Saturday, February 9, 2019

'Transformed', Snippet Four

This will be the last snippet.

The timing of the sequel is open.




“Catheter out, Max,” Dr. Gehorchen proclaims, no compunction in employing my first name while I must be more formal in addressing her.

She again holds up the sheet, blocking any view I may have of my privates.

“And I’ll want a semen sample.”

She tugs at the tube, bringing agony, on this occasion sustained and burning until finally the tip exits my urethral opening. She smiles with my yelp of pain. Yes, it brings that look of Schadenfreude.

“I will send in the masturbation nurse. Meanwhile, do not wet the bed. You’re to relieve yourself under the supervision of a nurse into a penis receptacle.”

For an experienced medical professional, the bedside manner of Dr. Gehorchen is rather abrupt. Hopefully, being relieved of the catheter signaling progress, I will not need to become accustomed to her brusque tutelage. 

“Masturbation nurse?” I cannot help inquiring.

The smile returns, this one uncharacteristically warm.

“We can extract a sample utilizing more... ah... extreme methods. But we’ve found that obediently being relieved of male essence better acclimates our gir... ah... patients to their new role.”

Bed sheet lowered then pushed to the side, I once again become a pin cushion, my daily injection. I cannot help recalling Taylor’s words concerning my testosterone levels. The stab, the slow glowing warmth, in not wanting the imposing doctor to know of the odd subtle joy, I suppress a moan of pleasure as whatever flows brings instant tranquility.

Yet she does know, tenderly patting my face, mother to child.

“Very pretty, Max,” my make up apparently remaining in place over night. “The psychiatrist will be in later. And in having been injected then jerked off, you’ll be very calm and complacent for her.”

I seethe with her touch, so condescending. And her choice of words, once again so unprofessional.

She scribbles on my chart, departing to leave me to my thoughts.

A steak knife, to my groin, a drug induced attempt at self mutilation... or so it was described by wife Taylor Phipps. And the ultimate damage? Not to be divulged... not to me.

It is strangely heartening... though ignominious... that I will be rendering a sperm sample. Thus there cannot be complete devastation... down there. But my masculine pride? Well bound and made up in lavender... nails, lipstick, rouge and eye shadow... such is being decimated.

The photos! I cringe with the thought... in the hands of my estranged wife!

What is this place? What kind of clinic?.. for boys who want to be girls! Why has Taylor threatened me should I not resign from my job? And I must assume my divorce attempt is suspended... sidelined if not forever terminated. Will attorney Pamela Harrison also receive the photos if I do not cease her services?

My burdened mind is distracted when the room door opens. In comes a woman of maturity, her appearance that of a great aunt, gray hair, fully sized though not obese, smiling jovially. She carries a tray, setting it down on the table beside my bed.

“Very pretty, today... Max... or do you prefer Maxine?”

Something about the injection that inhibits a forceful reply. For some reason I find myself modestly whispering ‘Max’.

“Well, I am your masturbation nurse. And you’re going to give me a nice semen sample like a good girl.”

There! She said it... girl... not correcting herself ala Dr. Gehorchen. And that smile... such confidence in her ability.

With that she steps to my side and whisks the sheet from my body, baring me completely to her view but taking the time to tuck the rumpled cloth up about my chin, again veiling from my eyes my naked flesh, wounded groin included.

“My goodness, Maxine. It’s good that you’re with us,” I must assume surveying my wounds. “Tsk, tsk. Well you’re much older than most here. A lot like to sit straddling my lap as I milk a sample. But being well bound... and fully sized... I’ll just do you just like this.”

Hands reach to the tray, arranging and gathering things as she speaks.

“First a specimen pouch,” producing a small bag of clear plastic. “And we tie it about your little peepee. Such a tiny thing,” her words reminiscent of wife Taylor. “So cute.”

Deed done, next comes a vibrator, also reminiscent of wife Taylor... a frustrated wife Taylor... used before she began her afternoon dalliances. The nurse lubricates, holding the phallic shaped apparatus before my eyes as if it is an object to be coveted.  

“And we begin,” her hand lowering.

I feel her work the tip between my thighs, then under. It rubs about at my perineum, gliding lower within my gluteal cleft then finds my rectum with accomplished ease. As it slips inward, I lurch against my bounds. She smiles.

“Bingo. Lots of little fannies penetrated over the years. Lots of happy little girls.”

