Monday, September 26, 2016

New short story, 'A Curious Arrangement'

I have published a new short story, 'A Curious Arrangement' (not be confused with 'The Arrangement').

Female Dominant, bondage, chastity, humiliation. 13,000 + words. $ 4.00.

http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/a-curious-arrangement/19457818



 

Saturday, September 24, 2016

The Arrangement II


“Well, back again so soon.”

The familiar voice of Ms. Juliette grasps his attention. She enters the training room. Professionally attired, her authoritative demeanor detracts from her otherwise radiant appearance, jet black hair, dark eyes, make up modest but precise. Her comportment is that of a businesswoman, certainly not a woman who earns her living shaping men of low self esteem.    

Chris Bellows humbly falls to his knees hoping that any conversation will be accompanied by the turn of the key in the formidable lock of the chastity belt. Fortunately, Ms. Juliette is as eager to free his penis as he is. She graciously stoops, key in hand. The lock springs open.

“The belt is working nicely Chris. Your hormones must be overflowing.”

She playfully caresses his right nipple as Nurse Ingrid removes the belt. The imposing nurse momentarily disappears. The well designed device will be cleansed, a procedure as simple as placing it in a dishwasher.

For the first time in seven days, Chris Bellows’ genitals are free. As Ms. Juliette watches his penis rise in salute, she smiles. Its firmness is for her and only for her. But for her key wielding hand, it would continue to be entrapped under steel. For her the psychological dominance is not only pleasing... it’s arousing.

So after ten weeks of complete chastity Chris Bellows’ organ is again free to show off... and it does. Rising to full erection before the two fully clothed women in a futile demonstration of male hubris, both nurse and Ms. Juliette smile. The organ stands for their amusement not his. And both chuckle as Chris’s right hand spasmodically tugs against its bond. It so much wants to stroke the tantalizingly hard shaft. The women find enjoyment in the feeble effort.

“Bad boy Chris. You wanted to be controlled and controlled you are.

“How is your writing? I wager it’s as deliciously kinky as always.”

Chris nods. In fact, it is. With his hormones surging the words cascade from the word processor. With his male machismo engaging in a raging battle with his need for submission... for the first time in his life the testosterone is losing. Ten weeks... not only deprived of the ability to ejaculate but also of the capacity to merely stroke his neglected penis.

So often he feels the urge, his manhood knocking on the steel barrier of his belt. And so often the only possible response is to concentrate, write, and fantasize about the upcoming weekly visit to Ms. Juliette’s lair. And now he is here and his male appendage shows its appreciation.

“We’ll talk later, Chris. Be a good boy for Nurse Ingrid now.”

The smiling dominatrix, a master at extracting psychological submission, bends and diddles the exposed underside of Chris Bellows’ standing phallus. It wriggles as if to thank the woman who has so graciously set it free. She chortles at the reaction.

‘Will she not just stroke it for me?’ Chris thinks to himself.

As she turns to step out, Nurse Ingrid establishes herself.

“On the table please, Mr. Bellows. We have work to do.”  

Chris stands and feels the assuring comfort of his heavy scrotal sac swing between his thighs. At least it’s still there, he thinks with some satisfaction... though useless except for the amusement of Ms. Juliette.

The weighty stock makes all movement laborious. He carefully steps onto a small stool resting next to the shining metal table then places one calve and then the other on the smooth surface. He knows to kneel with his knees well parted. Nurse Ingrid insists on complete access to every inch of his flesh and every aperture. Resistance during his first visit resulted in convincing twists and pinches of his gonads. He learned to obey and extinguish all thoughts of resistance.
  
The tall and powerful nurse begins the day. For the next thirty minutes his entire body will be examined, shaven and cleansed. Nothing will escape her inquisitive hands and fingers and Chris has written enough D/s erotica to understand it is the ultimate in mental submission. Kneeling naked under bright lights and forced to display everything. To have all his anatomy offered to the knowing eyes and fingers. Just having to widely part his lips while Nurse Ingrid rummaged about within his mouth and throat could take a toll. The arrangement necessitated such payment and coinage came in the form of complete subservience.

He recalls his first visit where, after the huge nurse was through with him, he sat and was ‘counseled’ by Ms. Juliette. Chris was notably disquieted by the experience and even after ten weeks he finds the nurse’s brusque treatment of his uncovered body difficult to mentally accept. He had to pose the question. Ms. Juliette answered.

