Controlling The Urges

CONTROLLING THE URGES

By Charles E. Campbell

Control.

Looking back, I guess that's what it's always been about. Really about. Control. It's control over me. My control over it. When it would start. Keeping it in check. What it would require of me to appease it. How long the urge would last. Keeping it as a long held private secret. Mine only. To know and fear, and yet, embrace.

All of these things, and more, it has been for the better part of forty-five of my fifty-two years.

But now, it is complicated. Not it isn't so much about my control, or even it's control. Now it is, quite in fact, completely out of my hands.

It started innocently enough, I'm sure. Subtle little urges that all little boys have growing up. I used to scurry down the stairs to the living room when I was five or six, real early on Saturday mornings to partake in that time honored ritual of Saturday morning cartoons. My parents, still dead to the world from their weekly Friday night trip to the neighborhood tavern, wouldn't rouse themselves for at least three more hours. So I'd turn on the TV, wait the pre-requisite three minutes for it to warm up, adjust the rabbit ears just so, and settle on the floor in my flannel pajamas, glued to the flickering black and white images on the tiny screen.

Most Saturdays I wouldn't get the urge, but every so often, I could feel it begin. Nothing really tangible mind you looking back, just this strange sensation deep inside my penis. An internal itch that couldn't be scratched by conventional means. I would strip often my pajamas and watch the cartoons naked. My tiny little “boner” stiff and proud. It felt so good to touch it, to see it, with the smooth purple “hat” smooth and rigid against my pale hairless skin.

For a while ths was enough to satisfy the urges. Sometimes it would come to me when my parents were out on their weekly Friday night, when I was home with some young junior high school or senior high school baby sitter. Male or female, made no difference. The urge would come, and I would pull off the pajamas in front of them, squealing with delight as they'd try to catch me and get me dressed and off to bed. The feelings I got as my hard-on slapped against my belly while I ran were heaven.

By the time I was in junior high, I was deemed “old enough” to be left home alone on the Friday nights, so I would get out of my pajamas as soon as my parents left. Relishing in the excitement of being naked for four or five hours or more at a time, roaming the house. I especially loved the basement, with it's dirt floor. I'd crawl across it, rubbing myself on the hard dusty earth, getting filthy. Having to shower two or three times before my parent's return. Half ducking down as I'd walk past the windows, the blinds not quite closed.

In high school, the urges took a quantum leap forward. My parents by this time didn't even bother with the formality of “family dinner.” No more false pretenses for them now. Straight to the bar from work, meeting each other there. No dinner or sitter for me any longer. I'd be alone in the house from about 5:30 until midnight or even 2:00AM when the bar closed down, prancing around with clothes pins on my cock and scrotum, jumping on the hard basement floor, making the pins shake loose. One time, I was standing before my mother's full length mirror, and didn't recognize the hairy body that looked back at me. It was that night that I began shaving. Not too much, mind you, but my pubic hair was removed from about two inches below my naval down and around to the top of my ass crack. The rush of memories of my small penis and smooth skin were rekindled. I vowed never to let the hair grow back.

As the intensity of the urges increased, I began to venture outside naked, bringing a pair of gym shorts with me. Of course this escalated. My parents would be trying to sleep it off in their bedroom, and I would sneak out of the house, three or so in the morning, shorts in hand and go for late night strolls through the neighborhood. I would dive into the bushes and behind parked cars whenever a tell tale set of headlights would begin to appear. When this wasn't enough, I would leave my shorts, and my Timex watch with the stainless steel watchband, behind a tree in my yard, and go off with no chance of covering up if discovered, scaling the chain link fence that kept the deer off the Interstate, and I would expose myself to the passing cars as I masturbated.

In retrospect, there were two of these nocturnal adventures that were different, and at the time, I had no idea what happened. On the first night, my shorts weren't stashed behind the tree when I returned. I thought maybe a racoon or something took them. About five months later, both the shorts and my watch were missing when I got back. They just disappeared. I looked for them in the morning light, but never located them.

Then urges came to a sudden halt when I went away for my freshman year of college upstate. I never experienced the urges during those four years except when I was home for semester break or summer vacation.

