I put aside the story and immediately started into the remaining pile of TV Epoch magazines and looked for the next month in the publication sequence for the Auntie Pen’s Princess stories. They advertised six and eventually I found five of them including the one I had just read. I checked every magazine, but the sixth wasn’t there. Well, at least I knew what month it was – September, 1983. I could search online for it. I decided to photograph the chapters I did have with my phone and had just finished when Madam H finally opened the door from the hallway.
“Hi!” I said, a little breathlessly.
“Hello, yourself. What are you looking so hot and bothered about?”
“Nothing.”
“Sure. Have you been having a wank with those magazines? Right up your alley, most of them.”
“Oh my God, madam.” I feigned exasperation.
“Never mind, Betty, I want to discuss something that is literally up your alley.”
Madam was immaculately dressed in her usual style of tailored short skirted suit and silk blouse. I followed her clicking heels into her office.
“Right,” she said, settling herself behind the desk and spreading her fingers wide upon its top, which was empty of all but a teacup and a couple of folders. If it had been a bed, I thought a full fitted sheet would have spanned it nicely.
“Betty,” she went on, moving a hand to indicate a chair before her desk, “if you noticed workmen around today it’s because they’re assembling a production set in the longroom, we will be filming there soon, well, videoing actually. Various bondage situations featuring our girls.”
“Which you intend to monetize.”
“How clever you are. Yes, this clinic being a commercial enterprise I thought it wouldn’t be a stretch.”
“You know that my back-dues were paid, so why would I help you as a bondage girl? If you were going to ask me, which, otherwise why am I here?”
“Well, you still have two dates…no, three dates, with Harold Plumrose. Harold has agreed that this would count as two dates…”
“‘This’, being my participation…”
“In the production, Betty, yes. You appreciate that although you no longer owe the clinic money, you still have a contractual obligation to us and the clinic has one to Harold Plumrose – which I intend to honor, “ she said pointedly, looking me in the eyes.
I arched my eyebrows.
She went on, “Anyway it will be fun and I know you love an adventure, Harold says his final date with you will be at a desert resort near Palm Springs. It will be, I’m sure, sordid in the extreme.”
“I hope so.” I squirmed cozily in my chair and smirked. And then I thought for a moment and asked cautiously, “What’s Plumrose’s part in this production?”
“He’ll be your partner, facilitator, really. Harold will remain fully clothed throughout, you will be essentially naked. Except for a few articles of decorative trim. And a hood.”
“A hood?”
“I know, but it was thought best. People expect them, in a bondage video.”
“Will there be whips?”
“No, oh no!” Madam waved that idea away enthusiastically with both hands.
I put a hand to my chin, crossed my legs, and re-arched my eyebrows.
“Let me give you some details, Betty, and there will be supplemental information emailed to you,” she tapped cell phone on her desk with a long pinky nail and continued, “there will be three t-girls in the production and three fellows, but really there will just be one star. You don’t know her and I’ve only met her once. She’s called Lydia.”
“From Sherman Oaks?”
“No, from back east, I think. Anyway, she will be the performer and you and Daisy will be decorative bookends”
“Tell me about this performance.”
“Well, Betty I’m sure you know how the prostate gland works. Lydia is very susceptible to being ‘milked’, she produces large amounts of prostatic fluid during a massage session. Almost a cupful, I’ve seen the videos. Her special talent will be the subject of the whole production. No one expects you or Daisy to be productive, you are there to make it all seem less clinical and more like a cabaret.”
As Madam H continued to describe the production, I could picture the platform she described being erected in the longroom (an all-purpose assembly room around eighteen feet by forty, with a twenty-foot ceiling). The platform would hold a classic wooden pillory which would secure the t-girls around their ankles, wrists, and necks in a bent-over posture which presented their posteriors to the ministrations of the facilitators. Beneath the stocks a video camera was mounted to a rail and would be remote-controlled, moving laterally, looking up, capturing the action. In addition, two videographers with conventional handheld cameras would circle the setup.
