Saturday, September 12, 2020

'Keyholder' Segment II

More exercise, I drive to the gym in thought. Miss Monique nicely expunged my building hormones days ago, thereafter admonishing that the demanded pose... while being tabled... was less than sufficient.

‘Legs straight out... back arched... hands to your head... toes pointed... that’s how I want you while I shave and drain you. The posture is important... discipline Robert... boys like you need discipline... to properly present yourself to a woman in charge.’

So in arriving, I stand in front of my gym, take my cell phone from my bag and prepare to take a selfie. I must snap four shots before I have what I need... a photo with the sign ‘Willie’s Workouts’ behind me as I stand attired in the shorts Miss Monique purchased and had sent to me.

Deed accomplished, I scroll to my text messages, find her instructions, and send the snapshot... proof that I am wearing the skimpy gaily colored spandex... and that I am wearing such at one of my twice weekly workouts. 

Miss Monique’s dour persona surprisingly yields to such mischief. After quizzing me about my gym attire... if adequately covering my ‘condition’... cold hard steel encapsulating my maleness... she purchased gym shorts not only more brief but tight in that the spandex clings and outlines all I have from the waist to the crease of my thighs and hips. More embarrassing is that half my butt cheeks are fully displayed. And I know such will ride higher when I utilize the treadmill!

Augmenting the exposure... the color... gaudy pink... the shade saying ‘look at me’.

Why would a clothing manufacturer make such ridiculous garb for a guy? Well, in opening the package, I found the shorts are women’s... more aptly for a girl.

I feel I am wearing a bikini bottom!         

I enter the gym, comforting myself that I know few of the members personally. Why I just don’t slink back to my car and spare the trauma? Well Miss Monique wants more selfie’s inside... one with the cute trainer Elizabeth... Liz... she young and cute... she who assures I exhaust myself and stretch... she who is perplexed that a guy would want to work to so inordinately tension what she terms the gracilis and abductor longus tendons in the thighs... tight on a guy... naturally pliable on the female.    

I also persuade myself that the tightness of the spandex will in fact aid in cloaking my condition. Though the bulge is prominent, making me look like some well endowed stud, the stainless steel is well covered and as opposed to loose shorts will not flash... the metal not to glint in the gym’s bright halogen lights.

I begin my workout, waving to Liz as I move to the treadmill. I get looks from guys. I ignore, finding an unused row of machines in the back, remove jacket and begin.

Twenty minutes, pacing myself initially for a six minute mile then slowing in stages. In my state of forced chastity I have found that exercise keeps the hormone levels in line, inhibiting the excruciating nocturnal penile tumescence which mandates a weekly visit with Miss Monique to more adequately meliorate.

Yes, I work up a good sweat and in completing decide that my soaked body will offer more evidence that while working out at Willie’s I am obediently wearing Miss Monique’s garb. So I dismount, go to my bag, extract the cell phone and now more proficiently snap two selfies.

In checking to assure such portray my image, I am stunned. The bright pink spandex has darkened... and become more clingy... too clingy. Drenched in sweat the lock is perfectly outlined. I no longer appear to be some well endowed stud... I appear to be what I am... under lock and key!        

I must depart, returning to my bag to find a towel.

“Mr. Partland,” the melodious voice of trainer Elizabeth calls out, “you’re warmed up and ready to be stretched,” humorously referring to her rigorous sessions as some form of medieval torture.   

Wow! I am trapped! I am indeed warmed up. And stretching with a trainer is done by appointment... mine at 8:00 p.m. And it is 8:00 p.m. Cancelling would aggravate things with the gym management. I would pay for the session... but what of the photo for Miss Monique? And what is the price of disobedience? How many added days before visiting her kitchen and being tabled?  

Liz approaches. Her amused look suggests that my pink bikini bottom has not gone unnoticed. What of the lock now so prominently outlined?

My question is answered when her bright youthful smile transforms to a look of concern.

“Oh, Mr. Partland... let’s use one of the empty aerobics rooms. The next class will not be until nine.”

Saved... I think. The stretching mats normally used are just about centered amongst the busy free weight area. The pink tight spandex will draw eyes... the outline of steel beneath? What will that draw?

Liz leads away. I follow, gym bag in one hand, towel in the other, letting the terry cloth casually drape over my waist at the front. Into the aerobics room, I sigh in relief... unoccupied. But then Liz goes to the floor, sits upright, legs straight and slides her feet well to the right and left. She seems to taunt, patting the soft rubber to her front, suggesting I join her in endeavoring to replicate.

She is aware of my need... to be able to assume the awkward pose. But should she know why? To show discipline before a commanding woman who holds my key?

Sweaty, I smooth out my towel on the mat then sit. Upright, legs out in front of me, trainer Elizabeth, supple and graceful leans forth, extending her arms to grasp my ankles.

“Okay Mr. Partland, nice and slow for me... show me how much you can split,” her hands pushing left and right to assist while I struggle to pull apart my feet.

