Chats On Old Pewter

An eBook By Anonymous.

The Callipygian Venus

What Cynthia told me was so improbable that it might have been invented by a clumsy pornographer.  According to her, there was a private club in the heart of Manhattan that catered to the needs of women with big butts.  In everyday life, apparently, these women found it a real drawback to be so gifted in the rear end.  People stared.  Men made remarks.  A lot of them had chips on their shoulders.  Some had been passed over for promotion because they weren't taken seriously.  So they had created this club where the situation was reversed.  At The Callipygian Venus, the members emphasized the size and shape and heft of their asses by all kinds of ingenious exercises and attire, while a staff of carefully selected males waited on them and submitted to their most outlandish whims.  The idea was to glorify the female behind in its state of highest development, while at the same time indemnifying the members for the slights they suffered in the outside world.  Most of them behaved like selfish, spoiled bitches.  They treated the men like shit.  But thanks to a careful screening process and some ironclad paperwork, nobody had ever dared to blow the whistle.  Now it seemed there was a vacancy for one employee, and if I wanted it and passed all the requirements, I could have it.  Cynthia had recommended me.

"I'm a member myself," she said with a complacent smile, "and we'd probably come in contact with each other from time to time if you decided to sign on.  But hey, I'm not urging you to!  It's no bed of roses for the staff, let me tell you.  Absolutely no sex.  You'd have to wear a kind of chastity device all day and all night, and there'd be no question of getting to know the members as equals.  To them you'd be more like ... I don't know" - she let her languid gaze meet mine for a moment - "more like a piece of furniture, I guess you could say."

When I got my voice back, there was no hesitation, no careful weighing of pros and cons.  "I'll take the job," I said.

And believe it or not, I've regretted that decision.  Me, the guy who could never get enough in the rump department, who thought he'd like nothing better than to be squashed beneath a series of ladies' oversized asses.  The problem is, as Cynthia predicted, that no matter what detail I'm on, dressing room, lavatory, butt massage or human cushion, I have to wear an ingenious erection-suppresser which deprives me of all the enjoyment I would otherwise feel.  Sometimes it's a set of narrow steel rings called the "Seven Gates of Hell" that divide my swollen cock into segments like a bunch of cocktail sausages.  More humane - but no less frustrating - is the little plastic dick-cap that's fitted on me when I'm limp, preventing me from coming up and causing the head of my penis to be driven into a short dead end if I become aroused.  There's also a tiny wire "corker," named after the device that keeps champagne bottles from popping open; and a ring with sharp teeth on the inside that slips around the neck of my cock, which is then drawn down between my thighs by a little watch chain and secured to a belt behind my waist.  Worst of all is the one they call the bristle tube.  It's a short length of hollow aluminum that leaves me room to get a full-sized boner, but when I do, Jesus Christ, it's the most intensely exasperating sensation I've ever known.  The tube, you see, is lined with hundreds of stiff boar-hair bristles that torture every nerve ending of my bloated, throbbing cock.  When the lady who's sitting on my face squirms, or says something disparaging to me, or maybe cuts a gasser and makes me inhale it, my penis bulges and strains in the horrible tube, punishing me severely for reacting the way she knows I'll react.

They didn't break me in slowly.  My first day on the job, I got the whole experience right in the kisser.  As soon as I had signed my contract and agreed to the ground rules, I was led to the servants' quarters by Miss Fanny, a no-nonsense brunette with a biscuit on her like nobody's business.

"Ditch your street clothes and get into that uniform," she ordered.  "Then report to Gabriella in the bar.  She'll fix you up for lunchtime duty.  You're on the stools this week," she added with a derisive grin and swaggered out.

The so-called uniform was not reassuring - a tight pink chemise with big clownish buttons and an effeminate bow sewn on top, plus a pair of leggings in the same material that reached up only to my thighs, leaving my private parts and buttocks completely exposed.  I looked and felt like a fool when I got it all on, and the pointed-toed patent-leather evening slippers didn't help matters.

On my way to the bar, I passed several guys dressed like me, except they were all equipped with one or another kind of locking penile restraint.  Some of them appeared to be in considerable discomfort, and all had a nervous, hangdog look about them.

"Where the fuck have you been?" barked a tawny-haired South American bitch when I entered the bar.  "Never mind the excuses!  Just get your ass over here so I can put on your cock cage and get you strapped in place."

In very short order, I found myself wearing an extremely uncomfortable apparatus designed to punish me for the slightest sign of excitement.  It was a close-fitting leather purse studded with rubber nails on the inside: all right, so long as I remained flaccid, pure hell if I did not.  Before I could get used to it, I was obliged to crouch down under a four-foot-high bar stool whose seat had been modified so

that only the padded rim remained.  Seizing me by my hair and chin, Gabriella wedged my face into the gap thus created and fixed it in place by means of two straps attached to the underside of the seat.  Then she locked my arms into a pair of bracelets welded to the legs of the stool, ensuring that I could not wave them about and discommode the eventual occupant.

"There ya go!" she said jovially when I was squared away.  "All ready to be sat upon by some royally gifted cockteaser with a butt that would make you sell your soul!  You wanted to kiss ass?  You dreamed of brown-nosing your way into that tantalizing crevice?  Well this is your lucky day, lover boy!  Your dream is about to come true!  One little problem, though."  She sneered.  "That darned ol' anti-erection bag you're wearing.  Tsk, tsk, I hope you don't get too carried away."

With a callous laugh, she sauntered off.  I was stuck, all right, both literally and figuratively, and I had a good twenty minutes to consider my fate before the first members began to arrive.  A vague impression that the other stools were similarly upholstered with human faces did little to console me for the crick in my neck or the growing ache in my limbs.  At first I was too afraid to entertain any indecent thoughts, but after a while, the realization that a strange woman was about to plant her luscious bottom squarely on my nose, and that I was absolutely helpless to prevent it or to shorten the ordeal by so much as one second, crept into my mind and grew and grew until it occupied my entire consciousness.  As a result, my cock began to swell in its nail-studded purse, giving me a foretaste of the hellish torment I was going to endure.

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