Saturday, August 28, 2010

Free Story on Lulu/The Masturbatrix

A slow Saturday morning and no ideas, limited inspiration for writing.

So I found an old story, posted years ago on some kinky sites, that may serve to amuse.

It's rather whimsical, a fantasy setting a little over the top compared to my recent stuff.

But I like it.

The Masturbatrix from 2002. The complete story of some 14,000 words is offered for free. See


Copyright 2002 by Chris Bellows

Part One

Even as a teenager, the male phallus had fascinated Ms. Lucinda Contrell, but not in the normal sense of youthful wonderment and curiosity. No, Lucinda Contrell’s interest was in control..., manipulation..., making the odd cylinder of flesh stand for her..., and after a suitable interval of play, suitable for her enjoyment of course, perhaps..., just perhaps..., permitting it to attain the strange spasmodic release which its custodian seemed to think was its paramount function.

And so Ms. Lucinda Contrell, respectfully called Miss Lucinda by her male underlings, considered her position of employment to be the pinnacle of her fulfilling career as the masturbator of boys.

Yes, years before at age 28 Miss Lucinda had quickly risen to the position of Chief Masturbatrix at the infamous Degradation Club, that secretive but notorious enclave where the wealthy Dominant women of the world vent their demented proclivities.

There were other employees of the club who achieved noteworthy status at a young age. The Whipmistress was 30. The Director of Bondage had been promoted to her exulted status at age 27. There were excellent nurses, fresh out of school, who could psychologically break the most belligerent of recruits within an hour of having him strapped to the examination table. But all admired Miss Lucinda’s skill, an unusual combination of both physical strength and knowledge of the male anatomy that proved to be so entertaining for the grateful members of the Club..., entertaining and rewarding.

Miss Lucinda learned early on that delighting the members of the Degradation Club could not only provide self satisfaction but could also be tremendously lucrative. Gratuities were generously offered for a pleasing exhibition of male humiliation, and so at age 32 Miss Lucinda’s bank account was continuing to grow along with her talent and her desire to provide the ultimate exhibition..., having a virile tumefied young male squirm for climactic release, but extending his torment until that most coveted moment..., when a subtle nod or perhaps a casual motion of the hand of a woman..., yes a Dominant woman..., signaled Lucinda to finally allow the slippery, turgid manhood to ignominiously empty itself, spewing male seed in the direction of her choosing.

Normally a young male would welcome the opportunity to ejaculate. But when restrained in Miss Lucinda’s masturbation harness, swinging helplessly at the end of a soft but taut nylon rope, with various Dominant females ogling well-exposed genitals, the ordeal proved to be mentally overwhelming, imparting upon the naked male an indescribable level of embarrassment, which of course added a welcomed dimension for the viewing members and guests.

Miss Lucinda’s day begins with the driver of the Club’s limousine patiently awaiting her descent from her lavish Fifth Avenue coop apartment. He cautiously reads the paper, frequently glancing out to ensure Miss Lucinda does not step out of the lobby elevator early. When the dashboard clock reads 6:59 a.m., he puts aside the paper and exits. Miss Lucinda may occasionally be early, but she is never late. Thus, even on a cold winter’s day he humbly stands outdoors knowing that if it is Miss Lucinda’s hand that reaches the door handle first, there will be a price to be paid.

The large windows of the lobby reveal the arrival of the elevator. Miss Lucinda exits. She is radiant in her simple attire and make up. Since her first endeavor of the day will be an extensive workout in the Club’s gymnasium, Miss Lucinda expends little effort in enhancing her natural beauty. Still, she draws attention. Standing at more than six feet and some 170 pounds, she is noticed. And as a woman of color traversing the lobby of one of new York’s most exclusive residential buildings, her focused march causes heads to turn. The doorman once commented that he didn’t need to look to know that Ms. Lucinda Contrell had entered the lobby, he could feel the concrete floor move and sense from the hushed reaction that the tall ebony goddess was distracting all present from both conversations and chores.

So on this cold morning the doorman once again senses her arrival, this time by just looking at the driver straighten up in a comical attempt to make himself appear more than the mere obsequious male that he is.

Before needing to turn his head, he swings open the large glass door, then pivots to greet the Coop’s most alluring resident.

“Good morning, Ms. Contrell.”

Miss Lucinda returns the greeting but without hesitation proceeds to the car where the driver’s quavering hand dutifully pulls open the rear door.

“Good morning Miss Lucinda,” the driver using the more familiar diminutive.

Little do the employees and residents of the Coop realize that in utilizing the moniker the driver acknowledges her status as Chief Masturbatrix within the Degradation Club hierarchy. It pleases her.

“You’ve spilled coffee, Albert,” Miss Lucinda comments with a smile.

A doe skinned gloved hand reaches out, ostensibly to highlight the offending spot. But with her back shielding Albert from the eyes of the curious doorman, a knowing hand does more than to point out a beige stain on Albert’s white shirt. It briefly traces over the cloth then moves downward to the front of the black slacks. A crooked index finger smooths over the zippered area where a man normally welcomes a woman’s touch. Albert’s shoulders straighten more, bringing himself to an ingrained and humbled posture of attention before the imposing black beauty.

“Things like this earn you a stint with the Miss Stenson.”

The mere mention of the name causes Albert’s knees to partially buckle. Miss Stenson is the Club’s Whipmistress, and the image of her perfectly proportioned, booted, gloved and leather- clad body invokes fear.