I found a good job right out of college, working for the local television station. Over the years, I worked my way up the ladder and twenty years ago, I made it to the job I still hold today, co-anchor of the local news. My parents didn't survive long after I started at the station. Alcohol claimed them both within eight months of each other. Being an only child, the old house, and all it's vivid memories, became mine, and the urges returned. Tenfold.

This was, of course, in the days before the internet, so finding “toys” wasn't as easy as it is today, with all the on line services. Generally, I did my shopping in cities that were far enough away, where the chance of being recognized was slim. Philadelphia, Boston, and Baltimore yielded me a wide array of items for my collection: ball stretchers, cock cages, butt plugs, floggers and whips, clamps and weights, cuffs and locks, cock rings, leather harnesses and the like quickly began to decorate the walls in my basement dungeon.

I built a St. Andrew's cross, installed suspension equipment, including a electric motor controlled hoist. I even excavated a pit in the dirt floor under the hoist, making it possible to hang myself from my wrists or ankles from the ceiling over the pit.

And yet, over time, the urges and needs grew stronger, more insatiable. I was forced to take more extreme measures to quell the urges, which were now coming daily. I booked a trip to San Francisco over a long anticipated two week vacation. I located a rather famous tattoo and piercing studio where I got an Ampallang piercing with a very thick ring. The piercing was performed by a beautiful young girl, no more than twenty-three. I remember racing back to the motel when she was through explaining the after-care to me, tearing off my clothes and standing in front of the bathroom mirror, mesmerized. I starred at the steel that now ran through the end of my cock. Even with the dark red and blue discoloration I was intrigued. I jerked off four times that night in front of the mirror, reveling in all the sensations I so intensely felt. The day before my return flight home, I revisited the studio and got both a Guiche and Lorum piercing with rings to match my Ampallang. The piercing this time was done by a man. Huge and muscular, tattoos running from his neck to his wrists. I asked him about nipple piercings, and he offered me a reduced rate because of all the recent work I had so recently gotten in his shop.. So both nipples were done with the same size rings.

By now, the urges were beginning to come before I got home from work, which was usually fairly late. By the time I signed off on the eleven o'clock news and got out of the studio it was generally around midnight. The commute from the station to my house was forty-five minutes. Many nights I would undress in the car, right after I went through the toll booth, and drive the final twenty-five minutes home naked, my ringed rigid cock standing up straight at attention. Once, I drove through the seedier part of town, past the hookers on the street. I turned on the interior dome light and slowed the car down as I approached them, but chickened out at the last minutes when an unmarked patrol car rounded the corner. Panicked, I killed the light, and drove as nonchalantly as possible with one hand, while struggling to pull up my slacks with the other. Fortunately it was a false alarm, and the cruiser passed me without so much as a glance.

Two years ago, one of the local reporters at the station did a piece on unwanted hair removal techniques: waxing, shaving, electrolysis, and laser. This was the first time I was taken by the urge while on live camera. I chatted up the reporter a bit after the broadcast ended, and asked about her research. Right then and there I determined to undergo the laser treatment myself. I had gotten fairly decent at the internet thing by then, so it wasn't too hard to find material to read up on the procedure, the risks, and all, and even to find a place to have it done. Some back water town where the possibility of being recognized was slim to none, or so I thought at the time.

A few months later, after making all the plans, I drove the two hundred and thirty miles to the smallish upstate New York town of Cortland, comfortable with my anonymity. I was beside myself with the excitement of never having to shave all that hair below my waist. I walked into the dermatologist's office and was greeted by the receptionist, a nice enough young woman, who gave me forms to fill out: questions about payment options, risks, and the like. I filled out the forms and waited about ten minutes before being shown to a room and being told to strip down and get on the table.

I short squatty woman came in a few minutes after I had undressed and introduced herself as Ellen. Her voice was low and husky, the product of many packs of cigarettes, and if I had to hazard a guess, I would have placed her age at about her mid to late forties. She had a thick tangled thatch of knotted black hair, streaked here and there by gray. That was tied back haphazardly in a bushy pony tail. A fairly dark moustache was quite evident on her upper lip, and I remember thinking to myself, ‘why didn't she avail herself of her office's services?'

Her scrubs made her shape indiscernible, but she was obviously a good forty pounds or so over weight.

