Letter from Tulsa

LETTER FROM TULSA

Dear Shoeblossom:

Kenyon and I walk along the beach as we vacation in California. It is not really a nude beach, just a clothing optional beach, and Keni has optioned that I walk naked, except for my chastity piercing, and she is wearing a pale blue bikini, to which her curves are magnificently displayed.

I am in a bit of pain. I put regular milk in her coffee instead of soy, and she caned me and has forbidden me to watch the NCAA playoffs this year as punishment. She is cruel, my wife…but beautiful!

Following her, watching her hips undulate in her skimpy bikini bottom, my cock stiffens against the Prince Albert piercing, and people laugh and point at it, as it struggles to harden, basically wiggling in its struggle, hanging from my groin.

“Hey lady, let him outta that thing.” One guy points as we stride past. “You’re killin’ him with that bikini there.”

Kenyon stops and smiles at him and looks at my pierced cock, struggling in its curved state against the piercing. “Not at all. I just need to calm it down” she says.

Leaning down, she picks up a foot long twiggy branch and WHACKS my poor locked dick four or five times as I stand there, hands behind my back, tears coming out of my eyes…and indeed, the piercing struggle ends, as my cock is tiny and limp again.

“Thank you for voicing your concern, sir.” Kenyon says warmly to the dumbfounded man and his wife. And we continue our stroll.

Now my poor penis is in pain and of course it is getting hard again, after all it’s been 123 days since my last release and my wife is just gorgeous. Finally Kenyon stops and points a long red nail at the men playing volleyball.

“Look, Sweyn, at their big dicks bouncing up and down, darling.”  I look, and indeed they are bouncing around. “So much bigger than your puny little penis. I want you to tap the shoulder of the one with the long platinum blonde hair, the young guy, and tell him I want to see him in my cabana at six.”

I look at her with pained eyes. “But-but Keni, you said it would be different while we were on vacation, it would be just us, dear. You promised—“

Kenyon’s icy tone interrupts me. “Why should it be different? Are you different? What good do you do me? I don’t need to have my pussy licked to death. I need a little push down there, and your push is too little.” She laughs at her wit.

Tears streaming down my face, I blow my nose and approach the volleyball team. I stop the young man and point to my beloved wife and explain. But he laughs. “Dude, she’s attractive, but way too old for me. Tell her I’m flattered.”

When I return, I know that telling Kenyon this will result in a horrible whipping back at the cabana. But she is my Queen, and I have to take what’s coming to me!

Yes,  Shoeblossom, my wife Kenyon is the most amazing woman, though quite a severe one. Yet, I credit her for keeping my sanity…or at least restoring it! Her cane and her driving whip’s caresses have kept me from many of the pitfalls that have leveled my friends, such as drugs, gambling, and womanizing.

It wasn’t always so. I remember showing up at my brother Farley’s funeral, and meeting his widow. I’d not seen any of my family since boarding an empty freight car after my freshman year of high school—I had to get out of there.

The neighbors always thought all was placid in the Nickerson household, but my parents were both abusive sex perverts, and I’m afraid it had a permanent affect on us all.

By the time I left, thanks to my father’s abuses, my brother Harlan had committed suicide as  a transvestite prostitute, and Farley had had two nervous breakdowns.

Our sister, Bernardine, a methadone maintenance recipient in San Francisco, advised me to avoid the state of Oklahoma altogether…my parent’s poison had well destroyed her.

Returning home, I was absolutely captivated by the beautiful woman with the swirling dark bun, who welcomed me at the memorial service…”My husband spoke of you often, Sweyn, as his favorite youngest brother…perhaps you can stay a while.”

As I’d just sold a financially beneficent computer program, I was well fixed, and at loose ends. Also, I had something in common with Farley, we’d kept up through e-mail and Facebook, and because of our peculiar upbringings, we were both interested in BDSM and both owned chastity belts.

I had had a relationship with an African American  dominatrix/keyholder named Ms. Teale, who had happily locked the chastity device I’d purchased on me…for $265 an hour, she’d see me three times a week.

It had been command performance. I’d come into her apartment, and see her staring at me, usually attired in a tight striped shirt with low cleavage. “What have you been up to today, Sweyn, you little faggot?” Just the way Mom and Dad talked to me.

