Aunt Phoebe's Masturbatorium Ch. 06

"I love to watch these bastards squirm," Marge giggled as she extended her legs out before her. "Look at this guy," she said to Angelique, noting the man next to Jacques who looked like he was in pain. "Oh, he's not going to last much longer, I can tell you that!"

Marge had always had an uncanny notion of being able to predict the exact moment of a man's ejaculation. This fascinated Angelique, who herself could never rightly determine when, or even if, a guy was about to cum or not. She would never admit this to anyone of course because that would be a declaration of weakness. Instead, she would guess when the moment of ejaculation would commence, and she was, incredibly, often right.

"Gee, Jacques, you're holding up pretty well," Angelique said, bending forward to take a closer look. "But you," she said to the man in the middle, "you look like your going to cream any second."

The man in the middle was at least 20 years older than his counterparts. Angelique figured him to be in his early 40s: a married man with six kids who had fallen upon hard times and was looking for a way out of his misery by attempting to become the next "Long Shots" champion. She didn't think it was going to be his year.

"Time?" Angelique asked Marge.

"Going on one minute," the woman replied, looking at her watch.

Angelique watched the man's balls rise upwards to caress the underside of his penis and giggled.

"I don't think you're going to make it Louis," she observed.

"Right now!" Marge concurred.

No sooner had the words escaped her lips than Louis' prick started to shoot out long strands of sticky white sperm. Marge and Angelique reacted with joy as the man's cock ejaculated uncontrollably, sending rope after rope of white-hot sperm careening into the sides of the cylinder. He looked like he was having a heart attack.

"No wonder you have so many fucking kids!" Angelique squealed. "You're a premature ejaculator!"

The two women doubled over with laughter as Louis continued to coat the walls of the device with his sticky spunk.

Now it was between Jacques and the little, curly-haired man.

Bertrand, or "Bernie," as he liked to be called, was a man in his early twenties and had worked alongside Jacques as one of the laborers on the Anjou vineyard. He was a rather cute-looking man but very insecure with women. Of course, Angelique loved to humiliate men like this, and she relished the thought of laying into him.

"You little prick," she said to Bernie as he fought valiantly to prevent his ejaculation. "It's no use trying to fight it. I can see that your balls are full. Shoot it out for me. Shoot out all that nasty semen."

Not wanting to let Jacques off the hook either, Marge held her open fist in front of the sweating man and moved it back and forth, mocking him.

"Wouldn't you rather have my hand pulling on your big schlong?" she teased him. "Come on you bloody bastard! Give me your sperm!"

Jacques closed his eyes and turned his face away, trying to block out the offending vision. He wanted desperately not to ejaculate because he really enjoyed being humiliated in this way: at the hands of two beautiful women whom he knew he could never possess. The very thought that they were forever beyond his reach is what made his humiliation so powerful, and he wanted to keep reliving this experience in whatever myriad forms it took, so that he would be deemed worthy to remain in the wicked women's service: adoring them, serving them, worshipping them. He would continue to work in the vineyards for low pay just so he could be their human footstool. No other kind of existence was possible for him.

"How much time?" Angelique inquired.

"Three minutes left."

The machines continued to move up and down the fleshy terrain of the men's penises while the special lubricant worked its magic. Both men were fighting hard not to cum, their eyes shut tight as if trying to imagine anything else than the image of the incessant milking machine that was working hard to rob them of their vital juices. Another thirty seconds went by and both women took bets on who would be the first to relinquish his load.

"The little shit is going to lose it first," Angelique said confidently as she watched for the telltale rise in the little man's balls.

"I bet you a hundred francs that your foreman cums first," Marge said.

But as she said these words, it was apparent that Angelique had guessed correctly.

Bernie was losing the battle. Unable to withstand the constant stroking of his cock, the semen of which had not been allowed to be released for almost seven days by his giggling tormentors, he surrendered himself to the overwhelming pleasurable sensations of the whirring machine and fell back in his chair.

"Here it comes," Marge said, knowing she had lost the bet.

"Balls up and in," Angelique laughed. "Sperm up and out."

As if in dutiful obeisance to the willful girl's observation, Bernie's body froze as his prick reared back and fired out several salvos of milky semen, the spurts hitting the far end of the cylinder one after the other.