“Where did I find Nurse Ingrid? Why I simply ran an ad in the Nursing Journal, Chris. She’s actually quite an experienced nurse who finds her regular weekly job rather boring. The notion of having part time employment on Saturday afternoons was attractive only because the ad specified the need for a stern woman who would be furnished with unfettered access to a special male patient in providing unusual treatment.

“Yes, don’t look surprised. Though unfortunately suppressed by various standards of deportment, most nurses have latent desires to control... to be completely in charge. To entice them, one just has to use the right code words in the ad. The ethics of the profession are rather strict about the special care aspect. Except for here, of course, where there is no need for concern,” the words coming with a laugh.


“And I think I chose wisely... wouldn’t you agree?”

Chris had to admit the nurse made good use of her ‘unfettered access’. She had shaved is entire body with a straight razor. From the neck down all hair was removed. It proved to be a frightening experience... but not a nick resulted... not even around the nooks and crannies of his testicles, perineum and anus. And she repeats the removal every week.

So once again he kneels as the nurse’s soapy hands knead and caress his genitals. It feels
so good after seven days of entrapment. Yet, she is so careful not to cause ejaculation, keeping the trained fingers of her left hand on the tactile area between his rectum and his scrotal sac. She knows it to be a barometer of his level of arousal. When the nurse feels him quavering there, she immediately withdraws, admonishing him to control his neglected maleness.

He must obey. And he does.

“You’re becoming nicely toned, Mr. Bellows,” the nurse having massaged and felt every limb and muscle.

“Amazing what a little change in diet and some exercise can do.”

The nurse is correct. No stimulants. No alcohol. No red meat. Mountains of fruit and vegetables. But to what end? To keep his publisher happy? So he can better entertain Ms. Juliette? To satisfy some quest... that she has the power to mold the male body... to have a subjugated male amuse her for longer and longer periods with an erection that will not subside?

Gloved fingers probe his anus. He feels abundant lubricant and hears a soft laugh as one digit and then a second penetrate. The nurse is all too familiar with the male anatomy.

“Your prostate is swollen. We’ll take care of that on our next visit.”

The fingers withdraw but in their place is inserted a rubber plug. He has come to expect it. There is no probe or procedure to which he can object. His body is open, exposed and vulnerable to all the nurse wishes to impose. There are no limits.

With a hiss of air the diabolical implement expands, completely filling his backside. His penis waggles in response and, though there is minor discomfort, he knows he cannot expel the expanse of rubber. It will stay until the nurse releases the air and with mocked ceremony slides it out. It greatly adds to the humiliation of his ordeal, forcing his manhood to achieve previously unattainable levels of rigidness.  

Saturday, September 17, 2016

The Arrangement I

Found this story attached to an old email. I have not a clue as to what I planned to do with it. Don't think I published or posted it anywhere.

Juliette Janvier was/is a real person (nom de guerre for a Dominatrix). But I don't think I ever met her in person.

***************************************************************************

The Arrangement

Copyright 2003

by Chris Bellows

Chris Bellows guides the car to lane six of the toll booth. The George Washington Bridge looms in a quickly disappearing late morning mist, revealing an impressive view of Manhattan. But there is limited opportunity to enjoy the vista. Arrival at the toll booths signals that it is time to take the little blue pill.                   

Chris reaches to the dash board tray and pops the top off the plastic cylinder. The small tablet of Viagra easily glides down his throat with a final gulp of decafe.

Chris prefers high octane, fully caffeinated brew. But Ms. Juliette has forbidden it.

“You’ll find yourself becoming jumpy enough, Chris. No stimulants. And no alcohol either. Just these foods... and in moderation.”

The list she waved was devoid of anything a man could want in terms of sustenance. ‘Green things and fruit’ was how he mentally summarized his allowed diet. Gratefully, pasta was included. But no meat sauce. And it didn’t taste right without a heavy sprinkling of Parmesan, which of course Ms. Juliette crossed off the list with the swipe of a broad red felt tipped pen. She had such a demonstrative a way of ordaining her dominance.

He suspected that the only reason the cheese was initially listed was so that she could dramatically delete it before his eyes... punctuating her control. She knew it was a favorite.

