Twelve Maxbridge Street

Twelve Maxbridge Street

A short story by M. H. Keplar

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2021 by M. H. Keplar

All Rights Reserved.

Version 6

Table of Contents

The Beginning








He looked around his spacious, spare, perfect office. One of the perfect things was the large picture window overlooking the park across the street, just now leafing out for spring. Another perfect thing was the executive bathroom… not really a bathroom, but roomy enough for a closet and shower. Life was good. He relished his job. He had enough money to comfortably pay for a new, strange experience. And it was five o’clock, time to get ready for that experience. He stood up from his desk and went into the bathroom. A shower was required just as it was if one were going for a thorough physical. Only this time, presumably, there would be many strangers examining him.

He soaped well, front and back. He looked at his reflection in the large mirror as he toweled off. Another perfect thing in his life was how he looked. Tall, but not grotesquely so. Well muscled, but not bulky. Masculine hair in all the right places, and in none of the wrong places. The suit he put on was, of course, perfect.

He chuckled silently to himself. Then there was his modesty.

As he left his office he looked over to his right where there was a large open plan area of desks. Pederson was, as usual, at the front desk. He was always struck by the misfortune that Pederson was the first employee the public saw on this floor, with his straight bangs, dumpling face and soft build. A good worker but not a good image. He couldn’t even remember Pederson’s first name. A defect in his character that he should attend to.

At the bottom of the wide curved stairway to the lobby was another slightly less than perfect (!) employee. Stephanie was a good receptionist, but it always seemed to him that she was chewing gum. She wasn’t, of course. She just seemed that way.

He took some comfort in the knowledge that neither Pederson nor Stephanie would suspect he entertained such petty thoughts about them. He was well liked by his staff.


When he opened the door to the street he breathed deeply of the wonderful late afternoon spring air. The faint aroma of car exhaust added piquancy. He'd experienced a heightened sensuality all day and took pleasure the feel of his suit along the length of his legs as he strode down the sidewalk.

He’d never been inside The Association’s building on Maxbridge, but he’d passed it often. One block up along the park and then another block and a few more paces. Three steps led down to a massive wooden door with a shiny brass handle. It opened easily.

A short carpeted set of stairs led down to a reception area about the size of a large living room, defined by the same red carpet. On the left its curved edge marked the beginning of the parquet floor of a large hall. Just how large was impossible to tell because the lighting left the edges in darkness. Three sizeable round tables, about fifty feet apart sat in circles of light, the table on one edge of the light, and mysterious structures on the other. Ah, those, whatever they are, are for me. The muscles between his legs contracted in a pleasant way, and his breath briefly became a little rapid and shallow. He paused for a moment to savor the sensations.

On the right of the reception area was a counter, a little above waist high.

There were a dozen or so people in the area, mostly couples, dressed in suits and cocktail dresses. He looked at as many faces as he could easily see in the crowded lobby. These were the ones. He stepped up to the reception desk where two were talking with the receptionist behind the counter, a young fresh faced woman, girlish. The woman patron said, “We have tickets for the bondage station, but we’d like to switch to punishment, if there are openings.”

“Are you certified?”

“Yes, we both are.”

“OK. Yes, there are two openings. I’ll switch you.”

Bondage. Punishment. The muscles between his legs contracted again. Ever since he’d begun the process of signing up for The Association, his body had begun to give him these pleasant little gifts. Muscles would contract… his sphincter, his thighs, various places in his abdomen or lower back when he reflected on what he was up to. Now it was no longer reflection, it was real.

The couple moved on and he stepped up. “Hi, John Faranger. I want to check in.”

The receptionist typed on her keyboard and scanned her screen. She brought her brows together. “I’m sorry sir, I don’t see your name for any of the stations.”

“I’m the subject,” he said. Following him in line a short woman in startling black framed glasses nudged her companion. She was looking at Faranger like a child who had spotted a much wished for Christmas present under the tree.

“Oh. Yes sir! I’m sorry. I don’t know how that happened. Of course.” The receptionist reached under the counter for a clipboard. “Here are just a few things we need to go through." She checked her clip board again, seeming new to the task, and brought a tape measure from under the counter. “Now can I measure your forearm, please?” He extended his arm and she measured from inside his elbow to his wrist and then wrote the measurement on her clipboard. The woman beside him was fascinated. "And what will your safe word be?"

"Armadillo" he answered, having no idea why he chose it. It was the last time the word entered his consciousness that evening.

"Of course, there will be no refunds, should you choose to use it." Faranger nodded his understanding.

“OK. Great. Now, just a couple more things. You must do whatever an Associate tells you to do. And you may not touch yourself unless an Associate requires it. If you’d give me the contents of your pockets, we’ll keep them in the safe overnight. Now please remove all your clothing. You can leave it on that chair over there. They’ll be valeted for you before morningt.”

A wave passed through Faranger’s torso as he looked through the gathering of people at the wooden armchair at the edge of the carpeted area. OK. He had stripped many times in locker rooms. He had a good body. And, of course, he was naked many times with desirable women. But that didn’t allay the weakness he was feeling. Doing this alone in a crowd of clothed people would be a challenge.

She continued, “When you’re naked, those two gentleman over there will take you to the first station.” Faranger looked where she was gesturing. Almost in shadows were two young body builder types dressed in khakis and yellow collared tee shirts. One was dark, Mediterranean looking, and one was blond with curly hair. “They will be your handlers for the night.”

When he reached the chair he took off his jacket and draped it on the back. He removed his tie and hung it there too. He started to unbutton his shirt when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was the woman with the glasses. “Would you turn around and face us while you take off your clothes?” He turned around. “And look at me.” He raised his eyes to hers and finished removing his shirt. Most of the other people continued conversing among themselves, looking at him casually now and then. He sat down on the chair and slipped off his shoes and socks and then stood up, looked her in the face again, and put his hands to his buckle.

“John! John Faranger! Who’d have thought we’d find you here!” Even before he turned and saw the man speaking on his left his breath stopped. Oh, God! God! It’s Pederson! And Stephanie! Oh my God!

“Yes, that’s right," Pederson said in response to Faranger's expression. "Here we are. Don’t move for now.” Pederson turned to Stephanie, who was clinging to his arm with both hands, positioned just a little behind him. “Look at him!” He pointed to Faranger’s swiftly growing erection, clearly visible under his trim pants. “But don’t think he desires either one of us. No. He desires humiliation.” Pederson smiled at her. It was actually a smirk. “We can provide it. First, why don’t you go over and check him out. See if he’s hard enough for us to go on to the next step. No, John, don't close your eyes. You must watch us the whole time to get the full effect.”

Stephanie seemed uncertain of her role, but she came over to Faranger and felt his erection. She squeezed a bit and then felt his testicles. “Yes. He couldn’t be harder.” Faranger continued immobile, his hands at his sides.

“Ok, now, John, would you spread your legs slightly?" Good. Now you can unzip your pants.” Faranger did as he was told, even though he almost couldn’t grasp the small tab on the zipper, being almost frozen with horror. “OK. Good. Now pull your underwear down and hook it under your balls. Just the front.” Faranger complied. His genitals stood out, framed for inspection. Faranger felt like he was in danger of collapsing. He didn’t dare look around, but he could sense that the small crowd was paying attention now. "Yes. Now just hold that pose for a little while, so Stephanie and I can fix it in our memories." He smiled.