"Ha!" Angelique said clapping her hands. "I won!"

Marge said nothing, but she continued to watch Bernie shoot his cum, delighted that the cylinder was now almost half full.

"What a fucking huge load for such a little man!" she said, almost praising him.

Angelique was happy that she had predicted correctly and asked Marge the time.

"Five minutes…now!"

"Excellent!" Angelique exclaimed.

She moved in closer to Jacques, who was now on the verge of orgasm himself.

"There may be hope for you yet mother fucker!" she said to him, her voice dripping with disdain.

In response, the handsome young man delivered the most powerful cumshot of his life, the jets of his lust splashing about inside the cylinder as if they had a mind of their own, demanding release from the confines of their artificial prison.

"You fucking pig! You filthy pervert!" Angelique laughed, as the creamy semen coated the bottom and sides of the cylinder, filling it up to near capacity with his lustful offering.

"I think we may have a winner here," Marge remarked as Jacques' orgasm slowly began to subside.

Angelique turned off the device and sat admiring the almost full cylinder of sperm.

"Maybe," she replied. "But all we did was weed out the best of a bad lot. I think we may need a secret weapon."

Marge turned both her remote control units off and placed them on the counter behind her. "What secret weapon?"

"Not what…who," Angelique smiled as she got up and walked toward the door.

Marge looked at her friend expecting further clarification, but sensing none was forthcoming, she shrugged and got up.

"What about them?" Marge asked.

"Leave them here. We'll come back for them in the morning."

Marge followed her friend out without a word.

"Goodnight, you sick fucks," the hateful blonde girl said as she turned off the lights and closed the door.

************

What should have been for me a very interesting "entertainment" (or so Lenore had called it) the night before had turned into a fiasco. My mentor had apologized to me profusely during breakfast, claiming that the event had been spoiled by some Sisterhood members who were not wholly appreciative of my so-called "leftist" approach to the treatment of Mr. Villon. With a promise to me that she would make things "right," she and my aunt had Jake drive them to a new, upscale boutique in Paris where I was to meet them later in the afternoon.

After I had recovered from the initial shock of seeing Craig Lundquist and his friend, Barney Cole, appear from behind a patina of cake frosting, I had to fight very hard to keep from laughing in their faces at their unusual predicament. The only two remaining survivors of the frenzied attack upon the pastry float, both men looked completely ridiculous as they tried to appear nonchalant while covered from head to toe in frosting. Barney, despite his Herculean appearance, looked the more ridiculous of the two, as his huge, lumbering frame strode back and forth across the dance floor like a black colossus caked in white mud, his magnificent body the recipient of one too many pies.

Craig, after hastily expressing his regrets that Lenore's little surprise had turned to naught, excused himself and headed to the men's room with Barney to get cleaned up. That was the last I saw of him.

"What is it with Craig anyway?" I had said to my aunt on the way home as she, Lenore, and I stretched out in the back of Jake's limousine. "Why did he just disappear?"

Without a moment's hesitation my aunt replied. "He felt foolish of course."

"Of course," Lenore agreed. "All those men were made to look like a bunch of fools."

"You call them fools?" I retorted. "It's the women who behaved more like fools to me."

Lenore laughed. "That's true. Those idiots ruined my entire presentation. But the men, you're Craig as well, had to suffer the humiliation of looking like a walking piece of cake!"

"You have to admit, Holly, that it was quite funny," my aunt chuckled.

"Funny or not, I just wish he made some attempt to talk to me. I'm beginning to think he doesn't like me much."

"Oh, that's absurd!" Lenore countered. "I think he is just a little shy around you. That's all."

"That's what I think it is, too," my aunt said. "Don't worry. He'll come around if he's interested. And what man in his right mind wouldn't be interested in such a beautiful girl like you?"

For the duration of the ride home the two of them tried to offer me some measure of solace, but I was feeling comfortable in my misery and wouldn't allow anything they said to cheer me up. And so I went to sleep feeling dejected and unlovable, and far more removed from the object of my desire than ever before.