Teale would order me to strip and then toy with my chastity device, eventually cuffing my wrists behind my neck before releasing my desperate erection. She’d tease it a bit with her long French nails, licking her lips and smiling at me…a sort of cat’s smile like something from Alice in Wonderland…

And then she’d kick me in the balls! While I was lying on the floor, crying, Teale would fetch a cane and begin whaling away at my bare ass, and I would struggle to arise, but of course my balance was impeded by my hands being locked behind my neck.

Some visits would be all about Teale—she’d strip and I’d kiss and lick her glorious body, suckling her perfect cantaloupe shaped breasts and licking her pussy. I’d of course hint broadly that I could do a better job if she’d unlock my hands but Teale always knew better.

“Sweyn, you little homo, if I take the cuffs off you’ll jack off in a moment. I haven’t let you squirt in 2 months, and I know what your devious mind is up to. Lick me and make me explode, or I’ll use my two foot strap-on on your ass.”

And generally I would do good work on Teale, and she’d lock me up and send me home, unrelieved, but confirmed in my belief that I had at least brought my Domme pleasure. Imagine what a good deal that was for her…$265 paid to you AND you get an orgasm or three!

Other visits would be Teale’s time to tease…she wouldn’t take off a stitch of clothing, just lie me down on the bed and stroke my dick with her long nails until I was begging and crying to release. Sometimes she would light a Newport and put it out on my dick while I howled in misery…

The circumstances for my chances to orgasm visiting Teale were strict, and I had drawn them up myself. Virtually every night I was locked up after a long tease, or after a compelling hour and a half worshipping Teale’s gorgeous body, and I went home with no orgasm, hornier than when I’d arrived at the house…and this was what I wanted.

But even the most hardened masochist wants a brief chance at pleasure, and so I drew up a contract and purchased a gumball machine (Teale loved gumballs) and installed it in Teale’s living room. And, once a month or so, unless otherwise stipulated by the contract, Teale would drop a dime in the machine and take out a gumball and survey its color, and determine my orgasmic fate. Did I get to cum once a month? No, that would have been too lucky.

These were the terms of the Gumball Orgasm Lottery

Gumball domination

Green—I will be allowed half an hour to masturbate to as many orgasms as I can get with my right hand, in the presence of Mistress Teale, who will wear lingerie and give me alluring shots of her bare breasts to stimulate me. I will also, only with this gumball be allowed the additional stimulation of lubricant and to lie in any position that assists my pleasure. All other gumball masturbation drawings will be with me on my knees, using only one hand determined by the gumball color.

White—I will be permitted to masturbate for up to twenty minutes to up to one orgasm with my right hand while nude and in the presence of Mistress Teale, and am eligible for another gumball drawing in one month. Teale will be fully clothed and present to observe, but will not assist in my gratification in any way.

Pink—I will be permitted to masturbate for up to ten minutes for one orgasm, but if  I can’t get one, I must stop. I can still use my right hand, in the presence of Mistress Teale, and am eligible for another gumball drawing in one month. Teale will be fully clothed and present to observe, but will not assist in my gratification in any way.

Blue-- I will be permitted to masturbate for up to ten minutes for one orgasm, but if  I can’t get one, I must stop. I must use my left hand. in the presence of Mistress Teale, and am eligible for another gumball drawing in two months. Teale will be fully clothed and present to observe, but will not assist in my gratification in any way.

With the Blue drawing, I often would not be able to finish, as Teale required me to kneel on my knees with my dominant hand behind my back. My left hand was weak…but sometimes after 3 months of failure, I would be so horny that it would bring me off, if I was quite lucky.

Purple (grape flavor)-- I will be permitted to masturbate for up to five minutes for one orgasm, but if  I can’t get one, I must stop. I must use my left hand. in the presence of Mistress Teale, and am eligible for another gumball drawing in three months. Teale will be fully clothed and present to observe, but will not assist in my gratification in any way. (I never, never was able to cum after five minutes, and being locked back up only caused me to feel frustrated and be in bitter tears…especially after the brief sexual stimulation).

Yellow (lemon flavor)—I am not permitted masturbation. Teale will lock my hands behind my back, stimulate my penis to full attention and then give it a twenty lash cock caning. I am eligible for another gumball drawing in 3 months.

At some point, Teale also began inserting other candies in the Gumball machine, to make things more interesting….