He stood that way for too long. Finally Pederson turned to the two handlers behind him. “OK, guys. Would you come and finish undressing him?” The two men came over to Faranger and each one grasped a wrist. Then one slipped his hand to grasp front of Faranger’s clothing, the side of his hand passing lightly over Faranger’s scrotum. The other slipped his hand under Faranger’s boxer briefs and pants and slid them down, the back of his finger sliding between Faranger’s buttocks. “Please put your feet together, sir,” said one of them. Faranger complied. Together they pulled his clothing down to the ground, holding Faranger’s wrists for balance as he stepped out of them.

“Ah, there we go,” said Pederson. “Totally naked. This is good! Now,John, please kneel.”

The handlers grasped his wrists again, for balance, and Faranger kneeled, facing his office manager and his receptionist, his heart pounding and his penis throbbing. An unseen person came up behind him, took his hand and squeezed some lotion from a tube into his palm.

"Please masturbate until you climax." Faranger grasped his penis at his base, but made no further motion. He was aghast at the thought of bringing himself to orgasm under the gaze of those two. But his need for release was intense. More to the point, he'd been given a command. He slid his hand up to the tip and then commenced the familiar rhythm. Against orders, his eyes closed involuntarily. It didn’t take much before he came to a loud climax. He collapsed onto his heels, panting, his hands on his thighs. One of the handlers gently moved his left hand to the floor. The unseen person behind him set a silver tray on the floor on his right. It contained two stacks of small towels, on stack moist, the other dry, and a flat silver bowl in the middle. The unseen person was actually a woman in a transparent white dress. Without turning around, and he didn't dare, all he could see were her thighs as she sat on her heels next to him. And her hands as she washed and dried his right hand. Her fingers were slender and long, like his, but, of course much smaller. Her pale skin made his tan look even darker. This is not what I'm here for. He shifted his gaze to the three tables in the distance. The used towels went in the silver bowl. “Would you spread your knees a bit, sir?” She asked. He did that and she washed and dried his genitals and the tops of his thighs. Then she picked up the tray and disappeared behind him.

After she left Pederson came up to him. He put one foot between Faranger’s legs and moved it side to side. “Spread further, John, as far as you can.” Faranger complied until Pederson was able to get his foot, clad in expensive brown oxfords, nudged up under Faranger’s scrotum. He could easily have hurt Faranger badly, but he just pushed gently, so there was only the threat of pain. He moved his foot up and down, making Faranger’s flaccid, but still swollen, genitals shift. “Ok, John. Please look up." Faranger shifted his gaze from the foot nudging him. Even through his post orgasmic exhaustion he felt a sexual thrill as he looked Pederson in the eye. "This has been fun. We’ll see you at work in the morning.” Faranger was too wiped out to really absorb the terror of that thought.

After Pederson and Stephanie left, one of the handlers gave him a bubbly drink in a tall glass. “Here. This is a very mild stimulant. It hydrates you and helps you to participate fully in the next station.” He drank it gratefully and let his body curve forward for rest, with his hands obediently on the floor beside his thighs.

After a few minutes the handlers helped him up by holding his wrists so he could leverage himself. The dark one went behind the counter again and came back with a long satin cape and a square of stiff fabric. It seemed to have sheepskin on one side, but carpet backing on the other. They drew his arms behind him and crossed them, wrist to elbow, tight enough that his chest was pushed forward a bit. Then they fastened the square around his forearms, soft side in and velcroed it tight. Next they draped a the cape around his shoulders. "They fasten your arms so you can't touch yourself out of sight under the cape," volunteered the dark haired handler. The cape went to the floor, but zipped just down to his thighs. The pull tab was on the inside so that the handler’s knuckles passed lightly over his genitals and belly and sternum as he pulled it up. At first Faranger thought it was put inside to prevent catching his genitals in the zipper. But that didn't make sense. It would be so easy to hold the fabric away. The cape didn't seem to be reversible. He finally decided that it was made this way precisely to ensure the contact of the handler's hand with his body. The cape was lined with heavy quilting, so that when he walked his genitals and buttocks and thighs were caressed. A not unpleasant feeling. The three of them proceeded across the dark floor to the first pool of light.

Faranger almost smiled wryly to himself. A case could be made that he’d already, in fifteen minutes, gotten his $3000 worth of value.


They stopped in front of a woman sitting sideways to the table in a wooden chair with stiles that reached several feet above the back. It gave the chair a little bit the look of a throne. She stood up and approached the three. She was very slim and almost as tall as Faranger. It was hard to tell her age. She had no lines, but her skin had lost some of its firmness. He figured maybe fifteen or twenty years older than he. But she was definitely attractive. Not beautiful, but arresting. Her hair was pulled back in a tight French twist. She wore a black sheath and no jewelry. She stopped about a foot away. “Remove the cloak please.” The darker handler slipped his hand up under the cloak to grasp the tab at the top, zipped it down and pushed the cloak to the floor. She looked Faranger up and down. “Ah, good. Good.” She placed her fingers at his throat and very lightly traced all the way down. A wave of contractions washed through Faranger’s torso, shifting his genitals slightly. She noticed. “Hmmm. Can you do that at will?”

“No.I don't think so.”

“A pity. You know. For a movie or something.” Movie?? ‘No films. No photographs.’ She detected his consternation and patted him on the stomach. “No, no films or photographs.”

Then she asked, “Have you ever been anally penetrated?”


“Do you desire to be anally penetrated?”


“Do we have your permission to anally penetrate you?”

“Yes.” As he uttered his consent a thrill went through his torso and his genitals shifted again.

“Pity,” she said again, with a rueful twist of her lips. She ran her finger again from his breast bone to the tip of his still flaccid penis. Then she buried her fingers in the tangle of light brown hair at its base, gave a little tug and returned to her chair.

Now he could see what was on the table behind her. It was a tray with a number of silver phalluses on it. They were of different thicknesses and all had hilts and guards. The guards were angled away from the tip, like swallows’ wings, not straight horizontal to the shaft. His breath became shallow and rapid as the use dawned on him.

“Gentlemen,” she said, addressing the handlers, would you remove the arm restraint? “We’ll need his help at some points.” They loosened the Velcro and his arms came free. He instinctively moved to rub them, but each handler gently stopped him. One of them lifted an eyebrow to remind him that he must not touch himself. But they each did refresh him by swiftly running their hands down his arms.

“Before we begin,” she continued, “Cheryl has a special request.” She indicated a woman on the far side of the table. It was the woman with the black glasses. “Would you go over to her, please?”

Faranger walked around the table and stopped at her place. “Please face away from me and spread your cheeks as wide as possible.” Another tremor passed through his loins. He did as he was told, and then felt the point of her long fingernail on his anus. Slowly she worked her finger in and moved it around until his sphincter spasmed. It was if she was forcing blood into his genitals. “There we go,” she said. “A good beginning.” She moved her hand up and down and then slowly withdrew. By this time his genitals were beginning to become engorged, as everyone could see. He caught a glimpse of her daintily dipping her hand in a finger bowl. As he walked back to his place around the table two women reached out and caressed his genitals and a man with unusually large hands grabbed his right buttock and squeezed. Faranger stopped until he let go. "Nice," he said. Faranger was dismayed that the swelling increased noticeably.

