It was a very pleasant date, all in all. She was lovely and funny, and the curves beneath her dress made me very aware of the hopeful bulge in my jeans. She seemed shy, though, and I did not feel quite ready for 'the talk' just yet. Still, when she insisted I come in for a while, I humored her. That was my first mistake.
My second was accepting the drink.
When I woke, head groggy and mouth dry, I struggled to remember. We had gotten into a conversation about...Star Trek? Some show we both liked, anyway. Nothing sinister. I could not recall actually losing consciousness, but clearly that had happened at some point.
I lay supine on a firm bed, pressure around my wrists and ankles, a solid rubbery object in my mouth. I could feel dry air from a ventilation system on my skin--all of my skin. Even my jockstrap was gone, though the silicone prosthesis remained, its weight against my crotch unmistakable. So much for 'the talk.'
When I tried to move, I found my limbs firmly tethered. I could not see through the blindfold, but by stretching one arm out I could just barely get my fingertips on the nylon strap anchoring my cuff. Its latch was padlocked.
Next I tried overwhelming the bonds by main force, flexing wiry muscles and twisting my body. The bed frame barely even creaked. After a few minutes of struggling, I flopped back, breathing hard. Then, quite suddenly, something seized my erect prosthesis. I froze.
"You took long enough waking up," said my date's voice, just as cheery and nonchalant as before. "I was growing impatient."
She must have stolen into the room while I was occupied with my escape attempts, for I had not heard her at all. She stroked gently, making the bulb that anchored the prosthesis inside me nudge my g-spot. Her other hand crept up to my chest, fingers tracing the scars around my right areola, then pinching the nipple--hard.
Pain shot through me. The whole area had been hypersensitive ever since the operation. My back arched off of the bed, but I gritted my teeth and kept silent. I wasn't going to give her the satisfaction.
"Oh, good," she said, "I was afraid the nerve damage might have prevented you from feeling that." The hand on my prosthesis never stopped moving. I was starting to get wet. "Would you like to see?"
She did not wait for an answer, not that I could have spoken through the gag. The blindfold came off, and the lights were low enough not to dazzle me, though still bright enough to see by.
She loomed over me, completely nude. Her pale blond hair draped over her shoulders, her breasts large and shapely. She was tall and solidly built, and even where her waist narrowed she did not look willowy or weak. Her hips were wide and I could clearly see the trimmed blonde patch of pubic hair between her slightly parted legs.
I'm not sure how long I stared, salivating--which was quite troublesome, as the gag made swallowing a very obvious effort--while she stroked my flesh-colored prosthesis. At last, she must have grown tired of jerking, for she climbed onto the bed and straddled me. The scent of her arousal blossomed into the air as she did so, and my head swam.
