The Humiliator. Chapter Six
Sweating It Out
The next four days were pure hell. I seemed to be in a state of almost continuous sexual arousal, which I was forbidden to satisfy. I couldn't concentrate, my work suffered and my boss demanded to know what the hell was going on. The damned jock strap was a torment. I couldn't have a shower because I was not allowed to take it off, so I just had to wash down the rest of my body as best I could. I was terrified lest other people could smell the stink of it, so instead of my usual boxer shorts I dug out an old pair of Y fronts, hoping they would contain the smell. Maybe they did, but they also made my crotch more sweaty and itchy. I even bought some aftershave and slapped that on, but when blokes at work pulled my leg about smelling like a whore's boudoir, I couldn't be sure if it was the aftershave they could smell or my crotch. I tried not to get near people, which made them start to look at me oddly. I slept naked, save for the jock of course, and my bed stank even after I changed the sheets.
Each night was a misery of sexual fantasies and anticipation, so that I dreaded having a wet dream, remembering that the Arab lad had been punished for that and he was not even a slave. Wondering what punishment I would incur for such a failure of obedience aroused me still more. I would eventually drop into a fitful and exhausted sleep, only to awake drenched in sweat and with a massive erection pushing at that imprisoning jock strap and longing so much for release I could have wept from anger and frustration. My balls felt as if they would burst with the pressure of the spunk seething inside them.
Again and again and again the argument rolled round in my head:: Why shouldn't I toss myself off? He need never know. But he would, 'cos I'd have to confess to him. Well, don't tell him! But he has taken ownership of my body so he has the right to know what happens with his property. So, tell him and suffer the punishment - whatever that might be. But that would not alter the fact that I had disobeyed his direct order. And I wanted to be an obedient slave. I wanted to be the best slave he'd ever had. How could I hope to be that, if I flouted his first real test? And this was a test of course. I had no doubt that he had planned it very deliberately. He knew what I was suffering, no doubt about it. The bastard. I hated his guts - and was determined not to give in. I would be obedient despite all his devious manipulations. But if only I could have just one wank . . .