Saturday, November 18, 2017

The Trophy, Segment Three

The physical stress of standing high on toes has ended. Yet Mrs. Casperson finds herself asking if the mental/emotional stress of enduring Mrs. Grayson’s recuperative care is more daunting.

Led to a large custom made platform of carved granite, the nurse gives the command to mount and kneel. In feeling the edge pressing against her knees, Mrs. Casperson clumsily complies, the leash guiding, a free hand pushing and prodding.  

Meanwhile on the floor above, Arlen Jacobs Casperson watches in both glee and arousal, possibly exceeding his state of quiet excitement in viewing his well bound wife slowly suffer in displaying her chastised nakedness to business associate Charles Hanson.

Such humbleness... such humiliation... such delight. And now comes more as Mrs. Grayson guides the Rigid Stock to dual vertical stanchions at the end of the platform. The ends align perfectly, the long length of steel, brackets await to hold the kneeling Mrs. Casperson in place. The leash is removed. The hobbling chain is removed. The ankle shackles are secured to brackets at the side of the platform widely forcing apart the thighs.

It’s an awkward pose, but relatively comfortable compared to the endless stress of standing on toes.   

Mrs. Grayson next moves to the front, slipping away the hood, returning it to her uniform pocket. She smiles, again... in politeness... or in glee... so much enjoying her dominion. Hands move to the dangling breasts, slick with the abundant mineral oil used to assure Mrs. Casperson properly presents herself... glowing in her nakedness... her submission... her complete capitulation to Master Casperson’s demanding care.  

As always, Mrs. Casperson cringes, the touch tender yet unwanted. Or is it?

“Why does he do this?” the voice meek, energy sapped.

“Why do you let him do this?” a knowing nurse rejoins. “Or perhaps a more provocative question... why do you want him to do this?” squeezing the massive globes more firmly to emphasize both her message and control.

Hands release. So long held in chastity, the touch has its effect, Mrs. Casperson feeling lustful twinges within her encapsulated loins. She wants more... she needs more... but why is it not the caring hands of husband Arlen... Master Arlen. Why must it always be that of a woman... and the woman who nightly attains satisfaction, fulfilling the sexual urges of her husband... fulfilling her own sexual urges as well.

She is made to watch! Such callousness!

“Bath and enema first, pretty girl,” a finger playfully tapping the nose. 

There should a sense of unbridled cheer as Mrs. Grayson reaches for the oh so meaningful key about her neck. But release is not for joy. There will be no orgasm.... not to completion. That Master Casperson forever denies.

But why can’t he be here? Why does he leave her care, the much desired release, to this cheerful yet imposing woman of color?

“Do you enjoy him... my husband?”

The question is spiteful but so docilely uttered.

Mrs. Grayson ignores, working to unlock the finely crafted belt of steel. Removed, the odor of feminine essence, sweat and urine is strong yet expected, many years of medical training bringing disregard for the stench.

“He fucks wonderfully,” Mrs. Grayson finally replies, her utterance boldly proclaimed. “ If that’s what you mean. His adoration for you, knowing that you’re helpless, bound, caged and watching brings great stimulation. You excite him.”

The belt is placed in a nearby dishwasher, to be cleaned and sanitized. Mrs. Grayson adds soap, turns a dial, presses a button to begin the cycle.

“Do you remember... how he makes love. It must have happened at some point. You’re married.”

“Yes,” the tone dreamy in remembrance. “Our honeymoon. But that’s when... well... he more clearly explained my vows... to love, honor and obey. And his... to cherish.”

“And he does,” Mrs. Grayson reminds.

“Like this?” the question posed as the nurse turns on a spray hose and patiently waits for a flow of warmth.

“We all have some form of paraphilia. You’re fortunate that yours so wondrously complements that of your husband. Round peg... round hole.”

The naked form, reveling with the removal of the horrid chastity belt, further rejoices in feeling a thorough dousing of water warmed to perfection, the mineral oil sent to a drain in the center of the platform.

“The insertions... please...” Mrs. Casperson cannot help begging.

“So you no longer want to feel your husband’s penis?” the nurse chides with a chuckle. “Okay, vagina first,” a hand reaching between the thighs. “Cough for me.”