Her voice is young but stern, a trainer’s firmness, challenging my resolve. For some reason I find myself placing my hands to the back of my head... as Miss Monique demands, back arched. Then it dawns that the further my legs separate, the further she must lean, head and shoulders lowering as her arms part in pushing. As my tight shorts hike up, I realize that in shaving me... hair and steel cock cages being incompatible as Miss Monique is fully aware... my upper thighs evidence an obvious line where my keyholder curtailed her efforts with the blade of the straight edged razor.

I feel twinges beneath the steel. Why does discovery... potential discovery... excite?

As my legs part, feet well out to the sides, I grimace in discomfort. My trainer giggles as she must lower herself to push. Then, feet out of reach, she moves her assisting hands to my knees. Her face is within inches of my pubes, the spandex is greatly strained and stretched, and it must be apparent to the young girl that I have been shaven there. Bringing further distress, will the now moist pink covering move such that the steel mesh of my penis cage will show? 

The room is so brightly lit!

Recalling the lecture on discipline, fearing that Miss Monique will withhold the key if I fail to progress, I divert my thoughts, closing my eyes and endeavoring to point my toes... like a ballerina... as my keyholder demands. This brings certain muscles to cramp. A groan comes, the male anatomy just not designed for such stress... what the lithe and supple legs of a young girl can so facilely do is slow torment for the male.

“Steady... hold... feel the burn, Mr. Partland,” feeling my trainer’s hands slide along my thighs, continuing to push but nearing my pubes.   

Dare I open my eyes? Trainer Elizabeth’s hands so close to the steel covered in pink... worse as she leans her face is proximate as well.

Will she know... learn of my proclivity... inadvertently graze the hard steel with her fingers... catch a glimpse of a glimmer of metal if the spandex betrays me?

I think of Miss Monique’s advice... divulge my penchant for ceding control... of having a woman of resolve deny me ultimate male gratification... to be permitted such solely at her whim... ‘just place her hand on your crotch... she’ll feel the steel’.

Yes, there’s the burn of the stressed tendons... the cramping of muscles... and the torment of possible disclosure... ‘trainer Elizabeth, your client Robert Partland is creepy... a warped libido... one which is under the auspices for a firm woman... one who dresses him in tight girl’s spandex shorts!’

Is it to happen? She’ll have questions... or she will dash away to the manager and have me escorted out... any number of brawny gym members tossing me to the parking lot. 

Yet trainer Elizabeth is insistent. Proper stretching requires determination... her role to assure the client accept and withstand pain... the burn... one full minute of excruciation for each tendon desired to be toned... made supple. And she does... barking, cajoling, taunting. Though barely out of high school she is focused... assertive.

Could she be a youthful Miss Monique Von Buren?

The hands leave my inner thighs. I feel fingers... at my crotch. I open my eyes in shock. Stunned, my hands remain at the back of my head.

“The minute is up Mr. Partland, just relax for me,” the words coming as I see my trainer has completely pushed aside the pink spandex to fully uncover the stainless steel of my cock cage, her young eyes merrily glaring at the special lock.

“Stay,” the forceful command coming as I begin to lower my hands, feeling her fingers move below to graze along my compressed ball sac. “What’s not covered in steel is well shaved, Mr. Partland. Feel okay when you exercise?”    

I slowly relax as directed, slightly pulling my legs together to indeed end the burn. Yet I keep my hands away, letting the girl explore.


Miss Monique suggested that exposing... revealing... to a young girl my quirky need for feminine supervision... ceding control of my libido... would bring a thrill. And indeed my heart pounds as trainer Liz explores. I let her do it... no objection... silent as she begins toy.


And conversely, she seems to assume I will be compliant, a finger tip smoothing over the egress tube where my bladder drains.

“You should wear looser shorts... and longer... Mr. Partland,” finally finding words herself. “if you want to keep this a secret.”

A finger curls about the narrow pink spandex running between my thighs. She tugs... and tugs... causing the material to bunch up. I can feel that what once covered my buttocks... partially covered... gathers in my crevice, truly transforming the shorts into the appearance of a bikini bottom.         

“Feel good?” she giggles anew.

How can I explain... being manipulated by a woman... submitting to her caprice... brings such singular joy?

Then it occurs... in being handled... the demanded third photo... evidencing that I have presented myself in pink gym shorts to my trainer. It seems I must not only explain myself, but inveigle the trainer into letting me take a photo... avoid the wrath of keyholder Miss Monique.          

My thoughts run wildly as trainer Elizabeth finally draws in her extended feet, tucks her legs under her and stands over me, arms akimbo much like Miss Monique.

“It locks... your thing. No reason to do that to yourself.”

“I... ah... well... it’s sort of a game,” at last finding some words.