I found out during breakfast that Angelique had taken her car into Paris to meet up with some of her friends. My aunt said nothing more than that; her silence on the subject reflecting her unwillingness to discuss her daughter at all costs. Lenore, too, kept any observations she might have had to herself, sensing that my aunt was not in the mood to broach the issue.

I met my aunt and Lenore at the "Salon de Paris" at 4:00 PM. The small but fashionable shop was located just off the rue du Cologne, several miles away from the Le Boeuf sur le Toit restaurant. Jake had returned to the estate to pick me up, according to my aunt's instructions, and he smiled as he opened the car door for me.

"You know what they're planning for me don't you?" I asked him as I got out of the car.

"I'm not allowed to say, Ms. McKenzie," he replied, taking my hand.

"Not even a hint?"

He shook his head. "I'm sorry."

"Well, as long as there's no pastry involved…"

He looked at me dully as he escorted me to the door of the shop and then said goodbye and drove off.

The front of the shop consisted of a large main area in which the bulk of the women's apparel was displayed. A small archway at the far end of the room led into another similar-looking area that featured ladies' accessories and jewelry and some novelty items. In the far corners on either side of this room were two smaller archways where I presumed the stock was kept. Two fitting rooms, one in the front and the other in the back of the store, were in use, and a bunch of ladies' garments were draped over each door.

As I walked toward the cashier's counter to my right, an attractive older woman dressed in a black, short-sleeve blouse and matching pants walked over to me and asked me if I needed any help. She was rather thin and smallish, somewhere in her late 50s, whose black hair, streaked with gray, was pulled back into a bun. Her fine, but weathered, features indicated that in her youth she must have been a great beauty. I was at first a bit put off by her stern-looking appearance and almost patronizing attitude, but she warmed up right away once I told her who I was and the reason for my visit.

"It is a pleasure to have you in my shop," she began in fluent English. "Lenore and the others are expecting you." She pointed toward the archway. "Please go in."

I thanked her and walked into the back room where I found some women talking excitedly as they examined the merchandise. Even before they noticed me, I could hear my aunt's voice rising above the others as they picked and prodded their way through the assortment of clothes and accessories. Whatever they were doing, it was providing them with a great deal of amusement.

"Oh, here she comes now!" I heard someone say.

Suddenly their voices dropped to a whisper.

"Okay, Okay," another voice said. "Turn around! Turn around!"

The women turned to face me all at once.

"Surprise!" they shouted in unison.

At that very moment a handsome, young, blonde boy stepped out from amongst them and bowed as they laughed and applauded.

"I don't believe this!" I exclaimed.

"You want him? You got him!" my aunt laughed. "He's all yours!"

I couldn't believe what I was seeing. There in the midst of all those smiling faces, and wearing the biggest grin of all, stood Craig Lundquist, dressed in jeans, sneakers, and a blue tee shirt. The women were holding wine glasses in their hands and seemed to have been drinking for quite a while, judging by the inordinate amount of attention they seemed to be paying him. He brushed a long clump of hair away from his face and approached me.

"Hi Holly," he said. "Your aunt said you needed some cheering up. So…here I am."

I was so surprised to see him that all I could do was stare at him with a dumb look on my face.

"Well say something to him, Holly," my aunt said. "Aren't you glad to see Craig?"

I suddenly felt a hand upon my shoulder and turned around to see the proprietor standing behind me.

"Oh, you two!" the woman said, directing her comment to both my aunt and Lenore. "You are full of surprises aren't you? First you surprise the girl last night and now again here with this young man. It's no wonder she is confused."

The woman placed a glass in my hand, filled halfway with red wine.

"Go ahead and drink," she said to me. "These people will make more sense to you when you are a little under its influence."

"Just that one glass, Sylvie," my aunt warned the woman. "She's like me. Neither of us can hold our liquor very well."

"Oh, never mind about that!" Lenore said. "So, what do you think, Holly? I told you I would make things right."

"Yes, Lenore, you did," I replied, never taking my eyes off Craig. "But why did you leave last night?" I asked him. "You didn't even say goodnight."

He looked down at the floor and gave a little shrug.

"I have to apologize for that," he said. "Barney and I were really embarrassed after what happened so we decided to just go back to our hotel."

"See?" Lenore said to me. "Didn't I tell you that he was embarrassed?"