Mrs. Casperson complies as thumb and index finger grasp the end of the specially crafted phallus. With the cough momentarily relaxing the muscles which constantly and involuntarily grip the devilish instrument, the knowing nurse glides it quickly from the neglected love nest.

“And the anal insertion. Press for me... like you’re having a bowel movement.”

A blushing Mrs. Casperson again complies. In expelling, there comes a sense of emptiness. After all, master Arlen spent much time and money assuring she constantly feel him deep inside her. Yet, she know the dildos will be returned.

“Good girl,” the nurse placing the rubber phalli in the nearby sink for cleansing.

Anus cleared, an enema big is filled. As Mrs. Casperson watches, she senses the thoughts of a condemned prisoner looking at the gallows. The enemas are seemingly unending, much water, many rinses. Master Casperson both demands neatness... and that there be no reason to ever release the chastity belt other than at bathing time.

Meanwhile in the den, a priapic Master Arlen watches. He vicariously feels the humiliation, a finger greasing the rectum, a large nozzle slipping inward, it inflates. Then comes the flow of warm soapy water, initially soothing. Slowly the sensation transitions to dull aching as the relentless Mrs. Grayson assures a complete filling of the colon.   

While the enema bag steadily empties, a soapy chamois offers a sponge bath. The right wrist is momentarily released from the Rigid stock, washed and returned to its binding. Then the left wrist. Then the neck. The freedom is relished yet so brief.

‘Why cannot I be longer freed?’ Mrs. Casperson thinks to herself but dares not question aloud.

Feeling the belly bloat, Mrs. Casperson moans, knowing to otherwise remain obediently quiet. The strict nurse does not brook complaint.

“Hold for me... be a good girl.”

She holds. She is a good girl. But then again she has no choice, the nozzle greatly expanded.

Nurse Grayson steps away. She returns with a tray. Shaving cream, a straight razor, its sharpness bringing alarm, a bottle, its contents known to depilate.

“Hold still.”

The head is coated. Mrs. Casperson’s heart sinks when the eyebrows are laved as well. And she does hold still, more motionless then her bindings demand. For Mrs. Grayson is quick, having shaved so often. What little stubble has grown is whisked away. Baldness. Why?

The eyes are closed, knowing what follows. Quick strokes of the razor and a day’s eyebrow growth is whisked away. The spray hose rinses. Then comes more horror. The depilation cream is smoothed over her hairless head... eyebrows as well.  

There comes an emotional plunge, Mrs. Casperation realizing that over time the lotion will bring permanence, the razor unnecessary. Perhaps that should bring gladness... appearance to be forever transformed to Master Arlen’s demented desire.

The smoothing hands withdraw. Nurse Grayson steps away, washing her hands of the strong chemical. She returns with a mirror. In further decimating any feminine pride, she shows Mrs. Casperson her reflection. It’s bizarre...alien... complete baldness, the lotion burning to remind that though the transition is slow, it is steady, the destruction of the follicles ongoing... a daily ritual.

“All gone,” a smiling Mrs. Grayson iterates.

Satisfied with the duress, that her charge fully understands the power and the exchange thereof, Mrs. Grayson steps away, stowing the mirror.

“Release for me,” the enema nozzle deflated.

There need be no second command, the bowel contents gush... to the platform... to the drain... the spray hose bringing neatness. Then the head is sprayed, Mrs. Casperson sighing in relief, the burning defoliant sent to the drain as well.
 
Next, the body is shaved. Though superfluous, Mrs. Casperson by no means hirsute, Mrs. Grayson wants her to feel the scything of the razor, every inch subjected to her attention, more exchange of power and control.

Finally comes the pubes. Ah, here time and great care is warranted. The shaving cream is applied. A steady knowing hand works, slowly... carefully. Freed of the tight, confining chastity belt, the sensation thrills. Mrs. Casperson struggles to remain motionless, the cool room air wafting over hypersensitive moist pink flesh. She knows what will follow. Knows that with the heightened sensitivity brought by the razor’s edge, the teasing, tantalizing feathering will bring frustration... joy but frustration. More than when idyly suspended in Master Arlen's office.

Upstairs, Arlen Jacob Casperson grasps the remote control for the huge high definition television. Pressing to switch cameras... number three... there comes a libidinous closeup... the rosebud anal opening... meaty splayed outer labia... the inner lips flushed red. The pearl of an engorged clitoris is shown. Ankles secured, the widely spread thighs reveal all. And all is so vulnerable to the nimble fingers of the bisexual Nurse Grayson.

