Just Look at Me Now Ch. 06

You'll recall that I couldn't go home after the Halloween party until I'd stopped by Sandy's apartment to retrieve the items she and Melinda had kept overnight—my maid's outfit, my cock cage with its lock and keys, and my car keys. The women greeted me warmly when I knocked, invited me in, gave me big hugs, and told me how much fun they'd had the night before. They also made explicit what I had of course anticipated—that they wanted to have a little more fun with me before sending me home.

Melinda had abandoned her Harry Potter costume in favor of clothes on loan from Sandy—stretchy jeans and a faded flannel shirt, unbuttoned to her navel and thus revealing a bra suitable for a high-end boutique manager (an intricate mix of black and purple, with asymmetrical scalloped edges). And now I could fully appreciate her striking blue eyes—more beautiful without her round costume glasses.

Sandy wore white tights and a low-cut, off-the-shoulder top in navy blue. Perhaps unwilling to compete in the lingerie department, she had opted for no bra at all, as the top made alluringly obvious.

By this time in my erotic evolution I'd become attentive to the nuances of power dynamics. Speaking for myself, at least, a healthy dominance/submission relationship does not grant absolute power, and Jude and Becky had been respectful of my limits while simultaneously pushing me toward more ambitious erotic challenges. On this morning it was easy to sense not only that I had the least power (sissy personality, not to mention no keys!) but also that Sandy had the most (we were on her turf, Melinda was wearing her clothing, and Sandy hadn't done anything to embarrass herself the night before).

Melinda, I imagined, and later confirmed, was in a more complicated situation. A lifelong lesbian, she had assumed a powerful male persona (a wizard!) at the party, yet ended up on her knees sucking a crossdresser's cock while looking at his garter belt and nylons. Oddly, it was only in the morning that I recognized that my cock had not exactly been in Melinda's mouth—which was my experience in the moment—but in Harry's. In a way I'd gotten my blow job from a guy. Food for thought for me as well as Harry/Melinda! Layer on top of that Melinda's insobriety and her obligation to be at least quasi-professional when I would later visit her boutique to shop for bras, and it's easy to see why she was blushing and slightly nervous as we began to talk.

When the conversation shifted from last night's fun to this morning's proposed activities, she and Sandy explained that I should do something to earn back my outfit, cage, and keys. This made no sense, of course—it was my stuff, after all—but as an invitation to play it worked just fine.

Their first proposal was a photo shoot, an activity that's high on my Favorites list. My only concern was preserving my anonymity, so we agreed to use my phone, keep my face hidden or out of frame, and let me check the images before airdropping them to Sandy and Melinda.

Because my face would not show, I did not need makeup, so it was a simple matter to strip and put on my maid's outfit and wig. Sandy gave me a fan to hide my face for frontal images, and we were good to go. These were not the artful photographs I relish making with Becky and Jude; instead, the goal was more documentary, to record evidence that they'd really had a sissy maid kneeling before them, vacuuming the carpet, washing dishes, and so on. Once I was dressed up I posed in these and other circumstances for about twenty minutes, capturing more than fifty pictures. I knew these would soon be shared with Sandy and Melinda's friends.

Their second idea was conceptually simple but turned out to be more complicated than any of us first imagined. The basic idea was to lock up my cock again and mail me a key, so I would have a period of enforced chastity of unknown duration, all depending on the postal service. I loved the idea, but we had to agree on a specific plan that would make me feel (relatively) safe. Here's what we came up with.... To conceal my real name, I would address the envelop privately. To ensure it really got mailed, we would walk to a drop box together. Ordinarily the key would reach me in about 3-4 days. We would put the second key in an envelope with an explanatory note to Jude & Becky and slip it under their door; this would serve as an emergency key if the USPS screwed up.

