Saturday, January 31, 2015

Ownership - Part I - The Clinic - Acquisition


Part I, The Clinic

Copyright 2014

By Chris Bellows


“We guarantee our work product. Your... ah... companion... will be malleable and most obedient. The variable we most often must address is... do you really desire ownership?”

“Well, I would think my sizable deposit speaks to that.”

“To be refunded if the boy is found to be untrainable... but not if you find the burdens of care and discipline too daunting. You of course realize that typically our clientele are wealthy. For those with daughters coming out it’s become fashionable for the parents of a young debutante to offer a symbol of social status. Fast sports cars have become blase of late. A girl’s hierarchy is deemed better conveyed... more... shall we say convincingly... with a possession. A... plaything... for want of a better term. And many times we find that in the fog of youth the recipient of such parental generosity is not ready. In such a case we offer to recycle... but not at our cost.”

The woman pauses and Kelly Davis mulls the words of warning. She is far from being a young debutante... for years laboring as a nurse. But she is wealthy. At age 32 she has come upon an unexpected inheritance. Who knew that her late Uncle Henry saved and invested so fastidiously?

So she finds herself expending many thousands of dollars on a whim. But it is a whim that has long lingered. And with her inheritance, not only will the tedium of working for food and rent finally be confronted, but the frustration of unfulfilling sex as well. Kelly Davis is heterosexual but has found the company of men to be overbearing. Submitting to the pleasure of gruff males has been objectionable. And penetration... it’s repulsive!

Her thoughts bring a smile as the director of the Clinic patiently awaits a rejoinder. The woman is past middle age... stern... matronly with gray hair rolled into a taut bun. Kelly pictures the woman in the role of headmistress at a boys boarding school. Such canings she would be sure to mete!

“I understand. The funds are forfeited should I renege.”

“I’m sure, based on your relative maturity and background, that won’t be the case. But I am obligated to make our policy clear.”

Kelly Davis nods... policy understood.

“Wherever do you find them?... the boys?”

“We do not divulge that with any degree of specificity,” the director’s words offered in a rote reply. “But in general such are young males... of age, though we reference them as boys... that society will not miss. Miscreants. Males who have transgressed and are in need of correction and guidance. The supply is ample. Our specialty is determining the psychological make up and whether a candidate can be molded into a suitable companion... for a woman of special needs.”

The director slides across her desk a packet.

“Some guidelines for your review, though the protocol here will become self evident. Visit whenever you desire during indoctrination... though, as you will read, lengthy periods of isolation ironically facilitate the ultimate desired bonding.”

Kelly Davis reaches to accept the moderate sized notebook and stuffs it in her purse.

“When indoctrination is completed, and you take your companion to wherever you wish exercise your dominion, you’ll be given his file to augment your control. We suggest tucking it away quite safely.”

“His file?”

“For the most part a duplicate of his FBI criminal record. Expensive to obtain, but thorough. As stated the typical candidate here is a miscreant, a scofflaw... most times petty crimes... but for certain wanted by the authorities somewhere for some misdemeanor. If deemed necessary due to some reversion to past behavior, some ill advised resistance to your authority, with a simple phone call you can have him incarcerated. Certainly not advisable, in view of your investment, but another element of your ultimate control.”
Kelly Davis marvels at the thoroughness of the Clinic. Young rapscallions with diminished life’s options... jail or a stint in the Clinic for dire rehabilitation as a woman’s subordinate. 

“Now if you’re ready, Miss Davis, I’ll take you to your prospective companion. He’s already undergone oral alteration... teeth filed... tongue healing nicely from the lingual frenectomy,” the director rising from her desk.

“Is that standard?”

“The teeth yes. You’d be surprised how even the most well bound boy is given to bite... or attempt to bite. And the frenectomy was performed based on your stated desire for oral prowess. The tongue is so much easier to strengthen and stretch when freed of the frenulum. I’m constantly recommending the procedure to frustrated wives...”

As she explains, the director leads from her office. Into the austere hallway of the Clinic, Kelly Davis is reminded of her many years working in hospitals.

