Sunday, January 31, 2010

Short Story XXXI

There is the psychological relief that prolonged pain and suffering will end. But in addition there is the amazement that Miss Kendra’s diligent efforts offer little discomfort. Yes, the Queen’s booted foot indeed crushed the nerves. For as the Kingdom’s master torturess palms the squashed gonads and twists the sac to expose the left side to the laser scalpel, there is little to be felt.

Once Miss Kendra has decided to end amusing herself, the cat tiring of the mouse, she works with alacrity. The inmate hears a hum. From his stooped over position, belly resting on the castration bench, wrists secured to an above ceiling chain, feet widely parted, he can look upwards to partially observe.

Should he watch?

There is a slight burning sensation. Then, just as intolerance comes, it stops.

“Just a small incision. With the testicles crushed to the consistency of gelatin, such are easily slipped away and removed. You’ll have a nice smooth empty sac when finished... to be displayed to all. And the women of the Kingdom will search in amazement trying to locate my openings. The sac will heal perfectly and within weeks my openings will be unnoticeable.”

He hears soft laughter. Kendra so much enjoys her task.

Fingers pinch and squeeze. The inmate is aghast as he looks up to see one of his most precious balls exiting, expert fingers slipping it through a modest opening. It is pinkish gray and, after nearly an hour of pressure and eventually bearing the Queen’s full weight, horrifyingly shapeless. He closes his eyes in disbelief. Then he hears the shears. Yes, the sounds are aptly described as snips. And such an ironically meek sound. Too have one’s masculinity so timidly brought to an end...

The snips are followed by a metallic plunk. One reproductive organ lost, summarily plopped into a dish resembling a dog’s feeding bowl. The left is forever gone. The inmate opens his eyes to note the fingers carefully suture, tying off vessels, the vas deferens, the nerves. Then the opening is likewise sutured closed.

“In time, feeling here will return... though it will offer you no benefit.”

Kendra laughs in explaining the slow recovery from the trauma of being boarded. Yes, sensitivity will return. But only to frustrate... never again to bring joy.

The laser scalpel returns. The eyes close again, not able to bear the sight. The sac is twisted to expose the right side. More burning, yet too quick.

“I think I will pierce your tongue as well. A nice smooth protuberance at the tip. The ability to offer adequate cunnilingus and fellatio will help you beg for food.”

The fingers again pressing to coax a shapeless lump of pinkish gray from its nest. Then snip, snip, snip. A plunk. Some sutures. Tears begin to flow. The procedure is disconcertingly simple... and with so little to be felt.

Yes, there should instead be a glorious battle in giving up all masculinity. The testicles should be afforded an honorable end. To struggle... to engage in a manly joust... a duel. Instead, they merely drop... and plunk like falling fruit... to becomes trophies... for a woman... of unending wickedness... yet one of insurmountable will... of such admirable power.

“So... your name is Edwin,” Kendra comments in finally reading the inscribed disk. “I shall call you Edwina.”

As there comes the distant feel of a pin prick, a scrotal piercing to bear the bronze identification disk of the castrate, remorse overwhelms. There should be more to the end of one’s masculinity.


Edwina swoons, remaining secured to the castration bench. Despite the numbed scrotum, the Queen’s foot crushing the nerves to end most feeling, there is an amusing male systemic reaction to losing the testicles. In a startled state of denial, shock is the apt term, the psyche is overcome. Thus the head slumps as intense mental trauma ends consciousness. A smiling Kendra heats the branding iron. She has seen the reaction so often.

She’ll not imbue pain to the unconscious. What is the point? But she will allow rest while the last preparations are made. By royal edict, Edwina will bear the letter ‘C’, a three inch mark. Special colored powder will be applied to the open wound. Upon healing, not only will there be permanently keloided flesh, but it will appear to be bright pink, matching the color of the frilly effeminate skirt. Edwina’s altered state is never to be denied.

And so Kendra stokes the blazing coals to assure that the branding iron radiates terrifying hotness. She knows that the psychological element of succumbing to its scarring glow is as important as the physical burning of the flesh.

“Branding time...” Kendra proclaims in a pleasant matronly voice, as if awakening a child from an afternoon nap.

Yes, she coos. She finds that marking a man is as elating as removing his testicles... the permanence bringing soothing thoughts of power. Thus her workings bring forth another level of giddiness.

A left hand grasps the hair. Fingers entwine to acquire a firm grip. It is important that the forehead be immobilized for a three second count... and Kendra is known to count slowly. Fingers of the right hand apply special grease, better to transfer and conduct the heat. Edwina returns to full cognizance. Eyes widen in trepidation. The preparation gel is cool, renewing cerebral activity and with it the irony of renewed awareness as unconsciousness is best. The eyes roll to look about. A sense of reality returns.

