Monday, November 30, 2009
“I want him to feel owned... I want his will crushed... I want him to think of himself as an animal.”
The sizable woman of color listens and nods between each edict, the Princess pausing in thought as she regally sits astride her white stallion looking down at her loyal executioner.
Her declamations have the rule of law. To disobey... well... Kendra merely has to gaze upon the once proud male figure kneeling at her feet in intense suffering to understand the consequences.
“I will have him displayed from time to time. Subjects who consider questioning my power, my authority, need a reminder. There will be a time when I become Queen. For my subjects the transition will be easier understanding that betrayal, even the slightest hint of rebellion, will be met with swift judgement and long, slow retribution.”
“May I modify, your highness... his bonds?”
“He is yours to work. Other than assuring that he is well watered and well fed to ensure a long agonizing existence, alter as you desire. If you brand him, make sure he heals well and does not infect. I want my livestock to have the best of care.”
With that the Princess chortles, noting the look of dismay on the naked form kneeling in chains.
“Yes, I know of your penchant for black smithing, Kendra. That’s why I have engaged you. The gothic look of black iron adorning a supplicating male can be most stimulating.”
Kendra nods in agreement, cloaking a wry smile. She dares not display her eagerness for the task assigned.
“I’ll be back to observe from time to time. I have a young castrate who savors having his head lodged between my thighs. I find his nimble tongue to be most satisfying when I’m watching a man labor in torment. I am sure you will accommodate with the appropriate scenario.”
Kendra nods again this time curtsying as well, lowering her face to hide a broadened smile that cannot otherwise be masked.
“And Kendra, it goes without saying that he shall not touch himself. It’s that obnoxious appendage that brought his downfall. Make sure it no longer brings him joy.”
“Yes, your Highness. Slow castration?”
“No. For now I want him always to sense the desire that I will forever deny satiating. Emasculation brings inner languor. Besides I want him able to expend much energy while he’s worked. You know that castrates get fat and lazy. But when he slows... no longer able to respond to your whip and commands... well it is then that you might as well pluck his balls.”
Kendra nods, her smile broadening as the Princess describes altering a man as simply as one would harvest fruit. Having incised countless scrotums, she understands that the neutered become feckless. Instead, the frustration of endless denial can greatly enhance daily torment. The castrates, on the other hand, become peaceful... too peaceful. Too accepting of torture.
A well manicured but firm hand tugs on the reins. The huge stallion turns and instantly thunders off in a gallop. Kendra watches as the silhouette of the beautiful Princess disappears over a crest, a pluming trail of dust slowly returning to earth.
“Caught fucking one of the maids. And there were such prevalent rumors of pending marriage. Tsk. Tsk.”
An enormous brown hand, baked to deep mocha in the tropical sun, reaches down. Kendra understands that it is best to establish her control quickly, particularly with the likes of the once influential now downtrodden. As close advisor and lover to the Princess, until two days before, the handsome athletic male is not accustomed to feminine governance... at least not the strict physical governance meted by Kendra. He has lived a life of luxury and leisure.
With her new task, she has been relieved of most of her duties in the Kingdom’s squalid jails. Torturing, castrating, executing, her reputation precedes her. She smiles in noting that her charge is shaking... and it cannot be the ‘coolness’ of the equatorial sun. Perspiration oozes despite his nakedness. The temperature approaches 100 degrees. No... he quakes in fear.
“Scared? You should be. A new life is to begin. Work hard. Serve me well. Please the Princess. It will be a simple existence. Though the drudgery will drive you mad... I am known to break the monotony with amusement... for me.”
Kendra snickers as the hand grasps the dangling strands of rubber tubing emanating from the man’s nostrils. Deviant medical types have threaded the single length of tubing up one nostril, across the sinus cavity and the down the other... forming a very convenient and convincing leash... used by the Princess in leading to the secluded water hole. Kendra marvels as a slight grip and pull evokes a whimper and an instantaneous response, the head striving to follow her hand.
Though six foot, well muscled, able to physically subdue all but the most powerful males, Kendra realizes that when so bound and leashed, a mere child could offer direction. Thus the naked male scrambles to his feet, his many chain links clattering. Kendra continuously raises her arm until her hand is well over her head. The face follows to point upwards, the man rising to his toes. There comes a stifled yelp. She laughs, the tubing inserted well into his skull and pressuring thousands of nerves.
Kendra holds steady, keeping the form on his toes as she inspects.