If she got a Hershey’s Kiss instead of a Gumball, I would have my hands manacled behind my back and be permitted to attempt a masturbation by rubbing my penis against her cat’s scratching post, although this would incite Princess to attack my bare cock with drawn claws…

But I was allocated ten minutes for this attempt, and awkwardly rubbing my penis against the post, (even with the scratches from Princess) sometimes get to cum. But after a Hershey’s Kiss drawing, I wouldn’t be allowed to draw for 4 months, and would suffer chastity for that time.

If she drew a Hershey’s Miniature Mr. Goodbar, I was given a choice between 3 months of chastity before a future drawing, or to use my credit card to hire a male prostitute to come in, and I would be forced to suck his penis. I hated giving heterosexual blowjobs, but the 3 months of chastity was so onerous, I quite often chose it…

If she got a Miniature Hershey’s Krackel bar, it always put Teale in a good mood, and she would allow me to lie in front of her naked, and she’d play with my penis with her high heels, grinding and poking it…this would go on for five to ten minutes, and if I was lucky, very lucky, I’d cum, and I’d be eligible for another drawing in a month.

A Miniature Dark Special just put Teale in a fit, as she hated non-milk chocolate. Usually she’d then tie me to the bed and put my cock and balls on her wooden cutting board and hammer my junk bloody with her high heel in her hand…

If the drawing was close to Christmas or my birthday, (If not I went without, believe me) Teale would give me a bare toe foot job, and if I came on her feet, she’d let me wipe them off rather than lick them clean. (Incidentally, every other time I came I had to lick up my sperm.)

I loved my relationship with Teale, but there was something missing. After all, we didn’t have much in common, other than the BDSM. I had no one to discuss Sophocles, Shakespeare, Melville, Sartre, Tolstoy, Kafka, Yeats, and Dostoyevsky…politics, art, classical music…it wasn’t happening with Teale…and I needed something more!

And I did meet Kenyon once, when she and Farley came to the city…Farley had a business appointment, and Kenyon and I went to art museums. She was a fan of the Impressionists—Seurat, Monet, Matisse, Cezanne, Renoir…we had a fascinating time together!

And she knew about my chastity belt and BDSM enthusiasms, because, thanks to my unpleasant upbringing, my brothers and I had visited dominatrixes and S&M clubs in high school and college…I told her of my expensive unfulfilling arrangement with Teale, and Kenyon was so sympathetic!

“I wish I knew of an attractive woman who would enjoy marrying a man like you” she said, “But most women aren’t turned on by dominating men sexually. They don’t realize that you can enjoy regular guys for one kind of sex, and submissive men, particularly successful, cultured ones, for companionship, intellectual stimulation and service oriented worship.”

My dick had swelled in my chastity device, but we’d dropped the subject, and we didn’t take it up again until Farley’s memorial, some three years later.

And of course I came to the conclusion that darling Kenyon wanted me to—I missed my hometown, my old friends, and I couldn’t wait to have a “true relationship” with my brother’s dominant widow.

But then, after Kenyon and I began living together, working out the various ins and outs, a guest came home. My father, who I’d sworn I’d never speak to again. Mom was dead, but Dad, a certifiable psycho, was alive, and apparently he’d been out of town during the funeral…but he lived with Kenyon!

Seeing him come in the door, like he owned the house (which he had, Kenyon and Farley had bought my parent’s house from them) all the memories came back—my father dressing me and my brothers in pink shortie nightgowns and chasing us around the block with a South African Police Baton, and how he’d made us suck off his gay friends  when they came over to play poker…how he’d whipped me regularly in front of my college girlfriends with a cut off piece of garden hose.

“Kenyon, I can’t believe you let Dad live here.” I said. “I can’t deal with this.” I was almost trembling with post traumatic stress disorder.

Kenyon smiled. “Darling, your father’s changed, and he’s a big part of my life. We really had a good experience, Farley and I, and Farley forgave him. In fact, Farley took a lot of direction from your Dad, when we were living together.”

Direction? What the hell did that mean?

I was soon to find out.

The first time I noticed that my father was up to his old tricks again was when he walked in on Kenyon and me when we were in the middle of a session. I was standing naked, (except for a pair of high heels) with my hands bound behind my back, and Kenyon had a long metal chain attached to a cuff around my cock and balls. She was pulling the chain towards her, and whacking my cock with a riding crop, as I was backing up, trying to keep from getting my penis whipped.

