Date: Wed, 21 Mar 2001 10:57:10 -0800 (PST)
From: hugh questorius <questorius@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: The Humiliator  5. Continuation

Chapter Five

The Jock Strap. Part 3
The Randy Arab

Again I felt sickened but disturbingly excited by the tale of perversion I
had read.  But, Dear God, there was yet another to follow.  Could I take
any more of this?  What sort of monster was I giving myself to?  As
Helpless as a rabbit snared in a car's headlights, I turned the next
page. . .

"The last "inhabitant" of the jock strap could not be more different from
the other two.  To start with, Jameed is a Jordanian student and only 17
years old.  He is strikingly beautiful, both his face and, when stripped,
his slender, olive skinned and almost girlish body.  Not the type that
really appeals to me, but even so I cannot but be impressed by his gazelle
like grace.  If this makes him sound like a pretty, pansy boy, then that
would be entirely wrong for he is very, very heterosexual.  Indeed, he
loves nothing better than to tell me, in great detail, of the girls he has
fucked.  Nor was he into punishment or bondage or humiliation . . . he does
not even know that I have a punishment room.  Not yet, anyway.

So, you might wonder, why does this young lad come to me?  What is his need
that I can meet? The answer is that he is quite absurdly oversexed.  He
expects to have an orgasm every day, usually twice a day and often three
times. Occasionally more!  And, I repeat, every day!

The poor kid knows that this is exceptional, but thinks it is wonderful.
He has no conception that to have your life so completely dominated by sex
is a terrible affliction.  It means, for example, that a huge proportion of
his time and energy is devoted to hunting for a partner.  Every hour, every
day.  His testicles rule his life completely.  And when he finds a girl he
cannot keep her for long as no girl can keep up with such unrelenting
demands.  At first they find it very exciting, but three times a day every
day for a week is just too wearing for even the most enthusiastic girl.
Most last only a day or two before backing away.  This means that he
suffers from a virtually permanent shortage of sexual partners and most of
his orgasms are self induced.  He tells me that since he first started
masturbating at the age of nine (nine!) he has shot his load, on average
twice a day which means that up until the present day he has had some 6500
orgasms - and he is still only 17!  Naturally, too, some element of boredom
creeps into this constant repetition and he is always on the look out for
fresh stimulation. Which of course is where I come in.

I boasted to him that I would be able to make him cum five times in one
hour.  This idea excited him hugely and he begged me to help him achieve
this feat.  Aha!  I had him!  I told him he would have to submit himself to
me totally and he agreed with the alacrity of an innocent who had no
conception of the range of sexual stimulation I could deploy.  Still less
of the patience I would show in slowly training him to suit my needs.

The first time I actually made him cum four times in 55 minutes, but it
took another 35 minutes to pull the fifth load out.  This was better than I
had thought likely for a first try, but he was ecstatic.  Apparently he was
unaware of his nipples as a source of pleasure and the discovery left him
feeling quite touchingly grateful to me, even if rather sore. I told him to
come back in two days when I would again try to help him achieve the
five-in-an-hour record, provided that he remained totally celibate for the
24 hours beforehand.  The very idea of this shocked him, but I told him not
to waste my time otherwise and that if he genuinely wanted to become a
sexual athlete then he'd have to go into training.  The idea of being a
"sexual athlete" really turned him on and he promised to do as I'd told
him.

Two nights later he returned.  Immediately I asked him if had cum since our
last meeting.  He looked shamefaced and said he had, but "only once".  I
told him that would not do and sent him away.  He was really shocked by
this and begged me to try for the five anyway.  Pretending to be very
stern, I refused and sent him packing.  I thought that would probably be
the last I'd see of him.

About a week later he phoned saying he had at last managed to go a full 24
hours without sex and could he come round for "further training?"
'Training' I thought.  Hmm.  Interesting that he should have used that
word.  With pretend reluctance, I agreed.

He must have phoned from round the corner, for within minutes he was at the
door.  I ordered him to strip and put on a condom.  It was five minutes to
eight.  I told him that as soon as the clock struck eight he was to toss
himself off, "to get the first one out the way".  At two minutes past, he
had finished (!) so I peeled the rubber off him, knotted it and hung it up.
One up, four to go.  Then I made him lie on the bed and went to work on
him.  This time I got the fourth load out in only 50 minutes, but despite
my best efforts it took another 45 minutes to get the fifth one.
Interestingly though, he took this as entirely his failure rather than mine
and was deeply ashamed - an attitude I did nothing to dispel.  I let him
enjoy the sleep of exhaustion for half an hour and then woke him, telling
him I was going to milk him a sixth time.  Interestingly, his big dark eyes
opened wide with pleading and he begged me not to work him any more.  He
took my hands and kissed them and asked me to let him go home.  I told him
I was disappointed in him but agreed to let him go.

After he had left I felt quite pleased with the way things had gone.  Not
only had I, for the first time in his life, got him to a stage where he
actually did not want any more sex, but had established my dominance too.
When he'd had all he could take, he didn't say 'sod this, I'm off', no,
he'd kissed my hands and begged to be allowed to go!  I looked at the row
of five condoms dangling like miniature Christmas stockings and smiled.  Oh
yes, he'd be back allright, driven by the whips of his pitiless sex need,
and I'd be able to start fashioning him into something pathetically
dependant on me.

