tagBDSMA Sound Decision

A Sound Decision

byCal Y. Pygia©

I drained the dishwater, scrubbed and rinsed the sink, and smoothed out the front of the fluffy pink apron that was the only concession Mistress would make in allowing me to wear clothing—and I could wear the apron only when I was doing household chores. Otherwise, I was to be naked at all times.

It had been a long day. I'd dusted; vacuumed; changed the bedding; washed, dried, folded, and put away three loads of clothes; and cooked dinner.

I'd finished the dishes just in time, I thought, as I heard the front door open.

Mistress had paused, before entering, as usual, to don a white glove, and she used a fingertip to check the cleanliness of the surfaces she passed on her way into the bedroom, where she changed, as usual, after a hard day at work. She'd slip into something more comfortable.

Sometimes "something more comfortable" meant a tank top and a mini-skirt or a pair of short shorts; occasionally, "something more comfortable" meant just a pair of thongs; on rare occasions, "something more comfortable" meant wearing nothing at all.

Of course, I was always hopeful of the last possibility (Mistress is a beautiful woman!), and I was, therefore, frequently disappointed, although I knew better than to show it. This evening was not one of those times, though; I almost salivated when I saw Mistress emerge naked from the Mistress bedroom.

She went through the house, checking to see whether I'd finished all the chores to her satisfaction. If I had overlooked anything or hadn't done something well enough to suit her—and Mistress is a stickler for details, let me assure you—it would be my ass, literally. Mistress keeps a variety of instruments close to hand for administering corporal punishment: paddles, razor strops, birches, whips, and canes. Needless to say, I seldom cross or sass her. The consequences of defiance or backtalk are severe.

"I have a surprise for you," Mistress announced. She showed me a large, bright pink vinyl bag.

I made no reply. I am not permitted to speak, except in answer to a query, and Mistress had made a statement, not asked a question.

Of course, I was curious about the surprise Mistress had brought me—not pleased, necessarily (as if that mattered). In fact, I was more than a little anxious. Some of Mistress' "surprises" are beyond nasty, and many are downright painful—and disgusting. Mistress has a talent for cruelty.

She walked past me, into the living room. "Come!" she said, and I followed.

Seating herself on a couch, Mistress patted her bald pussy. "Eat, boy!" she commanded, and I knelt before her, between her parted thighs, and began to lick her clitoris and the inner walls of her sex, my face glistening with the wetness of her juices. "Good boy! Eat Mistress' yummy cunt!"

For half an hour, I licked and slurped her wet, slick cleft, burying my face in the mound of her sex. Finally, her silk-sleek inner thighs pressed against the sides of my head, more and more firmly and insistently, as first one, and then another, orgasm shook her to the core of her being, and I felt as though my head were a walnut that might be cracked open by the pressure she exerted upon me.

Afterward, she lay back, against the cushions of the couch, the seat of which dripped with clear, thick fluid spilling from her cunt, and gasped for breath, her lungs heaving and her heart pounding.

When she'd recovered, she said, "You've been a good boy, and you deserve a special treat."

At twenty-five, I am hardly a "boy." In fact, I am older than Mistress, who is only nineteen. It is humiliating to be referred to as a "boy" by a woman six years my junior, and, secretly, I resent it—which is exactly why Mistress insists upon calling me that. In fact, she calls me "boy" at least a hundred times a day, every day.

"Would you like to see your special treat?"

"Yes, please, Mistress!"

"Close your eyes."

I obeyed.

There was a rustling sound, as of paper, and, a moment later, she said, "You can look now."

I opened my eyes. In fact, I stared, amazed—and a little frightened—at the eight stainless steel instruments Mistress held up for me to see. Strapped inside a pink leather case, they graduated from slender to thick. The thickest was about five times the diameter of the thinnest and as big around as a ballpoint pen.

She laid the case down beside her on the couch. Then, from the bright pink bag, she removed another, similar object. An inch-long cylindrical handle with a flat head tapered to form a neck connecting a length of threaded shank. The total length, including the handle, was over five inches, I judged. "This one," Mistress advised me, "is called The Screw."

I gulped, thinking that, although I had no idea of its purpose or use, it resembled some sort of medieval torture device.

