Saturday, December 10, 2016

Digital Indoctrination V


“You objectify women, Mr. Ross... particularly your stepdaughter. She’s become an object of envy and admiration... but also scorn.”

Scorn yes. The minx seduced, set me up and pressed charges. Yet I cannot... dare not... come across as belligerent or vengeful. The report of Dr. Rebecca Rogers will be given great weight in determining my ultimate fate. In recalling the strip show that evening in the bathroom, emulating a fan dance with a bath towel, the words of attorney and friend Henry Foster come to mind... that if it comes to a trial the prosecutor will have Cindy in a little girl’s dress, wearing pigtails and carrying a toy doll during testimony. The girl could do it... she role plays with zeal.

Envy and admiration? For some reason, despite being emboldened by a confluence of narcotics, I strangely succumbed that evening, surrendered to the charms of a most precocious temptress... an 18 year old aspiring trollop. And the manner of my capitulation? Ah... the sordid details...

“I’m going to immerse you Mr. Ross. It’s an arduous course of action... there will be needed some modifications... harsh yet reversible... and necessary. We don’t molly coddle here at the Mills Institute. And your reluctance to fully relate the events and the actions that brought you here is counter productive. If you’re attempting to abridge your therapy, it won’t work. You’re here until I can report change and improvement. And for that I am going to have you indoctrinated.”

The normally soft soothing voice of the maternal Dr. Becky is firm and ominous. It brings concern. But of more concern is that I have no hint of what she has install for me. Visions of the MILF prosecutor... the mother I’d like to fuck... come to mind. Could it be me ultimately fucked? The woman was uncharacteristically gleeful with the judge’s slam of the gavel. 

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

Mostly acclimated to the bizarre form of restraint... mind and body separated by a thick wall... there comes renewed distress. One by one my limbs are released, each time after the jab of a needle. Is there numbness? I cannot determine in remaining immobile, but I do know that after each jab... right ankle and left, right elbow and left... hands and fingers putter about. And there’s discomfort... masked... but there is a sense that something penetrates.
 
Then come jabs which terrorize... about my pubes. When fingers fiddle there, I realize for certain that I have been numbed.

What is happening?

Finally whomever attends, whatever is being done, ends. And though the minutes, hours and days are countless, there comes a long interval during which the only sensory input is someone regularly swabbing elbows, ankles and pubes. Plus there is the tap of my nose and the offering of bland sustenance and water. Yet now the offering of liquid seems increased. Yes, the flow through the offered straw seems endless, a pause required to refill the bottle.

Minutes later... hours later?.. there comes the requisite urge. By now I know to just release. But there is a degree of arrest and stinging pain, the flow somewhat hampered. Something is different! I must press with my abdomen.

Then I feel immediate response. A warm wet towel cleanses. Normally I am left to wallow in my excretions. Instead someone is carefully attending to me! The thought disturbs... that someone is assigned to constantly observe my nakedness.  

The ensuing hours... days?.. I am watered frequently. Over time, urinating becomes lass of a task. but something is different. The warm wetness puddles about my buttocks, no longer streaming to my thighs. What have they done to me? Rather what have they done to my estranged body?

Meanwhile the boredom... the isolation... dulls the mind. I pine for the return of my therapist, admonishing lectures notwithstanding.

I am to be indoctrinated, she threatened... forewarned... her normal cheeriness clouding with the advisement.

I divert my thoughts wondering if I will ever be permitted access to legal counsel. Friend and attorney Henry Foster, having placed on the hold my criminal matter, is hopefully fervently engaging in civil actions. My assets, transferred from joint accounts in the dead of night, need to be reclaimed. Queen Vicky has graciously opened her checkbook... burgeoning with much of my money... to pay Henry on the criminal matter... as agreed when I surrendered myself to the Mills Institute. But in a fair division of assets, my share should approach half a million. Such will be needed as the financial institutions which hire foreign currency traders require thorough background checks... clean background checks. That I now lack. Therapy successfully completed, the unemployment line beckons.

Wednesday, December 7, 2016

Lady Z writes

Found this note from Lady Z. Not for the squeamish male, but you governing women may give consideration.

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

My thoughtful chastity protocol

After years of numerous chastity regimens, I have implemented what I consider the ultimate form of male denial and feminine delight.

Former regimens and drawbacks...

