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Paul takes me under his guidance.

While he had never stinted in his professional duties he now performed them with increased diligence and vigor, for all of his clients but most especially for her. It was hard for any of them not to notice. It was during the nighttimes though, when he was alone and had no other activities to channel his growing tensions, that he strained and chafed both physically and mentally as his thoughts almost always ranged on her. Often, such as during his Friday evening ritual and reward which she still allowed, it was a sweet agony, but it was always agony nonetheless.

Every Wednesday when he was finished with his outside labors for the day, as per instructions he would fetch a basin of water and soap, two wash towels, and one larger one for drying, and bring them to here where Rhianne waited in the living room seated on the edge of her couch. At her beckoning he would stand in front of her and lower both of his pants to the floor around his ankles. She would then take the key from the end table drawer and unlock and remove the device and hand it to him to wash and clean, while she attended to his cleansing.
She was never gentle with her scrubbing, in large part to keep his excitement from growing too much during these brief periods of freedom. When this was not completely successful, a firm, uncomfortable squeeze and twist in the right place served to help keep him soft and pliant. All too quickly, and always far too soon for him, he was being dried off and re encased in his cage. The key was then carefully put back in the drawer in a position only she could see, and he was sent on his way for the day.

But the tension continued to grow, and one Wednesday, almost six weeks after his captivity had begun, just as she finished roughly drying him and was preparing to re imprison him, he could stand it no more and fell to his knees before her.

"Ma'am, please ..." he pleaded.

Taken a bit aback, she stared down at him long and hard for an uncomfortably prolonged time. Finally her face softened and she sighed.

"I guess men do have their needs, if only for the maintenance of their health."

She paused a moment more, then,

"You may touch yourself, Rory."

With a soft moan of gratitude he brought up a shaky hand and lightly encircled his already stiff and standing manhood. Oh, after so long it felt so good. If only ...

"You may stroke it." she continued.

Oh God yes. He began to slowly run his fingers, feather softly, up and down his shaft. He so wanted to savor this but soon, almost of their own volition, his fingers tightened and the pace quickened, as did his breathing. Before long he was pumping and groaning furiously, and he knew that he was so close. But just as instinctively he knew ...

"Please Ma'am, please ... may I ... please." he panted plaintively.

She remained silent for several moments as he strove mightily to hold back. Finally ...

"Yes, you may spew. But don't you dare make a mess. Catch every bit of it. If even a drop falls on my rug there'll be hell to pay"

Permission gloriously granted he brought his other hand up in front of him, and with a few more vigorous strokes ...

He erupted. Great gouts of jism spurted forth in wave after wave into his waiting hand, accompanied by his helpless guttural grunting. It went on and on, for how long he could never guess as he continued to pump and squeeze until the waves became driblets and then last drops, none spilling from his hand. He slumped back onto his heels.

Rory had masturbated innumerable times in his life, and had had intercourse with more than a few women, but never had the experience been so intense ... so draining ... as what had just occurred. All beneath her discerning gaze. Totally spent and in a daze, all he could do was stare at the huge pearly puddle in his palm. It was Rhianne who finally broke the silence.

"I suppose that we'll now have to allow this from

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