Chapter Fourteen: Home, Bitter Home
Evenings were hell, a return to loneliness, a self-imposed solitary confinement. Returning home was the equivalent of lowering myself into a dark insect infested pit. It was a deep well with a dank and slimy interior. I had no interests or hobbies and now no appetite outside Biprods Incorporated. I existed solely for Ms. Handlesmen and no one, nor anything else mattered. I didn't want anything else to occupy my mind. I tried to leave my thoughts at the company whenever my body returned to this mausoleum, the coffin of Dracula. I left my mind kneeling at the feet of my new found lover where it could do no harm. Evenings were a purgatory the Catholic Church could not purge from existence, even by edict.
Every evening became a carbon copy of the last. I returned home about seven o'clock, or after midnight if I was lucky. I always undressed and stepped into an alternating hot and cold shower. I took long showers, bathing myself as best I could, and Ms. Handlesmen was always there with me, watching from over my shoulder. I couldn't look at myself in the mirror without seeing her. She had developed into my conscience, my superego, and thankfully ruled over me while we were separated.
Bathing was a challenge, a trial by fire. Controlling my hands as they soaped my body down was an ordeal in self-control, the troubled acceptance of denial and bouts with madness. Once I'd been rendered hairless the madness became an arduous free fall into insanity's vertigo, a never ending tail-spin.
Like the vision of an icon imprinted on a mystics mind, I was zeroing in on a clear and concise vision of Ms. Handlesmen. An ethereal representation of the one I adore, my guiding principle and regulator of my self-control. So clear became my thoughts of her I could see and feel her standing near me at almost all times, and the lapses, those quick moments of indiscretion were diminishing rapidly. I soon took to conversing with my icon, talking aloud, asking her permission before I acted.
My smooth hairless condition accented the awareness I had of myself and exaggerated my sensations. It was exhilarating, as if I were touching myself for the first time, but when it came to my behind the extreme discomfort slowed me down. Here the pain yet battered me with memories I wanted to forget, those intense preludes to perfect endings.
I turned so the water hit my back and cascaded down over my buttocks, but even that proved painful beyond measure. Being extremely gentle, I landed my palms on the burning cheeks of my sore behind. My hot buttocks sizzled and turned the water cold in comparison. Never had any part of me been so inflamed. I lathered my cheeks carefully, with tediously slow round motions, as tears welled in my eyes. Like the pounding of several wild rock drummers gone berserk, the memories of the spankings hammered away in my head.
I had to reset the temperature of the water a couple of times. I had to have colder and colder water washing over my cheeks. As they fizzed and hissed I looked down at my cock. It was as hard as ever and I dreaded having to bathe it. I feared the thought of touching it. In its presence, I was a doubtful unsure little boy. I barely had the courage to look at it, much less lather it without stroking it. Like a naughty satyr, it called me to play with the mystical tune of a Pied Piper. It demanded pleasure, screamed to be petted, yanked, whacked and brought to completion. Like a frightened child I looked down at it in awe and respect, a large pearl of arousal even now beading from its head.
Thank goodness Ms. Handlesmen was there to help, in my minds eye, with me, with her suggestions and warnings. She reminded me of the claim she had laid on me. How could I even consider upsetting things now and why? I was allowed to bathe and dry her toy, but nothing more. It was not my organ, but the toy of my lover. I simply carried it around for her, or should I say, it had me carry it around for her. Even it had more control over me then I did.