I remain sitting, legs somewhat splayed, hands on head. Why is it I do not reach down and rearrange the spandex? Get the bunched up strand out of the crack in my ass and smooth to once again cover the device of steel. Instead I look up in adoration... much as I do with Miss Monique.

Trainer Elizabeth Doyer is a perky teen, short in stature but sinewy, arms and legs packed with power... probably much training in gymnastics. Blue eyes, dark blonde hair pulled back in a pony tail to facilitate energetic motion and exercise, years of athletics have brought vibrance, self confidence and maturity beyond her years. Still, her subdued reaction to discovering a guy locked in chastity is telling.

Something to be expected?  

I decide to refrain from further explanation. My condition speaks for itself and there seems to be curious acceptance by the sparkly trainer. She makes no demands... certainly no indication that I will be banned from the gym.

“Would you... ah... mind... a photo... I need a picture. Sort of a part of the game...”

Saturday, September 5, 2020

New story 'Keyholder' Segment I

New story, Female Dominant, male submissive. Light for a Chris Bellows story, but believe it will serve to entertain.




Copyright 2020

by Chris Bellows


“Skin okay? Any chafing?”

“A little, Miss Monique... with the exercise.”

“Yes, that’s by your choice,” more or less shrugging, her sigh suggesting a ‘boys will be boys’ reaction. “Drink more of your water.” 

I raise my glass and imbibe, hoping both my puppy dog look of awe and admiration and my internal jitters are not overly evident.

I sit with my keyholder in her finely furnished livingroom. Monique Von Buren sits opposite sipping a glass of fine white wine. Legs of perfection are crossed, straining the cloth of an elegant dark blue skirt. At some forty five years of age, she’s attractive, shapely, though her professional attire... that of a banker or corporate attorney... veils any overt sexiness.

A white silk blouse somewhat yields to firm breasts, her flat stomach and thin waist line making such prominent. At age twenty six, our conversations are one sided... the ambiance of her maternal persona making me feel even younger... like a young school boy in peril of being spanked should I improperly respond to her questions and directives. Dark hair pulled back in a bun, it almost seems she desires to detract from her natural beauty, presenting on aura of sternness.

She is indeed stern.

My penis is locked in a steel chastity device... custom made... one of precision... and ineluctable. I remain paying down my credit card in purchasing. In making the arrangement with this woman of authority, she directed that the device be shipped here, to her home. Accomplished as a keyholder, the woman is well aware of the subterfuge of a duplicate key. I have none... no opportunity to fabricate.

“You’re able to properly urinate?”

The design of the device is to partially catheterize, a tube connected to the steel mesh of the penis cage inserted some three inches into my urethra... the tip ending in a small sphere. Such assures I am at all times aware of my condition... abject denial.

“Yes, ma’am, I must sit to pee... and you know... there’s the thing inside...”

“Of course. It’s designed so you can at all times sense a woman’s control... as you so much desire. And to have to sit... a just reminder of your status. You must revel in it.”

I nod... most humbly, wanting to beg to get on with it.

Miss Monique Van Buren is a woman of rituals. I learned that on my first visit after a week under lock and key. Jittery, no hormonal release, needs piquing, I brazenly greeted Miss Monique at her front door, quickly but politely, and moved to her kitchen and began to disrobe, expecting the key and quick release.

I was admonished and sent home. A week later, after many cold showers, I returned and learned the protocol. Obedience, a debriefing, downloading my thoughts, my feelings... relating more than the physical duress of having my prized manhood tucked away under formidable stainless steel.

“So you’ve been exercising... keeping things in balance. And your stretching?”

“Yes, Ma’am. There’s a trainer... at the gym. She’s amused... doesn’t understand the need for what I’m asking... but I’m improving.”

“Good. Gym attire adequately covering your condition?”

I pause in thought... a relevant question with the mass of metal beneath brief gym shorts. The stretching involves sitting upright on the floor, back straight, and pressing my legs as far apart as possible to the right and left... a split in the parlance of girl cheerleaders. And there are those who can push their legs well out, almost aligning their feet with their shoulders. Such are female, the male anatomy making such a pose ungainly.

“Well, my trainer... I think she notices... my... ah... package. You know, when she presses at my thighs to help.”

“Yes, it does tend to bulge. Perhaps you should tell her... that you’ve ceded your masculinity to a woman. Would that not bring you a thrill?”

Damn if Monique Von Buren does not fully understand the quirky joy of submission... the virile male surrendering what matters most... to a woman of purpose and determination.                  

“I’m... ah... not sure she would...”

“Do it. Enjoy yourself. If she does not understand, explain it to her in detail.”

I am in so much need of release, I merely nod in agreement, hoping to withdraw to the kitchen... to remove my clothing... to be tabled. Instead, Miss Monique stands, gesturing for me to stay as she takes my empty water glass. I am disappointed when she returns with a refill, cross examination to continue.

“Just place her hand on your crotch. She’ll feel the steel. Then you can tell her why you are in need of such inordinate stretching. I suspect she may become more eager in helping you achieve your goal.”