His balls rest nearby in a metal dish!

“Please no.”

“But you do want to be released, Edwina. Just think, no more shackles. And I believe a man of your ilk will come to very much enjoy offering oral delectation. Neutering has that effect... the vicarious sensing of pleasure. You will only experience climactic ecstasy by offering such to others, never again for yourself. Yet there will be felt a strange level of joy. In offering fellatio, you will come to sense the male vitality I plucked from your scrotum. I have seen it often. Yes, the Queen has forbidden vile acts of oral sex to be performed by the women of the Kingdom. So when her breeders seek the foreplay of tongue and lips, it will be the miscreant castrates who submit.”

Kendra smiles in noting the horrified reaction to her words. She then assures there is full alertness and reaches with her right, her left hand maintaining its grip. The branding iron is retrieved. She holds it before the alarmed, saucer sized eyes of her castrate. It glows ominously.

“You will never deny your alteration, Edwina. Should you defy the Queen’s mandate of wearing the skirt, your forehead will continue to divulge your status.”

With that, the right hand slowly approaches. Kendra smiles in hearing the pitiful cry even before application. When she presses the hot iron to the flesh, the cry turns to a girlish scream. Powerful arm muscles flex, the grip tightens, the right hand presses with zeal despite the heartfelt protestations. She counts... a most disconcertingly slow... ‘one... two... three’.

The flesh burns. The odor is sickening. The voice box strains, a most comical screech. The head first attempts defiance, the neck muscles straining for release. But Kendra’s grip is strong. Then there comes once again capitulation... more like another swoon... as Kendra’s hand senses that it bears the full weight of the cranium. All muscling slackens. Edwina’s form becomes limp.

“Such a trying day for you, Edwina,” a jovial Kendra notes in finally pulling away the cooled iron.

The left hand releases. The head slumps again.

“Now some special pink powder for the wound, a nice tongue piercing and twenty four more hours in bondage while you heal. Then you’re a free man... or rather a free castrate.”

Thursday, January 21, 2010

Short story XXX

He to be emasculated rides the poles again. Despite Kendra’s words of counsel, the shackled feet squirm, flopping about in futile efforts to find the floor. Tears streams. Heartfelt pleas, muffled by a well stuffed throat, are greeted with a knowing smile. Kendra is in her element... supervising the slow torture of the once virile male.

“Quiet. Calm yourself and I will castrate you soon.”

The words are oddly welcomed as knowing fingers toy with male nipples which she expects will soon be puffing and gaining new found sensitivity. Her touch soothes. And yes, castration will be welcomed indeed. Two simple cuts, some snips, the intense but brief pain of the branding. The emasculated envisions such with great hope. His anus... his mouth no longer to bear his weight. The slow suffering of strappado to end.

The inmate finally manages to control his involuntary lurches. Realizing that his indiscernible entreaties bring more joy than sympathy, he quiets. Kendra’s hands move to the face, her thumbs brushing away an abundance of tears.

“We do it this way so you will remember. Complete capitulation to the superior female. It is the law of the Kingdom. And since you have had problems in the past obeying the law, this will greatly assist.”

Yes, Kendra has tortured so many for so long, she recognizes the non gesture of surrender... telltale quiet... symbolic of new found meekness... awe of her callousness. Yes, there always comes the docility of the subjugated. Physical resistance ends... it always does. There are no further pleas. Her soon to be castrated inmate is broken, accepting of her dominion and whatever fate she chooses to mete.

Kendra smiles then leans. She whispers into his right ear, the warmth of her breath feels oddly good.

“No more shackles. An instant of pain. A nice pink skirt. You’ll be free to roam the Kingdom. In your humility you will soon find a curious degree of hubris in displaying your alteration... an empty scrotum bearing the Royal seal... a symbol of the mastery of the Queen.”

Underscoring her power, Kendra steps back, smiling in admiration of her handiwork. The clear message well received... complete capitulation indeed. The timing is hers. There is no rush.

Broken, beleaguered, ironically eager to face her scalpel, a once petty thief is to become a beggar, to rely on the graciousness of women in the struggle for survival.

Finally Kendra moves to the side.

“Now let’s get those squashed little lumps out of the Queen’s scrotum.”

Gratefully the stool returns. The feet find the surface to relieve the burden, ease the slow suffering of the arms held in strappado, the stress on throat and rectum. Next the forward pole again retreats to slide away the oral dildo.

“Please! Castrate me!”


