Saturday, September 20, 2014

A Woman in Control - Solidifying my power I

Solidifying My Power I

I am now a director of Olivier Flavors and Fragrances!

You see, the only voting stock is jointly held by Mr. and Mrs. G. Douglas Olivier. And I course we know who decides in what manner to vote the stock.

So for Mrs. Olivier the choice was simple... vote me onto the board and continue living and socializing in high circles... or decline my advancement and endure the humiliation and ridicule when the sordid pics of G. Douglas begin to circulate on the internet.

But I must say, our tete a tete was not completely acrimonious. Guzzling that third Mimosa loosened up the old harridan. She asked some pointed questions concerning Jack. While her control of G. Douglas has been subtle and cerebral, my control of Jack, obvious and thorough... mentally, emotionally, physically... seemed to not only intrigue but inure a degree of envy.

More of our brunch...    

“So beneath that skirt, you have his penis under control?” the inquiry coming as Jack steps forth with the fourth Mimosa.

“Locked in steel and electrified. It’s useless, other than to empty his bladder. I castrated him. But in denying him the opportunity to even touch his penis, there is a vigorous feminine message sent. Wouldn’t you agree, Mrs. Olivier?”

For the first time she smiles... than slowly nods in thought and responds to my demands.

“You are holding all the cards, Mrs. Montrove. There’s no reason to deny you a board seat at Olivier Flavors and Fragrances, photographs notwithstanding. But may I suggest a little quid pro quo? It would also send a message... to Douglas. I want Jack to clean for me... and I’ll want him to do so naked. The maid’s costume is cute... but distracting.”

A gleam comes to Mrs. Olivier’s eye. Having kept G. Douglas denied and psychologically controlled, she’s eager to take another step... rather dauntless for a woman of her age.

“I will be happy to pay for a second remote control,” she adds.

I look to see Jack trembling. My hand and fingers are demanding when utilizing the remote... but understood... punishment equitably meted. But the notion of ceding occasional power to the termagant Mrs. Olivier brings delightful thoughts... for me... and abject fear for Jack.

“It is probably time, Mrs. Olivier. The hormonal imbalance affects his thinking... muddles the mind... that and the intensity of the sensory deprivation. His days of complicated chemical engineering are probably best in the past.”

“So he’s also a company employee. Well, all the more reason to keep him on the payroll and well controlled. It will not be an issue.”

“That being said, tidy things up Jack. I’m going to bed you until Monday morning. I have some very, very well endowed acquaintances for tonight and tomorrow.”

“He’ll sleep that long?”

“Probably hallucinate would be the more apt term. I keep him well bound and have a special montage of male subservient photos I force him to watch. When not forced to watch, he’s kept hooded at all other times. It ingrains the exchange of power I insist upon.”

Mrs. Olivier is further intrigued.

“Why not stay a few minutes longer. Your show can wait.”

Mrs. Olivier nods in agreement.   

“Jack, when you’re through clearing and cleaning, go to your room, strip naked for me and put on your Posey cuffs... nice and tight like a good boy.”

It’s the standing order for Saturdays, usually coming at midmorning after he has cleaned the apartment and prepared meals for me. So he curtsies to acknowledge my command, meekly waits for me to press the remote so he can pass from dining room to kitchen and return for more dishes, then starts his final task before beginning the endless weekend tedium. 

“It’s like having a child... the caring and the training,” Mrs. Olivier notes.

“More like a pet... but one who is loyal and obedient... and trainable as you suggest. The shift in the testosterone level is quite the noteworthy event. It’s no wonder they neuter so many dogs.”

Mrs. Olivier laughs, warming nicely to the environment, gazing openly each time Jack turns to expose those girlish buttocks, prudish parlor manners cast aside, all reservations dissipating.

“I will want to inspect that chastity device... steel did you say?”

“Yes, stainless, locked in place by way of a rather formidable genital piercing.”   

The steady tapping of Jack’s heels ends. He enters the dining area one last time and humbly lingers. I let him stand in silence, head bowed, waiting for me to change the setting on the remote while Mrs. Olivier gazes without a scintilla of compunction.

“Go,” I finally press the remote to extend my authority.

He scampers like a little girl.

“Posey cuffs?” Mrs. Olivier inquires.

“Institutional, comfortable, safe and most secure. Jack and his bed will be one until Monday morning.”

“Bathroom needs?”

“You’ll see. He wears a steel tube inserted into his penis... partially catheterizing. It ensures his chastity, delivers a punishing jolt where the male most feels it, and the tip can be easily attached to a draining tube. Come.” 