Wrists cuffed and secured behind his back with a slim but formidable chain. Ankles cuffed as well with a connecting hobbling chain. A heavy leather strap encircling the base of his neck and mouth to hold in place a gag. She assumes it is the cruelest of ball gags, the form not even attempting a word of plea or protest. But offering the most critical feeling of bondage and torment... the ponderous testicle clamp flopping about between the thighs.
“It’s been reported that you bit. That will not happen again. Yet, I cannot have you gagged. You’ll need to be watered often... and you’ll soon be gasping for breath. So I will start by filing your teeth. You’ll not need them for the gruel. And I prefer softness there in my men.”
Kendra laughs boisterously as her free hand reaches and pinches a nipple. There comes more sound... a stifled squeal. Yes, she establishes her control quickly. And the dental work will manifest it convincingly as well.
“Be a good boy for me and I’ll remove the testicle clamp. You heard the Princess. She wants you to remain intact... for now. And the clamp can slowly emasculate.”
Sunday, November 22, 2009
List of all my published stuff (I think)
Available from Pink Flamingo (http://www.pinkflamingo.com/)...
A Sadist’s Story
An Interview With Mrs. Carlotta Fenwick
Becoming Miss Ashley’s Pet
Behavioral Modification - Lessons from Constancia Island
Collared & Leashed
Feminizing the Belligerent Male
Laura Davidson Keeper of Men
Lessons in Discipline and Servitude
Milking Male Essence
Miss Elizabeth’s Captive
Of Male Chastity
Penance Corporation of America Books I & II
Penance Corporation of America Book III
Prince Imay’s Palace
Ship of Remorse
Supplication of the Male Pig
Tales From the Estate
Taming the Virile Male
The Incarceration of Jennifer
The Interrogator (out of print)(now on Lulu, see below)
The Last Pony Girl
The Male Concubine
The Toy (Item 8693318) (Free, also posted here)
A Woman’s Revenge (Item 8340830)
Mademoiselle Rules (Item 8563008)
Available from Sir Jeff's Pony Site (free) (http://www.sirjeffponygirls.thekinkyserver.com/)
Introduction to Farm Life (a snippet from the Lulu book, Billie and Mary)
Pony Girl Jackie (a snippet from the Lulu book)
The Masturbatrix (short story, posted May 2007)
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Copyright 2004 by Chris Bellows
Professionally attired. Hair short and well styled... and dark which I have always found attractive. Striking blue eyes. Firm demeanor.
Just watching her order coffee and listening to her very exacting instructions gives her away.
“Black... one packet of sugar... lid tight... extra napkin.”
It is indeed she, I quickly conclude. The firm, no nonsense voice. I cannot forget her.
The Hispanic clerk dutifully prepares the hot brew, presses the lid tightly and stuffs the small brown bag. She pays, accepts the change and turns.
Our eyes briefly meet. She smiles that smile... one of confidence to those who have never crossed her path... one tinged with evil to those who have.
She pauses, broadens her grin, seeming laugh to herself, then strolls to the door of the bodega.
Does she recognize me?
Her manner gives little hint, yet now I know it is she. It’s that walk. How much time was consumed watching her so nonchalantly sashay about the confines of my prison cell.
I quickly toss a dollar bill onto the counter and follow. On to the sidewalks of New York... as the morning rush winds down... I first look left then right to catch a glimpse of her heavy winter coat, the tails flailing in the wind as she turns a corner. Even with the covering she looks good and passing heads turn to ogle her feminine but authoritative gait.
And I of course continue. I cannot stop now, though I find myself quavering.
Is it the cold of late autumn?... or the psychological duress of seeing a woman whose image so often visits on sleepless nights?
The woman walks with purpose and I must half jog to gain proximity. Why, I do not know. I do not even know what to say to her. I was not good at engaging girls in casual conversation when I was young and, at age 35, I am no better with grown women.
One block... two. She turns into a narrow street, some would deem an alleyway, the likes of which give the Greenwich Village area its charm. I run to the corner to ensure that I can spy whichever doorway she enters.
At the corner I quickly turn. I almost knock her down. There she stands... radiant... poised... her upright, shoulders-back posture so commanding. She is awaiting me.
I lurch to a halt. An apology forms but does not pass my lips. The woman chuckles softly... knowingly.
“Most women would be calling 911 right now, Bobby. Something you wanted to say to me?”