“Doggie style. I always insist. The results are the same, but it’s so nicely subjugating. Come crawl to me.”

The inmate no longer rides the poles. Though wrist restraints remain, his ankle shackles have been removed in the first step toward his ignominious emancipation. Fully clothed Kendra, donning a white uniform in deference to the medical procedure to be undertaken, sits and snaps her fingers. The inmate obediently responds, shuffling his knees to approach.

“Turn. Over the bowl. Knees wide apart. Forehead to the floor.”

He complies. Fingers of a gloved left hand slide into a lubricated and well opened rectum. The fingers of the right, ungloved, reach under and between the thighs to find the penis. Kendra smiles to herself in noting it is semi stiff... and rapidly firming.

Yes, the psychologically broken male so much enjoys showing off for the governing woman.

“Now, I’m going to masturbate you. One final ejaculation before life as a functioning male ends. I want you to perform for me. Put on a little show. It will be memorable for both of us.”

Kendra talks as she strokes. The inmate bristles with the pangs of pleasure. Goose bumps form. Her hand is most sensuous and knowing. It grips tightly, communicating a message of control, but also expertly rubs the most sensitive of erogenous zones with deft skill.

The penetrating fingers of the left hand find the prostate and knead. Within seconds there comes full erection and Kendra slowly pulls the organ downward and back toward her, knowing such an awkward angle will forestall the ultimate male pleasure. Meanwhile her hand continues to stroke and twist to bring ecstasy long denied in the Queen’s stark dungeon.

“I can keep a man on the edge until he exhausts himself, my emasculated friend. I usually stroke until I become bored, then I have him spend. Then comes the little cuts and the snips.”

The daunting words no longer stun. Pleasure is being had, and the inmate fully understands it is his last. He also understands the mental nature of the protocol... ‘we do it this way to make it memorable’.

He will remember indeed.

Hips begin to rock, accentuating the motion of Kendra’s hand, desperately trying to bring the ultimate. But the angle is Kendra’s to control. And she knows there will be no final release until she decides.

Meanwhile there is great amusement. Kendra revels in the moment. A male she will soon permanently alter is physically beseeching her for one last instant of male pleasure. And it is hers to bestow... not his to take.

The hand slows as the hips rock more exaggeratedly. Kendra softly laughs as the motion of copulation is emulated. Finally she stops stroking and merely grips, rolling her hand such that the underside of the penis tip is no longer frottaged. The inmate moans in disappointment, the joy quite diminished. Yet the hips work with renewed fervor.

“I think you’d like to fuck my hand. Yes, let’s have that as your final climax. Pretend my hand is like the aperture your anus will soon become... a nice warm and tight place to pleasure the intact male.”

With that, Kendra slightly shifts the angle of the penis and renews kneading the penis tip. The inmate thrusts forcefully with his hips. Kendra knows to twist. There comes a muffled groan. Another thrust. Kendra rights the penis. She twists with resolve. The organ explodes, spurting to hit the bowl as it is Kendra’s prerogative to direct.

More thrusts. The organ spurts again. Again. Again. She drains.

Finally the inmate labors with his bent knees, pulling himself from her hands. His legs collapse and he rolls in exhaustion to his side.

Kendra chortles with the demonstration of male drive... under thorough feminine control... soon to be forever curtailed. A foot pushes a fluid splattered bowl toward the inmate’s face.

“Note that your effluent is perfectly clear. There is no sperm, just prostatic fluid. Your balls no longer function.”

With that, Kendra arises to gather her castration implements... nothing more than a laser scalpel, a small set of shears and some sutures.

“It is time. Come... lean over my castration bench. And be sure to spread nice and wide for me.”

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

Short story XXIX

Been having internet problems. But the writing continues.

“It’s a fiendishly clever torture, is it not? There is not only the physical pain and duress, but the psychological side. Men are not accustomed to being impaled, for the most part. But then again, it is probably best that you no longer consider yourself male.”

The inmate stands on a small stool. His wrists, shackled as always behind his back, are secured above, hooked to a cable emanating from a ceiling hook. He is thus stooped at the waist. Strappado is the common term for the age old torture.

Yet it is not strappado that most aggravates. Before the inmate and behind are vertical poles. Attached are dildos, able to be raised or lowered according to height, accommodating inmates both tall and short.

Kendra has casually placed her prospective ‘patient’ between the poles, and in standard procedure, penetrated both the oral and anal openings with the stout, firm lengths of rubber.

“When I perform a final alteration, I prefer a man request the attention of my castrating hands. It comforts to hear a man beg to lose his precious testicles. Matter of fact, it more than comforts, it makes me giddy with happiness. And you’re to have a new role in life... making women happy.”

