Saturday, December 31, 2011

Comment on the Clinic/Happy New Year

28 visits in the first hour of posting. Guess there is some interest in this theme.

Still, please comment.

And have a Happy New Year!


'The Clinic' (Female dominant/female submissive)

I will post a couple of segments of this book length story. Please keep in mind the book will be published so the 'meat' of the story will appear for sale on Lulu or the Erotic Book Network


The Clinic

Copyright 2011

by Chris Bellows

The room is austere, the lighting bright, the matron firm... crisply commanding.

“Always look directly at the camera... stare at the lens.”

As the directive comes there quickly follows another flash and a click.

“Feet further apart, arms at your sides, palms toward me.”

Flash. Click.

Somehow I maintain my composure, stifling tears. The intensity of the humiliation is daunting. I am naked.

“Cup for your breasts for me. Present them. No smile. No frown.”

Flash. Click.

“Good girl. Now turn and face to the right, feet always parted. Arch your back for me. Very nice. You’re going to do just fine here.”

Flash. Click.

Words of support as the matron senses my deteriorating resolve. As I instantly respond, all sense of resistance dissolved, my mind finds the need to wander...


“Shoplifting. You know young lady, I used to give lenient sentences to first time offenders. But then I noticed so many faced me again. Too many reunions... and too soon.”

The judge is senescent... talking endlessly as I await her decision. Her words offer little hope for compassion.

“Now, under the law I can mandate five years...”

My heart sinks.

“You could appeal of course, but that would require a large bond while awaiting a decision and the engagement of very expensive lawyers.”

The woman takes off her glasses to glare at me from the bench. Hair gray, cut short, combed straight, Hollywood would have her cast as a boarding school headmistress... an authoritative and exacting headmistress.

“And then the state and the taxpayers would be equally burdened. Lots of money expended keeping naughty girls behind bars.”

‘Get on with it’, I am tempted to blurt.

“So, I am willing, with your concurrence, to recommend a new program... rather experimental... of rehabilitation. Shorter than five years... and in being sponsored by a psychiatric clinic, less costly to the state.”

A heart sinking begins to ascend.

“Should you concur, your sentence will be commuted to two years of therapy. If you change your mind, resist treatment, the sentence will be re-instituted to five years of incarceration.”

I repress a smile.

“If I fully understand the program, I think a girl like you will respond well to the therapy.”

A pause... a long pause... finally she inquires.

“Do you concur?”

I nod enthusiastically.

“The court stenographer will need a verbal reply.”

With my one word... my concurrence... here I am.


“Now turn and face to the left for another profile. Arch your back. There will be need to assess the buttocks.”

The thought is so salacious... yet the setting so clinical. I have not a stitch of covering. And the matron was pleased to note that I am shaven... down there. ‘Saves us time,’ she noted in positioning me for the first snapshot.

“Back towards me... mind the feet.”

I turn and by rote part my feet. Flash. Click.

“And now bend. Be a good girl.”

I obey. Having already been repeatedly photographed, I respond like a robot. I am surprised by my quickly attained level of compliance.

Flash. Click.


I lean and feel my boobs dangle. I am proudly well endowed there.

Flash. Click.

“Now feet as wide apart as possible.”

Flash. Click.

“Now hold just like that and reach back to part your cheeks.”

Salacious transcends to obscene. Why am I so meekly complying?

Flash. Click.

“Yes, very nice. Lot’s of pink for us. You’ll do just fine here. Feet just a little further apart.”

Flash. Click.

“Now stand and turn. Hands on head.”

For the first time the woman approaches. Quite the figure of authority. Middle aged, starched blue uniform. I am shocked when she reaches forth and diddles my nipples, chagrined to see my aureolas crinkle to pebbles. More chagrined that I neither move nor verbally protest as my breasts rise and firm, seemingly even more obedient and compliant than me.

She steps back.

Flash. Click.

“Yes, you will fit into our program very nicely.”

She returns. Hands remaining on head, for some reason I no longer move unless commanded. Her right hand lowers, palm upwards. She cups my mons!

I freeze in shock. The palm presses against my clitoral hood. Then two fingers brazenly part my labia and glide into my quim.

I am moist... no... I am wet... and for the first time the woman smiles.

Withdrawing, she raises her hand and I blush, her sopping digits glistening in the bright lights.

“Yes, you will fit quite nicely indeed.”

The intense humiliation has aroused... and she knew this... and I did not!


I inquire about clothing. Matron number two not so much giggles as she cackles.

“Not really necessary. It’s just us girls,” her response pleasant but nonchalant.

“Your restraints will suffice. In time you will acclimate.”

As I remain in wonderment about the need to take dozens of naked photos, there comes more to incite curiosity. I stand in complete deshabille in a small room, Matron number two, appearing to be stamped from the same mold as the first, steps forth holding some dozen lengths of thin plastic.

“Cable ties. Cheap. Easy to secure. Not to be removed ... other than by cutting. And should you somehow locate a sharp instrument... you’ll not cut,” she forewarns.

Spoken as wrists, arms above the elbows, ankles, thighs above the knees are encircled, the end of each tie pressed through a receptive eye and pulled taut to form a loop. I note the women tightens with one finger inside the circle which she subsequently slips out, offering precisely uniform rings of plastic about my limbs... not tight, circulation not impeded... but certainly not loose.

Then a longer somewhat thicker cable tie is looped about my neck. Lastly a more formidable length circles my waist.

The woman steps back and momentarily assesses. Then she returns with clippers and carefully snips away the ends, leaving absolutely no excess length of plastic beyond the receiving eye.

“You’ll tug at these for a few days. All the girls do. But I assure you the restraints are not to be snapped open or broken.”

She steps away and I quiver in fear as she lights a propane torch.

“Be careful not to move. This assures the locking clasp is secure and not to be further tightened. And all the sharp cut ends will be smoothed.”

It is apparent that I am not the first girl the matron has placed in such unique, fast and cheap fetters. For one by one, a protective pad is slipped under the connecting clasp and the blue flame is momentarily applied, melting the plastic to accomplish just as she suggested, smoothing the cut ends and distorting the receiving clasps to assure such neither further tighten nor somehow yield and allow the loops to slip open.

Task completed, the flame is extinguished. Fingers return to rub each connecting point. The matron expresses satisfaction.

“Well tethered... with $1.50 worth of vinyl,” laughing with the irony of inexpensive thoroughness.

With that the door opens. Another aging woman enters, civilian in dress. Judging from Matron number two’s instant obeisance, the woman is in charge.

“I am the chief therapist...”

I am then read the rules...

Saturday, December 24, 2011

'Power Series' ends

This concludes the 'Power' series.

Hope all have enjoyed. 28,000 words of free stuff, as qualitative as I can make it.

Comments are welcomed as always.

For ease of reading, the entire series is now available for free on Lulu.

Currently writing a Fem/fem story, book length, with a smattering of dominant male action. Forced lactation theme... my quill not tussling with such subject matter since 'Ship of Remorse'.

Anyone have interest?

Have a good Christmas.



'Power, Succumbing to It' (Part Two of Two)

Naked on a train!

Madam sits proximate. In hindsight the lack of clothing adds to her ability to control and my inability to run off. And in the tropical heat and abject poverty of the region, the young are commonly afforded limited covering.

Still I am older than a toddler and am quite conscience of my nakedness.

We share a cabin with a Caucasian woman. Haughty, older, prim, proper, she visually inspects and I have no manner of hindering her gaze.

"You’ve had him fixed. I so often wished I had that option," the woman striking up a conversation with Madam Kaishek.

Madam Kaishek detects my discomfort and smiles.

"Sit back and show the woman," she commands.

I remain trembling with the trauma, the pain, the callous doctor’s incisions and snips. Mentally and emotionally I am overwhelmed. I meekly sit back and draw my knees to my chest. Madam Kaishek reaches, her hands parting my inner thighs and buttocks.

"I want her smooth" she explains. "In my work it is best."

Having popped the gonads from their nest, the doctor gathered the fleshy folds of my empty scrotum and pinched with a device appearing to be a set of pliers. She termed it an elastrator. And when she withdrew the device I felt tightness... down there. A taut rubber band enshrouds that which once held my testicles. I can still feel the tightness.

So the Caucasian woman is offered an unfettered view of my transformation, the reddened pouch of banded epidermis gathered into a withering soon to drop clump... appearing to be the waddle of a turkey.

"With the circulation cut off, in a few days this excess skin will topple off and she’ll be very smooth for me. The only hint of maleness remaining will be a cute little penis... rendered useless of course."

In hearing the pronoun ‘she’, the woman smiles in agreement.

"Ran a boy’s reform school for many years. I caned... I feminized often... but this ultimate modification for undesired behavior was not an option, unfortunately."

The woman proves to be bold in matters concerning boys. She leans forward and extends her hand. Fingers caress and knead the small gathering of banded flesh. I am shocked to feel almost nothing. She pinches and in noting there is little reaction, smiles in satisfaction.

"All gone. Her behavior will be quite acceptable now."

Her hand lowers and a finger smooths about my anus, circling to bring a brief brisance of delight to an otherwise mortifying encounter.

"I also figged. You may wish to consider should the behavior indeed not improve."

I would later learn... and feel the results... of the effective English custom... inserting ginger root into the rectum. It burns without producing a scintilla of physical harm and the insertion purportedly assures that buttocks awaiting a brisk caning are properly presented.

"I understand castrated boys make good servants... the removal of the testicles bringing focus to young minds that would otherwise be addled by the flow of hormones."

Madam Kaishek nods in agreement.

"She will serve, but not as a servant. I have clients with... shall we say exotic tastes. She will be trained to please... orally and anally. They tell me that the backside of the male... former male... is naturally tighter. And that fellatio is better learned... and more quickly."

The woman’s smile turns to a look of Schadenfreude, apparently visualizing the intensity of the degradation.

"And there’s the curious phenomenon of aging... snipped before any significant flow of hormones, she’ll always be young."

The train begins to slow. Madam withdraws her hands. The woman leans back to return to sitting upright.

"The border crossing. I hope you don’t mind... err... Miss..."

"Hartsdale... Miss Penelope Hartsdale."

"I am Madam Kaishek. I hope Miss Hartsdale that you don’t mind being present as we sort things out with the Thailand customs and immigration. My girl has no papers and there is a certain protocol to be followed."

As the train slows to a stop, I am given instructions... to be obedient... very obedient. In my nakedness, flushed with embarrassment as the two women talked about me, inspected my privates, my vulnerability has been made quite apparent. Have I a choice?

