Saturday, October 29, 2011

'Power, Gaining It', (Part One of Two)

Power, Gaining It

Copyright 2011

by Chris Bellows

Though an accomplished business man, Harold Townsend is clueless concerning human relations, husband and wife, and still does not fully fathom the circumstances of his downfall.

Benefitting from my aunt’s early training and instruction, it required little effort to draw him into my web. And Gigi has such a natural attraction for making mischief. The little pranks I prompted... mother and daughter secrets the man of the house has no basis to gauge... were brought to a crescendo when we stuffed his lap top and phone with photos of my budding young actress Gigi.

My early life living with Auntie was a dream for a concupiscent teenaged girl. Mia was there whenever the hormonal needs of puberty arose, bringing intense satisfaction particularly when and if a weekend date went awry. Trained to offer sexual gratification in a Bangkok bordello... never to receive... his hands and tongue were... and remain... exquisite.

My marriage at age 18 became my own downfall, from which I have fully recovered, of course. Auntie did not approve of the boy. And being older and wiser, she proved correct. He was a deadbeat dad almost before Gigi was born. Auntie was angry, suggesting use of the chains and shackles which now fetter Harold. But at age 18, I had not the well developed propensity for the female led relationship that she had and which she tried to instill in me. Yet there was certainly a predisposition in me. And such came to fruition after years of slinging hash at the diner.

Auntie and I became somewhat estranged with that early marriage. I would visit from time to time. But she made it clear I was more guest than welcomed family member.

I had no idea of the size of her fortune and was equally surprised to inherit it all, I suppose her infuriation with my first marriage waning. Plus there appeared to be a degree of approval for my acquisition of Harold, my wimp second husband, he who found Mia, a woman’s fantasy servant, to be so abhorrent.

This amused Auntie.

‘I suppose Harold thinks we dowagers just sit around and deplete the batteries in our vibrators,’ Auntie humorously remarked of Harold’s prudishness, his gawking at Mia’s penis even more evident than his wanton glimpses of my blossoming Gigi.

Auntie realized the possibilities before I did, understanding both my dire need to get out of that diner... and my genetic proclivity. Observing my interaction with Mia in my teen years brought knowing smiles.

When Auntie returned home one day to see that I had Mia shackled, finding the cuffs and chains stowed in the basement, she mildly admonished yet was clearly amused.

‘She’ll not be doing much housework hobbled like that, Maria. Be sure to unlock her in time to make dinner,’ was her only rebuke.

I did, unlock, Auntie always referencing Mia utilizing the feminine pronoun. But I could never forget the thrill of having another so thoroughly restrained. When I later came across the bondage gear while tidying up her house for estate sale, how could I possibly part with such quaint family heirlooms?

Today I shop and my excursion includes a stop at the pet store. Gigi continues to thrive on being empowered and I think it is time that Harold be leashed. Some nice harsh nipple clamps connected to a standard length of leather should offer the sense of control which serves to keep my Gigi away from the types of relationships... with boys... which brought my downfall and early failed marriage. Psychologically satiated by Harold, physically satiated by Mia, she’ll not stray as did I. At some point in her life, feeling fully tutored by me and empowered by Harold’s well restrained nakedness, she’ll come across some subordinate male and move on with her life. But for now, I want her to avoid the type of mistake I made.

Strolling through the store, the privileges of wealth offer the impulse to consume... anything and everything. I thus become infatuated while assessing leashes with a display of assorted cages. Mostly small, I spy one of size, sturdiness, with notably thick bars, high enough for the tallest of canines.

This brings the twinge I sense whenever I gaze at my chastised well restrained husband Harold. I moisten. Not even the immense price tag can bring a chill to my heating loins.

Saturday afternoon, sales representatives are busy. I finally draw the attention of a pleasant looking adolescent, I apprize to be early twenties, a lad of color... and bulging slacks.

More twinges as the privileges of wealth can also foster boldness.

"This cage, it is only for dogs? It appears large enough to constrain other pets... but strong enough?" giving the term ‘pets’ special emphasis.

The lad smiles.

"It’s for dogs as large as Great Danes, ma’am... the most powerful of breeds... and high enough so they can stand within."

"Expensive. Does the price come with delivery?"

"Ahh... I am afraid delivery is extra."

As I reach into my pocket book, I smile most provocatively, offering that come hither, ‘Mrs. Robinson’ look of seduction, the older woman enticing the younger male.

"Well, if I’m going to pay someone, it may as well be someone who has been helpful," withdrawing my wallet.

I peel off two crisp one hundred dollar bills, then glare with deliberation at the bulge, his zipper straining.

"Why not bring it to my home yourself?" I pleasantly suggest, approximating that my offer is well more than a day’s wages.