“Now I must forewarn... what will appear to be harsh is actually for the best. Remember we must make a boy malleable. We’ve found that is best achieved through restraint... very strict restraint.”  
The director leads past several doors of glossy white, each marked only by a plain black digit. At number 7 she enters, Kelly noting that no knock is offered. Stepping within, Kelly’s eyes rove as the woman steps back to close the door.

Tiled floor, walls of white, metal cabinets align the left side, a sink and plumbing fixtures the right. The chamber is of size and without windows. Centered is what appears to be an operating table. Lying supine thereon is the prospective possession of Miss Kelly Davis... a young male.... naked but for many restraining straps and the most restrictive diaper that Kelly read about when first reviewing the Clinic’s protocols. It is of gruff canvas. Kelly is aware of the soft absorbent material beneath. She is also aware that the garment is locked in place and is lined with wiry metal to preclude cutting by scissors or any handy kitchenware. 

It is more chastity device than sanitary receptacle.

“You’ll need to tolerate some odor. He’s been diapered for many days.”

Kelly Davis nods and steps forth. There comes a tremor... of delight... sexual delight. Within her loins she feels moisture. The scene excites. Any second thoughts of frittering away Uncle Henry’s hard earned fortune dissipate. Ownership brings arousal!

“He cannot hear... and obviously cannot see,” the director offers in encouraging discourse.

Yes, the supine form is hooded, bulges at the sides of the restrained head suggesting the ears are well covered. Straps Kelly knows to be termed the Segufix restraint system encircle the wrists and ankles, such are adhered to the sides of the table, no slack offered. In place of the standard crotch restraint there is instead a band of smooth stainless steel about the waist. It appears to be seamless. It is to this that the front of the canvas diaper is hooked, presumably locked beneath at the back.

“As you can see we use a modified Segufix system. Safe, comfortable, patients easily secured and released.”

Kelly nods and steps forward. It is one thing to read in forewarning, it is another to actually be in the presence of human being reduced to an object.

A metal piece holding open the mouth distracts her inspection. The director notes her look.

“A standard molt gag. His teeth have not only been filed to preclude biting but also so the gag can be wedged in place and not readily ejected. Offers access to the tongue for stretching and exercise... and of course forced hydration.”

From a stanchion at the head of the table there a hangs a drip bag. A thin nozzle is aligned with a mouth forcibly held wide open by the metal of the molt gag. As Kelly peers a droplet slowly oozes at the nozzle’s tip. It grows until gravity takes its course, the clear liquid splashing to an opened mouth. The form gasps, attempts to shake its head in futile defiance of the many restraints, then gulps, ingesting whatever the contents of the bag.

“Water?” Miss Kelly Davis cannot help but ask.

“For now. But we can forcibly ingest whatever we desire. He must swallow or choke. In time he learns to obediently swallow... everything. As you will read in the guidebook, we control all functions. During indoctrination that control will be manifested in you. He will take from you all that you choose to offer... water or otherwise.”

Yes, the moisture of Kelly’s loins turns to what feels like a river.

“Keeps his kidneys active, his bladder full and his diaper nicely messy. He’ll be very grateful at changing time. Your touch... your gracious handling will be most appreciated. In time he will not only accept your ownership but revel in it.”

“How long... for the transition?”

“For however long it requires. Our fee guarantees results. If he needs months of restraint... so be it. But typically it’s more like weeks until he breaks. Our psychological screening is fairly accurate. Deep within they want to be owned. You will see. But you will also find that with ownership comes responsibilities. Once broken... he’s going to need a lifetime of care.”

The director turns to silence letting her client absorb as she watches another droplet slowly ooze forth. With it, the quim of a pleased Kelly ironically oozes as well.

Funds well spent.         

Friday, January 30, 2015

New Story

Tomorrow I will post the first segment/chapter of a Female Dominant/male submissive story, 'Ownership'.

I am well into it, yet it is unfinished so I will not promise anything. But since the blog has been silent for a month, I feel obligated to post something.

Comments as always are welcomed and appreciated.