The honor system. Works for a while, but let’s be forthright... all males cheat. All it takes is a late night out with the girls (or your bullstud) and your subordinate male will find porn and masturbate. He’ll tell you otherwise, never fess up unless placed under duress... but they all do it at some point.

Chastity devices. The complaining and at times outright begging is distracting. Getting the right fit, assuring no rubbing or chafing, keeping the thing clean, removing for shaving, the burden of unlocking (and relocking) when penetrative sex is desired... all becomes tiresome. It’s like having a toddler in constant need of a diaper change... except the chaste male never grows up.

Piercings. Effective but over time there is migration, the onus of removal for intercourse, not to mention the possibility of infection.

Castration. Effective, but I enjoy vaginal penetration from time to time... when I want...not when he pleads. Neutering brings waning desire, over time requiring growing effort to bring erection. Plus the penis shrivels. Fun to observe the male horror, and to press home the realization, but again, if you enjoy occasional penetration as do I, you’re working against yourself.

So, I will explain my protocol then detail the variety of benefits.

The male receives some 80% of his sexual pleasure from kneading and caressing a small patch of skin on the underside of his penis tip (such biological limitations!). It’s surprising but true. So to focus there is efficient. And I do.

My regimen requires tight bindings (Posey cuffs are safe, comfortable, quick and quite thorough), some tools and great feminine resolve, but you can both physically and psychologically transform the male by desensitizing that tiny patch... in most males no larger than a square inch. Amazing to think about... all that brawn... all that muscle... yet thoughts, desires, even the manner in which he thinks of you and about you, can be modified... relatively quickly... and permanently... by directing a few minutes of attention there.

So he’s bound naked and supine. You’ll need to heat metal. Perhaps this can be done in the kitchen... him on the table you at the stove. Or a propane torch is easily procured at any hardware store (Benzomatic torch kit, $16.97 at Home Depot) and the basement utilized. (I have a 4 x 8 sheet of thick plywood propped on work benches, eye hooks in each corner for wrist and ankle cuffs).

The metal can be the object of your choice, held with pliers as you heat it to glowing hotness. And while you’re preparing, words of advice can be offered, a lesson taught, a message delivered. Bad behavior is addressed. Your superiority bolstered, naughty boys get punished, naughty thoughts purged.

Take your time, there is no rush.

And while he begs, perhaps sip some wine, chilled glass in free hand. Remember it’s important to display insouciance. It may be a most significant erogenous zone to him, but it’s just a little piece of skin to you. Plus, think of the branding of cattle and other livestock. The irons are larger, the results more prominent and all survive in good health. (Keep in mind the average steer is worth some $2,000. No rancher wants to cause harm.)

Then yes, apply the heated metal. As with branding a count assures desired results. I recommend going to five... slowly.

There will come screaming, pleading... the rushes of air will impress... so be prepared for noise. It’s a nuisance, but gagging can impede breathing. He’ll need that.

So what does this do?

1. For the next week, possibly longer, he’ll not give masturbation a thought, the healing wound not touchable. And orally pleasing you will become a vicarious sexual outlet.

2. When healed, the sensitivity will be greatly diminished... if any remains. Attempts at cheating may occur, but with limited pleasure he’ll soon tire of stroking himself. Plus with every futile stroke, he’ll think of you... pliers in one hand, wine glass in the other.

3. There will be scarring. Hopefully a nice lump of keloided flesh will form. And when you’re ready for the vaginal penetration every woman needs from time to time, the sensation will be wondrous. Yes, as opposed to castration, the hormones will remaining flowing, he’ll want to achieve an erection, he’ll be able to achieve an erection, but it will be for you... not for him. And if there has been a problem with premature ejaculation... voila... it’s cured. For with the diminished sensitivity, much more friction... deep and continuous... will be required for ejaculation... should you choose to allow it. (Yes, after orgasming several times, I’m given to roll off and mount his face while his system frustratingly lingers in la la land).

4. Psychologically, in displaying the resolve to alter and rearrange things down there, there will come new found awe and respect. A ‘How could you do that to me?’ type of reaction. His penis will become objectified as over time he understands it is more for your pleasure than his. Mentally the organ will be thought of as something you can mold at your whim.

Some tips...

Anesthetic? I don’t bother. The notion of feminine awe is better transmitted without it, the pain better remembered. But I suppose in a moment of mercy (weakness?) ice or some type of topical numbing agent could be applied.

Instead I use vaseline. It sizzles and heats with the application of searing metal, better spreads the pain and thereafter offers salve without having to touch the raw skin.