I thought I caught a widening of her eyes when she read my name, and for a fleeting instant I thought she might have recognized me from the television. She said that it would be she who would do the procedure and asked if I had any questions. I told her I didn't, and that was as much as I said. I couldn't help but notice that she kept looking back to my face as she read through the forms dealing with my medical history, but I ignored it, rationalizing that it was just my usual paranoia. “Mr Martin,” she said, “You seem to have filled out all the questions on the form, so I'm going to begin. You will feel a certain degree of discomfort during the procedure, especially because of where I will be working, so if the pain becomes too intense, let me know and we'll take a rest. This should take about and hour and a half or so.”

My urge had taken complete control over me by now, and my erection, three steel rings and all, was as hard as ever. Pre-sum glistened at the tip. Ellen seemed to pay it no mind, pulling on a pair of latex gloves, and taking an alcohol swab and wiping it clean. She then got down to the business at hand, and started zapping the hair at the base of the shaft.

It wasn't really all that painful, at least not compared top the piercings. Ellen made occasional small talk, and frequently asked me how I was doing, always smiling and looking me straight in the eye when she spoke. She stopped twice during the entire procedure, once for a cigarette break, and once for a bathroom break for both of us.

It took her a bit longer than her estimated time to finish up and completely remove the hair, but when she was done, she handed me a hand held mirror to inspect her handiwork.

I was awestruck! There was no stubble, or five o'clock shadow, just smooth flat white skin, pink from the laser in several spots, but just like I remembered from so long ago. She was reciting how I should care for the treated areas when she said something that made my heart jump/ She said that my accent reminded her of where she had grown up, in southern Westchester County, New York. My heart jumped in my chest as I stammered out a hasty answer of how I traveled around a lot as a boy and that my accent was a mixture of many places. All the while my heart was pounding furiously in my chest, because I too had grown up there, and lived there now as well!

She apologized for her intrusion, and said that she had a pretty decent ear for accents and that she liked to try to see how close she was. I made up a lame excuse about having to get home, and dressed quickly, giving her a hearty tip. On the long drive home, I soon forgot about my encounter with Ellen, and spent the time massaging my soft smooth skin, my pants around my ankles as I drove down the highway in the bright afternoon sunlight.

It was about two weeks after I had the laser hair removal when a package came to my door. I was quite surprised, as I live alone, and have no living relatives. I knew I hadn't ordered anything, and was sure the package had been mis-delivered, but the handwritten name and address on the outside were unmistakably clear and mine! I opened the simple brown wrapping paper to find a small white cardboard box, wrapped in a thick coating of bubble wrap. Removing the tape, I opened the box and was face to face with an old Timex watch with a stainless steel band. It only took me about two seconds to realize that this was the watch my Aunt had given me so many years ago. The very same watch that had disappeared from behind the tree in the yard that night when I slipped it off for fear of it's reflection in the street lamps as I traipsed about on my nocturnal jaunts.

I clawed at the wrapping paper looked frantically for a return address, a note, a name, something! But all I found was the cancellation stamped, postmarked from Cortland, New York. I knew, of course, that my only connection to Cortland was the dermatologist's office, and that the only person I really spoke to at all up there was Ellen. I had shared a few sentences with the receptionist, of course, but it was Ellen who I spent two hours with. It had to be her! I didn't have the slightest idea what she could want, or how she could have come by the watch, or even known it was mine! I forced myself to calm down, thinking that there was nothing I could do at this point. It was completely out of my hands, so patience would be the prudent course of inaction at that time.

As the following days turned into a week, I waited anxiously, assuming that if she was going to contact me, that it would be through the mail. One week became two, and then two turned into three, and I kidded myself into thinking it was some kind of joke. That is until I got home from the studio one night to see the message light blinking on my answering machine. Fearfully, I pushed the button and listened to the message that would change my life as I knew it:

“Johnny Martin,” the husky low-pitched female voice began,” I wonder if you still remember me? Any clues from the ‘present' I sent you? In case you're wondering, I don't have the gym shorts any longer, but I was the one who took them. I found them behind that big sugar maple in your yard when you were a teenager. Just to set your mind at ease, I don't want any money. But.....there is something I want. I'll let your imagination go to work on that for a while. I'll be in touch.” And the message was over.