I note a wane smile as I take the glass.

“The humiliation... boys like you so much cherish it. Why deny yourself? You can share your sick proclivity. I take it she’s young?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“All the more excitement for you. She’ll have many questions... or shame you and have you removed from the premises,” Miss Monique cloaking another smile in sipping more wine. 

“You’re trembling, Robert. So excited to see me?”

It’s a tease. She knows very well of my needs, pausing in deliberation.

“Such a nice chat. Suppose I just send you home for a cold shower instead. I told you I can be whimsical.”

“Please no Miss Monique,” my voice quavering.

But she is correct. The arrangement is monetary... a guaranteed sum from me. But no return guarantee in obliging my needs... for the key... and hopefully more.  

She watches me finish a third tumbler of water. Then she stands, taking the glass. I hope not for a fourth. My bladder is full and there will be no permission to use her bathroom. I hope and hope as she disappears into the kitchen. My heart leaps when she calls out.

“The table is cleared for you, Robert. Come, come,” her voice changing to a pleasant sing song.

The ritual... it begins.

Jumping from my chair, I enter the kitchen. I disrobe, noting Miss Monique works at the sink. I am heartened, spying a straight edged razor as she fills a bowl of warm sudsy water. I can feel twinges below... completely naked before a clothed female... a primly dressed woman. My penis fights its steel enclosure... futilely of course.

Naked, I work the kitchen table. Pulling at one end, it opens in the middle ostensibly to accommodate an extension. The four inch gap I create will instead accommodate my encased male package. I push away the chairs and mount. Then I further adhere to the ritual.

Yes, I sit, back straight, hands to the back of my neck, pressing my legs well out to the right and left just as I practice two nights weekly at the gym. I feel my compressed scrotum fall into the gap, my steel encased penis drooping above. I know not to touch to better align. From the moment I take off my clothing, handling my maleness is the prerogative of Miss Monique. My penis and testicles become hers.

To stray from the protocol is to be sent home. I need to stay... place myself in the exacting care of my keyholder.

So I strain, tendons at my thighs taut as possible, somewhat pleased that I am able to part my feet further than ever. And then I remember another aspect of the demanded pose... to arch my back, tensioning there as well. And in doing so I feel my locked up phallus begin to stir even more. 

Yes, Miss Monique is so much aware of the male anatomy, the pose tensioning the pubo coccygeus muscles, enhancing the need to tumefy.

I become a statue... and I wait... and my need for penile emancipation grows... and grows.

Finally Miss Monique turns, bowl in one hand razor in the other. She steps to my front, freeing her hands, bowl and razor to the table top right and left. Arms akimbo she simply assesses, her commanding eyes glowing with the image of male submission.

“Are you going to perform for me Robert? It’s been four weeks since I put you under my lock and key.”

I want to cry out... demand that I be unlocked. But I know the result of disobedience... more time in my cage of steel.

“I will try Miss Monique... I will try my best.”

“Your best does not make it. The first week I had to send you away. The last two your little thing got nicely firm... but no discharge.”

“Well... if... you know... you touched it... or let me...” 

“That’s not what I do... and being a submissive boy locked in a woman’s chastity... that is not what you’ll be doing either. Remember Robert... control. You cede it... I take it.” 

I again want to shout... beg... plead... but I am helpless. The device is truly part of me... I must be a good boy and rely on Miss Monique for relief. I so much need it... climactic relief.

Mercifully, I see a hand go to her throat. A necklace comes from beneath her blouse, clinking with numerous keys.

“Do remind me Robert, what is your color?”

“Light blue Ma’am.”

Yes, Miss Monique uses a color system for identifying the keys to the many locks. I cannot count but there are at least a dozen, her keyholding assued to be lucrative.

“I have some of my long term clients tattooed. Just a little patch of color at the base of the scrotum... where only the two of us know of its significance... matching their key. Over time, I demand silence for the boys who go so deep into subjugation. They just step in the door, I water them, and point to the kitchen. No further counseling needed. They’re addicted, submitting in silence. Nothing more need be said when one is so immersed in subservience.”

Yes, to be watered. More evidence of Miss Monique’s awareness... that a full bladder greatly augments erection... a piss proud penis standing most firmly and without relent.    

I close my eyes in joy as she steps forth, key marked in light blue at the ready. She palms my scrotum, lifts, key pushing forth. It twists, it clicks, and though the cage is gently pulled away, as the catheterizing tube slips down my urethra, I grimace in discomfort... but I also instantly harden... the spontaneity almost comical... my freed sac falling away to dangle within the gap of the table top. 

“Good boy,” a free hand going to my chest, a single digit diddling my right nipple to bring a brisance of delight.

Cage placed aside, more brisance comes as a hand grazes about my pubes, assessing for stubble. Her masterful touch feels so good. I want to join in the examination, not having touched myself there in four weeks. But if a hand moves from my head, there is a price to be paid.