I will suggest that sorting out the comments from 'Anonymous' can be confusing when there appear to be numerous persons 'sailing' under such colors. So if you expect a specific reply/response from me, do consider utilizing a 'nom de guerre'.



Saturday, December 27, 2014

The Sash - Return to the Ranch

Return to the Ranch

Copyright 2014

by Chris Bellows

As the limousine approaches the ranch, Markie becomes more apprehensive. The cover story presented in the Queen’s letter to the Prince is only partially true... that the Queen desired Markie’s presence so she could threaten recalcitrant guards with the repulsive delights of being sexually serviced by a genderless prettified blond.    

Indeed, Markie so offered herself. The well experienced Helen demonstrated the age old trick of applying a condom to the raging erection of men reluctant to use protection. She showed Markie how to surreptitiously insert the oval of rubber into her mouth, then fellate, in one smooth motion orally taking a stiff phallus, engulfing and unraveling the latex down the shaft without the knowledge of the bearer.

A young guard, quite virile, quite repulsed in having to offer himself to another male... former male... lay on Helen’s so termed ‘jerking table’, naked and restrained, as Helen instructed.

Quite intriguing how sexual release is apportioned at the Palace, Markie came to realize.

“This is where the guards receive their reward for loyal service. The Queen wants them calm, yet eager to return for more. So I deplete the hormones... and do so in a manner which never completely satisfies. There is also the matriarchal symbolism the Queen desires. They are never to control their own orgasms...”

Helen deftly gripped the base of the shaft to forestall ejaculation while Markie practiced again and again, unraveling some half dozen condoms, the last three meeting approval... applied in one smooth continuous motion of her head.

The guard, wide eyed with both pleasure and frustration, struggled against his bonds, pleading for ultimate release. At the end, expertly sensing pending eruption, a cruel Helen instructed Markie to withdraw and she simply withdrew her hand as well. No strokes, no application of Markie’s oral skills, Helen smiled evilly as, with penis throbbing and wrists restrained, the priapic young lad meekly dribbled into the condom, unable to even stroke himself.

“Note how the spunk oozes with each beat of the heart. That’s when you know you’ve maximized their frustration. They want to come... but they don’t want to come without a downstroke or swirl of the tongue... they try to hold back... and in the end they just leak. So tame, so docile.”

A laughing Helen then summarily tossed the semen filled condom into the garbage, conforming to the Queen’s rule of neatness, disposing of male filth. 

“Yes, frustrating, but they always come back... don’t they boy?” Helen taunted.

The art of the controlling hand job... incomplete hand job.

Markie understands there will not be similar teasing and denial of the Prince. Given opportunity, Markie will have him explode into the clandestinely applied condom, most copiously. Then turn her head to veil the collection effort, somehow getting to the freezer as quickly as possible where it will pried from her mouth and stored.

It must be done, she realizes. With a second failure, the Queen’s special dungeon beckons. And indeed, the Kingdom needs an heir... an heir sans depravity.

As the sun sets, the Queens’s limousine pauses to deposit, then quickly turns for the return journey. A lit stable reveals the Prince’s whereabouts.

“Where have you been?” the Prince inquires, as Markie enters, presuming the question to be a test of the Queen’s letter... her cover story.

“The Queen summoned me to the Palace, sire. I’ve been fellating her guards.”

The Prince smiles and nods. 

“It’s good for a girly boy to stay in practice. Choke at all?”

“No sir. I am trained. Perhaps... perhaps...”

“Perhaps what?”

“I would very much enjoy serving the Royal penis sire. I... I... find you attractive. I so much wish to please,” the sentiment, though demanded by the Queen’s quest, not entirely false.

“Ha, ha, ha. More like you’re envious. This is power girl,” the Prince pointing to his pubes. “I have it and you don’t. And it’s power best utilized in putting a squeamish white boy in his proper place. You’re already there, ha, ha, ha.

“But I am glad you enjoyed your day. I had to tend to your duties, swabbing down Tuesday. And the herd wasn’t exercised. So it’s double time tomorrow, Markie. I want them worked hard, kept well muscled and trim. They can better grapple when resisting the Royal pecker... though they always succumb.”