With the daunting words, her free hand flips a switch. There comes a hum and a most pleasant sensation, the woman keenly finding my prostate.

I blush. There come goose bumps. I cannot deny the delight. Neither can I deny the humiliation.

“The art is in finding the appropriate velocity of vibration. Every little girl has a different level of enjoyment... slight... but so meaningful in having them give up what I want from them. Some object... at first... but in time they all want to release for me... to please their masturbation nurse.”

I feel sanguine, the injection bringing such abeyance. Head restrained, rumpled sheet piled under my chin I cannot see, as always staring at the ceiling. Am I erect for her? The vibrations mask any sensation of ejaculation. Will I spurt... have I spurted? Her allusion to being milked seems most apropos.

Minutes pass, the vibration level is adjusted, a little faster... a little slower. Then her free hand goes to my chest, fingers sensuously toying with right nipple then left. There comes an inadvertent sigh of pleasure... not to be repressed. I don’t want her to know she is pleasing me against my will. Yet she is... and her smile suggests she knows. She plays my nakedness like a musical instrument.

“Pay dirt, little girl,” a prideful exclamation.

The vibrator retracts. Am I disappointed? Do I want more? Then the little specimen bag is slipped away.

“Nice and clear, Maxine,” the appellation known to taunt.

As she gathers up her things, I find myself in a stupor. I did not ejaculate... I felt nothing close to the manly surge of a normal orgasm. Yet there comes a pleasant delirium. And I yielded for her... with that there is no doubt.

“You have a nice talk with the psychiatrist, Maxine. And maybe I’ll have you sitting on my lap if your days of self harm are deemed behind you and you’re released from the Segufix straps. As I said so many girls like it that way... riding and slowly secreting for their nurse.”

The notion both horrifies and is strangely enticing.

Do I want to perform for her?

Saturday, February 2, 2019

'Transformed', Snippet Three

The girl departs, her annoyance not diminished by her beauty. Manicure, pedicure, in my peripheral vision I catch glimpses of the gaudy coloring, fingers not within the scope of vision but my toes in view as I wriggle out from beneath the covering sheet. My feet appear to be ridiculously effeminate.

Worse, what did she do to my lips... my eyes... my cheeks?

Her efforts required over an hour I am sure. And whatever this Dr. Gehorchen injects seems to suppress any inclination to protest. I have just laid there and let her do whatever!

Needing distraction, countering the stress of the unknown, my thoughts return to that dinner, my last recollection before regaining consciousness in this hospital... clinic room.

We consumed our meal, Taylor as always ordering in moderation, such untoward attention to her figure... her allure. Yet such exquisite results. Still the wine flowed abundantly as planned. I wanted to woo her... not into bed... but into an amicable separation.

I explained to her my infatuation... my attraction to her... my affection. Divulged that my love, now distant, is strong enough that I had been forcing myself to overlook her transgressions... soiled cocktail glasses when there were no alleged visitors... bed sheets astray after attentive morning tidiness. I told her after many months of unrequited oral servitude that her message was received. Love life over... but for the convenience of my tongue.

I further explained that like possessing a beautiful creature of the wild... ultimately nature calls for freedom. She should be free. In a way intimating that she should be liberated to fuck whom she wants... when she wants. Of course not using such crass language. 

She just smiled and nodded... to me... but also to the nearby owner, Yvette... many years a friend.

‘That drink, Yvette. The special one for Max.’ 

Returning her attention to me, she suggested she had the bartender make a very tasty after dinner beverage.

‘Consider it to be in celebration, Max. For I agree. I should be free. But so should you.’

Had we come to agreement?

Owner Yvette seemed to be particularly enthusiastic, eagerly returning with the special cocktail. Thinking a no fault divorce, no exchange of income or assets, would be forthcoming, we toasted... my special drink... Taylor her Chablis.

She sipped, I swigged heartily, over a year of confrontation coming to an end. But then something happened... lightheadedness. And there came her final words. In not having heard her voice since... such haunt the recesses of my mind.

‘You will not have the balls to leave me Max.’  

Darkness consumed. And that was it. And here I lie, contemplating the tense of her utterance... not ‘do not have the balls’... but ‘will not have the balls’.

She is to visit, wife Taylor, so said Dr. Gehorchen. In wait, I wonder if the tone and graceful ambiance of that dinner will be renewed. I really thought there was agreement. But now I lie strapped down, seeming to be in wait of execution... yet with this perplexing visit from a bubbly cosmetician.