Once this plan was in place, I took off all my clothes, but a serious complication arose, literally—getting my suddenly erect cock into the cage. I knew exactly how the cage fit together, and Sandy had some lube, a near-necessity, but when we were ready to lock me up my erection simply would not go away. We waited, I concentrated on my breathing, I counted backwards from a hundred by threes, then fours, then sevens, then by twos in Italian, but my member remained fully erect. It was as if my cock, at last released from bondage, would never relax again.

Before long we were all contemplating the same solution. Sandy was the first to voice it. "I guess you're going to have to wank for us." I was game, Melinda had no objection, and the women delivered a masterful impromptu orchestration of my masturbation show. Sandy grabbed the lube and led me into the kitchen, whose hardwood floor would not be stained by flying semen. "Which is your cock hand?" she asked. For some unknown reason it's my left, though I'm right-hand dominant in every single other activity. Sandy positioned my hand and squirted some lube onto my palm.

"Wait a sec," said Melinda. "Sandy, do you have a wine glass?"

Sandy opened a cabinet and grabbed a delicate glass with a large opening (likely designed for a pinot noir, I guessed). She gave the glass to Melinda, who immediately handed it to me. "You know what to do," she said. "Don't you dare spill a drop!"

"Brilliant," said Sandy, "simply brilliant!"

If you enjoy erotica with clothed women and naked men, you'll know that there is a broad range of cfnm scenarios, pictures, and videos. One might see buff male strippers masturbating in front of a female audience, or Peeping Toms discovered and humiliated, or naked guys serving as footrests, or mistresses applying electric stim to their subs' testicles. I've long been attracted to some of the milder scenarios—for example, college boys accepting a dare or losing a bet and stripping in front of a group of giddy, teasing women.

One particular online photo gallery that's bookmarked in my wank bank features three frat boys getting naked in front of six fully clothed sorority sisters. The first few pictures show the guys in their underwear, surrounded by smiling women; one of the men merits a couple of extra photos thanks to his classic tent-pole erection. Next the men are seen removing their underwear and standing naked, with hard-ons, inside a circle of women. Then a long series of shots documents them masturbating into glasses; one picture shows the three glasses of cum side by side as if to judge who produced the most jism. Various trios of women clink the glasses to make a toast, but of course they don't drink. Rather, the men drink the cum from the glasses. It's unclear whether they are swallowing their own, each other's, or both. Finding these pictures was the first time I felt even the slightest regret over skipping Greek life—ha-ha. (Sorority life would have been more tempting!) And here I was on a sunny Sunday morning with a glass in my right hand and my cock in my left. Did I have a captive audience? More the reverse.

As I began to stroke myself I thought about that photo gallery. I thought about the symmetry of "Harry" swallowing my cum the day before and now turning the tables on me. I thought of Becky and Jude's instruction to begin swallowing my semen at home. And I worried that I might gag or choke when it the crucial moment came. You may find this hard to believe, but I had only tasted tiny bits of my cum in the past. I had sworn to myself a hundred times when masturbating that I would swallow it all, but once I began to orgasm I always chickened out.

Paradoxically, my fears actually dissipated as I got closer to my climax. The thought crossed my mind that tens of thousands of people around the world were probably swallowing cum at that same moment... no reason I couldn't join them. But more than this I felt the sway of Sandy and Melinda's expectations, created in an instant but surprisingly powerful. As Jude did so often with her finely tuned erotic radar, Sandy and Melinda were giving me permission—encouragement, even—to fulfill my fantasy and perhaps one of their own. We were in the moment together. Once I embraced the idea that "this is really happening" I surrendered to the experience and focused joyfully on my physical sensations and the intensity of my emotional engagement. Although I often close my eyes when I'm on the brink, I consciously kept them open and looked at my friends as they watched me.

When I began to cum we discovered that my testicles had been working overtime since my ejaculation after the party. It's not like the wine glass was going to overflow, but I shot a respectable amount into the glass, and without spilling. "Bottoms up," said Sandy, and I raised the glass to my lips, tilted my head back, and let the thick liquid run slowly into my mouth as I swallowed twice. The peculiar salty taste wasn't really bad; I'm used to it it now, of course, but I never relish the taste half as much as the activities leading up to it. What surprised me most back then was how warm the cum felt in my mouth.