“Yes, sire,” Markie grateful that the Queen’s ruse appears to be working.

Yet how is Markie ever to fellate and extract semen? Meekness... femininity... fail to attract the Prince, a conquering warrior... not a lover. Missing from Markie’s perception, Markie’s picture of the Prince’s existence, is life outside the stable and the long jaunts on the veld. What goes on in his pied-a-terre when not tormenting and fucking his steeds?

Markie knows of one girl, she who daily wheels a cart of gruel to the stable. Are there others? Does the Prince engage carnally with the opposite gender. Does he engage at all with the opposite gender? Proximity will be required in order to fulfill the Queen’s demand and someone must keep house, clean and serve him meals. Should Markie endeavor to enter household duties?

“Now get the rope. I want to have my balls licked... watch a boy helplessly dangle while showing off a useless erection. Need to relax a little, with a fine glass of wine. The Queen’s intrusion has made me put in an exhausting day.”   

Saturday, December 20, 2014

The Sash - To Be Motivated

To Be Motivated

Copyright 2014

by Chris Bellows

Markie finds his own heart rate racing. Upon preparing to exit the well secured chamber, for the first time she noted the array of implements adorning the walls. Yes, it is a torture chamber indeed, the Queen able to press, pull, pry, squeeze, tear, human flesh with impunity. There was even a small coal fired stove to heat clamps, knives and the many needles... long vicious needles... that which Sir Egbert has come to relish.

The Prince’s quirky depravity seems to be hereditary.

“So, Markie, some motivation for you. Fear,” the words offered with a pleasant laugh.

Having returned to the Palace reception chamber, the seated Queen speaks as Markie stands before her, feet parted, hands on head. Once again she toys with the remnants of her maleness... the tiny penis, the folds of her boy labia. The Queen perhaps envisions her own hands ripping away his testicles. For some strange reason Markie senses distant joy, the diddling fingers, the controlling hand deemed so threatening after touring the secret dungeon. Such brings a frisson of odd excitement.

“Markie, your many sperm samples were sterile. I would hate to believe thwarting my efforts was intentional. Not a single spermatozoa alive.”

“No, your Majesty,” a stunned Markie rejoins. “I carefully sealed every bag and immediately froze,” Markie's concern legitimate.

“I have a vengeful streak, Markie, as you just witnessed. You had best be truthful. Many cells in my dungeon. Your next visit there will be a one way excursion. How were such samples procured?”

“From the steeds. After every run I gathered such for safe keeping.”

“Gathered from where?”

“The Prince, he prefers anal penetration... and rather deeply. It required time to retrieve, done under the guise of cleansing.”

“Too deeply... and too much time. Heat kills the sensitive little squirmy things. As well as exposure to air. Hard to believe the entire world has been populated by such delicate male essence. Your efforts are for naught.” 

“I am so sorry, your Majesty.”

“We will need to try again, utilizing different methods. I have a rather experienced woman, a former reform school matron, who satiates the Palace guard. She will train you. I want you to fellate the Prince... into a condom which you will immediately tie off to seal and then freeze.”

“It would be a privilege to please the Royal penis, your Majesty. But such is not my role at the ranch. I merely tend to, tease and torment his herd. The Prince finds me... undesirable. My charms fail to attract.”

“Can you offer massage?”

“I have experienced such, your Majesty. My nurse.”

“Try to tempt him... when he’s tired and cares not to expend the energy for the silly acrobatic carnal pursuit of anally raping a resisting boy. Men think with their penis, Markie. Seduce him, fellate him, gather my seed.”

“I will try, your Majesty.”

“It’s not possible to place you in a humbler, my neutered little toy. But with another failure, I will assure that your suffering is slow and unending.”

The Queen laughs in feeling Markie tremble. She then turns and presses an intercom button.

“Send in Helen,” the Queen commands.

“You are not to divulge to Helen why I want you to acquire this talent. I am going to tell her you will also be sucking the phalli of the Palace guard and that I insist on neatness. You’ll see what I mean.”

