Of Mice And Men
by Peter Loaf


Having heard the rumors, I go and see this infamous sex Doctor Johnson MD PHD. I find him to be a strikingly handsome man of about seventy. He has sparkling bright blue eyes, laugh lines, and a full silver beard that contrasts nicely with his salt and pepper hair.

He sits me down in his overstuffed recliner and takes a seat by his desk. Getting out a new note pad he says, “Well now, Ms. 'Smith', what seems to be the problem?”

I decide to put my cards on the table. “Well, Doctor Feelgood,” (His eyebrows barely twitch at this.) “I want you to do for me what you do for all those other women. I want you to book me for a week at your safe sex spa. I want you to teach me how to achieve orgasm.”

“Madam, do you know how old I have become?” He chuckles. “And why can’t you girls stop bragging to each other?"

“I hear you have talented younger men on staff to fill in when you can’t 'personally' fill a voracious girl’s need these days.”

“Alas it is so,” he says, leaning in to look down my blouse. “They are all certified sexual therapists and good at what they do. Everyone uses safe sex and distress calls are attended to, if you find things getting too intense. What we provide is a safe sexual restraint adventure that will stay with you for a lifetime.”

I think about that for about two seconds and make up my mind. “When can I come?”

“Well, Joan, first I need to discover a few things about you, what you really want, and why you have not already achieved it on your own.”

“It’s simple doctor, I have never been able to have an orgasm either with or without help!” I say, looking him in the eyes (God how blue they are!) “I want you to turn my sex life around, Doctor. Teach me how to get past my anti-pleasure upbringing and find fulfillment.” I break down and sob for a few seconds them pull myself together. “I can’t stand any more frustration!”

“So what happens when you try to experience orgasm? Perhaps we can design something special for you?” His smile is paper thin and not around the eyes.

I lean back in the chair and close my eyes as I speak, “Whenever I let a man have sex with me I feel great at first, as if I am filling up like a water balloon. I can feel something rising within my body, some force, some magical power that is making me want more and more of his stimulation.”

The doctor smiles encouragingly and asks, “But you said ‘at first’. Do things change?”

“Ya, well then . . . suddenly something seems to snap within me and I pull away from my partner, leaving him in the lurch, his pecker red and unrequited. Instead of the pleasure I’d been trying to achieve I am suddenly filled with terror and unable to continue fucking or anything else sexual. A couple of times I walked home for several miles because I was afraid to get back into the car with the poor confused guy.”

“What about when you try to get there on your own?" he asks, writing a note in his book. “What is your technique to obtain sexual release when it’s just you?”

“What thoughts get my motor running?” I say, stalling. “I find lots of stimulation on line. Bondage literature and chat rooms mostly, that’s how I met some of your patients."

“What thought interests you the most?”

“The thought of a man taking me against my will I guess,” I whisper. “But while I dream about it almost constantly, I simply haven’t got the guts to let myself be that helpless.”

“Besides men, what terrifies you?”

“Oh, you mean like a mouse taking up housekeeping in my vulva or something?” I say, suppressing a shudder. “That’s the other nightmare I frequently have.” .

“It’s obvious you think you must be restrained so you’ll have to stick around for the reward,” he says, writing out a clinic reservation slip and handing it over. “I have reserved two weeks for you. I’m afraid this isn’t going to be an easy fix.”

“We can’t go out tonight and get started?” I ask, like a kid who’s been handed a plastic lollypop.

“Not tonight 'Ms. Smith', I have no vacancies out there all this week.”


It is late Sunday afternoon and I am driving up a long winding driveway. To get past a gate I press a button and a tinny masculine voice says, “May I help you?”

I smile at the camera and say, “Joan Smith, here to see Doctor Johnson. I have an appointment.”

Without a word the huge wrought iron gate before my car swings open on well-greased hinges. As they open I see that they need the grease as they are built massive enough to stop anything short of a tank.

As I pass through the high stone block wall I notice its five foot thickness, its Inca style mortar-less interlocking block construction. I think, 'I said I wanted to be safe. But jeeze, look at that fence!'

As soon as the gates close behind me a large man steps out of the guardhouse and approaches my side of the car. “Joan Smith? My name is Garth; I will be your lead therapeutic rigger this week.”

I look up at a young Adonis, wide massive shoulders, narrow but well muscled belly, bicyclist thighs and either a cod piece or some real talent in his spandex shorts. Judging from the stories I’ve heard, I believe it is the latter and I shudder to think what I am doing here.

“This way Joan, we have a locker room where you can leave your clothes and possessions. You will give me the key of course.”

I follow him, watching as the muscles ripple under his oiled skin. It is as if Feelgood has read my mind. For the first time in my life I feel true lust for a man. A man who has been instructed to fuck me ‘til I come.

He stands watching as I disrobe, a mask of cold authority on his face. I wish I had a better figure but do the most I can with what I have been given.

After I snap the lock closed on my locker and watch him pocket the key I feel something stirring within me. I realize that without even touching me he has already gotten my motor revving. I stand before him, mother naked and as turned on as I’ve ever been. “Come here and kneel at my feet,” he says, pointing to a red tile six inches in front of his toes.

I comply, settling down so that my face is almost touching his 'Talent'. I look at him and say the magic words I have been taught to say. “Please Master me Master. Use me in any way you desire.” The words that will make me a sex slave for the next fourteen days. I know that from this moment on I will be punished for speaking without my master’s permission.