Mistress grinned at my anxiety as she extracted another item from her bag. It was as long as The Screw, but single-sided with a gentle "J" shape. "The Van Buren."

I must have looked grieved at the sight of the device, because Mistress again smiled broadly. Reaching into her big vinyl bag, she produced another of the stainless-steel instruments. It was a bigger, meaner version of The Screw, longer, with a thicker diameter, and a conical tip. I must have looked sick, because Mistress actually giggled at my reaction.

"You haven't seen anything yet, boy."

She took another of the diabolic things from her large pink vinyl bag. It was seven inches long. A ring attached to its handle, which, in turn, projected a long, smooth probe that thickened at the end. "This one vibrates," Mistress said, cheerfully. "It contains a triple-'A' battery." She rotated the handle with the ring attached to it in a back-and-forth motion. "You just twist this thumbscrew to turn it on and off." She laughed at my frown.

"It just gets better and better, boy." She removed yet another instrument from her bag—a short, but much thicker, rod with a ring around its middle and a wide conical, tapering point. The hole in the end of it indicated that the thing was hollow, a tube rather than a solid column. "This one's made for long wear," Mistress told me. "Because it's not solid, like the others, you can piss through it, or even cum, if I were ever to allow you to ejaculate again, which is most unlikely." She paused. "Do you know what these are, boy?'

"No, Mistress."

She smiled. "You're about to find out."

Standing, she set her array of instruments on the end table and ordered me to lie down on the couch, on my back, my hands behind my head. I was not to move unless she instructed me to do so.

I obeyed.

She pulled a chair close, reached for one of the devices strapped inside the open leather case, and plunged it into a bottle of rubbing alcohol she'd also removed from her big pink bag. Then she drew on a pair of latex gloves of the type that doctors, nurses, and emergency medical technicians wear.

I didn't like the look of any of this, but, of course, I said nothing.

She opened a packet of lubricant, coating the instrument with it. She also dabbed the tip of my cock with the slick gel.

I frowned, trying to comprehend Mistress' purpose.

With a gentleness unusual for her, Mistress took my limp cock in her hand. Her tender touch made me even more apprehensive, as such consideration is out of character for her.

As I watched, staring in horror, she brought the end of the steel instrument toward the tip of my prick.

I shuddered as she pointed the end of the device against the opening to my penis, the glans meatus, as it is referred to in medical terminology.

I flinched, trying to swing my hips away from her, and, involuntarily, cried, "What are you doing?" The back of the couch prevented me from evading her, but Mistress paused, glaring at me.

Her look of displeasure had the intended result. Immediately, I stopped resisting and lay perfectly still, only my heart hammering and my pulse racing.

"Your disrespect has earned you a spanking," she informed me coldly. "Resist again, and I will put you in restraints."

She squeezed my balls. "Understand, boy?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"I am going to sound you," she explained, not to answer my question as much as to terrorize me further. She again brought the end of the instrument to the tip of my penis.

Terrified, I wanted to twist away, but I fought down the impulse, and, through a sheer act of will, remained both still and silent. I did not want to incur Mistress' wrath any more than I already had, for, as I've mentioned, she has a talent for cruelty.

"I used a package of lube, rather than the bottle I keep on hand, because using a container that has been used before can contaminate the sound—that's what these wonderful instruments are called—or your cock, which could prompt an expensive visit to the doctor, and while such a visit would be wonderfully humiliating for you, these devices cost a fair amount of money, so I'd like, for now, at least, to avoid other expenses."

Eased by the lubricant and Mistress' gentle guidance, the sound, slipped, by virtue of its own weight, into the slit at the tip of my penis and down into my urethra.

I was surprised to find the insertion painless, but it was extremely disconcerting to have a metal rod plumbing my flaccid cock. It felt as if my prick were being stuffed, which, in a sense, obviously was true.

"In the past," Mistress explained, "doctors and nurses sounded men to dilate their urethras and to bypass obstructions, such as scar tissue that had accumulated due to the effects of gonorrhea. Today, thanks to antibiotics, sounding is no longer performed, except, as in the present case, as part of sadomasochistic rituals, as a form of cock-and-ball torture. The one who sounds—in this instance, me—is known as the sounder."

As she spoke, more of the sound slipped down, of its own accord, into my cock, with Mistress gently shifting my penis this way or that to guide the instrument through its fleshly passageway.

