Chapter Five - Whisked to Chessu

OK. So the trip does not conform the the definition of the term 'whisked'. Writers trope. It happens.

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Chapter Five

Ears plugged then hooded, the intensive sensory input... so much felt, so many erogenous zones subjected to the whim of his female keepers, so many apertures invaded and stuffed, so much flesh palpated... begins to dissipate as the required preparations are completed. With a final scythe of a straight edged razor, the senses are left to their own to confront a not before experienced cosmos of isolation.

Jay Blaine sees not, hears not, tastes not, smells not. He feels what his keepers and handlers want him to feel. And that is a slowly bloating colon, something slithering into his stomach, a bladder filling.

He feels the stretcher being adjusted and is grateful to no longer be in the prostrate position. Less stressful to the spine, the lower end is lowered, his waist bending, his feet and calves declining.

Strapped to the stretcher at the wrists and biceps, arms thrust straight downwards and attached to the vertical supports, there is also a confining neck support, a broad waist belt, thigh bands and ankle restraints... each systematically loosened for shaving then reattached... and quite firmly.

The slow expansion of his colon ends. Many minutes later it begins to reverse. Apparently some mechanical device deciding for him that the pressure, barely tolerable, has been born long enough.

Offered mercy by a machine, Jay Blaine contemplates. And if the pressure had been more than tolerable?

He senses the flow into his stomach is also regimented. He will not decide what and when to consume, it will be done for him... and without the need for the taste buds and olfactory nerves to offer approval. Whatever it is that enters, it is not by his choosing. It is the domain of a device.

He feels the wheeled stretcher move. He envisions his six foot plus, 245 pound frame being facilely pushed about by the slightest of feminine handlers, probably one of the young nurses... and one mentally absorbed with her empowerment... that the once potent male figure has been tamed to the point where the daintiest of female fingers could alter all... that flowing through the life sustaining nasal tube... yes, less oxygen, more... more what? The possibilities boggle... and horrify. Equally... perhaps something noxious for the tummy?.. maybe there is playful mischief to be had in adjusting the rate of flow in and out of the colon. Ah, the catheter tube... also to be subjected to a woman’s whim... one young and flexing her dominant traits... the bladder need not always drain. Instead a slow and filling irrigation?

Horrified, yes, by life sustaining apparatus, Jay Blaine slowly assesses his circumstance... and concludes it may be best. He need not become the toyed with mouse.

The rolling motion stops. The air stills. He senses motion about him. His machinery momentarily stops then restarts... first the breathing tube... then the gastric tube... then the rectal tube. His bladder momentarily begins to drain... relief quickly curtailed.... that is for another time... when the machine decides.

Then over and above the whirring of the various devices keeping him alive, Jay Blaine feels the vibration of a thud. He concludes he has been wheeled into the faux shipping container in which he will be transported to Chessu. His life support systems have been connected to the container’s generator, disguised as a refrigeration unit, and the thud is the heavy metal doors being closed and sealed.

And now?

Across the Pacific Ocean, destination some port in China. Then by land to the western province of Chessu... secluded... a gynecocracy. There to serve.

And to think he beseeched a judge, groveling on his knees, and providing the most degrading pleasure a heterosexual male could offer...

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How many days pass? Initially he counted the number of gracious reversals offered by the rectal tube, permitting whatever flowed inward to drain away. On each occasion, with the relief of the constant pressure, he found himself mumbling... humming really... words of thanks... his gastric tube obviating speech.

But such silliness... attempting to talk to a machine.

Had the delirium begun?

There also comes the conclusion that, in not being cognizant of the machine programming, the cycles can not but translated to units of time. Three reversals equals... half a day?.. a full day? He knows not... will never know.

He must just lie and accept the machines generous offerings... and give thanks it neither offers nor takes joy in evil.

Besides the hum and vibration of his life support, there is a deeper vibration, a full throbbing of his stretcher. It is the ship’s engines he concludes. Everything on board reverberates with its power, thrusting millions of tons into the unrelenting waves of the Pacific.

The thought fosters the beginning of dreams. A mind racked with sensory deprivation pictures a mystical Madam Soong driving back a stormy sea, her body no longer compact and powerful but instead mythically vast and omnipotent. A huge hand bears a length of rattan the size of a telephone pole. She lashes at the waves which attempt to thwart the ship’s forward thrusts. Stroke, stroke, stroke... calm... determined... methodical... Jay Blaine’s naked flesh does not endure the resolve but instead it is nature. Her gargantuan form sits astride the entire bow of the ship, making it appear as a toy. And Jay must admire her power as in his delirious fantasy, the ocean yields to the woman of extreme governance. Yes, in the ship's hold is precious cargo which even the mighty Pacific shall not delay. A male beast... for the women of Chessu. Young, strong... and soon to be abjectly subservient to a woman’s slightest whim.

Jay Blaine’s mind is jarred from its delusions. He feels a familiar thud, an instant of change from the hum drum of the ship’s engine and the life support. The container doors! But it cannot be arrival, a moving ship cannot have docked!

Then he lurches within his bonds in feeling a gruff hand kneading his buttocks. There remains a degree of sting, a trace of the intensity of Madam Soong’s caning remaining despite the many days of healing at sea.

Who is it? Who knows of Madam Soong’s most secretive mode of transportation for naked, bound and soon to be indentured Caucasian males?