The mocking intonation of my name... the sarcasm. My mind reels and I am not only flabbergasted but realize she is correct. One should not stalk women in New York City with any sense of impunity.
I catch my breath but before formulating a reply, she speaks. And I am trained to listen when she speaks.
“Oh, yes. I recognized you in the coffee shop. I remember you of course, but was polite enough to be respective of your anonymity. But when you so brazenly follow me, all respect for your little secret must be cast aside.”
I feel belittled by her stern lecture. She seems to enjoy my forlorn look and laughs abruptly after giving equally derisive intonation to the words ‘little secret’.
“Why?” I finally blurt, both disconcerted and surprised by the squeakiness of my voice.
She laughs more.
“You don’t need to know that. I am not sure I want you to know that. And the agreement you signed with the Bangkok police should have been very specific in addressing the issue.”
She turns. She is just going to leave me standing... to once again heartlessly walk out of my life. The way she so haughtily departs makes me shake more. And I find it difficult to speak. It as if I am back in my cell.
“I can contact a lawyer,” I finally utter, again disappointed with the lack of masculine menace in my disguised threat.
She stops and turns.
“I have a complete copy of your file, Bobby.”
She speaks with the ominousness which I failed to marshal, still sneering my name.
“Oh, yes. The Bangkok letter of release did not cover my records, Bobby. It can all come out in court... if you push too hard. Yes, just think, your entire psychological profile available to all.
“Many court records can be accessed on the internet you know...”
The threat is so calmly enunciated. So cool. So authoritative So much in control.
“You should recall that there were photos taken...”
My apoplexy becomes more apparent. She steps back toward me and pauses, knowing that I will have difficulty mustering an appropriate reply. She enjoys my mental struggle.
I stammer. Words are not forthcoming. She continues.
“You decide what you want to do. But before taking any drastic action, give me a call. We’ll chat... just like old times.”
Again the sarcasm. ‘Old times’ were in a large Bangkok jail cell. Hot, musty, humid. But for me the size was superfluous. I was continually kept in what is referred to in the incarceration field as ‘four point restraint’. The spacious surroundings were for the comfort of my jailers.
A hand gloved in fine black doeskin produces a business card. I take it, looking straight into her beautiful blue eyes. With any other woman I would feel desire... perhaps a degree of lust. With her I feel trepidation.
“I broke no laws, Bobby. Think back. I did not even touch you... other than to perhaps help you wipe your nose. Though you certainly begged for more than that. Remember... you weren’t permitted to use your hands... for anything.”
She teasingly glances to my crouch with a ribald look. There are women who believe that left unsupervised the hand of every male has only one goal. She is one.
“But perhaps you’d like to hire lawyers to engage me civilly. Keep in mind I believe a competent attorney will advise you that the first step, after complete discovery and thorough disclosure of your little peccadilloes, will be to decide whether New York or Thailand is the proper venue to adjudicate your complaint. I’ll argue for Thailand... and win.
“You’d like to return to Thailand, wouldn’t you Bobby? There are some prison guards I am sure would enjoy your visit.”
She now outright chortles and I am dumbfounded. I shake more and stare at the card, silently trying to disguise my cowering physical reaction. Then I look up to realize that she is gone and I failed to observe into which building she entered.
But alas, I have her card.
“OK, Bob, may I call you Bob? So your rights were trampled upon and a bunch of women had some fun... in a foreign country... where the laws are not only sketchy but change with every election... and where you can’t quite remember all the names of the parties involved... if you were given their true names to remember.
“Think we have a bit of a problem?”
‘Shaun the Shark’s’ words echo. Having twice offered that I prefer to be called ‘Robert’, he pontificates as if speaking to a group of news reporters on the courthouse steps. A highly aggressive attorney, to the point of being borderline unethical, he listened to my Thailand escapade and expressed less then little interest in representing me.
And... I felt demeaned in relating the story.
He seemed more enthused about asking the question which the jury would most like to hear answered... what was a bachelor of 32 years doing on vacation in Thailand... alone?
“There is a systemic problem of pedophilia in those Southeast Asian countries,” he beseechingly suggested in encapsulating the jury’s unspoken quest.
He posed the statement as a question, extending his hands palms up, expecting some type of sage retort which would instantly sway the hypothetical gathering of twelve to my side of the story... and award massive damages.
“Of course if the venue indeed is changed to Thailand, that subject matter comes off the table... and a different stratagem for the complaint must be formulated....”