“Would you like to see it?” she finally asked. “The carpenters finished the basic set yesterday and the technicians will be here to install the tracks for the camera next Wednesday.”
Madam H arose from her desk and opened a door that I had never noticed before in the wall behind her, – the knob was barely visible in the wainscoting – and revealed the longroom and there in the middle of the space were the stocks. The room smelled of fresh lumber.
“Is getting splinters part of the bondage experience?”
She said: “Go on up, Betty.” I climbed five steps to the top of the platform, it was quite a view from up there. I turned and found Madam right behind me.
“Let’s have you try this on for size.”
She nudged me to the near side set of holes which I was happy to find had been sanded smooth. Madam then slid back a plank near the floor and knelt on her stockinged right knee to position first one of my ankles, then the next into carved semi-circles; balancing with my hand on top of the pillory I could look down and see more of her left thigh than most people ever see, there was a revelation of dark taupe stocking top wrapped in a froth of lacy slip. Her perfume, vaguely reminiscent of an earlier era drifted up to me along with the less subtle chemical sweetness of her lacquered crown of hair.
Having positioned my feet about twenty-four inches apart, Madam closed the matching plank, I heard a latch click, and my feet were immobilized.
“Ah, now,” she breathed heavily, “let’s get the top half of you yoked up.” Standing now, Madam was able to get my neck and wrists similarly snug in a locking wooden grip. I found myself standing legs akimbo and bent forward at a forty-five-degree angle with my throat unable to rest easily against its wooden collar and my wrist and ankle bones most uncomfortably pressed by their rigid, unyielding restraints.
“Comfortable?” she asked.
“Hardly!”
“Memorize that position. Practice holding it at home for as long as you can. You have two weeks, come the day it will be much easier.”
“YOU hold it at home, Madam!” I snarled.
“Now, Betty,” she cooed, standing behind me and placing her fingertips gently on my hips, “There are certain people, adepts, like Lydia, certainly, who find that their prostates are capable of achieving a deep, rich, orgasmic release, similar I am sure to the orgasm a woman enjoys.”
Although my prostate continued about its business quietly, the rest of my equipment was awakening to its new, exposed position. My bottom being thrust out and my legs parted, my testicles necessarily slid down in my panties to a spot beneath my anus while my penis was trying to uncoil from its tuck to assume its traditional attitude of due north.
And while this was happening I was surprised to find that the rest of my body had relaxed and felt almost comfortable in this familiar supporting role to sexual arousal.
“Yes,” Madam went on, continuing her hypnotic rocking of my pelvis, “there are times I almost wish that I had a prostate gland.”
“Don’t despair, Madam H,” I said, “There are those of us who think you do.”
“Oh, don’t be crude, Betty.”
After I had been unyoked, I took my leave through the familiar door to the clinic’s main corridor as Madam called out to remind me that the details of the coming event would be in an email soon.
Once home I found I was really becoming intrigued by this new assignment and in my bedroom, I started practicing the pillory position. I spiced things up by wearing different outfits while I held the pose, watching myself in my cheval mirror. My favorite look was in a pair of chiffon skirt-panties worn with black patent pumps. Standing at that frozen angle in the stiff tutu, elbows cocked, hands perched in midair while peering over my shoulder with an open mouth and wide eyes, I thought I resembled nothing so much as Bettie Page conducting an invisible orchestra.
When I awoke from this lovely daydream I remembered the magazine pages I had copied on my phone. I printed the jpegs in color and sat on my bed to collate them. The yellowed surface of the paper with the story columns surrounded by ads and other features really made them look like the original TV Epoch. I found the second installment of the ‘Auntie Pen’ material. I picked my phone up from the coverlet, silenced it and started in.
NOTICE to readers, the next AUNTIE PEN story will be a ‘stand alone’ story and will be submitted here.
