Articles

I’ll never forget that fortuitous evening when my relationship with my master took a most drastic turn. Ah, but first let me introduce myself…Maximus is my name, I’m my master’s penis. This picture of me was taken while basking in the sun on a beautiful summer day, something I like to do in great measure, pun intended. I love the balmy feeling of the sun, how my testicles loosen, how my shaft absorbs the vibrant solar energy, all in erotic communion with Mother Nature.

Of course, my master usually brings out some coconut oil which he lets liquefy on the deck’s scorching cedar planks, heating it up to an utmost scrumptious temperature. Uuuuuu, as the oil slowly cascades over me, I stretch in exaltation, like a monk in ecstatic trance. Pulsating with sensual delight, I lose sense of time while surrendering myself unconditionally to my master’s adept massage. He guides me up to the threshold of orgasm, that coveted ‘edge’, where I incarnate my erotic self, my Eros. Solar and sexual energies blend in a bewitching elixir and I fall deeper and deeper intoxicated in rhapsody’s embrace…but things were not always this satisfying between master and me.

While my master was emerging from his adolescence into manhood, he didn’t know how to treat me like he does now. Back then he would often have sexual dreams culminating in sodden underwear and bed sheets. When he and I were alone, he would ofttimes coarsely and hastily coerce me to spasm leaving me drained and cheerless. This was pretty much his M.O. until he reached the age of twenty-six, almost forty years ago.
 

One of his friends lent him a book that ultimately shook his penile paradigm. I mean all it took was for him to read the first few pages and, like a lightning bolt from the heavens, he suddenly saw me in a different light: no longer a tool made solely for instant gratification, but, a powerful instrument capable of generating mental and physical salubrity, a wellspring of self-love. Of course the transition took me some time, years in fact, before I could comply with my master’s newfound knowledge. Although I loved this whole concept of ‘edging’, I still carried around some scars from the years of abuse which needed extensive healing.

Now with my master in his mid-sixties, things have never been better between us. Why just this morning, while sitting in his favorite wicker chair looking out into the misty winter landscape, he opened his bathrobe and convened a most wonderful ardent intimate session with me. My skillful master gently brought me close to the ‘edge’ where I gratefully stayed for nearly an hour, or maybe more, or maybe time stood still…