Room absent anything which reflects an image... what do I look like? The girl exited giggling. 


My room door is pressed open with vigor. When wife Taylor Phipps enters one expects a royal entourage to be preceding her... she is that ravishing... her suavity illuminating the drabness.

“Well Max, I see my girl has stopped in... very becoming. Always wondered what you’d look like in lavender... those blue puppy dog eyes are aglow.”

Slim where a girl should be slim, curves where a guy likes curves, the thrice weekly gym workouts... which I pay for... are evident as she effortlessly pushes a heavy chair to my bedside, ignoring the less pretentious hard wood chair intended for limited visitation.

“The doctor says you’re doing well. She’s expecting a full recovery... ah... almost.”

I clear my throat, prefacing speech. But even that slight gesture comes across so meekly  

“Good to see you Taylor. Thanks for stopping by. There’s... ah... well... a lot...”

“To be discussed, yes. Starting with your divorce petition. Under the circumstances... with your... ah... condition, I’m sure you’ll give serious consideration to withdrawing it. Pamela Harrison is a great attorney but... ah... expensive.”

“But if we have an agreement, Taylor... remember my suggestion that you be freed... she’ll be wrapping things up. Not much more time to be billed.”

“I think you misunderstood, Max. I agreed that I should be free. Suggested you be free as well... of your... well... let’s term it shortcomings. But not free due to divorce. I’m a Phipps, Max. Generation after generation of dignity and wealth. A Phipps does not consent to divorce... does not get dumped like some unwanted trash. A Phipps reigns,” her tone pedantic.

She reaches forth, an extravagantly bejeweled hand smoothing along my left cheek. Her presumptuousness annoys but there is nothing I can do to avoid her touch.

“So pretty.... anyway, how would it look if I in turn dumped you... in your hour of need?”

There is a pause... silence. I know not how to respond... my so termed need unknown.

“Guess we need to back up, Taylor. My need? Other than to get out of these bindings and get dressed, I’m not sure what needs I have.”

“Max, you’ve had a breakdown... beginning at Yvette’s. I’ve spoken to the psychiatrist. She says since you’re well restrained I can speak frankly... no further harm to come.”

The words are serious, spoken with great drama... akin to those of a soap opera. But Taylor smiles coyly... at first. Then snickers.

“At least that’s the story to be told outside the clinic... like to your boss. Your special drink... at Yvette’s? Well I laced it with a psychokinetic drug. Somewhat like LSD. I’m sure you’ve read where folks under the influence of stuff like that convince themselves of having abnormal power... like they can fly... you know... things like that.”

The notion frightens. Did I attempt to fly? Benumbed to silence, I merely nod.

“Well I got you to the car, and then... you in such an amenable mental state... on the drive home we discussed your castration complex.”

“I don’t have a castration complex!”

Words of objection yes, but coming across as so frail. What are these injections?

“And your gender obfuscation,” Taylor ignoring my protest.

What am I to say? What am I to do? I am helplessly strapped down, forced to listen as Taylor reaches into her pocketbook, retrieving a hand mirror. 

“It’s a bit of a ruse, yes Max. But when one has a few hundred million, one gains influence... and respect... with the various authorities. It was a simple matter for me to hand you a steak knife in the kitchen and command you... no... really just suggest... that the end of your masculinity would set you free... augmenting that silly sermon you gave me at Yvette’s. And when your aggrieved wife phoned the police and EMT squad, who was to doubt my version of events? You bleeding profusely and being incoherent.”

With her soliloquy, she holds before me the mirror, positioning such that my face reflects back to me. I shudder, she smiles. I find the annoying cosmetician to be talented beyond her years. I am in full make up, eye brows trimmed, mascara, rouge, eyeliner... the coloring so astoundingly complementing my blue eyes. 

And I do look... well... I cannot bring myself to use the word.

“Becoming, Max... as I said.”

I close my eyes. In shame? In anger? In disbelief? Please not in wonder!

“And the bleeding? The steak knife?” I must understand the end.

“Oh Max, I tried so hard to stop you,” the words intoned with such mockery. “But you’ll need to talk to the doctor about that. The clinic here specializes in this type of thing... boys who want to be girls.” 