I nod concurrence, my altered vocal cords mandating silence.

There comes commotion as the many doors of the adjoining cabins open and the numerous passengers offer documents, agents shouting instructions. Miss Hartsdale reaches to her purse as does Madam Chang. Our cabin door opens and up steps a uniformed woman of authority. She is homely, somewhat past middle aged and evidently in charge. In her arms... shackles and a collection of chains.

She drops the bindings and checks the passports, oddly ignoring me. It becomes evident that she is familiar with Madam Kaishek as the passport is returned and the woman officer is offered a tube of unguent. She accepts and looks at this Miss Hartsdale with concern.

"It’s not a problem. Miss Hartsdale seems to be one of us and I think will be entertained," Madam Kaishek seeming to read the officer’s mind.

The uniformed woman nods then sits next to Miss Hartsdale. For the first time she looks at me and I shiver in fear. She is aloof, calloused and wickedly gazes at my nakedness as something to be savored... prey to be eaten. She opens the tube and lubricates her hands. Then she wriggles her finger, gesturing for me to come to her lap. My shiver transforms to outright trembling.

I look to Madam Kaishek and she nods. I meekly slide my nakedness from the seat and step towards her. The woman brusquely grabs my arm and rapidly positions me sitting on her lap.

"We all have our curious little penchants, Miss Hartsdale," the woman proclaims. "I trust you can be tolerant of mine. Castrated boys offer such a thrill... the loss of virility... potential virility... such brings stimulation. I so much revel in both the physical and emotional comeuppance."

As she speaks, her left hand works at my bottom. I am horrified to feel a greased finger penetrate my anus. It slips inward locating my opening with ease. Mine is not the first aperture she has impaled.

Then the fingers of the right hand smooth up my thigh to playfully toy with the gathering of banded flesh.

"Something’s missing here. You have a tiny penis but are closer to being a little girl," the voice sarcastic.

Then the fingers move and begin to caress my penis. I am chagrined to find it feels good. I sense a certain throbbing. There come twinges. The woman is expert, smiling so evilly as she works to bring me to erection.

"You won’t have too many more of these... little girl," she taunts, as we both sense the organ begin to firm.

She knows the male anatomy... the former male anatomy. I feel the penetrating finger score a bull’s eye on the prostate gland. I lurch. The evil smile broadens. The humiliation is intense. I am to be masturbated before three women! And I am amazed when I am brought to full erection, something I have experimented in doing but mainly experienced only nocturnally, a full bladder abetting tumescence. Puberty just approaching... self pleasure limited.

Ejaculation is not possible. The woman seems to know and also seems to know how to prolong my odd state of arousal... arousal never ever to be satiated. And I sense the power exchange, feel the woman robbing me of what little virility and maleness that remains. She is draining me of male essence which can ever again be produced. Some fluid begins to ooze, the woman quick to mockingly point such out to Miss Hartsdale and Madam Kaishek. In having been neutered she knows she depletes the remnants of maleness... the last vestige... the final trace of virility. I can sense her feeling of empowerment.

"It’s your last... enjoy..." spoken as the penetrating finger wriggles about and the right hand oh so sensuously strokes.

Then I feel something... something joyous... but faint... distant. And the woman feels it too, the triggering of the ejaculatory muscles. But there is nothing to be expelled. It is a feeble orgasm... dry... incomplete... and it brings me both delight and frustration... and the woman knows it.

"I so much adore the forlorn look, don’t you ladies? It comes with the realization that hence... pleasure is solely for others..."

Yes, a curious penchant indeed... masturbating the castrated male. And what is most irksome... she is aware...she so much enjoys the transfer of power.... my loss... her gain.

With the incomplete orgasm past, the sensuous joy of her continuing strokes turns to irritation. I soften. Nothing manly has spurted, my penis tip merely drooling prostatic fluid. The women are greatly amused, my look of chagrin... of dread... serving to entertain.

"Be sure to let me know when you have another one snipped," the woman abruptly pushing me from her lap.

She picks up the shackles.

"Let’s get you properly dressed for entry into Thailand."

Wrists and ankles, I am tethered and hobbled, the woman gleefully snapping closed the locks and handing Madam Kaishek a key.

"Little girly boys always look so cute in irons."

The woman next hands Madam Kaishek some papers. I am to later learn such identify me as a criminal juvenile delinquent with Madam Kaishek serving as my guardian, a subterfuge for the remaining journey to Bangkok. Then as the woman arises, the train begins to move, the acceleration slow. She steps out.

I shall not forget her... nor the frustratingly muted feel of my last orgasm. The sound of her cackle shall forever remain...

Saturday, December 17, 2011

'Power, Succumbing to It' (Part One of Two)

Power, Succumbing to It

Copyright 2011

by Chris Bellows

Each Saturday evening, in bathing this Trevor, Ms. Maria’s bull stud, I am reminded of my duties while owned by Ms. Maria’s aunt... Miss Eve.

Only the rhythmic hiss of air through the breathing tube suggests life. Ed de Havillier, aka Miles Stapleton Campbell, lies entombed in a room of concrete walls and flooring. He is bound and shackled, lying supine, bearing the chains that I once wore. Yet, such bindings permit motion... and this Miss Eve will never allow. So in addition there are thick padded straps of nylon making Mr. de Havillier one with the table, and denying all movement... latex covered wrists, forearms, biceps, calves, thighs, chest, waist.

At one time, when initially entombed, he was given to wriggle fingers and toes from time to time. Now even this does not occur, mentally succumbing to being a captive... the futility of resisting the many restraints bringing capitulation. He is deprived of all... relying on the mercy of a governing woman for food, water and air... rarely sound... never sight.

Miss Eve regrets she cannot deny touch, once commenting...

‘I suppose he will need to be bathed from time to time. But do not over do it and spoil him, Mia. Once a week with a sponge should suffice. And never ever touch his penis... is that clear?’

I obediently nodded my head, fully aware of Miss Eve’s penchant, her insatiable appetite for full control... for ownership.

And so it has been, the organ goes untouched.

Bathing is a laborious process and is undertaken when niece Maria is in school, the presence of a prisoner/husband never to be disclosed. So every Wednesday, I prepare a simple lunch and serve my Master, then fill a bucket with soapy water and descend to the basement of the ancient mansion.

The door to Mr. de Havillier’s chamber is cleverly tucked away behind innocuous appearing storage boxes, easily pushed aside to permit entry every morning when I replenish the liquid food and water which slowly oozes through his gastric tube to siphon to his stomach. I also empty the collection bags of bowels and bladder, such modest ‘care’ requiring relative moments.

But on bathing day, my visit becomes a chore.

Remaining in the full body latex suit first slipped on by Nurse Beverly in Bangkok, I must temporarily release each limb, peel away the thick rubber, and wash. It is curious that with each Wednesday visit, my initial touch brings a spastic lurch, snapping Miss Eve’s captive from an unending stupor. There is no awareness of time. His firm tight incarceration is seemingly endless.

The right leg first, tearing away the velcro straps, instant release for she with usable hands, offering hopeless restraint for those without. Then the zipper is unzipped and the rubber is folded away to reveal the smooth hairless skin, Miss Eve insisting that irritating depilating lotion be applied before returning the captive to his status as living mummy.

At first, Mr. de Havallier was given to utilize the moments of relative freedom to offer comfort for constrained muscles, lifting the freed limb, restoring circulation, relieving cramps. But that is no more, his physicality deteriorating, Miss Eve adding something to the water to mandate relative ennui.

He moves not.

As I lave with a chamois over flesh now appearing effeminately smooth, muscling flabby with disuse, I hear murmurs. The gastric tube obviates discernible speech. But Mr. de Havillier, he remains attempting to communicate.

‘It’s the bank information, Mia. In his delusion he remains convinced that in offering it to me I will release him,’ my Master cackling in wickedness in having reneged on her promise... and continuing to renege.

‘As long as he remembers, I will need to keep him tucked away. Can’t have him revealing the information for someone to begin a search for the money.’

And so it is, poor Mr. de Havillier, having so fastidiously committed the complicated account numbers and codes to memory, must now forget. And it does not happen. So release does not happen.

Thus he remains a prisoner.

Right leg then left, next the arms are washed then the chest, rolling his supine form this way and that to cleanse the back. Never ever is there allowed complete freedom, only the straps needed to offer access to one portion of his body are released... and quickly returned to bind after the depilating lotion is applied and the latex zipped to cover.

But lastly, it is time for Mia’s recreation. I am permitted so little. I unzip at the crotch and the once virile male package pops into view, wizened in disuse. Mr. de Havillier, he remains catheterized, and as per Miss Eve’s orders, nothing ever, ever touches the penis. But the testicles... those organs determining maleness, mine surrendered to Madam Kaishek years ago... they so vulnerably dangle. And such need care and cleansing.

So I wash in envy. Held in chastity, the scrotum feels full... ripe. I have licked so many, tenderly caressed so many, I relish my closeness to male glands, mine summarily plucked away many years ago in Burma. So after cleansing, smiling as my tendance causes the emaciated penis to stir, I kneel on the table, stoop, cradle the plums and begin to lave the hairless sac with my tongue. I have been well trained to service the male organs. And despite the catheter, within moments the penis begins to firm. Knowing that it is as useless as mine brings a smile. The irony in knowing that Miles Stapleton Campbell formerly paid so handsomely to be bound and placed in sensory deprivation years ago in Bangkok intrigues.

At Miss Eve’s brothel there was always a discussion of limits, the client verbally outlining his scene... his proclivity... the lady associate mindful to observe the desired level of pain... the length of torment or bondage.

And now... for Mr. de Havillier... what limits are to be heeded?

The penis, untouched of course, becomes fully erect. A moan of frustration emanates from the intubated throat, yet not a limb attempts to move. Such total capitulation to a woman’s dominion...

Offering such joy brings vicarious delight... and brings poignant thoughts... to when I had balls...


Madam Kaishek and my mother converse warmly. Then cash is offered and my mother accepts. So many siblings, I see her smile in relief, knowing that the family will be relieved of one mouth with funds to feed the rest.

I am led to an ox drawn cart, the unpaved roads of rural Burma not receptive to an automobile. There is to be an afternoon’s ride to the village, there to visit a doctor then to board a train to Bangkok.

A hired plantation worker guides the ox, Madam Kaishek and I ride in the back of the cart, encased in a pen, the walls high for a lad of my age.

