Hello, Horny Readers! While the poor sap who made the mistake of wandering into Miss Brighton’s wing of sploshing horror marinates in molasses, another hotel patron will make his way to the hotel spa for some relaxation through prostate milking. Not only does he not know that this is exactly what he needs, but as is often the case in the world of female domination, he doesn’t know that he will get what he needs whether he wants to or not.
He hasn’t been sleeping well, you see. His room is well-appointed, the bed comfortable, the sheets ultra luxe, the room service sumptuous, the view sublime . . . all should be well. But he’s been having “nightmares” that feature the cries of men and the cruel laughter of women coming up through the vents at night, and now they’ve even begun to haunt him in the day. He resolves to see his physician when he returns home because the stress that induced him to go on this little vacation in the first place seems to be following him.
At the suggestion of the concierge, he decides to book himself a massage. It can come none too soon; the stress and paranoia even has him fancying that he sees a smirk on her face as she offers him a complimentary appointment. But you know by now, those of you who have been following every episode of this haunted hotel, that he isn’t hallucinating, that his nightmares are real and that this complimentary spa treatment will haunt him long after he has returned to his life in the city.
Prostate milking: a true “deep tissue” technique!
Our hapless hotel guest enters the small room the receptionist indicates, wrapped in a fluffy white robe. Despite the therapeutic environment, the sense of the foreboding still clings to him. All is clean and low-lit, with a fresh, natural scent in the air. Except for the soft music playing, there’s a general hush.
The receptionist had instructed him to remove his robe and slip under the sheet on the therapy table, prone. She told him to rest his face in the cradle, and that his therapist would be in shortly.
He follows her directions and then closes his eyes, willing himself to relax. Inhaling and exhaling deeply, he makes a note to himself to ask the therapist to try a different essential oil than the one that infuses the air, as this one, for a reason he can’t quite place, doesn’t agree with him. Rather than relaxed, it makes him feel groggy, almost disoriented. But that doesn’t stop him from dozing off while he waits.
He snaps out of his light snore at the sound of the door gently opening and closing, and within the narrow field of vision directly below the face cradle, he soon sees a pair of petite bare feet. They are lightly tanned, with bright red painted toenails. She has slim ankles clad in black yoga pants.
“Hello,” the therapist says softly. “My name is Rachel. You just relax, and We’ll have you opened up and leaking stress in no time.”
He tries to speak, to tell her about the essential oil, but realizes with mild alarm that he can’t seem to form the words. All he can manage is a dough-tongued grunt, and his eyes widen at the sound of his own helplessness. He tries to get up, but that, he soon realizes, is fruitless too.
“Let’s put some more oil in the diffuser. It has the effect of relaxing every muscle in your body, even your sphincter. And that’s the most important, now isn’t it?”
Prostate milking is the key to male surrender.
Now his alarm rises to panic, as well as confusion at the mention of his sphincter, but his inability to manage more than a muffled moan persists. He feels the goosebumps rise on his skin as the pretty feet slowly pad from his view. The sheet slips from his body, leaving him completely exposed. His eyes dart from side to side, apparently the only part of him that he can move voluntarily. He hears the light tink of glass against glass, and the scent of the essential oil rises to an almost cloying level.
“Did you know,” Rachel continues quietly as her oiled hands glide across the gooseflesh of his back, buttocks, and legs, “that the center of stress in the lives of many men is the prostate? That’s why this therapy is so helpful. Modern man tends to subconsciously resist the idea of prostate milking, and it causes him to clinch the sphincter almost all the time. Sometimes getting this tension in the prostate to release can be almost painful, as there’s so much build-up. We take care of the learned impulse to struggle physically, but if there’s discomfort, it usually comes from psychological resistance. So you’ll have to try very hard to surrender mentally, and let the treatment do its work.”
At this, he feels a single finger graze down the crack of his ass, and another grunt leaks out of his slackened lips, along with a single string of drool. Much to his chagrin, he finds that one part of his body besides his eyes isn’t immobilized, as his cock becomes painfully erect, pinned between his body and the table. Almost as if she is reading his mind, Rachel reaches beneath him and, after a teasing pump or two, positions it more comfortably.
“Men are so centered on the penis as a means of relieving stress. Personally, I think it would do them a world of good to leave off penile stimulation altogether, and masturbate solely through prostate milking. You’ll probably find, after this session, that standard masturbation doesn’t offer you the satisfaction you’re used to, and more importantly, that there’s a new hunger inside you that only a vigorous prostate milking can satiate.”