I lurch, somehow finding the resolve to fight my bonds... futilely fight my bonds. My paroxysmal efforts bring laughter. The departing words of Dr. Gehorchen come to mind ... ‘you be a good gir... boy for us’.

Taylor’s hand retracts, the mirror returned to her pocketbook, her cell phone retrieved.

“Think you need another injection, Maxine... ah... Max. The testosterone... it seems to still be flowing. I’ll came back again... make sure all your needs are addressed. No point in being disgustingly rich if you can’t put the money to a good cause.”

With that, the cell phone is positioned within a foot of my face... my heavily made up face. I don’t want to be photographed... but there is nothing I can do. There come clicks and flashes.

“For your boss, Maxine. Should you decide not to resign your job, some nice photos of you in full make up will surely enhance your career. And I really think you should have Pamela Harrison tally up her final bill. Since you’re to be unemployed, I’ll pay it on your behalf.”

“Unemployed?” I sputter.

“You’re not leaving here until there is a full and satisfactory evaluation, Max. And I think you will enjoy finding out what that entails. I know I will.”

Sunday, January 27, 2019

'Transformed' published

I have completed the referenced story.

12,600 words, $4.30.

As noted in my January 14th post, the story is also available directly from me, PDF format, payment through Paypal.

Email me at if there is interest in direct purchase of this story or any other Lulu published story.


Saturday, January 26, 2019

'Transformed', Snippet Two

I lie staring at the ceiling, even head motion limited. Most hospitals have televisions as I have so often told myself over the days. When I inquire, the tending nurse just smiles and nods, explaining that I am not in a hospital but a clinic. When I inquire what kind of clinic there comes an ominous smile and words urging me to rest.

‘All will be for the better,’ the advisement so matronly as she one by one releases a limb and offers a sponge bath.

The system of binding is impressive. Each cuff and strap is pulled to tautness through a buckle. A metal post is then slipped through a grommet hole, holding firm the tether, the post then capped by a powerful magnetic disk. Such is removed only by she with a small and simple device which temporarily reverses the magnetic field for quick release. As a result, limbs, waist belt and head gear can quickly be unfastened... and of course resecured... for bathing... and most gratefully to counter cramping.

So the hours of silent immobility bring thought. How did I get here?   

Memories... dinner with Taylor at a posh restaurant, Yvette’s, her favorite. Such has been rare since commencing divorce. Wine, a great meal, I try to be positive, civil in encouraging separation. I know she has a lover... possibly more than one. I hint that she can be free to socialize as she chooses, empathizing with her needs. No more clandestine rendevous.

Taylor... well... to be blunt... enjoys a certain... how shall I phrase it... aggressiveness in bed. And has on more then one occasion... ok... many occasions... suggested that in the size department the equipment of husband Maximilian Von Webring is inadequate. Our twelve months of conjugal undertakings before separation involved oral gratification... solely... with me as provider... never to receive reciprocation.   

So why not separate? I have assumed her resistance stems from her self image as an heiress, the supporter of museums, the appearances at charity black tie dinners, the memberships in snooty social clubs. Not only does divorce have stigma, but she certainly cannot drag before the aristocracy the bull studs with whom she prefers to fornicate.

No, I suppose up and coming public relations executive Maximilian Von Webring brings her a different form of status, relevancy in the world of business which dovetails with her eleemosynary pursuits.

But can I be sure?

The room door opens. Any diversion is welcomed. But the nurse just left and Dr. Gehorchen only visits daily.

In wheels a cart, pushed by a very pretty girl. Though dressed in white, she’s young for a nurse, most at the clinic middle aged, haughty and imposing.

“Good morning Mr. Von Webring. Your wife sent me.”

Seeing me so thoroughly bound seems to bring concern... initially. Yet in youthful aloofness, she quickly shrugs off my incapacitation and wheels the cart to my left side.

“I’m doing more and more guys these days. Used to be just at Halloween. But you know... this gender thing... it’s... well... guess we’re all a little confused...”

As I note the cart laden with various bottles, towels and small brushes, the girl palms my left hand and examines. She then smiles and turns her attention to the cart.   

“Guess I don’t have to tell you to stay still,” repressing a giggle. “They’ve got you tied down like some kind of serial killer. A Hannibal Lecter thing... though you’re not muzzled, ha, ha, ha.”

Her hands work my fingers... attention paid to my nails. It’s manicure I receive, taking her time, small talk ending.