"Where are we going?" I inquire in the clipped local dialect.

Madam Kaishek smiles, her understanding of my tongue limited, but in visiting the region often to procure talent, her language skills are adequate.

She begins to remove my clothing, not much effort, poverty and the hot climate dictating limited covering.

"In time, to Bangkok. But first you are to be fixed."

My soiled well worn attire is summarily tossed to the roadside. I am naked.


"These. You’ll not need them. And I don’t want you to have them. I want you meek and docile."

Spoken as a practiced hand lowers to gently yet rather firmly cup then close over a very limited ball sac.

"You’re at the perfect age. Within a few months the hormones will begin to flow in abundance. That is not desired."

Having no idea of the repercussions, I look down in silence as her free hand joins in the palpation of my pubes, working to stimulate an equally limited penis. Other than being bathed as a toddler, no one has touched me there... and it feels good.

I stiffen. Madam Kaishek smiles knowingly. She has handled the male organ often.

Meanwhile I feel a strange thrill being naked in the presence of this commanding woman, her hands having their way with me. Mother instructed me to be obedient. And I am, her thrashings for recalcitrance well remembered.

"You’re a good boy to get hard for me. Does this grow stiff often?"

"Sometimes. When I wake up in the morning."

Not the complete truth. I have toyed there, on occasion bringing forth the dry orgasms of youth.

"And does anything come out... other than when you go to the bathroom?" obviously concerned about my state of pubescence.

"Just a little," shaking my head, just beginning to journey the road of youthful discovery and masturbation.

Madam Kaishek’s authoritative but pleasant look turns to a smile of satisfaction.

"Excellent. Stay hard for me. I like that. And you want to please me. It feels good does it not?"

I must agree... better than when I touch myself. And I do indeed stay hard for her, all the way to the village, the fingers returning whenever my erection wavered.


"I recommend two steps, Madam Kaishek. Excise the testicles then use an elastrator for the smooth look you desire."

I smell alcohol. The lady doctor frightens as her gloved hands explore where Madam Kaishek’s fingers graciously labored to keep me firm during the cart ride to the village.

In a gritty medical office, I sit strapped into a examination chair, my ankles secured high, my knees parted. I am frightened. I am under the tutelage of a woman unknown, and she in turn gives free reign to this aging woman who apparently has no compunction about imbibing during professional office hours.

Madam concurs with the assessment. Then the doctor explains the limited availability of anesthetics.

"It matters not, doctor. It is probably best. The intense pain will be remembered along with the momentous change in life. And I’ll want the usual oral modification. And this one’s rather chatty. We’ll not want her able to tell any stories."


The doctor nods, smiling in understanding. I will never speak out to denounce those who castrated me.

Sunday, December 11, 2011

Power Series Continued

Next week, 'Power, Succumbing to It'.

Hope all are enjoying this offering. And keep in mind.... a 'Kindle' stuffed with Chris Bellows stories would make a wonderful Christmas gift.

Saturday, December 10, 2011

'Power, Craving It'

Power, Craving It

Copyright 2011

by Chris Bellows

This cage thing is a bummer. Mom has the door secured with three padlocks! I have not a chance of ever opening it.

So stepfather Harold kneels within, hour after hour, with Mia on occasion knowing to reach through the bars, hold Harold’s caged cock and offer a bowl for urination.

I miss listening to him slink about the house, the clatter of the many chain links which serve to restrain drives home the intense humiliation of being under complete control.

Still, I can sit and view in Mom’s bedroom, teasing in complete nakedness as I have become notably comfortable exhibiting myself. For me it’s like disrobing in front of the family dog. So helpless... so vulnerable... he can watch, to a point indulge his sick fantasies... but never ever touch me... or bring self gratification.

I cannot help but cultivate this craving. I have Mia lick me to orgasm at least once per day... and always... well when Mom’s not present any way... almost always while sitting totally naked and spread, clutching the back of Mia’s head as Harold kneels in his cage and watches.

I fantasize of what I would do... hopefully what some day I will do... given a subservient male of my own. I have learned so much... and am so eager to implement my knowledge.

As Mia’s gifted tongue works, I gaze at Harold just as years ago he gazed at me... with a degree of want and lust. Shackled and hobbled... so physically unnecessary with the sturdy stainless steel bars of the cage. Plus three locks... not one... not two... but three. Then there is the leash, restricting much motion within the cage. And most importantly the penis is secured in Mom’s cock cage. Knowing that Harold suffers, bringing self inflicted pain, if he ever lets his thoughts become too impure, thrills for some reason. And so I am given, whenever Mom’s out of the house, to strip naked and offer Harold all the viewing of my eighteen year old charms that he can handle. He either learns to control that long neglected male organ or the many, many spikes in his cock cage do it for him.

In summary, the feminine dominion offers a great lesson from Mom...

‘He’ll feel much better being thoroughly restrained and totally controlled. Once there is the realization that he will never, ever have complete freedom of movement... the mind succumbs. He’ll become as gentle as a lamb... there will be acceptance... he will almost beseech for a woman’s touch and attention. Something as simple as caressing his ear will be a most welcomed highlight of his day.’

And so I note, while Mia’s tongue vigorously thrusts past my inner labia, that Mom has cruelly tied Harold’s leash high, to one of the top bars, forcing him to kneel upright... for hour after hour.

A stress position. Wherever did mother learn such a thing?

So in addition to being shackled and caged, the leash, attached to painful nipple clamps, prevents Harold from comfortably lying down.

I wonder what Harold would offer for a few moments of respite?

I shift, raising my thighs. Analingus has come to be the culmination of good oral service, and Mia knows to work her tongue and lips lower, lapping away at my rosebud, while my fingers go to my clitoral hood and began a brisk massage that triggers ultimate climax. I see Harold stir, careful not to tension his leash. I close my eyes in complete ecstasy, my loins oscillating in joy. Then presto! I once again soak the bangs of Mia’s forehead with a forceful spray of feminine essence.

I calm, lying back in bliss in the large easy chair. I look to Harold, his expression priceless... such need... such frustration...

"Mia so much cares, so desirous to bring pleasure to others, don’t you think Harold?"

Castration, every woman should consider it for the kept male... perhaps I will even teach myself to snip...

I push Mia’s head away, the hormonal release temporarily distracting from what is otherwise a constant need. I stand, Harold feasting his lusting eyes on my budding nubile form. My nose detects my fragrance and I smile knowing this so much adds to Harold’s stimulation.

"I can give you some slack, Harold... if you’re a good boy."

Yes, one need satiated... another arises... this craving.

He nods quite gingerly, careful not to stress his leash. I stroll to the cage and untie the simple knot which serves to hour after hour bring slow torment. I hear a rush of air from his lugs as for the first time in hours his back and stomach muscles are not straining to hold him upright and assure his nipple clamps do not painfully tear his overly sensitive pink nubs. I pass the leash from one hand to another guiding him to the locked door. Within there is a small hatch, offering an opening larger than the bars, ostensibly for the introduction of a feeding bowl.

"Come, be a good boy for Gigi."

I kneel and pull open the hatch, my leash hand guiding Harold’s face to the low opening. The molt gag, as always, holds open his mouth, the piercing of his tongue, Mom’s cavalier augmentation done for no other reason than she could do it, glittering in the room light.

"I think you’re a thirsty boy and need some drink," I coax in the voice of master to pet.

Harold likes looking at my pink parts. So I let him have a visual feast... in exchange for a simple kindliness.

"I’ll go real slow so you don’t miss a drop," pulling the leash outward such that his forehead presses the bar above the opening and his open mouth is partially thrust through the hatch.

I press forward with my hips, smiling as Harold’ eyes widen. My lower belly presses to the bars, sensing the warmth of his forehead. The fingers of my free right hand splay my lips. Well shorn, I offer an unfettered close up of what he would so much like to touch and taste... wet pink flesh, well reddened by Mia’s attentive tongue.

"Drinkie, drinkie," I encourage, the grip on the leash firming to send my message of earnest control, forcing him to crane his neck.

Yes, as Mom so humorously suggests, Harold’s molt gag has transformed mouth and throat to a sink and a drain. As I open my bladder, careful to first dribble and judge his ability to swallow, I blush in a different form of satiation... hearing the gulps, my excretions totally ingested... sensing that such streams directly into his gullet. He must ingest what I discard, take whatever I offer... and savor it. I am giddy with my own mastery.

Harold spills not a drop. He knows to please. And I smile in seeing him grimace. I know the look, know the suppressed sound of aggravation. Drinking from me, offering such proximity to that which he would so much like to savor, has brought those impure thoughts, his firming penis once again engaging in the losing battle with the spikes of Mom’s cock cage.

I frown lugubriously, feigning sympathy.

"I think it is best not to make me use the leash, Harold. Going forward when I release you from the bars, just crawl to the hatch on your own and I’ll quench your thirst for you."

He’ll do it. He does everything I want.

What is this craving? Having been orally brought to amazing gratification, I still need to govern... to humiliate... to continuously drive home my power... power that seems to be blossoming.

Saturday, December 3, 2011

'Power, Admiring It'

Power, Admiring It

Copyright 2011

by Chris Bellows

Some gig. And every Saturday evening!

Ms. Maria de Havillier offers more cash than I earn in a week at the pet store. And I only have to take off my clothes and follow directions.

Of course I only do it for the money... least I did at first. Then deep within I learn there is something about giving up one’s self... for pleasure. To start, I am bathed. This Mia servant, age absolutely indeterminate, is amazingly skillful, smiling so coyly as she shaves my balls. She has this strange thing about testicles...

Then I am pampered in being washed.

Yes, I am pampered indeed, and I guess there are times when even the most macho guy likes that, even though the sweet smelling bubble bath is a little over the top.

But then comes the scene that both appalls and oddly thrills... this guy Maria de Havillier terms her husband... gagged... shackled... caged.

Last semester in college, in my psychology course, I learned of a 1971 Stanford University experiment... involving 24 student volunteers, pre tested to be psychologically normal. The group was divided... half designated as prisoners... half anointed as their as jailers. The goal was to observe the change in behavior... the jailers becoming emboldened... the prisoners passively accepting capitulation. Famously, the experiment had to be truncated when the jailers became notably cruel and the prisoners entered a depression in which excessive authoritative behavior was strangely accepted.

And so here I am in Ms. de Havillier’s home and with each and every visit I seem to be drawn further into this web of power and control... participating in the amazing level of cruelty.