I lead to the spare bedroom, Jack has disrobed and is encircling his ankles with cuffs. As we enter I hear the click of one tiny padlock then another, Jack, in his nakedness becomes delightfully shy, blushing in pink, not accustomed to exposure to the boss’s wife. 

“Secure yourself and lie down Jack, Mrs. Olivier needs to look at you.”

He woefully encircles his wrists then knows to lie supine. Mrs. Olivier is impressed with the ease and quickness, as I clip straps to the cuffs and the waist belt, tightening to the max then plugging in the recharger of the battery pack.

“Let’s see, what shall I have you watch today?”

I step to the simple computer which drives the slide show, offering the montage of males being immersed in some form of humiliating subservience, a lesson from the Nazi Minister of Propaganda, Joseph Goebbels in terms of deluging the mind. Jack is being daily brainwashed.  

The wedding pictures may be a little over the top for Mrs. Olivier... at least currently. So I press and click on the collection from ‘Men in Lace’ magazine, attractive males attired in scanty serving attire, some photos revealing the presence of well secured chastity devices, all women not only fully clad but quite preeminently.

“This is from Jack’s creepy stash of pornography... assembled before our marriage. Such an understanding wife am I... permitting him to continue viewing such naughtiness,” I offer with a snicker.

Onto the screen comes, of course, a man in lace, along with apron, high heels, makeup, tending to what one would assume is a wife’s, or perhaps other woman of governance, tea party. Many fully clothed women, a scantily clad male... and one whose short flimsy skirt veils little. 

Mrs. Olivier glares at the ceiling with interest. As the slides progress, so many poses appear familiar, Mrs. Olivier having been similarly served minutes ago. She nods.

“How often... is he so exposed to this input?”

“Every night for an hour or two. More on weekends. After many hours of viewing, for the scenes to be fully absorbed, it is best he be hooded and left in bound darkness. The eidetic male mind... that which makes it given to enjoy pornography also makes it susceptible to visual programming and prompting. Curtailing the flow of most testosterone makes him even more malleable.”

Mrs. Olivier nods. Noting that Jack is riveted on the soft but kinky porn projected directly over his face, she turns her attention to the steel cock cage, prominently displayed between thighs restrained and well parted.

“His testicles... removed?”

“No, almost completely atrophied. Done chemically. A rather ironic fate for a chemical engineer... wouldn’t you agree, Mrs. Olivier?”

She chuckles. An evil expression of merriment, the prudish woman of society has now completely doffed her facade.

“So the penis cage locks in place?”

I nod, “it connects to the rings about the base of the penis and the scrotum. The latter ring is held permanently in place by a piercing. You’ll note the post penetrating his flesh. It’s not a fetish toy, it is surgically implanted... and the cock cage is only unlocked and removed under medical supervision. Not having a key has saved me from the aggravation of hearing him beg... when there remained a scintilla of desire to be unlocked. Now it does not matter. There is no normal sexual desire... only the desire to please... serve a governing woman. Just as seen every night on the montage,” I gesture to the continuing scenes flashing on the ceiling above.

It is then that I demonstrate the neatness factor of the Prince’s Wand, slipping what is essentially a Texas catheter over the steel tube emanating from the tip of the cock cage. It leads to a collection bag which Jack will tend to on Monday morning.    

“Prostate problems? Douglas constantly alludes to it in begging me for sexual release.”

“He’s clinically drained weekly. A rather imposing nurse applies some forty volts by way of a rectal insertion. Amazingly effective. Essentially he’s jerked off, emptied more readily and thoroughly then by manual release or copulation, exploding through the Prince Wand tube without any sensation other then the painful jolts of electricity.”

Mrs. Olivier reaches to touch, stepping completely out of her envisioned character!

“So you know this nurse and doctor?” inquiring as she pulls to test the device’s security then nodding with approval.

“They have a clinic. It’s covered by the company health plan... of that I made quite the assurance.”

Her fingers move to the flesh of the withered scrotum, a small mass of pulpy flesh. Thumb and forefinger knead and caress, the testicles, tiny, not to be so easily located.

“All gone Jack. Nothing left here. You must feel so relieved in having no male distractions... in now being able to concentrate on your secret desires... to serve... women of authority... in apron, skirt and heels,” Mrs. Olivier mockingly lectures as I watch Jack squirm in his bonds, the humiliation delightfully intense.

