Pillory Park
by Richard Lovel – Copyright 2025 – All rights reserved
Chapter 3 – Second Offender
Two officers emerged from the side entrance, escorting a skinny, trembling young man. In contrast to Roger, who had come in fully dressed and defiant, this man was already stripped naked, wearing just a delicate identification bracelet on his wrist. He moved timidly, his eyes locked on the floor as he felt the intense scrutiny of hundreds of female eyes focused on his exposed body.
Gladys addressed the audience, while Lucy sanitized the pillory station. “This fella here is Dickie Smallwood. Twenty-three years old and caught with quite the collection of masturbation material in his apartment.”
Dickie flinched at the sound of his name, his shoulders hunching further as if trying to disappear. His small penis hung limply between his thin legs, seeming to retreat from the public gaze just as much as its owner wished to.
“Mr. Smallwood here is what we call a chronic masturbator. He spends his evenings—and mornings, and lunch breaks, and pretty much any spare minute—jerkin’ off to his naughty stuff. The neighbors report hearing his activities at all hours. He even has a plastic contraption made up to look like a pussy. Probably the only pussy he’s ever had.” Laughter rippled through the audience, and Dickie’s shoulders hunched even further.
“Now ladies, I can see some of you are looking at him with disgust, and others with pity. In fact,” Gladys said, her tone shifting to something almost maternal, “you might even feel a touch sorry for him. Look at him—he’s about as threatening as a wet paper towel. This boy couldn’t intimidate a houseplant.”
Her tone hardened slightly. “But don’t let that fool you into thinking we can just let him scurry back to his hole.” She circled him slowly, her boots clicking on the platform. “Even the weakest male mind needs proper alignment. Especially ones that marinate in altered images, creating a fantasy world where women exist only for male pleasure. We found his hand-drawn sketches of women in degrading positions. Worse yet, digital images of Dickie’s female coworkers manipulated to place their heads on nude bodies. Mr. Smallwood removed their personhood and dignity, reducing them to nothing but objects for his gratification.”
A murmur of disgust rippled through the audience.
“And that’s why we’re here today,” Gladys announced, placing a hand on Dickie’s trembling shoulder. “The way we deal with his sort is by teaching him that his little solo hobby isn’t fun when it disrespects women. We will disconnect the physical act from his jollies.” She gestured for Lucy to approach. “Trainee Teasley, would you help the young man into the PostureFrame™?”
Lucy stepped forward, gently but firmly guiding Dickie toward the pillory. He offered no resistance, allowing her to lock his head and wrists into the restraints while the lower bar spread his legs wide apart. He cast a shy, pleading smile up at her, searching her eyes for a glimmer of compassion.
Gladys continued “Now ladies, watch closely. Little Dickie here is about to experience what people call a ruined orgasm. .”
Dickie whimpered, his body already trembling in anticipation and fear.
Gladys adopted a formal tone. “The clinical term, is ejaculatory discontinuation. For those of you unfamiliar with the technique, I will read from the official Male Management Handbook.”
Ejaculatory Discontinuation, often called Ruined Orgasm, is a complex interplay of pleasure and discomfort for the male subject. Initially the female practitioner manipulates his genitals to stimulate the male in a slowly ascending arc of arousal. She thus creates the anticipation of full sexual gratification. As he approaches climax, his body responds to impending ejaculation with tightening in his testicles, almost painful tumescence in his penis, and unbearable craving for release. But exactly when ejaculation becomes inevitable, the practitioner abruptly discontinues all stimulation. His body continues through the expression of semen, but without the anticipated orgasmic reward. This sudden discontinuation produces unique agony in the male, beyond mere frustration.
To fully understand the origin of this phenomenon, consider the evolutionary role of the male organs. The penis functions according to two main programs. In the first, it engages in repeated thrusting movements in and out of the vagina. This rhythmic action delivers pleasurable sensations to the male and motivates him to pursue mating opportunities. As sexual excitement nears its peak, the second program takes control and causes the penis to seek and hold deep vaginal penetration during ejaculation to maximize the likelihood of impregnation.
The cost of vaginal containment failure is the loss of a valuable reproductive opportunity, and the penis instinctively seeks to maintain enclosure. Evidence of the power of this autonomic reflex is apparent in the way the male invariably grasps his penis tightly in his hand during masturbatory orgasm. When manual stimulation is removed during masturbation the penis reacts as if it had “slipped out” of the vagina at the moment of sperm injection. The penis’s desperation to reinsert as ejaculation proceeds is overwhelming, producing an intense emotional and physical response. In this crisis and its aftermath, the male is reduced to a mere vessel of frustration, teetering on the brink of ecstasy while grappling with the stark reality of his impotence—both physically and symbolically. The utility of this response in male management should be clear to every female practitioner.