A wet cloth daintily smooths about, removing excess cream. When Mrs. Grayson steps aside, ridding of razor, cream and towel, Mr. Casperson’s viewing is unimpeded. With another press of a button, the camera lens zooms inward.      
    
Mrs. Grayson returns. She places a clipboard on the small of the nude back. Then, tape in hand, Mrs. Casperson is measured... everywhere... waist, thighs, calves, biceps, bust line. The kneeling naked woman is being assessed, her measurements recorded.

“You’re fattening nicely. Mr. Casperson will be pleased.”

“Why? Why is he doing this to me?”

Mrs. Grayson shrugs and jots down the final measurement.

“Because he can. You’re being objectified, it’s a common paraphilia. And he enjoys toying with his object. You’re going to look the way he wants you to look. There are plans.”

“What are the plans?”

“You will know in time. Now, a couple if rinsing enemas.... I want you to be running clear... then it will be  time for a nice massage.”

The dreaded cold water enemas! But then massage, yes. It is needed having spent hours bound upright on toes. But Mrs. Casperson is all too aware of how the devilish Mrs. Grayson concludes her efforts.

The feather!  

Saturday, November 11, 2017

The Trophy, Segment Two


Arlen Jacobs Casperson leads a departing Charles Hanson from his office. Seeing the businessmen bidding adieu in the foyer, Nurse Grayson knows that Mrs. Casperson’s morning ordeal is finally to end. She slips into the opulent den, steps to a cabinet and retrieves a length of leather and hobbling shackles.

Moving to the naked hanging form, she notes the woman’s eyes are closed. Exhaustion overwhelms and the sight of the helpless well shaped plaything brings a smile. There is gratification in her dominion.

Totally unnecessary, Mrs. Casperson nude and yoked in the rigid stock, husband Arlen still insists she will always yield to strict authority, never to sense freedom. Thus the ankles are shackled, the connecting chain short. Never again will Mrs. Casperson fully stride, always to endure the power of another. The length of leather, a leash, is clipped to an eyelet on the Rigid Stock, just under the chin. Moving to the nearby wall, one switch is flipped, extinguishing a set of bright overhead spotlights. Then another causing, the hoist to again whirr. Her charge slowly lowers, Mrs. Grayson quickly returning to assure the swooning play toy does not harm herself in collapsing to the floor.     

“You did well today. Get you bathed, examined, fed and a nice nap,” strong hands guiding the voluptuous Mrs. Casperson to kneel as the cables are unhooked.

“Thank you, thank you. I’m... I’m very tired.”

“Can you stand and walk... or do you want to crawl for me?” a hand smoothing over the bald oil coated cranium as one would offer affection to dog.

“Please walk me... in a moment.”

“Did Mr. Hanson appreciate your... ah... display? You’re quite alluring when oiled.”

“Judging from his stares, I believe I performed to Arlen’s... ah... Master’s satisfaction. I don’t know why I cannot be hooded for these exhibitions. It’s quite embarrassing... naked, bound and... you know... bald.”

“It’s the way Mr. Casperson wants you. He particularly likes to see your naked skin gleaming while you hang under the bright lights. Like viewing a priceless painting at a museum.”

With that, Mrs. Grayson reaches into the right pocket of her uniform, there to retrieve a thick black garment. Abetting the sense of powerlessness, Mrs. Casperson is led about sightless. The hood slips with ease over the hairless head, fingers aligning a large opening for nose and mouth.

“Come,” a strong arm utilizing the leash to lift.

It’s slow and laborious guiding the blinded woman. But Master Casperson insists it is the only manner in which she is to be conveyed about.

‘She’ll feel better. It assuages a certain need,’ Arlen Jacob Casperson explained when first initiating Mrs. Grayson to the desired level of his control.

Legs shaky, it’s out the den door. Business associate Charles Hanson and financier Arlen Jacob Casperson remain conversing at the front entrance.

“A nurse,” Hanson observes in seeing the white uniform. “You do take care of her, Arlen.”

“She’s more of a keeper. The medical training is just one aspect of Mrs. Grayson’s responsibilities.”

“The yoke... is it ever... ah... removed?”