He smiles and says, “As you wish, slave. Pull down my shorts and serve me with your mouth.”

I look up at Him, standing there like Zeus, and have the stupidity to say, “Aren’t you going to restrain me?”

He laughs sardonically as He bends my head down so He can grip my neck between His knees then leans down over my back and says, “Have it your way, eager one.” He says, clamping a pair of Irish Eights on my wrists so fast I have no time to react. Before I know it I am helpless with my wrists clamped together across the small of my back. “And, by the way, two dozen for speaking without permission.”

I almost retort but think better of it just in time.

It does me no good though. He steps around behind me and forces a large steel ring in behind my teeth. “We don’t mind you screaming, my dear, but speaking to your master without permission is against house rules and biting is strictly verboten, OSHA workplace regulations, you understand.”

Then, while I discover how vulnerable a person can feel when deprived of the use of their hands, he succeeds in making me into a blowjob on legs. I try to spit at him but that doesn’t work either. He just clamps a pair of chopsticks on my tongue with some rubber bands to grip them tight.

“Good, you have spirit,” He says, buckling a dog collar around my throat. “I like spirit.” Then, bringing the attached leash back between his legs he says, “Deep breath Joan, and hold it,” as he pulls my wide open mouth down onto his huge erection.


It’s an hour and a half later and my quest has yet to be fulfilled. He has fucked me every way from Sunday but something vital is missing. If I hadn’t been leashed and helpless I would have bolted long ago. As it is he just keeps trying stuff that might work for some girls but leaves me frustrated.

The locker room door swings open admitting Dr Feelgood and someone else who’s entire body is covered in a black muslin sack much like a Kabuki stage hand. The only flesh I can see is a coal black cock swinging between his legs. “Need some help, Garth?” the doctor says, stepping aside so his unseen companion can get behind me to where he can lift my hips and fuck me from the rear as I continue to gasp for air around Garth’s big cock in my throat.

The shroud the stranger wears allows him to see out without being seen, except for his exposed overlarge wedding tackle of course. I feel the fear of the unknown raising my level of sexual excitement. I bear down on the dick within my pussy, my love muscle milking him of his seed and pleasuring us both at the same time.

But still I cannot find the path to orgasm, the way to achieve the nirvana I know must be right there, just tantalizing me, just out of my reach.

I feel something being attached to the Irish eights on my wrists and then lifted, my feet coming up off the tiles causing my legs to wrap back around his and hold on as they whipsaw me between them.

Something seems to snap within me, suspended by my wracked arms, one man in my windpipe the other stretching my vulva to what seems close to ripping, massaging my G spot with what I later find out to be a ribbed tickler, I try to escape with every fiber of my being. I kick and strain and gain nothing. Escape is just one thing I can no longer do. I cannot breathe, defend myself or stop them from fucking me.

Just as I am beginning to feel something wonderful might be coming my way, both men begin to come, the one in front giving me a facial while the one in back is spurting his jizzun up across my ass and lower back.

When the winch cable begins to lower my feet to the floor I find I am supporting all three of us as they ride me down toward the floor. In the end we three collapse into a limp dog pile just as the good doctor leans down to Garth and whispers something to him, all the while locking eyes with me, a question mark in his eyes.

Still ring and stick gagged I can only sorrowfully shake my head no.

Garth extricates himself from the pile and walks out of the locker room, taking the shroud-covered man with him.

The Good Doctor kneels beside me, removes the two gags and caresses my sweaty, come streaked brow. "Shall we try mice then?”


When the two guys return, carrying some kind of table between them, the doctor gets up and leaves the room. As they set it down next to my still recumbent body I see that it is some kind of display table, made of strong looking, well braced steel legs that extend up through a two-piece marble top. In the center of the table is a rubber-lined oval hole. There is a thick glass fence about ten inches tall all around the top.

Setting it down next to where I lay on the tiles, they tip it up onto its edge, slide the two shorter legs back enough to let the top half of the table then slide upward leaving a gap big enough to admit my upper half through. They gently, almost tenderly, put me into the thing and slide the missing half down to trap my waist between the two slabs of marble. As soon as the two leg latches snap closed they remove my eights and, without further ado, turn the table back up on its legs so that I am hanging from my hips, head down and feeling as exposed as I have ever been.

I cannot see what they can see but I feel them tying my lower legs out to the upper ends of the table legs. I can imagine what my recently fucked pussy must look like from that angle. I see them ripping off strips of surgical tape and feel my pussy lips being stretched open and taped down to my thighs.

Then the Doctor brings out a small cage containing six cute little white mice.


The panic blinding, struggle and strain
Head down and open, trying again
I scream the safe word
Vision gets blurred
Tickle touch squeaking, spreading wet stain

My gapping pussy, my open hole
My panic rising, taking its toll
One’s climbing my thatch
I can’t reach the catch
Hard hearted riggers, playing their roll

My clitty nibbled, claws gripping lips
My vulva gushing, subbie lust grips
My nipples protrude
His whiskers intrude
Tiny tongue raspy, my gears it strips

Gate crashing rodent, finding his nest
Followed by second, on the same quest
A third forth and fifth
My clitty up stiff
Number six gripping, orgasm blest

Two weeks of training, well broken slave
Multi orgasmic, thing that I craved
My dreams are fulfilled
My sex life as billed
Back to the city, safely depraved

The End

Copyright© 2015 byPeter Loaf. All rights reserved.