That meant time... which meant money... which meant I was not going to be engaging ‘Shaun the Shark’ on straight contingency.
“Do the courts in Thailand permit contingent fee arrangements?”
His question summarized the peculiarities of my case and more importantly the vagaries of enhancing the size of his wallet. I left his office rather disgruntled with the legal profession. It was apparent that the question of venue would not be litigated by an attorney working on a contingency basis.
So, I sit in my apartment in the tub, having learned that, in all deference to the adage concerning cold showers, what most tames the libido is a hot bath... that and a well chilled bottle of Chablis.
As I lie back in the darkness, the lettering on the business card seems to be imprinted in my brain... ‘Denise Evans, PhD. Professor of Psychology, New York University’.
Well, at least I was given her real first name... only in Thailand it was preceded by ‘Miss’... Miss Denise.
In mentally invoking her name, the memories begin to stream and though sitting in piping hot water, I again shake with the trauma. It’s been three years and I remain an emotional wreck. I do not date in a social sense and masturbation does not lead to climactic release, just frustration... thus the weekly hot baths, which seem to quell the effect of the abundant hormones.
So my brain hits the rewind button where I likewise am lying in a tub... only in a Bangkok hotel room. A loud knock on the door receives my bellow of ‘come back later’, only to be followed by the jiggling of keys and the sound of the hotel room door being opened. Having engaged the chain, I once again call out to the presumed room service to return later. My admonition is followed by the sound of a snap, breaking the chain lock, and an army of footsteps. I arise from the tub, in deshabille of course, and three uniformed officers brusquely enter the bathroom as I stand to greet them dripping wet.
I nod with the sound of my name and two officers grab an arm as I step onto the tiled floor. The third officer retrieves a towel, begins to hand it to me only to realize that my wrists are being cuffed begin my back. In stepping forward to encircle my waist, I am chagrined to look down into the eyes of a rather cute Thai police officer who seems to enjoy enshrouding a naked male.
The gibberish of the Thai language follows. My name was the only English spoken, but it seemed safe to assume that I was being read my rights... whatever such were in Bangkok. The female officer took me by my left arm, a remarkably firm grip, and directed me out of the bathroom and into the hall... wearing nothing other than the towel and dripping wet. She seemed to enjoy leading me about and her commanding presence became an appropriate beginning for my ordeal.
The two male officers remained behind searching the room and I presume packing my effects. I never saw them again or any other male for the ensuing months.
The tub chills. I have been immersed long enough to counter the level of testosterone. I read somewhere that the reason the testicles are outside the body is to provide coolness which promotes the production of sperm. I have always surmised that the long term calming effect of the hot baths is to curtail sperm production. My own theory of course, but it seems to help. Since that fateful trip to Bangkok I have not been able to ejaculate. Ejaculatory incompetence is the clinical term... not being able to pull the trigger the vernacular. Whatever the term, the condition leaves me jumpy... and horny in a very odd way. I seem to seek something that I cannot find... Massages, New York ‘full body’ massages, arouse but the promised ‘happy ending’ does not occur. Dates end in embarrassment when orgasm cannot be achieved. Hookers... well the story is consistent.
I dry myself and wrap the towel around my waist, ironically just as the Thai police officer had. Into the kitchen for water and as I stack ice in a tall glass, there lies the business card... Denise Evans... ‘Miss Denise’ my mind politely corrects. The address is Prince Street... in the Village but unexpectedly distant from most NYU facilities. It cannot be her academic office.
It’s Friday night... not late. A phone call to an office would reach an answering machine... to a home would not annoy. I ponder and her words... ‘before taking any drastic action, give me a call. We’ll chat... just like old times’... rattle my brain. So cool... so authoritative. And she seemed to relish watching me struggle for any appropriate utterance.
The Chablis brings relative loquaciousness. I reach for the cordless phone and dial. A female voice answers with a ‘hello’... accented... Asian.
“Miss Denise, please.”
I curse myself in so humbly requesting the haughty PhD by the demanded reverential salutation.
“Who is calling?”
“One moment please.”
The exchange is in the clipped English of someone learning words by rote... reciting back carefully scripted phrases.
“So you would like to chat.”
It is Miss Denise and as suggested, the woman’s demeanor is no nonsense, skipping all polite greetings and driving to the point.
I clear my throat and my ears detect such humility in enunciating words which I attempt to inflect as stentorian.