“Daily for cleansing.... but only briefly. And she’s kept otherwise well bound while being bathed. It’s... well... you’d not want a wife like mine... ah... to think she is privileged. Still she’s comfortable... having no cares... no responsibilities. Everything is done for her. I ask nothing and she does nothing.”

“Nothing but stand in your den, I see.”

“It soothes, Charles. Makes a tedious business day go faster. And you certainly don’t mind looking at her.” 

The wicked chuckle of voyeur Charles Hanson is left behind as the slow procession finally comes to the door leading to the basement chamber.

“Here we go. Slow going down the stairs. One step at a time.”

The verbal guidance is moot, for the hobbling chain of some eighteen inches only permits one very cautious step at a time. Mrs. Grayson leads, gripping the leash close to the Rigid Stock for support. Her naked charge follows... must follow... right foot down one step then joined by the left. Right foot down another step then joined by the left. The pace is grueling, mentally wearing. But it is as intended.

Meanwhile husband Arlen closes the front door after Charles Hanson and scurries back to the den. Turning on a broad flat screen high definition television, ceiling mounted cameras in the basement apprize him of Mrs. Grayson’s progress.    

It’s a favorite part of the day, watching the nurse ply her skills.

Saturday, November 4, 2017

The Trophy, Segment One

Been a while. Male/Female Dominant female submissive short story. Not sure where it will go.

Enjoy.


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The Trophy

Copyright 2017

by Chris Bellows

“You’re sick, Arlen. Really... is this how you prefer spending your money.”

“Careful with your words, dear. If I have to have you silenced, Mrs. Grayson will oblige. I do have work to do. And how am I to be called?”

“Sir,” the rebuke bringing contrition.

The threat is pleasantly conveyed, but Mrs. Casperson knows that husband Arlen Jacobs Casperson is a man of resolve and will indeed have her silenced. Such insouciance to her plight, not even looking up from his paper, engrossed in the Wall Street Journal.

Pausing, aware that with a simple press of his finger the dreaded Mrs. Grayson will be summoned, Mrs. Casperson momentarily quiets herself. She then finds the need to resume.

“How long this morning?... sir,” her tone softening, the question pleafully broached in chancing a visit from Mrs. Grayson.

“I’ll decide that. You are never to know. It’s... you know... the awareness and control thing. Your lack of it... and my thorough possession of it. You’re not tiring already, are you dear? It’s quite early.”

The wealthy and erudite Arlen Jacobs Casperson finally looks up, surveying his wife. Eyes feasting, as always he adores, her image bringing adulation. There is a sense of love and devotion. Yet it is not that of a husband for a beautiful and ravishing wife. It is that of an admirer of fine art viewing a classic sculpture.

“I’m just a little high, sir.”

“Mrs. Grayson does like to offer a challenge dear. You’ll acclimate over time. And it makes your legs shapely... more shapely”

“You if want me to be shapely, sir, you’d let me exercise... and the diet... all that fattening stuff.”

“You’ll be fine. I just want you a little... ah... plumper.”

The eyes continue to assess, noting that the calve muscles strain, the thighs flex. Mrs. Casperson is in her morning pose, held standing on her toes. The bondage is extreme, yet safe and in fact comfortable... when not so placed in a stress position.

A Martin Rigid Stock, some four feet in length, adorns the shoulders, openings encapsulating the wrists and neck. Custom made, the smooth interior circumference of stainless steel perfectly accommodates the limbs and neck. It can be worn for days without the need for release. Graciously, Mrs. Grayson daily offers a few moments of relief for ablutions.

Cables leading to a ceiling hoist are hooked to the stock at the shoulders left and right. Such can be adjusted, and Arlen Jacobs Casperson notes that on this morning, Mrs. Grayson has displayed a degree of spite, working the hoist such that only the toes lend support. There is an entertaining search for the floor in contending with gravity.

Moving upwards, the eyes focus on the chastity device of matching polished and gleaming stainless steel. Tightly encircling the waist, a triangular cod piece covers the pubes, denying access to the nether region and narrowing between the thighs to fill the gluteal cleft then rising to where it attaches to the rear of the belt. Locked in place, Mrs. Grayson holding the key, Arlen Jacobs Casperson smiles in recalling the initial protest of his wife.