"Bravo!" said Sandy as she and Melinda both clapped. "Now lick out that last residue." With that task faithfully completed, my erection subsided as the women split their attention between my smiling face and my shrinking cock.

If you are in a hurry to lock up my detumescent cock, just skip down a few paragraphs, but if you'll grant me another minute or two I'd like to share some further thoughts about those fraternity cum-swallowers. Writing about my own similar experience and looking back at those images has shifted my perspective and sparked my curiosity. The fundamental change is that I now treat those pictures not simply as an erotic stimulus (though they still pack that punch), but as a glimpse into a complicated social/sexual dynamic that may have had profound meanings for many or all of the participants. Simply put, I've spent some time thinking about those folks as real, complex human beings.

I would love to interview the young men and women to find out just what was going on, what their experience was like at the time, and how they see it now that years have passed. That's impossible—I have zero information that would help me find them—but here are some of the things I'd like to know.

At a journalistic level (who, where, when, why), were these indeed fraternity and sorority members? Was this part of hazing, or a separate activity resulting from a dare or bet? If hazing, was this an annual tradition? Did the frat boys know what to expect? Did they consent ahead of time? Did they consent to have photos taken, and to have them shared? What would have happened if one or more of them refused to proceed? What happened next, after they had swallowed their semen?

More importantly, what did each young man and woman experience in the moment and over the course of time? Was this just a sexy game, or maybe a stupid lark like the Tide Pod challenge? Were any of the men gay, and if so did this make the experience different for them? Had anyone swallowed cum before? Did the challenge to their masculinity fade quickly or persist for weeks, months, or years? What was it like to sit in a history lecture between two women who had recently watched you masturbate?

And what about the young women? To what degree was each enthusiastic or reluctant to participate? Was one of them the mastermind? After what they witnessed, would they be more or less likely to have a relationship with one of the men? Did anyone discover the joy of femdom in this moment? Did they betray the men by leaking the photos, or use them in any way as a kind of blackmail?

As I said, I can never answer these questions, but I think it's worthwhile to realize that somewhere, at some time, for some reason, these nine people brought their whole complicated selves into a room and joined in this activity. (Looking back, I see that none of the pictures show all six women at once, so they presumably took turns with the camera.) Some more gifted writer than I might imagine the event from nine different perspectives. Feel free to take this idea and run with it, but now I have to get back to Sandy and Melinda locking up my dick....

"I've been thinking," said Melinda as Sandy put the glass in the sink, "The smaller the package, the easier it will be to fit it in its cage. Something cold on Nicole's prick might hasten its shrinking. Whaddya think?"

She was unfortunately asking Sandy, not me, and Sandy thought it was the second brilliant idea Melinda had come up with. "I've got just the thing," she said. "Nicole, have a seat on this chair and spread your legs."

When I was sitting as directed (giving new meaning to "sitting on edge"), she opened a drawer and took out a napkin. From another drawer she grabbed a quart-sized freezer bag, then filled it with crushed ice from the fridge dispenser. She added a soupçon of water, Zip-locked it shut, and came to where I was sitting.

"This will keep the cold from burning you," she said as she draped the napkin over my cock and balls. So thoughtful! Then she positioned the ice pack as matter-of-factly as if I were just getting some routine physical therapy. She put the bottom of the bag on the chair under my balls, so that my body weight held it in place with only that thin napkin between my skin and the ice pack. The top of the bag went over my cock; I was instructed to hold it there. Then she picked up her kitchen timer and announced, "Let's check things in ten minutes, shall we?"

I've skinny-dipped in mountain lakes that still had chunks of winter ice floating in the water. That's how this felt, but with a singular focus on my most sensitive bits. (By the way, I don't guarantee the safety of such swimming or genital icing—I can only say neither did me any harm. If you try this and your balls fall off, or your kids are born wearing mukluks and parkas, it's on you!)