Still, even with the trepidation, the briefest of caresses from the most accomplished Masturbatrix has its effect. Albert feels himself stiffen. The fact that Miss Lucinda is also well aware of his subservient reaction causes to rapidly cascade the process of achieving erection. Albert can do nothing other than to feign pleasant conversation while Miss Lucinda expertly brings him to full tumescence with a simple digit of her right hand.

Age old memories of hanging in her harness accelerate the process. And Albert involuntarily closes his eyes as within seconds Miss Lucinda’s single finger causes his slacks to tent.

“I hope the steering wheel won’t cause discomfort,” Miss Lucinda laughingly observes as she mercifully terminates her guileless but effective efforts and enters the limousine.

Albert closes the door and moves quickly to the driver’s door, hoping that his bulging pants are not noticed. In achieving his 21st birthday, his duties changed from that of naked and caged sycophant, humbly awaiting Miss Lucinda’s skilled hand, to that of staff servant. But still, the pay is good and Albert is sanguine knowing that if he begs enough, one of the Club’s nurses may take pity, strip him and let him lick her shoes during a lunch or coffee break. Otherwise, his advanced age of 23 obviates any further ejaculatory displays before a gathering of Degradation Club members.

And so, as an aroused Albert steers the lengthy black car into traffic, he calms his excitement by convincing himself that a certain blond German nurse will find his stiffness amusing enough to supervise the taking of a sperm sample, something normally done with only the newly arrived youthful applicants. But Albert soon finds that Miss Lucinda is correct, the zipper covering the bulbous tip of his maleness brushes the steering wheel and with each turn his arousal heightens.

With the early hour the car speeds through normally crowded Manhattan streets. Reaching 57th Street Albert hears the calm, authoritative voice of his passenger.

“You may unzip, Albert. You appear uncomfortable.”

There are only two blocks remaining in the journey. Albert hopes the sidewalk will be void of pedestrians, for when he complies with Miss Lucinda’s ‛suggestion’ his erection pops through the opening in his pants. The exposure and the fear of a passerby peering through the windshield spurs Albert to accelerate through a changing traffic light. He leans to activate the button for the overhead garage door and in so doing presses his penis against the steering wheel. It feels good. Albert begins to conspire for relief. The Club facilities are well monitored and it has been made very clear that unauthorized masturbation can subject a male to the nastiest of punishments.

Alas, a visit to the nurse will definitely be in order, he concludes.

The clandestine Degradation Club occupies three deep subterranean floors in a Midtown skyscraper. The garage door provides the only entrance and facilitates anonymous visits by the wealthy famous members. No one knows who rides in the back of the daily parade of arriving darkened limousines until the vehicles stop in the very bowels of the building. Thus once Albert enters, his exposed manhood, however embarrassing, will not subject him to the ridicule of the vanilla world or possible interdiction by law enforcement officers.

Albert notices an ambling pedestrian approaching the sidewalk near the garage. Again he accelerates and whips the large auto through the open door before he needs to pause to let the elderly prudish woman cross in front. After passing over the sidewalk, the rear view mirror shows that the overhead door immediately closes. A relieved Albert guides the limousine down a circular ramp.

The space occupied by the Club was originally intended for use as a vault for a large brokerage firm. Numerous mergers within the securities industry made the secured footage superfluous. A certain well known real estate magnate, a one time subservient to a prominent member of the Club, provides the vast space at a nominal rent. Rather graphic photos proved to out weight the economic remuneration the space would normally command. Thus somewhere in the Club’s archives is an unbreakable 99 year lease safely tucked away along with negatives that are said to be luridly revealing for the landlord..., a man whose extensive but leveraged holdings require that he have the respect of staid bankers.

Continued use of the basement floors at a less than reasonable monthly payment insures that his photographs remain secure and that he will continue to command such respect. It is wry that the amount of money involved is immaterial to the wealthy members of the club. It is the notion that their membership facility and the pleasure derived therefrom is at the expense of a lowly male that adds a mirthful degree of irony to their escapades.

The car is barely stopped as Albert leaps from the drivers seat to open the rear door for Miss Lucinda. His phallus points straight forward through his trousers and brings a smile from the accomplished Masturbatrix. For a woman who commands such obedience from the male organ, it is a wonderfully servile tribute. Soft gloved hands reach down. Albert remains at attention as a knowing left hand deftly slips into the unzipped opening to find a pair of male eggs. She firmly squeezes while the fingers of the right hand diddle the most sensitive underside of the prepuce. Miss Lucinda gently strokes and feels the penis twitch. Albert’s hips lurch forward, welcoming the amazingly sensuous touch.

“You have a nice day, Albert.”

Miss Lucinda pulls the stiff manhood downward then quickly withdraws her hands. The extreme stiffness causes the bulbous purple head to snap upwards and hit the belt buckle with a noticeable thud. Albert grimaces. An amused Miss Lucinda strides away with a wicked snicker. The gymnasium awaits.

Few males have ever had the pleasure of watching the Chief Masturbatrix of the Degradation Club as she immerses her muscular body in an exhaustive work out. Stripping down to ‛G’ string and sport bra, Miss Lucinda appears to be a well muscled show girl. And indeed, as she stands before the floor to ceiling mirrored wall, her reflection reveals an interesting contrast of soft, smooth, coffee-colored flesh covering well developed power. The results of daily workouts are beautifully shaped legs, buttocks which distract, rippled abdominal muscles and arms whose size resemble those of a wrestler, except the feminine covering adds a delightfully teasing degree of viewing intrigue, causing observers to question how a body so alluring could also lift and pump such incredible weightage.