Yes, boldness, stuffing the bills under the front of his belt as I coax, my fingertips briefly brushing that bulge as my hand withdraws.

"What’s your name?" I whisper in a most sultry voice.

He smiles as he reaches to withdraw the bills. I’ve got him.

"Trevor, ma’am."

"Well Trevor, you’ve probably heard about women such as me... frustrated housewives. Think there’s a television show..."

There is no actual sexual frustration of course, Mia offers cunnilingus nonpareil. But a girl needs penetration from time to time... deep... strong... steady. Harold is not to be released from chastity... ever. Such would empower and those days for him are over. And when a woman of my ilk accepts penetration, it must be under my terms.

Trevor will do nicely.

"I get off at 6:00 p.m., ma’am."

I smile warmly.

"I’ll pay for the cage and leave my address with the cashier," brazenly stepping close enough to press myself against his redoubled bulge, reaching up to pat the back of his head in a gesture of affection... that of owner to pet.

With that, I grab a leash and head for the cashier.

It is for events such as I have planned that I keep Harold so cruelly gagged. Daughter Gigi, a Saturday evening planned with the girls, is not to know of mother Maria’s penchant for cuckolding... not yet any way.


I arrive home mid afternoon to find that Gigi is napping. Don’t know precisely what makes the girl so tired, but I have a good inkling. Just as Mia so enthusiastically serviced me as a teenager, I am sure Gigi also avails of his/her talents. I will never discourage such harmless interaction. It’s healthier than masturbation, offers a young girl sexual empowerment during the formative years of discovery, and as Auntie suggested, does not deplete batteries.

Mia greets me with that special hug we’ve conspired upon years ago. He/she enjoys frottaging that tiny penis against my leg. So I accommodate by hiking my skirt to offer a patch of warm smoothness.

I feel the limp worm of one time masculinity on my right thigh. Knowing he can’t harden brings its own lofty sense of power. But I allow the ephemeral pleasure, just as when I occasionally bed him with Harold... Mia’s joy and my husband’s homophobic dread bring a certain psychic exhilaration to this woman of governance.

"Visitor tonight, Mia. Gigi is not to know and you must stay out of sight until I summon you. I want Harold shaved, bathed and lotioned for me."

Mia obediently nods and turns, my open right hand playfully smacking those alluring buttocks.

Yes, I keep Harold completely hairless below the neck, matching Mia’s glabrousness. It adds to his sense of capitulation, being presented as I see fit. The lotion is effeminately scented and keeps him nice and soft... for Mia.

Stepping to the sun porch I spy my well bound husband doing what he does day after day... nothing. I deny him reading material and access to television and radio as well, dulling his mind. That serves to highlight any interaction with me or Mia or Gigi, and as he stirs, one can surely interpret his greeting as a dog wagging its tail.

"Go upstairs with Mia, Harold. Saturday bath time. A little early but I’m having a visitor."

He struggles to rise from his shag rug, wrists bound behind his back as always. The many chains clink, always bringing a smile, and he grimaces as his own motion yanks the chain to the chastity ring encircling balls and penis. He murmurs something, I never understand a word, the molt mouth gag assuring his inability to communicate.

Such frustration... each and every day. But he agreed to it, avoiding a police investigation and possible jail time... along with financial ruin... the photos of Gigi held as leverage.

Many short steps, the hobbling thigh and ankle chains straining with each step, stairs can be both challenging and amusing... challenging for him... amusing for me. The slack is just enough for one foot to lift and reach the ascending step... but only if he keeps his ankles close together... which of course deprives him of stability.

The result is a laborious ascent, each step requiring nearly half a minute, and then a pause to regain balance. I moisten just watching, his near immobility mandated by cuffs and chains locked in place by me.

The display of submission ends as Harold reaches the top step where an eager Mia reaches to grasp his steel cock cage and guide him to the bathroom where an oversized tub will be filled. Mia so much enjoys bath time, each and every Saturday unlocking the cock cage for more thorough cleaning and shaving of the pubes. The intimate proximity and handling is warming, Harold never becoming accustomed to Mia’s unfettered manipulation of his penis and scrotum.

I retire to my bedroom, needing to make myself presentable for Trevor, my bulging ‘bull’, as those practicing cuckoldry term the fornicating male.


Exiting the shower I find a paucity of large fluffy towels into which I so much enjoy enshrouding myself. Mia will need to be more attentive.

I step into the hall and stroll to the communal bathroom, that shared by Gigi, Mia, and Harold. Opening the door I note that Mia is just finishing with the straight edged razor which scythes every inch of Harold’s nakedness. Harold lies supine on a bathroom rug, Mia straddling to sit on his chest facing his feet. I chuckle with the scene, Mia’s well rounded globes inches from Harold face as she works about his pubes. Cock cage removed only on Saturdays, Harold’s neglected manhood is celebrating its release from constant torment... stiff, purple and bulbous... but as always, remaining untouched.