The woman in black took up the thinnest of the phalluses. It was also the longest. It had a small, soft vinyl cap on the end. She then stepped behind him, wrapped her left arm around his waist and drew the implement down between his buttocks until she felt his anus. She inserted it. At first there was not much sensation, although his genitals became slightly more engorged. But then she slowly inserted it further and further. Until he cried out in sudden pain, serious pain in his belly. She pulled back a bit, manipulated something around the guard of the phallus and then pulled it out the rest of the way. “Ok, everyone. Set your implements at 4 when it’s your turn.” Faranger understood that they were enabled now to ram their phalluses into him has hard as they could without danger of “permanent injury.” “All right. Now please hold on to the posts.” she instructed him, as she turned her chair back around to face the table. She remained standing. Faranger complied.

“Who drew number 1?” she asked. An older man stood up. He had a paunch and heavy, but sloping shoulders. He came to Faranger, and placed his left arm around his waist. He had removed his suit coat, and his shirt, stretched across his soft body gave Faranger the feel of sweat, even though it was dry. Faranger could feel rough cloth all the length of his own left leg. It was repulsive. Why was it that it was more humiliating to be used by someone with a paunch than by a good looking man or woman? Huh. An imperfection in his character. But it worked. Faranger’s penis was reaching the point of a real erection. The man rammed the implement in up to the guard. The wings of the guard hurt more than the phallus. The man laughed and did it again and again. He pulled it out and tossed it into a second bowl filled with water, and left.

“Number two?” This was a beautiful woman. She smiled at him as she stroked her implement. His whole body was in a state of high sexual arousal. But it wasn’t so much her breasts pressed against his side. It was the humiliation of his passivity that did it. He should have his arms around her. Instead he stood immobile while she put her left arm around his waist. Her skirts draping around his leg emphasized his nakedness. These people know what they’re doing. She looked up at him coquettishly and kissed the silver phallus. It was wider than the first one and was noticeably uncomfortable as she slid it in slowly. The discomfort caused more pleasure in his genitals. She seemed to relish the activity as she slid it in and out slowly, continuing to smile up at him. He was fully erect and beginning to throb. His abdomen spasmed again and he saw two people at the table point at the motion of his sex and grin at each other.

“Number three?” This was a young man. Good looking, yes, but very young looking. Obviously in his twenties, but still. The phrase "callow youth" sprang to mind. He didn't think he'd ever had occasion to use that in real life. But the fleeting sense of superiority gave way to even more intense, sexually charged humiliation as he felt the rough tweed of the jacket snake around his waist, and the other's erection press into his hip. The callow youth grinned as he slammed his implement into Faranger's rectum over and over. This phallus was the thickest yet, and Faranger was definitely in torment. He closed his eyes and accepted the pain.

“OK, Mike. Time’s up,” said the woman in black.

“Now we’d like you to mount this frame,” she said. The handlers were rolling up a metal contraption that had a cross bar at the end closest to the table, a leather strap about a foot wide across the middle, and in back two fiber glass structures which were obviously for his knees, if they were spread apart as far as possible. The handlers helped him get his knees in place and to lay his forearms across the bar in front. It was padded and covered in leather and there was a depression in the middle that reminded him of the head rest at the ophthalmologist’s office. When he rested his ribs on the leather strap he could rest his forehead on the depression in the front bar or on his hands. The frame had him tipped up enough so that the people at the front edge of the table could see how being taken in his ass had affected him, and he could see also, if he tipped his head down just a little. The people at the sides and far side of the table got up and gathered around so they could watch what was happening in the back. He could feel the beat of his heart in his penis.

He could see the tray where the implements had been, as it was on the edge of the table nearest to him. Only the largest remained. It was substantially larger than any penis he remembered seeing. A wave of plain fear washed over him. He gripped the bar where his arms lay. A woman in a silver lame dress picked it up and went behind him. She was very thin, and her legs and flat belly were clearly outlined by the lame. She was holding the implement with both hands. The handlers pulled his buttocks apart, one on each side, and he tensed, expecting to be attacked with the too large phallus. Instead she placed it gently, but firmly, on his anus and left it there. Initially it felt quite cold, but soon warmed up, seeming to transfer sensation to his penis. She moved it back and forth sideways, just a little, and he felt his sphincter loosen. She pushed and it went in a short way, not without pain, but bearable. His erection became stronger. But now she began to push harder. He felt a sharp pain, something tearing. His head came up. He gripped the cross bar and couldn’t help but cry out. Finally it was in all the way. He could feel the guard against his buttocks. She pulled it in and out and in and out and the pain gave way to exquisite heat and his penis felt like it would explode. Finally she left it still for a few moments and slowly drew it out. Faranger felt bereft. He wanted it back.

And he saw, off to his right, that his wish would be addressed. He could see a handler, from the waist down, unbuckling his belt and unzipping. He had no underwear on and Faranger could see that it was the blond. He was fully erect and stood still for a few moments so Faranger could inspect him. Then he went to the back of the frame, pulled Faranger apart and began to plunge into him. To Faranger’s surprise his anus had completely relaxed. He was flooded with a sense of receptiveness, surrender to the human phallus that was plunging into him. It was not as big as the previous silver one and slipped in more easily. The handler put his left arm around Faranger’s waist and grasped his penis with his right hand. He used it to press against Faranger’s pubic area to give himself purchase and began to stroke in and out. As Faranger's rectum relaxed, his penis grew ever harder. When the handler achieved his own climax, he was able to stroke Faranger in the rhythmic way that was needed to bring him to climax. The handler lay his lightly stubbled cheek against Faranger’s back for a few moments, while they both breathed heavily and Faranger's sphincter clenched, to hug the other man's penis again... and again... and again. Finally the man pulled out. Faranger could see that the silver tray had been placed on the floor. The handler took a towel and wiped his hand and genitals, zipped up and left.

He could see the woman in the white dress framed by his legs, just her lower half. It was clear, now, that the dress was totally transparent. He could see that her pubic hair was auburn.

“Please don’t get up just yet,” she said, and began to efficiently wipe his abdomen, where the semen had splashed and his genitals. She dried them and then shifted to his anus. He could see that the towels she dropped into the bowl on the floor were blood stained. “Just one more minute,” she said and applied a cool soothing ointment. “This is arnica montana. It works wonders on swelling and inflammation. And it acts very quickly. You’ll be amazed.” With that she retrieved her silver tray and disappeared into the darkness.

The handlers helped him extricate his knees from the frame and stand upright. They gave him another glass of the pleasant drink and then bound his arms behind him. This time it was the blond who put the cape on him. He seemed just as impersonal as ever, when his knuckles brushed over Faranger. But maybe not. They then proceeded with him to the next station.

“Well, now I know,” he thought. He could savor the memory, but it would be difficult to reproduce. He would need to experience total surrender again, or else it would probably be too painful for pleasure. And achieving total surrender would be complicated.


The handlers positioned him facing the next table, about ten feet away and took a step back, so he could no longer see them.