FOUND OUT! I had been found out! After all these years, my secret was no more. I spent that night pacing and wondering who she was, what had happened. What did she want, what did she mean that there was something she wanted?

By dawn, I had calmed myself down a bit. The only thing I knew was that she had found me out when I was still a kid in high school, and I was comforted slightly by the knowledge that she had kept the secret all these years as well. She didn't expose me back then, maybe she wouldn't now either.

A few weeks later, a manilla envelope arrived at the station for me. The return address was a post office box in Cortland. During my dinner break, I went down to my car and read it's contents. All it contained was a letter, printed on a computer, which read:

“You are to put in for an emergency leave of absence. The reason you give is yours alone. This Friday, you are to be at My office at three in the afternoon. You will be given further instructions at that time.

You will have no need of a suitcase or any toiletries or clothing except what you are wearing when you arrive. If you do not follow these directions, to the letter, a video of your laser treatment will be sent to the television station where you work at three oh one!”

I couldn't catch my breath. I felt as if someone had punched me in the stomach, driving the wind out of me. It was Thursday! I had less than eighteen hours to comply, or be ruined. I had no choice. With trembling hands, I called my station manager at his home, and explained that my only living relative had been in an accident and had fallen and was badly hurt. I requested an emergency leave and said I would call him as soon as I knew anything. I then called up to the program director and told him the same tale. As soon as I hung up, I started the car and headed for home.

It goes without saying that sleep was not in the cards for me that night. I couldn't even busy myself making preparations for the trip, as there was nothing I was to bring. So as soon as the dawn was breaking, I headed back up to Cortland, arriving at noon. I tried to eat lunch at a small diner outside town, a read the local paper, trying to calm myself. I was actually doing alright, until I came to the advertisements. It was there that I saw an ad for Ellen Olmstead's dermatology practice. Then it hit me: Ellen Olmstead! She lived across the street from me for about two years when I was in college. They moved in the summer before I left. She was about six years younger than me. I was eighteen and she eleven or twelve. I never even noticed her that summer. She had to have seen me, watched me, followed me!

At five of three, I parked my car in the small lot adjacent to her office, and with sweat on my forehead and running down my back, I walked into the empty waiting room, the receptionist the only other person there.

“Ah, Mr. Martin,” she smiled, “I'm glad you could come back.” She handed me another manilla envelope, and stood up, saying, “excuse me for a moment, won't you?”

I muttered something as I fell back into one of the chairs and opened the envelope. I pulled out the sheet of paper, and read it:

“If you are reading this right now, congratulations! You made the right choice. If not, my secretary is on her way to the post office with a copy of the tape.

“You will do whatever Marie instructs you to do, and you will do it quickly and without pause or question. If you do not, she will mail the tape anyway.

“I look forward to seeing you again, Johnny!” And it was signed simply “E”.

As I was reading the letter for the third time, Marie returned carrying a green plastic laundry basket, which she set at my feet.

“Get undressed and put all of your clothes, including your shoes, in the basket.”

Remembering the words in the letter, I stood quickly and disrobed before the pretty young woman. When I was naked, she took out a set of spiked metal balls and clipped them to my nipple rings. They were quite heavy, and stretched my nipples down as they pricked the skin of my chest. She clipped three similar balls on my three penis rings. Then she bent down and reached into the basket, pulling out my car keys. “Go out the side door, and get in your car. Drive down the back alley out of the parking lot and turn right. Drive four miles until you see a large billboard advertising a restaurant. Turn left at the first road after the sign and take it to the end. Park your car behind the garage and go in the back door.” And having said that, she went back behind her desk and started typing on her keyboard.

Cautiously, I walked down the narrow hall to the side door. Looking outside, I could see that the lot was vacant, so I sprinted across the hot asphalt and fumbling with the keys, opened the door and got it. I drove out quickly, but made a conscious effort to drive under the speed limit by a few miles per hour. I found the billboards uneventfully, and drove down a long road that turned to dirt about two thirds of the way down. After a few more miles, I could see a modest ranch house with a detached garage. I parked the car as instructed and went through the door into the garage. A dungeon/torture chamber greeted me. Much bigger than mine and far better equipped.

“You never enter My domain on your feet, slave,” Ellen's husky voice commanded loudly. “Get on your knees. From this moment forward, I will control you. You are Mine!”