Harold turns his head to gawk at my own nakedness. With Mia being castrated, Harold being so tightly chained with cock caged, there is no need for girlish modesty. Both can look... but only pine for the unattainable... fantasize over the inachievable.

"Need a towel," my words known to be an admonishment.

I pause to both watch and enhance Harold’s sense of helplessness, lying with penis finally freed, admiring the beauty of his nude wife... but unable to perform any husbandly duties.

Harold is not too badly built in the manhood department. His problem is that it no longer matters... big... average... small... it is to be kept under lock and key.

Mia carefully whisks about with the razor, such tender adoring fingers and hands... which in being male... or former male... give rise to much chagrin on Harold’s part.

"Do you want Mia to give you a nice lick, Harold? She was so well trained on Bangkok. She really misses fellatio. I am told the castrated male can really come to revere propagating a nice firm erection on the intact."

Harold’s murmuring becomes spirited, apparently turning down my offer.

"Well, how about you give Mia’s little thing some attention?" a notion giving rise to even more homophobia, and more energetic murmuring.

I laugh. I know too well, some of Auntie’s tales coming to mind, that held chained and chaste long enough, Harold’s gender problem will eventually dissipate.

‘They all have needs... the hormones control. Reasoning distorts for the better over time,’ Auntie suggested, never being overly explicit about her experiences in keeping the male equally bound and deprived. Did Mia and my long departed uncle, her husband, share a bed?

Mia finishes and I find I must stay a bit to view Harold’s bath. In being chained, Mia must assist, those tiny well manicured hands pressing and guiding.

Harold is pulled to his feet, erect penis bobbing about, the shortness of the wrist chain making it impossible to reach forth and touch. He knows to move to the edge of the tub. The hobbling chains make it impossible to step over the edge. Instead he sits, facing away and Mia assists in gently lowering him backwards into a tub the size of a child’s swimming pool. Her hands grasping here and there, it is charming how attentive she can be in assuring Harold does not drown, pulling up the fettered legs and pushing into the suds while Harold twists to immerse himself.

Then the cherubic Mia steps over the edge to join, frolicking with the delight of a child, which with balls excised in youth, she essentially is.

She giggles, splashing suds at a glum Harold, his boring day ending with such homophobic consternation.

"Make sure you scrub him everywhere Mia," my words offered as Mia sits facing Harold and reaches to begin lathering shoulders and arms.

It’s coded phrase, offering Mia reign to freely soap all the erogenous zones, Mia’s tiny fingers known to assure the rectum receives well deserved attention. I note that Harold shudders in disgust, also aware of the coded phrase.

"And remember to lotion him... the nice smelling stuff."

I take a large towel and step to the bathroom door, well aware that as Harold’s ravaged mind distorts, the hormonal build up taking its toll, there will come a time when he will accept as a treat having his wrists temporarily freed so he in turn can bathe Mia.

Such a notion currently sickens. But that will change. Hormones will pervert the reasoning of the male in intense need. And the timing is of no concern. Harold will remain thoroughly bound until he agrees to more politely return Mia’s caring tendance.

I turn at the door, one last glimpse of the charming scene which serves to empower. As Mia smooths her soapy hands over shorn flesh, Harold looks at my nakedness with such intense desire. I think he will really enjoy Trevor’s visit, vicariously sensing pleasure as my tight love nest offers the snug warm wetness the deserving male appendage so much craves.

Some day Harold will worship the virility of the unchaste male... of that I am certain.


I doll up to the hilt. I’ve still got it at age 36. And I can still flaunt it.

The doorbell rings. I call out to Mia to stay away, reminding that she is not to be seen. Full makeup, flowing bathrobe, I negotiate the stairs and pull open the front door. My new friend Trevor has arrived, standing with a large but flat box. It surprises.

He notes my inquisitive look.

"Needs to be assembled, ma’am. Just a screw driver and a wrench."

"Well, I’ll want it in my bedroom, can you bring it in?"

He nods, the two hundred dollars buying much cooperation.

"Please take off your shoes. New carpet."

He unties the laces, casting away boots then lifting with zeal as the box of steel bars proves to be ponderous. I must admire the fine muscling, long lost on Harold with his sedentary life as house pet.

The stairs prove difficult. Trevor, my radiance somewhat distracting, props the box standing upright then moves up a few steps and pulls, his power and the carpet making the collection of steel glide upwards, one step at a time. Nearing the top, he begins to perspire, my bull working vigorously.