The heated implement I recommend, for ease, is an alligator clip. Apply it, release the pliers and step away to let it cool on its own... no counting required. I simply finish my wine and watch the agonizing thrashing and squirming.

There may be, and I recommend such, repeated applications. After desensitizing the underside of the tip, further sessions can offer more keloided penile flesh. Think of yourself as a sculptress. Reshape the entire shaft! Think of the ridges and bumps on your favorite sex toy. Think of shaping your penis (not his) as you would most enjoy feeling it.     

Another benefit, on those business trips, where you’re not there to monitor and supervise his behavior, he’ll have an interestingly awkward time picking up some bimbo and explaining the condition of your penis. ‘No, it’s not a disease...it’s been...’ Well, just how will he explain it? 

Care must be taken to avoid the urethral opening. Obviously cauterizing the skin there will cause urinary problems.

And if you take a liking to the process, consider outright branding. The trollop he engages will find amusement in discovering your initials permanently engraved on some intimate part of his anatomy.

Remember ladies, propane is cheap.

Lady Z
  

Saturday, December 3, 2016

'Digital Indoctrination' published

I have published on Lulu, my latest novella, 'Digital Indoctrination'.

Female dominant/male submissive. Bondage, body modifications, humiliation.

Some 27,000 words. $6.55.

Snippets will continue for two more weeks.

Enjoy,

CB

http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/digital-indoctrination/20063655

 

Digital Indoctrination IV

It’s the red Corvette that was the catalyst for the heated exchange. Over dinner Cindy announces she is using the money sent from her biological father to purchase a flashy high performance car. Having had her driver’s license for mere months, I consider her decision to be brash and impulsive. I so state. Vicky intercedes in front of Cindy suggesting... no... more like commanding... that I have no say in the matter.

Fueled with lasting traces of the day’s dosage of methamphetamine, the irritation of an unsettling trading day, I still manage to calm, ceding the matter. Yet the irrepressible Cindy needs to further aggravate, smirking in telling me to kiss her ass. I fume, unaccustomed to being so powerless. And wife Vicky does nothing... says nothing in admonishment.

I find that though early, it is time for my quaalude, that which brings quiescence... the hurly burly of the trading desk... the lost battle of the Corvette... to be forgotten in the languor of a narcotic haze.

I arise from the dinner table. Wife Vicky, knowing of my addiction, smirks as well, for some reason basking in my chemical dependence, pills needed to endure the events of a typical day. She is well aware of my destination... the den... my desk... the locked drawer... the small but so meaningful pill bottle smuggled from an underground laboratory in Mexico.

I sit back at my desk and rest, but not fully. As stated it is early, and when the remnants of the meth mix with the soapers there comes this sense of omnipotence. Still I manage to compose in the den trying to put aside thoughts of Princess Cindy and her regal mother Queen Vicky.

Then something happens. Digestive tumult. The raucous over dinner brings sudden pressure, though I am sure the deluge of narcotics abets colonic distress. A quick trip to the bathroom is imperative. In the obscurity of uppers and downers I race up the stairs, to the nearest bathroom. The door is closed, but the omnipotence prevails. I enter, hearing the shower, seeing steam waft about.

Why is not Vicky using the master bath?

I drop my drawers and sit, attention riveted to my immediate need... grateful to have made the journey without mishap... more grateful when whatever is needed to be expelled does so with promptness.

The relief is instantaneous. In flushing there comes a plaintive cry. It is the sweet young voice of vixen Cindy! In the fog of meth and ludes it had not occurred that it is she showering, particularly with the acute need for the toilet. My gorgeous stepdaughter dashes from the shower stall, the drop in pressure bringing a rushing spray of overheated water.

She is naked of course, her wet flesh gleaming in the bright halogen. She spies me, glares then smiles, the temptress quickly realizing that I am gawking, the omnipotence of my narcotic deluged brain finding no need to look away, no need to cover my eyes, shield Cindy from my  lustful gaze. I note that like her mother she is shaven... where a man most appreciates smoothness.

“Daddy want something?” she taunts, her tone sultry.

In reaching for a towel she moves slowly... seductively... the exhibition deliberate.

I am high... I am relaxed... I now feel empowered... but what should concern most... I am aroused. And the exchange at dinner, my paternal input so brusquely subordinated, remains irritating.

“You wanted your ass kissed,” I flippantly express but with hope... that such words are seriously received.