“Should I collar and cuff you, Robert? Need to sense more governance?” noting a slight inadvertent motion of my right arm.

“No Ma’am, I’ll be good.”

There comes lathering of my pubes, her hand and the warmth exquisite. As the razor effortlessly glides about, one is given to ask how many, how often has she so engaged in subtle domination, the most private male anatomy effectively becoming hers... the frightening sharp razor able to instantly bring chastity of a more permanent nature. As she whisks about, Miss Monique smiles in noting my priapic reaction. My stiffness seems to become more and more rigid.

“Your trainer. Perhaps she would like to accommodate your needs sometime... see the results of all the stretching I mandate. You’re making progress, Robert, even properly keeping your toes pointed like a good ballerina. I think she’d like to know how her efforts benefit you.” 

The image of the cute young athletic and shapely girl comes to mind. In enduring her workout program, there is an element of subtle dominance of her own, barking commands and encouragement. Fantasies flash, the vibrant trainer joining us here as Miss Monique lectures on the foibles of the masochistic male... so readily ceding to female authority. The girl is years younger than me... adding to my warped rapture?

Defoliation completed, Miss Monique steps away and returns with a towel. I am patted dry as one would tend to an infant. My keyholder clucks her tongue in noting the flow of prostatic flow, quite prevalent after the towel removes all soap and water.

“My, my Robert, you need attention. Your glands have been neglected... your prostate... and I am sure your seminal ducts are full of nasty effluent... and your bulbospongiosus is dying to contract and explode. Would you like to ejaculate for me... add to your humiliation?”

“Yes, Ma’am, I will masturbate for you,” my voice pleading.

“Oh Robert, that would be so demeaning. Just keep your hands on your head... and let Miss Monique help,” holding up a tube of unguent.

Normally a naked and erect male would expect a nice hand job... slow sensuous stroking. But in this my fourth visit, I know that is not to come.

Instead, Miss Monique lubricates her hands. I know my penis will not be touched. She will coo soothing words, encouraging me to perform... but my erection will simply waggle about as the left hand grips my scrotal sac, gently and rhythmically squeezing about, using it for leverage as her right slips down between well spread thighs, finding my opening, one finger then two plunging into my rectum.

Prostate massage. She will find my gland and work it, smiling in confidence as the stream of clear fluid turns to a cloudy white... filled with an abundance of spermatozoa... much frustrating build up.

“Spurt for me Robert. Show me you’re more a man than just a woman’s toy.”

And I cannot. My penis needs to be gripped, stroked, a firm hand twisting with fervor. An explosion... not to meekly ooze. 

Yes, the woman bleeds me... so slowly... so clinically... so methodically.   

Masterful indeed, she knows me too well... knows of my warped needs... that virile males of normal psyche erupt in triumph. And boys of my ilk humbly leak for the presiding woman.

Emptied, it will be she who triumphs, finally holding a limp penis as she directs the flow of a brimming bladder into a waiting bowl.

The steel cage will return. The catheter tube slipped in place, the lock will click and I will return next week.

Trainer in tow?  

Sunday, August 30, 2020

New story 'Keyholder'


I have published a new story on Lulu.

Female Dominant/male submissive. 18,200 words. $4.32.

Somewhat light for a Chris Bellows story, but I believe will entertain.

Snippets will begin posting September 5.



Saturday, August 29, 2020

'Sex Slave' Segment VI

This is the last posted segment for 'Sex Slave'. If you have enjoyed this do try the sequel 'A Sex Slave's Redemption'... Female Dominant/female submissive. Available as per the August 19 posting.

Next week 'Keyholder'... Female Dominant/male submissive.



Kwame Is Educated 

Soaped, chamois having laved everywhere, a priapic Kwame not to deny himself full exploration, the shower spray returns, a noted effort to assure a comfortable temperature. Rinsing completed, Kwame once again dries, his shorts now fully tented, the beauty, the perfection of soft firm flesh belying the hideous piercings and shorn cranium.

“Please sir, I can tend to that for you,” the doe eyed girl struggling to glance down with religious solemnity at the front of Kwame’s bursting shorts. “It’s what I do... some of what I do.” 

“I’m Kwame... not sir,” stoic in ignoring a most firm erection. “And you are?”

“I don’t know my real name sir... ah... Kwame. It’s long from my memory.”

Kwame releases the nose grommet, quickly replacing with the leash, something intuitively telling him to maintain strict control. He gently pulls. The girl meekly follows stepping from the shower stall.

Towel remaining in his free hand, he recalls the plea concerning the girl’s breasts.

“Have I properly cleaned?” the towel hand rising to teasingly graze over impressive mounds, seeming to stand at attention.

The girl moans. Kwame learns of the heightened sensitivity, amazed to see the nipples instantly crinkling, the nubs rising in welcome, the iron spikes lifting.