Wednesday, September 17, 2014

The Sash - Practice


Copyright 2014

by Chris Bellows

“Come here, Markie. I have a task for you.”

The Prince stoops over the supine mummified form, knife in hand. Will the strange cargo be freed? Markie asks himself, recalling the precaution of binding those deemed to be strong and virile.

As knees and hands shuffle forth, Markie notes that instead the knife carefully cuts about the pubes, slicing downward across a single horizontal strip of thick white bandaging. At the very apex of the bump of maleness, the Prince slowly incises.

“May as well begin acclimating both of you... Thursday here to denial... you to constant teasing.”

The slit is small, but through it the Prince is able to free the male appendage. Large, but not the size of the Prince, white with pinkness where a man most enjoys himself. In sensing fingers rummaging there, the mummified form stirs. Yet the tightness of the bindings is thorough. For the most part, the penis is the only anatomical part which clearly moves. 

“You shall suck him. I am told your tongue has been altered as well and that Nurse Benson has offered adequate training. But you will not bring him to orgasm. Matter of fact you will never bring any of my boys to orgasm. That rule is sacrosanct! For disobedience, you will be caned... and a little girly boy like you will feel the fiery anguish more than most. You’ve lived a pampered life compared to the rigors of punishment meted at my stable.”

The words bring a shudder of fear and concern. The Prince is correct. Markie’s hormonal transformation has brought an extremely low tolerance for pain, Nurse Benson able to bring intense agony with merely her thumb and index finger applied to a nipple. And yes, he has learned things with his tongue. The frenectomy has enabled it to dance, Nurse Benson quite complimentary when he dutifully sucked her fingers, swishing and swirling with aplomb.

But the Prince presents not a finger. It is a penis... a proud penis... of size... not emaciated as a result of castration and estrogen. The organ’s virility is feared...  but there is also admiration.

Yes, there comes more envy. Though the boy Thursday is bound in silent darkness, he has a penis that functions. But is it indeed his penis? Markie begins to realize... though the Prince has ultimate power, he as castrated feminized stable hand will also be empowered. Handling fully functioning penises!

Mine has been rendered useless, not even capable of emptying my bladder, Markie reminds himself. Even while hanging in the doctor’s sash, of late there has been little tumescence. And now the Prince presents something that not only works... it can be forced to work at Markie’s behest!

“Come. Get him up for me. Let’s see if that gag training has been sufficient. And if you feel pending ejaculation, withdraw... immediately. Just let his hard on waggle in the cabin air. It will amuse.”

There is reluctance... but there is strange eagerness. His subconscious recalls the pleasant nipple manipulation whenever Nurse Benson found her fingers to be adequately sucked. And putting aside any homophobic thoughts, does Markie really have a choice?

Logically, should he in fact feel revulsion? He begins to rationalize... he has been castrated by a woman, made into a little girl... and one trained to suck cocks! Why should any phobia sensibly remain? A fait accompli... Markie has indeed been transformed... to a girly boy sucker of cocks.     A powerful hand entwines in Markie’s golden locks, slowly pressing downward. The encouragement is surprisingly gentle, considering the muscling of his owner. Markie knows to open his lips. The hand guides to the penis tip, Markie offering no resistance. Fellatio begins for real. Unlike Nurse Benson’s fingers, he senses the more pronounced pulsation of Thursday’s heart beat. Unlike Nurse Bensons’ fingers, he feels it jump in response to the slight initial swish of a tongue trained ad infinitum to please.

Yes! Markie senses control. A rare privilege. Heady stiff.

With a second swish the organ stiffens, the tip racing to the back of his mouth. The boy Thursday is young, his virility physically felt. Markie effortlessly opens his throat. The penis tip further slithers inward. He gags not. Oddly, he senses the pride of accomplishment.

Yes, Markie feels empowered!

Well impaled, the Prince’s entwined hand pulls his head upwards then abruptly reverses to firmly press down, the swollen tip forced well inward. Markie hears a deep guttural laugh. The Prince enjoys the intensity of the humiliation... enjoys in knowing Markie’s offer of pleasure will never be requited... knows that Thursday will never be permitted the ultimate in male ecstasy.

Up, down, up, down, finally the hand controlling the puppet Markie pulls away his face. The erection plops from a mouth well used, a throat well frictioned. Rock hard purple stiffness rigidly points to the cabin ceiling.

“You see, he’s a nice sized boy. And he’ll soon be put under the penis as well. Now keep him hard for me... the remainder of the flight.”