A man about his own age and build, but with darker coloring approached him. He put his hand inside the cape and slid it slowly up over Faranger's genitals and torso, looking steadily into his eyes as he did so. The intimacy was intense, and Faranger began to swell. The man took hold of the tab, pulled it down slowly, holding his gaze. When it was open, he slowly pushed off Faranger's shoulders, let it fall to the floor and let a hint of a smile appear as he perused Faranger's naked body. But he left the arm restraint in place. He remained very close and took hold of Faranger’s biceps. He closed his eyes and kissed Faranger on the mouth, a dry, light kiss. A shocked Faranger felt himself turn to liquid as the man’s tongue gently probed his closed lips. His mouth opened of its own accord, enough for the man to explore the roof. He felt more invaded than he had when he was raped. His mouth opened wider and the man circled around his tongue with his own, then bit it very gently. Faranger would have collapsed but for the support of one of the handlers below his crossed arms and the pressure of the other man's body pressed against his. His penis became engorged, he could feel it slide against the roughness of the man’s suit until it came to rest along side the other’s erection.

The man pulled his mouth away, but remained pressed against him until Faranger's sensual weakness faded and he could stand on his own. Faranger looked at him with an expression of exhaustion and bafflement and gratefulness. The man then kissed him on the cheek and left.

“Loosen his arms." This from a short, slightly overweight man in a three piece suit. He made Faranger think of a middle level manager, or an accountant.

When his arms were released Faranger again reached to rub the circulation back, but each handler gently placed his wrist in the way. “You may not touch yourself, sir,” reminded the blond. Instead the two again gave each of his arms a firm rub up and down. Faranger then let them hang at his side, feeling inexplicably still bound.

"OK, let's see what we've got," said the moderator. He took Faranger by the upper arms and turned him around. "Yes, good. OK, Mr. Faranger, we here at this station think of ourselves as creative." Faranger was startled at the use of his name. But, of course they would know his name. He'd signed in at the desk with it. The moderator noticed it. "Yes, of course we know who you are. And we might bump into one another out in the real world. But not to worry. No one in The Association has ever breached confidence." The moderator continued. "We do different things each time we meet, depending on our subject. We draw numbers for our order in line, and, of course, you can imagine how order affects each person's opportunities. I get to be the first to do something with you." He picked up a small pile of leather straps from the table. The purpose was unclear until he pulled the straps apart into two pieces, one in each hand. "Do you understand what these are for, sir?"

"I think so," he replied.

"Good. But first we have to clear the playing field. We're only allowed one climax per station, and much of the fun is seeing what turns you on." He suddenly drove his thumbs up into Faranger's groin, on either side of testicles. The pain was intense. He involuntarily cried out and his erection rapidly faded.

"There we go. Now we can start fresh." He handed Faranger a thin leather belt. "Please put this on. Not too high, over your hip bones. The other piece needs to reach."

Faranger put the belt around his hips and fastened it. The moderator stepped back and regarded him thoughtfully. "Yes, that looks good. Don't you find that you feel all the more naked with just that belt on? Well? You must answer!"

"Yes, you're right." Faranger was experiencing ever heightened sexual tension. How could it be that being in the power of this smarmy man affect him this way? But there was no doubt that it did. His pelvis spasmed and the man noticed, and gave him a knowing look.

"OK. Now please attach this." He handed Faranger the other device. It had a leather dowel-like piece about three inches long with three thin straps attached to one end. Velcro strips were attached to each end so that if folded over they could be closed in a loop. The device was lubricated. Blood was flowing to Faranger's genitals at the prospect of what he was being asked to do. He reached behind himself, bent over a little bit and inserted it into his rectum. He was tender from the earlier station, but the salve and the lotion made it tolerable, and the pain soon turned to another erotic thrill. The spasms in his thighs, buttocks and groin were caused as much by the thought of what he was doing as by the feel. He was aware that the blond handler was watching from somewhere in the shadows. Next he took one of the straps and threaded it under the belt in back. He pulled it snug and pressed the velcro together. Finally he bent his knees and spread them so that he could thread the other two straps up either side of his testicles and attach them to the belt in front.

The moderator gave him an assessing look and shifted the front straps so they came straight up instead of at an angle. His knuckles brushed Faranger's penis and lingered in his pubic hair. He grinned. "Like suspenders! Don't you see? Much better." Then he tightened the straps to remove the slight slack he had created. Farnager's testicles were drawn together, and left in an unnatural position. The moderator tightened the velcro then pressed his fingers against the plug, as if adjusting it. To Faranger's dismay, his penis came half way to an erection. "Now, please put this on." He produced a lined collar with studs in it. It was hinged and open. Faranger placed it around his neck and pushed the ends together until they clicked. The click caused a thrill up and down his torso.

"OK, now please mount the podium over there." Faranger turned to face a low podium, no more than a foot high, with a step in back. He approached it when the moderator said, "Stop a minute. Let us look at the rear of you. We don't see enough of it. It's quite attractive." Faranger stood facing away from the group at the table. He could feel the focus of attention on his backside. He became increasingly uncomfortable, wished he could move ahead. He felt a small spasm in his rectum. "Good, good. OK proceed." Faranger mounted the step to the podium and moved to stand in front of the post, where it was clear he was meant to be. His handlers appeared from the shadows and pushed him gently back against the post. The blond put his wrists into a stiff set of manacles, lined with sheepskin, which caused his hands to cross. Faranger couldn't help but view him in a new light. He involuntarily looked at the zipper in the man's pants, but the handler maintained his professional neutrality. There was a rope attached to the manacles which they threw over the top of the post and fixed to a hook in back, having pulled Faranger's arms to their full extension above his head, but short of discomfort. The dark haired handler hooked his collar to the post. Faranger felt even more exposed, tethered this way in front of the gathering, the straps around his lower torso advertising the presence of the butt plug.

"All right. Now we're ready for the second draw. This goes to a couple. Jensens?"

An attractive man and woman, young middle age, approached. Each carried a small pile of leather bands, about two inches wide. The woman smiled at Faranger, and without shifting her gaze bit him gently on the penis. More engorgement.

"Would you please spread your legs?" He obliged, and then, one at a time, they lifted a foot and wrapped the leather around his instep, so that equal lengths trailed out. They then began slowly wrapping the bands around his legs, crossing them over, front and back, front and back, their fingers brushing Faranger's skin. The devastatingly intimate sight of these strangers wrapping his legs caused him to raise his gaze to the invisible ceiling, but their touches became even more vivid. When they had gotten just above his knees the woman said, "Just a minute." They paused and she handed her strands to her companion. She began caressing Faranger's thighs, letting her fingers trail over the contours of his muscles. Then she gently kissed the inside of each thigh, her head pressing up on his swelling testicles. They resumed wrapping, and as they worked their way higher up, Faranger became even more aroused. He didn't understand this, but the mere act of wrapping his legs was pushing his arousal to the edge of pain. When they reached the top, they tied the bands together on the outside of his leg and wrapped them securely around his thigh as high as possible. They had to take turns to have room between his legs as they positioned the second knots inside his groin. They gently pushed his legs back together. The leather combined with the strap already there pushed his testicles forward. As they left each squeezed a buttock in a farewell gesture. It was as if they were squeezing more engorgement into his penis. He began to be obsessed with the prospect of relief.

"Excellent, Jensens! Who would have thought that would work so beautifully!"

Nothing happened for a few more moments... minutes?? Faranger's consciousness of his wrapped legs, erection, naked torso and bound neck and arms, all exposed to the spectators around the table, caused him to writhe as his body was taken over by a sensual wave.