The inmate cannot respond, mouth filled with rubber... throat stuffed to the point that the he must suppress the gag reflex. And of course there is equal aggravation felt between his cheeks. Though Kendra graciously lubricated, the sizable dildo is intended to bring both pain and a sense of vulnerability... and it is effective.

“So when you’re ready to beg, you will blink twice. After that I will release you and we’ll have a little talk. I like to hear the humble request, your final words as an intact male. Then I will snip away, brand you and have you in a nice pink skirt ready to face your new life. Think of the freedom you’ll have. No more shackles.”

Kendra reaches beneath. The fingers of right hand and left gently knead and diddle the nipples. The touch of her fingers is amazing sensuous considering... considering the procedure such will soon perform.

“Until then you’ll ride for me. The record interval is nearly an hour. I suggest you not try to break it.”

Kendra laughs sensing the nipples harden in response. The inmate curses his involuntary reaction.

“These little nubs will become quite the erogenous zone for you, my soon to be neutered friend.”

The eyes water. Tears begin to form as the inmate mentally confronts his fate.

“Oh, now don’t cry. Your balls are useless to you and must be removed. It must be quite humiliating to have lost them to a woman’s foot. Yet, there should be a degree of pride. After all, it was the foot of the monarchy. If one must be emasculated, it may as well be done by a royal boot.”

Kendra laughs with the maudlin look.

“And you’ll have some special jewelry to wear.”

Kendra turns. From the nearby tray, the tools of castration awaiting, she retrieves a circular disk of bronze.

“Etched with the Royal seal to obviate tampering. On the other side your name, your crime, the date of your castration... to be displayed to all. A bell will be attached to announce your presence. And it will hang from where those crushed testicles now hang. It is the Queen’s mandate. Evidence of your neutering will forever dangle between your thighs, attached to your empty scrotum.”

Kendra steps to the rear. Her free hand palms where she will soon incise. Where once indeed dangled manly plums, there is now found a mass of jello, incarnadine with the trauma of a royal boot. Yes, the inmate was boarded, his testicles slowly squeezed until they popped, bringing much mirth to the Queen and cries of intense agony from the emasculated. As required, the useless organs must be removed... but not until there is final concession, words comprising the most ignominious request.

Kendra’s thumb and forefinger squeeze, normally inducing a reaction of pain. Instead there is not even a quiver, the boarding having crushed the nerves along with vessels and semen ducts. The inmate is no longer a functioning male. But under the Queen’s mandate, he must present himself as such as well, the scrotal sac emptied. Yes, the branding iron heats. Keloided flesh of the forehead forming the letter ‘C’ will announce his status... the pink skirt to be raised at the simple request of any female... the belled disk to hang within view of all... its chiming to proclaim the status of the bearer... his crime never to be denied... his obvious punishment a deterrent for all.

The hand glides forward. Kendra smiles in noting that the penis is somewhat firm, the dildo spurring the curious reaction despite the trauma of emasculation and the stress of strappado and impalement.

“You’re becoming stiff for me. How considerate of you to display your last erection. I like castrating erect men. Blink for me and I’ll have it standing like never before... and never again.”

Kendra laughs and returns to the tray.

“Remember, blink twice and then I will snip.”

With that, the inmate, having somewhat acclimated to the dual penetration, is appalled when Kendra steps to his side and her foot slowly pushes the stool out from under the shackled ankles. The feet begin to frantically search for the floor, yet the surface is not to be found. The inmate’s form shifts, to be born orally and anally, the impaling dildos bearing his entire weight. As the strappadoed arms labor to relieve the stress, there comes a throaty, indiscernible wail of distress as Kendra laughs.

“I believe you will find it is best to remain perfectly still. And even better still if you blink.”


“Fifteen minutes is not too bad, my emasculated friend. But you could have gone longer if you had not so frantically kept searching for the floor with your feet.”

A smiling Kendra, having noted the exaggerated double blink, graciously works a lever to slide away the front pole. The mouth dildo slips away. The inmate, feet returned to the small stool, senses the relative relief. There are stifled sighs of gratitude, tears now of joy streaming down his cheeks.

Yes, he is to endure castration. But there will come the end of the inexorable pain. Only a life of humiliation will follow.

The dildo exits, glinting in the room light with a coating of saliva.

“Now you will offer the words. But first let me give you some of my experience in castrating men.”

Kendra steps most proximate and gently brushes the inmate’s hair then kneads the right ear. It brings strange comfort.

“You will never forget this. And never forget me. And I like that. It empowers... and exhilarates. And I want to be sure you understand that. Those useless little nuts will join my collection. And you will feel great relief.”

