THE MARINE AND THE SISSY - 7

Issue 26, January/February 1992

7

Meditation and its Discontents

In addition to putting me in chains, the moment spring break was over, Eric accelerated his campaign to "make a man" of me, thus attempting to fulfill that abysmal promise he had made my father at the beginning of my pledge period. Eric had already, earlier on, undertaken to break me of several mannerisms which, to his hyper-masculine tastes, were hyper-effeminate. Among these were a high-pitched, nervous giggle, too many hand gestures when I talked, and an absent-minded tendency to curl my shoulder-length hair around my index finger. He also carped constantly about my habit of carrying objects cuddled up in my left arm "the way girls do," instead of allowing my arm to hang down at my side. Whenever Eric caught me doing anything on my "forbidden list" there would be no warnings. I would simply be punished.

By way of a footnote, the beginning of the solution to the hair problem had occurred at the beginning of Hell Week when I, along with all my brother pledges had had our heads shaved completely bald. After my hair started to grow in again, to my father's great delight and my utter horror, Eric kept me in an ultra-short, boot camp style crew cut for about a year until I was well out of the habit of playing with my hair. Previously, I had solved the problem of swimming with long hair simply by wearing a bathing cap which, naturally, enraged Eric, who decreed that "only women and pantywaist music majors wear bathing caps." Period. End of discussion!

Of course, as one might suspect, there were lots of other things for which I could be punished as well. Among these were such things as: failure to keep myself totally free of body hair; failure to have a sanitary napkin in the crotch of my panties during my "period"; sloppiness in doing the laundry, including failure to remove any brown stains or cum residue from our underwear or failure to wash out my delicate lingerie by hand. Eric also kept a watchful eye on my grades and anything lower than an A- could almost be guaranteed to bring me grief. One of my besetting sins, which frequently had me in deep dung, was failure to be punctual. Since I was the assistant organist of our church, Eric would get especially pissed with me on Sundays if I wasn't ready for church on time.

With Eric's passion for corporal punishment, I could almost always count on any discipline session beginning with a beating of some kind. Unfortunately, however, this was seldom considered sufficient punishment in itself. Almost any beating was sure to be followed by what Eric called "meditation time," during which I was to contemplate my sins and their consequences. I could always count on being gagged and blindfolded. After that, for less serious offenses, I might be hogtied for a period of time. Or, sometimes, I would be made to stand in the corner with my nose pressed into the crack and with my shoulders touching both walls. For this Eric would also bind my knees and ankles with rope after tying my elbows and wrists tightly together behind my back.

For more serious offenses, I could count on spending my "meditation time" while tied into as uncomfortable a position as possible. Frequently, I would be "bucked and Gagged," a favorite torment of Eric's, which he learned from a history course on the Civil War. [See The Marine and the Sissy - 2]

However, it was during our last year together that Eric created another nightmare which was equally diabolical. It all came about because I had been stupid enough to give Eric a copy of Mason Powell's book, The Brig, for his birthday. I had ordered it through an ad in one of his issues of Drummer. It was an impulsive act I would soon regret! One might well wonder why I was the least bit surprised that Eric, the ex-Marine MP, would be drawn to that perverse book like metal to a magnet. Looking back, I guess the second biggest dumbness I commited was in not reading the damn thing before I gave it to him. Mia culpa! But then, how was I to know there was anything left in the SM world that Eric didn't already know about from his own experience?

As you can imagine, this book inspired several wondrously terrible afflictions which Eric adapted for his own use—or, more accurately, mine! Clearly, the most notable of these was that of impaling me on a stationary vibrating dildo. However, rather than aping Powell's idea of a dildo fastened atop an upright pole, Eric composed his own variation on this theme.

I could often foretell when this event was pending since I would usually be given some kind of vile laxative in the morning. The ritual would begin, as soon as I was naked, with Eric giving me an enema. While I would be down the hall expelling the contents, Eric would get out the tall, four-legged stool, which he had nicknamed my "Meditation Stool." Eric had modified this stool so that a large, vibrating dildo could be attached to the seat.

After warming up my butt with a hard spanking, usually given with a leather paddle as I lay jack-knifed over his lap, Eric would thoroughly lubricate my anus and begin the stretching process by massaging my sphincter and inserting his fingers. I would then be made to climb up on the rungs of the stool and lower myself upon the pre-greased phallus.