"Ok, now Maria!" A lovely woman with shoulder length blond hair and long diamond earrings approached. Faranger had shifted his gaze up to his crossed hands, but the moderator said, "Ah, Mr. Faranger, you must look each of your tormenters in the eye. Directly, not just a glance."

Faranger did as he was told and she gave him a smile. The forced personal encounter heightened his sense of humiliation and subjugation, and arousal. The arousal was becoming intolerable. But there was nothing to do but tolerate it.

His skin all over was in such a state of sexual tension that when she squeezed the clamps that she attached to his nipples, the overwhelming reaction was one of relief, even as he cried out and electricity stabbed his genitals and his anus spasmed around the plug. She smiled in acknowledgement. Next she leaned down and dragged an earring across his testicles and then across the head of his penis. Faranger bucked, trying to press himself against the stones enough to trigger a climax, but fruitlessly. Then the woman licked his penis from bottom to top. Faranger writhed again, vainly trying to achieve release. She buried her fingers in his pubic hair to hold him still and closed her mouth around his penis. She sucked and he felt a climax building. "Yes!" he cried out. "Oops!" she cried out, as she quickly drew back. She immediately drove her thumbs into the leather cradling his testicles between his legs. She couldn't reach the pressure point used by the moderator, but that was all right. She didn't want him to lose his erection. She just wanted to interfere with the climax. They're playing me like a bass fiddle, Faranger thought ruefully.

"Drat," she said. "That didn't last very long." As she left Faranger the moderator called out, "Eugenia!"

This woman was another young beautiful one, dressed in black, no jewelry, severe page boy hair. She carried three leather thongs. Their gazes met and held, as required.

First she stroked Faranger's stiff penis and smiled appreciatively. "Let's see what we can do about this." She ran one of the thongs across Faranger's penis near the base and attached both ends to the post behind him. She efficiently attached the other two above that one so that his penis was pressed against his belly. Each beat of his heart could be felt clearly under the straps. Maybe this would work all by itself, he thought. She smiled at him again and stepped aside so that her colleagues could get a clear, appreciative look at her handiwork. Then she wrapped her arm around the post behind him and gripped his right flank. She lay her cheek against his belly. A layer of simple desire was added to his hot, impersonal arousal at the feel of her cheek and hair on his skin. She gently licked the tip of his penis. Faranger writhed. Then she worked her tongue into the split at the end. She grasped his testicles and began to massage expertly. Finally his orgasm was allowed to proceed and she pulled her face away. The motion of his hips pressed his penis against the bands painfully, so that each of his cries was a mix of torment and sexual release. He was close to passing out, but the pressure of the edge of the collar against his jaw kept him conscious. In a haze he heard the group at the station applauding.

As soon as his breathing returned to some normalcy, the handlers approached and first removed the collar around his neck and the bindings on his legs. Faranger flinched as scissors were worked underneath the bands of leather tied at the tops of his thighs, but no need. They didn't pierce his skin. After the leg wrappings were efficiently unwound, each man firmly encased a thigh in his palms and drew them down to his ankles, soothing them impersonally. When they removed the nipple clamps, the return of blood caused new pain, but it was a welcome pain. Next they released the bands across his now flaccid penis. The belt was unbuckled, hands brushing his softening genitals, and the three straps slipped off. Then the dark handler grasped his buttocks and pulled them apart and away from the post so that the blond could work out the plug. Faranger was so spent that all of this manipulation produced only a slight contraction of his pelvic muscles.

Before they released his wrists, the attendant came up, again to his side and just a little behind him, so he could only see the top of her head and her arm as she washed and dried his genitals and belly. With the help of the handlers again, she slipped her hand between the post and his buttocks and applied more of the wonderful salve to his rectum, working her finger in oh so gently.

Lastly they released his wrists and then took him down from the podium and left him to stand before the gathered members of the station. The light and changed so that he was in a spotlight and the people were standing in shadow. With all adornments removed he felt more naked than he had at any time since the evening began. His penis was flaccid, no erection to excite their attention, but the group stood quietly around watching him. His legs felt naked. His bare feet were there for inspection. His back and torso felt thrills of exposure. Still no one moved or spoke. Faranger closed his eyes and gave himself up to vulnerability.

Finally the handlers reappeared. They gave him the glass of rejuvenating drink, bound his arms and then left him on display for several more moments before covering him with the cape. The now familiar feel of the handler's knuckles moving over his genitals and torso was mildly stimulating, but also strangely comforting.


As they walked toward the next station Faranger reflected that it might be a good thing that punishment was saved for last. He was getting mentally exhausted by the unremitting psychological torment, the humiliation. He thought he might feel somehow cleaned out if he faced pure physical pain. He found himself perhaps actually craving it. He stood up straighter and picked up his pace.

When they arrived at the last round table in the last pool of light, a refined looking man in a suit stood up. "Ah, welcome, Mr. Faranger." Now, gentleman," he said, addressing the handlers. Please disrobe him and I'll explain what we're about here. You can also unbind his arms." They did as requested. This time, though, the blond caressed his genitals every so fleetingly when he reached the bottom and the men exchanged the faintest of smiles. They then gave his arms a swift one stroke rub down and left Faranger standing before the moderator and the table of associates behind him.

"We are the most scientific and practiced of the groups in The Association. We've studied whipping strategies, and we know what works and doesn't. The goal is to bring you to orgasm without resorting to any other method than pain. We're always successful." He picked up a pointer, like a teacher might use to indicate markings on a blackboard. Instead he indicated places on Faranger's body. "The overall strategy is to avoid your genitals and buttocks until the very last. This focuses your attention. You'll find you're craving pain in those very regions. We're highly skilled at wielding the whips and we'll land very close, but never touching those areas. Indeed, when we aim here," he touched Faranger in his pubic hair, "we'll have one of your helpers hold your erection out of the way. By that time you'll definitely have an erection, guaranteed. And here," he touched the joint where Faranger's thigh met his torso, "they'll hold your scrotum out of the way. So, this will be the sequence. I expect you're already feeling a warm tingling in those areas. Yes?"

"We'll start with the least erogenous area, your calves." He tapped Faranger's calves with his pointer. "Next we'll lash your back. In each area there will only be four strikes, sometimes by one person, sometimes divided between two. The heaviest whip will be used on your back. Mr. Aiello is able to guide the whip down here, he stroked Faranger's hip, but not touch your buttocks." Faranger cringed inwardly as the stroke of the pointer down his back created vivid images of whip strokes, but he also experienced an erotic spasm in his lower abdomen, which he was sure was apparent to the onlookers.

"Then we move to your abdomen." He let the pointer drift down the center. "You might think that would be the penultimate erogenous zone, but really, it's here." He stroked Faranger's inner thighs from torso to knee. "You'll see. Next, we'll torture your penis. We won't use an actual whip. Instead we'll use an instrument just for that purpose." He pointed at Faranger's penis, but didn't touch it. "By that time you will need this badly. You will be grateful for the pain. Finally, we'll use this instrument to whip your buttocks so hard that you will ejaculate. Guaranteed. Works every time." He picked up an object from the table. It was a piece of thin board, about 8 inches wide and two feet long with a handle at one end. On one side of it another, even thinner, board was affixed with hinges. The moderator slammed the board onto the table making a terrific sound that was followed almost simultaneously by the sound of the second board slamming home. "We don't like to call this a paddle, too juvenile. This is an instrument of torture, pure and simple, particularly in the hands of Mr. Mangu over there." He pointed to a large man whose muscles were clearly defined under the jersey under his sport coat. "This will certainly leave you seriously bruised, but, as we promise in our marketing, no permanent injury."