The head nods, words not easily found.

“After I empty your sac, you will find yourself lethargic. There will come mental changes... confusion. You will develop a need for guidance... like a kitten in need of a protective mother cat. You will constantly seek... but you will know not for what. And there will come a curious need to talk to me, your castratrix. I have so many that approach me like abandoned puppies. And there will be times when you will desire the pain you have so diligently tried to avoid. In lacking the ability to climax, forever robbed of the ultimate male pleasure... pillaged by a woman’s hand... you will seek catharsis. Most favor a good caning... to the buttocks... to the feet. And if you choose to visit... and you will... I will accommodate.”

Kendra smiles noting the slight nod of understanding.

“Yes, we will bond, you and me... castratrix and castrate. There will come this sense of loss... and a need for counsel... to converse... with the woman who forever altered you. Yes, psychologically you will convince yourself that I have the power to return your masculinity.”

Kendra gently laughs, her kindliness enjoyingly ironic, offered before the quick incisions and snips which will end all maleness. She is superior. And the inmate knows it. She has the power of great will, plundering the scrotal sac as one would harvest fruit. Mere moments of her time will forever bring change.

“Just think of your new existence, my emasculated friend. You’re going to become wonderfully plump. Without your balls soft layers of feminine fatness will develop. The silk skirt we’ll dress you in will begin to feel most welcomed. A desire for other fine garments will grow. Smooth, soft, gaily colored... you’ll learn to relish the feel.”

Kendra’s discourse is accompanied with soothing strokes of her hands. She playfully taps the nose.

“So let me hear the words now. With a courteous request we’ll have those nasty male organs gone forever.”

There comes a pause. Kendra again reaches beneath. Right nipple and left are once again caressed. The inmate relents. He has no control... no basis for further resistance.

“Please, Miss Kendra. I need to be released. Would you please take them?”

“Take what? Be very specific.”

“Would you please snip.”

“You mean you would like to be castrated. Be very, very clear. Say the words.”

“Miss Kendra, would you please castrate me?”

The hands retreat. The smile glows. There is a moment of quiet glee. Then the pole is slowly pushed back into position, the dildo again introduced to the lips and mouth.

“Yes. But I’d like to see you ride just a little longer...”

Monday, January 4, 2010

Short Story XXVIII

You women are so cruel!


The maids are summoned. The Baroness offers her simple words, ones which Murtoff both welcomes and detests.

“Drain him please, ladies.”

“No. Please not in front of so many,” the young male protests.

“Hush, Murtoff. The Queen is to be amused.”

The uniformed duo, one young, one of middle age, need not a second invitation. They smirk. The woman of middle age sits on the couch facing the glass table. She lifts the hem of her uniform, a flowing ankle length skirt, well up to her hip. Beneath is revealed a shapely gam, a thigh not overly plump but of abundant firm feminine flesh. The second maid, young, pretty grabs Murtoff by his ear. When he offers a modicum of resistant, he receives a resounding smack on his right buttock. This brings laughter from his sisters and a knowing smile from the Baroness.

“No matter the level of satisfaction offered, for some reason he resists,” the Baroness comments. “Godiva is from Scandinavia and has masturbated boys all her career. The hands of an angel. Yet there is so little appreciation for her talents.”

The pretty maid positions Murtoff facing the coffee table his back side to Godiva. The observing eyes of the women note that he stiffens more, the Queen’s crop serving as catalyst, the ignominy of appearing naked and being commanded by a maid seeming to complete the lad’s march to full tumescence.

Using the ear as leverage, Murtoff is bent at the waist. A knowing hand quickly offers lubrication to his anus. He is then positioned to straddle the sizable uncovered thigh. As he is directed to sit, the Queen notes that the fingers Godiva’s left hand slowly impale his rectum.

“You work his prostate... at such a young age?”

“They are all the same, your Majesty. They will moan, object, lurch about, wriggle in protest but in the end they enjoy... and it is best for them,” the matronly Godiva offers with confidence.

The Queen nods, noting that as the pretty maid releases the ear and moves to the side, Murtoff displays a raging erection. She also notes the hands obediently remain atop his head.

“He is of good size, Baroness. He will not enjoy being caged.”

The women collectively laugh. Murtoff has not yet realized that as intense as the humiliation is, adulthood will be worse. But at his age, one cannot sit back and docilely submit to a woman’s commanding touch. Yet he does. His antics are insignificant to the process. In the end he will most shamefully give up his seed.