There I end my tale, my heart racing despite the forced hormonal shift... the discharge... the unloading of chemicals... norepinephrine, serotonin, oxytocin, vasopressin, nitric oxide, prolactin... the activation of the cingulate cortex and amygdala.

Dr. Becky is not pleased with the pause.    

Saturday, November 26, 2016

Digital Indoctrination III


“Mr. Ross, how are you feeling? Tummy full?” the soft comforting words booming through the headphones.

I am returned to reality... relative reality. Dr. Becky has this chafing speech mannerism, as if addressing a child in need. Perhaps such is apropos.

“I’m... I’m fine.”

“Your latest blood test suggests you have needs. Advanced levels of norepinephrine and serotonin. Prolactin is high as well... as in most males of your age.”

I have no idea what such means, but have no need to come across as questioning her scholarship or authority. I do know I’ve been pricked... the other half of me has been pricked... regularly, blood no doubt drawn.

“You’re becoming fidgety. That’s likely to return the desire for sedatives. I’ll want you hormonally more balanced, Mr. Ross. I’m going to have you masturbated... won’t that be nice?” the tone mother to child.

It’s a degrading notion, restrained naked, my exposure and vulnerability in the adjoining room unbounded. Yet there have been many days... and many times when I sense I am erect.... though I have no manner of confirming my condition... flaccid or tumescent.

“I... I...” somewhat flabbergasted, I stammer, picturing being stroked to climax by one of the dour nurses who stripped, cleansed and depilated me upon orientation.

I am in no position to object. And my bashful silence is assumed to be consent, though I am not sure at the Mills Institute such is ever sought.

“Good boy. As a treat we’ll skip today’s journey. I’ll have you watch in real time instead. It will increase your arousal and you’ll better discharge for me.”

Ah... the clinical verbiage, not being jerked off... but discharging.

The blackness ends, Dr. Becky finally pressing her finger, that which frees me from my mental prison. The goggles alight. The small high tech screen mere inches before my eyes takes me to the ascetic medical chamber where my body resides, strapped in four point restraint to the wheeled padded platform. Not seen of course is my head, thrust through the rubber lined opening. Again comes the term surreal. I am surveilling myself, my bound hairless nakedness.

The camera lens zooms inward, a close up. I am shamed at my complete exposure, my body centerpieced in a room, but for walls of medical devices, that is barren. Hands come into view. My ankle cuffs are released from tethers at the end of the platform. I both feel and see my legs lifted. Then comes through the headphones the pleasant but syrupy voice of Dr. Becky.

“We prefer to have our boys discharge in the decubitus position. Such offers better access to the necessary organs and the effluent is more neatly captured for evaluation.”

Such clinical words for an otherwise sordid male deed. Indeed my knees are brought to my chest. Then the hands work a broad strap about the back of my upturned thighs holding me in place.

Watching from an odd angle... feeling from a different place... is bizarre. I am displaced, my mind and body separated. Adding to the opprobrium is the humiliating exposure, my testicles dangling, covering the bright pink of my rosebud opening.      

Then for the first time I note the hands... meaty, the fingers craggy. Though the touch seems caring and tender, such are the digits of a man! There comes a frisson of consternation. Somehow Dr. Becky is aware, her smooth even voice booming...

“Charles is very good, Mr. Ross. He’s a fixture here at Mills Institute, a long time patient. If this was a prison, he’d be considered a trusty.”

I am horrified. Thoughts of being helplessly stroked to climax by a pretty young nurse were disturbing enough. But this!

“No!” I blurt, my tone of great distress.

“Oh come now Mr. Ross. It’s for the best. Charles is very slow... but tender and thorough. He’ll soon have you discharging for me... when he wants. Just lie and enjoy like a good boy.”

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

I have discharged... I suppose Charles finally tiring of endlessly teasing... withdrawing those accomplished fingers of his time after time whenever he felt pending climax. Yes, Charles proved to be very good indeed. Despite the anxiety, he brought me to a massive climax.

Such ignominy, spurting into a collection vessel, on cue, like a trained animal. The cue being an index finger penetrating then gently yet energetically wriggling about within my well exposed anus. Charles has before masturbated... but for his gender, the induced sensations sublime.

“See how much calmer you are Mr. Ross. In offering your effluent you’ve unloaded a mass of chemicals. You’ve been depleted of norepinephrine, serotonin, oxytocin, vasopressin, nitric oxide, and the hormone prolactin.  This all activates the cingulate cortex and amygdala, calling for peace and calm.”