Again emboldened, recalling the frustration of extracting something as simple as a kiss from the standoffish village girls, Kwame tosses aside the towel. The leash slackens, his hand going to the breasts, a finger diddling right nipple then left. Simultaneously, his free hand lowers, index finger hooking through a labial ring, tugging there with gentle vigor. The girl rocks her hips, the sound of bells returning. 

“Please sir... Kwame... it’s... it’s..”

“Very naughty.”

In distraction, Kwame had not heard the bathroom door quietly opening. Mother Jemila stands arms akimbo, the tone of her advisement both admonishing and playful.

Kwame instantly retracts his hands, grasping the leash to renounce his tenderness and demonstrate his authority.

“When you hear the bells... the Ben wa bells... that means her little girl parts deep within are being most tantalizingly manipulated, Kwame. You’ll be learning more... about girls... particularly about a girl like this. Just didn’t think you’d learn that fast.”   

Now even more mindful of his tented shorts, Kwame attempts to cloak his condition in moving to retrieve his shirt and step into his shoes. Jemila reaches out as he moves. Kwame knows to relinquish the leash.

“So you’ve been informing my son about your needs,” Jemila sternly addressing the well cleansed nakedness. “Have you told of your morning needs?”

“No ma’am,” the girl sheepish, blushing in have attained a degree of unrequited pleasure.

Jemila steps to a drawer at the bathroom sink, opening to extract a latex bag and tubing.

“Kwame... pay attention. This is for the girl’s morning cleansing,” pointing to the short cable and clasp at the bottom of the show stall. “She’ll kneel head down for an internal cleansing... high and hot as they say. I’ll want her running clear by the time you’re through... that means a least two nice full bags.”  

“Please ma’am... not by a boy... it’s... it’s...”

“Yes, I know at the Queen’s kennel you had highly trained nurses and handlers. But Kwame can learn. I’m sure you know where this goes, Kwame” mother Jemila making a show of holding up the attached enema nozzle. “Make sure she’s well lubricated... before and after.”

With her words, Kwame realizes how easily his finger slid into the girl’s anus. Though tight, it glided. Is her opening always to be so receptive?

“And this is to be applied after the evening shower,” Jemila extracting a tube from the same drawer. “A special concoction of aluminum potassium sulfate and other more natural astringents will keep the girl tight... where she most needs to be tight.”   

She hands the tube to Kwame and gathers in the leash, standing to face the girl with a smirk.

“Yes, under the Queen’s regimen you did tend to be stretched a bit, weren’t you, girl? You’re probably already missing the attention,” the words leaving Kwame in a quandary.

“So do it. And make sure you wash your hands after applying.”

More training... more conditioning... the girl turns, bends at the waist and parts her thighs, opening herself in invitation, the ritual well ingrained. Kwame opens the tube, squeezing a nurdle of medicinal smelling unguent. He is joyed to once again palpate between the buttocks, chiseled stone with such a smooth warm covering. Yet he must veil his glee... mother Jemila observing.

A finger enters, rummaging about, once again hearing the chiming... the girl terming such the Queen’s Ben wa bells. He notes the penetration brings to the girl a sigh of welcome  

“Good. Now it’s your turn to shower, Kwame,” Jemila proclaims as a disappointed Kwame finds he must retract his fingers. “The food is almost ready so don’t dawdle. I’ll take the girl.”

Saturday, August 22, 2020

'Sex Slave' Segment V

The Kennel

“As you know, Jemila, the criminal code in the Kingdom is well within the boundaries of what the world would consider humane. Gone are the days when some miscreant got boiled in oil for stealing a loaf of bread,” the Queen lectures as the duo stroll through the opulent Palace. “But there are some outstanding exceptions, some may consider draconian... the death penalty for dealing in drugs... as with many tropical countries so suitable for the growth of opioids. And the other is particular to our local industry... prompt execution for trafficking in diamonds... raw diamonds presumed stolen... mining being the largest industry in the Kingdom.”

The Queen leads outdoors to an unassuming low structure adjacent to the grassy field. Jemila notes there is a large overhead door open to the fenced pasture of many acres where the Mastiffs frolic.   

“But on occasion I will issue a Royal pardon... the benevolence of the Queen demonstrating the noblesse oblige of Royalty.”

The Queen leads within, stepping to the right to enter what appears to be the viewing box of a theater, raised seats arranged such that a viewer can observe an open area of compacted soil below.

“This is where on occasion I will show my hounds... and my benevolence,” stepping to an intercom box.

“Release Sparkles... to be mounted,” the Queen firmly instructs, pressing a button to communicate her edict.

“Be prepared, Jemila. And keep in mind my kindness, the girl has been spared execution.”