Then the girl picks up a small bottle and shakes it.

“Your wife picked a nice shade. She said it would highlight your eyes... and it will,” the smile vibrant and charming.

With that the bottle is opened, held before my eyes, acetone filling my nostrils. Does the girl taunt?

It is nail polish!

“Lavender... very, very pretty Mr. Von Webring.”

Saturday, January 19, 2019

New short story, 'Transformed'

Not sure where this will ultimately go... just here on the blog or published.




Copyright 2019

by Chris Bellows

“You’re healing nicely, Mr. Von Webring,” the handsome doctor grasping a well scrubbed bed sheet of pure white.

Lying supine, her hands hold the cloth up at my chest, veiling any view I may have as she visually examines my nether region. There was a time when baring myself there and being subjected to the scrutiny of a becoming woman would bring arousal. But not this morning... not last morning... and probably not tomorrow morning... her visits daily. 

I have been in a accident... at least that is what I have been told. And there seem to be complications... some misunderstanding... or whatever. For I am strapped in place. Wrist cuffs, ankle cuffs, thigh cuffs, arm cuffs, a broad waist belt, even a prosthetic high and well padded neck collar all hold me completely immobile. I am catheterized for sure, my bladder in no need of draining. I should be vehemently protesting, but oddly, I have not the strength. And more oddly, I just don’t feel like mustering the strength.

“And another injection for you,” the doctor reaching to a nearby tray.

“What is it doc?” even my voice seeming to be meek.

I inquire each time and never receive a specific response.

“You may call me Dr. Gehorchen,” her German birth and heritage evidenced by the Teutonic inflection of her surname. “We prefer our... patients... to be formal with us. We demand... and deserve... courtesy, Mr. Von Webring. Respectful courtesy.”

With that she flips over the right side of the sheet and presses the hypodermic needle into the side of my right cheek, smiling. I believe the term is Schadenfreude... but despite my own German heritage know nothing of the language. 

“Your wife will be visiting. You will be polite with her, yes?” again that look of Schadenfreude as the words come across as more of a command than a question.

I am about to correct the woman, but this subject matter has been discussed. In my state of languor I merely smile, feeling the spreading warmth of whatever has been injected.

I have been separated from Taylor Phipps for over a year. Thus I do not think of her as my wife other than as a matter of law. My suit for divorce is being contested and all attempts to come to terms are now negotiated between attorneys. Though I remain living on the sizable Phipps estate, I sleep and eat in the quarters over the large garage, designed for the chauffeur back when vast wealth and the fleet of horseless carriages required full time maintenance and repair.

It is now home, comfy and far enough from the main house that I come and go for many days without crossing paths with my estranged.

Stunning, erudite, well educated, wife Taylor... prospective ex wife... is an heiress. Old money earned in the steel business back when the metal was used to build just about everything... thousands of miles of railroads included. I don’t know the exact number, the bank and brokerage statements always kept from me, but the wealth probably approaches nine figures... no decimal point.     

And me? Well despite the regal surname, I’m a working slob, waitering tables to put myself through college, then in being glib... smooth... going into public relations where to date I have excelled. But not excelling and talking smoothly enough to convince Taylor to just sign the papers and separate.

So after suggesting we amicably part ways, my husbandly duties deemed inadequate based on evidence of her afternoon trysts, my attorney Pamela Harrison... as aggressive a divorce lawyer as known in the metropolis... advised me...

‘Go after the wealth. She’ll come to terms.’

And so began the war. I claimed millions of her money, Taylor decided to go after my income. And that is when I realized a rather egregious error in conducting our... my... financial affairs over the seven plus years of betrothal.

A cadre of Phipps family lawyers pointed out that I have been paying for everything, supporting Taylor in letting her wealth accumulate. With my six figure income such was not a strain. But now... if and when presented to a judge... Taylor can claim that I have been supporting her and to maintain her life style alimony of fifty percent is needed.

And my claim for her assets? Well, it seems the strategy of Pamela Harrison was a bit of a stretch. Assets acquired outside the marriage... such as inheritance... are not community property.

Yes, it was a bluff and it was called.

I have no savings. Every paycheck has gone to living expenses. Worse, in my field, the compensation road can become very rocky, at times even my glib personality not producing the sizable annual bonus which has in most years paid down the credit card debt.

