Select Page

It’s been quite a weekend with much to process and I’m bound to miss stuff out. But here goes.

On Saturday evening, I was ordered to ready myself for a medical appointment with Nurse Jessica, my Miss’s kink-clinician altar ego. I was instructed to clean myself thoroughly in preparation and report to the bedroom for a full body and medical inspection.

This cleaning process is something of a headfuck in itself. I douche, then soap my rear and clean my cage as best as I can manage through the steel bars. The process feels very slightly degrading, as though I’m preparing myself as sex-worker would, but the results are pleasing when I imagine presenting my clean and perfectly pink posterior to nurse. I dry off, dress as instructed, then enter the bedroom where Miss is waiting.

My Miss looks exceptionally sexy this evening in her nurse’s uniform donned specially for the occasion – hair pinned up, severe spectacles on. Except this is not my Miss. I’m instructed to use the full moniker, Nurse Jessica, and the inspection begins with a barrage of questions. Nurse Jessica notes down the answers in a little black book, making little derisory remarks that I swat away.

Then it’s on to the examination for a full body inspection, rear first, her hands expertly probing every inch as she continues to quiz me. I’m ordered to turn over and the process is repeated.

After some probing and prodding, she unlocks my cage, making some offhand remark about the unpleasant smell. If I’d managed to deflect previous attempts at humiliation, there was no doing so now. This remark slaps me like a good backhand so that I felt myself redden as she begins to spray the offending area with a cold water atomiser.

It’s difficult to put into words what happened next. She begins deftly, methodically cleaning my cock with a cold wet wipe and I instantly harden. I’m reprimanded for this, too – told in no uncertain terms that it will be reported to Miss. All the while, she is still cleaning away with the wet wipes in a way that’s so formal, non-sexual, that I can hardly catch my breath and I feel I might begin to weep at any moment from the shame and ecstasy of it.

This form of ostensibly non-sexual touching is something I’ve been trying to articulate. It’s so utterly, mindblowingly hot to me that I could write many thousands of words trying to sum up its effect.

I’ll try to list a few as concisely as possible:

It establishes an instant power dynamic reminiscent of of doctor/patient or parent/little in which the sexual element (for me, anyway) feels taboo, or especially naughty and transgressive. That’s hot. It’s also pretty humiliating.

When I’m teased or stroked, there’s always a niggle of anxiety that I’ll spill and undo weeks of pent-up submission. The formal cleaning does away with that, there being never quite enough sustained contact to finish the job.

Finally, it completely reinforces the idea that the relationship is not about me. It’s like Denial Plus – a state of frustrated ecstasy in which I’m resigned to the fact that my own pleasure consists of savouring these scraps of contact and always burning in anguish for something more. Afterwards, safely locked back up, I feel more like a slave (albeit a well-looked-after one!) than I’ve ever felt before in my life.

The next day, we spend a very lovely ordinary day together: Pub lunch, a walk in the park. And yet, it seems this exploration has yet another sublime gift for us.

At home in bed, we’re cuddled together and I ask if I may worship her breasts a while. This is something we’ve done before, often as foreplay or while I pleasure her, but this time is different. She carefully wraps me in the blanket and I take her breast as a baby would and suckle away in blissful content for a long, long time.

The intimacy is sublime. She strokes my hair, occasionally murmuring soft words of encouragement that warm my soul and cause me to snuggle deeper into the quilt and her gorgeous bosom. It’s special in a way that words can’t really convey – and in a way that#’s bowled us both over more than we were prepared for.

Today, Miss confides that she would like to induce lactation and begin a full ANR. Her words: “I want you on me, living off me…” Sent a flurry of butterflies to flight in my stomach and made me tremble with joy.

Everything feels so strange. I wake each morning, aching with desire, inside a pale body I hardly recognise; and feeling like less and less of myself belongs to me. I think of my life ahead: Of being chaste to the point of purity, of directing my mind and body to do Miss’s bidding before my own, and of being devoted to her pleasure. The little thrill I have when she so matter-of-factly directs me to little tasks like tidying bringing water. A word is all it takes. Her word. I love how it gives me such strength to be myself. How happy I am now, in my service, and always shall be.