But that was what he wanted... to be controlled. To be relieved of the responsibility of directing his male lust, which while mounting, spurred literary efforts of provocative but questionable taste. Chris had made a habit of starving his sexual appetite in order to nourish his writing. Then in a state of unbridled priapism, Chris would feast, voraciously plunging into sultry encounters with females of spurious reputation. This was not good. Such diversions diminished his effectiveness. 

Chris Bellows writes erotica for Pink Flamingo (http://www.eroticbooknetwork.com). Experience has taught him that the higher the hormonal buildup, the more productive and more licentious his work product. Thus, in getting his ‘rocks off’ with an expensive woman in a cheap hotel, his work product suffered. For thereafter, it would take days for his libido to become restored to a level where his prurient literary endeavors were properly refurbished.

This had to change. He found Ms. Juliette.

Since being under her tutelage, the words have flowed like a river. The imagination foments colorful and dementedly crafted scenes of dominance and submission. His readers are gratefully appalled. His publisher is happy. Thus, by arrangement, there are no women anymore. Only his Saturday afternoon visits to Ms. Juliette, where he remains forcibly chaste.

Chris Bellows wears a chastity belt from Neosteel (http://www.neosteel.de/Nsepcbm.htm). Only Ms. Juliette has the key. And the steel belt encircling his waist is only opened and removed on Saturdays... ostensibly for cleaning. However, the past three or four visits have included other diversions. Amusement for certain visitors... and for Nurse Ingrid.   

The BMW weaves through light traffic and seems to find its own way to Riverside Drive. Chris Bellows’ right foot presses harder, accelerating on empty streets. Ms. Juliette has been correct in her prognostication. He is ‘jumpy’. Eager to enter the cathartic world of Ms. Juliette’s domain. There her control is complete. Subtleness, such as the diet and the chastity belt worn 24/7, is cast aside and exchanged for complete dominance. His offering of submission... thorough submission... becomes all encompassing.

That’s the arrangement... to be immersed in a total power exchange in order to cleanse his mind. Then to be released without relief to face his word processor with renewed fervor, his libido frustratingly remaining unquelled.   

The hormones spur the car’s velocity. There are needs to be fulfilled. However frustrating his visits are, it will feel good to have the belt removed despite the price of humbleness to be paid.

The city’s normally fast pace slackens on the weekends of late Spring. Today will be the first weekend day of significant warmth. Many have left for mountains, lakes and beaches. Parking is therefore ample. Chris Bellows soon finds his feet pounding on concrete and rushing up stairs. Ms. Juliette’s apartment is in sight. His hands shake. The first tremor of Viagra induced engorgement is felt under the ineluctable stainless steel belt. He will soon tumefy for Ms. Juliette like a satyric schoolboy. As the elevator door glides closed his imagination hears her sardonic laugh. It is an irritating laugh but a welcome one. She enjoys watching his penis stand and it would do so without the pill. But since Ms. Juliette insists that he remain hard for the entire length of his visit, which will occupy most of the afternoon, the medication provides assurance.     
A testosterone induced push of the apartment doorbell results in an obnoxiously long buzz. The door is abruptly flung open and Chris Bellows faces his weekly antagonist, Nurse Ingrid.

She wordlessly beckons him to enter. The middle-aged blonde Swedish woman is as dour as ever and Chris’s emphatically announced arrival has not added cheer to her demeanor.

“Into the training room and strip,” she commands. “You’re early again.”

Yes, though he trembles with a strange combination of both reluctance and expectation, Chris has indeed arrived 15 minutes before his scheduled time. Once the blue pill is taken, haste is imperative. The Neosteel belt will not allow for erection. When it comes to stainless steel versus flesh, steel prevails, and it does so with great anguish. Thus, the Viagra can produce a form of torment to be avoided.

The ‘training’ room is huge by New York City standards. There is a corner with an array of medical equipment, examination table included. Another corner for discipline, with a most awkward but functional whipping bench. And lined adjacent to one wall is various exercise equipment. Modern and expensive, Ms. Juliette insists on a regimen of exercise to complement her strict diet.

“I want you clean, healthy, well worked and with an indefatigable libido which will never be satiated,” she explained after the agreement was struck. She spoke as he was being measured... standing naked before her young protege, feeling the inexplicable sensuous rush caused by the humiliation... the enfeeblement of the masochist. The petite blonde girl measured his entire anatomy. When she announced that his erect manhood was merely adequate, the crimson hue of his flushed complexion surpassed that of his penis. Ms. Juliette nodded in agreement.

