Dreaming a street-wise Hercules

By mistake, Emily confesses in a Letter her desire for a caged cock boyfriend.

Tags: gentle femdom, chastity cage, eating pussy, caged cock, dwarf, CFNM, voyeur, caught, fantasize, Letters of Love

### A contribution to the Summer Lovin 2022 Contest and also to the Letters of Love Story Event (the two protagonists had already appeared in my tale "https://literotica.com/s/12-labors-of-hercules-caged-pt-10 ").

Introduction.

The hand that penciled the epistle on sheets of squared paper, belonged to Dr. Emily Brown, a Scholar Ph.D. in Greek Mythology, 25 years old, engaged in an archaeological scientific mission directed by Professor Richard van Middenstorm with a team of 4 young women, for a whole month, on a tiny uninhabited island in the Mediterranean Sea (making use of a private Villa, half 19th century and a half renovated with modern technology).

The professor was a notorious female hunter, and also a lazy time waster. Both of these bad things were hurting his career and his marriage. But his wife, Caterina Rizzo (aka Cathy aka "Miss Cathy my Lady"), agreed with him on a solution: he would wear a chastity cage with a digital code, which only she knew. In this way, Cathy put into practice the advice of some of her friends.

With the consent of her caged husband, Miss Cathy agreed with the four young women of the Expedition that Richard (aka "Dicky") would not molest them. By contrast, he was available to them for any sexual requests or teasing sessions. The collective goal was to have fun, and for him to understand how it felt to be left unsatisfied.

Emily at first was very shy and distrustful. Then - beginning with the episode The 12 Labors of Hercules, caged. Part 10 - she began to understand what benefits a woman could receive from the sexual services provided by a volunteer caged man.

And it was after that night that Emily began to write the Letter that you may be reading today.

Last, but not least, detail: all of the Mission's expenses had to be reported to the accounting office, whose head was Cathy herself. Her right hand in the office (second in command) was Tyrone Lancaster, known by the derogatory nickname "the Greedy Dwarf" or "The Treasure Keeper."

In reality, he was clever, sweet, and rational, 4 feet tall because he suffered from achondroplasia, but muscular and strong.

His Boss, Cathy defended him from bullying by colleagues and suppliers and had already explained to the four girls that Tyrone had had several girlfriends in the past and none had complained about his amatory skills, or size.

1. Foreward.

The accounting office in summer felt like a sauna. A menopausal female co-worker had said the air conditioning bothered her. The good upbringing he had received from family and college prevented Tyrone Lancaster from taking advantage of his leadership role to impose his own (survival) will.

And so, in an office deserted by summer vacation and remote smart working, there was only an elderly woman wearing a wool coat (strange, but true!), and dwarf sweating as if he had run across the Sahara, with his shirt unbuttoned and necktie undone.

Sitting in front of the PC, Tyrone Lancaster (the boss's right hand in academic accounting) opened a common email attachment coming from Dr. Emily Brown, a Scholar expert in Greek Mythology.

He expected to read a boring Instance of Indemnity Form from the tiny Greek island where the university had funded a month-long archaeological expedition.

The Scientific Leader was the husband of his hierarchical superior (the Boss), Dr. Caterina Rizzo a.k.a. Cathy: to avoid conflicts of interest in the correspondence between the two spouses, Tyrone had been delegated to handle all expense requests, and material purchase forms (printer ink, books, and other stuff typical of archaeologists with unpronounceable names).

Fortunately, food and lodging were taken care of by two Greek women who handled everything, from cooking to buying food at the nearest mainland harbor.

Tyrone's duties were limited to Forms for academic purchases.

Without thinking, Tyrone opened the attachment, to make haste, drowned in sweat.

In August, while everyone else is on vacation, there is nothing more obnoxious than being locked in the office and receiving expense reports from some lucky person who, (in parentheses), "works" on an island in Greece on some archaeological quest, amid sunbathing and cocktails.

"Page 1. Instance of Indemnity Form mod. 37-A, submitted by Dr. Emily Brown, countersigned by leader Prof. Richard..."

"Yes, yes, the usual formulas..." yawned Tyrone bored "let's see the total amount on page two..."

Page two was not a University form. And it was not limited to one page!