With that, a door to the side opens and into the open area of compacted soil rambles a young girl, shaved head precluding an accurate determination of age. Hands chained, she labors in walking. Jemila notes heavy rings somehow attached to the ankles and is shocked to see similar rings about her pubes. She wears what appears to be a leather vest of gaudy red, covering her upper back but with openings at the chest to leave breasts of size and firmness completely exposed. Adding to the shock, the firm mammary glands are both adorned and bound. Each has been pierced with a short vertical post of black iron. Tiny baubles are attached beneath, dangling and clinking with each labored step. Above, a slim chain is attached to eyelets at the top, evidently strung behind the girls neck, supporting the breasts as would a brassiere.  

“We do not know her real name. It seems she was kidnaped quite young, and a certain unscrupulous couple began using her... as a mule... to smuggle stolen uncut diamonds out of the Kingdom. My customs inspectors named her ‘Sparkles’. During a strip search at the airport she was made to squat and when commanded to cough her tight little cunny gave up a condom filled with the sizable uncut gems... the rubber breaking open in hitting the floor, the contents sparkling.

“Those posing as her parents... the ring leaders... have been executed. I spared the girl. Been serving here since her arrest... serving the Mastiffs... many years of training and conditioning.” 

The girl moves to the center of the exhibition area. Jemila cannot help but notice how healthy the girl appears... considering her status as a prisoner of crime. Well proportioned, broad shoulders, but for the ungainly walk... laboring with the foot bondage... the girl appears as would a well conditioned athlete.

“So addressing the many problems,” the Queen continues as the girl looks up, her gaze one of respectful reverence. “One, as you noted keeping the hounds happy. They get frisky... the intact males... and I too much enjoy breeding them to neuter. But I cannot have them mating indiscriminately... so...”

The Queen’s words fade as a huge black Mastiff bounds into the building, running full out through the overhead door opposite the viewing box.

“That’s Thumper... my alpha. Amazing the olfactory nerves. He picked up her scent. He’s going to mount her. Feel free to take a photo, Jemila. But please do not broadly disseminate.”

Jemila notes the girl drops to her knees, parting her thighs, head lowering such that her encumbered hands press to the soil to steady her. The Queen smiles seeing the girl Sparkles crane her neck, lifting her forehead, maintaining eye contact with the Queen in some unspoken directive. To the breast chain, loosely flopping about on the red leather covering the girl’s back is a thick length of rugged leather. Thumper approaches from behind, paws to the girl’s shoulders, his powerful jaws taking the strip of leather and pulling vigorously.

“Such wondrous instincts, the male beast exhibiting dominance in mating. See how the girl immediately yields,” the Queen narrates.

In pulling the leather, the breast chain tightens, the girl’s breasts bobbing about, the baubles beneath sounding off raucously, announcing the ignominy of the deed. Yes indeed, Jemila silently agrees, a girl’s precious glands so cruelly tethered and yanked about would tend to bring capitulation.   

Then the girl is indeed mounted, the huge frame of ‘Thumper’ covering, paws pressing to the red leather of the girl’s upper back, a massive pizzle flashing and quickly disappearing as the hound penetrates anally in a swift, seeming well practiced motion.

Thumper humps... the deed not clumsy, the girl meekly looking up to the Queen, the humiliation surprisingly acceptable. A shocked Jemila notes the Queen’s gleeful look. The girl’s face appears dreamlike. There comes a contrasting look of distant joy in pleasing... the Queen?.. the hound?.. and annoyance in the unwanted attention. Jemila’s hand goes to her pocket. Her cell phone... some taps of her fingers... a snap... a photo.  

“I won’t allow the girl to take pleasure in the deed... not normal pleasure. She kept’s chaste from that standpoint... no vaginal penetration. But well trained to offer herself anally as you can see. And she’ll have her reward.”

Thumper is brusk, vigorous and... as Jemila imagines with all mammals... quick. Heavy paws pressing at her shoulder tops, huge claws evidence the utility of the red leather vest. Having established control, emotionally vanquishing the girl, the jaws release the leather. Then a long and nimble canine tongue begins lapping at the back of the girl’s neck, methodically working upwards to coat her bald head with slick saliva. A canine gesture of ‘good girl’... ‘good obedient girl’. Jemila shudders in thinking of the slime and the odor... the alpha male marking his conquest, leaving his scent. Within moments the coupling ends. Thumper saunters away and the girl rises, strolling forth obeisantly, eye contact continuing as she steps to the box.

“Thank you for letting me be of service your highness.”

As Jemila notes the sincerity of the words, the Queen nodding, she is aghast to see male effluent streaming down the inner thighs. Then the Queen reaches into her kimono, tossing to the compacted soil a biscuit, that given a dog. As the girl falls to her knees, scrambling awkwardly to take the biscuit in her mouth, hands tethered, the Queen explains.  

“Very bland, practically no nutrition, but it gives the girl a feeling of fullness. Plus is it tinged with a combination of rufenal and ketamine... very low dosages. Keeps the girl complacent, submissive... and most importantly addicted. She’s always eager to earn another biscuit,” the Queen cackling under her breath.