“For him it does not matter, Mary. He won’t be using it.”

Chris did not understand the necessity of the painstakingly precise task until the next visit. Mary’s efforts resulted in a chastity belt which locked about his waist perfectly. The tube beneath the crouch piece precisely encapsulated his penis, forcing it to point downward at all times and to collect any excretions, which by design would exit through an opening between his thighs.

It took weeks to become accustomed to sitting in order to urinate. And each time he plunks himself on the john he is forced to think of who and why such an unmanly manner of visiting the toilet is mandated.

“You squat to pee because Ms. Juliette wants you to squat to pee,” he mentally concluded sometime on the third day of penile restraint.

Chris Bellows tries to remain calm, disguising eagerness while removing his clothing. Appearing nude before the nurse was difficult the first few times. Now he sheds his clothes by rote while Nurse Ingrid gathers her paraphernalia. As he folds his last garment and neatly places it into a  large locking trunk, she approaches with cuff-like circles of metal.

“Wrists please, Mr. Bellows. Palms down.”

He complies and the powerful, well trained hands snap a perimeter of steel around the left wrist and then the right. The curious, thick shapes are not linked and have been precisely measured to fit, just as with the belt. The interior perimeter of each cuff is oval shaped to comfortably surround the wrist. The exterior diameters are perfectly round, a feature which at first Chris Bellows did not comprehend... until the accompanying four foot steel stock was first snapped closed around his neck and the firm hands of his dominant antagonist guided the cuffs into openings more than two feet to the right and left of his head.

“It’s termed a Martin Rigid Stock, Mr. Bellows,” Nurse Ingrid explained on the first wearing.
“Normally made of lighter weight aluminum, Ms. Juliette had it fabricated just for you. It’s a very heavy, high carbon steel. She also had it lengthened just for you. Rather disconcerting is it not? Having your hands and arms forcibly held so far outside your shoulders. In accentuating your immobility, it adds nicely to the sensation of degradation. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Yes it did. And though his tendons and ligaments were constantly strained in tautness, the wrist cuffs were locked into circular openings which permitted him to somewhat rotate his hands. Thus, the design was devilishly comfortable, permitting the wearer to be helplessly bound for hours without severe cramping or impeding circulation.

Later Chris Bellows searched the internet. At a site for Martin’s Rigid cuffs he found the object he had worn during his entire afternoon visit. When he entered into his agreement with Ms. Juliette, she informed him of the expense. The weekly visits would be costly. In viewing the item of restraint, he began to understand. The stock item cost some $900. The custom made model worn at Ms. Juliette’s behest must have cost much more. The high polished steel is of the finest quality and with the weight and snug fit, thoughts of escape are quickly cast aside.

With his hands restrained well out to his sides Nurse Ingrid inserts the various pins which serve to hold closed the openings for his neck and wrists. Small padlocks secure the pins in place and complete his restraint. They are more symbolical than functional. He can not reach the simple cylinders of steel to remove them and no one under Ms. Juliette’s supervision would ever release him. But the finality of the clicks completes the pageantry of placing him in inescapable bondage. He shudders with the permanency of the bonds and gapes in awe... such simple pins.., such small locks... such provocative results. Without the small key, pocketed in Nurse Ingrid’s starched white uniform, the stock could never be removed without the tools of a welder.    

The long expanse of steel is heavy, by Ms. Juliette’s design sending a constant message of restraint and subordination to her will. Nurse Ingrid smiles smugly... her naked and bound ‘patient’ has slid further down the slope of submission and reached bottom. He has sacrificed his freedom for nothing more than hours of physical torment... an afternoon of seeking satiation which he shall not have and knows he shall not have. His vulnerability is absolute.  
                                           
“I’m going to work you hard this afternoon, Mr. Bellows. You’re getting in better and better shape and need to be challenged.”

Chris cringes in despair with her announcement. But conversely, he can feel his stimulated penis fighting the chastity belt. It oddly reacts in anticipation to the feel of the nurse’s encouraging hand during exercise. She is demanding and relentless. His manhood wishes to pay homage.

Wednesday, September 14, 2016

'The Peg Board' in German

A friend and reader has taken the time to translate this short story into German. Now available from Lulu. $2.10.

http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/der-pflockbalkenreiter---the-peg-board-story-in-german/19388756

Saturday, September 10, 2016

The Musings of Chris Bellows now on Facebook.