It was a scan of several sheets of squared paper, A4 size, all filled with words written in elegant feminine cursive calligraphy. Written with a pen in purple ink! Who on earth could attach a purple-colored manuscript, to an Indemnity?

Tyrone zoomed out the page and began to decipher. The paper began with the last part of a sentence, "...typical Summer sunset on this tiny Greek island."

He began to read what he could decipher in that feminine handwriting. As is often the case, little by little his eyes began to recognize the particular way the "m" and "r" were written, and to distinguish "g" from "f"... advancing in small steps (not a good thing, to say about a Dwarf) but still, let's say, in baby steps, Tyrone began to read quite expeditiously, without stumble at every word.

2. A typical Summer sunset on a tiny Greek island, where there is only us.

[Fragment. The beginning part of the sentence is missing: perhaps a whole page is missing] ... sunset typical of this Greek island. In my heart, I doubted what I was doing here. They call it "Imposter Syndrome."

Honestly, I don't feel I can contribute to the knowledge of Greek mythology. I am aware that I am an average African-American girl, with frizzy hair and big lips, with one nipple odd to the other (and that female hunter Professor Richard, with his talk of Venus squinting... "True Mansplaining", as Skye always said).

I, the shy Dr. Emily Brown, though everyone here encourages me to accept the name Miss Emily just to tease him -- may I contribute to science? Until yesterday, I doubted it. Until yesterday, I thought my only ability was to remember so many books, like Belle from the cartoon.

But last night we found an ancient temple. Probably whoever built this villa on the island at the end of the nineteenth century knew about the temple, but did not mention it in scientific journals.

Perhaps he wanted to hide these finds because of their obscene content.

That is: it is not obscene to me, I am a Scholar and I understand the fantasies of the ancient Greeks, but perhaps it was obscene to the sensibilities of the early twentieth century.

We found a statue of Hercules with his arms raised to hold up Heaven. But what is strange, and extraordinary, is that Hercules was wearing a metal chastity cage that enclosed his cock.

There can be no doubt: the body was white ivory, and the cage had been reproduced with gold threads.

The girls told me there is a word for that kind of statue: chryselephantine because they combine ivory and gold. One never stops learning!

The contrast in color emphasized the difference, between the natural body of Hercules (with the natural posture of the muscles, so similar to a bodybuilder in a gym) and the artificial material of the cage.

We talked about possible explanations with both the professor and the other girls, and there is still a lot of material in the temple (mosaics, papyri, vases) but I already have a first guess.

And for the first time in my life, I feel euphoric, as if I really could make a small contribution to Knowledge, add a Tile to the great Mosaic of Knowledge. To write something Unpublished, New and Original. It is a powerful and exciting feeling.

Add a Tile... My, Tile... oh my!

I can't explain this unless I tell it to a person--thoughts run fast in my mind and I can't fix them.

So, as I wrote above, I decided to follow the advice of an online psychologist to the letter: she said, to write down all the thoughts as if we wanted to communicate them to our loved ones, and then burn the papers: She said it would be cathartic and therapeutic -- and when I hear Greek words, I take the bait with all the hook.

And so I decided to write this "letter-ever-sent" to you, Tyrone.

Oh, Tyrone, my love, I will never, never be able to tell you how I feel about you, I will never have the courage to send the words that I (deliberately) write on these square sheets of paper, which I will then burn.

But I hope I can take advantage of my feeling for you, to be able to put an order to the chaos of conflicting thoughts that have been swirling in my mind since we arrived in Greece.

I had fallen in love with you this winter when I took a part-time job in the accounting department. I liked you so much! Even physically. The eyes are so intense. The hands are so strong. And your voice, so deep, so wise when you were explaining the most secret details of the accounting... a baritone voice, did you know that "baritone" is a Greek word meaning "deep voice"? Ah!

But I didn't dare to confess that I was in love.

I was afraid of your rejection. You are so charming!

But I also feared the judgment of my friends and my sister. I am not very tall, but you are a dwarf in the clinical sense of the word. Your face, hands, and according to what Miss Cathy told us, your dick is normal size, but your legs are so very short.

Yet the farther we are apart, the more often I think of you and your eyes -- and in this month I feel like I have changed like I am a different and better person (maybe I am wrong, but that is the feeling I am having).

So much has happened in just two days, my-Ty... do you mind if I call you my-Ty? I screamed your name last night as Cathy's husband made me orgasm with his skillful mouth...