But it is Miss Lucinda’s unseen muscle development which proves to be the feature most facilitating her role. Years of special exercise have imbued her with the grip of a blacksmith. In lighter moments she amuses Club members by cracking walnuts in the palms of her hand and on occasion removing the tops of soda bottles without benefit of a standard opener.

Yes, Club members find the demonstrations particularly amusing when their imaginations picture such puissant hands wrapped about the shaft of an engorged male organ, daring the hapless owner to ejaculate without the consent of the Chief Masturbatrix and the viewing audience.

And so the voyeuristic members find merriment in watching the ebony giantess apply her power, extracting the ultimate in humiliation for the entertainment of all, knowing that young males will cede total control to this amazing woman.

Every pore opens. Perspiration beads and drips to the gymnasium floor. The bright lights cause her wet skin to shine.

The morning session ends with twenty minutes of squeezing the grip developer. Even well conditioned males find it difficult to close the springed handles of the device. Miss Lucinda whips through dozens and dozens of repetitions, alternating from right hand to left. The resulting squeaking sound produces a cadence which brings satisfaction. The final part of the routine is to pose before the large mirror and flex. Miss Lucinda finds gratification in the glistening image shining back. Years before, some staff members suggested that she model for body building products. She smiles in recalling the idea as her frame expands and certain muscles spread like the neck of a cobra about to strike its prey. It is an intriguing thought for anyone to have their body highlighted and portrayed as superior. But alas, her bursting bank account suggests that her time is better spent within the walls of the Club.

Refreshing ablutions are well deserved and the day’s tasks require attention. Miss Lucinda showers then dons a large robe for the short walk to her office. By 9:00 a.m. the Chief Masturbatrix sits at her desk reviewing her calendar and the day’s work orders. There is a new arrival to be interviewed. The heiress of a Swedish auto manufacturer has a group of friends visiting the club for a lunch and requests the presence of a particularly well endowed young male. In the late afternoon some members have requested that their bridge game terminate with a suitable display of obeisant naked flesh. ‛Large low hanging testicles’ is written in bold letters at the bottom of the request form. All three encounters will involve Miss Lucinda’s skills of course. It is the job of the Chief Masturbatrix to evaluate each new arrival. And every Club member enjoys watching her ply her handiwork.

All in a day’s work.

Miss Lucinda presses an intercom button.

“Margie, I’ll need the standard black latex skirt and halter top. Bring a thigh strap also.”

The Club’s uniforms are cleaned nightly and centrally stored. Most employees retrieve their attire upon arriving for work. But Margie, the clothing clerk, insists on bringing the uniform to Miss Lucinda and for her efforts she is afforded the opportunity to assist. Margie prefers the company of women and Miss Lucinda has long ago put aside her superficial aversion to bisexual dalliances. Within a minute a knock announces Margie’s arrival and Miss Lucinda stands to remove her robe.

When the door swings open Margie is greeted by the vision of her six foot ebony goddess standing naked, the tautness of her frame evidencing the many morning workouts. Margie gawks. Her eyes cannot avoid breasts which defy gravity and a trimmed pudendum which seems to beg for the attention of her lips.

Margie herself is a pleasant eyeful. Having served for three years as one of the Club’s rutting girls, age required that the cute blond rotate into a more mundane role. But under her plain blue cloth pullover dress remains the body of a ‛go go’ dancer. Only her complete disdain for the male gender inhibited her early career of tucking dollar bills under the slimmest of ‛G’ strings. A Club member visiting her swanky but sordid place of employment caught not only her dance performance but also recognized her distaste for having sweaty, meaty hands sneak a feel with each proffer of cash.

There ensued a discussion concerning potential employment at the Club. It was short. Nudity was not a problem for a girl who spent many hours of each day strutting before fat oversexed males. The offer of money was more than adequate. But it was the Club’s raison d’etre which made the decision easy. As a rutting girl, Margie would remain nude, but no male hand would ever again touch her. And there would be a price to be paid by her new audience for gazing at her fine form, well beyond that of modest dollars..., that of complete subjugation.

“Good morning, Margie. You look good this morning.”

Margie suppresses a bashful smile and hands her idol the short skirt. With her envious gape comes an irrepressible silence as Miss Lucinda wraps the unusual garment about her waist.

“Can you help me with the halter.”

It is a ritualistic tease which Margie seems to enjoy. The latex halter is extremely thin and fits over Miss Lucinda’ s torso like a second layer of skin. It is sleeveless and zips closed in the back. Thus in providing assistance the pretty daughter of Sappho gains proximity and the opportunity to briefly caress the smooth chocolate skin as she pulls together the folds and forces the zipper into its track. Margie finds Miss Lucinda’s freshly showered body most exhilarating. She presses her hips against the amazingly powerful latex covered buttocks as she works. Miss Lucinda smiles.

Margie may enjoy a visit to her Fifth Avenue coop, Miss Lucinda thinks to herself. Meanwhile fraternizing on employer time means termination. So a new arrival must be interviewed and Margie must return to her duties. But lastly...,

“Can you attach the thigh strap, Margie. You know I like it in the exact middle.”

Margie kneels as Miss Lucinda lifts and opens the front of the short skirt. Since there are no undergarments, and the simple length of latex folds in the front, Miss Lucinda’s genitalia are once again exposed. When she parts her legs and moves her right foot forward, the musky scent of soap mixing with burgeoning feminine fragrance wafts through the room.

Margie’s hands quiver with the excitement of arousal as she encircles the huge thigh with the strap. It is important to apply the correct tension and Margie works to hitch and buckle at the point of proper tautness without impeding circulation.

