going numb. After the second blow I didn't worry about pain in my genitals. I was so worked up about getting hit that the thought of these women as sex objects went right out the door, down the street, and into some forgotten alley.

Not to say the women didn't try to get a rise out of me. In turn, they twisted this way and that, spread their legs to give me a show, and pursed or licked their lips. I became an automation, there just to give massages.

Not that that stopped them; they soon upped the ante, and ran their fingers up my thighs to caress my ass or massage my balls. As the evening wore on they made a game of it, and tried to see who was the most effective. They started double-teaming me, and by the time I reached the third woman, the first two were rubbing their oil covered bodies all over my legs or sticking their tongues in my ears, or any of a multitude of other things. I found that by totally concentrating on giving a massage, I could block out almost all thoughts of sex. Any thoughts that did make it to my libido were bitten back by the Khali's teeth.

After nearly two hours, all three women agreed that I was a passable masseur. I had learned light and deep muscle techniques, along with pressure points on the face and feet. I could've probably gotten a job giving massages.

Gloria then blindfolded me and led me into another room. She moved me around, evidently into a specific position, with light hits of her cane. I felt her undo my pants and drop them to the floor. She stood behind me and undid the biting device.

"Now I shall show you one final massage."

From behind she grasped my limp cock with one hand, and rubbed my balls with her other. It took a minute after all I had been through, but soon I had a strong erection. Her hands felt better than any I had ever experienced or thought I would experience, and soon I felt my orgasm rising, Gloria must have too. Her hand left my balls and removed my blindfold just before I came.

I stood in front of a large wall of glass. On the other side was a room full of attractive women, dressed in aerobics gear, all staring in my direction. The fact that I was being jerked off in front of a room full of women took me over the edge. My cock exploded in orgasm, and my knees buckled because of the intensity of the blood rush. Gloria milked my cum into a pan she had placed in front of me.

It was then I noticed a figure on the other side of the glass with her back to me, to whom all the other women were really paying attention. I must've been behind a one-way mirror, looking onto a class. At least I hoped it was a mirror. Hoped and prayed. Exhibitionism is not my cup of tea.

* * * * * * * * * *

Friday, May 24th

My wife had an exceptionally hard day today, and was very happy when I gave her a full body massage. I could tell that she wasn't in the mood for sex, being too tired, and I wasn't allowed to have sex anyway. Memories of the teeth kept my mind on what I was doing. It was nice just to touch her and to make her feel good. I think she really enjoyed it.

If the rest of my 'learning' sessions were going to be like this, I might just be able to survive. Hey, look at that. Now, not only am I deceiving my wife, I am getting good at deceiving myself.

* * * * * * * * * *

Thursday, May 30th

I sat on the couch and looked at the DVD case. The cover showed a woman in English riding clothes sitting in a saddle. The title read, "Horse play - the training of a mount". I slipped the DVD out and into the player, undid the drawstring on my sweatpants, and relaxed on the couch. My wife wouldn't be home for a few hours; she had to pick up some groceries, get gas for the car, and make the weekly contribution to the Old People's State Assistance program, also known as the lottery. That would take her close to the mall, and she could never pass by without a quick stop in. I reached over and turned out the lights, and focused on the TV.

The screen flickered, then faded in on a row of stables. The camera was evidently fixed in position. Into the screen walks an attractive Egyptian looking woman with long brown hair, almost black. She is dressed in tight purple leather pants, purple leather riding boots, a white silk shirt, and a purple leather vest. She is tall and athletically built; from her location and clothing it is evident she is going for a ride.

She opens a stall and reaches inside, pulling on a pair of reigns. Whatever is on the other end doesn't want to come out. She picks up a riding crop, raises it above her head, and it falls: once, twice, a third time, the only sound being that of the crop on flesh. The reigns go slack and a figure emerges from the stall.

It looks like a cross between a horse and a man. A man's face and mouth are held in the bit and bridle, and a set of blinders keep his sight limited. His arms are strapped to his sides in a harness which also holds a saddle on his upper back. Long hair, made into a mane of sorts, runs between two leather horse ears projecting from the top of his head. From his ass projects a horse tail, it's root held in his anus by more straps. A thick eight inch cock dangles limply between his legs, which are encased in black leather from his crotch down to their heels. Only these boots are missing the heels; they force him to stand on the balls of his feet, and they make little horseshoe prints when he walks on dirt. His discomfort is obvious.

She hits him again and speaks, but the only sound heard is the crop connecting with flesh. He squats as low as he can, and she climbs into the saddle. He adjusts himself to her weight, then she directs him out of the stables.

Change to another camera view, this time the area being viewed is a riding arena. The purple clad woman stands on a platform, cracking a drovers whip at the horse/man as he performs tricks; he side steps, canters, and even jumps over small barrels on cue. Any time he falters, he feels the lash.

Change to another camera, this one mounted on another rider following the purple clad woman. She is on the horse/man's back saddle, and they are at a full gallop. In front of them is another man, a look of pure terror on his face as he is chased down. The rider twirls a weighted net over her head and releases in a perfect and practiced throw, and the running man tumbles to the ground, his body encased in the net. He is quickly surrounded by women dressed in black leather catsuits and boots who pick him up and carry him away. The horse man is covered in sweat, and crop marks can be seen across his ass. She turns him about, and they trot out of the cameras view.