The right arm of Godiva slides over the flesh of Murtoff’s right hip. A hand finds the standing manhood and ever so gently begins to toy. Godiva is indeed masterful, her fingers dance and bring mirth to the observing women as Murtoff finds that his organ inadvertently waggles in response. The Queen smiles knowingly. There is no doubt that the unseen fingers of the left hand furtively knead well within the lad’s anus. The Baroness has hired well.

Within moments Murtoff begs.

“Please, stroke and let me spend.”

“But you did not want to feel Miss Godiva’s touch a moment ago,” the Baroness chides.

All laugh. Godiva jostles her leg. Murtoff rides as if on a pony, helpless to resist, his penis bobbing about. The Queen imagines that the warm flesh of the thigh pressing against the youthful scrotal sac must augment the sensate input. Murtoff appears overwhelmed, yet Godiva’s hand has yet to fully stroke.

Meanwhile, the kitchen empties, more of the Baroness’s staff join the entourage, word out that the young ‘master’ of the house is being made to perform.

“You know you must ask for some clips, Murtoff. You know that pretty young Minerva so much enjoys decorating you. If you take a clip perhaps I will stroke,” Godiva lectures.

Godiva proves to be quite the tease, withholding what the turgid shaft most demands. The Queen notes that the young maid, Minerva, retracts trinkets from the pocket of her uniform.

“I don’t want him to ever feel pure pleasure, your Majesty. We’ve devised a little ritual which demonstrates feminine control, amuses my girls and in the end teaches Murtoff a lesson... that all pleasure comes at a price,” the Baroness explains.

The penis tip turns from deep crimson to purple. Despite the frequency of masturbatory displays the sisters gawk. A finger tip diddles the underside of the standing erection. Finally Murtoff pleads, the words expected.

“I will take a clip, please.”

Minerva smiles. For the first time Queen notes a tinge of sadism, her look transforming from pleasant amusement to libidinous joy.

“Where shall the first clamp go, girls?” the calm voice disguising her eagerness.

“A nipple,” the younger sister proclaims with glee.

Minerva steps forth, the fingers of her left hand gather some flesh of the right male mammary gland. The right succinctly applies a small but cruelly serrated clamp to the very tip. Murtoff howls in agony and the Queen notes that Godiva times her first fervent stroke of the penis to coincide. Yes her grip finally firms, slowly drawing down the entire length, instantly countering the pain of the nipple clamp.

The Queen notes Murtoff’s flesh, the many small bumps those of goose flesh. With the howl, there is intensity of pain... but also of pleasure. Yes, Murtoff will not take well to being caged. His forthcoming chastity will be most frustrating... the masturbation of the male in this household a most cathartic ritual... which though painful and humiliating will be missed.

“Another stroke, Murtoff? Minerva has many clamps.”

“His scrotum,” the older sister cries out before Murtoff can reply.

Sunday, January 3, 2010

Short Story XXVII

Some CFNM. A subtle form of D/s interaction, but curiously enjoyable for me.


“So good of you to visit, your Majesty.”

Whereas many of those who greet the Queen utter insincere words of flattery, the Baroness is in earnest. Amongst the women of the Kingdom, the Queen is idolized. Under her rule there are well controlled husbands, abundant oral servitude, and most gratifying sex, offered by gigolos of great prowess whenever the urge percolates. The Gynecocracy flourishes.

“I am warmed by your hospitality, Baroness. I trust bringing my servants is not burdensome. They will not eat, drink nor become bothersome in any manner.”

“Of course not, your Majesty.”

“Besides, I think it is appropriate for your daughters, observing the interaction of superior female and subservient male, don’t you think?’

“Yes, of course.”

Following the Queen into the Baron’s mansion... of late more frequently referred to as the Baroness’s mansion... are her beast and the cherubic castrate whose tongue as been trained to dance.

“Corner!” comes a simple command as the Queen points, riding crop in hand.

The parlor of the mansion is vast, designed to accommodate many. The beast has been assigned a far corner where he will be exhibited. His chains clank, noisily slithering across the tile floor as he knows to obediently assume a stance of quiet submission. For his travels he bears the prostate stimulator and weights have been added... to nipple badges and hobbling chain. He will not dash off in escape. And his ponderous presentation sends the desired message... the Queen rules over all things male!

“Keep him firm,” comes a command to the naked castrate.

The hermaphrodite skips behind. When the beast positions himself, he kneels to suck the scrotal sac.

“I would like to introduce my daughters, your majesty.”

“Of course. It is the purpose of my tour of the Kingdom to spread the gospel of gynecocracy... that women here are empowered. And you have a son as well.”

“Yes, your Majesty. Not yet of age for the cockcage.”

“I see. So he is being masturbated.”