“Yes... yes ma’am.”
“Not going to set a cadre of lawyers after me? I retrieved your files from my archives, Bobby. I remembered your face in the bodega but not all the details. You were a fascinating study.”
She laughs and despite the long relaxing soak I feel my circulation rush. Being thought of, referred to, as some kind of laboratory animal incites both memories and anger... but what does one do about it?
Once again while contriving a reply, she cunningly speaks and disrupts what could be a thoughtful verbal parry.
“Stop in tomorrow night, Bobby, 7:00 p.m. The address is on the card. Let’s not call it for drinks... just for a talk. And you will shave... just like the old days... you know what I mean.”
Before replying there is a click. She knows I will be there and she knows I will be shaved. And I know she is correct... which adds to the frustration more than anything else.
The Prince Street address is an old industrial building converted to apartments. Denise Evans, PhD is on the sixth floor of what appears to be a six story building. I am promptly buzzered in without verbal exchange. After a moment’s wait in the lobby, I decide to skip the slow grinding elevator and walk the stairs.
The stairwell is dank and ominous. I am somewhat reminded of the building in Bangkok where I spent three months, only there the heat was oppressive and the New York autumn has chilled the unheated fire protected stairway.
Reaching the sixth floor, I note that the stairway continues upwards to a floor not noted on the lobby directory. A small hallway has only one door. It is ajar and I push it open. Again there is trepidation in entering the unknown lair of my one time interlocutor, the woman who changed my life.
In a dimly lit parlor I am greeted by the voice on the phone. A young Asian woman dressed in black. My eyes struggle to adjust to the light as her accented voice, much more directing than on the phone, commands.
“You follow. Miss Denise see you when prepared.”
My mind is immersed. I am mentally returned to Bangkok. The unknown... the darkness... being ushered by a woman... my unexplained reaction of acceptance in being directed about.
We traverse a set of stairs. There is another floor above. The apartment of Denise Evans PhD is huge and a sconce on the landing provides enough light to better glimpse at the Asian woman. Her face remains obscure but I can see a black leather bodice leaving arms and shoulders bare, short black pleated skirt of satin. Thighs exposed. Knee high leather boots.
She is not a maid.
Down a hallway of some half dozen doors, at the last we enter a large open room. Cabinets occupy a far wall. In the middle is a metal chair. The straps and other paraphernalia attached bring consternation. I gulp and stop in my tracks. The woman continues on to stand behind the chair, turn and face me. She smiles... diabolically. Her face is vaguely familiar yet I am too distracted to recall.
“Miss Denise wants you to be comfortable. She say you know what that mean.”
Yes... I do.
“You put in here,” she gestures to a drawer as I lean to slip out of my shoes.
Belt is unbuckled, slacks dropped, shirt unbuttoned. I slowly disrobe. The Asian woman assists by folding each garment and placing such in the drawer. As I approach outright nakedness she smiles more and more. In completing the task I tremble in being vulnerable and exposed to a woman I have never before met.... or have I?
She locks the drawer then gestures, putting her hands behind her head, indicating that I should follow. I do, finding myself becoming strangely docile. I await as she dons latex gloves.
“You sit. You know the chair. Sit before.”
She laughs, apparently with the image of me helplessly sitting bound and naked. As I approach the peculiar device, a gloved hand smears unguent on the cylinder of rubber protruding from the seat.
“Very slippery. It no hurt.”
More accommodation than I received in the Bangkok jail... if it was in fact a jail.
She motions, crooking her finger. I approach. The trembling increases as she assists in aligning my backside. Latex covered hands guide my hips. For the first time in three years I once again feel the humiliating sensation of a stout rubber object parting my cheeks. I know to slowly lower myself and she has indeed sufficiently lubricated the phallus. It glides past my rectum with embarrassing ease.
The woman chuckles as she works with noted celerity in encircling wrists and ankles with strong nylon straps, simply adhering my limbs to the chair with velcro. Such bindings become ironically frustrating in that a mere child can provide release. Yet without use of my hands I must sit impassively and learn discipline. In Bangkok they termed it obedience. Yes I learned obedience and the lessons remain ingrained in my psyche. I find myself sitting without even testing the bindings.
The special seat, split at just where my scrotal sac hangs, has thigh straps used to hold me well spread. She pulls each over my inner thigh and effortlessly adheres the end to the outside of the chair frame. Satisfied that I am thoroughly bound, a neck collar is retrieved from a cabinet. Broad... stiff... fur lined for comfort... my head will be kept completely immobile as it enshrouds my neck from sternum to chin.