Another view from inside the barn. Horse/man is lead into a small with a sign overhead that reads 'Stud Service', but he is evidently unaware. Inside, she takes off the bit and bridle and pulls a large feeding harness over his head. His jaws move the bag as he eats. She picks up a large beaker with her left hand and begins to massage his cock with her right. His eyes go wide, and he tries to escape her grasp, only to realize she has attached his body harness to a frame in order to hold him in place.

His already large prick grows in her hand as it becomes erect; eight inches, nine inches, finally ten inches long and as thick as a soda can. Her hand pumps away, and after a few minutes he begins to spurt huge globs of cum into the beaker, filling it nearly half-way. His knees buckle from the orgasm, but he is held up by the harness. She turns to a refrigerator in the stall and opens it, pours a small amount of another liquid into the beaker, then places it next to several other beakers. It is labeled with his name: Stud O'Neill. The screen fades to black.

I hit the 'stop' button, ejected the DVD, and returned it to the case. I thought back to last night; I still have marks on my ass, and sitting was a little uncomfortable. I got a few tissues and cleaned the pool of precum on my stomach. I wasn't allowed to complete my masturbation, and didn't even dare risking the consequences if I did. I went back upstairs and slipped the case and the crop that accompanied it back in the secret drawer with the other items already secured there.

Maybe a cold shower would take my mind of things and help undo my erection before my wife got home.

* * * * * * * * * *

Sunday, June 2nd

I really don't see how people do the things they do in the stories I've read. Unlike many of the people in the erotic fiction (or non-fiction, if you would believe some of them), I am a nervous wreck. Every time a car drives by, or the phone rings, or I see a letter in the mail from an unknown address, my hearts starts going at a mile a minute.

I'm jumping at shadows. Who, out in the real world, knows what is happening to me? I get the feeling that I am not the first to be subjected to the scheming of Tara and her friends. It all has such a regular, practiced feel to it. That doesn't make it one bit easier. The session last Wednesday was nothing like what I had experienced before, yet the very next day I risked electrical castration to watch the replay.

That part of me that was curious and wanted to see what would happen? Well, I am reminded now what happened to Pandora when curiosity got the better of her. Only, I really didn't have much choice when it came to opening the box in the first place.

That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

On a whim, I convinced my wife to go on a date with me. We spent the afternoon on a couple of old nags, riding the trails in the woods. I think she enjoyed the break from our normal routine.

* * * * * * * * * *

Wednesday, June 5th

I found this week's package on the front seat of my car when I got out of work. Whoever was delivering these for Tara and her friends could get in anywhere, it seemed.

Big surprise there. What was I thinking? That they could develop this whole crystalneuro thingy, but not get into a four year old used Saturn?

I sat in the parking lot and ripped open the brown paper packages. Inside was a pair of green shorts, a green and yellow diamond patterned t-shirt, and a pair of green calf high socks. All were made of the same cool and oily feeling material that first night I was an art object. There was another tube of gel, instructions for the remote, and an invitation to a party for tonight. I stuffed the items into the glove compartment, and headed to the store to pick up a few things. From the look of the outfit, I thought I might be playing soccer.

* * * * * * * * * *

Dinner with my wife slipped by. Casual conversations about work, my fictional racquetball partner for the evening, and the possibilities of looking at houses this weekend. One part of my mind kept up the talking while the other tried to figure out what would happen tonight. Before I realized it my wife was kissed me goodbye and I was left to clean up the dinner dishes.

* * * * * * * * * *

The shirt and shorts were snug, and felt slimy with the coating of gel underneath. My feet felt like they were stuck in wet sneakers. I tapped in my code, and all became skin tight. I had begun doing morning exercises to relieve my sexual tension, and the shirt showed off the meager results. There was small pocket in the front of the shorts for my cock but not my balls, almost like a sheath. The shorts also showed off the fact that I shaved down there, and that I wasn't wearing any underwear.

If you are wondering about that last statement, I can say with all honesty that the shorts had molded themselves to my body. Had there been any hair left, it would have bushed things out a little. As it was, it was easy to tell that my parents had me circumcised as a baby.

It was went to walk back into the bedroom when I noticed it. My feet had become hyper-sensitive; the carpet felt like steel wool trying to rub the calluses off my feet. I jumped to the bed and sat down, and realized that the shorts were having the same effect on the skin they covered. It was like having a sunburn without the pain, everything was so sensitive that it *almost* hurt. I pulled on a pair of sweats and my old sneakers, even though the sensations almost being too much.

Limping down the stairs was difficult; every step renewed the sensitivity. My body began to sweat heavily under the strain. I grabbed my wallet and keys from the stand by the door and headed out to the car, and I imagine that if any of the neighbors saw me, they got a good laugh. I must have looked like I was walking on eggs.