The knife bearing hand returns, cutting to carefully lengthen the slit in the encasement of white. Two meaty plums are brought into the cabin light.

“Lick and suck his balls... slowly. You may as well adore what a woman took from you,” the Prince’s hand releasing to move to Markie’s empty scrotum.

There, Markie is surprised to feel fingers sensuously knead where the doctor quickly yet cruelly flicked with her scalpel.

“Whatever do you think happened to them, Markie? Nurse Benson make some earrings did she? Ha, ha, ha.”

Sunday, September 14, 2014

A Woman's Servant - The Second Semester

Just came to my attention that the sequel to 'A Woman's Servant' has been published.

Strong Female Domination as always.


Saturday, September 13, 2014

A Woman in Control - Reaching my zenith IV

Reaching My Zenith IV

Monday morning I reward Mr. G for his compliance... a long, slow... and overdue... weekly update. He shot quite the load for an old timer.

Then Saturday finally arrives. Whereas normally on Saturday mornings I have Jack cook several meals for the weekend then just keep him hooded and tightly restrained until Monday morning, I’ll want to show him off to Mrs. Olivier.

So he prepares French toast and eggs benedict, then steps to the bedroom to don his maid’s attire. Just as in serving Harry the Horse, there is a degree of apoplexy. Daintily attired, buttocks well presented, he knows the possible consequences of being so exhibited to the boss’s wife. This is not the Bed and Breakfast episode of our wedding... completely naked before my cohorts of kink. In some ways completely naked could be more easily explained.

Instead he’ll be in the attire of a young serving girl... and he knows very well how much I enjoy showing people his controlling cock cage and my remote.   

Mrs. Olivier may remember him from an office Christmas gathering, but in maid’s cap, blouse, apron and skirt, it is doubtful

Meanwhile I assure that my laptop is properly running and that the photos I uploaded are easily assessable. Jack’s thorough subservience will certainly push the conversation in the intended direction. And though I am sure the prim and proper Mrs. Olivier will initially feign discomfort... perhaps even shock... she’ll come around.

In her own way, she relishes control of the male herself.

The doorman calls to announce the arrival of Mrs. G. Douglas Olivier. The clock reads 12:40 p.m., graciously late.  Jack begins to fidget. I merely pick up the remote and wave it in front of him. There will be no delays in greeting Mrs. Olivier as with Harry the Horse. Two minutes later the doorbell rings, I nod, Jack’s heels tap away, I remain in the livingroom.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Olivier. Mrs. Montrove is expecting you.”

Jack curtsies and just as with Harry the Horse there is a moment of stunned silence. Jack is neutered yes. But his attempts to appear girlishly feminine fall comically short. I will have to let his hair grow.

Finally there comes a regal ‘thank you’, condescending to speak to a servant with apparent gender issues.

The gray haired, prim Mrs. Olivier enters.

“Mrs. Olivier, thank you for coming.”

“So gracious of you to have me,” the polite words do not conform to the tone and lack of enthusiasm.

“I have had my husband Jack make some Mimosas, but we also have tea, coffee and plain orange juice.”

“A Mimosa will suffice.”

“Let’s sit and talk here. Jack will need a moment for the eggs benedict.”

My maid knows to retrieve the refreshments and Mrs. Olivier is delightfully shocked when he turns, her eyes gluing to the soft round buttocks of a pubescent girl.

“Did you say husband?” the question posed in disbelief.

“Yes, Jack. But nights and weekends he serves me as a maid and perhaps should be called Jackie,” I calmly explain gesturing to a chair.

We sit. I continue. I am sure Mrs. Olivier requiring time to gather words.

“I’m sure you have household help as well,” I prompt.

“I have a woman who cleans and tidies up... a couple days per week.”

Jack enters, strolling rather well in his heels, carefully balancing tulip glasses filled with orange juice and Champagne.

“I prefer to be served by the neutered male,” I bluntly explain. “They have a need to please and are more focused on doing so.”

Jack dips at the knees to offer, Mrs. Olivier accepts. When he turns his girlish backside is not only again displayed but now offers proximity.

“Return to the kitchen and stay. I will let you know if we need anything else and when I want to be served in the dining room,” my words sharp and direct.

As Jack steps through the kitchen door I make a show of pressing the remote, always at my side, always ready to punish. As planned, with a look of perplexity Mrs. Olivier watches me set the electrified cock cage.

“I not only emasculated Jack, I have what is left of his penis locked away in an electrified chastity device. It helps address his special needs.”