Meanwhile, my penis rises, the pink glans protruding from its foreskin sheath and slowly turning purple. The anal insertion is having its expected effect. Viewing my slow tumescence amuses and the woman knowingly laughs. I am grateful for the dim room light.
“Yes, you sit before. You enjoy.”
Her laughter... her comportment... irritates. Yet I find myself strangely silent. I do not protest. I cannot. I am catatonic in reliving a three year old nightmare.
“Dr. Denise, she be in soon.”
Lastly, a gloved right hand reaches to my pubes, my privates forcibly exhibited by my parted thighs. She examines.
“You shave. Very nice. Very good.”
And with that, the woman flips off the light switch to leave me to my thoughts in the dark... sitting naked... well bound.... completely immobile... anally impaled... and erect.
And is it all so familiar...
Was I in jail in Bangkok?
The unanswered question still rattles my brain. And there are others.
My confidential release agreement was with the Bangkok police department, but the facility was more like a mental institution than a place of incarceration for criminals.
As I sit awaiting Miss Denise my mind wanders. Though it has been three years, everything remains so crystal clear.
Riding in the back of a police car, wrists handcuffed, a towel as my only covering, the police woman continuously gripped my left arm at the elbow. There was something about being nearly naked in her presence, the adrenaline flowing in the excitement of being arrested, if I was arrested, the thought of being controlled, directed against my will... well I suddenly found myself hardening... where a man normally likes to harden... only not in front of a woman police officer and not when at some point the ride will conclude and I will be escorted out of the car.
Yes, as the fast moving car bounced through narrow streets of Bangkok the woman held more firmly, particularly around turns when she knowingly steadied my upper torso so I would not to topple over. Once I realized I had a problem in the groin area it became even more difficult to mentally control and the towel slowly tented as my manhood pressed against the folds.
Then the driver took an unexpected and fast turn. With nothing to hold I leaned. The officer pulled me back and the motion caused my penis tip to find its way through the opening where the two ends of the towel met. Guys know to cover themselves such that the ends of a covering overlap at the hip. In the hotel room, the woman had hastily covered me such that the overlap was at my pubes... just where my penis was ardently attempting to poke through.
I was not sure whether she noticed my predicament but when I pushed my feet together to draw closer my thighs and relieve the tension on the towel she objected. A torrent of Thai words flowed. Apparently keeping one’s feet apart is mandatory in police custody, at least in Thailand, for when I did not respond to her admonition, she pulled out her nightstick and gruffly pushed against my right knee. This action ended all pretense as the towel parted altogether and the tip of my turgid erection popped fully into view.
The look on her face was of alarmed disgust but quickly changed to amusement when she seemed to realize that the vaunted male penis, though virile and normally respected in the Asian culture, was very much under her control.
There were more words, translation unknown, but the tone of her voice mellowed. Not to one of sympathy but more to one of pity and ridicule. As if to indicate ‘poor baby, all aroused and no available climax’. There was a phrase she uttered more than once, posed as a teasing question, which I guessed was something like ‘wouldn’t you like to stroke it?’
Then her free hand brazenly pulled away the front of the towel altogether and there I sat completely exposed. To make matters worse she jostled my testicles with the end of her nightstick to afford herself a better view then began to diddle the underside of my erection with the smooth polished wood.
Mocking words, which I subconsciously translated as ‘you like?’ were teasingly offered and I worked to control myself as the nightstick stroked and the bouncing car added a perverse rhythm to her handiwork.
I was humiliated, yet aroused and my erection seemed to grow and rise to the point that I worried about the driver up front seeing the standing tip in the rear view mirror. When the car stopped in traffic, I became frozen with the fear, concerned that passers-by would see the depraved antics. My apoplexy in turn seemed to thrill the female officer. And of course there was the ultimate concern... finally capitulating to her weapon and ejaculating in the back of a patrol car.
The officer would of course deny all participation in such a degenerate act. That I knew. So I fought off any arousing thoughts and mentally worked to control myself.
But alas, she seemed to sense pending climax for she perfectly timed respites of her diddling with the smooth stick to correlate with those moments when I frantically pulled on my handcuffs... which she rightfully interpreted as unbridled attempts to stroke myself to climax.