By this time Faranger was not sure at all that the punishment station was a good idea. But there was nothing for it but to hang in there.

"Now, just a word about the injuries our whips inflict." He picked up a whip with dozens of leather thongs, each tipped with a very small stainless steel ball. "These little balls will bruise you. Sometimes they draw blood, but usually not, except for your back. That whip is a standard bull whip. The clever thing about our weapons and our training is that we can leave you with lines of bruises straight up and down your body. Quite amazing, really. So, for instance, you'll have a line from here to here." He drew his pointer from Faranger's chest to his pubic hair, just to the left of his left nipple. "And one from here to here." He traced a line from Faranger's throat, just to the left of his breast bone down to a point just above and to the left of his penis. "And two more lines on the other side. We're very proud of our technique." He smiled in a self satisfied way. "The design is very important too. You see the thongs are spread out along a cross bar, sort of like a garden rake, but look. There's just a very slight difference in the length. The outer thongs are longer than the middle ones. This is so they make a straight line when they're flung out." He smiled again with satisfaction.

"OK. Would you get the whips and things over there on that table, and distribute them to the associates?"

Faranger was on the verge of feeling faint with fear, but went to the table that was indicated. All of the instruments except the wooden one were in a single pile. He picked it up and went back to the moderator's side. "Just pick out something. The right person will ask for it." Faranger grasped what looked like a whip for a horse. A brawny man to his right leaned over and took it. Next was a shorter whip with dozens of thongs. It was the one the moderator had used in his talk. A middle aged woman reached for it. She was part of the couple who had been ahead of him at the registration desk. "There's another one in there. They come as a set." Faranger found it and handed it to her partner. He handed a similar pair to another couple, a metal contraption that looked like a large hair curler to a young woman" Then he picked up the infamous wooden instrument and handed it to Mangu. Each time he handed over an instrument he had looked the recipient in the eye, but this time, instead of feeling subjugation, he had the sense that he was a client handing out equipment for people to perform a service. And, as a matter of fact, that was exactly what the situation was.

"Fine, fine." Said the moderator. Now we need to tie you in place. Please step over here." He indicated a space lit up by a small spotlight. There were ankle bracelets chained to the floor about 3 feet apart, and wrist bracelets hanging from a bar attached to an arm attached to a heavy pedestal. The arm was long enough so that there was no impediment to accessing Faranger from any angle. Faranger's wrists were shackled and his arms spread out and raised. Like DaVinci's man in a circle, he thought. This time his ankles were also chained. The moderator's talk about genitals and buttocks was already making him begin to feel full in just those places, and nothing had yet happened. He was glad his hands were shackled, in case he simply collapsed from fright. The purity of pain! he thought scornfully. Bullshit! What could be more of a psychological game than this business of focusing on something by not touching it. But he was helpless. It worked. He longed for someone to just slap his dick and his ass. Hard!

The first associates to approach him were a young couple. Their whips had dozens of thongs, of slightly different lengths, attached the handle in a conventional fashion. They took turns, each slamming his calves twice in turn. It hurt, certainly, but the moderator was right. Much of the sensation was arousal in his genitals and buttocks.

Next came the man with the heavy whip. As Faranger watched him he felt an exquisite rush of fear mixed with arousal. The man went behind Faranger, just out of his field of vision. He waited for several moments. Faranger tensed in anticipation, digging his fingers into his palms. Finally a blow came, diagonally from shoulder to hip. The tip of the whip snaked down his right side, next to his buttock. But, of course, not touching it. The same thing happened from the other direction much quicker than Faranger expected or could prepare for. His back was already aflame when the whip landed across his shoulder blades, and just below his waist. His whole back throbbed, as did the focal points, which had not yet been touched.

Then two women approached and positioned themselves on either side of him. The blond handler came and gently held Faranger's penis down as far as was possible. The touch gave him no relief. It only inflamed him. The women took it in turn to lay almost perfectly straight stripes down his torso. The second strike caught in some pubic hairs. "Oh, I'm so sorry!" one of the women said, apparently with sincerity, as she pulled them out to release the whip. Faranger had strength enough to smile to himself through the pain at the irony of it.

The fourth people to take their turn were an older couple, almost elderly. Their whips were short and of the "rake" structure. The blond handler raised Faranger's scrotum. Faranger gripped the chains holding his wrist manacles. The couple first whipped Faranger's inner thighs in the front, swinging from above his thighs. But for the second blows, they came at him from behind and marked his inner thighs toward the back. The moderator was right. This was even more painful and erotic than the blows on his torso. It's almost over. What will happen? Will I come through all this pain?

Finally the avoidance strategy was over. The young woman with the metal cylinder approached him. She slipped it over his penis and began to draw the two sides together. It was rough inside, much like a fine cheese grater. She carefully watched Faranger's face and his erection, extracting the most pain possible without causing it to collapse. He gritted his teeth and flung his head back, groaning, suppressing a loud cry. When she removed the device Faranger felt some relief, but still craved completion.

The man with the wooden paddle approached. He paused long enough to engage Faranger's gaze, his own face expressionless. Fear and anticipation and sexual tension overwhelmed him, cringing and craving at the same time. And then it came, a powerful blow to his buttocks. Semen shot from his body. He cried out in pain and climax, a second time. A third time. There was no fourth blow. Faranger was clearly finished. The man returned to the table and sat down.

Faranger panted for several moments and then gave a long sigh, grateful that the pain was finally sufficient to meet his needs. He could rest now.


And, indeed, rest came quickly. When the handlers arrived, Faranger was hanging by his wrists, so one held him up with an arm around his waist while the other unshackled him. The handlers didn't put on the arm restraints or the cape, nor did they let him sit down. Instead they brought his arms across their shoulders and made their way directly to a cage in the crescent of the three stations. It was about four feet high and set on a four foot high stand. A circle of lights was switched on around them. The cage was large enough to comfortably accommodate a man lying down on the padded surface, with a small leather pillow, and there was more space between the pillow and the end of the cave. "The door will be locked until morning, so, of course, you'll have to spend the night here," said the darker handler. "But it also prevents the spectators from touching you with anything but their hands. The sedative we'll give you is strong enough that you should be able to get a few hours of good sleep anyway."

There was a narrow urinal attached to one outside corner, appearing to be made of rose quartz. “Go ahead,” said the blond handler. “The rule against touching yourself is over.”

Faranger took advantage of the opportunity, reflecting on how the word “relieve” could be so especially appropriate in certain circumstances. He was aware that there were people in the surrounding darkness watching him. But it no longer mattered. He and the handler watched the stream swirl down the quartz and then Faranger lifted himself onto the floor of the cage and sat with his legs hanging over the edge. The dark one fetched a glass from a shelf on the end of the cage. "This drink has no stimulant," he said. "Instead it will relax you and allow you to sleep if you wish." Faranger drank it down. No bubbles, just a soothing herbal taste.

“Would you like me to contact your after you leave here?” asked the blond. Faranger valued the memory of his violation, but... ”No, I think not. But thank you. Thank you for everything.” Both handlers nodded and said, “Goodbye, sir.” “Goodbye”, said Faranger.” He pulled his legs into the cage and lay down on his stomach, exhausted.