The reception room door opens. In steps a surprisingly prim Caucasian woman, conservatively attired, not at all brandishing the aura of a woman of pleasure. She is handsome, not ravishing, staid not flashy. She enters with an air of authority... perhaps that of a strict school teacher. No Palace visitor would surmise her Royal function. Markie assumes her restrained presentment is intentional.

For the young members of the Palace guard she must be considered maternal.

Markie recalls the Queen’s comment during her visit... ‘I have my guards emptied regularly. Keeps them calm... and loyal’.

How devilish to have the deed performed by a mature woman of authority. Certainly not to be considered the masculine encounter about which most young males fantasize, being brought to orgasm by such an imposing figure. But if the Queen insists that is how Palace pleasure is meted... then that is how subordinate males will receive.    

“Helen, I am going to offer the boys an alternative form of sexual release. Thought it would be fun to insist they have relations with a castrated male. Rather distressing for them, don’t you think? Would make your offerings even more preferable.”

The woman nods and suppresses a smile. It is evident that she has a degree of disdain for the male.

“Helen specializes in the so termed ruined orgasm, Markie. In the end, after much teasing, she withdraws all efforts and forces a boy to more leak his essence rather then spurt in ecstasy. The hormonal release calms, but denial of ultimate male pleasure keeps them randy and eager for the next try.

“Have Markie practice on one of the undeserving guards, Helen. Someone on report.”

Saturday, December 13, 2014

The Sash - An Audience with the Queen

An Audience with the Queen

Copyright 2014

by Chris Bellows

“Thank you. You may go. And thank you for joining me, Markie.”

Escorting Markie to the Queen’s reception chamber, the satiated messenger... calmed with some one hour of fellatio, he in turn showing proper humbleness... bows with grace and silently exits.

“We need to talk, Markie, about our conspiracy. Think it is best done here... at the Palace... so I can adequately motivate,” the Queen succinctly explains. “Come.”

The Queen gestures to follow as she strolls to a near wall. Once again Markie is impressed with the woman’s elegance... belying her size. Nearly six foot, broad shoulders and sizable hips suggest weightiness, yet with a fluid gait she seems to float. A flowing silk kimono cloaks her physique. But there is certainly limited girth, Markie concludes. There is none of the soft fat she was forced to procure with her castration.

The Queen twists a sconce and Markie is alarmed when a section of the seemingly seamless wall opens. Into view comes a short dark hallway leading to even darker stairs.

“Step in, your eyes will quickly acclimate to the limited light.”

Markie complies, the Queen follows and the secret doorway closes behind them.   

“Thought it best to offer a tour of the Palace first... beginning with a section rarely visited by outsiders,” the Queen pausing, eyes adjusting to the darkness. “Even the Prince has only seen it once... and that was once too many.”

Ah, the secret dungeon, the blurted reference to which upset the Queen during her visit months ago.

Within moments the eerie lighting is indeed sufficient. The Queen directs to a stone stairway, gothic and ominous.

“I suggest using the wall for support, the masonry of the steps is rough and uneven. Built utilizing condemned prisoners with limited skills... but with limited opportunity to divulge this chamber’s existence.” the Queen informs with a wicked chuckle. “They’re entombed below.”

Down, down, down, the air becoming cool and humid with each step. Markie feels herself trembling... the temperature? Or concern over being entombed as well?     

Finally a thick iron door is reached. The Queen pushes numbers on a surprisingly modern electronic keypad, then presses her palm to an adjacent smooth metal plate. In apparently reading her fingerprints there comes a notable click and the door yields. 

“Access is restricted to me, a nurse and a guard who offers daily nutrition. The guard is mute and knows not how to read and write... the nurse quite loyal... and quite well watched should her loyalty wane. Otherwise only the occupants know of this facility... and stupidly the Prince... a blunder on my part... and now you of course.”

The Queen leads past cells, the bars of thick wrought iron. Markie is relieved to see such are empty... but then realizes that means there is more than ample space for her. At the end of the dank corridor there is another door of thick iron. Once again a keypad and fingerprint sensor are utilized to bring forth the click of a lock’s release.