"When a longer sound is fully inserted, its tip will lie near your prostate gland," Mistress further advised, "allowing me to reward you—in the extremely unlikely event that I should wish to pleasure someone as worthless as you, boy."

Mistress very seldom allowed me the partial and disappointing "release" of a ruined orgasm. Everything she did was for her own sake, as well it should be. I was, if anything, merely an afterthought. On the rare occasions that I derived any pleasure or satisfaction from Mistress' attentions, such sensations were collateral, rather than intended, effects—and I paid dearly, later, for such moments, usually on the receiving end of Mistress whip or cane.

My cock seemed strangely full, almost as if it were solid, through and through, and the sound that filled it was not only hard, but cold, as well, probably from Mistress' ride home in her air-conditioned Mercedes or because the house was, as always, cold enough to induce goosebumps, at least for me, as I was required to go about nude at all times, except when donning my apron for household chores. Mistress was cold, too, at the moment; I could not but help to see her erect nipples and the erection of the papillae on her arms which the frigid temperature had caused. Of course, unlike me, Mistress had the option, at any time, of either dressing, adjusting the temperature, or turning off the air conditioning altogether. Not only must I remain naked, but, after turning on the air conditioning two hours before Mistress returns home from work, I am forbidden to touch the controls again. Mistress likes to keep me as uncomfortable as possible, every way imaginable. Besides, she claims that the cooler the temperature, the less likely she'll have to put up with one of my "annoying" erections when my cock is uncaged.

The sound, having descended, now, to its complete length, was invisible, except for its handle, which protruded from my glans. Mistress jiggled it gently back and forth, and the steel shaft seemed to vibrate inside my penis. I felt my cock respond, swelling and stiffening slightly. Apparently, Mistress perceived my nascent excitement, too, because she stopped teasing me at once, allowing the sensations she had stirred within me to subside, and my prick remained soft and limp, putty in Mistress' hand.

"Now that the sound is in place, I must continue to support your puny prick," Mistress told me, "for the device is heavy enough to fall over, bringing your cock over with it and causing possible damage that would require emergency surgery and an expense, consequently, that I would prefer to avoid at present."

She squeezed my penis a few times, producing a few twitches as a small amount of blood spilled into the organ's corpora cavernosa. "Oops!" she said, laughing. She gave my balls a light slap, and I felt the sound jiggle inside my prick. "I'd better be careful, or your manhood might actually 'man up!'" She chuckled. "I wouldn't want that!"

She eased the sound slowly up the shaft of my limp, soft cock—I could feel the smooth, cold, hard metal slide against the walls of my urethra—and, when it was clear she set it aside.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

My ordeal was over much sooner than I had anticipated, and, for that, I was truly thankful.

In fact, I almost smiled. The sounding hadn't been nearly as bad as I'd imagined it might be. In a way, now that it was over, the strangeness—the sheer perversity—of the procedure and my total dependence upon Mistress had even been somewhat exciting.

"On to bigger things," Mistress said, as, taking another of the sounds from her kit, one that was three times thicker than the one with which she'd originally stuffed my cock, she lubricated it, before pointing its end against the slit at the tip of my cock.

There was no way, I thought, that something that thick could ever fit down my urethra!

My eyes widened with terror, and I caught my breath. Tears blurred my vision; I blinked, and they coursed down my cheeks. Forbidden to speak, except in response to a question, I begged silently with my eyes: Don't so this to me, Mistress!

Ignoring my unspoken plea, Mistress held my penis firmly in one hand while, with the other, she introduced the thicker instrument into my urethra. I squirmed, earning another warning glare from Mistress—and, no doubt, more swats of the paddle, whip, or cane she'd use on me later—as, again, the weight of the sound caused it to drop into my urethra.

The sensation was alien, disconcerting, and exciting all at once. I felt the walls of my piss-tube expand, as the metal rod descended under its own weight. This particular sound, although larger than the first that Mistress had inserted, was not the thickest in her kit. Nevertheless, it was much bigger around than the tiny slit at the tip of my penis, and, quite frankly, its dimensions seemed huge by comparison—especially since this steel shank was sliding down the inside of my penis! Fortunately, this instrument was no longer than the first sound. Despite its hardness, the smooth steel cylinder slid easily down my urethra, to its full length, and, I must admit, when it was fully seated, the sensation of being filled felt sexy. At the same time, though, seeing the handle of the sound protruding from the crown of my cock was rather absurd. Somehow, it seemed to diminish me as a man, and it was humiliating. No doubt, this was one of the effects—probably the primary effect—that Mistress wanted to accomplish by sounding me.