Something about knowing that the guy is kept... shackled and locked in a cage... and silenced. Yes, a prisoner... what he sees and hears never to be divulged...

It brings peculiar comfort, knowing that no matter my actions or level of participation, he can not ever reveal anything. Ms. de Havillier certainly can’t let him go, suddenly free him to tell the world of her cruel governance. And my role is so tame... so comparatively innocent. I just lie on the bed and let this becoming woman ride ‘little Trevor’ to multiple orgasms... the caged guy watching intently... moaning something as Ms. Havillier shrieks in climax.

She’s amazingly wet... and warm... and tight... and knowing. Yes, vanilla dates have come to be disappointing after lying beneath as Ms. de Havillier takes her pleasure. She squeezes, knowing to use her kegel muscles to heighten her joy... and mine, though that seems to be of little concern. And then she squirts, her ultimate climax strong, a small geyser coating my pubes in fragrant lubricity.

The sounds made by her whining husband have come to add a certain psychological dynamic to the seemingly endless copulation. Something about the abundant ecstasy being shared... with him watching in permanent and total denial... that adds quirkiness to the thrill... quirkiness I have come to accept.

‘He will never, ever again ejaculate,’ Ms. de Havillier profoundly emphasized after the conclusion of one lengthy night of fucking. ‘He hasn’t even been permitted to touch his in months,’ the observation coming in post coital bliss as her fingers drew a semi flaccid ‘little Trevor’ toward the ceiling, stretching fully to show the length off to her envious ‘pet’.

Then, awaiting for me to reload, she rummaged about her cunny and arose to stand naked at the cage. Tugging on her captive’s leash, her sopping fingers slowly dripped into his forcibly opened mouth the slime of our coupling.

Yes, of late she has taken great care to gather that which has bespattered her cunny and let it slowly drool into what she terms Harold’s ‘sink and drain’.

‘Yum, yum,’ she taunts knowing that the odoriferous goo must be ingested.

I find myself smiling with the facial expression of this Harold character... so vulnerable... so humble... so much in need... but so thoroughly denied... of everything.

Ms. de Havillier encourages me to actively participate in the torment. And though I don’t lock the cage... tug on the leash... apply any duress... direct duress... I surprise myself... the Stanford University experiment being replicated.

There has come this esteem for the power... the governance... the control... the abject capitulation she demands and has attained.


"You look divinely randy tonight, Trevor," spoken in the sultry voice which always kick starts my libido.

Mia has shaved me, after rinsing away the excess shaving lotion, her tongue generously lapping the smooth skin of my scrotum. It feels good. And with my level of comfort piquing after many Saturday trysts, I relax and let ‘little Trevor’ show off, the tip of my penis engorging, the shaft rising in stiffness to press against my belly.

Ms. de Havillier is correct. I am indeed horny. Mid week vanilla dates have been put aside, the sexual passion paling in comparison to my Saturday evening obligations. I thus feel well stocked with spunk.

Ms. de Havillier gains curious joy in watching her little serving girl tend to me. I initially rolled with this ritual for the money, she sitting covered only by her robe, the folds enticingly flipping open to flash her feminine charms as she observes Mia’s care. Now I kind of join her in the enjoyment...

I step into the hot bath and Mia works to soap me, scurrying about the perimeter to chamois my entire nakedness. She is tender and accomplished, a skill set I cannot imagine how acquired.

"You know I think Harold has come to enjoy your taste, Trevor. So much juice I’ve fed him over the many weeks. I am thinking maybe you’d like to share your generosity. With his pent up sexual desire, watching me ride my bull stud excites him. Instills certain envy... and I imagine a thirst."

Gagged, unable to even gesture with his hands, it is absolutely indeterminate what this Harold likes and dislikes. He moans and whines a lot. Otherwise, all I know is... I have nothing to do with his torment... directly.

Mia finishes. I stand and step from the tub, the little serving girl scrambling for a large towel. As part of the ritual, she dries me then knows to lick my balls and restore any degree of wavering stiffness. Ms. de Havillier insists. She likes having me hard. And whom am I to object? I am a guy after all...

Fully erect, Ms. de Havillier arises from the chair where she sits. As Mia continues to kneel and lick my balls, my benefactress parts her feet to stand over her servant then hugs me. The robe parting, she presses her nakedness against mine. Such a brisance of pleasure... being both licked and hugged, her substantial breasts abrading my nipples, my erection greeting the smooth flesh of her tummy.

"Mia is very good with her hands, too," the comment somewhat self evident after the gentle swathing of the chamois.

"An extra stipend tonight, Trevor. You just have to stand at the cage and let Mia be Mia. A little game we’ll play... keep your hands at the back of your head and there’s an extra two hundred for you."

Wow! The money certainly flows during these Saturday night visits. Ms. de Havillier’s wealth must be substantial... the offered pile of dollars growing each week... along with the depravity.

As always, a small parade departs the bathroom, Ms. de Havillier leading, a prancing Mia following, those cute little buttocks rolling in tight pink panties, then me, now with hands on head, guided by Mia’s right hand cupping my balls.

Such decadence! But for me such lucrative decadence. And the power... Ms. de Havillier revels in it and I marvel at her enjoyment as one would enviously view a gentleman savoring a glass of fine, expensive port.

Into the bedroom there kneels in the shining steel cage a shackled, leashed and hairless Harold, oiled skin glowing... placed on display as one would exhibit a treasured sculpture. There is such pride taken in his subjugation!

"Come my pretty pet," Ms. de Havillier reaching to take in the leash and draw the gagged face to the bars.

Harold has no choice but to respond, the leash attached to nasty nipple clamps, the slightest jostle bringing inordinate pain.

"You’ve so much enjoyed Trevor’s taste these past few weeks, Harold..." the voice mocking.

I am alarmed as Mia’s soft hand pulls to direct me to stand at the bars. The two women work in conjunction, my erection pressing through the bars to align with the molt gag which constantly forces open Harold’s mouth.

"Hands on head," Ms. de Havillier reminds as I feel Mia’s grip change.

It is rare that she touches my penis, ostensibly reserving that privilege for Ms. de Havillier, plus for some reason deriving inordinate delight in instead handling my testicles. But now Mia wraps her little hand about the shaft and strokes most sensuously.

"So Harold, Trevor has something he’d like to share with you... something you’ve been forcibly denied expelling for quite some time."

I am amazed to feel the hands and fingers of this Mia servant become even more tender and caring as one of the most exquisite hand jobs begins. It is as if she can vicariously feel exactly what I feel... stroking, twisting, gripping with expert pressure. She knows the male organ, precisely where the most sensation is felt.

Meanwhile Ms. de Havillier cackles wickedly, her leash hand assuring that Harold’s open mouth remains aligned with my penis tip.

"I think you’ve got enough sperm for both of us tonight, Trevor. Just let little Mia have her way. She’s quite accomplished as you can feel. And in shooting a load first for Harold, you’ll be beneath me even longer... not so quick to pull the trigger a second time. I’ll have a nice long ride on my bull stud."

The look on Harold’s face is one of horror. And I find myself smiling, akin to joining in the Stanford University experiment, conspiring with the cruelty of Harold’s jailer.

I close my eyes. The hands are exquisite. The pleasure mounts. The scene is as depraved as any Saturday night. I feel the twinge of the seminal vessels preparing. Incredibly, Mia knows too. I look down to see her nodding to Ms. de Havillier. The wicked woman reaches with her free hand, tweaking my right nipple as she is wont to do when I lie beneath her... when she cues me to ejaculate.

"Come for me a like good bull stud," the words, her touch, bringing forth the desired burst of essence.

The minx Mia assures that the splatter, a considerable explosion, erupts directly into the sink of Harold’s mouth... to flow to the drain of his throat.

"Yum, yum Harold," offered with such a savage and spiteful giggle... and such a pitiful moan of distress in return.

Then comes the gurgling sound of Harold’s ‘drain’. Swallow or choke, he cannot reject my sizable offering of slithering male ooze.

I have been masturbated... and made to discharge into the mouth of another male!

I once again convince myself... it is only for the money.

Saturday, November 26, 2011

More of the 'Power' series

Next week, 'Power, Admiring It".

Hope all are enjoying.


'Power, Having It (Part Three of Three)

Assuming Miles Stapleton Campbell can stay one step ahead of those seeking him, it would seem he has an idyllic life... for those desiring sexually exotic ‘interaction’. Yes, I have him work a bit, helping Mia clean, sharing the cooking duties. But otherwise he revels in the surroundings... women of authority, well equipped... more than able to extinguish his smoldering desires.

On occasion he will slip out, never announcing his departure, and return within an hour, small parcel in hand.

It does not require much thought to conclude he replenishes his cash. Owing me some 800 pounds per month, plus whatever he pays the lady associate du jour for the long term bondage, his funds temporarily deplete. But if my intelligence is correct, he has access to plenty more... some where. I have noticed the bills are similarly numbered. From whatever source he is drawing, the funds come from a batch printed and circulated at the same point in time.

Is it possible that he could have physically purloined and then transported that many greenbacks?

No. Even amounts as small has $10,000,000 will not fit in a regular sized suitcase. And Mr. Carlson, not his real name, hints that the missing funds are in the nine figure range.

So, he has traveling cash... physical hard currency... and the majority of the stolen funds some where, some how invested.

Quite cunning, quite the conniver, relieving that much from otherwise smart and well guarded institutions.

It is not difficult to have him followed. I just run down my list of clientele and offer a discount ‘school lesson’ to a retired police officer who once a month feels the need to sit naked at a small desk, read aloud from some primer and have his knuckles wrapped by one of our more pedagogical lady associates.

‘He visits a private bank... accesses a safe deposit box. Probably the most straight and narrow client they have. Mainly it’s a depot for the drug trade,’ comes the report.

I promise a long painful reading lesson with his next visit and hang up, the intelligence appreciated.

I now know where I can access his ‘petty cash’ fund. But the remaining surfeit? The huge amount too large to physically transport? That will require a degree of planning and connivance... equal to that of Miles Stapleton Campbell.

"Mia, next time Davis is restrained in his closet, search his possessions for a small key. It will look like this," holding up the key to my own well stuffed safe deposit box.


Step one, I visit the sleazy institution where Davis parks his greenbacks. I establish my own safe deposit box. It can’t hurt to have another. I also survey the staff. In my line of work, one can read the faces, who is straight... who isn’t... and who is somewhat in between. As one would expect at an establishment that caters to the drug trade, there are abundant opportunities, coming to doubt there is one staff member who would not pick the pocketbook of his own mother.