‘Arlen, if I’m to be kept in constant bondage, why the chastity belt?’
      
Mrs. Casperson later found the answer. The device not only doubly assures her chastity, but also holds in place anal and vaginal inserts, pliable but firm replicas of a penis... that of the master of the house. The symbolism both intrigues and titillates... Mrs. Casperson to always feel her husband’s presence... where a woman feels the most.

Thus the reference to money, Mrs. Casperson futilely chiding in knowing that wealth and the ongoing accumulation thereof interests husband Arlen as much as assuaging his paraphilias. The hoisting apparatus, the Martin Rigid Stock, the chastity device, the molds of his impressive penis, cost thousands. And then there’s the medical chamber, a large section of the basement expensively converted to what appears to be a combination of bathroom, salon and physical therapy ward.  

Moving higher, Arlen Jacobs Casperson next rivets his eyes on the breasts. Such perfection, large but nicely rounded, the perky nipples beckon and invite, constantly crinkled while Mrs. Casperson is placed on display. Yes, the somatic reaction evidences her own penchant. Exhibitionism, submission, being forced to succumb all bring arousal... augmented by the many, many weeks of denial... and what about the house is referenced as Mrs Grayson’s special treatment... both craved and despised. 

Yes, when released of the chastity device for shaving and cleansing, Mrs. Casperson is feathered to near orgasm... then returned to her state of denial... clitoral stimulation terminating just before ultimate climax.

Eyes to the face... there is no make up. The natural handsomeness, perfectly symmetrical features, eyes of blue, a nose to be envied by those seeking rhinoplasty, requires no enhancement.

Contrasting are the missing eyebrows. Shaven regularly, Mrs. Casperson detests this insistence. Husband Arlen finds that hair detracts. Therefore she has none... anywhere.

‘Arlen, how am I to go out looking like this?’ the finger of a well bound hand ruefully gesturing to her bald head when Mrs. Grayson first defoliated her entire body. 

‘It won’t be a problem dear,’ Arlen holding up a wig... which she has yet to wear, knowing that as his captive creature of pulchritude, she is never to leave the house.

The eyes return to the Wall Street Journal, taking in as much news as possible before the opening of the stock market, the desk computer indicating five minutes to the opening bell. Then trading begins. As Mr. Casperson looks to the screen he glances to note the pose of Mrs. Casperson has shifted, the toes no longer trying to relieve the leg muscles. Instead, there comes the crossing of the legs, a little girl in need of going potty. Knowing such means much weight is uncomfortably shifted to the Rigid Stock and thus the wrists and neck, Arlen Jacobs Casperson finds amusement, but also the need to summon Mrs. Grayson.

As a finger finds the button for the buzzer, Mrs. Casperson notes the chivalrous response but also finds need to again protest.

“Can’t you take care of me, please, sir. You know I just can’t.... you know... get comfortable with...”

“It’s her job... and she does it very well.”

No knock, the door to the spacious office den of the Casperson mansion opens. In steps the imposing Mrs. Grayson dressed as always in the starched white uniform of her trade.

“Our little girl needs to go potty, Mrs. Grayson.”

The woman smiles, the pearl white teeth impressive, contrasting the dark complexion of the woman of color.

If the wife gently admonishes for spending money on the bondage paraphernalia, she would find double concern if Mrs. Grayson’s remuneration was disclosed. Free room and board plus a salary into the six figures, keeping Mrs. Casperson naked, hairless, well bound yet clean and well cared for is expensive.       

“And the nipples please Mrs. Grayson... you know how I like them,” the master of the house adds.     

The nurse nods, moving to a cabinet. There a well trained hand finds a metal basin, specially shaped to be wedged between the thighs. She then strolls to the wall switch controlling the hoist, flicking the switch for an instant to lower the strained nakedness of the lady of the house. Stepping before her helpless charge she smiles. Veiling any of admission of gratitude, Mrs. Casperson looks straight into the becoming face. She has never determined whether the smile is one of politeness or wicked enjoyment. 

“Spread for me. Be a good girl.”

Feet now fully finding the floor, Mrs. Casperson knows to comply, the basin wedged high between shapely yet growing thighs. The curved concave sides fit perfectly, the collection vessel able to stay in place without support while Mrs. Casperson must so ignominiously relieve herself.