So for over a year I have been living over the garage and paying the rent for the entire estate to the trust which owns the property. Yes in a tax scheme the turn of the century mansion and many attached acres were placed in an historic trust with the proviso that once it is no longer utilized by a Phipps family heir, it goes to the state as a public park or museum, or whatever.

So there you have it. The prospect of losing this divorce battle is daunting. No inheritance money. Half of my income to my wife. The need for a new place to live, since I will no longer be a Phipps family member. And should a bad year arise, impoverishment.

“I’d... ah... really like to move a little,” noting that the doctor is scribing on my chart, the ultimate task before departure.

“Were you addressing me?” the query gently goading as the room is otherwise empty.

Her hand returns to the right side of the bed, lowering. She pulls something and there comes an instant stab of pain, sending a message... of who is in control... and conversely who is completely at the mercy of an in charge woman. Yes, giving the tube a quick and easy yank translates to agony where a man feels most his vulnerability. I am definitely catheterized.

“Ah... yes, Dr. Gehorchen... are all these... ah... bindings... are such necessary?”

No objection to the tug, for some reason deciding to quietly cede to her authority.

“For now yes, Mr. Von Webring. The psychiatrist and your wife will decide otherwise.”

“But she’s not... we don’t live as man and wife.”

“That’s not how the court order reads, Mr. Von Webring. Ms. Taylor Phipps is your legal guardian in the even of your incapacitation... under law she has your medical proxy.”

“But I am not incapacitated!” the choice of words resolute but my tone so ineffectively humble.


“You are considered incapacitated until it is decided otherwise.”

“And who decides?”

Again comes that smile. One may consider it charming... assuming one is not so helplessly tethered, turned into a pin cushion, and subjected to such simple but torturous tugs of her hand.

“Your wife of course... in consultation with the medical staff.”

With that she leans, her perfume filling my nostrils, the scent not at all feminine.

“So you be a good gir... boy for us, Max,” her whisper readily interpreted as wicked.

Monday, January 14, 2019

Order stories direct?

I am considering offering my stories direct by email. Upon payment to my Paypal account the reader would receive any of the Lulu published stories in PDF format for $1.00 less than the Lulu price.

Please let me know if interested. Email and I will provide the Paypal account info. I do not utilize this email account for Paypal.


Saturday, January 12, 2019

'Diapered', Snippet Four

A Pensive Drive - David

So, yes, I finally muster the fortitude, posting at the quirky CFNM message board that ‘Erecting Dave’ will attend the Halloween party... to finally become more than an internet inquirer of shy and naive questions.

Heading to Hamilton, I calm myself, mindfully reiterating the sole instruction that serves to assuage my concerns. Males will enter the side door of the private home... purportedly a mansion... and there will be a table piled with cloth hoods. My only assigned task will be to slip one over my head. From there, features covered, will come feminine control.

I will be stripped naked.

Once again the notion brings dichotomous thoughts... concern over recognition, my participation possibly ending my career... the odd joy in yielding to assertive women who take such delight in male comeuppance.   

GPS makes the address easy to find. In nearing the house, a mansion indeed, the street is littered with cars. Many attendees are early... or so it seems. I am concerned with the bright lighting, deciding to park well away, my approach appearing to be that of a casual passerby should reservations develop or some interloper see my face.

Within moments, breathing heavily, the sidewalk brings me to the driveway. The side door beckons. I hear music and voices within the house. I see no one outside.

Concerns somewhat assuaged, I stroll quickly up the driveway. Upon entrance I am heartened to see the welcoming pile of cloth hoods. I immediately grab one and slip over my head, fingers adjusting to align the openings with my nose, mouth and eyes. No one has seen my face.

With that, from the top of a set of stairs, comes a female voice... firm... directing... casting no doubt who is in charge.

“Don’t dawdle. Get up here and be stripped.”

I look to see a shapely woman, age and other characteristics cloaked by the costume of ‘Wonder Woman’. I take a deep breath. Resigning myself, I ascend placing myself in feminine hands.


“Erecting Dave.”

“That’s Erecting Dave, ma’am.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

From a collection of stick-on labels, the woman finds my appellation, peeling it from the glossy base and firmly pressing it to the forehead of my mask.