With the blogging craze seeming to wane (I've been encountering more and more blogs that are either inactive or been taken down), I have ventured into Facebook.

Though not necessarily the medium for posting narrative, I have launched a page under the name Chris Bellows, a business. Postings here on the blog will be replicated there (I hope).

Please be tolerant of any clunkiness until I acclimate to the medium. 


Probation VIII

This concludes posting of the 'Probation' segments.

As a reminder the entire story is available at...

http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/probation/19234364

Next week, 'The Arrangement'. A short story to be fully posted on the blog.

*************************************************************************

Footsteps! At last.

It must be Miss Abby. Yet whomever descends remains silent. There comes a dreaded thought ... the house is unlocked, as instructed, and throughout day workers entered and left. Have they returned? Peter’s sense of relief is incomplete. Who is it?

The footsteps thud the concrete floor then tap on the tiling which surrounds his kneeling form. More shame comes. He smells and he knows the entire basement reeks of his bodily wastes. Glad to be hooded, his hang dog look is best cloaked.

He feels motion about his Posey cuffs and gripping hands, then hears one click then another. As suspected, he can be easily bound, the steel poles rife with eyelets. The footsteps move away. Dare he speak?

There comes a rustling sound. A paper bag emptied. Then finally a voice.

“Obediently waiting for me... but you’ve soiled your diaper.”

Peter’s heart leaps with joy. It is Miss Abby.

“I’m sorry Miss Abby. I tried... tried so hard.”

“This is why you need me... need to learn discipline. You smell disgusting.”

“Yes Miss Abby, I’m sorry.”

“You’re fortunate. I know how to take care of boys... bad boys who can’t control their various urges.”

With the words Peter feels hands at the small of his back. He hears another click, this one bringing freedom rather than bondage. The tightness of his canvass diaper eases, the lock opened. Another leap of the heart.

“I had my brother in diapers for years... up until he went to college. The power exchange thrilled. At a time in life when the male hormones surge, his penis was under lock and key... unless I wanted it on display. I think that is best for you too Peter.”

The strap is lowered, the waist band loosened. Peter feels and hears the clinging garment fall to the tiling. With it comes the stronger smell of his urine soaked feces... his sense of shame grows.

“Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy little boy. And there’s a rule when you’re bathed... knees parted as far as possible. Always.”

“Yes, Miss Abby,” Peter immediately complying.

The footsteps move away. Peter hears running water, then the hiss of a spray.

“You’ll feel more open... more vulnerable posing for me like that. It’s important for boys like you to feel that way. Now I’ll give you a quick rinse first. Think we’ll both be better off.”

The footsteps return. The filthy cloth inner liner is pulled away. Though the odor grows stronger the sense of relief overwhelms.

“Thank you Miss Abby, thank you.”

The words of gratitude can barely be heard as a dousing spray of water, warmed perfectly, gently begins the long awaited cleansing. It is divine, Peter’s hooded head lowering with the odd revelry. There can be no doubt the woman long cared for someone so harshly encapsulated. Her actions bring incredible joy to flesh long subjected to irritation. When the spray tenderly laps at his genitals, Peter senses the twinges of male celebration. It’s embarrassing, but it feels so good.

“There’s special needed attention before I soap you, Peter. Little boys don’t have hair... so I stopped at the drug store. Afraid there’s going to be more bad smell for a while.”

Peter hears snaps of rubber. Then indeed comes a powerful chemical smell as gloved hands palpate to smooth a thick lotion over his entire body.

“Depilating cream. We’ll lather you up once a week for while. In time the follicles will surrender. And bad little boys have their little balls coated as well... so be good for me.”   

Deed completed, next come more pleasant sensations as Peter feels soft wetness about his pubes.

“Used to shave my brother regularly. In addition to keeping him in diapers, I’d let him have some fun... every Saturday. Mother worked retail, long afternoons and evenings in the store. So it was then brother Bobbie was allowed to show off for me. Kept totally chaste, only out of his diaper for his bath, when I cuffed him I’d let had him run about the house naked. His penis would stand nicely for me. In reward I put him in make up. Such a girly boy was he... very pretty. And in being shaved down here, silk panties felt especially good to him.”

A razor whisks about as Miss Abby speaks. Again, with the speed and tenderness, Peter realizes the woman has many times before offered intimate care, the ultra sensitive scrotal flesh unscathed by the threateningly sharp razor.