“Yes, regularly, your Majesty. By the maids.”

“Good. He’ll most feel the drudgery of chastity when it is his turn to serve.”

Into the parlor step the adolescent daughters. Young, pretty, demure, each curtsies, their eyes wandering to the odd duo in the corner... a naked well chained male... an equally naked, neutered oral servant.

“Good afternoon, ladies. I see you find my entourage of interest,” the Queen graciously greets.

“Yes, your Majesty,” the eldest daughter meekly offers.

“As you are aware things have changed under my rule. You should know that the chained one, his penis standing as tribute to his governess, was once my lover. Had he not demonstrated typical male behavior, he would now be Prince Consort, a man of great influence. Instead he squandered the benefits of my devotion by sharing affection, what belonged to me as Princess, with a chambermaid. He now shares affection with another male... a one time male.”

The daughters titter, warming to the words of confidence and the display of dominion. As intended, the impressionable girls feel imbued with a degree of power of their own in the presence of the Queen and her well controlled male servants.

“And in a way I am grateful to my beast. But for his disloyalty, there would not have been awakened within this sense of governance, this epiphany that the male is best ruled... by a woman of purpose.”

Sauntering into the room, bashfully stepping behind a couch, a young male reluctantly presents himself. He is naked. And it is apparent that in a room of fully clothed women, his state of deshabille is of concern.

“My son, your Majesty,” the Baroness suppressing a smile.

“Come here lad. My decree of nudity for the male is so that you be displayed and humbled. I note the latter objective has been attained.”

The lad steps forth.

“Your hands, Murtoff. In the presence of ladies...” the Baroness reminds.

The hands move to rest atop the head as the young male somewhat prances. When commanded by a woman, his shyness melts, obediently moving with alacrity.

“So... Murtoff is your name.”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

“And what is your new role in this household... a bastion of female supremacy in my realm of gynecocracy.”

“I clean the toilets, your majesty.”

“Good. A suitable charge. Henceforth, Murtoff, I want you to lick the brims when your task is completed. That will assure your best efforts... and begin to build the strength of that tongue of yours. You will need it.”

The daughters giggle. The Queen notes their enjoyment of Murtoff’s discomfort, standing naked before the attired Queen... comfortably but regally nonetheless.

“Yes, Baroness, I see my decree is functioning well. Your daughters are well amused,” the Queen’s crop hand lowering, the soft leather finding the tip of Murtoff’s penis.

“You are masturbated by the maids, Murtoff. Yet, you seem to be stiffening. You remain randy.”

“It happens, your Majesty,” the lad stammers, struggling to find the words as his young organ absorbs the commanding yet strangely sensuous touch.

“That is good. As you see in viewing my beast, I like the sight of the erect penis... when properly controlled. When did this little thing last spew seed?”

“It was... it was... two nights ago your Majesty.”

“Well that must seem like an eternity for a lad of your age.”

Murtoff remains silent. He has no basis for judging, the release of his semen completely under the auspices of the maids.

“It must be wonderfully conflicting for you, Murtoff, being stroked by a maid. There is the ultimate pleasure... but also the ultimate humiliation. What is the regimen for his masturbation?”

“Here in the parlor, before the women of the household, your Majesty. It is best for him,” the Baroness matter-of factly offers.

“Well then, perhaps an exhibition for me. Before dinner.”

“I will get the maids, your Majesty. We usually have Murtoff stroked right here. The glass top of the coffee table makes for a most humbling receptacle for his sperm. And there is plenty of room for the girls to watch... and all the other maids as well.”

“Then so be it. Whom am I to deny you the joy of observing such an enthralling household ritual.”

Friday, January 1, 2010

Short Story XXVI

The beast stands to the side of a throne like chair. Chained to the ceiling by his neck collar, he struggles on toes, prostate stimulator inserted, penis stiff, fluid drooling between his thighs from the opening of Kendra’s urethral reroute.

Kneeling before him, the broad long tongue of the Queen’s castrate laves his scrotal sac. Sitting with a smile of confidence is the Queen.

“After a suitable number of my subjects have viewed you, I will have you returned to Kendra and the pump. Meanwhile, the image of your well bound nakedness has served me well. No one doubts the earnestness of my decree of gynecocracy. We have in mere weeks encased almost every cock in the Kingdom.”

Before the trio stretches a sizeable, high ceilinged area of the Palace. Adjoining the kennels, the former King had the addition built in order to review the Royal hounds without subjecting such to the heat of the desert.

“I am not the dog fancier that my father was. But there are certain amusements to be had with an inspection tour from time to time.”