“Align the base, please.”

The strap will undergo much stress over the course of the day’s activities. The base holds the various implements which Miss Lucinda will attach and use to anally penetrate the rectums of her prey. The clever configuration leaves both her hands free, the utility of which every boy at the Club fully understands. Margie concludes her endeavors by quickly wrapping her hands about Miss Lucinda’s rounded cheeks and thrusting her head under the elevated skirt. A kiss is planted atop Miss Lucinda’s sex before an admonishment can be uttered. Margie sheepishly arises.

“You’re putting me in the right mood for an interview, Margie. But you know the rules.”

An enchanted Margie prances from the office. Miss Lucinda considers a Friday evening tryst, but her mind moves to thoughts about a newly arrived eighteen year old boy. The file indicates his name is Billy. Since the time is nearly 10:00 a.m. His nurse will have him stripped, shaven, internally cleansed and washed by now. Miss Lucinda picks up the file on her desk picturing as she reads the lad being strapped onto an examination table.

Billy is a troubled eighteen year old. For the past two months after high school graduation, he has had three simple jobs from which he has been invited not to return. His father died years ago. His mother has recently acquired an illness that rendered her unemployable. Billy’s inability to support himself means his mother has a double burden, feeding herself and her son. Upon surrendering the boy to the ‛shelter’ of the Club, she relieved herself of both.

The Club will gratefully wire transfer Billy’s earnings directly to her account. The money will be more than she could possibly earn when healthy and certainly more than an unskilled Billy could ever imagine. So at least for the period of his three year tour, Billy’s mother will be financially secure.

And as for Billy, the Club spares no expense in feeding and caring for the male subjugants. Food is important to the libido, which the Club members desire to maximize, and for every three boys there is a nurse in attendance. There is no healthcare facility in the country that can boast of such a ratio.

The file contains photographs of a naked Billy. Not graphic, the photos were surreptitiously taken during Billy’s initial physical exam. A local doctor serves as a front, and though Billy’s mother was fully aware of the circumstances of his appointment, an unaware Billy attended only after much maternal pleading.

Luckily for Mom, Billy’s appendage proved to be quite prodigious. A full frontal shot shows the head of the flaccid phallus dangling limply at mid thigh. Otherwise his body is unimpressive, in fact most boyish, which many of the Club’s members prefer. The contrast of large erect manhood thrusting forth from a seemingly prepubescent body provides a curious level of entertainment. Miss Lucinda always theorized that the Dominant women, many on the far side of middle age, recall their early sexual experiences with such display. Ones in which they had no control and were forced by the sexual urgings of adolescence to submit to the male beast. For a young girl with latent Dominant proclivities, the experience must have been most unsavory, and thus at the Club the reversal of roles is a welcomed mid-life catharsis.

Yes, at the Degradation Club it is the male who finds himself submitting. And the role reversal is played out countless times, the laughter and applause proving to be both endless and psychologically unbearable for the subjugant. So unbearable that it is the Club’s rule to rotate the submissive males out of servitude by age twenty one. Many times, such as in Albert’s case, continued employment is offered. But most often, private servitude follows. All the Club members require servants, and after some three years at the Club, quiet one on one submission can be a welcomed refuge.

Miss Lucinda smiles reading of Billy’s reaction to the prostate exam. If only the vanilla world of femininity understood the odd male erogenous area as well as her..., well time for a visit.

Tuesday, August 24, 2010

Something a little different/Male Dom/Female bondage

OK. That did not go over, judging from the paucity of comments.

We'll stick to Femdom.

Friday, August 20, 2010

Something a little different

I note that some new followers also appreciate female bondage. Though I have written only a little, (my initial charge when writing some 10 years ago was to 'flesh out' the Femdom selections available from Pink Flamingo) there is some stuff I like.

This is from 'Suspension Bondage', available from Pink Flamingo.


Suspension Bondage
Copyright 2008

by Chris Bellows

Author’s Note:

Do not Google the term arroycoo. It is fictionally contrived and has no known real meaning.


Dr. Winthrop Samuels
“So are you familiar with the practice of arroycoo, Dr. Samuels?” the voice husky, the accent well disguised.

The girl is composed, comfortable in speaking to a full adult some fifteen years her senior. The uncharacteristic deep voice serves to remind me that Sunny Sudenskaya is not the child she appears to be. The woman has an effervescent disposition and short styled hair which enhances her youthful presentation... bringing one to think in terms of adolescence. If she were indeed under eighteen years of age many of my thoughts would border on criminal. I cannot, for example, help wondering whether I could grasp enough hair at the back of her head to properly direct her during doggie style sex. I am concluding that I would need to hold onto her ears...

Sunny turns and lifts her face to blow a puff of smoke into the upper reaches of the nearly empty restaurant. Though well before the dinner hour, the maitre d’ notably gasps and hustles toward us. Smoking is banned by law. Sunny’s naughty smile suggests she is well aware of her transgression and stubs out the cigarette on the bread dish before the animated form arrives. All ash trays have been relegated to a makeshift smoking area... a patch of sidewalk at the entrance of the upper east side bistro.

“I forgot,” Sunny’s words contrite but her look one of playful mischief.

The maitre d’ wordlessly removes the soiled dish and snaps his fingers to a busboy.

The momentary event is telling... Sunny having this inclination to challenge rules and authority and yet to so quickly and easily capitulate.

“I have read of arroycoo. Some tribal ritual involving the suspension of the body,” I cautiously reply as the busboy places a clean bread dish before her.