She worked then stopped, worked then stooped. Finally, with a glance out the window to ascertain our location, my tormentress abruptly thwacked the very tip of my penis with the end of her nightstick. I gasped in agony as my proud erection quickly detumefied like a pricked balloon. This brought laughter and some words I interpreted as gloating from the woman in control.
As the patrol car turned into a drive, the seemingly delicate hands which had so callously deflated my erection reached over my lap and gently folded the towel over my pubic area.
I wanted to hug her in gratitude.
In hindsight, I admire the entire subterfuge. Rather than vociferously proclaiming my rights as an American citizen, protesting my treatment, threatening to call the American embassy, I spent the entire ride concerned with the exposure of my privates and the licentious deeds of my captor. When the patrol car pulled to a halt, I was more occupied with my nudity than any legal issues.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
I have therefore published it on Lulu.
'The Interrogator'... www/lulu.com/content/7935441
Good stuff. Deep male psychological submission and Feminine control.
I consorted with Sexologists from McGill University in Canada in honing the story line. Glad to exchange thoughts with any readers.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Snippets will be removed.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
“In case you’re wondering, the mask never comes off... ever.”
Yes, Roger is curious. Who wouldn’t be?
Warden Harper sits regally posed in a comfortable chair. Roger sits at her feet on the tiled floor of the large washroom where each and every morning he is bathed and fed by the likes of Matron Rose. Before them a bizarre scene plays out. Whereas Roger is normally closeted in darkness after office hours, Warden Harper for the first time has ‘suggested’ he join her for... ‘some after hours entertainment’.
Matron Morgan, a huge woman of inordinate strength, leads a naked figure on a leash. A slim chain, it connects to a ghastly large loop of metal emanating from the form’s nose. A floppy penis suggests the form is male. Or a one time male... for just as with Roger, beneath the limp appendage is a tuft of pink flesh, its emptiness apparent.
As noted, the only covering is a full leather mask concealing the entire cranium and ending at the neck line. There is a sole opening for the mouth and nose. Yes, both eyes and ears are covered in continuous leather... no openings to enable sight or sound. As Matron Morgan offers instructions, such are loud and enunciated with precision, the hearing obviously impaired.
Roger notes there are tattooed letters on the form’s buttocks. ‘Property of Miss Evelyn’, in bold black. He is amazed at the precise, almost frantic level of obedience, the form instantly reacting to light tugs on the chain and the crisp verbal commands.
“What do you think of Nurse Von Steppel’s nostril binding? Not a piercing. It’s a long elliptical loop which has been threaded into one nostril, hooks through the sinus cavity then exits the other nostril. Quite the effort inserting it then welding the exposed ends together. High quality stainless steel. Strong, rigid. Makes a man feel like something is attached to his brain. And, in fact, it does reside well into his skull. Directing tugs on his leash are quite imposing. There is pain... there is the sense of permanency. Most importantly, there is communicated a sense of consummate governance with the slightest jostle of the leash. A little girl of ninety pounds could offer complete control.”
“Hands up,” Matron Morgan commands in a near shout.
Having positioned the form under the trapeze where Roger is bathed, Matron Morgan secures the uplifted wrists to the bar. She removes the leash then moves to the wall and tugs on a thick rope, raising the bar and the form until such struggles to find the floor with its toes.
Roger notes the form is silenced, the mouth bearing a ball gag or some other sizable insertion, a large hole offering access to air.
Blinded, partially deafened, muted, Roger looks up to note the wry smile on the face of Warden Harper... one of confidence but also serving to cloak a giddy eagerness.
“One of our transgendered inmates, Roger. You’ve noticed, I’m sure, the price he paid for entry here at Bedford Hills Correctional Facility for Women. I am sure also that you’re further wondering whether or not the removal of his balls was voluntary.”
Warden Harper cackles in noting Roger’s shudder.
Matron Morgan ties off the rope leading to the trapeze bar and steps to a cabinet, heretofore closed and locked during Roger’s morning ablutions.
“What do you think my play toy would say if he was able to talk, Roger?”
“I don’t know ma’am. Perhaps beg for release?”
“I’m not sure myself. These canings can be quite cathartic for the sensory deprived. When not dangling for my amusement they’re all kept well bound, always blinded. Nothing to hear. No words to be offered. This is the only thing that they feel... they experience. Rather gracious of me is it not?”
Roger nods, not daring to contradict.