The white gowned attendant arrived and climbed in, after setting down her silver tray in the space above the pillow. "There's some bleeding on your back. This will sting a little, but it will stop the bleeding." It stung a lot - teeth grinding, but as the sting faded so did the burning pain. It felt wonderful. But even better was when she rubbed lotion into his buttocks with a firm, kind, circular motion. He knew he was badly bruised. She applied ointment from a tube to his anus and then proceeded to rub lotion onto the bruises along his thighs and calves. The ointment was cool and warm at the same time. Her hands were wonderfully gentle. The whipping was almost worth the pleasure of this treatment.

“Could you turn over, please? I’ll do your front.” Now I can see her, he thought. But she was sitting sideways with her head bent. Her hair prevented his getting a good look and he was too tired to make an effort to catch a better glimpse.

He spread his legs enough for her to reach the whole length of the marks on his thighs. She applied the same treatment to his chest and legs, and as she worked her way down his body, he could only see her back. When she gently soothed his bruised penis he thought he would once again be dragged into arousal, but the drink had done its job. There was only a slight swelling. He was on the edge of sleep. He luxuriated in surrendering himself to her care. His body had been engulfed in stripes of pain since the whippings, but now he was only sore.

When she left he turned on his side, rested his head in his left hand and pulled his top leg up. It's how he usually went to sleep. The lights had dimmed considerably. He couldn't see any spectators just before he closed his eyes, but presently he felt hands on him here and there. He felt no inclination to look to see who they were until someone softly brushed his hair back from his forehead. He opened his eyes a little bit and looked into the face of the woman with the black glasses. That's OK, was his last thought before he fell asleep.


Some hours later he surfaced from sleep to become aware of an arm across his chest. He stirred just a little and realized that there was a body close against his own. Female. The light was very dim, but he could see clearly that it was the attendant, naked now, but more importantly, he could see her face! It wasn't a beautiful face. It was a wonderful face! It's planes and curves tugged on his memory. Its idiosyncrasy called to him. He leaned on his elbow and took it between his hands. Ah! He hadn't touched anything in hours! He was overwhelmed. She opened her eyes and put her arms around him. There was a hitch in his breathing. Is this what the mean when they say your heart turned over?

She turned to her side and he was certainly aware of her softness pressed against the length of him, but he couldn't really turn his attention from her face. He kissed her eyes and her cheeks and her mouth. A chaste, getting to know you kiss. He leaned back to see the whole of her face again. It was sufficient for now.

"I'm so glad to see you," he said, a many layered comment.

"And I you," she smiled.

"What's your name?"

"Sandra. Sandra Fremont."

"I guess you know mine."

"Yes. Oh, yes."

She moved her arm up and down his back and kissed him. He took her face in his hands and she returned the gesture. They opened their mouths and their tongues engaged in delighted exploration. His hands roved over her marvelously soft body. Her breasts filled them to overflowing. Ah! it was so good to have agency. To be able to initiate action! And what action! He buried his face between her breasts. He kissed his way down to her sex and found her swollen and wet.

Of course he had an erection by now, but it was not the turgid, throbbing organ of over stimulation. It was the wholly adequate means of joining with another person. He slid the tip slowly between her folds, over her swollen clitoris. Her welcoming vagina seemed to coax him inside. After his climax he rested on his arms in the quiet to hear her soft noises and feel the waves inside her embrace him. They lay together with his head on one breast and his hand on the other. She nestled her cheek against his forehead and held him in her arms.

Some time later Faranger awoke and found their positions reversed. She was sleeping with her head on his shoulder. Her hair fell across her cheek so he could hardly see her face. It was a picture of her that he treasured, but he gently drew her hair back anyway He watched her fondly until her eyes opened. "Look at you!" he said endearingly.

"Look at you," she corrected sleepily.

They turned toward one another and wrapped their arms around each other. "I can't believe this," said Faranger, his face buried between her neck and shoulder.

"Believe it. I believe everyone has left. Come with me. We can take a shower. Our clothes and things are waiting for us."

They held hands as they headed into the dark edge of the hall. The changing room was a medium sized, brightly lit space. Their clothes were hanging in a small alcove. He kissed her again lightly as they stepped into the shower and several times as they slowly soaped one another. They reveled in the feel of the other's body under their palms and fingers.


“Ahhh, that feels so good!” said Faranger as he pulled his snug boxer briefs up to his waist.

“Yes,” said Sandra, executing the last wiggle to get her sheer tights in place. “There’s a wonderful security about clothing.”

"Do you have to be somewhere?" he asked. "Do you have time for breakfast?"

"A short one. Coffee shop? I have a meeting at nine."

"Where do you work?"

"I'm a financial analyst at Grimsby Hawthorne."

"No! Me too! Well, not at Grimsby Hawthorne. I actually own my own small investment firm. But it's nice to know we can talk about our work. Don't you think?"

"Yeah, I think," she said with a smile that almost wrinkled her nose. "Can I tie your tie for you? I love tying men's ties." She stood in front of him and tied the tie. When she was done she ran her hands down his crisp white shirt front. When she reached his belt she slid them around behind and down and pulled their bodies together. They embraced and kissed for a long time.

They exited the building to find a glorious spring day. Faranger thought that the leaves must be just a little bigger than they were yesterday, but he couldn't tell. They took hands and headed down the street, grinning at each other every now and then like children playing hooky. They went into a coffee shop on the corner across from the park. Faranger went to the counter to get their croissants and coffee, and when he sat down again he said, "So... was the whole night part of your contract?"

"No, not at all. I just wanted to be with you so badly! My contract only required that I stay the night so I could show you the changing room and lock the door on the way out."

"Ah... ah.. This is just..."

"Yes, isn't it." Smile.

"Would you like to have dinner tonight?"

"Oh, for sure! We have to."

"At Chez Donald? At 6 for drinks? I think it's about half way between where we work."

"That sounds just right."

They ate for a while, looking up from their food repeatedly, to savor the circumstances. Finally Faranger said, "Well, I guess it's time to start the day. I have to go say 'Hi' to Stephanie and Pederson." Sandra put her hand over his, with a consoling look. They went out of the coffee shop, shared a gentle kiss and headed off in opposite directions.

Faranger walked up the street along the park, and when he entered the building and walked up to Stephanie’s desk, he was sorry for her obvious fright. Her eyes uncontrollably went to the flat front of his pants. He smiled. “Stephanie, I wanted to thank you for your help last night. And to tell you that things will be normal. You don’t need to worry about any repercussions.” She nodded, still wordless. He knew he was doing her a favor by leaving right away.

He went up the stairs at a clip and headed straight for Pederson’s desk. Pederson was always there early. Pederson wasn’t overtly frightened, but he looked at Faranger with concern. “Hi, Ralph.” (He’d looked up the first name on his phone.) “Thanks for your help last night. You were brilliant,” he said with an ironic smile. “No need to worry about any repercussions.” Pederson nodded tentatively.

On the way to his office, Faranger savored the thought that whenever he was near Pederson or Stephanie he could expect a frisson of recollection of his night at Twelve Maxbridge Street.

At five o'clock he got out the business card that Sandra had given him and dialed her work number. "I can't wait till six. Can you get away now?"