More clinical analysis, Dr. Becky pleased with my performance. Adding to the frustration of being made to so humiliatingly discharge, the camera never revealed the face of my masturbator Charles. For some reason this adds to the distress. Should I some day some how encounter him on the street, will he know me? Offer some sly glance hinting that he made my penis stiffen and spurt for him.

I console myself... convincing myself that Charles knows not what I look like either. And that as a sexual deviant, his stay at Mills will be lengthy.

“So now that you’re relaxed... nicely masturbated... tell me again about the reason you need therapy Mr. Ross. From the beginning. Tell your Dr. Becky all about your desires and misdeeds... what brought you here to Mills Institute.”

I am inclined to respond that my presence is the a result of connivance... amongst a vengeful wife, a bitch prosecutor and a calloused judge. But I dare not. I am determined to earn my release... be deemed cooperative... be rehabilitated. For that I must play along, putting aside thoughts of the malicious setup.

Her quest comes with what I know to be another press of her finger. The goggles momentarily go blank. Then I am alarmed when there comes the image of stepdaughter Cindy. She is ravishing... as always. Blonde and blue eyed, her biological father Nordic... my wife, her mother, of German descent.

Cindy was athletic in her formative teen years, adding alluring physique to an angelic face. Yet she was... is... far from angelic.

Told of her good looks from the time she was a toddler, she uses such... she teases... games people. Yes, she’s a spoiled child. But for her beauty I often told myself she’d be beaten and punished regularly for her mischief and sauciness. Yet as step father, marrying her mother Vicky well into Cindy’s formative years, I never had influence... not that I cared to have it. Such was exemplified by her calling me ‘Joe’... never Dad or Daddy. And certainly never acknowledging me as head of household.

I suppose her demeanor could partly be ascribed to a successful mother... Vicky a high level pharmaceutical researcher... and that her natural father... assuaging the guilt of his departure...  sends a monthly stipend which offers financial independence.

Thus when it comes to my stepdaughter I have no leverage... no influence... and a spiteful teenaged Cindy harps on it. 

Seeing the image of my obstreperous accuser, smiling at me, her short skirt flaunting legs of exquisite form, brings unease. She sits on the hood of a car. Then I find the image is not a still photo, but a video. Her hand raises, it waves and I hear the voice... most consider it to be sweet and innocent. For me it is vexing.

‘Hi Joe. Enjoying your therapy?’

She mocks, enunciating the word therapy such that she is aware of the acute ignominy. I horripilate, feeling the hairs bristle on the back of my neck. She is the girl... woman... who has had me incarcerated. Yet I have no choice but to gaze at loveliness I know veils such wickedness. 

‘I’m enjoying my new car. My boys have kept it polished for me... but now they’re going off to college. Maybe you can wash it for me when you’re... ah... better.’  

I know her reference to ‘boys’ to be a bevy of sycophantic admirers which she uses for her amusement and comfort. My stepdaughter never carried her own books to school. Does she reward them? And how? Step fathers aren’t empowered to ask.

Cindy slips from the hood, stands, turns and leans, an arm waving about to highlight the shiny red of her new Corvette. Yet there is a subtle undercurrent in her demonstrative gesture. In so moving she thrusts forth her buttocks... a silhouette of her divinely rounded hillocks... shaped to perfection through years of gymnastics.

It is a second message... besides the belittling suggestion that I am to wash her car. It’s in so brazenly wriggling about that exquisite derriere... that which I kissed... well... more than kissed in the night in question. She tempts... she’s a temptress.

“Nice of your stepdaughter to offer her greetings, Mr. Ross... particularly after the trauma you caused. Care to talk about it?” Dr. Becky prompts.

I don’t... but I must...

Saturday, November 19, 2016

Digital Indoctrination II

My thoughts are interrupted when there comes a playful tap on my nose. I know it to be my nurse, her evanescent touch snapping me into reality, if being bound naked, blinded and deafened can be so described.

Yes it’s feeding time and by now I know to open my mouth in expectation of sustenance. It’s salubrious fare I am sure, but bland... certainly not to gastrically excite. Still it’s needed and her exacting tendance ends the loneliness.