I demure in saying more. As a medical professional my penchants must be kept quiet lest I endanger my license to practice. Though I am in research and do not treat patients, conventional wisdom suggests I not imperil potential return on my investment, the many hours and tedious study, which anointed me with advanced degrees. Sunny Sudenskaya came to learn of my ‘hobby’ and enticed me into this off hours meeting. Just a little talk at a quiet restaurant long before the dinner crowd, so she said.

I could not resist her charms.

Sunny smiles. So cute, so disarming when juxtaposing the subject matter with a girl who could pass for being pre pubescent.

Sunny reaches into her purse and removes pictures torn from some magazine.

“Your reputation in the community precedes you doctor. I would think you’d have more interest in something like this.”

She pushes the packet my way. I glance through a couple and immediately push the remainder back toward her.

“Someone has been telling stories out of school,” my tone one of rebuke.

Though in being torn from some mainstream nature publication, possibly as mundane as National Geographic, the pictures bring concern. Even with the bistro being void of customers, I dare not broach more of the matter in which Sunny attempts to immerse me.

“I think you can do something like that. Tribes have been safely engaging in it for years. Certainly modern science and medicine can do the same... perhaps more easily and quickly,” her tone of voice shifting to alluringly beseech.

Yes, she verbally challenges then coquettishly concedes. She is a minx. And as much as she is aware of my ‘reputation’ in the community, her own precedes as well. In fact, as she entices, her posture shifts, her shoulders roll back in retreat to exhibit evidence of sizable mammary glands... exceeding expectations for a girl aptly described as svelte.

She performs a tease. When she licks her lips, I understand with clarity her intent. I am being seduced.

But in the ‘community’, as she references my occasional weekend recreation, seduction has twists.

Sunny Sudenskaya is a masochist. And sometimes, as the old adage goes, when a masochist begs to be flogged, the role of the true sadist is best fulfilled by saying ‘no’.

So I shake my head, acknowledging her message and communicating my reply. She sulks then leans forward, finally aware of my concern for discretion despite the limited presence of others.

“I will fellate you. Yours to command,” she whispers in a sultry voice.

I smile. Though a medical professional should be more insouciant, the thought of warm, smooth and wet feminine skin engulfing that which brings the ultimate masculine pleasure can bring enthusiastic visions. I begin to understand that Sunny Sudenskaya is in earnest. I sit back in contemplation, more fully focusing on the emptiness of the restaurant and becoming more comfortable.

“You have family, Sunny?”

She shakes her head.

“Distant cousins in Bulgaria. I would not recognize them if we shared a cab.”

My question spurs more discussion. This could work. I have an old friend who enjoys ‘adopting’ miscreant young girls.

“No one would know,” she emphasizes. “I could work during the day. Nights I would be yours.”

She has me thinking and she knows it, letting my imagination percolate. Many factors rush through my mind. Career, social life... both vanilla and in the community..., my ‘hobby’. Finally the time required, procuring supplies and the apparatus necessary for arroycoo.

Sunny seems to read my thoughts.

“I have a loft. Not quite Nolita. The building has not been fully gentrified. It’s quiet... but large.”

Sunny references the latest New York apartment phenomenon... the transition of what was once one of the seediest areas of Manhattan... north of little Italy (Nolita)... where only the specters of Bowery bums remain. Now quite the trendy area, she is merely nearby, I am sure the modesty of her digs mandated by limited income.

“It will be painful. I will not administer anesthetic,” I forewarn.

She nods, her ostensible reluctance mixed with that peculiar inward frisson when a masochist encounters the eventuality of pain... the body’s need to avoid... the mind challenging it to endure.

“And expensive, Sunny. You’ll offer more than fellatio. But you will enjoy it.”

She beams, but then feigns concern... playing the role of Scarlet O’Hara... imagining what a manly brute would force from her helpless form. I know that vulnerability excites... as does the unknown. Yes... a minx... and one whose proclivity so nicely complements mine.

“I will need some time... for equipment,” I conclude.

Sunny happily blushes as I reach forth and gather the packet of pictures.

“And you will need to practice... opening a zipper... with your lips and teeth.”


Medical research can sometimes be compared to flying a commercial aircraft... many hours of boredom punctuated by moments of frazzling activity... such as when the weather closes in... or in the lab when many weeks of testing conclude and there is hurried need to statistically analyze and evaluate. Most times I wait, reviewing interim reports which need to be monitored for gross malfunction, experiments going bad. But otherwise letting the passage of time bring results.

So the boredom often brings thoughts of Sunny Sudenskaya and her proposal. Short hair, boyish good looks, appropriately attired she could pass for an alter boy. Yet I recall the shoulder movement, intended to project those glands and attract, which they did. She is alluring, a temptress. And in knowing my ‘hobby’ she tempts most seductively. The deep guttural voice, accented, is provocative on a dark haired girl of some one hundred pounds. She is not to be forgotten.

In my field of medical devices, I have access to a sophisticated metal working shop. We make artificial joints... mainly knees and hips. We even do knuckles. Each of those is custom made... the high expense reserved for the occasional professional who too early in life has lost the use of a finger through arthritis or injury.

So making implements for Sunny’s desired arroycoo is easy. I am known to work late in the lab. And the scrap pile of nickel cobalt yields dozens of small bits which will not be missed. Shaping such to my needs and polishing to fine smoothness takes time, but as I picture such adorning the lithe form of Sunny, the time goes quickly. The alloy is readily accepted by the human body. And is strong.