“I will say, if offered the opportunity, it would probably make some minor administrative point. That its sentence for refusing to pay alimony was served out years ago and it is entitled to release. Probably something like that.”
“You’re still keeping him here?”
Warden Harper smiles.
“The paperwork authorizing his release must be somewhere. In time it will be found I am sure. And meanwhile, his ex wife Evelyn so much enjoys the videotapes of these sessions that we send from time to time. Humble offerings of regret from her formerly obstinate ex.”
Warden Harper laughs.
“Yes, she’s one of us. He should not have challenged her resolve.
“Lift your skirt and play with yourself while Morgan plies her craft, Roger. You’ll find her to be most talented with a whippy length a rattan.”
Roger meekly hikes his uniform knowing to fully expose himself to Warden Harper’s amused glance, the plundered scrotum always bringing a look of serene confidence. As Matron Morgan positions herself behind the two hundred pounds of naked vulnerable flesh, Roger toys, learning that there is ironic joy to be found in caressing his empty scrotum.
“I term this song and dance. Hope you enjoy.”
With a nod from Warden Harper, Matron Morgan raises her hand to waist level, draws back her arm and swings, her wrist snapping to apply a most vicious stroke to the left buttock of the helpless form. Firm and crisp, Roger notes that the graceful, casual arm motion was nowhere near the full capability of the stern woman of size and strength.
Yet such an enlivened response! The feet kick in intense agony and air rushes past the gag hole to fill the chamber with a horrifying guttural sound.
Yes... a song... a dance... of agony... of intense suffering. Warden Harper’s smile broadens as she contentedly nestles in her chair.
“After a few strokes, our masochistic toy will lift his feet to expose the soles... welcoming some bastinado. As I said, the suffering can be quite cathartic... somewhat redemptive. In time, it comes to be craved. After all, there is only this... or the unending nothingness of being held in a tight, well secured cage, nostril binding most taut. Which would you choose, Roger?”
Monday, November 2, 2009
"Sit Roger. Let’s talk."
Roger quickly realizes the plain, straight backed chair facing the Warden’s desk is where he and presumably every inmate faces the governess of Bedford Hills Correctional Facility for Women. He humbly sits as Warden Harper likewise reclines into an oversized leather swivel chair behind her desk.
"Hands on head, back straight, knees and heels together," the command comes by rote.
"How’s the uniform? Comfortable wearing clothing again? I read your file. It’s been awhile."
"It feels funny. My nipples chafe against the denim. It’s coarse. Can I have a bra?"
"No. We’ll need you naked from time to time and that would impede."
"And I am still weak."
"And you will remain so. This institution is not a gymnasium. I prefer you meek and compliant. And you will stay that way... for many years."
"You have no balls, Roger. Estrogen will continue to be induced. Cyproterone acetate is obviously no longer necessary with your physical castration. And I am having your dosage of domperidone moderated. You’ll be milked, but it’s time consuming for the infirmary staff."
"I could learn to do it..."
"Below your neck, you’ll not touch yourself... ever. We control everything here, every aspect of an inmate’s existence. You’re to be machine milked in the infirmary at an appointed time."
Roger nods... meekly.
"Now, every inmate has chores here. You will have one overall task... the care and feeding of my little pet... Max. He’s to be kept completely hairless and well cleansed... think of him as a fine piece of sculpture. Feeding. A daily sponge bath. You will tend to his bathroom needs. Anything spilled to the floor you will lick up, Roger. I do not want any embarrassing accidents."
"And most importantly, while I am at work here in the office, Max is to kept tumefied.... hard... stiff... erect... standing at full attention... brought to full height. You choose the term."
"No questions. No objections. I’ll not even have one of my girls lower herself to perform that task. Fellatio is best offered by the male. Besides, I think Emily’s training will be put to good use. And by the way, if Max ever ejaculates, you don’t want to think of the penalty, Roger. No climax... ever... just a nicely controlled erection. I want him always stiff."
"You’ve probably by now guessed of my sexual preference. Yet, having the male organ so humiliatingly displayed is entertaining for me. Max can’t masturbate. Never even gets out of the cage. He just sits... and amuses when he sings for me."
Roger notes the slight movement of the Warden’s right arm. The black box appears. On cue, there come the strange noises emanating from the cage, Max’s head upturned, his mouth expressing to a spot on the ceiling, crowing like a rooster, his testicles having evidently endured another forty volts.
"Power, Roger. It can be intoxicating, don’t you think?"