Step two, within days my naked hermaphrodite skips into my office with a key... that of Miles Stapleton Campbell. I let her feast beneath my desk, tongue dancing on scalding folds of pink, while I record the box number and make an impression for duplication. She has such a need to offer pleasure.

Step three, no questions to be asked as I have a duplicate key made from the impression. It’s Bangkok after all.

I am ready, just one variable to overcome. Failure will mean little downside... I’ll just try again. Success means I can begin squeezing the accomplished embezzler... Miles Stapleton Campbell.

I assemble a bundle of cash and stroll to the International Bank of Heroin, or whatever it is termed, assuring that I have a few extra bills at the ready. I request access to my new box. The clerk accompanies me, the bank’s master key in hand. We open my box. I request privacy. The clerk moves to the opposite end of the vault. I bribe... requesting total privacy and offering some bills... not too many... suspicion not to be raised. He violates regulations and temporarily departs. I use the bank master key and my newly made duplicate to open the box of Miles Stapleton Campbell. I empty the contents into my box. As expected, bundles and bundles of uncirculated bills. A goodly amount, but there is no time to count. It’s petty cash any way, and I do not want to use inordinate time.

Placing my own bundle into the box, I assure that of Miles Stapleton Campbell is secured, then call out for the clerk. We lock my box and I leave empty handed. How can anyone suspect I have stolen something? Plus, how can anyone, namely Miles Stapleton Campbell, claim he has been robbed? To what authority will he call to report his loss?

Then comes the wait as the funds deplete... my rent money... the sums expended on my lady associates with Davis reveling in his proclivity.


Days later, a letter from America. Tragedy, my oldest brother and his wife killed in an auto crash. This leaves my niece Maria cared for by mother and father, a situation at their advanced age which is not tenable.

This serves to bring focus to thoughts conjured with each trip to the bank and every review of my account balance. The sums of money pile up and whereas being a Madam brings certain gratification, it is probably time to move onward. Young niece Maria needs longer term stability and that won’t come in having her move to Bangkok and live in a brothel.

So my cat and mouse game with Davis becomes more earnest. If I am to retire, significant funds are only one part of the equation. I will miss the leisurely strolls in the narrow corridor where years ago Madam Chang offered such sage advice, the views through the one way mirror bringing my loins to percolate in heat. Power can be addictive... just as addictive as ceding to it.

Davis needs to pay my rent. After compensating the acute care nurse, Beverly, for a particularly long session in bondage and isolation, he quietly slips out, destination as with every brief departure, the International Bank of Heroin, no doubt.

I make a point of being present in the parlor when he returns. He has this alarmed look... and he should be alarmed... his safe deposit box found to be empty.

"Need the rent money, Mr. Davis."

It is the beginning of the squeeze, forcing him to in some manner draw funds from his main stash, the hundreds of millions that can not be held in the form of cash and be secreted away in cubby holes and bank vaults. Switzerland, Cayman Islands, Panama? It’s held somewhere in a coded account... possibly some in all three locations.

"You’ll have to bear with me, Madam de Havillier, I’ll need to do some banking."

I just stand arms akimbo, emulating the stern military stance of an irrate father I learned as a teen.

"Be in my office with money by noon today, Mr. Davis. We discussed my requirements months ago when you requested sanctuary."

Yes, the squeeze. He’ll not have it, the money. However it gets wired or sent and turned to green cash such will take days. And I have conspired with my lady associate Beverly. Just as the financially bereft were placed in debtors prison centuries ago, never to be released unless family or friends stepped forth, our Mr. Davis will find himself similarly detained.

Men look good in shackles.


But for Mia, I have continued to maintain Madam Chang’s decorum, nudity is only for the dungeons. This will need to be taken into account in instituting Mr. Davis’ new protocol.

Beverly the acute care nurse, British, tall, muscular... overall marvelously imposing... awaits with me in my office. At noon, a chagrined and temporarily impoverished Mr. Davis meekly knocks on my door. I have instructed my lady associates not to lend him a cent, prescient in knowing such is the only other source of immediate cash. And so he must bargain for time. And I know to drive a hard bargain.

"I will need a few days, Madam de Havillier. I have a little trouble at the bank."

I am well aware, repressing a smile as I imagine the look on his face in opening the empty box.

"Well, I can’t have you skipping out on the rent, Mr. Davis. We have a strict arrangement. But I can accommodate. What is your deal with Miss Beverly when she graciously binds you in the closet for an afternoon?" nodding to my associate at the far wall.

Mr. Davis gulps. Past sessions with the demanding Miss Beverly have been fun and games, knowing that at afternoon’s end freedom and daylight would be restored.

"Ahh... $300."

"A wholesale price, very generous of her. Beverly, how about $400 per day? I will advance the sums and be repaid when Mr. Davis’ funds arrive."

Beverly nods of course, the discussion prearranged. Without need for another word she turns, reaches to a credenza and unfurls a full body latex suit.

"This may be a little small. But I believe extreme tightness is preferred, is that not so Mr. Davis?"

Another gulp.

"Or I can call the authorities. We certainly have enough members of the local constabulary visit us for recreational purposes... I’ll have no trouble suggesting they stop in officially... to investigate a mysterious boarder who can’t pay the rent."

The threat of the police brings a notable shudder of fear and concern. Our Mr. Davis wants no attention. Has he a choice but to concede to my proposal?

He does not... plus the latex suit and the imposing Nurse Beverly do tend to entice.

"Do be a good boy and go with Nurse Beverly. You’ll need to strip naked for us so you can be properly dressed, Mr. Davis."

I step to the wall and unhook the collection of shackles which so thoroughly bound Mia at her arrival.

"And I hope you don’t mind wearing a few trinkets as security, Mr. Davis. Heavy, quite secure, it will make us both feel better."

"But I’ll need to get to the bank..."

"We can handle that. Just give us the instructions. I’ll pick up the money and Beverly will release you."

Squeezed indeed.


One can only imagine, with all the years of experience, the level of torment to be meted by a governing woman with means, resolve and without compunction.

For regular clients, some degree of care must be taken to assure that a lucrative ongoing relationship continues. Somewhat like caring for a horse or other draft animal. The beast is worked hard, but at day’s end watered, groomed and bedded so it can be worked another day.

But with poor Mr. Davis, that is no longer the case. With no funds, there is no gain in caring for the animal... another day of work not to be had.

So Beverly goes to work. Unfettered control, no limits. I need three things from our Mr. Davis... the name of the bank or banks.... the account numbers... the highly guarded access codes.

Taken to one of our medical dungeons, much time and money expended to replicate that found in any hospital, Beverly strips, catheterizes, intubates and anally plugs. His body is slathered with irritating depilation lotion, my touch, then completely enshrouded in black latex, head to toe. A luscious hood covers his entire head, single hole for the tubes invading mouth and nose.

Ears plugged with hearing aid like devices, Mr. Davis is deafened by static unless someone presses a button to speak to him. Obviously he is sightless and cannot speak. Wrists cuffed, ankles cuffed, thighs banded, an assortment of connecting chains, those once worn by Mia, frustratingly serve to hobble. Though somewhat overdone, Mr. Davis, he who relishes bondage and sensory deprivation, needs to feel owned and controlled... yet no longer in an enjoyable manner as with the frequent sessions with a professional woman who will mercifully release at appointment’s end.

Led on a leash, a sightless Mr. Davis lumbers about very slowly, very carefully, Beverly pressing the button to active the hearing pieces and bark orders.

Such a charming scene, Beverly slowly brings him back to my office. My new gimp slave.

"We have a special room for you, Miles Stapleton Campbell," noting that he is startled then quakes upon hearing his real name. "Your breathing is to be controlled. You are to be fed through a gastric tube, your bowels and bladder emptied only when your governing woman decides. You will be exercised by being placed in stress positions, never to know for how long. You will see nothing, hear only feminine commands, and feel only the burning itch of the depilation lotion.

"Once per week, the gastric tube will be removed and you will have an opportunity to speak."

I leave the hearing pieces on as I begin to snip with sears, the sound sharp and I know to be heard through his ear pieces.

"Your passports. Cut to ribbons. You’ll not need these. Miles Stapleton Campbell is no longer. Consider yourself kept," offered as I indeed turn his real identification into shreds.

"When you have the opportunity to speak, I heartily suggest you provide information concerning certain purloined funds and how such can be accessed. Otherwise you may be dressed in latex and fed through tubing for a long, long time."

I feel twinges. I feel wetness. I need Mia.


Amazingly obdurate, the many play sessions of Miles Stapleton Campbell prove to have imbued a layer of stoicism. Meanwhile as weeks go by, me and my lady associates have much fun knowing that it’s no game. As opposed to our clients, Miles Stapleton Campbell will not dress and go home to his wife in a sheepish glow of satiation. The torment... mental... physical... emotional... is real, constant and unending.

One would think it was actually his money he safeguards.

My associate Beverly so much enjoys having no limits... having no scripted scenario which is otherwise so prevalent amongst the clients.

So bladder irrigation is common, reversing the flow of the catheter to fill the viscera with incredible quantities of fluid... the need to relieve most dire... which ultimately comes only when Beverly decides. That draining the colon can likewise be reversed to offer massive high colonics... again to be held seemingly ad infinitum... until, at her whim, the bowels empty.

And without sight or sound, her tormenting offerings are seemingly random and totally unexpected... Miles Stapleton Campbell frequently awakening from a sensory deprived stupor to feel his belly and or backside filling to the point of near bursting.

Such a horrifying feeling, ceding to another the power to fill one’s body with whatever and whenever.

Air is deprived as well, of course. But with much more earnestness then the play session weeks before. Yes, the panic is palpable, Miles Stapleton Campbell truly not knowing whether we desire to end our game, and his conniving existence, taking the contents of his safe deposit box and leaving the remaining millions for the authorities to finally recover. He tugs and lurches wonderfully with Beverly squeezing closed his air tube.

Finally, four weeks of oblivion, he breaks. As always when I have Beverly gruffly pull his gastric tube, Mia services me under my skirt, the thrill of total control bringing incredible sexual heat, the tongue and lips of the altered male so soothing.

"Would you like to tell me anything," smiling in hearing him initially grovel, so humbly thanking us for the brief respite from day after day of deprivation.

On this occasion, finally the information flows. Bank names... account numbers... I am impressed with his ability to memorize lengthy access codes... the only security... and the only thing I need.