Make no mistake, my-Ty, I did not cheat on you. It was just sex, it was just a simple Game: Tease and Denial session. His wife entrusted him to us, and we have a duty to tease him in every way (if one of us is in the mood).

He didn't penetrate my pussy... that would have been a betrayal against his wife Cathy, and I don't want to hurt that dear friend.

But Dicky licked it, ate it, sucked it, and nosed it, in short, everything a man can do with his wrists cuffed behind his back and his cock caged.

On the phone, his wife had told me that he is also great with his fingers, two in the front and one in the back, but last night he didn't need them to make me orgasm, and I wouldn't have needed anything but your face to kiss, my-Ty!

I have had so many boyfriends in my young life. And just as many disappointments. So many friends of my big sister were only looking for a pussy without caring if there was also a person around. So many shags that lasted less than an evening (or less than half an hour), with semi-conscious guys who didn't even bother with foreplay, only interested in cumming at the most taken as possible.

Some just wanted my mouth, never bothering to go down and make me enjoy it with their tongues.

Others, perhaps worse, would only lick my pussy for a few seconds, almost as if to "stamp a time card." As if it were a boring duty to be fulfilled, or, even worse, as if it were a milestone they could tell their friends about.

I can almost hear their gross, raunchy voices. Always loud, never discreet: "Hey, bro, hand on nipples, checked; tongue in pussy, checked; finger in ass, checked; jizz in pussy, checked!" "Wow, bro!" "Showtime!" "Check-check-chek aaaaaand...checked!" "High Five bro, yeah, yeah!" "You're a King!" "Yo, no prisoners..." "This is my bro!"

Ogres. With every size, every height, every color of skin, from pale to ebony. Selfish ogres.

3. A free Good Turn.

Yesterday at night, Dicky sucked my pussy for a long time. He had just finished serving Skye (my Scottish roommate), and I had heard everything because I was awake even though I was pretending to be asleep.

Skye is a natural red hair vixen (there are also white foxes, but she is red). Inside her cranium, I believe, dwells a whole gang of black minks plotting evil schemes. But yesterday Skye made a GOOD TURN, like Lord Baden-Powell's scouts: do you know it, Tyrone, or does he sound all Greek to you?

A Good Turn... It is a spontaneous gesture, born of the heart, by which the good person gives another person a useful and beautiful thing. For example, helping an old woman cross the street, making room for someone to sit, giving a thirsty horse a drink, or removing a banana peel from the sidewalk. But one must be accomplished every day, and it has value only if you have not accepted a reward in return.

Beneath the rough bark of the Scottish yew tree, did Skye conceal a long career in the Girlguiding of Scotland? Perhaps not, but like an experienced girl, she guided Dicky toward my bed, where I was on my tummy.

After her noisy orgasm, Skye fell into dreams.

I had been pretending to be asleep the whole time, and even then I was pretending but awake!

I knew Dicky was tired, and frustrated, after making Skye enjoy herself for hours. He could have left, fallen asleep, or gotten angry with me and taken out his frustration on me. Some guys do that, and it hurts.

Instead, I heard the noise he made as he crawled without his hands on the floor. I felt the frustration beneath his kindness. He reached my bed, laboriously climbed with his shoulders and neck until he reached the mattress, then erected-ah, no, my-Ty, but what did I write? Good thing you don't read it!

He didn't erect his cock, which was locked inside the cage!

He erected his backbone and stood up on his knees. With one half-closed eye, I watched him from under my black curls. I was lying on my tummy, but it was getting too warm: I was on top of all the sheets, with bare legs, a pair of pink pajama shorts, and a very short top covering my boobs.

Oh, Tyrone, how will you be able to love me when you see that I have a squinty nipple?

All my friends tell me it's not important, but I grieve, and I can't bear it: but I don't want to have any surgical operation, it's an idea I can't tolerate.

One girl, Dr. Bach, here on the island, has only one breast: the surgeons had to remove a breast for medical reasons that could not be postponed. Even though she was very young (I think she is my age).

She is proud of the scar, had a Phoenix rising from the dead tattooed on it, and shows it to everyone without shame.

And I kind of envy that girl, who is so brave, and has a person who loves her so much... but I can't even think of having my breast skin cut off with a scalpel, it's an idea that horrifies me.