The next day he phoned me to apologise again for having failed to achieve
the one hour target but hoping I would continue to "coach" him.  I was
gentle, telling him not to be too hard on himself, that after all, what we
were working towards was very likely a world record.  Gosh, did I think so?
Did I really think so?  And did I think he could do it?  He was so young,
so naiive, so easy to manipulate, it was like taking candy from a baby.  I
assured him that I was confident he had the necessary virility for the task
but that we'd have to intensify the training a bit . . . and the orgasm
process too.  He was agog to know what I had in mind.  Well, as for the
process, I felt it would be helpful if he was tied to the bed,
spread-eagled . . . and hooded too.  There was a silence at the other end
of the phone.  Had I gone too far, too fast?  He wanted to know why.  Why
tied down? Why hooded?  Clearly, alarm bells were ringing.  Very gently I
explained that there were certain techniques we had not tried yet, certain
"more advanced erotic stimulations" which might help us to achieve our
goal, that being hooded he would not be distracted by any extraneous visual
input and could concentrate 100 % on sensual arousal.  Yes, but why tied
down, he persisted?  With re-assuring patience, I explained that he had to
deliver himself into my hands with total trust so that I could manipulate
his body to heights of sensual ecstasy, which he had so far never dreamed
of.  The randy little bugger swallowed all this guff with an eager
appetite, hungry for new and exotic sexual experiences.  But, he persisted,
I'd said something about intensifying the training too.  What did that
mean?  Well, I conceded, perhaps he was not ready for that bit yet.
Perhaps we could come back to that a bit later.  No, no, he insisted, he
realised how important training was in trying for a world record.  Was he
sure?  It would not be easy.  Please, he begged, I had to tell him.  Well
. . . I said, as if he were dragging it out of me, I think that to be sure
of success we'll have to go for three days celibacy before the next
attempt.

There was a stunned silence at the other end of the phone.  After all, this
was the randy little animal that had wanked himself off at least twice a
day since he was nine.  And here I was asking him to give up three whole
days of sex . . . at least six good wanks.  But that spunk would not go
away.  It would build up in his balls, seething and simmering, urgently
pressing for release.  At last in a small, pathetic voice, he whined that
he did not know if he could do that Sir.  Sir!  The first time he had
called me that.  Encouraging!  I told him I appreciated the difficulty but
perhaps I could help by sending him something to ease the problem.  And
(yes, you've guessed it Fuckface,) I told him about the jock strap - about
how two other men (I nearly slipped up and said slaves) had found it
helpful in controlling their impulses.  I offered to send it to him in the
post the very next day.  Oh, would I?  Would I really?  And he thanked me,
stressing how much he appreciated all I was doing for him.  I felt almost
guilty at the ease of handling such a trusting fool.  But of course I was
in a win/win situation.  Either he succeeded and arrived mad randy and
ready for anything, or he failed, in which case one might be forced, ever
so reluctantly, to consider introducing a new concept into the
relationship. . . the question of punishment.

I have to report to you, Fuckface, that he fell at the first hurdle.  Oh he
tried.  How he tried.  But on the second night, with two days of spunk
build-up bursting his balls, the over-sexed young Arab colt had a wet dream
and dumped the lot into the jock.  Luckily, I phoned him that morning and
found him deeply contrite.  He promised to wash out the shamefully soiled
article and return it but I persuaded him that was not in accordance with
my wishes.  He then went on to talk of punishment for his failure.  It was
his word, not mine, but I promised to give the matter some thought . . .
Although that was only three weeks ago he has worn the jock twice since
then with no further accidents, I am glad to say, and has been here twice
too.  I have now succeeded in milking him five times in an hour (well, 64
minutes to be precise) but even more to the point, he has taken to being
fucked as well as to expecting to be punished for any shortcomings.  All in
all, this young lad shows considerable promise.

And now, Fuckface, it is up to you.  You are free to be the next to wear
the jock any time you like.  Only remember, once on it stays on, day and
night, until I take it off you.  And, that like my hand clamped over your
groin, it forbids you to touch yourself.  Pray that you do not suffer a wet
dream like young Jameed.  He was inexperienced in the ways of obedience but
was punished just the same.  For an experienced, trained slave like you,
the penalty for any lack of self-discipline would be . . . well, would be
as you yourself would expect.

If I judge you correctly, you are right now eager to rip open the pack and
inspect the jock strap.  Well, you may do so, only remember that once
opened it has to be worn immediately and continuously.  You are probably
reading this at least four days prior to your visit, so think carefully
before you act.  Are you really prepared to wear such a disgustingly soiled
item against your skin non-stop for four days?  And four nights too, don't
forget.  The wise thing is to leave the package sealed and un-inspected
until the very morning of your visit, but the choice is yours entirely.

The bastard, I thought, the sly, scheming, manipulative bastard.  He knew
very well the agony of indecision he would plunge me into.  But one had to
admire the way he was taking me over and making me dance like a puppet even
before our first encounter.  I fingered the package, squeezed it, sniffed
it . . . and ripped it open! Inside was one of those self- seal plastic
bags.  I opened it and removed the content, which felt very slightly damp.
Despite knowing its history, I was shocked by the obscenity of the filthy,
limp rag I held in my hands.  The wet mud of the rugger pitch had left it
grubby and grey.  Its other uses had left it stained and re-stained,
crusted with dried semen and seepages, yellow with dried urine-dribble.  I
raised it tentatively to my nose and quickly snatched it away in disgust at
the ammoniac stench.

  Here in my hands was the very essence of sex and suffering, of sweat and
sin, of slavery and semen.  To put such a thing on my own body, to have it
touching my own manhood, was utterly revolting and shaming.  Without
further ado I pulled it on and felt its clammy embrace enfold my cock and
balls and its tight, dirty elastic belt grip my waist.  It was the most
disgusting, most erotically thrilling experience that I had ever had . . .