“Clean up Thumper then stay,” the Queen commands then turns to Jemila. “She’s orally conditioned as well... and the Mastiffs have come to expect the attention of her tongue and lips after coupling. The other hounds are rutting in smelling  your wet cunt and may want to take you as well,” calling out to the girl.

The girl nods as she munches, head lowering, tongue lapping the soil to take in every crumb. Then she rises and slowly steps backwards, maintaining eye contact. Jemila hears the faint tinkling of bells.

“My bells, special vaginal insertions, keep her in heat as she’s being fanny fucked. But never bring her over the top... ultimate climax never quite achieved. But she’s wet... and kept odorous. Keeps the pack stimulated. And perhaps I will send in the Prince,” the Queen seeming to repress more cackling as she turns to speak to Jemila.

“So another problem addressed. The girl must be punished. More importantly, as discreet as I am in having the girl mated a few times per day, word gets out... that the fate for trafficking in diamonds may be worse than quick execution. Term it a deterrent.”

The Queen moves to exit the box. Jemila follows, finding herself in a daze as she looks over her shoulder to see a subdued Thumper now approach the girl from the front. She falls to her knees, once again in abject compliance. Thumper rises to place his massive paws on the girl’s shoulders, seeming to press the girl lower for oral attention. 

“And the final problem addressed... the spice thing. When the Prince itches for variety, I send him here to the kennel. As I said, the girl has been conditioned and trained to please anally... and orally as well. So here at the Palace there’s little of the marital ennui we spoke of... especially since I have instructed that the Prince is to cover the girl only after my hounds are satiated first. Gives a woman of my ilk a warm feeling... ceding to his need for spice,” outright sniggering, no further effort to repress her cackle. 

“Another mint julep, Jemila. I think you could use a drink. And I’ll tell you about another girl to whom I have offered Royal clemency. She’s currently in training. Sparkles may earn herself some reprieve.”   

Wednesday, August 19, 2020

'A Sex Slave's Redemption' published

I have published on Lulu a sequel to 'Sex Slave'. Female Dominant/female submissive

30,500 words. $4.88



Saturday, August 15, 2020

'Sex Slave' Segment IV

‘Tea’ With Her Highness

Mother Jemila listens to hear the running water of the upstairs shower. She smiles in satisfaction. Introducing son Kwame to the new member of the household... the Queen’s gift... has gone more smoothly than she expected. Then again, what teenaged boy would find objection to greeting a naked girl trained to respond instantly to any and all commands. 

She thinks of the exchange which gave rise to the acquisition... the recent afternoon of leisure at the Palace... ‘tea’ with her old friend and classmate, the Queen... 

“So how are things with the family. Kwame must be near graduation,” her highness sipping a well spiked mint julep.

“In a few weeks. Accepted at two British colleges. There is a decision to be made.”

The conversation comes as the two bask in the late afternoon African sun. A shaded second story porch over looks an expanse of well landscaped lawn. The Royal hounds frolic about, their playful hijinks entertaining the women as they catch up socially.

“In possibly leaving home for school... I have concerns. He’s not been with many girls... difficult to build a relationship while attending that prep school we’ve sent him to. So I don’t know how he’d fend for himself... in the dating sense.”

“Bed sheets a little crusty?” the Queen humorously suggests more than inquires. 

Jemila nods.

“And husband Jafari? It must be near twenty years... such happiness for you Jemila.”

“Twenty years, yes. The happiness... well... there seems to be some ennui. Things becoming tiresome.”

“How so?”

“The intimacy... the... you know... male thing... needing... what he calls spice.”

The Queen smiles warmly and nods.

“The privileges of Royalty, Jemila. Whenever the Prince hints to me that there is lack of what you term ‘spice’ in the marriage, well... I initially fixed that by having the Palace guards prepare him to be cropped... thereafter threatening with a good caning if more ‘spice’ was required. But then came my own needs. So we settled... some spice for me... some spice for the Prince.”  

Despite the close relationship, Jemila has not the temerity to ask of such details, deciding to tactfully back into further discussion. As she formulates words, the Royal hounds begin to play in earnest. Running, barking, growling... she cannot help noting that the huge Mastiffs are intact, the male packages most prominent. 

“Your hounds, your Highness. Not fixed, remaining intact, but so gently playful, even with one another.”

“Yes, they’re kept... guess you’d say... fulfilled. It’s important... I suppose one can say that for all male beasts.”    

“Well for Jafari, it’s the... you know... the desire for diversity.”

“Anal or oral?” the Queen shocks her good friend, smiling in being forthright.

Jemila becomes speechless, not expecting such a blunt question. Finally she finds words.

“Well, he hints at both. He gets neither, of course.”

“Finish your julep, Jemila. I’ll take you to the kennel... show you how the hounds are kept happy. But I will ask for your discretion. I use the privileges of Royalty for many purposes... to address many problems... which you will understand. And perhaps you will concur with my solutions... perhaps not.”