It’s embarrassing, yet there is need, and within moments her excretions begin to flow through a narrow slit in the cod piece.

“Good girl,” enunciated mother to child as freed hands rise to the breasts.

Then thumb and index finger of right hand and left gently tweak the nipples. Mrs. Casperson sighs with the delight, ashamed to find the touch is so knowing and, in her strict chastity, so welcomed. Combined with the bladder relief, there comes a joyous reaction, that desired by sir, Master Casperson. Yes, as requested... as demanded... the tender pink buds obediently harden, further crinkling, the base of the mammary glands seeming to tighten and sit up like an obeisant dog.

Arlen Jacobs Casper smiles in delight. He enjoys seeing the glands defy gravity.

Deed completed, Mrs. Grayson curtails her efforts, the hanging play toy stifling the perverse yearning to offer humble thanks. She knows to part her thighs and Mrs. Grayson takes charge of the filled basin.

“Some massage? You’ll be able to hang longer.”

Mrs. Casperson ever so slightly shakes her head, the Rigid Stock denying much motion. Of her expert talents, therapeutic massage is just one of many, the nurse most knowledgeable. Oddly, Mrs. Casperson both covets and disdains the woman’s touch, her homophobia contrasting the bisexuality of her keeper.

Still she knows, before being caged for the evening, Mrs. Grayson will have her way, kneading and caressing everywhere before joining the master of the house in bed.

As humiliating as it is to be kept in constant bondage and denial, it is that aspect of Mr. Casperson’s deviant protocol which most distresses. As Mrs. Casperson is relegated to a low cramping cage in the bedroom, she must watch, listen... even smell... the lustful love making each and every night.  

But worse is the taste, many nights orally cleansing the moist, worn penis of husband and master Arlen Jacobs Casper of the remnants of steamy, unending copulation.

‘Does it have to be with a black woman?’ Mrs. Casperson tearfully inquired with the initial tryst.

‘Skin color never came into the equation, my dear. My need was for a woman with nutritional training, medical skills, experienced in massage, not affronted by bondage, indifferent to slow mild suffering and of course bisexual... to assure she enjoys your daily plight. Not easy to find.’

‘She’s a dominatrix!’ a frustrated wife countered.

Her outburst brought a shrug and a flippant reply.

‘Just wanted the best for you.’

Basin in hand, Mrs. Grayson returns to the wall switch. The hoist whirs, lifting. Arlen Jacobs Casperson inwardly smiles in satisfaction as his naked and bound wife is returned to her toes. As Mrs. Grayson departs, he knows that the refusal of massage, the soothing hands of a woman found to be repugnant, to be a mistake which Mrs. Casperson will regret for many hours.

“I have an appointment at 11:00 a.m. my dear, Charles Hanson. Do muster the resolve to properly greet him.”

“Why sir? Why do you always meet him here?”

“Guess I like showing off my trophy. It’s a guy thing. I’ll have Mrs. Grayson diddle those pink titties again before he arrives. You’ll want to be presentable, I’m sure.” 

Saturday, August 19, 2017

Neuroplasticity, Segment Six

This will be the last posted segment. Hope you enjoy the full story.

CB

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Has it been a week?

I ponder as for exercise a nurse walks me about the institute. I receive many looks. Holding hands, led about like a child, I tend to amuse and for some reason it no longer disturbs, not as much when first led to the doctor’s office.

Over my bed, if the padded strap-laden platform can be so termed, a mirror has been mounted on the ceiling. Thus for many hours per day, before lights out, I lie immobile in my Segufix bonds peering at myself. This therapy, the need to acclimate to my forced transformation, includes not only changing my appearance, but ensuring that I am mentally, emotionally aware.

Augmenting the permanent make up... tattooed lips and eyes... the grooming of my hair has continued. Longer, it’s in the style of a page boy, squarely trimmed at the jaw line. Balls remaining harnessed there is only my colored stubby penis to be seen at my pubes. So small, so insensitive. It now merely serves to drain my bladder.

And my body hair... where is it? When bathed, whatever lotion is used to cleanse does smell harsh and gives rise to strong tingling. Is such a depilatory?

So I am aware, my appearance growing more effeminate daily.

There is concern. But ah, there’s the feather and the nurse’s unending short and teasing strokes. In the tedium, the interminable intervals of being in bondage, awaiting morning ablutions, I think of how good her attention feels. And it seems to feel better each day.

