iii.
Those
two hours of dropping off drug samples proved to be a bizarre
combination of agony and ecstasy. Slacks rub on underwear and
underwear rubs on corona which produces raging erections, especially
with a sexy man-beast chained up at home waiting for me, his master.
That thought alone elevated the horny. My sudden ability to lord over
a muscular, virile, oozing-with-macho furball brought many of my
long-suppressed fantasies bubbling to the surface.
As
for the agony, I was a bit embarrassed walking into doctor's offices
with my rigid dick clearly poking on my pants. At every stop, females
manned the reception desks, so it became sort of an adventure to see
if any of them would comment in my presence or giggle behind my back.
One did ask if I was happy to see her, to which I replied, "Beyond
elated, my dear." This brought a suggestively-toned, "So I
see," but as for the others they must have held their comments
until after my exit. It really didn't matter to me. My goal was to
keep conversations short, quickly leave my wares and complete my
route.
With
one more stop to make, my perpetual hard-on intensified. The image of
Wolfy as I'd left him had my testosterone boiling beyond belief.
I'd
decided he should be taken from my garage and into my house. I
couldn't open the garage door with him chained to its track anyway,
plus, if he made noises or tried to escape, his being inside the
house made it much less likely neighbors would hear him. I'd been
lucky the night before. Didn't want to press it for a second time.
My
solution, my basement. One half finished in panel walls and linoleum
tile floor. One section used by me as a workout room. A couple of
benches, barbells, dumbbells and weighted plates a-plenty. Flat bench
would work for him. His wrist chain wrapped around a vertical, iron
support column. His ankles individually chained to a pair of
barbells. Weight needed to secure him I estimated at two hundred
pounds per leg.
How
easily I lifted the barbells after setting up one hundred pounds per
side. Showing off, I guess, still marveling at how I could summon
super-natural strength when needed, while executing normal strength
for normal activities so as to not destroy everything I touched. An
automatic function. Didn't even have to think about it.
All
I could think about was how he looked. Chest-up on the flat bench.
His legs spread like a V. Heels on the floor. Each ankle chained to
its own two-hundred-pound barbell set parallel to his legs so he
couldn't roll the weighted plates. Arms stretched beyond his head.
Wrists chained together with chain wrapping a horizontal beam. And
for good measure, I set a pair of dumbbells loaded with one hundred
pounds each atop the chain before it wrapped the pole. This pulled
his arms down so his wrists nearly touched the floor.
"Comfortable?"
I sarcastically asked him. He shook his head no. "Want to file a
protest?" He repeated his silent no, and I continued. "I'll
be back in a couple of hours. Maybe two and a half. Guess I better
get the urine bottle."
"Paw!"
he said for the umpteenth time. I'd lost count since bringing him in
from the garage. Been ignoring him. Wasn't anything to be done about
it. I couldn't see that it was swollen, so how bad could it be? And
strangely, his tone did not voice pain, but ended with inflection as
though asking a question.
"Are
you trying to tell me that's your name? Paw? Paul?"
He
shook no. "Paw," he repeated while again manipulating his
clawed pads like he was trying to grasp hold of something.
Sadly,
I was clueless. "I don't understand what you want, but whatever
it is will have to wait until I get back."
He
sighed exasperation. Turned his face away from me.
I
positioned the bottle precariously tilted between his legs. They were
spread apart now, so the bottom of the bottle sat on the bench while
less than half of his penis rested inside its rim. No worry. He could
probably hold his pee until I returned. I'd given him no breakfast,
and his only drink had been a brief one coming from the hose after
his bath.
One
final glance before closing the basement door. Chest high. Belly
flat. Limbs and muscles gloriously stretched. Such a tragedy I had to
leave him temporarily unattended.
My
final stop was the office of Dr. Carson. Unfortunately, his
receptionist told me the doctor wanted to speak with me.
Seems
he'd read in some medical journal about a research study which
concluded our diabetes medication might be causing pancreatic cancer.
The doctor explained, "I am suspending distribution of your drug
until further information is available."
"Certainly,
Dr. Carson, I fully understand. I will report your concerns to my
superiors and they can take it from there." My response, I
thought, diplomatic and to the point. I sure as hell wasn't going to
argue or plead with him to reconsider.
As
I offered my hand to shake before leaving, he threw me a curve.
"What's with the erection? Was it something I said?"
Being
the smooth-talking salesman of a product I believed to be oft-times
over-prescribed for people with type II, folks who might do better
addressing their ailment themselves with adjustments in the foods
they eat, rather than popping pills, I convincingly produced a lie.
"Bartlett's wanted some of us men to try their new erectile
dysfunction product."
"Do
you have a dysfunction?"
"No,
never have."
"How
long since you took the medication?"
"About
an hour ago. It should be over soon. Last night I took one and it
wore off after an hour."
"Oh,
I see," his previously sour face degraded to disgusted. "You
know it is dangerous for a healthy man to take such drugs. I'm
surprised they asked you."
"I'm
surprised I accepted. Especially without compensation. After all,
what's more important to a man than his penis?"
I
expected a chuckle, or at least a smile, but all he gave me was a
scowl.
Check
off Dr. Carson as a client,
I told myself while leaving. And
thank God there are still some genuine, patients-come-first doctors
like him in the medical profession.
I
was tempted to break speed limits on the way home. Mine was a
twenty-minute drive. I did it in twelve.
"Pee!"
was the first thing Wolfy said when I opened the basement door.
Pee,
indeed. His bottle had fallen. Puddles of urine soiled the bench and
the floor.
Excellent!
I
silently thought. Evils from the depths of my mind had planned it
all. That bottle couldn't possibly stay between his spread-apart
thighs whether he peed in it or not.
"You
nasty son of a bitch!" My words said it all, and I said nothing
more. Not for the next couple of hours.
Silently,
I marched upstairs to retrieve my Louisville Slugger.
*
* * * *
Chapter 4 posts in one week, or the entire story is posted at Jardonn's Erotic Tales.com
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