As accustomed as I had become to having Eric's big penis in my ass, this replica took my breath away in spite of the thorough cleaning out I had received. From prior experience, Eric had learned that the only way to prevent my yelling my head off, thereby announcing this unfortunate event to the entire fraternity, was to secure my mouth with the penis gag. The moment I was impaled—literally stuffed with cock at both ends—Eric would tie my hands and elbows behind my back and place a long stick in between. Then he would jack-knife my legs as high as possible so he could tie my ankles to the top rungs of the stool, thereby making it impossible to push myself up to obtain any relief from the unwelcome intruder invading my ass.

As soon as I was securely bound, Eric would finish preparing me for my meditation period. Tit clamps or clothespins would be attached to my nipples. Then, my balls, which would now be dangling vulnerably over the edge of the seat, would be secured in a ball harness and stretched tight by a bungi cord to the bottom rung of the stool. Eric would then buckle a padded leather blindfold over my eyes before bagging my head with the snug-fitting lycra/spandex hood—an experience which always gives me the queasy feeling that my head is shrinking.

As a pièce de résistance, Eric would fire up the vibrator, leaving me to contemplate my fuck-ups impaled upon the big buzzing cock which, very quickly, began to take on a life of its own. In spite of being warned against cumming without permission, the massage being given my prostate almost always triggered an erotic response from my reproductive mechanism. Since Eric always rolled a rubber over my penis before leaving me, there was absolutely no way of avoiding discovery. This meant that I could count on my punishment session ending as it began—with a spanking—but not before my cum had been shot via syringe into my mouth through the cock gag.

Early in our relationship, Eric had figured out a really creative way of modifying the cock gag. From materials he obtained at a hobby shop, Eric managed to run metal tubing, slightly narrower in diameter than a drinking straw, through the piss slit of the dildo. Where it emerged through the leather piece in the front of the gag, Eric attached a long piece of neoprene tubing which could be connected either to a funnel or a large syringe, making possible the force-feeding of all sorts of liquids while I was gagged and even hooded. The cock itself extended far enough back in my mouth so that it was virtually impossible not to swallow any substance Eric chose to pump my way. During the course of those three years, I ingested all manner of liquids including water, beer, piss, cum (both his, mine and ours), and, if Eric was in a particularly vile mood, some really disgusting substances like Castor Oil or Milk of Magnesia.

To make things even more interesting, Eric, who has an unnerving ability to charm my normally hard-assed doctor father into or out of anything, had somehow managed to finagle dad into teaching him the techniques of catheterization. It had happened harmlessly enough one summer while Eric was working for dad as an orderly in the clinic. I doubt that dad had any idea whatsoever of what Eric intended to do with his newly gained knowledge. However, even to this very day, Eric takes an almost pathological delight in gagging me, tying me down to a table and shoving a catheter into my prick, using all the correct medical procedures even down to pulling my prick through the towel with a small hole in it. Dad also taught him how to use a Foley catheter which has a small, inflatable balloon which prevents its being pulled prematurely from the bladder.

More often than not, after the insertion, Eric reties me in a hogtied position before dumping huge quantities of liquid through my cock gag. When my belly is swamped and bloated, he connects the catheter tube directly to the cock gag and recycles my own piss back through me. To increase the quantity of the flow, Eric always gives me a diuretic ahead of time. Lying on my side at least minimizes the risk of my choking or drowning in my own piss, although Eric never leaves me alone during this very uncomfortable procedure.

One other nasty little trick Eric picked up involved the use of Ben Gay lotion. If you have ever had Ben Gay applied to your body, you can probably appreciate what it would feel like to have it massaged liberally into your freshly shaved cock, balls and asscheeks. This is bad enough, but to be paddled and/or impaled on the "meditation stool" after it has taken full effect is really memorable. An unlucky footnote for future generations of Alpha Chi pledges is that, having discovered how much fun Ben Gay can be, Eric managed to sell the pledgemasters on the idea of using it as part of the hazing process. It never had been a barrel of laughs to hear the ominous command, "Okay, asswipe, strip and assume the position." But, let me tell you, those words took on a whole new meaning the minute some hapless pledge discovered that his big brother was holding a paddle in one hand and a tube of Ben Gay in the other.

Comments

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[Marie]

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