“I see,” Mrs. Olivier manages to succinctly respond.

“Many men have special needs, Mrs. Olivier. Fortunately there are women such as me who know how to address those needs... and do so with a degree of passion. It is best for him.”

“But you must have certain needs as well... you’re... you’re young.”

Mrs. Olivier is too prim and proper to bluntly say a girl needs to get laid on occasion. But I get her gist, that Jack cannot serve all my needs.

“You mean sex? Men are hounds, Mrs. Olivier. A girl can get that anywhere any time. It’s being pampered, having financial stability, for those one must truly endeavor in earnest to attain... wouldn’t you agree? Cheers.”

We click glasses. Mrs. Olivier needs alcohol. I need her to have alcohol. I am heartened when she first sips, nods approval, then partakes with a goodly draw. It would seem a half naked, servile man in a frilly uniform fosters a certain thirst. 

“I suppose, but Douglas and I are of an age when we no longer need to consider that.”

“Really? We talked briefly about the company’s experimental product line and you suggested your Douglas’s reaction was to spend time doing something...” I prompt. 

Mrs. Olivier nods reluctantly, taking another sip... more fortification?

“So what could it possibly be that the scent of butter spurred?” I inquire mysteriously, reaching for my nearby laptop computer.

“Much time in the bathroom... showering,” Mrs. Olivier blurts, attempting to truncate any thoughts of untoward behavior.

“Cold showers, no doubt,” filling in idle time as my computer boots.

“Whatever,” the disgust in her tone suggesting disapproval.

I tap a few keys, note Mrs. Olivier’s glass then reach for my remote. I press, inaugurating a reminder charge to Jack’s cock cage and Prince’s Wand. There comes a yelp from the kitchen as I press a second button to turn off the charger which restricts Jack to that room. He knows that he has been summoned and prances to us with alacrity.

“Two more Mimosas, Jack,” I command as I turn my laptop toward Mrs. Olivier.

On the screen an early depiction of G. Douglas Olivier, standing at the edge of the conference table, pants down, a buttered hand firmly wrapped about a turgid penis. It’s the initial encounter, my pics stored chronologically.

“This was taken years ago. Your husband performed for me. I had him ejaculate right on cue. Quite obedient. As stated, many males... most males?.. have special needs. I’ve been accommodating for years now.”

I press, scrolling ahead. An aghast Mrs. Olivier gapes at pics in which I have taken more control. It’s my hand, my face not seen. The ashtray sits at the ready to accept the bosses ignominious discharge.

“You can see for yourself. Press here to advance. Some dozen photos, taken each week... for over four years now. Quite a collection.”

Mrs. Olivier is silent in her shock. There is a degree of disbelief which rapidly wanes as there is no question it is indeed the debonair captain of industry G. Douglas Cooper who so obediently stands reveling in the delight of my controlling hand and spurting with fervor into the ashtray... week after week after week.

“You’ll note how much he enjoys the anal penetration. Are you aware of that Mrs. Olivier? It’s common among many males. Something about the prostate gland...”

Mrs. Olivier, having her fill, pushes the laptop back toward me.

“What’s this all about?”

I smile, press Jack’s remote and listen for the girlish yelp.

“We’re moving to the dining room to be served,” I call out knowing I have his attention.

I arise, sweeping with an open hand to suggest we partake in brunch.

“Control, Mrs. Olivier. It’s all about control,” I step following Mrs. Olivier.

“You see just as Jack has special needs, I in turn have some of my own. Your husband has been quite accommodating in that respect. The promotions and hefty annual raises have been much appreciated. And now running Olivier Flavors and Fragrances... yes, G. Douglas has not made a meaningful decision in years... has served to scratch a certain itch.”

We sit. I press the remote to allow Jack out of the kitchen. He immediately steps forth with two plates of eggs benedict cooked to perfection, his Hollandaise sauce unsurpassed. He than dashes back to the kitchen and returns with a platter of French toast, centered between us. Jack then knows to step to the corner and await the snap of my fingers. Brunch is served.     

“You’re a bitch,” Mrs. Olivier finally blurts, her Haughtiness finally stepping out of character.

“No question,” snapping my fingers to have Jack instantly step forth. “Have some more cinnamon at the table for Mrs. Olivier... and by all means some butter,” the irony not to be avoided.

Jack moves toward the kitchen door and shocks himself. I reach to the remote and press, having forgotten to offer electronic passage.