I’ve tried speaking to her, kind words of thanks, never anything crass and certainly not suggestive. The Mills Institute will be submitting reports on my progress, my therapy, the MILF prosecutor I am sure eagerly anticipating some slip in my behavior. Thus I am humble, knowing to be obeisant. But she responds not, her training absolute.

So in silence I docilely lay masticating whatever is offered, oddly looking forward to the next visit of my therapist and another press of her finger. Perhaps at some point I will be reunited with my body. It’s a strange thought... but the nature of my restraint is equally strange.

Undergoing orientation at Mills Institute, stripped naked, bathed and depilated by two pretty but dour young nurses, I was thereafter directed to pose before a green screen. A half dozen cameras suggested my completely exposed form was video taped from a variety of angles, a very authoritative nurse instructing me to slowly turn then assume some very revealing positions.

I was unaware that it would be the last occasion during which I gazed at my body. For immediately thereafter I was led to a room, ominously equipped with much medical paraphernalia, and laid on a wheeled platform of latex coated foam. Strapped in place, I was told to close my eyes. I did not and there came an instant of claustrophobia as a nurse of size and strength pushed the platform toward the wall such that my head was thrust through a circle of rubber. It was then that I closed. The rubber yielded and when I reopened I found my face and head in another room, separated from the rest of me by a wall with the rubber lined opening firmly accommodating my neck... oxygen permitted but denying any glimpse of my naked body.  

Surreal... weird... but in the many days of continuous therapy, things happening in the adjoining room which make the imagination foment in consternation, the psyche oddly acclimates to the separation. I am bifurcated... there is my body... there is my head and mind. I have no control over the former... and the latter is being molded... into what I have not a clue.

The last real thing I saw, before the headset covered my eyes and forehead and the headphones my ears, was the smiling handsome face of my therapist.

Dr. Rebecca Rogers... Dr. Becky I was encouraged to call her... when rarely opportuned speech. Curious that her perfectly even features, short dark hair and kind words were the last real thing I saw and heard. Since, for days not to be counted, everything comes through the goggles and the headphones.

A second tap to my nose suggests feeding time is over and that water is to be offered. I drink, no longer concerned that within an hour or two, the interval meaningless, I will soil the rubber coated platform. It matters not, I am acclimating. It’s not me urinating... and cleansing will follow, the staff of the Mills Institute most attentive.

The straw retreats. Stillness returns. Thoughts return to the courtroom... counselor’s chamber...

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

“Lots to read and evaluate, Henry,” seating myself in the stark ascetic side room where defendants are permitted sub rosa discussions with their attorneys.

Henry Foster, an attorney of modest legal prowess but an old friend, nods, making no effort to peruse the Mills Institute manuscript.

“So you want me to read it first?”

“Don’t bother, Joe. You’re taking the deal.”

“Just like that? How do I know what I’m facing... getting into.” 

“I know what you’re avoiding. The bitch prosecutor is going for the throat, Joe. She is threatening to expand the charges... that in addition to the sexual assault in the indictment you groped your stepdaughter when she was a minor.”

“Never,” the charge both ghastly and untrue.

“Doesn’t matter, Joe. She’ll testify to it under oath... and juries believe sweet little girls undergoing the duress of having to give such emotionally stressful testimony.”

“She’s not a little girl. Eighteen... and quite sexually active I might add.”

“Joe, they’ll put her in a little girl’s dress, wearing pigtails and carrying a toy doll to comfort her on the stand. You’ll get twenty years. And the bitch will make it hard time in a place where child molesters are not... shall we say appreciated.”

“This sucks. I won’t agree to it.”

“There’s another aspect to be considered, Joe. The legal bill is into five figures now. Trial will bring it to six figures... appeals a seven figure number.”  

“So its about money?”

I had mistakenly put everything in joint name... bank accounts, brokerages accounts, the works. In separating after my stepdaughter announced her charge of sexual misconduct, my wife quickly depleted the accounts leaving me penniless. I’m battling that, but it’s a secondary front so to speak... staying out of jail the first. Worse, under advice of counsel, the house has long been in my wife’s name. Not only cannot I not borrow against it, I am homeless. But now Henry is forcing the issue of funds.

“Your wife has offered to pay the legal, Joe... if you agree to therapy.”

So, old friend Henry has sold me out. It’s about money... of which I have little remaining... at least that I can put my hands on...

In desperation I wearily place my forehead on my folded hands atop the bleak bare wooden table.

“It’s best Joe. You’ll come out clean,” Henry patting my shoulders.