“When I enter here, no one... not the guard... not the nurse... is to know the details of my interaction with this special prisoner. So if I hear of rumors... stories about Royal wickedness... I will know such came from you... and the consequences for revealing such will be dire.”     

The Queen warns then pushes open the door and leads. Into a large, cave like chamber she steps, an aghast Markie following. Capacious by comparison, ceiling high, Markie gapes, her eyes taking in so much so fast. The Queen remains silent, letting the naked castrate become apprized. 

On the floor lies a Caucasian male, middle aged though the years are difficult to judge. Denied covering, a yoke of steel resting on the shoulders encumbers neck and wrists. At the back of the thighs, just below the buttocks, the form bears a smaller matching bar of steel. Closer examination suggests there are two bars pressed together. Markie is alarmed to see that semi circular openings in the center of the steel plate accommodate a large scrotal sac, two mammoth testicles entrapped and prominently displayed.

“Markie, meet Master Egbert Pendleton... Sir Egbert Pendleton. How are you this morning Sir Egbert?” the Queen’s words offered with sarcasm.

Markie is both appalled and relieved to see the form squirm, alive but motion quite limited, the restrained wrists, the entrapped testicles precluding all but a worm like endeavor.

“What do you think of his bonds, Markie? Rather effective, wouldn’t you say? The yoke needs no explanation, but the humbler is delicious is it not?.. effectively restraining a man by his balls.” the words come as Markie’s initial surprise is augmented.

Yes, the Queen disrobes, casually slipping off her kimono to reveal lack of undergarments... and an amazingly sculpted figure. Breasts of size, defying gravity, the abdominal muscles of a champion boxer, thighs thick with sinew. Though her Majesty presents herself without a shred of covering she remains as regal as a fine statue.  

“Good morning, your Majesty,” the Sir Egbert form finally uttering a reply. “I am in great discomfort. But so eager for you to torture me. Ah, some pain. I believe a fingernail is growing back for you.”

The speech is lisped and strained. Markie quickly realizes the man is edentulous. And sure enough there are no finger or toenails. If indeed such are growing back it is difficult to discern in the dimness.

“Oh, that is good to hear, Sir Egbert. And here I thought that after twice pulling them out such would not return, ha, ha, ha.”

The Queen moves to a corner. There a low stool is retrieved. In returning, the Queen steps to the wormy nakedness, Markie marveling as each step brings well muscled rippling.

“I have something for you, Sir Egbert. It’s that time of the month... yum, yum,” she mocks.

The Queen places the stool before the pitiful prisoner and sits. She then leans, grasps the ends of the yoke and despite the weightiness, effortlessly lifts, somewhat dragging a sputtering Sir Egbert, aligning his face between her parted thighs.  

“Sir Egbert enjoys my taste, Markie... and enjoys my touch as well... is that not so Sir Egbert?”

“Oh yes, your Majesty. Your touch is wonderfully painful. Some hot needles this morning?”

“Perhaps later. I just wanted to show you to my little friend here... and have my quim licked clean. It’s quite sloppy and needs your attention. But enough words from you. Tongue and lips, tongue and lips.”

Markie imagines that the position, scrotum drawn well behind at the thighs, testicles squeezed, must be terribly uncomfortable. Still the man, this Sir Egbert, dutifully begins his task, thighs straining in a semi kneeling position to alleviate the stress on his entrapped scrotum.

“When I was a young girl, my father the King graciously sent me to a fine, prestigious English boarding school. A wondrous education. And there I met the esteemed pedagogue Master Egbert Pendleton... teaching skills renowned. Quite the linguist, Master Egbert. Later to be knighted.”

Markie hears the slurping sound of energetic cunnilingus, the tormented form well focused on his appointed deed.

“So one day, in reading a book, perhaps one I should not have found, I needed to understand a word... gamahuche. Such girlish curiosity! And who better to explain the meaning then Master Egbert Pendleton... renowned pedagogue... skulking pedophile.”

