Quite nostalgic, I am sure, for Heather to return to the barn of Granddad’s south western Texas ranch. Such telling teenaged antics occurred within.

Particularly nostalgic in having a naked male present. I kneel in wonderment with the woman who now controls all; my mind, my body, my life. As she checks the substantial tethers which hold me securely in place, tummy down on a padded leather bench.

I can’t move an inch. Even Elsa would be complimentary of the elaborate and tight leather straps.

“Feel free to scream,” Heather politely advises, her fingers sensuously smoothing over my buttocks to bring a brisance of delight, momentarily alleviating the intensity of my apprehension.

“Ten miles to the nearest house, and most times no one is there.”

I can not only smell the acrid smoke of the coke embers, I can feel the glowing heat. The fact that I am submitting to this brings to mind the visit to the psychiatrist, mandated many weeks ago by Heather.

***

“Welcome, Mr. Middleton, welcome,” the woman seems to gush, genuinely interested in, perhaps the better term intrigued by, my visit. “Do make yourself comfortable. Heather Covington has forwarded some preliminary information to speed things along. From what I have seen, you’re better to disrobe before assuming the couch.”

Her voice smooth and melodious, the words professionally proffered, I strip, accustomed to the subtle commands of the superior gender.

I sit on the couch, the obligatory furniture of the psychiatrist. Before reclining she holds up one finger, a gesture for me to pause, then reaches over my shoulder, Smartphone in hand. The camera light flashes. She scans my tag tattoo. One of Elsa’s sordid videos begins to roll. She then signals for me to lie back.

“Fascinating, Mr. Middleton. Fascinating. A study from Kraft-Ebbing, Psychopathia Sexualis: eine Klinische-Forensische Studie,” her German pronunciation offered with educated zeal. “I have many still photos which Heather captured and printed out from the numerous videos, but until one sees the high definition motion, this woman’s work cannot be fully appreciated.”

Her eyes are glued to the small screen. I cannot see but I can hear the voice of my dog trainer, Miss Warren, as we play fetch. I can envision myself scrambling across the kitchen floor on all fours, Elsa following with enthusiasm, camera in hand, recording with numerous close ups of my infused scrotum the various facets of my degradation as Miss Warren trains... tapping away with her correcting crop.

“And I see you remain in chastity, Mr. Middleton. Is this attachment, this need to subordinate yourself, that strong?”

She notes the elephant ears of my scrotum and the tucked away penis tip. Ironically, had I honored this evening’s appointment at Elsa’s, Nurse Hopkins would probably have snipped the cable tie about