I write quickly but fastidiously. And then... such cruelty.... I have Beverly return him to silence and resume the static in his ears. He’s no longer needed for anything other than to amuse. I have broken him... completely. My entire body quivers as Mia laps away the abundant wetness of a gushing quim.

"Stress him... on his right foot first. Two hours... then rest him a bit for two hours on the left foot," my command comes as I feel myself gush into Mia’s eager mouth. Watching Miles Stapleton Campbell futilely attempt to avoid the return of the gagging silencing gastric tube brings such arousal.


Hundreds of millions... piled on top of my own seven figure savings. Retirement beckons though age 40 still not attained.

I take care of Beverly, our nurse of torment, peeling off $1,000,000 in compensation for one lengthy four week session of impressive power and subjugation... Miles Stapleton Campbell so often sensing death... never knowing whether a bladder or colon would burst... his air supply, ever to be returned. Such skill... such feminine resolve.

It is an easy task to arrangement marriage, and obtain a new identity and passport for Mr. Evelyn de Havillier. Actually I used the name Ed. Our boot licking Mr. Carlson assisted, one of the easier tasks my threat of extortion cajoles.

The marriage is not consummated of course. But proves to be an easy way to obtain a new name, new identification papers and to transport my gimp slave back to the United States... a person with the name Miles Stapleton Campbell not ever to be seen or heard from again.

One cannot fly while well shackled. So I arrange to lease a yacht and travel the seas... my husband unfortunately not able to enjoy the many vistas as I keep him latexed, deafened, blinded and frustrated.

To avoid suspicion I slowly move the funds from his accounts to mine. And when I read of two major financial institutions finally owning up to huge ‘unexplained’ losses... something about poor internal controls... I know it is best that Miles Stapleton Campbell has disappeared from the face of the Earth. How he duped so much money from powerful sophisticated organizations I will never know. And in reading newspaper accounts it seems no one else has a grasp on all the details.

Thus one can conclude such embezzlements may occur again... but for the fact that the mastermind is slowly transforming to a state of blithering idiocy as the constant deprivation takes its toll.

Will I ever release him from the secret basement room of my mansion?

Why bother? Mia cares, making it so facile for me to never, ever offer mercy. In a peculiar way, he is happy... no longer having to pay for the long term bondage and sensory deprivation in which he formerly reveled... no longer living a subterfuge... no longer evading the authorities... not having a care in the world...


Fascinating reading. I never met Ed de Havillier... aka Miles Stapleton Campbell. Moving into Auntie’s mansion at age thirteen, being introduced to a naked and castrated Mia was quite an eye opener and my attention was diverted, never questioning both Auntie and Mia’s long visits to the basement.
In preparing the homestead for sale, basement storage boxes are moved and a covered up unknown door appears. Opening it reveals behind a drab windowless chamber of concrete walls. It is where I assume Auntie’s aforementioned gimp slave was kept well tethered in latex, fed and tormented... for how long?

What happened to him I do not know. I later came across the chains and shackles and playfully restrained a truckling Mia, so at some point Miles Stapleton Campbell was freed of the ‘family heirlooms’. If deceased, it would have been an easy matter to dispose of his remains while I attended school each day.

But I belatedly thank Miles Stapleton Campbell... Ed de Havillier... for the empowerment... for the vast inherited sums which so nicely serve the world of feminine dominion.

                                                                            Maria de Havillier

Saturday, November 19, 2011

'Power, Having It' (Part Two of Three)

Years go by. Just as Madam Kaishek chose to retire, Madam Chang, certainly not old, more weary of the hurly burly, announces her intentions as well.

Not quite age thirty, I am left in command of the most notorious house of... house of what? In my many years, no sex was ever offered. So the term brothel seems inappropriate.

Handed a vast daily cash flow, I had the acumen not to change a thing. I banked many dollars, reveled in strolling the secretive corridor day after day, tucked Mia under my desk whenever the viewing of the subjugated male brought the need for feminine satiation, and shared my bed with her, the plumping soft flesh of the castrated male proving to be quite comforting.

For my security, I surreptitiously videotaped many sessions, particularly with clients of power. With the corruption of the local government one needs an insurance policy or two. And so threats of exposure, arrest, prosecution, confiscation, etc., were easily countered when copies of certain taped encounters were anonymously mailed to the threatening authority.

Most humorously, I even had the ‘American collection’, videotapes of various embassy personnel, some of the fetishes quite revealing, and kept on hand should there be attempted some ‘end run’ attack... the threat of deportation or the cancellation of my passport.

And so, with youth, power, money... and unending cunnilingus... life seemed replete. One may suggest that intimate male companionship was somewhat lacking. Yet in observing the many buffoons submitting daily to women of authority... and paying goodly sums for the privilege... my ingrained lack of respect did not foster much of an urge.

Then came, seemingly from no where, a client even more noteworthy than the many businessmen, bankers and politicians seeking the fetish du jour.

Miles Stapleton Campbell, I was later to learn his real name.

Bondage. That was his request, long term, with sensory deprivation. And whereas the neophyte may think it's easy in terms of effort and time, as a businesswoman I knew otherwise. Such requests tie up a room which I can use four to five times per day... and an associate... for no one is restrained and left isolated for hour after hour. There needs to be care and supervision... even if such is a smart crack of the crop to assure the subjugant remains breathing.

So this ‘gentleman’ initially introducing himself as ‘Davis’, forks over mountains of cash for one of my associates to bind impressively... and trust me, they know how to bind... and leave him deafened and hooded for hour upon hour.

After two visits, having been charged the hourly rate despite what he deemed should be the equivalent price of a hotel stay, he requested a visit with the ‘Madam’... me.

I found something dodgy about this Davis character, arriving in Bangkok from no where, slathering about many one hundred dollars bills, his English accent either faked or bastardized by considerable time living elsewhere. And he was unctuous, and seemed to backtrack somewhat in stepping into my office to find I was American, I suppose expecting the Madam to be some demure Asian woman.

For him an entire afternoon, beginning at midday, had been spent strapped down to a floor mat, not a limb permitted to move. On this occasion he was intubated, giving up the privilege of voluntary breathing to one of our medically astute associates, a trained acute care nurse.

For a time I had watched through the one way mirror as it required nothing more than the tip of a woman’s index finger to block the tube emanating from deep within his throat, deprive oxygen, and thus spur the most paroxysmal wrenching, an impressive exhibition of the body’s muscular quest for life sustaining air.

It mattered not of course, the fervent clenching and tugging most futile.

By afternoon’s end, Davis had been trained, to lie most docilely until, at the whim of my associate, her finger would retract and permit a most welcomed deep breath. Quite the display of womanly governance... and discipline... the male completely succumbing... trained to lie motionless until another decided the appropriate time for air.

Yes, the more Davis struggled the longer the interval that the finger remained in place, calm cool words offered to strongly suggest that he submit to a woman’s prerogative. Davis’ only response... to obey, lie still and hope his superior would not end his life.

"I’d like to discuss a long term arrangement," getting to business after a brief exchange concerning the weather.

As stated, in occupying a room, in requiring the constant attention of an associate, there really cannot be a ‘wholesale’ price offered. I explain this to ‘Davis’ and he seems somewhat annoyed... somewhat disappointed.

We talk more and I begin to detect a hint of desperation. There have been occasions when one of the younger soppier clientele will almost propose marriage to an associate who as been ironically cruel in a manner which sordidly appeals. But I cannot believe this of Davis. Trim and in his mid forties, with his age and proclivity if there are sentimental yearnings it would seem to be more for a good firm rope knot than the ‘knot’ of romance and affection.

"Well, Miss de Havillier, I am staying at the Rembrandt Hotel. 200 pounds per day... and I don’t get the service one obtains here," he offers stifling a sheepish smile. "Surely there is an alternative... a way of splitting the difference so to speak. I would not always need... special care..."

I smile with the trope, today’s ‘special care’ being to deprive of life sustaining oxygen for inordinate periods until the demanded proper discipline... complete motionlessness... is instilled.

I ruminate. The old Victorian home has a third floor, used when the associates of another era, then termed prostitutes, were paid most penuriously and could only afford the room and board of a more rigorous and selfish madam. When Madam Chang began appealing to more ‘exotic’ tastes, the required associates became educated, better paid and have alternatives... one of which is not to be so dismally bound to the employer.

There are empty rooms to be had.

Yet, I am suspicious. Appearing from no where, Davis has visited us three times in six days, symptoms of well entrenched sexual psychosis. Most clients need to ‘blow off’ the steam of perversion once or twice per month. Thus with his intense need for serial subjugation, I empathize with his request. He is either exceptionally wealthy or soon to be broke... at least that is my initial summation. But is that indeed the case?

Then I note, as I ponder his offer, that his eyes are transfixed on the chains and shackles, hanging on the wall to his left, once worn by Mia. Suitable artifacts for a woman of my occupation... and predilection... I have such displayed as one would offer nostalgic mementos.

"I’ll not want you lollygagging about here Mr. Davis. You’ll pay for a room... certainly less than that charged by the Rembrandt Hotel... but also perform chores. Time spent with the associates will be at regular rates... unless you can inveigle a personal discount from them. I do not run a flea market."

More suspicion... he neither inquires about the room rate nor the size and condition of the room. Yes, there is desperation.


Mr. Davis moves into the third floor. Two hundred pounds per week. The amount certainly pales in comparison to my weekly gross intake, but it is steady. Plus I put him to work... an intact male under my command. He helps Mia clean, and can cook, offering a welcomed diversity from Mia’s Burmese cuisine.

I am amused by his abhorrence of working too closely with my naked and neutered servant. The thought that Mia was once male... an intact male... seems to trigger deep trepidations. Our Mr. Davis seems to envision his own little organs snipped away, forcing him into the world of a Peter Pan like existence. It is amusing to observe and I make a mental note to pursue. After all, pressing limits is what we do here.

A couple of weeks go by. Davis indeed wheedles an arrangement, not to affect my take, with one of the lady associates who is willing to tightly bind and lock him a closet for many off duty hours, not tying up one of the lucrative dungeons. A fair deal.

Still, I have questions... so obeisant... so much access to cash... seemingly so happy to please and do house work... and with no place to go... no desire or need to step from the premises.

"Mia, when next you have access to Mr. Davis’ room, see if there is a passport. It will be tucked away, but accessible to him."

Yes, the suspicion continues. Assuming over time that I would learn more about this Mr. Davis and his penchants, instead I learn nothing.