"And we were all full of frosting," he continued. "I mean it was even in my underwear."

This admission brought a few giggles from the ladies.

"It was very uncomfortable," he said, shifting his weight onto one leg. "All I could think of was getting home to take a shower."

I did not have much difficulty in imaging what his body must have looked like as the layers of frosting were swept away under the spray of water.

"I hope you don't think less of me for it," he concluded.

"I don't think less of you," I said, "now that I understand how you must have felt. I'm just glad it wasn't something I said or did."

He laughed. "Oh, no way! I think you're really cool, you know. I was hoping we could hang out and do some stuff."

"You two can hang out all you want but not before I give you your gift," Lenore said, taking me by the arm. "Sylvie, I want you to assist Holly with her selections and then I want a modeling session."

"You don't have to buy me anything, Lenore," I said. "Passing the test was reward in itself."

"That may be. But this is my way of saying 'thank you'. Indulge me."

"But it's not necessary," I protested.

"Holly," Justine interrupted. "Indulge her."

I was just about to complain yet again when I was preempted by the two strange women, who now found it expedient to second Lenore's motion. Lenore introduced them to me as Astrid and Chantal, two friends of hers from her college days. Both of them were members of the Sisterhood.

Astrid was a tall, lithe woman with long brown hair and very white skin that almost seemed opaque. She wasn't a very pretty woman but she had a most playful personality, encouraging me to "take Lenore for everything she's got." She had to be at least 40 years old but acted much more like a juvenile than any woman her age I had ever met. Chantal was a different story. Possessed of medium height, smart, sophisticated, and dressed in a navy blue business suit, she radiated confidence, intelligence, and demureness. She seemed to be as old as Astrid in appearance, but there was nothing juvenile in her attitude. Her short, honey blonde hair was styled in an unflattering masculine fashion, which gave her an almost androgynous appearance, despite her attractive features.

"You must never look a gift horse in the mouth," she said to me. "Lenore told me what you did the other day. I'd say you earned it."

Astrid drowned the contents of her wine glass and patted me on the shoulder. "I wish the old woman would offer to buy me an expensive dress like that!"

It was apparent that Astrid had had a little too much to drink, but her statement did not seem to bother Lenore.

"When you do something equally wonderful," the Sisterhood leader told the tipsy woman, "you'll be similarly rewarded. "Now, come on, Holly. I want you to model some outfits for us. Get going."

My aunt threw me a kiss, telling me to pick out something smart and sexy.

"Smart and sexy," Estelle agreed. "Go for it, Holly!"

At this point even Craig was encouraging me to accept Lenore's gift.

"Can't beat the price," he sensibly remarked.

Before I had a chance to retort, Sylvie grabbed my arm and whisked me away into the main area, telling me to pick out whatever outfits appealed to my fancy.

"Don't worry about it," she said. "Lenore is picking up the tab. Buy whatever you want."

"Whatever I want?"

"Carte blanche," she smiled, as she pointed to some dresses on one of the racks. "Here are some of my latest creations. Try on whatever appeals to you."

I slowly spun the rack around. "These are yours?" I asked, admiring the selection.

"Everything in this store was designed by me," she replied proudly.

I carefully looked over the inventory, amazed to see that each dress was nothing less than a work of art unto itself. And even more amazing was the price of these original creations.

"But this dress alone," I said, as I pulled a stunning white satin gown off the rack and showed it to her, "is 3,800 Euros. That's what? About $5,000? I can't ask her to pay that kind of money."

"Please mademoiselle. Do not insult your friend or me by making money an issue. It is a gift. Accept it as graciously as the spirit in which it is given."

"I do accept it graciously," I replied. "But I don't want to take advantage."

Sylvie threw her hands up in the air. "Take advantage! When someone offers to buy you such a gift, you take advantage. Now go and model some dresses for them and choose one that appeals to you—but just one. You don't want to take too much advantage after all."

She spent several minutes helping me with my selections and then announced to everyone that I would soon be coming out to model the first in a series of dresses I had chosen.

"The shop is officially closed as of now," I heard her tell them as I was getting dressed in the fitting room. "Holly will be out momentarily to show off some of my latest designs." This announcement was greeted by a round of cheers. "How are we doing with the wine?"