The Queen pauses to cackle then hum with the pleasure... both physical and emotional. Being serviced so attentively at an otherwise hygienically inconvenient time of the month pleases.

“You were clever, Master Egbert, furtively placing that naughty book where a pubescent girl would be sure to find. So easy seducing the concupiscent and the sexually curious is it not, Sir Egbert?”

A Royal hand reaches to an ear and twists to bring a groan of pain.  

“Yes, Sir Egbert liked to lick... and liked to lick the young, the pink and the hairless. For me, an introduction to oral gratification in which a girl finds initial enjoyment... but soon thereafter realizes something which must be repressed in fear... and guilt. Still one never forgets, Markie. When I became Queen, I reached out to him. In a ruse I suggested a visit, hinted that young girls were under my purview and in need of his skills. When I further suggested his visit be clandestine, the lech foolishly thought I was conspiring with him to engage his perversions. ‘Arrange a trip to Greenland’ I wrote in tempting him.

“Well he did, but it was prearranged for him to miss his flight and for the Royal jet to pick him up at Gatwick, no one seeing him board. Then he was flown here where he has remained in my torture chamber... and will forever remain. Isn’t that right, Sir Egbert? No point in leaving now... now that you so much enjoy my touch.”

“Yes, your Majesty. I so much enjoy your taste... and your touch. Some caning this morning?”

The Royal hand presses to rebuke, returning the face back to the business at hand.

“Obviously the many years of daily agony have demented his esoteric mind. He’s a masochist now. Teeth pulled, finger and toenails ripped away. I used an elastrator to remove his nipples. His penis I degloved, removing the sensitive tissue. And in a deliciously slow procedure, I slit open his urethra... the entire length of his penis... with a hot knife. Lots of smelling salts for that long morning. It’s now useless for male pleasure. When I read men can obtain a strange form of delight by way of the prostate gland I had that removed.”

Markie cringes, deserved or not, the sadism overwhelming.

“But his balls... my balls... such remain, ensuring he is forever randy while I assure such randiness is adequately addressed... solely with pain. Wonderfully receptive to hot needles by the way. Sir Egbert’s favorite torture...”

Apparently cleansed, the Queen pushes away a well squeezed head, powerful arms then twisting the yoke such that Sir Egbert’s form turns and plops to the concrete flooring face upwards. Markie’s eyes immediately inspect. The nipples indeed have been expunged, the penis appearing to be a flat filleted fish rather than a proud cylinder of maleness.

“Did you enjoy your breakfast, Sir Egbert? I had one of my maids fill my chamber pot as well. Enough to eat?”

“Oh yes, your Majesty. Very thoughtful of you.”

“The guard spoon feeds my excretions daily, Markie. Weekly the nurse visits to assure Sir Egbert’s health. He’s in excellent condition, considering the lack of exercise. But the torture is sufficient to bring up the heart rate... akin to a good workout... is that not so, Sir Egbert?”  

Saturday, December 6, 2014

The Sash - To Be Used

To Be Used

Copyright 2014

by Chris Bellows

After many days, much sodomy, much semen, many collection bags filled and frozen, the expected messenger of the Queen arrived, his timing good. In traversing the veld, tugging reins, stroking with his crop, penetrating a welcoming orifice, the Prince was unaware of his visit.

“The Queen conveys her appreciation,” the trim young male offered, barely able to keep his eyes off the straining buttocks of five naked steeds laboring on the treadmills.

Long blond hair, well styled, polished red nails both hands and feet, the mandatory lipstick applied to a tiny penis tip, the Queen’s messenger had equal difficulty not gawking at the pretty castrate, true gender... former gender... well veiled.

Into a well insulated, iced chest, the freezer emptied of what seemed like quarts of male essence, Markie felt both accomplishment and relief, the evidence of her subterfuge removed. The Prince is not to suspect her involvement in the conspiracy, Markie sighed in thought as the messenger departed. Months hence a child will be born. Years hence the Queen will surprise her son Samja with news of his fatherhood. A wedding announcement will follow. 

How will the Prince ever suspect Markie’s participation?  