The words and actions bring conflicting thoughts. The woman is reliving times considered to be enjoyable... the tenderhearted care of a psychotic younger brother. Peter oddly benefits, in no way endangered, instead being attentively cared for. But what of her psychosis? What is expected of him? What is the ultimate goal of this governing woman?

“Yes, Bobbie developed DPD... dependent personality disorder. Over the years, couldn’t make a decision... couldn’t do a thing without the assistance or concurrence of his big sister... that included eating and bathing. And going to the bathroom? He’d just piss and crap in his diaper... the big baby.”   

“What happened to him?”

“Eventually I had to work. In graduating college there was no time to bathe, powder and put him back in diapers. So I found a nice gay couple for him to serve. He’s homophobic, so there’s just enough sexual tension to keep him on edge. He’s been trained to serve as housemaid.... in full make up, pedicure, prancing about in heels. And most fascinating, he now prefers to stay in his diapers... ostensibly getting very flustered in being stripped naked and changed by one man while another watches. But deep within, I know he senses a thrill. It’s in his psychological make up.”

Peter feels his penis firming. Why? The actions of her hands? Her words? Though casual and aloof, such describe a shocking fate. Miss Abby also notes his engorging manhood.

“You’re becoming erect for me, Peter. Why is that?”

“I... I... I don’t know,” the priapic reaction adding to the embarrassment.

“I believe I know why. You enjoy a woman’s maternal care. As I said, Peter, we have complementing penchants.”

Peter is left in silent thought as Miss Abby moves to retrieve the spray hose. More relief, more sense of tranquil calm comes as Peter’s entire form is rinsed, the depilation lotion and much body hair flowing to the drain.

“When did you last masturbate? I know sex is out. Little perverts like you have difficulty with girls... need to get drunk just to talk to them.”

“I can’t remember precisely.”

“Too bad... it was your last orgasm... and you can’t even remember. I kept my brother chaste for years. He’d put on the nicest stands for me... like his penis was trying to touch the ceiling, ha, ha, ha.”

Abby positions a low stool. For some reason Peter is heartened when the rubber gloves are removed and his entire body senses the softness of soapy hands and a soft cloth.

“My adult baby boy. You have nice skin Peter.”

“Thank you Miss Abby.”

Saturday, September 3, 2016

Probation VII

 
Wet... abundant moisture bringing prickliness in having peed in his diaper a third time... hungry, house devoid of sustenance... the market closes. Peter sends some emails, hoping no client desires to meet. He has yet to give thought as to how he avoids that.

Then comes the reminder shock, the collar zinging. He must retreat to the basement, await the unknown arrival of probation Officer Abby Bates.

From the small bedroom window he carefully checks the street. No pedestrians, no dog walkers, he dashes for the stairs. In stepping through the basement door, there comes relief, certain no one has seen his collared near nakedness. More steps, down to the basement, needing to cuff and hood himself, he has a moment to inspect. The workers have had a busy morning. Two vertical steel poles have been installed, floor to ceiling. There is floor tiling beneath and much plumbing work... a floor drain.

Water pipes now extend from the laundry room ending with faucets.  And then the eyes focus on a curious piece of furniture... a chair... straight backed... restraints for the ankles at the front legs. A folded up tray looms over the back. Peter blinks his eyes. It is essentially a high chair but enormous when compared to that used for toddlers. 

No time for more inspection, he fears an early arrival, punishment for not being properly positioned. Cuffs in place, velcro straps folded, he slips the hood over his head, kneels between the new poles and feels about, grasping the steel as instructed. His grip encounters eyelets, spaced every six inches, cuffs undoubtedly to be secured.

He waits in darkness, sensing the irritating acid of his own excretions. Time passes, unknown. He waits, he waits, he waits and then the unthinkable happens. There comes grumbling... below. The day has passed without emptying himself there, normally a morning function.

‘No’, he curses, ‘don’t do this to yourself’. He fights, clenching his gluteus maximum muscles in defiance of nature’s call. Where is Miss Abby? He so much needs her, needs to be unlocked. The stench of urine is foul enough.

The battle continues... but in time is lost. Odorous sludge joins the watery excretions of his diaper... thick, warm, oozing slowly. He closes his eyes in shame, realizing the basement reeks... and such will greet his Parole Officer... she in charge. Are there tears? The cloth hood absorbs. He is grateful.