. . . And like a puff of smoke vanishes in the breeze, Princess Andi’s gilded cage, your enchanted breasts and vagina with all their feminine desires, and the tantalizing specter of a massive cuckold bull enjoying every inch of her lithe young body in a way that you would never be allowed, have disappeared, and you are back again in your male body.  You look around, and see that you are in a small room with walls of rough-hewn stone and a massive, heavy door set in one of them.  It is beastly hot, and your body is slick with sweat, but this is nothing compared to the suffering you’d been through in those other rooms, so you remain grateful to be back in your own body.

You think to yourself that somehow the relief must be translating itself into arousal, because you realize that your cock is standing straight out before you, and the head has taken on a slightly purple cast.  You would admire the fine erection you’ve managed to sport, arguably the finest of your whole life, if your balls hadn’t begun to ache so deeply that it feels as if every moment of cockteasing to which you’ve ever been subjected has been condensed and is being revisited upon you.  But when you try to raise your hand from your side to wrap it around your throbbing, purple-tipped member, you are confronted with a fresh horror:

Your hands are gone.  Both of them.

You hold the neat stumps of your wrists up before your eyes and cry out in terror.  The sound of your anguish bounces off of the stone walls of that small room, and as the echoes fade and the tension in your balls grows, the sound of your fear is replaced by bubbling, girlish laughter coming from beyond that heavy door.  It swings open, and a blast of hot wind swirls around you so intensely that the sweat on your skin dries instantly, and you are forced to squeeze your eyes closed against the sweltering blast.  On that wind you could swear you hear a chorus of far-away moans.  The heat wicks the moisture from your eyeballs as you struggle to open them once again, and through the shimmering air before you, you can see Me on My throne.

If you had the spit to speak, and the presence of mind to make casual observations, you might wonder how I could stand to be wearing that black, skintight PVC catsuit and knee-length patent leather boots with spiked heels in such infernal temperatures.  You can see the reflection of the torches that line the walls in the shiny material, but not a single bead of sweat mars my brow, nor the creamy skin of my sumptuous cleavage as it swells through the keyhole neckline.  But as it is, all you can do is stare.

“Well come in, silly.”  I say, my blood-red lips parting to reveal my pearly white teeth, and my gray-green eyes glowing like emeralds.  My tone somehow sounds like a mockery of friendliness, and if your eyes had not been parched of all of their moisture, you might have begun to weep with apprehension.  Just the same, as filled with dread as your mind may be, your cock leads you into the room as obediently as if it were on a leash.

“Aren’t you going to say hello to your old friend?”

You cannot speak, but I reply as if I can read your mind.

“Of course you know Me, silly boy!  You know Me of old.  You’ve always known Me.  And I know you.  I know all your dirty little secrets.  You could say that I’m even the sponsor of your sluttiest fantasies!  You don’t think a worthless little beta bitch like you could come up with such depraved thoughts all on your own, do you?  Why do you think My property is responding so enthusiastically, even though you’re afraid?”

As if to punctuate My statement, your cock swells and flexes almost painfully as it wavers in the air before you.  Veins you didn’t know were there marble it and seem to throb with your heartbeat.  A large dollop of crystaline precum oozes from the tip and dangles pendulously, and your balls tighten and then tighten again, as if they are trying to crawl up into your body.  Somehow a moan, much like those you heard on the wind that greeted you as the door opened, whistles its way out of your parched throat.  Your stumps raise feebly from your sides before dropping back down again.

“You want to stroke My property, don’t you?  It’s pretty difficult to do without hands, I admit.  Isn’t that just like you.  You’re on the threshold of captivity Hell, and all you can think about is stroking that cock.  You know, it’s a good thing you signed your cock over to me.  I think you’re addicted to stroking.  That’s why I decided that perhaps it was time for you to come and stay with Me.  For you to embrace long-term chastity of the most profound variety.”

Your mouth stretches open in the shape of another wordless cry, the corners cracking.  You try to plead with your eyes for reprieve.

“You don’t remember signing over your cock?  Well, granted, it was a verbal agreement, but in My realm, that’s legally binding.”

Now your eyes widen to match your mouth, and suddenly you realize why My voice sounded so familiar, even though you had never seen Me before.  Your mind rushes back to what you thought was a little harmless phone sex exploration involving chastity and orgasm denial, an intense bit of erotic roleplay, or so you thought, where you told Me that I owned your cock, in exchange for permission to cum.

I watch you for a few moments with a merry smile on my face as recognition and then disbelief and then panic wash over yours, and you drop to your knees.  You are oblivious to the heat of the stone floor beneath you though it could fry an egg, overcome with despair and what you know to be a helpless, eternal arousal.  The long, silvery string of precum that had been dangling from the tip of your cock finally detaches and drops to the stone, where it evaporates with a hiss.

Just when you squeeze your sandpaper lids down over your eyes and begin to contemplate that you will remain in this state of arousal and pain at the feet of your sadistic Mistress for all eternity, the muffled strains of a song you struggle to place trill out from somewhere, the same line repeating over and over again.  “You always hurt . . . the one you love . . . the one you shouldn’t hurt at alllllll . . .”

You allow your eyes to crack open enough to see Me pull out a smartphone with a metallic black finish, and punch a button on its face with the tip of one blood-red fingernail, sharpened to a point.

“Hello? . . .  Oh hi, Heather!  How are you? . . . I’m great, thanks!  Just orienting a new piece of meat.  What are you up to? . . . Oh really now? . . . Ooh, that sounds like a lot of fun! . . . Oh absolutely!  He knows no matter where he goes, he’ll be coming back here eventually.  *giggle* Oh sure!  I’ll send him right over.  Bye, gorgeous!”

As I hang up the phone, you begin to feel the faint stirrings of hope, though you know you heard Me say (and in the depths of your swollen, aching balls you know it’s true) that you’d be back eventually.  You tremble as I rise from My throne and click my way down the stone steps to tower over you where you kneel.  Despite the anguish of the last several minutes, that slutty cock which has caused you to end up here reacts with a painful flex to the sight of my supple, tightly-clad curves.  I bend and lift your chin with one razor sharp fingernail.  Somehow, you think to yourself, it wouldn’t be so painful if I weren’t so beautiful.

“You’re going to spend some time with Miss Heather now.  But we’ll see each other again.  You be a good boy, now.  You know I’ll hear about it if you aren’t.”

You flinch, and close your eyes as you feel my lips burn their shape into your forehead hot enough to blister, and then retreat.  When you open your eyes again, the heat, the room, and I, are all gone.

I hope you enjoyed my twisted tale, dear readers!

Please enjoy Miss Heather’s spooky, sexy story, to be published on her blog October 22!

And absolutely don’t forget to stop by the Halloween Cock Radio Party at 8pmEST on October 30, hosted by the lovely Miss Constance!