Research on the internet brings some ideas. Gadgets for introducing grommets to clothing, leather and canvas attract my attention. With a masters degree in mechanical engineering, it appears to me that one such apparatus, used in sail making, can be purchased and modified. Sunny’s flesh will more easily yield than the coarse and rugged textiles used on large yachts. But I have plans for the temptress which will take her far beyond her current limits and what she envisions.

In nearing readiness, I call a plumbing supply store. Having sketched what I need, I list the number of feet of pipe along with numerous fittings. It is an easy matter to fax the order and have all delivered to Sunny’s loft.


Weeks later we meet again. Same restaurant near me. Same time, late afternoon. The maitre d’ glances at Sunny with concern. She offers no concession that she will not light up again. Always challenging.

“Some men arrived. Brought in lots of metal,” Sunny exclaims as we are shown to a table. “Am I expecting a plumbing problem?”

A girlish giggle disguises a tinge of concern. My planned frame is now just a pile of pipes which Sunny obviously cannot mentally transform to usefulness.

“You will see in time,” I vaguely reply.

We sit. She brazenly orders wine, knowing she is not old enough to drink. Knowing once again to challenge the rules. I am going to have fun taming her.

I come to the point as our drink order is completed and the waiter leaves us alone.

“Before we begin, taking you down a road from which you will not return, I want to show you this.”

I retrieve from my jacket pocket what appears to be a staple gun. Modified after many hours of toil I load it with a finely crafted lump of nickel cobalt and thread my napkin between two jutting prongs. With a forceful press there comes a click, a notable snap and the prongs pinch the cloth.


I toss the napkin to Sunny. Embedded in the corner is a newly made small hole bordered by a circle of metal of one centimeter.

“In one motion it penetrates, pushes aside the cloth to widen the opening and rolls the bordering metal to seal with permanency. A grommet... but penetrating quite formidably.”

An amazed Sunny toys with her fingers. The dull metal is securely attached.

“I’d show you again but the nickel cobalt is rather expensive.”

“The metal is hard, yes?” her excitement exposing her normally cloaked accent.

“Extremely,” I advise as her fingers toy, amazed with the smoothness of the finished opening.

While she busies herself I find a clasp in my pocket, reach forth and clip it through the hole. With zeal, Sunny reaches to grasp the clasp and dangles the napkin over the table. She giggles.

“This can be... me?” she utters in a combination of apprehension and odd joy.

The waiter approaches and the napkin is lowered, even Sunny having some sense of decorum. We are silent as the drinks are poured. Chardonnay for her. A cold brew for me.

“Yes, it will be you. Consider carefully. I have made many grommets... and of various sizes.”

Sunny’s eyes glaze over, obviously fantasizing some sadomasochistic scene. Her hand goes to the napkin to inspect again, pulling the clasp to ensure permanency. She seems to shiver as the well embedded grommet withstands her testing stress. My hand goes to her wine.

“You’re not twenty one,” I admonish. “You’re going to learn to be a good girl.”

She lugubriously pouts as I slide away her glass.


By design, I have Sunny drink water and deny her substantial food... a light salad. She has consented to be modified. And in having spent many hours redesigning the grommet contraption and stealthily working in the lab’s metal shop, my enthusiasm grows. Plus there is Sunny, such ostensible innocence tinged with immoral thought. So girlishly innocent... yet so wicked.

“I want to see your loft,” I summarily announce in paying the check.

“We will need to the take the Lex to the BMT,” Sunny delighted to display her knowledge of New York’s subway system.

“A cab will do. I will pay.”

We depart. As I follow her to the exit, Sunny does not see me reload my grommet device. There will be no changing of minds. Not hers... and certainly not mine.

“How do you handle pain?” I casually inquire while awaiting a cab.

She smiles, looking away in shyness.

“Pain is something created by the mind... and therefore something the mind needs to overcome.”

Among my weekend adventurers, those trusted few with whom I share my hobby, Sunny has a reputation for endurance. I have not ‘scened’ with her, but she has been known to withstand lengthy floggings at the all too public S&M clubs, places which I avoid.

I contemplate her succinct reply... flippant reply?.. as a cab pulls up and a couple exits to enter the restaurant. We commandeer and Sunny slides in behind the driver. She offers the address, Ludlow Street, a part of Manhattan I have never before reconnoitered.

“I will go slowly with you Sunny. But I reiterate, there will be no going back. I’m not really sure how this can be reversed. You saw the napkin. My contraption is frightfully efficient. Rather reminds me of firing a gun, such devastating results from the simple pull of a trigger.”

Sunny nods in thought. There is no hint of reservation. It appears that she is indeed thinking of the napkin and the relative permanence of the embedded circle of nickel cobalt. To remove it one would need to shred the cloth.

“It is quick, this ‘gun’ of yours?”

“You saw how quick.”

“I prefer something slower. Something which challenges... suffering which one endures to overcome... if one can.”

“That will come as well. You shall endure both.”

In turning onto First Avenue, the cab picks up pace. I note that the driver cannot see Sunny in the rear view mirror. And in approaching wave after wave of traffic lights, he only has opportunity to glance back on occasion. I remove my contraption and again show it to Sunny.

“Quick. Painful. Permanent. And I shall enjoy using it on you Sunny. Probably as effective as a brand or tattoo.”

She shudders. Yes the brisance of the masochist. The delightful mental conflict which the curious proclivity brings.

“Will I bleed?”