Gladys snapped the handbook closed and turned to Lucy with a warm smile. “Ladies, I’d like to properly introduce you to my trainee today, Lucy Teasley. She’ll be demonstrating the ruined orgasm technique on our friend Dickie here.”
Lucy gave a squeal of surprised delight. and the audience applauded politely. “Lucy’s been studying all the theoretical aspects of male management, but today marks her first official public demonstration. Tell me, honey, have you ever performed a ruined orgasm before today?”
Lucy’s blush deepened. “Well, a few times, on boys I was dating, but not on purpose,” she admitted with a sheepish grin. “I guess I just got… distracted at the wrong moment.” The audience erupted in laughter, several women clapping at Lucy’s charming admission.
Gladys patted Lucy’s shoulder. “Well, today you’ll get to do proper. And there’s something quite special that I think you’ll all appreciate.” Addressing the crowd she gestured between Lucy and Dickie with a theatrical sweep of her hand. “During our routine inspection of Mr. Smallwood’s computer files, we discovered something rather interesting—one of his favorite masturbation images bears a striking resemblance to our trainee.”
A collective “Ooooh” rippled through the audience as women leaned forward in their seats, suddenly more invested in the proceedings.
“That’s right. Seems our Dickie here has been pleasuring himself to a catalog model who could be Miss Teasley’s twin sister. Same blonde ponytail, same perky demeanor—even the same little dimple when she smiles.”
Lucy’s hand flew to her mouth in genuine surprise, her eyes widening as she looked toward Dickie. Their eyes met briefly, and something flickered between them—a strange, unspoken connection. Dickie’s face, already flushed with shame, now burned brighter, but there was something else there too. A hint of excitement, perhaps even pleasure at this unexpected turn of events.
“So you see, ladies, today’s demonstration will have special significance for our subject. It’s one thing to have your pleasure ruined by a stranger, but quite another when it’s done by the very woman who’s been starring in your private fantasies.”
The audience hummed with appreciation at this psychological twist. Several women in the front row whispered excitedly to each other, pointing between Lucy and Dickie. In the third row, a middle-aged woman in a business suit had casually draped her jacket across her lap, her hand disappearing beneath it with rhythmic movements. Two rows behind her, a college-aged girl had slouched down in her seat, fingers slipped beneath the waistband of her jeans. Throughout the amphitheater, women were discreetly augmenting the growing tension with personal measures.
A pulse of heat surged between Lucy’s own thighs, her body responding to the power she now wielded over Dickie. The wetness she’d felt earlier had intensified to an insistent throb, demanding attention. Her fingers twitched with the desire to press against herself, to ease the building pressure. But she straightened her shoulders instead, acutely aware of her position at center stage and the professional responsibility it carried.
Gladys held out a bottle of genital lubricant, and Lucy took a deep breath, her hands trembling as she accepted the bottle. She moved to stand directly in front of Dickie, looking down through his spread legs where his genitals hung exposed. His penis twitched slightly as she watched, a response that sent an unexpected thrill through her body. She looked him directly in the eye as she squeezing a generous amount of lubricant onto her palm. “What a cute little thing. Already getting excited just from being looked at.”
She then moved beside him, extending the seat of the Pillory’s built in “milking stool” which positioned the corrections officer with both easy access to the his genitals and a view of his flushed face. She wrapped her fingers around his shaft, noting how it instantly stiffened at her touch. The lubricant made her hand glide smoothly along his length, and she established a slow, methodical rhythm.
“Oh my,” she giggled, circling her thumb and forefinger loosely around his shaft, “it’s like holding a frightened little mouse.” She gave an experimental stroke, watching with fascination as his penis twitched and began to swell against her palm.
“I—I’m sorry,” Dickie mumbled, his voice muffled by his position in the pillory.
“Sorry for what?” Lucy asked, increasing her pace slightly. “For having such a cute little penis, or for getting hard for being locked down all naked in front of these women?” She leaned closer. She could feel his pulse quickening through the veins in his shaft.
“B-both,” he admitted, a whimper escaping as her thumb swiped over his sensitive head, collecting the first bead of moisture forming there.
“You like when I make fun of your little thing, don’t you?” she whispered, just loud enough for the front row to hear. Her fingers squeezed slightly tighter, moving faster.