In icy conditions, shrinkage happens, and ten minutes was long enough to downsize my junk to prepubescent proportions. The fact that I had a rather small penis was already well established, but what we saw when the ice came off was still a bit shocking. None of us, myself included, had seen such a small dick on a grown man.

"Wow—that worked like a charm," said Sandy. "Let get that cage on before le petite monsieur comes back to life." I supervised as they collaborated to lock me up, and I was not quite completely numb as they put the ring around my scrotum, slid the tube over my shaft, and connected the pins that hold the cage together.

Once I was secure in my cage, and we'd taken a few more photos, it was time to manage the keys. Sandy and Melinda indulged my paranoia as, still naked, I taped one key to a sheet of paper, folded it, and then put it in a SASE—a set-up as jam-proof as I could contrive. The other key went into an envelope for Jude and Becky, along with an explanatory note.

That done, I was allowed to dress, with a twist: Sandy kept my panties to show her friends and had me put on a pair of hers, a too-small black thong that half covered my cock cage in front and disappeared up my ass crack in back. Just a little something to think about as we walked to a mailbox. Melinda buttoned up her flannel shirt, Sandy threw on a fluffy vest, and we were ready to go.

After slipping Becky and Jude's envelope under their door (no sign of activity within), we headed out to mail the SASE. For those of you unfamiliar with Burlingame, let me assure you that there are plenty of drop boxes in the downtown area. Right in front of the Bank of America, for example—a one-minute walk from Sandy's apartment. We headed that way, but as we approached the box Sandy said, "Let me check the pickup times."

"Oh, this won't do—they pick up here three times a day, including first thing in the morning. We have to find a different box." Thus began our long stroll through downtown, passing multiple mail boxes as well as a PO annex. None of these garnered Sandy's approval, and it soon became clear that she had a specific mailbox in mind. Half an hour later, having walked through a residential area and another commercial street on the north edge of town, we reached our goal, a mailbox on an industrial dead-end street near the freeway. Their sole pickup time was 5 pm.

"Perfect," said Sandy. "They'll come at five, or more likely six, and the key will sit in a truck or sorting facility overnight. That should buy you at least another day in your cage!" I'm not sure when she had checked out pickup times, but you can find anything on your phone these days in 30 seconds.

I took a deep breath and dropped my envelope in the slot as my cock tried in vain to swell and Sandy's thong dug into my waist and ass. This street was deserted on a Sunday morning, so Melinda didn't hesitate to grab my cage through my pants, give my junk a little shake, and say "Stay safe, little buddy! You'll be out in a few days, or maybe a week, whatever."

The walk back to the apartment building was more direct, with only a short detour to check out the shop window of Melinda's lingerie boutique. Signs advertising the annual holiday sale—the one I was scheduled to shop at—were already on display. We didn't go in that Sunday morning, but I stood between the two women for what seemed a very long time as they admired the beautiful bras, panties, nightgowns, and corsets. Dozens of people passed by, and I couldn't help but monitor their reflections in the window to see if they noticed me. Most were oblivious, concentrating on their phones, their babies, their dogs, or their donuts, but several seemed to do a double-take at a guy standing at rapt attention as Sandy or Melinda pointed out a particular bit of embroidery or sang the praises of a 6-buckle garter belt. Possibly I was projecting.

More uncomfortable moments arose when someone stopped to have a look at the window themselves, especially if they engaged in conversation. It was odd to stand there mute, and it felt like it might be even odder to say anything, so I spoke only when spoken to.

"My, how time flies," Sandy finally said. "It's almost lunchtime. We'll have to come back another time when the shop is open."

"Yes, we will all have to come back," said Melinda, with an unmistakeable emphasis on All Have To. I didn't need any reminder that I would soon be shopping here, but Melinda had in effect just invited Sandy to come along. The more the merrier, I guess.

Before long I was headed home, feeling blissful about my Halloween adventure and only slightly chagrined that I'd let my cock be locked up again after less than twelve hours of freedom.