“About as much as you would in receiving a hypodermic injection. The device creates an initial pinprick which I have designed to instantly widen to accommodate the circle of metal... which with equal quickness folds at the perimeter to form the smooth opening you examined... and make it unremovable.”


“Any place I decide. That is for me to control... not you.”

She nods. There is fear... but there is enjoyment. Her eyes glaze in thought.

“Ready to begin your journey, Sunny?”

She nods. There is reluctance but acceptance... the masochist long ago having surrendered herself to life as a pin cushion.

I lean. My left hand reaches to the back of her neck. I note that my curiosity is indulged in that I can indeed grasp enough hair to guide her head. In one smooth and continuous motion I tilt back her head, my right hand lifts the contraption.

“Steady now, Sunny. Bear a little pain for me. Be a good girl for Dr. Samuels.”

As I slip the prongs up her nostrils, I am reminded of my years as an intern, offering the myriad of injections to frightened children. I press, pulling the trigger on my peculiar gun. It clicks. It snaps. There comes the stifled shriek of a little girl. I quickly withdraw. A handkerchief is offered. There are more tears than blood. As described the opening is small. Plus I have pierced the cartilage of her septum well up her nostrils where there is limited circulation.

I have grommeted the interior of Sunny’s nose. Not detectable to the unwary. But I cannot dismiss Sunny with a mere puncture... a little hole between her nostrils. No I have in my pocket a little clasp with a slim connecting cord. And as she dabs away her tears... not a word of protest I note... my hand returns to thrust the open clasp up her left nostril, thread it through her new grommet and hook it down her right nostril where it clicks shut.

“Feel better Sunny? A girl like you pines for control. And you shall have it.”

A little tug on the cord demonstrates. The tension cannot be resisted. That pretty little head moves about in response as I toy. And Sunny stares into my eyes in wonderment. Yes, sometimes the role of the sadist is fulfilled by saying ‘no’. But other times it is more fun to offer an emphatic ‘Yes’.

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

New Followers

Lots of new followers of late. Not sure what has triggered the interest, but welcome and feel free to comment on any of the stories and snippets.

Started this blog as an exchange of ideas...

Monday, August 9, 2010

New Book Published on Lulu

'Kept Naked, Made Eager to Please' has been released on Lulu. 37,000 words. $ 6.50. Item number 9202497

Enjoy... and as always please comment.

Tuesday, August 3, 2010

Another Story III - Kept Naked, Made Eager to Please

More. I like the title. Comments?

“How does it feel?” a crooked finger simply hooks the nasal loop and gently pulls right then left. Gregory’s face instantly follows, the thousands of nerving endings mandating that stress there be minimized.

“Owww. It’s like something tugging on my brain.”

Dr. Audrey laughs.

“Yes, the sinuses offer quite the lever for control, don’t you think?”

Gregory nods, hating himself for having to agree.

“Want to walk for me? Get some exercise?”

“Yes please.”

Gregory cannot count the hours in the stocks. He knows it has been for more than one day. And by now he realizes everything is under the control of the imposing Miss V and the equally daunting Dr. Audrey Meredith Darrows.

“Good. I’ll walk you. I like walking a boy.”

The doctor steps to a corner of the stall and removes a black cloth garment from a wall hook. There is also a wooden pole which she takes in her right hand.

“We’re going to go very slowly and you will need to listen carefully and respond to my voice and pulls on the training pole.”

Gregory stares at the simple but ominous length of wood. On one end of the six foot length is a clasp, and he immediately knows of its purpose.

“Here we go. Your first training session.”

The cloth garment of black is a hood, easily slipped over Gregory’s entrapped head. With a single hole for the mouth and nose it curtails his vision. Loose strings are somewhat tightened about the neck line and then sure enough, Gregory feels fingers working about his nose loop. The training pole is attached.

“Now, when I release the stocks, you are to stand and place your hands behind your head. I will then guide you from the stall and we’ll walk about a bit. If you’re good we’ll go outside and get you some air.”

“But I have no clothing,” Gregory protests.

The doctor laughs.

“Another rule... no talking. Boys that talk eventually have their vocal cords sutured.”

Gregory feels his wrists loosen and his heart leaps as the thick plank rises from the back of his neck. Overwhelmed with joy he diligently obeys, standing, his knees somewhat shaky, and places his hands behind his head. He realizes that the doctor is graciously moving the training pole, alleviating any undesired tension on his nasal loop.

He also notes that the pole places her beyond reach of his hands, should he seek to strike out in defiance. And with sight denied, he doubts whether he can release the clasp before his governing woman can lift and place him in intense agony for his disobedience. And sure enough, he receives a quick demonstration, feeling powerful upward tension on the nasal loop, the slightest motion of the doctor’s hand translating through leverage into incredibly painful stress on his sinuses.

He cries out with the pain hearing Dr. Audrey chuckle, learning of her sang froid in delivering her message of total control.

“Now you know to be good. Come, walk for me.”

The words are offered as an encouraging mother to a child taking his first steps. But a slight pull on the nasal loop brings incredible agony. Gregory begins to understand the fiendish design. Though there comes an initial reaction of resistance, perhaps to strike out at she bringing pain, the pole places her beyond reach. Yet he is well within her control, the slightest jostling transmitting unbearable stress on the deeply penetrating loop.

So the initial vengeful thought quickly wanes, all thoughts turning to the minimization of duress. And Gregory learns that the woman is masterful in bringing his naked form well under her auspices, her words of instruction quick, clear and timely.

“Right foot... left. A turn to the right. Three steps forward. We’ll pause...”

