Pins And Needles

[josephine_marrs]

           There is always a great deal of work involved whenever an enterprise changes hands, no matter how smooth the transfer. A skilled businessman will make the alterations seem seamless to those looking in at it; but there is always dross to be rid of, excesses to be abolished, vestigal elements to be cut away. These tasks had occupied Robert from the gray, pre-dawn hour that he had awakened, to the dark, firelit moment that was marked by the twelve soft chimes of the clock upstairs. He barely heard them, as he reached the end of the ledger that he had been taking account of; but he knew the hour, and deemed this, at last, a suitable point to leave off for the day.
            He had not been this busy since his service in the army. That had involved a different sort of labors, far more exhausting, but there had been a certain peace at the end of the day; a peacefulness born from exhilaration. There was a time to drill, to march, to eat, to sleep, to shoot, to kill; and in the field, these had not come in any particular order, and often they did not come at the times one would normally ascribe to such pursuits. But the chaos had been a great part of the allure of it all.
            Then, he had come home. He was no longer constrained by duty to the army; he could wake at any moment he pleased, eat and drink his fill, dress comfortably, entertain himself in luxury; all at his leisure. And he had hated every moment of it.
            It was only now, as he opened the humidor at the desk that once had been his father’s, and now was his, and drew out a cigar that also now was his, and leaned back in the chair that as well now was his – only at that moment, did he realize that the pleasure he had felt during his martial service had not been due to the fact of its pace, or its arduousness, or even the danger. His pleasure had come from his sense of purpose.
            Only now had his purpose returned to him. Norbert Morehouse was no more; a ghost in exile, who may as well be dead. Now it was Robert who was responsible for the Morehouse name, and all its holdings. It was he who would determine its legacy, and give it glory.
            Such purpose demanded focus. The only thing which haunted him now, was not the loss of his Father – as distant and judgmental as God himself – nor the pins and needles that always set the end of his long-lost foot on fire. Such ghosts did not cause him concern. It was the fact that, even with such power and purpose as he now possessed, he was still seized by the urge to drink and carouse, as much so as he had felt it at this time last week. Even when he had been trying to keep up with Kennedy and foil the awful destruction that he had intended, those desires had been pricking at him. And they were even harder to ignore, now; for what was the matter of a few ledgers, compared to keeping New York from going up in flames?
            He opened the drawer on the bottom left, and drew out a small parcel, wrapped in brown paper. With the cigar clamped between his teeth, he tore the wrapping from it, and surveyed what was inside. A wreath of spicy, fragrant smoke swirled about him as he slid his fingers underneath the soft leather. The firelight reflected faintly off of the tips of the tiny metal spikes inside.
            His favorite girl at the Comptess’ establishment had told him of such a device. There was actually a man who locked himself into such a thing for days or weeks at a time, she said, and who came to her, not for release, but to delight in the torment of watching her pleasure herself in front of him, and being unable to do anything about it.
            At the time, he had been unable to comprehend why any sane man would wish to constrain himself in such a manner. She had not been able to explain it to his satisfaction, either; only that the gentleman – himself a successful businessman -- claimed that doing so enabled him to focus on his other duties with a clarity that he had never before possessed; much like, she supposed, a horse that has been gelded is capable of performing without the distractions of its intact nature. At that notion, they had both laughed, and judged a man who was so afraid of his genitals to be unworthy of possessing them.
            Over the last few days, however, as his distractions had threatened, he decided that he did, perhaps, understand that this gentleman’s motivation derived, not from fear, but from a desire to waste neither time nor energy in purposeless pursuits.
            Eva had been kind enough to procure this for him, her only judgment a knowing smirk; she was entitled to that, he supposed. He had sent Elizabeth the thin key that was the only thing capable of reversing the course of the various tiny locks on the device. Once he was locked inside, release would only be possible if he went to see her, and specifically requested her to give it to him. He had not told her what it was for, and he knew that she would not pry unduly about its purpose – at least, not the first time, and perhaps not even the second or the third. But he knew that his own pride would not allow there to be a second or a third time for such begging.
            He set the cigar aside for the moment, and drew open his dressing gown. Oddly, the thought of being so constrained, for who knew how long, was filling him with excitement. He supposed he would have to be quick in his movements, then, or else this article might not be properly utilized. The notion that time was so of the essence in this sort of endeavor made him smile.
            He settled the lower half of the supple piece of leather against his scrotum. The material there was reinforced by two steel rings sewn onto it, and these he settled against each nut. The tiny tacks that studded the inside of this half of the device were blunted, but they still nibbled into his skin as he closed the leather around his sac and screwed the pins shut. It was a bit like closing up a coin-purse. When they had closed completely, the leather hugged his sac like a second skin; he had feared that it might simply slide or be able to be tugged off, but it was obvious now that this would not be the case.
            The other half of the device was designed to close about his cock in much the same way. The edges were rimmed in brass, and contained the tiny pins that would only turn one way until the key reversed them. Slim bands of metal branched off from each edge, like ribs, ensuring that if he changed his mind, it would be a devilish endeavor to cut it off. In between the ribs, the rows of tiny tacks glittered hungrily.
            Excitement and pain coursed through him as he closed the device around his cock; he could feel himself pulse briefly, his flesh seeming for a moment to possess a mind of its own, a mind that became confused as the leather and metal constrained it. He turned the pins carefully and slowly, taking care that each one was closed as evenly as possible. He stopped often, fearing that the tacks might prick him in a dangerous manner; and they certainly did hurt, but every time he checked the edges of the leather with his fingers, they were always free of blood.
            He could hear the tiny teeth inside the gears clicking, ever so softly, as the device tightened and locked into place. By the time he had locked everything as far as he dared, he could dimly hear the clock upstairs chiming one o’clock.
            He handled himself gingerly. The end of the device was left open, so he would still be able to make water normally. Due to his lingering excitement, the head of his cock bulged out from it a bit, and he could feel it swelling, pulsing, then receding again, as if it were struggling against the confines of its prison. He wondered if he had simply been a fool in resorting to this; with how it felt at the moment, it seemed like it would be far more of a distraction than simply relieving his tensions in all the normal ways.
            But, there was nothing to be done for it, now. He cleaned off the end of his cigar and relit it, intending to go to bed as soon as he had finished it.
            As he smoked, he realized that the pent-up feeling, the frustration, was slowly turning into a sort of feeling of pins and needles. It was not, he realized, much different than the sensation in his leg, that he lived with every moment of every day. And that had certainly not distracted him from accomplishment, he mused, with a laugh.
            His cock, his balls, his foot, his father…all were little more than ghosts, now. They could rail at him all they liked. Phantoms could not keep him from anything that he set his mind to.