 

I of course was stumbling around in the high heels, feeling humiliated and ridiculous, and in pain from the thrashing of the riding crop, but it was all well and good, as the BDSM relationship was what I wanted with my new Mistress...but Dad got in the way.

 

"What's up there, Kenni?" Dad grinned as he stood in the doorway. Kenyon had thrashed me within an inch of my life with a bullwhip for calling her "Kenni" but it didn't seem to bother her when my worthless father used the diminutive version of her name.

 

"Oh hey, Marcus. I'm just putting your bad son through his paces." Kenyon grinned at him. Although I was naked (except for the heels) Kenyon was adorably attired in a snug silk beige top and black jeans, and I could tell my father's eyes were on her breasts greedily.

 

I spoke to Dad. "Dad, we're in the middle of something. Could you just come back later?"

 

My father gazed at me with his typical blue-collar contempt. He was a disgusting human being, shirtless just wearing a pair of torn jeans, and of course having a Marlboro hanging from his lips. "Don't you sass me, boy. I'll tear your ass up, same as the old days."

I turned to Kenyon "Miss Kenyon, let's do this another time. You told me he would be kept out of our living area, but this is wholly inappropriate--" But Kenyon interrupted this speech of mine, by whacking my cheek with her riding crop.

 

"Enough, queer-boy!" Her exclamation startled me. We'd promised each other solemnly that when I wanted to stop a scene it would be stopped, but apparently not.

 

Kenyon gave my father a dimpled smile. "Marcus, as you can see your precious boy has a mouth on him. Perhaps you can assist us in closing it!"

 

My father eyed me with contempt. "Sweyn, you always was the mouthiest of the boys, and I never did give you the thrashings you deserved. I think maybe now we can remedy that, don't you think." He smiled and spat some tobacco out of the side of his mouth. "Specially as you is locked up like that thanks to our princess here."

 

"Dad I left home seventeen years ago, just to get away from you. You can no longer mistreat me, I'm an adult" I said firmly, though I didn't feel that firm. But my father was upon me. As I watched in horror, he took his thick leather belt out of the loops of his filthy jeans and then grabbed me by my ear and dragged me over to the couch.

 

And there he threw me across the arm of the sofa, and began whipping my naked buttocks until I screamed and howled. Then Dad turned me over and grabbed the chain that was attached to my cock and balls and pulled it sharply, dragging me off the couch.

 

I stumbled, still wearing the high heels, but my dad grabbed my left nipple and pulled me up as I cried and howled. Kenyon was laughing and clapping her hands as my father yanked the chain with one hand and bitch slapped my jaw with the other. Blood came out of my nose as he laughed, whacking his heavy palm back and forth across my defenseless jaw.

And then Kenyon came up, and took the chain from my father. I thought maybe she was rescuing me, but no, it just wasn’t so. “Marcus, why don’t you get the long Irish Shillelagh from the  mantelpiece and you can use that on his back and thighs while I jerk Sweyn around a bit for exercise!”

The Irish Shillelagh was a long blackthorne stick with a heavy, molten lead-filled head. It is known as a “loaded stick” and was used in the Old Country for heavy fighting.

Dad grabbed the Shillelagh and began whacking my back and buttocks, as Kenyon pranced around dragging me across the floor gaily. I was in acute pain from the stick landing hard, and then it was worse as Kenyon deftly tripped me, and I lay on my back.

My father began thwacking my balls with the stick as Kenyon continued to jerk the metal cuff, and as soon as my dick was small from the whipping of the cruel shillelagh, Kenyon would pull her neckline down and show her bosom a bit…and of course my dick would swell again at the sight of her heaving vanilla mounds.

And then Dad would scream bloody murder at what a “pervert” I was and begin whipping my genitals again with the horrible Irish club. Eventually I blacked out.

Six weeks later, Kenyon and I were married, and on the wedding night, I sucked my father’s balls as he fucked my beautiful wife on the bed in the honeymoon suite.

Today I live with Kenyon and my father as their sex and abuse slave, just as I did for my mother and father  years ago. In fact, at forty my life is almost identical to what it was when I was seventeen.

I love it and I hate it, Shoeblossom, I hope you understand!

Sweyn Tollivson

Dear Sweyn:

Tough breaks, but then again, life is no picnic!

Best,

Shoeblossom