“Yes control, Mrs. Olivier. I have used the threat of disclosure of my graphic photos for years to keep G. Douglas Olivier under my thumb. And yet he has not unduly suffered. Matter of fact he was quite perturbed when I recently delayed his weekly update... it’s our code word for when I step into his office and masturbate him onto his desktop or conference table. He’s learned quite nicely to pose for the camera... wouldn’t you agree?”

“Disgusting. It’s all about sex.”

“Perhaps... but in dealing with the male, sex becomes power. And we all crave power to a certain extent... don’t we Mrs. Olivier? You have used the denial of sex as power over your husband. I have simply taken an opposite but equally effective track.”

Mrs. Olivier is upset but eats.

“Another Mimosa for Mrs. Olivier, Jack,” having placed the butter and cinnamon on the table.

She does not refuse. The woman is in need of more of something which soothes.

“Where is this conversation leading?” Mrs. Olivier losing her prudish parlor manners.

“Power over you, of course. I finally came to the conclusion that as humiliating as the photos are to G. Douglas, his weekly submission evidencing his desperate need to keep his perversion shrouded in secrecy, they are equally embarrassing for you. The Garden Club... the Daughters of the American Revolution... the Greenwich Woman’s Club...” I proceed to rattle off all the snooty organizations in which Mrs. Olivier finds social consolation in mingling amongst the idle wealthy. “Now they would find this of great interest. I am sure they’ll all recognize in the photos the debonair CEO of Olivier Flavors and Fragrances. I wonder how that would affect your membership status... your social standing... married to a libertine pervert.”

“Douglas will find this to be quite expensive,” she threatens.

“Douglas is not to know... never to know that you’re aware of this. I think at this point it behooves us booth to keep him under a woman’s thumb... wouldn’t you agree?”

Mrs. Olivier draws a very unladylike gulp from a fresh tulip glass.     

“My demands are simple, Mrs. Olivier... and just as G. Douglas adapted, you will as well...”

Wednesday, September 10, 2014

The Sash - Rules


Copyright 2014

by Chris Bellows

Freed of the sash, Markie, now completely naked, rests on the plush carpeting of the sleek jet. The engines quietly spool, soon to be propelling the sizable craft towards Africa. The Prince gazes downward, brimming with lustiness at his latest acquisition, flight phone to his right ear. Markie feels... well he’s not sure. The man is not only large and muscular but handsome. Such contrasts markedly to Markie’s feminized and well groomed... well exposed... soft flesh. Perhaps there is envy. Markie, robbed by a doctor’s scalpel, a subsequent deluge of estrogen, of any hint of former masculinity, finds the Prince’s physicality to be imposing... but oddly alluring. 

“Bought me a new colt... plus what I think what will be an interesting addition to the stable. Have the van meet me at the airport. Flight time six hours... we’re taxiing now,” the whine of the engines rising.

Markie looks to his right further down the isle. Joining the curious duo on the lengthy flight to Africa is a supine mummified form also resting on the carpet. Breathing tubes aside, it is completely covered in circles of white bandaging Certain anatomical bumps about the pubes, lacking hillocks at the chest, suggest the form is male. The Prince notes Markie’s inquiring peer, returning the phone set to its cradle. 

“That’s the new colt,” meaty black hands extending. “I like ‘em strong and virile... so for travel it’s best to keep ‘em well bound, blinded and in total silence. It’s like ripening good fruit. Once at the ranch, shackling and some caning will obviate any thoughts of resistance.”

The hands become surprisingly gentle, unbuckling the gag from the back of Markie’s head. Throughout the process of being examined and purchased, he has remained forcibly silenced. As the straps loosen, the Prince carefully pulls towards the front, noting that the implement does not easily fall free. With curiosity he tugs and into the cabin lighting a long stout dildo gag slowly slides from the depths of Markie’s throat. At the end come the cruel flippy strands of rubber which serve to constantly trigger the gag reflex, teasing the depths of the gullet to ceaselessly spur a choking sensation should the bearer not learn to concentrate and control his throat.  

“The doctor is thorough in her oral training... and in earnest.”

“May I speak, sir,” Markie working to clear his throat of much spittle.

“Yes,” the hands placing the enormous length to the side.

“It was Nurse Benson, sir. Her attention was consummate, the gag offered with the slightest sound if I did not silently take the thrust of a dildo.”

The Prince smiles. Ah the cruelty of the female, he thinks to himself, the dark hands smoothing the golden locks, required prinking caused by the gag straps. 