Dickie’s eyes widened, his pupils dilating as he stared at her face. His breathing quickened, shallow and desperate. “Y-yes,” he gasped, his hips involuntarily jerking forward into her grip. “It’s exactly how I—how I picture it when I’m alone in my room. Your face, your voice… teasing me while I—” He cut himself off with a groan, shame and arousal battling visibly across his features.
Lucy’s eyebrows shot up, her hand momentarily stilling on his shaft. “Wait, you masturbate thinking about me? You don’t even know me.” A collective murmur rippled through the audience, several women leaning forward in their seats.
“I saw you,” he confessed, words tumbling out in a mortified rush. “At the coffee shop near the Department building. I took a picture when you weren’t looking. I’m sorry, I know it’s wrong, but you were so pretty and—” His voice cracked as tears of humiliation welled in his eyes.
A collective murmur rippled through the audience—part disgust, part fascination. Several women leaned forward in their seats, drawn to the raw vulnerability of his confession.
Gladys made a note in her log book. “Well now, isn’t this interesting? Unauthorized photography for purposes of masturbation. We may need to refer Mr. Smallwood’s case for further charges.”
Lucy felt a surge of heat between her thighs, her indignation at his voyeurism transforming into something darker and more primal. The image of Dickie hunched over his computer, frantically stroking himself to her stolen likeness, sent a forbidden thrill through her body. Her fingers instinctively tightened around his shaft.
“So you’ve been sneaking pictures of me and jerking off to them?” she whispered, her voice dropping to a husky register she barely recognized. “All those times you were alone in your sad little room, pretending your fingers were mine?”
She quickened her pace, watching his face contort with mingled shame and pleasure. The power she held over him was intoxicating—his pleasure, his humiliation, resting in her inexperienced yet eager hand.
“Y-yes,” he stammered, his hips jerking helplessly against his restraints. “Almost every night.”
“And now it really is me,” Lucy continued with an edge in her voice, her free hand moving to cradle his exposed testicles, rolling them gently between her fingers then thumping them sharply as she’d learned in training. “The real me, not just your fantasy. How does that feel, Dickie boy?” He groaned in grateful pain.
“Please,” Dickie whimpered, “don’t stop.”
Gladys encouraged. “Take him right to the edge, then pull him back. Make him desperate.” Lucy’s fingers tightened around Dickie’s shaft, establishing a rhythm that made his breathing quicken. His penis had swollen considerably, the head now dark and glistening with pre-ejaculate that leaked steadily onto her fingers.
“Look how wet you’re getting,” she observed, lifting her slick fingers to show the audience. “Is this what happens when you spy on women and take their pictures without permission? Your little dick just drips and drips?”
Dickie’s hips bucked helplessly against the restraints. “I’m sorry—I’m so sorry—it just feels so good when you—”
Lucy abruptly released him, leaving his penis bobbing in the air. The sudden absence of stimulation made him gasp, his body tensing in frustrated need.
“When I what?” she asked innocently, wiping her fingers on a sanitizing cloth before applying fresh lubricant. “When I touch this pathetic little thing? Is that what you were going to say?” Lucy continued, her voice taking on a lilting, teasing quality as her slick fingers returned to wrap around his shaft.
“I bet you think about this all the time, don’t you? Being handled by a pretty girl while everyone watches?” She squeezed just beneath the head, making him gasp. Her technique was unpracticed but instinctive—a natural talent for finding the exact pressure that would bring him to the edge without tipping him over.
Dickie whimpered, his face burning with shame even as his hips instinctively pushed forward into her touch. “Y-yes, Miss Lucy.”
“Only perverts think about that,” Lucy laughed, the sound musical and cruel. “And what does that make you then, Dickie? Look at yourself!” She gestured to the screens displaying his contorted face and dripping penis. “Your little thing is telling the truth even when you won’t.”
She felt a surprising power flowing through her veins as she controlled his pleasure. “I think we need to slow things down a bit,” Lucy announced, deliberately withdrawing her hand just as Dickie’s penis began to pulse with need. She watched his face crumple with frustration, savoring the way his hips futilely thrust forward seeking contact that was no longer there.
“Please,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Please don’t stop.”
“Oh, but stopping is the best part,” Lucy replied, circling her finger just above the glistening head of his penis without touching it. “See how it makes you beg? I like to hear that sound.”
Lucy felt a delicious warmth spreading between her thighs as she watched Dickie’s desperation mount. She’d tried this once with her college boyfriend—edging him slowly, pulling back when he got too close. But he’d grown angry, accusing her of being a prick tease, of not understanding a man’s needs. She’d felt guilty, apologizing as she finished him off, and not tried again. But here, with Dickie secured in the pillory, there was no pressure to relent, no sullen complaints or masculine entitlement to navigate. Only his desperate, helpless desire. And the best part was that both of them knew how it would end.