"Yes, I can. I'll see you at the restaurant in 10 minutes?"

"See you then."

When they saw each other they embraced eagerly. "I'm so glad to see you!"

"Me too!"

They took a small table in the bar, ordered drinks and started nibbling peanuts.

“So, we know what I was doing there last night, said Faranger. "How did you come to be there?”

“Once or twice a year I sign up to be a sex slave for a weekend. This time they gave me to The Association for the night. Yes, I guess I know why you were there. But how did you find out about it?”

“I called a phone number I found in a cryptic ad in a magazine. I asked them to send me information. This is what they sent me.” He leaned over and picked up his briefcase. He set it on his lap and opened it just a little way. He drew out an envelope and pulled out a stiff card bordered in black. It was about three inches by eight inches. In elegant printing it said:

The Association

We can provide a night of

pain and sexual humiliation


Confidentiality is guaranteed.

There will be no permanent injury, photography or film.

Call 1-617-555-5555 for an appointment.

He smiled at her. “So I signed up.”

She said, “Do you think you’ll ever do anything like this again?”

“I don’t know. It’s too soon. Right now I have no inclination, and I have a hard time imagining that anything wouldn't be an anti-climax. Sic," he added, with a nod to the double meaning. "Certainly I don't have any other people in my life like Pederson and Stephanie." His smile turned wry.

"And you? Will you continue your weekends?”

“Probably. But maybe not. We’ll see.” She smiled back.

He put his hand over hers. "Did you see everything?"

Softly, "Yes. I saw everything." She placed her other hand over his.

He picked it up and kissed the back of it. "I think I'm glad."

Dinner was delicious. It fit with the deliciousness of the whole evening. They dived into getting to know each other. "Well, I'm relieved that we agree on politics," she said. "I can't imagine how couples like James Carville and Mary Matalin do it. Do you think they debate every evening over supper? Or d'you think that they long ago agreed just not to talk politics? What DO they talk about? Politics are their lives."

"Dunno. It's a mystery."

When they'd eaten most of their dinner Sandra said, "Why don't you come and spend the night at my house? The stores are still open. We can get you a fresh shirt and tie and run your underwear through the wash."

Faranger laughed a little bit. "I don't think I'll be up for anything for a while."

"Of course not, silly. Who knows better than I do that you need to recover. But wouldn't it be nice just to hold each other for a long time?"

"Yes, it would be very, very nice. Let's go get me a shirt and tie."


"I can get good seats to the Celtics tonight," said John. "Do you like basketball?"

"Well, sure. I can't say I'm educated about it, but it goes fast. And I really do prefer those uniforms to football and hockey," she said grinning.

"It's my main sport. I like football on TV," but that's about it.

"I like the food and company around football. But I only really watch when there's about to be a touchdown."

"Well, good. I'll get the tickets.


"I found a Cape Verdean restaurant. Want to try it tonight?" he asked one morning over breakfast.

"Sure! I like trying out new kinds of restaurants. I've always wanted to try Ethiopian, for instance."

"I know of one. If you like that sort of thing we could make it a kind of ritual to try a different ethnic restaurant every week or so until we've exhausted what Boston has to offer. Wanna?"

"Yeah! That's a great idea. Where is Cape Verde anyway?"

"I used to think it was in the Caribbean, but it's in Africa."


"No!," he snorted. "No way am I taking a walk in the rain when it's 45 degrees out. I wouldn't take a walk in the rain if it were 75 degrees out. Don't you have a girlfriend who likes that kind of idiocy?"

"Yeah, I do. I'll call her. I guess I ought to stoke my friendships. I've been neglecting people."


They had established that they had different tastes in pop music, but they had already mutually enjoyed the symphony and a chamber music concert when she asked "Do you like jazz?"

"Well, I don't really know much about it. But one of my fondest memories, is when I was in college and heard a jazz trio at the Carlyle in Manhattan. I don't know if the music made it so special or just the ambience."

"Well, let's see if you do like it. There's a great, small jazz club I'd like us to go to."

"You're on."


"So how about we don't do anything special tonight?" she said. "We can have soup and a sandwich at my place and read and then watch some movie in bed."

"Do you have tomato soup? And cheese for grilled cheese?"

"I do. But you don't have a book."

"Yes, I do. I've got one book at my place and a different one at yours. I read them concurrently."

"Then we have a plan. We'll walk, OK?"

"Sounds perfect to me."



I hope you liked Twelve Maxbridge Street, but whether you did or not, I'm very interested in readers' reactions. Please write a review OR send an e-mail to

I'm sure this book is a one-off. I won't be writing any more. I'd like to tell you the story of how it came about and ask you some questions.

I'm a 76 year old happily married heterosexual woman with two grown children and four incredible grandchildren. My fantasy life has always centered around masochism, but I had never taken the male point of view with the exception of a short period in elementary school when I was on a Robin Hood kick. I've never attempted, nor felt the desire to act out my fantasies with other real human beings.

At my age my fantasies had gotten less frequent, understandably. But in the week before Christmas of 2020 and into the first week of 2021 my consciousness, day and night was suddenly flooded with the story you've just read. I would experience strong erotic spasms like John Faranger does. This was a dramatic first for me in regards to the intensity, the constancy and the duration of the fantasy. I refined the details until I began to entertain the idea of writing it down. I took a lot of pleasure in the pure writing aspect of it. And I still do. I tweak it from time to time and am preparing to issue a new revision as soon as I get this Afterward tidied up. So if you are inclined to re-read it, please download a new copy.

It took some time to get over the hump of writing and publishing it with absolutely no chance of being discovered, even if I suddenly died. But I did get over the hump. Learning that I could publish an ebook very easily and "sell" it for free was a big deal. (I can't afford to receive 1099s, no matter how small.)

One question I have for you, my readers, is has anything like this ever happened to you? Both the suddenness and the male perspective? Please answer in a review or e-mail.

The second question is this. Did the inclusion of a straight love story enhance or spoil the book for you? I had never had fantasies about vanilla romance in my life. So to have Sandra turn into the important person in John's life that she did was a surprise to me. She started out as a means to get him cleaned up between stations. But I was extremely satisfied with what happened in the Love and Life chapters. Did you notice the use of "perfect" in both the opening and ending paragraphs of the story? I didn't notice it myself until it was done.

Thank you! And please write a review, pro or con, or contact me at

P. S. It is now five months later and it turns out that Twelve Maxbridge Street is not a one-off. The hormonal surge that triggered it had largely faded when I undertook to come up with a new fantasy. I imagined a man, standing naked, on display. There it was, and slowly the story in Naked unfolded, to be followed by The Recurrence, published in one book, Naked and The Recurrence, . The book is also available at Kobo, , and Barnes and Noble, .Once again, I'm almost certain that there will be no more books. But I've added "almost" to my prediction.


I've received feedback from more than one person to the effect that "men don't experience erotic large muscle spasms the way women do." I did a little online research and here is my response:


1 - Men do experience such contractions when the prostate is directly stimulated. There are a number of videos on the internet that illustrate this phenomenon.


2 - Women can experience them in the absence of physical stimulation. I am evidence of that.


3 - Men can experience a genital orgasm in the absence of physical stimulation. (Wet dreams and much other testimony.)


4 - It stands to reason that men can experience erotic large muscle contractions in the absence of physical stimulation.