“It is best for you. Have you been put under the penis? A real penis?”

“No sir,” Markie responding glumly in admitting what he realizes is a shortcoming.

“Well, you will have adequate opportunity at the ranch. You’ll serve there... me and the livestock.”

“May I have my shoes, sir? I cannot walk without them.”

“Not necessary for now. You may crawl. And we’ll need to find you something more... durable... for working in the stables.”

“I know nothing about horses, sir.”

“You’ll not need to know horses, Markie. You’ll need to know men. Very strong, powerful and virile men. I have a certain penchant which very few men are able to accommodate. It is only in being both wealthy and of Royal birth that I can keep a boy... many boys.

“I like blond ‘em... and light skinned... smooth... strong... well hung, as they say. But most importantly, they must be ragingly heterosexual. I like it when they quiver in disgust at my touch. Like it when they spasm in repulsion when I enter them. I enjoy the wrenching as I face fuck... the tightening of the sphincter as they futilely attempt to resist sodomy... long mornings of sodomy.”

The Prince smiles. Markie notes a bulge in his slacks, his own words spurring priapism.

“Yes, it’s power, Markie. I have it... and they don’t. And I bring a boy to revulsion each and every day... one for each day of the week, ha, ha, ha. That one there will replace my Thursday boy. He became too complacent... began to enjoy the penis. That’s when I send them off... to prison where they can get all the black cock they desire, ha, ha, ha.” 

“I am not that way, sir. I am more girl than boy... now... with the doctor’s transformation.”

“That’s obvious, Markie,” the hands again proving to be surprisingly tender as the right fingers diddle Markie’s left nipple. “But I have a rule at the ranch... actually many rules. But the first is that the only penis that ever spurts is that of Royalty... mine. So when the doctor put you on display it gave rise to thought. I’ll certainly not want a stable hand that can ejaculate... that would not do. And when women tend to my boys it takes an edge off the... well call it the frustration. Denial is constant and unrelenting at the ranch. A feminine hand, though never to bring orgasm, would still be viewed as a source of relief. That won’t do as well. But the boys need to be fed... and bathed... and kept shaven... not to mention having their cock cages cleansed. And I think a neutered little girly boy is just the right form for the role. They’ll be cringing in abhorrence under your tender care and touch... just as much as my more brutal penetration.”

The Prince pauses, unzipping himself. Markie’s eyes widen in amazement as a mammoth uncircumcised penis, semi erect, springs into the cabin lights. It would seem to exceed the size of Nurse Benson’s most formidable rubber phalli.

“Yes, brutal... wouldn’t you agree?”

Saturday, September 6, 2014

A Woman in Control - Reaching my zenith III

Reaching My Zenith III

Mrs. Olivier calls... at my home... over the weekend.

Whatever did Mr G. do or say to prompt her to respond to my quest? I suspect some jewelry has been procured... lavish.

“Thank you for calling, Mrs. Olivier. Did you get my note and package?”

“Yes,” her inflection questioning, as if to ask... is this so important?

“I was just curious if you have noticed anything... different. Has the scent offered the hominess that we intend?”

“Well Douglas has been spending time... well that’s irrelevant. It’s a nice freshener around the kitchen area. Visitor’s actually think I’ve baked or cooked something.”

“Have you given your bedroom a little spritz?” suppressing laughter.

“No... what’s this about?” she becomes suspicious.
“I think we need to meet... and talk... about how your Douglas,” my tone lugubrious, Mrs. Olivier the only person to use that moniker, “is indeed spending his time. A quiet meeting... only you and I need to know about it.”

“What has that old goat been up to?” Mrs. Olivier sensing inappropriate behavior.

“Nothing we cannot bring under control, Mrs. Olivier. Why not stop in at my apartment? Perhaps brunch sometime Saturday or Sunday... while you’re in the City shopping.”

“Next Saturday would be fine. I have tickets to a show.”

Yes, of course you do, Mrs. Olivier, I think to myself. First balcony I am sure, unless there are more pretentious seats available.

“It’s a date. Say 12:30 p.m.”

Wednesday, September 3, 2014

The Sash - The Prince

The Prince

Copyright 2014

by Chris Bellows

“By all means squirm and swing yourself about, Markie. But no noise, no moaning into your gag. Very unladylike,” Nurse Benson tenderly patting the soft right buttock. 

Markie hangs once again, the pink sash tight but wonderfully comfortable. Of late Nurse Benson has taken to gagging her, Markie’s ability to control the gag reflex improving but remaining insufficient.