With that, a low trap door in the far wall opens and a pair of Irish wolf hounds enters the fenced in arena. Young, powerful, the pair lope about, masterpieces of pure breeding.

“My breeding males. Amazingly powerful, they can crush a human arm in their jaws.”

A second low door opens. A human form crawls through then struggles to stand. The beast stares in disbelief. It is somewhat familiar. Completely hairless, naked, hands appearing to secured behind the back, it is the chambermaid who years before furtively offered sexual favors... quick but most energetic doggie style sex in various Palace hideaways.

“Yes, it’s your little trollop chambermaid, my beast. She also serves as a symbol of my power. I have the household help come here and observe a few times per year. Greatly diminishes any desire to copulate behind my back.”

Finally arising to her feet without the use of hands, the young naked form most gingerly walks on toes, humbly approaching the faux throne of the Queen.

“Good afternoon, your Majesty. It is most gracious of you to come here and watch while I am fucked once again. I so much enjoy your attention and amusing you.”

The most humiliating words are clearly and plainly enunciated, as if announcing on stage, a practiced speech.

“Good of you to entertain me. Have you been fucked today?”

“Oh, yes, your majesty, the hounds very much enjoy me. I am penetrated often, as often as they desire.”

“Show us your cunt. Your former lover has not recently had the pleasure.”

The girl instantly turns and bends deeply at the waist, backing towards the Queen to fully display her feminine charms. The beast notes that the use of her hands is very much impeded by piercings and a set of rings. The thumbs, right and left, are ringed above the knuckle. Such appear to be permanently attached to large and deeply penetrating rings cruelly thrust through the gluteus maximus muscle of each buttock.

As the girl bends she parts her feet then tugs with her thumbs to most obscenely spread herself open for the Queen’s visual enjoyment. It is apparent the odd restraints have no other purpose then to facilitate the offering of her anus.

“I have mandated she be kept hairless... completely. She is not to be groomed as impeccably as the Royal hounds and I do not want lice. Thus she is kept bald. And you will note, my beast, that I had her infibulated, essentially suturing together her inner labia. But not before inserting some rather clever balls into her vagina. While she is being fucked anally the balls jostle the vaginal walls and offer the most tantalizing pangs of feminine pleasure. I have turned my little nymphomaniac into an outright pleasure addict. She now takes the knot of my hounds... many times per day... and thanks me for it. Is that not right girl?”

“Yes, your majesty. I thank you so much for allowing me to be fucked by your hounds. It is a privilege.”

The Queen smiles in smug satisfaction as the beast’s eyes inspect. The anus is indeed well used. Traces of spunk appear, evidencing the girl’s admission of having mated earlier. Below the spread opening there is the expected pink flesh of the vaginal opening. But instead of inviting penile penetration, there is what appears to be the closed mouth of a serpent.... sutured shut indeed. Below the slit there is a glimmer of metal. As the girl moves to spread it tinkles. She has been pierced at the clitoris, obviously bringing further tantalization with restrained hands unable to offer the satiation of caressing fingers.

“And how is the bastinado, my girl? I note you are not walking as well. I trust the searing pain is welcomed.”

“It is considerate of you to have my feet caned, your Majesty. The pain is indeed welcomed after so many couplings with your hounds. It cools the unsatiated desire brought but so many deeply penetrating pizzles. And it is better that I not be on my feet... to stay kneeling to best please the dogs. I can better spread and assure I am ready at all times for coupling.”

With that, one large hound approaches, growls in communicating some message then licks at the closed vaginal opening.

“She is ovulating, my beast. It is the best time to observe her with the hounds. Her scent will cause them to arouse quickly and most energetically. The olfactory nerves of the male mammal do not change from specie to specie. My hounds want her. Note how that one is firming...”

There comes a bark... muffled, another form of communication. The girl seems to understand.

“Offer yourself girl. We came to watch you gratify the Royal hounds.”

The girl instantly unlocks her knees and lowers, gliding to the surface of the arena in a much practiced ritual, her forehead greeting the soil. The beast watches as in an oft repeated motion, she obsequiously yields. The canines are her masters. She works her thumbs to pull her buttock rings and more fully open her cleft, posturing and moving to maximize the dog’s entry and resulting pleasure.

“So, pumping water for the Palace may not seem as laborious, does it my beast? Or perhaps you’d like to join my nymphomaniac in the arena after the hounds finish. She is anally penetrated at least five to six times per day, that once tight opening a wellspring of hound spunk... worn to hamburger meat by day’s end. But most meaningful is that she has come to enjoy her new role, exemplifying the Queen’s intolerance for dalliance. I do not have to take heed with my serving staff. A very chaste and proper lot I now employ...”