Lucy glanced over at Gladys, who gave her an approving nod. She applied more lubricant, the cool gel making him gasp as she wrapped her fingers around him once more. She established a rhythm that was deliberately inconsistent—fast strokes followed by agonizingly slow ones, firm pressure alternating with feather-light touches.
She felt his climax approaching. His scrotum contracted visibly against his body, drawing up tight as a walnut. The veined shaft stiffened further in Lucy’s grip, and the previously pink glans transformed into a deep plum color, shiny and taut like polished stone. She felt it happen before she saw it—that telltale pulse beneath her fingers, the initial spasm that traveled from base to tip.
Gladys leaned forward urgently, lips parting to instruct her trainee. “Lucy, now’s the time to—” but Lucy’s fingers had already released Dickie’s shaft by instinct at the perfect instant, hovering millimeters away from contact.
A tortured moan escaped his throat—not the triumphant release of orgasm but the sound of a wounded animal. Dickie’s body contorted in agony, his hips thrusting forward and back, desperate to find a home for his abandoned penis, now spasming pathetically, untouched in open air. His semen emerged in weak, unsatisfying dribbles, oozing down his shaft rather than shooting forth with vigor. Each droplet fell with audible pitter-pats into the collection tray below, the sound amplifying his humiliation.
“Oh my! … Poor dear” Lucy teased and giggled. “Would you look at that. It’s just… leaking out of him, like a broken faucet.”
The audience erupted in delighted laughter, several women pointing as the screens displayed close-ups of Dickie’s ruined climax. Throughout the amphitheater, the women’s reactions intensified with Dickie’s humiliation. A sharp gasp cut through the laughter from the third row where the businesswoman’s movements beneath her jacket became frantic, her head tilting back as she bit her lower lip to stifle her climax. Her colleague beside her placed a steadying hand on her trembling shoulder, whispering something that made them both giggle conspiratorially.
“Oh god, yes—just like that!” came an unmistakable cry from the college section, where a young woman with purple-streaked hair abandoned all pretense of discretion. Her friends giggled nervously but didn’t stop their own ministrations, their faces flushed with arousal and vicarious triumph.
Lucy stood transfixed, her senses overwhelmed. The lubricant on her fingers cooled in the morning air as she relived Dickie’s pleading moans. Every whimper had shot straight between her thighs, igniting a fire she couldn’t now extinguish. Her inner walls clenched rhythmically around nothing, desperate for friction, for pressure, for release. “Oh god,” she whispered, inaudible to the audience but painfully clear to herself. “Focus,” she commanded herself, but her body betrayed her. Her clit pulsed insistently, each throb more demanding than the last. She was perilously close—one wrong move and she would come undone before hundreds of spectators.
Gladys’s voice seemed distant now. “Lucy? The pillory, dear.”
Lucy inhaled sharply, forcing her body back under control. “I—yes, of course,” she managed, her voice unnaturally high. She busied herself with the release mechanism, grateful for the distraction from the insistent throbbing between her legs.
Two officers stepped forward, helping the wobbly-legged Dickie to stand upright. His thin body glistened with sweat, his spent penis hanging limply between his thighs, occasional aftershocks making it twitch pathetically, at thin rope of semen still dribbling out. Tears streaked his flushed face as he avoided meeting anyone’s gaze. Gladys instructed, “Take him to Processing for re-charging. Illegal masturbating to Department Personnel”
She leaned closer to Lucy so that only she could hear. “I know what you’re feeling, honey. The Department calls it ’empathetic physiological mirroring.’ Your body’s just responding to their arousal, amplified by your position of control.”
Lucy pressed her thighs together, the pressure providing momentary relief to the insistent pulsing between her legs. “It’s so… intense,” she whispered back, her voice catching. “I didn’t expect to feel like this.”
“All of us go through it. After enough staff complaints about ‘post-correction tension’, the Department built the Comfort Stations. They’ve got lockable stalls, nice vibrating massage chairs, and they ain’t for back pain. Take a little breather, sugar, and give yourself some after-care. You need to be fresh for next offender — he’s a special case.”
Gladys chuckled to herself watching Lucy toddle off for some urgently needed me-time. She remembered her early days when giving a spanking or ruined orgasm like today was enough to trigger a dash to the stalls. But now she knew how to pace herself, and was building toward the main event soon to come.
~~~ continued ~~~
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Pillory Park | by Richard Lovel | Copyright 2025 | All rights reserved
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
RL-2025-07-05