Gregory’s mind becomes immersed. Thoughts of resistance dissipate. Within minutes he feels the warmth of sunlight and an odd sense of gratitude glows with it. Yet he is naked and outdoors! To be seen by whom!

“Yes, you are a good boy, Gregory. No longer disorderly... yet remaining indecently exposed for me. Do you like being stripped of all clothing before a woman? Brought under her exacting control? You may speak”

“I... I... don’t know.”

The pole brings him to a stop. He feels a finger tip playfully diddle the underside of his penis. He has not before realized that somehow, for some reason, he has stiffened for his trainer.

“I think I have my answer.”

Silence ensues, Dr. Audrey leaving her naked charge to his thoughts as she walks with deliberation assuring Gregory directionally follows, responding first to obviously right or left tension on the nasal loop. In time he will learn to instantly react to the slightest change, the training at the farm of Dr. Audrey Meredith Darrows known to be endless and exacting.

Gregory knows not where he is, but the dirt is smooth and powdery, easy on his feet. The wind rustles through trees and the scent of pine is strong. Offered sight, he would mostly likely agree that Dr. Audrey has adequately described the seclusion of her homestead. Strangely, there comes a radiant glow of comfort. For the first time in many hours he can move... somewhat fettered... but move.

“Feels good to be out of the stocks?” Dr. Audrey inquires in leading him back to the barn.

“Yes, ma’am... I suppose.”

“Well we’ll do this again... and again. I think you enjoy it.”

Gregory once again feels a finger tip ever so teasingly diddling the underside of his penis. Yes, it has remained standing for the entire interval of exercise.


Back in the stocks, Gregory finds his time with Miss V to be dichotomously pleasant and aggravating. There is the depilation of his entire body, his scrotum seeming to be set afire with each application of the twice daily coating of chemicals. But then comes the removal, knowing hands laving his nakedness with warm water and soft chamois. And after that Miss V slathers his form with a sweet smelling viscous lotion, massaging and kneading everywhere. It tingles, bringing enervation to skin he can longer touch, his entrapped muscles most appreciative of her tendance... the amazingly powerful hands bringing grateful relief to long cramped limbs.

And yes he stiffens, the period of chastity causing hormone levels to mount, the priapic young male reacting with increasing firmness. And Miss V encourages, complimenting each stand.

“It’s so nice of you to show off for me, Gregory.”

With the words will come a brief and momentarily satisfying caress of his shaft, perhaps even an evanescent squeeze and twist, her hand action both pleasurable yet frustrating.

Yes, there is operant conditioning, the captured male trained to display his virility most unabashedly. Gregory learns that a good stiff penis earns him kind words and pleasurable, though brief, attention, his time otherwise spent kneeling or lying in tedious unending bondage.

Feeding times bring some degree of entertainment. Miss V stands quite proximate, the small patch limiting coverage of her mons shifting about as she reaches for another spoonful of sustenance. The flashes of pink, now deemed succulent by the chaste, distract... but do so with welcome.

On or about the fifth day of his captivity, Gregory outright gawks, not disguising his interest as the covering flops about. Miss V notes his attentiveness and challenges.

“Many boys here like to taste as well as look, Gregory,” her tone of voice playful.

Gregory has no clever retort. Though the offer seems most inviting, too generous, he knows not what to say.

“Would you like to taste as well?”

How can he not nod his head, the many days of exacting servitude, of bondage, of depilation, and beg for lustful diversion? Though the stocks encumber, there comes a strained motion and a humble ‘yes’.

“Good. Well you have to earn the privilege. I want you to stiffen for me. Bring yourself to a nice stand, a big hard on for Miss V.”

With that, Miss V puts aside the food bowl and spoon. Her right hand lowers and the fingers pull aside the small almost irrelevant flap of cloth, to reveal in full glory her most enticing sex. Well trimmed, pressed within meaty brown outer labia are luscious folds of pink inner flesh, seeming to beckon a parting tongue. Above, a sizable hood serves to veil what Gregory imagines to be an inviting pearl of feminine pleasure, begging to be engulfed, devoured, hungrily sucked into the warm wet of a subservient mouth.

Yes, Gregory’s gawk intensifies, outright staring, his hunger evident though sustenance has been well offered.

Miss V smiles and momentarily steps to the side, peering beneath the kneeling form to note the reaction. Yes, Gregory obediently stiffens, his hormones, his conditioning spurring the desired result.

“Yes, a taste for my erect plaything,” Miss V announces.

The fingers of the left hand again push aside the patch, then press and splay to part the outer labia, The fingers of the right dive within, gathering an abundance of warm wet. Gregory then finds disappointment as she slowly coats his face with her essence, the aroma overwhelming. Then fingers finally find his lips, there to offer a taste as bargained.

“I prefer you to be hard for me, Gregory. I take care of you, and you in turn need to please me... and showing off your erect penis... performing for me... pleases.”


And so to Gregory’s grueling protocol, lying prostrate with penis and balls well exposed, and pressed to the floor, kneeling in his stocks while depilated and fed, being trained to walk blindfolded and respond to a woman’s directing tugs, comes the need... perhaps an ingrained desire... to stiffen... and earn the lustful offering of Miss V’s juices.

Day after day after day.

Yes, Gregory hardens to the sound of Miss V’s approaching voice. He also finds that being walked about naked and leashed to the training pole also brings a priapic response. Yet since there is no one to disapprove, no observers to jeer, scold and upbraid, he lets what is seeming to become a natural response continue unfettered.

And his keepers seem pleased... and that in turn strangely pleases him.