“Go up the stairs. Get in line. Hope you’re wearing clothing easy to remove, as posted on the board. We tend not to waste time stripping a man. If tearing and cutting is needed... so be it,” nodding to where I see two men in wait outside of a doorway. “Hands on head. Do not touch yourself unless directed. No talking to other males. Wait your turn in silence. You’re here for the women.”

And so begins my evening of CFNM... clothed female... naked male.

The Party - Nicole

Such a beautiful home. Such decadent undertakings!

Donning a glittering white mask, friend Sarah guides me, Marie Antoinette, to a bedroom turned medical chamber... initially, I assume converted for the evening’s activities. But as I assess, some of the accouterments appear permanent, the home owners presumably engaging in kink more often than occasionally hosting the CFNM group.

A sizable gynecological chair centers the room, thick straps hint that its function is other than medical. Metal cabinets abound. Prominently displayed are catheters, enema bags and hoses, and other paraphernalia a homeowner normally maintains concealed. 

Sarah, curiously comfortable in being unmasked, takes command, her level of familiarity hinting that it is not her first visit to the capacious abode. She steps to a cabinet, opens and withdraws various items, assembling with professional alacrity.

“Send one in,” she calls out, smiling in anticipation.

“Remember Marie... I’ll call you Marie to assure your anonymity... women are in charge. Men obey. When you strip them of their clothing you also strip them of their dignity... and any semblance of authority. Say anything you’d like... do anything you’d like. As a first timer you’ll be amazed at the level of submission... and I think a girl of your... ah... propensities will enjoy.”       

A woman dressed as an Indian... probably Pocahontas... leads in what will be the first of a dozen or more naked males. She holds him by the hand... like a mother with a little boy.

Hooded, a white patch of paper stuck to the cloth at his forehead reads ‘Jack’. I must wonder if it is real name. The question is answered when I spy in small letters beneath the word ‘off’.

“Strap him down... let’s get to work. So many cocks... so many balls... so much needs to be revealed for inspection,” Sarah gleefully pointing to the chair. 

As eery as is the man’s silence, the cooperation is telling. So meek... so obedient. Within moments Pocahontas has the man chaired, limbs strapped in place... wrists... biceps... thighs... ankles. Between spread open thighs dangles the male package.

Something within tells me to look away... not bring embarrassment to the man with visual examination. But then I realize... this is what he wants... what he craves. And sure enough as Sarah approaches with a basin of warm soapy water, the penis... modest in size... twitches and begins to firm.

“Good,” quips Sarah, “get it out of the way of the razor.”

She pauses, staring intently, her glare obviously abetting tumescence. For the appendage grows and grows and finally points to the ceiling.

“It functions,” Sarah turning her head to me, “but it’s so tiny... unlikely to do a woman any good. But that’s why at most of these parties we have the likes of Jack masturbate for us. Isn’t that right Jack... off? You’re the number one wanker... or at least try to be.”

Flesh at the neck reddening, there is no doubt the words bring blushing embarrassment, the face beneath the hood I am sure turning crimson. But what is also without doubt... it is welcomed... the humiliation.

“Oh, yes, ma’am. I so much like jerking off for you... and the other women.”

Sarah applies soap, a straight edged razor whisks away a mat of short hair, evidently the pubes area recently shorn. At the last party?

Deed completed... neat, clean and professional... Sarah towels, handling the organs like the fruit of her allusion. Not a word of objection, even when testicle right then left is gently squeezed in close examination, the acquiescence is notable.

Finally there comes baby oil, bringing a sheen which attracts. Desired? Judging from the enhanced stiffness I would think yes... the need so warped.

“You’re going to really enjoy yourself tonight, Jack. Though you’ll not be jerking yourself off, you’ll not be disappointed... one of the other guys will be doing it for you. Mutual masturbation under feminine control. Bring you a sick thrill? It’s a contest... whoever comes first gets spanked. I have no doubt you’ll do your best to be quickly spewing like a whale... as disgusting as you are.” 

Sarah strolls to a sink and readies for the next naked male. Pocahontas releases the straps. I smile as in standing and moving to the door, the erection of the shaven Jack bobs about, readied to present itself to the cheering cadre of clothed women downstairs.

Next enters a tall man of color, build impressive, muscling toned. A thick penis swings about between thighs of tree trunks, the tip almost thumping his knees.

An alpha male, that of Sarah’s desires, he moves with noted confidence to the chair. At his forehead, the white patch of paper reads ‘Thumper’.

Aptly named.