Something told him, though he didn’t understand the specifics of how or why, that there was no “probably” about it, and that this was all by design. He feels like a captive slave to this “treatment”, and of course, he is one.
Just as this thought flits through his dopey mind, he feels the abrupt invasion into his rectum of two of Rachel’s strong, oiled fingers, and the immediate isolation of his g-spot. This time he manages a more pronounced grunt, and the one time he would have been thankful for paralysis, it fails him: his back is arched and his legs spread slightly. Rachel’s soft chuckle makes it clear that his secret slutty response did not go unnoticed, and she begins to palpate and stroke his swollen spot.
“That’s right,” she whispers soothingly, in contrast to the increasing speed and roughness of the stimulation. Shortly, he feels a third finger stretching and straining his sphincter, making it sting in spite of the assistance of the essential oil. “Open up.”
Prostate milking, like deep tissue massage, isn’t always pleasant!
The three fingers soon begin to not only squeeze and rub roughly but piston in and out. The sensation is as much pain as pleasure. Still, he feels his raging cock grow sticky with more precum than he ever thought he could produce. His body flushes, and in spite of himself, the arch of his back deepens. His stymied body manages a slight thrust back into the plunging, invading fingers.
“Sometimes the body knows better than the mind,” Rachel whispered. “But the more you mentally fight a prostate milking, the more physically difficult it will be.”
How could such a soothing voice be attached to such brutal hands? How could such brutal invasion be connected to the rising in his body that portended to an orgasm so intense and different than he’d ever experienced that he feared it?
Directly following this thought is an explosion of pleasure and discomfort that would have knocked him senseless even without the essential oil imprisoning everything but his mind. A hot, sticky fountain shoots out of him underneath in a seemingly endless stream, wetting the sheet past his belly button. His whole body shudders and squirms as much as the enchanted oil allows, drowning in the sensation and yet trying to flee it at the same time. Still, the fingers coerce prostate orgasm after orgasm from deep within him, far past the time he could have even considered enjoying them.
He concentrates all of his will into controlling his tongue and finding his voice as the minutes tick by. The semen shoots out of him so copiously it feels as if his balls will soon be no more than deflated, desiccated husks, trying to suck themselves into his body for protection. Just as another overwhelming series of isometric full-body spasms wrack him, he manages to drunkenly slur, “PLULEEESHHH STOHHHHP!!”
. . .
His eyes pop open to reveal the placid, smiling face of his raven-haired therapist gazing down at him from beneath her glossy fringe. He is supine, the sheet draped modestly up to his armpits, the fitted one underneath him dry, and though he is conscious of an ache in his balls, his cock is flaccid and similarly free of moisture.
“You dropped off there,” she says cheerfully, a curious glint in the grey-green eyes that distracts him from his disorientation. “That’s okay. It’s good, actually. It means you really surrendered to the massage, that it was really doing you some good.”
Gingerly, he works his limbs, finding that he is fully mobile. His mouth is dry, and his tongue clicks as he works it around, trying to form words along with his confused thoughts.
“No rush,” Rachel says. “Take your time getting up. There’s a nice big glass of water for you, and I want you to drink it all up. The receptionist will book another appointment for you if you like.”
And with that, she is gone, the door to the treatment room closing softly behind her.
He stares at the ceiling for a while, stunned but more deeply relaxed, at least physically, than he has ever been before. He begins to bend his knees in preparation for lurching off the table and immediately flinches, freezing in place as the discomfort in his rectum radiates outward. A throbbing from deeper inside pulses acutely. Instantly he’s making a tent in the sheet that covers him, but feels indifferent about the concept of stroking it. His eyes water with confusion and longing.
Is he losing his mind? Had the hallucinations that had been plaguing him ever since he came to stay at this hotel convinced him that he had experienced coerced prostate milking in place of a standard massage? If it is a hallucination, why does his ass hurt? And most importantly, why does he feel compelled to book as many more sessions with Rachel as he can during his stay, whether what he experienced was a hallucination or not?
You know why, horny readers. The same reason at least some of you are fighting the impulse to slip a finger or two inside yourselves right this very minute.
Miss Rachel, your prostate milking specialist!
. . .
Tune in tomorrow for the next harrowing tale of Haunted Hotel shenanigans with Miss Kay Marie!