Old friend Henry is aware of the basis for the problem... the genesis of the intemperate action on my part. Drugs. Methamphetamines during the day... supercharging my high pressure career in foreign currency trading... quaaludes at night, countering the stimulants so I can sleep. When the two overlap, as when I assaulted stepdaughter Cindy, the psychoactivity can be alarming... the meth urging the body to run through a brick wall... the quaadules proposing no harm or pain will result.

I become omnipotent.

“Henry... all I did was kiss her ass... at her behest.”

“And you did... then there came more than that Joe... and you know it. Take the deal.”

I did.  

Saturday, November 12, 2016

Digital Indoctrination I

 New story. We'll see how far I take it on the blog.

*******************************************************************************
Digital Indoctrination

Copyright 2016

by Chris Bellows

Lying supine in seemingly endless nothingness, there comes the insatiable yearning to bring the dark soundless world to an end. My mind envisions things, hallucinates... taking my psyche to other places, other times. It helps, the frustration temporarily assuaged. But what I really pine for is my therapist and the press of her finger. Such alights the goggles of the virtual reality headset enshrouding my head. In so doing she will take me to another world... one of her choosing. Her simple deed both invigorates... such vivid sights... such virtual sounds... yet also frightens. Into what I will be immersed I have no control. I am helpless.

Yes, strapped in place, my nakedness long not seen, with each digital journey comes an odd sense of things happening to me. Though it feels as if my head has been severed there come sensations. Someone is doing something to me... ankles... arms... pubes. I am washed... at least it feels like I am on occasion washed. And there are of course bodily functions which cannot be forever denied. I poop. I pee.

Yes at this point, many countless days into my therapy, I just go, releasing bladder and bowels upon the slightest urge, returned to infancy in terms of going potty, knowing that someone at some point will cleanse.

It must near time for the next burst of colors and bold sounds to break the monotony!

I try to convince myself. But, having no conception of time, it is a futile guess. So, when not made to view an array of videos, my mind occupies itself with thoughts. Though intended to ameliorate, I instead bring heightened frustration. Alas, the words of the judge reverberate, her stern look bringing renewed trepidation as she peers down from the bench...

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

“These are serious charges, Mr. Ross. No reason not to go before a jury. Motion to dismiss denied!”

No surprise, my attorney apprizing me well in advance that dismissal was a long shot. But then comes a surprise indeed. And from the prosecutor of all sources.

“Your Honor, may it please the court, the complainant... ah... the victim... has in consultation with her mother offered to drop the charges if the defendant agrees to undergo appropriate counseling.”

‘Such a MILF!’ has always been my reaction in gazing at the professionally attired counsel for the state... tight skirt and high heels always distracting. But she annoys... such a condescension to the press and public relations in interchanging the terms ‘complainant’ and ‘victim’. She’s my stepdaughter, the so termed ‘victim’ a vixen, setting me up in knowing my... my... condition.

“Despite the nature of the crime, the court is obligated to assess any arrangement to avoid the cost of trial... particularly if such is agreeable to the complainant,” her Honor pontificates.     

“Special counseling, your Honor. A program recently developed for sex offenders. Well past the experimental stage and the results have been promising. If the defendant agrees to undergo, the state will suspend the charges pending later evaluation.”

With that the MILF prosecutor approaches the bench and offers a thick folder. Such brings concern, my fate bandied about between termagant judge and ball busting prosecutor, the nature of this proffered counseling unknown. Adding to the concern is knowing that my wife... estranged wife... has had input into this curious turn of events. She remains enraged.... understandably enraged... the assault on her daughter’s virtue considered a defacto assault on her own.

“The Mills Institute... very reputable,” the judge notes as her eyes quickly scan various pages. “There is better use of court’s time, however. If defendant Ross cedes to such counseling, the court will agree to the suspension of adjudication,” her Honor returning the packet and nodding for it to be presented to the defendant’s table.     

I feel doomed. Yet after denying the prosecutor’s offer of one year prison time and registration as a sex offender, it seems that with this latest offer the hazards of litigation and eventual incarceration are to be avoided. That heartens... somewhat... my wife’s involvement bringing ongoing concern.  

“We’ll need time to evaluate, your Honor,” my attorney’s intercession coming across as meek.

“Two hours should be enough,” the judge’s reputation for rocket docket determinations evident. “Use the counsel’s chambers. One way or the other, this matter is to be off my agenda,” the directive coming with a slam of her gavel.