Within days my naked castrate scampers into my office, tiny hand grasping several colorful passports. She places them on my desk and I merely point beneath. I will have her tongue while I study. Time is plentiful, our Mr. Davis known to be well bound and locked away in his closet.

Well part of the mystery begins to unfold. His real name is not Davis, of course, but Miles Stapleton Campbell. He carries a British passport, and a Swiss passport, and a Brazilian passport, and an American passport, each with slight variations of his name... M. Stapleton Campbell... Miles S. Campbell... which serves to heighten my suspicion. Just enough difference to bargain his way around a ‘no fly’ order... or to avoid being detained if one variation appears listed as a ‘person of interest’ when subjected to immigration review.

I contemplate, feeling Mia work her little head between my thighs, my hands lowering to accommodate by hiking up my skirt. As the marvelous tongue works my outer labia, I begin to prognosticate. This Miles Stapleton Campbell, or whatever he prefers to be called, is on the lam. And where better to conceal himself than a place where there is no registration, where it is impolitic to ask one’s real name, and no one ever expects to be offered a real name. Not to mention that many dollars are spent to assure that no government official... neither police... nor fire.... nor health... ever steps through our door... at least not in an official capacity.

Ideal sanctuary, particularly in conjunction with our Mr. Davis’ deep sexual pathos.

But from what is Miles Stapleton Campbell fleeing? Once registered at the Rembrandt Hotel utilizing one of his identity variations, he cannot be the most wanted man in the world. Yet he does realize that circumstances require him to move onward. I recall the annoyance and disappointment... leading to a look of desperation... when weeks ago I initially denied his request for room and board. Yes, he knew the clock was ticking, that at some point there would come a heavy knock on his hotel room door.

I squeeze off the first of several mild orgasms as Mia knows to move her tongue and lips to a clitoris now engorged and in need of direct satiation. Such a treasure... so meek... so docile... so eager to please... so trainable.


Having photocopied the many passports, I had Mia return such to their place of hiding. I need not confront Miles Stapleton Campbell... not at this time. Whatever ostensible explanation he offers, it would be more prevarication. Instead I await until one of the many American embassy staff makes an appointment. I am always amused to note that none know of the others attendance, the visits to my house of subjugation. And one of my tasks under Madam Chang, which continues, is to ensure paths do not cross.

So I juggle the appointment book a bit when the pressures of diplomacy bring a rash of phone calls, the need to blow off steam by subjecting oneself to the talents of my knowing associates.

With my father’s tour of duty there, I know the embassy players. Few know me as an adult. Should I offer my name I would be remembered, but that is neither desired not productive. So I review the appointment book on a given Monday and understand that mandatory weekend duty for embassy personnel has included nerve frazzling hours hosting some high ranking dignitaries. This always spurs the need for... well, for whatever bizarre penchant which serves to calm and satiate.

I select a middle ranking official, one with access to good information, but not enough rank to want to resist cooperating with me. Those an the rise are most desirous to placate and move onward. Still, I search my index cards, those cataloguing the videotaped visits, and assure that I have a very embarrassing and revealing recording of a recent visit... nicely edited to veil the tending lady associate.

Yes, I have the candidate, scheduled this afternoon and also have a nasty tape from a previous visit. A rubber stamper, my candidate approves visas and has this thing about masturbating on the shiny leather boots of one of my commanding, primly attired associates. My notes suggest that the girls have expanded the level of depravity, making him lick up his spurts of essence... something he initially resisted... and which of course in making him do became a fun challenge for the tending associates.

He now patiently kneels in wait for the snap of a woman’s fingers... then bows most humbly to thoroughly cleanse any and all mess.

I reach to my intercom and press the button for dungeon 5. Midori, a middle aged woman who teaches school when not bringing bizarre satiation to fetishists, responds.

"Midori, please direct your next appointment, Mr. Carlson, to my office after he has properly performed and cleaned your boots."

Having spent his seed so ignominiously and obeisantly licked, he’ll slink into my office like a naughty puppy. Understanding the male psyche is important in our business. Though glowing with a strange sense of satiation, the guilt of his performance will reek. But Mr. Carlson, not his real name of course, will return to us. We offer a sexual narcotic not readily available elsewhere.


Having delivered a copy of the Miles Stapleton Campbell American passport to ‘Mr. Carlson’, not his real name, he appeared to offer a degree of familiarity but said nothing. I then suggested, with a strong hint of authority, that all events and words are most confidential at my establishment, including having a copy of the passport, and that I would never ever divulge names and the nature of undertakings, even if certain videotapes were demanded by investigators.

Rising eyebrows indicated that my message was understood. And I will not lose Mr. Carlson as a client. If he fails to return and masturbate I will merely phone him at the embassy and snap my fingers, just as when a stern lady associate wants her boots licked clean, and he’ll know to make an appointment. What has been filmed is in the archives... not to be unnecessarily revealed... but certainly not to be discarded either. Future dalliances matter not, the damage done.

Within days, Mr. Carlson phones his voice muffled, apparently calling from his place of employment.

"Miles Stapleton Campbell is wanted for questioning by several jurisdictions in Europe. Lots of money missing. Big enough for the banks and investment firms to want to keep the matter hushed... for now... until either he is found... or the money. Lots of egg on lots of faces... deemed easier to bear when he is found."

"Thank you, Mr. _____," real name not to be disclosed. "Do drop by and clean some boots for me," I snicker in hanging up the phone.

So, a fugitive. No formal criminal charges... yet. The report explains much... the access to money... the behavior... the need for the isolation of being a lowly cook, butler and handyman in a brothel... though one of distinction, a brothel nonetheless.

Possessing sexual power over males like Davis, aka Miles Stapleton Campbell, is facile. He craves feminine attention in the form of bondage and being placed in sensory deprivation under the control of a woman, to bask in the narcotic we offer. But for a woman of my ilk it is incomplete... not enough.

With vast financial resources, Davis is able to pick and choose... the when, where, how... of his submission. Such self empowers and the notion irritates me for some reason. Because I have condescended and inadvertently become complicit in his ruse... harboring an embezzler... I feel the need to flex power of my own.

I conspire.

Sunday, November 13, 2011


By the way, in reviewing my latest royalty statement, there seems to be an outbreak amongst Kindle users... many, many books sold through Amazon.

Either the readers of erotica have discovered ebooks... or the lovers of ebooks have discovered erotica.

Personally I find limited enjoyment in reading electronically... even printing out hard copies of my own stuff for proofreading. But the world is changing.

So if you are a Kindle user, lots of my stuff available from Amazon.

Saturday, November 12, 2011

'Power, Having It' (Part One of Three)

Power, Having It

Copyright 2011

by Chris Bellows

Cleaning out Auntie’s somewhat aging and decrepit mansion, I find a hand written manuscript. It is hers... was hers... perhaps intended for publication. And it tells her story... that of Evelyn
de Havillier.
                                                                                        Maria de Havillier


When encountering a person of sizable wealth there is always an inclination to ask... how? The question suggesting that perhaps there is a lesson to be learned, that something or in some manner... experience... knowledge... acquaintances... relationships... there is an overlooked road to be taken that can lead to great fortune.

I doubt my story will show the way. But it does give rise to entertaining diversion.

Never to be considered a beauty queen, I was never considered unsightly either. Raised in a military family we moved around the world... base to base... never seeming to be settled before packing again. Military discipline instilled, acquiring a degree of self sufficiency at a very young age, exposure to a myriad of young males, learning both their strengths and weaknesses, by the time I turned 21 years of age, my father serving as military attache in the U.S. embassy in Bangkok, I was a woman of the world.

Something about observing men... boys really... being brought under command fostered a peculiar thrill. I recall watching a female drill instructor putting a platoon of men through rigorous exercise, calmly barking orders as they perspired profusely in the hot sun. With the hormonal flow of puberty I imagined bare chests... even nakedness as the authoritative woman put the men through endless paces... while she remained fully clothed and cooly confident.

Though my parents did their best to shelter me, of the male propensity to seek the company of and to adulate the female form, knowing of the weakness brought thoughts of empowerment... that I had something they wanted. Such very much served to mold a certain spirit.

Yes, I was most intrigued by male weakness, the need to be led... their desire to be fancied by women.

So, being of age, and Dad announcing another transfer, this final one back to the United States, I declined.

Yes, the male beast intrigued. I had for many years only watched... few dates with a stern high ranking father demanding to chaperon. So it became time to act... become involved. And where better to be involved with male/female relationships than the sexually open city of Bangkok.

Yes, I knew of male needs... the yearning for commanding leadership... the hormone driven strive for the female. I wanted to become immersed.

But I was not to take off my clothes and spread my legs. Too bright... too prideful... too much aware of the satisfaction of being in a leadership role. One is hardly in charge while lying naked under the salivating male beast.

I had once met a certain Madam Chang at one of the cocktail receptions at the embassy. A gracious woman of dignity and class, someone had slipped up in putting together the invitation list, for I later heard words of controversy as instructions came to permanently exclude her from future embassy events.

With Bangkok residents no where near as prudish as the Puritan American politicians, the madam of a highly successful brothel in Thailand is offered acclaim and social status. But not at the American embassy. When the source of Madam Chang’s wealth and relative ‘esteem’ became evident, she became persona non grata.

Still I had a pleasant conversation with the woman and after mother and father moved back to the states, I looked her up, knowing she had many connections and that the need for employment beckoned. Plus... she remembered me!

"You’re aware of the nature of my establishment?" asked after I disclosed the intent of my visit. She inquired over tea in her office, gracious indeed in extending an invitation after I petitioned for an audience.

Very classy, very upscale, her house of pleasure was not for the masses. The male guests, afforded brief glimpses upon entry, were well attired, older than one would suspect. I had imagined randy young males lined up with twenty dollar bills. Not the case.

I nod, heartened by the unexpected caliber and refinement of the enterprise.

"Just as much as employment, Madam, I’d like to learn... not only the business end... but to understand the demand for your... your services. What is it they seek?"

Madam Chang smiles warmly.

"Attention. Men are like puppies... always in need. But the diversity of such need can so greatly vary. No wife can offer it all."

I do not fully understand, but nod in agreement. Madam Chang seems to know I am somewhat bewildered by her vague response.


She arises. I do likewise and follow as she strolls to a far wall. She twists a sconce and a segment of the wall pops out... a hidden door.

"Discretion, my girl. Your first lesson in this business. This observation corridor is for the protection of my lady associates... and is not to be disclosed to anyone."