My body is as it is: hair in my armpits, hair on my pussy, a mole on the back of my neck that I have never removed, and a squinty nipple. Until yesterday, I had vowed never to touch any of this things-but let's not anticipate.

Dicky was handcuffed, but his lips were unrestrained. He had received orders to wake me up or to check if I pretended to be asleep. He could have tried many ways, but he chose the sweetest: he gave me a kiss on one ankle.

I like my feet, I am very proud of them, and I often walk barefoot or in very thin sandals because I am convinced that everyone likes them. But I found it very kind of Dicky to avoid licking a toe: if I had been asleep, I would have jerked up in bed!

Instead, he focused on an ankle, exposing his nose to any involuntary kicks. One kiss, two kisses, three thousand kisses. Ankle, calf base, calf.

I thought he would quickly get rid of the Duty that Skye had imposed on him: by now she was snoring, and he kept trying to wake me up.

I wondered if he did that with his wife, too. Maybe he had only started doing this after the cage; maybe they were less affectionate with each other before? Maybe she was more selfish and paid him less attention. Perhaps he felt rejected and was looking to other women for confirmation that he was still seductive and accepted.

I don't know, my-Ty. I only know that a few minutes later I shouted your name, and drowned in shame, as I will write to you in a moment (though you will never read this paper, which I will never have the courage to send).

Dicky gave a kiss to my sensitive skin, in the crook of my knee. And I moved my leg by conditioned reflex: it's something like... when the pediatrician hits the malleolus with that little hammer, to make the children laugh at seeing the leg move on its own.

I didn't want to hurt him, but I hit him in the ear, and I felt bad. Pretending to sleep is all fun and games until someone gets bumped.

I yawned (eh, well, a minimum of acting for my audience) and turned to him gently, trying to see if I had bruised him.

My eyes met his gaze. He was serene, happy, and frustrated but proud to be in the midst of an assignment, explicitly commanded to him by Miss Skye on behalf of his wife, Miss Cathy.

If his eyes had revealed weariness, boredom, or despair, I would have loosened his shackles and sent him to sleep. But he looked happy, like an elementary school child who had been assigned the difficult task by the teacher of getting a cup of coffee from the janitors and bringing it to him without dropping a single drop...

The Drop, which at that moment I was in danger of spilling out of my pussy.

I was so turned on, after all, I had heard happen on the plane and after Skye moaned as she came... at moment, my pussy was a honey pot, just waiting for a Winnie the Pooh to get stuck in it, licking for hours.

I yawned again, stalling for time. Richard was in front of me, on his knees, his back erect, and his cock non-erect. A fairly rare sight in my experience, of young black or white studs entering my room with a cock already hard, and a great hurry to finish.

Richard smiled at me: I understood that he wanted to encourage me to give orders, and seriously he called me again "Miss Emily," not in the form of a joke, but from the bottom of his sincere heart.

Can you believe it, Tyrone? No, of course. You don't know anything about these things, and I'll never be able to explain them to you: I can't tell you that I love you, how could I be able to tell you "I love you, and I have a particular fetish, I wish my boyfriend to wear a cage that only I have the key to"?! These are not things to say on a First Date!

Oh, great Olympian gods, but why don't I have one of those kinky-but-trendy fetishes, simple things that everyone understands? By now, foot fetishism is completely cleared through customs and you can declare it even to relatives at Thanksgiving dinner, and the only reaction you get is that old Aunt Jamila nods and says, "that's why you always go to those shoe stores!"

Or, ever since they released the 50 Shades movie (after the books in every superstore), it's normal for you to say "I like to be handcuffed while we're having trivial straight sex," by now handcuffs are sold in the underwear department of supermarkets, in aisles next to blenders and pots and pans. When I was a teenager, the only collars were for really big dogs, like Scooby-Doo, and the only handcuffs you saw were plastic on Halloween (and now I'm beginning to think that teenagers often buy police uniforms just to get handcuffs): now you find silk and leather handcuffs and collars in any store, not counting the Internet.

But this is different. A girl gets turned on because another person is wearing a cage... How could I ever get up the courage to ask you to wear a cage, to give up your blessed freedom to masturbate whenever you feel like it, once a day, twice, I know how males are!

And I even shouted your name -- but let's proceed in order.