Before long, Mistress removed the sound, replacing it with the thickest in her set of eight. The diameter of this one was five time that of the first she'd inserted!

Again, I told myself that there was no way that such a thing could fit inside my urethra. But if, by some wonder, it did, I thought, the thing would tear the delicate tube to shreds!

As Mistress, holding my cock in her hand, poked the end of the thick, hard sound into my glans meatus, I pulled away, or tried to. But, hampered by the back of the couch, my attempt to escape was cut off, and Mistress, glaring at me, announced that I had earned not an additional stroke of the paddle, whip, or cane, but a full dozen. Moreover, she informed me, I would receive an additional dozen beyond those twelve for any further attempts at resistance.

After that, although terrified, I did not resist. However, I turned my eyes way, unable to watch.

Mistress released my penis, grabbing my balls, and squeezed hard. "You will watch!" she demanded.

Reluctantly, I obeyed.

As before, the sound slid fairly easily down my urethra, its own weight causing it to descend. This time, the sensation of being filled was intense. I felt as if my cock had not been merely penetrated, but invaded. Mistress smiled at the terror she read on my face, and gave my balls a squeeze to redouble my perception of helplessness and dependency. Unlike the previous soundings, this one made my prick become somewhat erect, swelling and lengthening. Mistress kept her fist around the shaft of my thickening, elongating dick, watching impassively as its dimensions increased. "Obviously, you enjoy cock stuffing, boy," Mistress observed.

I wanted to explain that my burgeoning erection had nothing to do with my penis' being stuffed with cold, hard steel. It was just an involuntary response—or reaction, really—to the sensations that the sound produced, a purely reflexive act that did not suggest sexual excitement. But, of course, I am prohibited from making any comments or observations of any kind and may speak only to answer a question, so I said nothing.

"Maybe you would also like to have your ass stuffed," Mistress remarked.

I frowned slightly. I've had my ass "stuffed," as Mistress put it, on many, many occasions. She has stuffed my ass with butt plugs, with hand-held dildos, and with her own massive-huge strap-on dildo. She's figged me—that is, stuffed my ass with a peeled ginger root I was commanded to carve into a butt plug. (The intense, fiery sensations that resulted not only produced a prodigious erection—in me, at east—but also became intolerable in short order, reducing me to tears.) Mistress has also fisted me a few times and has introduced an electric probe to shock my prostate and cause ejaculation. Therefore, I was puzzled by her statement. If anyone would know how much I detested having my ass stuffed, it would be Mistress.

"Not by me," she clarified, "but by a man. Not a boy, like you, but a real man."

I felt blood rush into my face as I blushed, understanding Mistress' threat: she meant that I would relish being fucked anally by another male!

"I may arrange such a treat for you, boy, if and when it pleases me." She smiled at my horror. "Meanwhile. . . ."

She removed the sound from my penis, and I was horrified anew to see that the tiny slit at the tip of my cock gaped; it was now the same diameter as the largest of Mistress' sounds! I had no idea whether it would return to its original dimensions or remain grotesquely enlarged forever. The thought that it might gape this way permanently left me shocked and dismayed.

Taking her penis plug in hand, Mistress pointed its end into my wide-stretched urethral opening, and, despite my long, intensive training, I nearly cried out in protest, but I managed to remain acquiescent, despite my horrible misgivings, and watched as Mistress eased the diabolical instrument into the gaping entrance to my still-soft penis, which, as before, she held in her fist, keeping it stationary.

I wouldn't have believed that my urethra could be stretched any further, but I was wrong: not only could it be, but it was. As Mistress continued to ease the plug down, I felt the tube to my bladder expand before the steel device, parting before its descent, and expanding to accommodate the rigid, cold shank. I shuddered, resisting the urge to whimper or to cry out, as terror filled me anew.

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byCal Y. Pygia© 6 comments/ 31977 views/ 10 favorites

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