* * * * * * * * * *

The address for the party was at a comedy club. I hoped that it wasn't a tie-and-jacket club, because I was dressed as the biggest dork you can imagine. I assume that I would be alright because the note had said nothing about additional clothing. I parked and grabbed my stuff, then headed for the club. I found that I could move quick but had to be ready for when I stopped, as the effects of the outfit would catch up after a second or too. I pulled out a ten for the cover charge, but the man at the door saw my clothing and just pointed to the stage door.

The entry led into the back of the club, where that night's performers waited their turn. I saw my 'date' for the evening immediately, and things in my mind fell into place.

She was very attractive, as all the women connected with this organization had been so far. She was dressed in a green harlequin outfit decorated with yellow diamonds. Green ankle boots covered her feet, her hands were in yellow gloves, and a three point harlequin hood complete with bells on the ends on the points finished the outfit. A yellow mask covered the upper part of her face. Though the rest of the room was empty, I could clearly hear the noise of the crowd.

I may be slow, but my brain hasn't stopped altogether. I now had a good idea of what was going to happen to me tonight, but the woman's lightheaded manner didn't do anything to allay my fears.

She smiled at me, and in a cheerful voice greeted me. "Whad'ya think? Too much? I always heard that comics were nothing more than common man's jesters."

"Um, I don't know. I don't go to this type of club. Maybe some of them will find it entertaining." I gestured in the general vicinity of the crowd noise.

"I don't care about them. It's you I'm here to entertain." She smiled. Pleasant as that smile was, I got a bad feeling about the whole thing.

"What would you like me to do?"

She looked around the room. It was filled with oddities as if somebody had been collecting things from garage sales for twenty years. Finally, she motioned to an old barbers chair in a corner. "Sit there."

I did as I was told, first taking off my shoes and sweats. I was growing used to the overly sensitive nature of my clothing. Once I was seated, she skipped over to me, bells jingling, like a little kid. She leaned in front of me, grinning. My bad feelings grew even worse. She picked up my left arm and put it on the armrest, and flipped a strap over it, tying that arm down. "Why are you strapping me down?" A stupid question, considering the people I was dealing with, but I asked anyway.

"Used to be a dentist's chair. These made sure they didn't thrash during an operation." She tied down my other arm. I pretty much let her, testing the bands once she was done. I could've overpowered her easily if I had wanted, but nothing really unpleasant had happened to me yet. At least nothing permanently scarring. "That was in the days before anesthetic.

You won't have that problem."

Sirens, bells, and whistles all went off in my head. "Let me up." She strapped my feet down quickly, knowing I knew something was up.

"But you'd miss the show if you left."

"I don't care. Let me up now, please."

"Don't you like comedy?"

"It's okay. If you want to go out into the club, we could watch a few of the comedians, but I've been drugged before and I don't like it. It wasn't part of the deal."

"Deal? I don't remember any deal. I was just asked to show you a good time, take you out and have a few laughs. And who said anything about drugs?"

"You did when you talked about the anesthesia."

She laughed. "I meant you wouldn't have to worry about thrashing about during an operation."

"What operation?" my voice cracked.

"No, silly. The chair was originally made for minor operations. No operation for you, so relax a little. Enjoy."

I felt a little relieved. "Then what are the straps for?"

"So you don't leave during the show." With that, she spun the chair around, then pulled back a curtain that had hid the wall behind the chair. I was given a balcony view of the stage where a comedian was just finishing his act. I felt her hand do something at my crotch, and when I looked down I saw a tube leading away from the tip of the built-in sheath.

She crouched down behind me and whispered in my ear, "This next one is one of my favorites. I hope you laugh at all his jokes."

The next one out was a guy who did nothing but complain about the differences about men and women. He was okay, by my standards, but I'm not a big one on male bashing. My jester friend seemed to like him just fine. I could hear peals of laughter every time he made a joke about how stupid men can be. Halfway through his act she leaned in close again.

"You're not laughing. Nobody comes to my club and doesn't laugh." She walked to where I could see her completely. "Some of the people you'll meet may strike you or tease you sexually in order to control you. I was asked to teach you how to laugh at yourself because you didn't know how to do that." Again with that 'teaching' thing. My mind flitted back to the masseuse. She had let on that I was being taught'. This would take some serious thinking. "Instead of a crop or a whip or even my hand, I use this." She held up a long stiff feather.

The alarm bells went off again, louder and stronger than before. I tried to pull loose from the chair, but couldn't.

"That's right. Even if you weren't ticklish before, you are now." The feather brushed up my ribs, wiggled in my armpit. I let loose with a howl of laughter. "Much better. I thought it was a good joke, too."

The feather wiggled the soles of my feet after each of the comedian's jokes about men, ripping guffaws from my mouth and tears from my eyes.

The next comic was one she had picked just for me. My laughs began to drown out the crowds in the normal seats. The jester alternated between my feet, my ribs, and my armpits, never letting any one area get desensitized. Tears streamed down my face, and I begged for mercy. I could feel my bladder about to explode. She never let up, and finally I lost control over my bladder. The tube hooked to my shorts took care of the mess I would have made, drawing off the results of my laughing fit.