I am enthused to be taken into her confidence and follow Madam Chang into an exceptionally narrow hallway. It is dark, no light fixtures, but with some illumination emanating through a window we approach some ten feet away.

"My lady associates are not of the character you would suspect. Youthful but not overly young. Pretty but not gorgeous. It is their mindset that attracts... allures the profligate male... it is their aura of authority."

We reach the window. It is in fact a one way mirror and Madam Chang becomes reticent, silently suggesting that I observe without distraction. I peer into a dimly lit room equipped with machinery and gadgets this young girl has not before seen. It is a dungeon, I am to later learn, and there is an Asian woman reigning, fully clothed, her attire attractive but surprisingly not sexily alluring. And of course there is the male... presumed profligate, kneeling and totally naked.

Madam Chang reaches to an electrical box on the wall and twists a knob. It is a speaker and I can both watch and listen.

‘So you’re back here again. Have you masturbated recently?’ the woman’s voice level but stern.

The man glumly nods.


‘Tuesday and Friday.’

‘Tsk, tsk. The sin of Onan. And thus you have returned.’

The man nods again.

‘So how should this be dealt with?’

‘I do not know, ma’am.’

‘Of course you don’t. That is why you need me. You cannot deal with it yourself. You need a woman to help. A superior woman.’

As the woman speaks she moves to a wall, draped with implements unknown to me. I feel a quiver of joy, my education advancing rapidly as a collection of leather straps is retrieved.

‘Let’s get you dressed and begin another lesson shall we.’

The woman tosses the garb to the floor. The man knows to unravel, the connections many, the buckles rattling. Meanwhile a black lump of rubber is also selected. It is lubricated then placed on the floor before the kneeling form.

‘You know where you need that the most,’ the tone of voice sardonic.

The man meekly picks up the gleaming lump, reaches behind and impales himself. The woman smiles wickedly, seeming to vicariously know of the odd male revelry felt with anal penetration.

The hands return to the leather. The many straps comprise a full body suspension harness and as the man enshrouds his torso, waist and thighs the woman buckles... tightly. It is a well practiced maneuver, the complicated mass taking form to completely envelop the nakedness. At the back, at the nape of the neck, there is a large steel ring. In finishing, the woman tugs at it with fervor and the harness tightens everywhere... chest, waist, wrists, thighs.


The man nods.

‘Stand,’ the command succinct yet crisp, the response instant.

The woman circles, inspecting and assuring the various buckles are secure, the straps tight.

‘To the stool.’

With humble alacrity, the man prances to a low stool and steps up. Hanging above is a cable. The woman facilely hooks the end to the large steel ring.

‘And we begin...’, the voice flat, the tone matter-of-fact.

A booted foot slowly pushes away the stool, the cable tightens, the feet dangle, placing the man in suspension, wrists tethered to the waist belt at the rear. I am amazed to see his penis begin to firm, slowly stiffening to become thoroughly erect. It is not small, but certainly not the object of a woman’s fantasy.

"Fascinating phenomenon, don’t you think, Eve?" a pedantic Madam Chang lectures. "The stress on the spinal cord, the manipulation of the prostate, various muscles and tendons stretched... all so steadily fostering erection. My associate will have him hang for hours. She is in total charge. Helpless and vulnerable, in time he will begin to beg. Yet as much attention as he is getting, he’ll want more. At her whim she will release his right wrist and have him masturbate for her while in suspension... while she mocks and gloats. The intensity of the humiliation will bring a massive eruption of seed. Then she will return the stool and succinctly leave the room. The look of guilt is precious as he releases himself to shuffle home to his wife."

"He is married?" in naively believing that brothels are for desperate single males.

"Oh yes. His wife arranges his appointments. You cannot see the hidden camera videotaping our noted politician. But rest assured there is quite the film library which the wife uses to keep him in line and working hard on her behalf. Here he is literally harnessed. With his wife he is figuratively harnessed just as one would harness an ox... forced to pull a heavy cart while she rides and guides with a correcting stick," Madam further lectures as we move onward.

I will not further elaborate on that afternoon of strolling down the narrow dark hall. Many one way mirrors, many rooms, much paraphernalia of unknown purpose... at the time. And of course stern women who I am surprised to find are for the most part clothed.

"This is not about sex, my dear... this is about power. Men come here and exchange it... for pleasure so deviantly derived."


Needless to say, a girl of my ilk was enthralled. Men paying to acquiesce to women! I would have worked for nothing, but for the need to eat. Yet Madam was generous... a place to live... a place to learn... a place to satiate this need... scratch the itch which so frustrated as a pubescent miliary brat.

Focused, self disciplined, I served as Madam’s major domo. Tracking appointments, keeping the books, assuring the maintenance of the historic Victorian mansion, one of the few remaining in Bangkok... but most importantly learning... and growing... psychologically... emotionally.

The mental image of the male became an object... to be deprived of be used, abused... to be stripped naked, tormented, humiliated, bound, thrashed, deprived of dignity... to be exploited for the betterment of women.

Sometime in my second year, many thrilling hours spent in the secretive corridor... my sole ‘employee benefit’... Madam approached for a trip to the bank. Normally such a request was to deposit the mountain of cash which our obeisant males bestowed without compunction. Not on this occasion.

"Eve, I’ll need $10,000... in cash. A very attractive opportunity has arisen. Madam Kaishek has decided to retire and is seeking to place a boy from Burma."

$10,000 was not a lot, but more than we took in during the early week days. So I dashed to the bank, Madam trusting me greatly, perplexed as to the procurement of a ‘boy’, and the role to be played at the most exclusive brothel in Bangkok. I had heard of male prostitutes in the lesser establishments... but at Madam Chang’s?

Mine was not to ask, instead promptly returning with the stack of bills to find an aging Madam Kaishek sharing tea with Madam Chang.

"She is yours to train, Madam. I had him cut months ago, the sac entirely removed for a nice smooth look. Quite the little cock sucker, but is quite malleable and can be otherwise trained. I’ve being stretching the tongue and had his frenum snipped, so he can orally pleasure all. Not much of an opportunity to offer him anally but there is no reason not to have his cheeks split from time to time."

Curious the mixing of gender references, apparently the boy from Burma no longer possessing sexual identity. This evidences the different nature of Madam Kaishek’s clientele, having recently observed a prominent lawyer visit us to have his backside pegged by one of our more gruff lady associates. Here, our clients bend and spread... not our girls.

Madam Chang sips and nods in understanding as I step forth with the stuffed envelope. I note that trembling in the corner, in contravention to house rules, is a naked form, Madam Chang’s decorum normally mandating covering outside the many dungeon rooms.

Quite well shackled, black hair covering the ears, bangs over the forehead, skin of golden bronze, of Asian culture, evidently from a sun beaten climate, the gender of the diminutive youth is indeed indeterminate. The cuffs and many lengths of chains seem humorously exaggerated... as would the need to cautiously cage a new born kitten.

Madam Chang turns to the trembling form.

"What’s your name?" her voice sharp and pointed.

"She can’t speak," Madam Kaishek intercedes. "When I ordered her tongue to be altered it seemed appropriate to silence her as well. Vocal cords sutured. Such offers the customers an added degree of anonymity."

Madam Chang nods in agreement.

"I’ll just call her Mia."

Having acquired a degree of boldness, I step to the sitting form, quivering in nakedness as Madam Chang and Madam Kaishek conclude their confabulation. Wrists cuffed and chained behind the back, thighs banded and connected with a hobbling chin, ankles cuffed and likewise connected. For good measure a vertical chain connects the wrist and thigh chains. As I conclude that such overbearing restraints serve no purpose other than to greatly frustrate the bound, I begin to moisten.

A male in thorough bondage. Up close, not viewed through a one way mirror. It excites!

Yes, the many months at Madam Chang’s have indeed emboldened for I find myself stooping to grasp the ankle chain. I pull upwards forcing the boy... the girl... to raise her legs, sitting back to lie supine, bending at the waist. I facilely loop the chain behind her neck, forcing the lithe form to lie in a ball and offer a full display of the nether region normally indicating gender.

Cut indeed, she is without pubic hair. There is a tiny penis. Below, to the rectum, the patch of flesh, the perineum, seems elongated. Recent scars, healing slowly, will eventually fade and leave little evidence of the alteration. This Mia has been castrated indeed, and quite professionally.

"It is common in Burma, Eve. Impoverished families, struggling to survive are given to sell one offspring in order to sustain the siblings," Madam Chang offers, noting my examining action and inquisitive gaze. "In a way, she may be better off. You’ve seen what testicles do to the male. I’ve built a lucrative business on the bizarre influence of testosterone."

Yes, she has.

"It is lawful?" my inquiring voice surprisingly smug.

"No. But since the neutered are quickly ushered out of the country, there is no evidence of a crime. And here in Thailand, the authorities choose not to pursue misdeeds undertaken in another country."

Madam Kaishek departs. Mia meekly remains rolled into a ball, fully displaying her remnant of maleness... either not able to free the chain from the back of her neck or obediently awaiting a command or hand signal.

And I continue to moisten. That a woman has such power...

"Of what use Madam Chang?" I must ask as my eyes remained riveted.

"They make wonderful servants. Docile, obedient, without the constant drive for male gratification, they are focused. Properly trained, that altered tongue can bring endless satiation, Eve... and do so with relish."

Yes, the tongue. I reach down, my left hand pressing open the lips. In a practiced response Mia knows to open and thrust forth the wet pink appendage of a barnyard animal. It has some how been surgically loosened and evidently someone has been taking the time to stretch it.

"The girls, our lady associates, will find great haven, don’t you think, Eve?"

I nod in agreement and wonderment. Such a generous accommodation.


As major domo, charged with the overall responsibility of maintenance, Mia is put in my charge. Never clothed, I quickly find the chains and cuffs to be rather superfluous. Though giving rise to arousal in watching her hobble about, such are a hindrance to Mia’s many duties of cleaning and serving. And in forced nakedness, she’s not going any where.

And to Madam’s credit, sure enough, the esprit de corp rises amongst the many lady associates, those who abuse and torment the male patrons, developing a concupiscence that can now be satiated.

Mia’s tongue and lips prove to be indefatigable. Cunnilingus on demand. A fruitful investment.

Plus, Madam Chang considers her acquisition to be an act of charity.

"Mia’s puckered little rectum would be stretched to the point of tearing in any other brothel," she explains, the services offered quite the contrast to those of her establishment.