And so the daily routine at the ranch returns to normal. Sperm collection curtailed, a spritz enema quickly offered with a quick cooling douse of spray water before the worn steed is bedded.

Apprehension removed, Markie’s attraction to the Prince, her envy of a fully functioning penis, her adoration of handsome virility, blossoms anew. Though free to frottage with the steeds, tease and torment their chaste forms, there is a sense of emptiness, lack of filfillment. The steeds offer oral stimulation upon demand... boy labia... boy pussy. The lipstick though, is not to be smeared, the Prince using it as a defacto gauge as to whether there has been trespass on Markie’s comical once male organ.

Still, during lonely restless nights Markie is known to lift a hood, straddle a face and offer herself.

Yet, it satiates not. The steeds, oral skills accomplished, gratify mechanically. And adding to the sense of ennui is the fact that Markie’s castration precludes any ultimate orgasm. She senses a pending sneeze that just won’t come. Thus coercing fellatio is not only precarious, should the Prince discover, but unsatisfying.

‘Why bother,’ has become Markie’s mental response when considering such coupling. It is the Prince... pleasing him would be the pinnacle... her tender efforts awarded with an eruption of male seed. Trained in sexual subservience, she yearns to give... and she yearns to bring delight to he most fertile, he who commands, he who provides... he who owns. Such has been ingrained in her psyche. Pleasure for the Prince... fulfillment for Markie.  

Yes, Markie feels the need to be used.

One month, two? There comes a far off swirl of dust as the Royal long white limousine wheels forth just at the moment the Prince’s cart and human steed disappear onto the veld.

Has someone been observing? Or perhaps the timing coincidental?

It is the Queen’s messenger again, on this occasion arriving as Markie works to release the remaining herd from the sleeping mats and run them on the treadmills.

“The Queen summons you,” the messenger abruptly proclaims. “You are to come to the Palace.”

“But I have chores. The Prince insists his boys be well worked.”

“You are to come immediately. This is for the Prince,” the messenger presenting an envelope, sealed in wax, the Royal crest prominently displayed in conveying the authenticity its origination. “I suggest you comply... and promptly. There is no time for your chores. The Queen is best kept pleased.” 

The handsome young African smiles warmly, assuaging fears.

“Your safety and well being are assured. I am told this letter will adequately explain your brief absence.”

“How long?” Markie inquires, returning a naked steed to his respective sleeping mat.

“The Palace is an hours drive. I know not of the Queen’s intentions.”

“I’ll need covering.”

“The queen insists that you be naked. She suggests that it is best for you,” a hand extending to tweak a nipple, highlighting Markie’s state of deshabille.

Markie cannot help giggling with the unexpected touch. Silly of me... and curious that public nudity remains of concern, Markie ponders. She has not worn a scrap of clothing in many, many months... other than her shoes. Yet, she demurs in exhibiting herself.

“Come,” the messenger brazenly taking her hand in offering more familiarity, “this is a Kingdom. Fealty is required. Royalty is to be obeyed.”

He leads to the limousine. In opening the door for access, Markie feels a hand smooth over her girlish cheeks. The many touches suggest attraction, she realizes in seating herself. Her gender may confuse, but the pent up desire of the young male is apparent. The messenger follows sitting opposite.

“I believe you will be more comfortable kneeling on the floor,” the voice becoming more authoritative as Markie hears the click of the door locks. “And an hour long ride should be just enough time,” the words received as ominous, the messenger unzipping himself.

Not approaching the size of the Prince, the messenger produces a male organ uncircumcised, a dark pink tip slipping past the foreskin, seemingly eager to greet the day.

“The ride can be otherwise boring. You may suck me. Cleanse the smegma first. I like a girl to be neat. Suggests obedience, proper humbleness...”

Wednesday, December 3, 2014

Segments of 'The Sash' to end

In fairness, I should forewarn that the last segment of the Sash will be published on 12/27. As posted, the entire manuscript is available from Lulu.

Yes, the postings have been a 'teaser', but I have offered some 22,000 words for free. Not a bad bargain. Amazon discourages offering a single page!

Not sure what will begin in January.