During this morning’s session... impelling neuroplasticity... a second nurse joined us. A woman of color, tall, shapely but more in an athletic sense than womanly, she stood before my nakedness as I knelt on all fours, the feather working scrotum and anus. She smiled with my initial moan of delight, seeming to take pride... like having accomplished something. Then her hands extended, lowering to my chest. Her fingers began toying with my nipples. For some reason such have grown puffy, somewhat protruding. Yes she fondled, and with the added delight I moaned anew. Then I felt some twinges, about my sphincter, that being so tantalizingly feathered. With that, the free hand of the feathering nurse went to the purple of my penis stub, quickly and most evanescently exploring.

I looked down, between the hands and tweaking black fingers at my chest. There was ooze, creamy white streaming from the purple tattooing.

‘How do you feel, Mr. Wells?’ the black nurse gently inquired with a beaming smile.

I just nodded, gasping for breath. Something was happening, my loins giving. Slowly I became tranquil, quiescent. Oddly, I began to feel like I had just run a fast mile, been well exercised. Exhaustion was looming.

For many moments the feathering continued, the fingers toying my nipples. Then all energy just drained away and I slumped to the stainless steel surface, unable to remain on all fours.

‘Your first anal orgasm, Mr. Wells.’

Did I hear properly when the black nurse added the exclamation ‘good girl’?

Friday, August 18, 2017

Neuroplasticity published

I have published the referenced story.

Female dominant, male submissive, what I believe is a unique story line.

46,900 words. $9.00

Enjoy

http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/neuroplasticity/21322152

Saturday, August 12, 2017

Neuroplasticity, Segment Five

“Do you like your new garment, Mr. Wells? Or do you prefer to be completely naked?”

I sit in the straight backed chair rather gingerly, enduring the endless questions of Dr. Rebecca Stackhouse.

“It’s... it’s okay. Difficult to sit,” for some reason my voice meek.

“Yes, you do have to be careful. It’s a drawback. But the harness nicely tucks away your testicles... your remnants of maleness... don’t you think?”

It does. My sole garment can only be described as a jockstrap... but worn backwards, tightly cradling my scrotum and precious balls and pulling back such that they nest in the crevice of my buttocks. Thus I carefully sit upright, not wishing to crush what were given leniency by the Syariah Court.

But of more concern, the straps at the front, splitting to form a ‘V’, serve to highlight my purple... violet... appendage, forcing the tiny stub to thrust forward. As I am walked about the institute, hand in hand with a supervising nurse, onlookers cannot doubt that I have been altered. Balls not to be seen, only that left behind by the doctor’s scalpel.

“Why?” my meekness bringing distress.

“Once again, Mr. Wells. You need to accept your status... no longer an intact man. The ball harness... as the girls like to term it... veils your male bits. You’d not want anyone to think you’re potent would you? That would be deceptive.”

There’s a pause, the doctor letting that thought percolate. I choose not to reply.

“You’re beginning to look pretty for us, Mr. Wells. What do you think of your hair style?”

In completing the morning feathering, I was bathed and groomed as the nurse suggested. But the grooming included effeminate styling of my hair, approaching shoulder length in not having visited the barber since beginning my terrorizing vacation. Parted in the middle, my locks fall straight down, evenly trimmed over my ears. I also have bangs and upon being offered a quick glimpse in the mirror I was shocked to see the reflection of a boyish looking girl, the coloring of my lips and eyes highlighted by my jet black hair.    

“It’s... well... girlish.”

The doctor just nods, letting me stew on the words.

“Let’s talk about your penectomy. I think it would be cathartic for you. Every detail please, though I’m sure with the anesthesia you can’t recall everything.”

Can’t recall after I passed out, anesthesia not offered other then some novocaine.

There is reluctance, bad enough that the Muslim doctor beckons me every night in my dreams... Gurney... straps... catheter... scalpel. Her stern yet attractive image has become a succubus. I try to forget, yet I must recollect... accede to the therapy... must avoid being listed as a sex offender, the equivalent of economic death in terms of my career as a financial consultant.

So I tell of my penectomy. And it seems it requires more time to relate the story than it took to separate me from my penis. 