The slight motion of Nurse Benson’s hand commences a pendulous motion which Markie cannot stop. Conversely, as always when sashed, the increased force of gravity brings welcomed pangs of delight to the perineum, anus and nipples as her nakedness ever so slightly accelerates through the equilibrium position.

Yes, Markie concludes, she will definitely swing herself about. 

Within moments the doctor enters her office, glances at the naked flesh encumbered in pink and smiles knowingly in seeing Markie shift her legs and feet to increase the period of the pendulous motion. The castrated male finds the simplest of pleasures she has come to realize.

“Bring the Prince directly in here when he arrives, Nurse Benson. I’m sure he will want to get right to business.”

Nurse Benson turns to leave and the doctor seats herself, deciding on some moments of adulation... the self adulation of a sculptor completing his her masterpiece. Yes, the altered male brought to complete capitulation. Though the sense of accomplishment satisfies, the thrill of power overrides.

“You’re very pretty, Markie. And soon you’ll not need the gag. Nurse Benson suggests you’re close to taking the stoutest and longest of phalli.”

Silence commanded, Markie knows to merely nod, feet continuing to pump as would a child on swing.

A knock interrupts the doctor’s reflection. Nurse Benson returns to step within and hold open the door.

“His Highness the Prince, doctor.”

Into the office den of the doctor steps a massive man of color, powerful legs bringing surprising grace to his gait.

“Good of you to stop in and visit us, your Highness,” the doctor arising and extending her hand.

“How could one deny himself the blessings of your hospitality, doctor,” hands clasping in greeting. “I’ve been made aware of your fine work and to ultimately visit is like finally completing a long planned tour of the Louvre.”

The suave rejoinder spoken as the Prince turns his head to gaze at Markie’s nakedness helplessly swaying in the corner.

“And an exquisite work of art hangs right here in your office...”

The doctor follows the Prince’s gaze and softly chuckles, wishing not to interrupt his visual inspection. Pausing for a moment, when the Prince’s attention returns, she gestures toward a large comfortable chair at the front of her desk, She waits for the Prince to seat himself. Instead, huge hands effortlessly pick up the sizable piece and turn it, positioning such that a slight turn of the head permits conversation to his left and more glimpses of Markie’s swinging form with a turn to his right.     

The doctor is pleased with the subtle expression of interest.

“I am glad your Highness finds my work to be pleasing.”

“She’s quite lovely in bondage. Limited breasts but I am sure the nipples quite receptive to... ah amusement. Yet, I am sure you’re aware of my... penchants.”

The doctor nods. A quick hand gesture signals Nurse Benson, remaining near the door.

“Your Highness is noted for exquisite yet exacting taste. I would not have suggested a visit should we not be in a position to... assuage your expectations.”

With the words Nurse Benson moves to Markie. Dexterous fingers work the sash at the pubes, pushing aside the pink folds at the ‘V’. Into view pops the tiniest of penises, testosterone deprived, many months of estrogen injections withering, the shrinkage of the vestigial male organ continuing. The empty scrotum follows, Nurse Benson drawing the thin delicate flesh out from its hiding place.

Markie blushes, not fully accustomed to strangers... certainly not accustomed to having his alteration so prominently announced. The gnarled feet kick again... yet now in silent protest.

“He’s quite lovely in bondage,” the Prince corrects himself. “I should have better guessed... based on your laurels.”    

“We should have more forthrightly presented his modification. But we do consider Markie to be more feminine than masculine at this point. Not a drop of male hormones remaining...”

“So I imagine.”

The doctor notes that the Prince’s gaze intensifies, brow furrowing in thought.

“I’m always looking to diversify my... well my sources of entertainment. The ranch is wonderfully secluded, you can run a boy for miles on the veld, but for the same reason it can be boring unless... shall we term it fresh livestock... yes, unless fresh livestock is procured. Thus my occasional world travels. I like ‘em blond and very fair skinned. Not easily found in Africa... as I am sure you imagine.”

The Prince pauses as the doctor shares in the mirth with a polite chuckle.

“Is this masterpiece of yours available, doctor?” a meaty black hand extending towards Markie’s dangling nakedness. “I wouldn’t run her... him... in harness. Much too dainty. Wouldn’t pull a cart more than a few yards in African heat. But I do require labor in the stables. My boys need a degree of maternal attention. I keep them well cared for... well fed... well exercised... and well fucked,” the latter sentiment coming with a wicked grin.