Saturday, August 5, 2017

Neuroplasticity, Segment Four

I awaken. Is it morning? The room is pitch black. Thus I don’t know but am relieved that I no longer see the Muslin doctor... the hijab... hear her words... see her gesturing for me to lie again on the Gurney.

But my relief lasts not. It suddenly occurs to me... therapy completed... sex offender’s list avoided... how is it I will be able to interact with my clients? Lips a lurid violet, eye make permanently projecting... projecting what?

The concern is joined by the need to urinate. I dare not wet my bed, if that is what the platform is termed. Fortunately the door opens, the room alights.

“Good morning, Mr. Wells. Time for a toilet visit, some bathing, some grooming, some therapy.”

The nurse is cheery. I am cheered as well in noting a degree of maturity. Tall, no doubt seasoned, hand and fingers work to quickly release the magnetic locking posts, the straps folded away, the many encircling bands of nylon slipped off.

I slide from the table and stand, knowing to let her take my hand. It’s protocol... to be walked about.

Out the door, down the hall, there is urgency... for the bathroom. Yet I know it will not come... not a normal visit. There seems to be another institute protocol... I am to be handled. So it’s into this curious medical room, well stock with implements, devices, towels, tubing, plumbing, where I know to mount a stainless steel table used for examination and bathing, as suggested.

This being some fourth or fifth visit, I know to patiently kneel on all fours, waiting for permission to urinate... always waiting for permission to do anything. The nurse prepares.

“You’re becoming, Mr. Wells. The coloring... very... well... pretty,” the compliment if indeed a compliment coming as she grasps a basin and approaches.

I further part my knees, oddly relieved in feeling my remaining male bits swing about between my thighs, castration avoided. Then I feel the hands as the woman in white positions herself behind me, left hand cupping my scrotal sac to gently pull back, thumb and index finger of the right finding the tiny stub of a once proud, now gaily colored penis.

“Psst, psst,” she encourages.

I need no further inspiration, despite the ignominy instantly opening myself, chagrined to note the flow no longer to be a stream but a sloppy spray in need of direction... a woman’s direction.

Emptied, I am dried like a infant. Then as expected, a suppository is slipped into a well exposed anus, a finger remaining impaling me to assure... well... to assure a maximize sense of vulnerability and embarrassment I suppose. 

Why can I not have covering?

“Get you emptied... number one and number two. Then we’ll stimulate some synaptic response... impel some neuroplasticity,” the nurse lectures.

The suppository works, I am sure of clinical strength, not of the home use variety. Plus the inserted finger wriggles about, further assuring the need to defecate. Within moments the nurse detects contractions. The basin is repositioned and I again relieve myself... number two... under close supervision. It’s daunting.

To a waiting toilet, the basin is emptied, excretions flushed, the nurse returning with a tray. A moist towelette cleanses me, its use normally for infants. Then comes the stimulation I both crave and detest.

The left hand palms the front of my scrotum drawing it back towards my nurse. The right hand, thumb and index finger grasping a feather, begins to work the sensitive thin pink flesh, ever so teasingly grazing, then smoothing upward to likewise graze my perineum then my sphincter, flesh there of equal sensitivity. The fingers work, mechanically, relentlessly, applying the feather, on occasion withdrawing as I take gulps of air then lowly moan with the comparative ecstasy. Many weeks of chastity, my altered sex thirsts for attention. The feather it’s... it’s so devilish yet so welcomed.

The joy is so distant yet feels so good. I am essentially being masturbated, yet there is no ultimate reaction... can be no ultimate reaction. The doctor explaining that the ejaculatory muscles have been squelched, Botox obviating contraction.  

Still there is neuroplasticity... at least it is assumed... it is hoped. Priming the brain to form and reorganize synaptic connections, in response to or following injury. And I have certainly been injured, my instrument of sexual prowess incised, last seen being slipped away, down a catheter tube.

I take deep breaths. I pull with my PC muscles, that which normally gives rise to many wads of thick white spunk.

Nothing happens... other than soft laughter emanating from she in control.

“Such effort... so little results, Mr. Wells. But give it time. Your brain will rewire. Anal stimulation will bring pleasure... ecstatic pleasure with enough daily therapy. Anal orgasms... you’ll come to so much enjoy and savor. And the pituitary injections will help.”

Pituitary injections?