"Will I be okay with your dog, Ma’am?" apprehensively inquiring with my need for such an oversized cage.

"Oh, I don’t have a dog. It’s for another pet I keep," I reply with a coy smile.

I’ll not introduce Harold... not yet.

I follow up the steps as Trevor continues to pull. At the top the task eases on the level hallway floor and I step around box and bull to lead to my bedroom.

"There’s another $100 if you can assemble it for me," I wheedle,

"I have the tools with me," withdrawing such from his pocket.

"I’ll want it here... so my pet can see me in bed," pointing to a corner.

Trevor is quite sudoriferous. I love sweaty... it so nicely projects virility and it also advances my plans.

"Take off that shirt and cool a little, Trevor."

He feels the warmth of a thermostat deviously pushed high. I feel the warmth of catching glimpses of those bulging trousers, my loins becoming torrid as his shirt is cast aside and a finely chiseled chest, pectoral muscles rippling under moist mocha skin, gleams in the room light.

I sit, teasingly letting the folds of my robe part, some pink flashing to further distract. Trevor notices. He can have no doubt concerning my state of complete deshabille beneath. I can read his thoughts as he opens the box, draws out the prefabricated top, bottom and sides along with a plastic bag of nuts and bolts.
He begins to assemble.

"I think it is best to add glue to the nuts, wouldn’t you agree?" I suggest in hinting at my first offered clue.

"Well, I can tighten pretty firmly..." he counters as I arise.

"What one person can tighten another can loosen. I’ll be right back."

I dash to the kitchen and retrieve epoxy. I’d not want to tempt Harold by offering nuts he could furtively unscrew. As prison staff have learned over the many years, idle time gives rise to mischief... and Harold will be spending much idle time caged.

I return noting that Trevor has the bottom set and is propping up the four sides. I feel a tingle of feminine power knowing that he placed within will stay within. Henceforth, Harold’s time hobbling about the house will be most limited. I will have Mia cage him, making him earn release.

"It will be difficult to disassemble Ma’am, in gluing the bolts," offered as I hand Trevor the strong epoxy cement and resume sitting.

"And difficult for anyone within to loosen and escape as well," a more direct hint of the nature of my pet.

Trevor becomes demure in thought with that remark, shuffling about on his knees, applying glue then tightening, the arm muscles offering visual evidence of great power as each of the many nuts is turned.

Before he stands to position the bars of the top, it is time to make my move. I arise to stand behind him, the folds of my robe falling open, the scent of soap mingling with the feminine fragrance of my sopping love poach.

"There are men... boys really... who need the confinement... not able to properly deal with their inadequacies... who best empower others by being in bondage," my voice mature yet sultry, spoken as I lower my hands first to his shoulders, then tauntingly glide down his chest to his nipples.

I tweak. I feel him quiver, his thoughts concerning my near nakedness, the imagery of a male kept by a woman, such brings a brisance of... of what I will soon determine.

"Stay for a little longer, Trevor. For another $100 I’d like you to help me test the cage. Make sure you’ve tightened each and every nut and bolt."

Yes, he quivers more and I know I’ve got him. A twenty something year old lad of color alone with a torrid woman of the world, just a flip of my arms away from exposing myself completely to his wanton gaze. How can he refuse? The $100 is nothing more than to cover his conscience, always able to tell himself the subsequent events were only for the money.

I bend further at the waist, my hands further lowering to that bulge. My breasts escape the robe. He can feel my hardened nipples press against his bare back. In military terms, though it is only me, I have him surrounded and outnumbered.

"Not me. Not me in the cage," he sputters with concern.

"Tsk, tsk, of course not Trevor. Men like you have no problem with adequacy," my words bold, my hands bolder as I brazenly squeeze his massive manhood through his trousers, leaving no pretext concerning my intentions.

I can feel its semi firmness further engorge. I have him indeed.

"And if you like it here... you can visit often."

Trevor nods... reluctantly. He’s apprehensive... yet he’s a guy... with a penis... which thinks for him.

"Bolt the top on the cage and we’ll test the security. You may feel more comfortable without those pants compressing your thing. And you’re still sweating."

He is. Yet I doubt it’s the heat.

Saturday, October 22, 2011

Short story series? Need thoughts.

If 'Power' is enjoyable, we (the royal we) can endeavor to turn it into a series.

Next... perhaps 'Power, Gaining It'.

Your thoughts?

'Power, Losing It' (Part Two of Two)

Mia interrupts my thoughts, prancing into the sun porch, bowl in his/her tiny manicured hands. Miss Maria insists on good presentation and unlike her aunt, keeps Mia very neat.... pretty really. Also the mischievous Gigi has taken to apply makeup, bringing further gender obfuscation.

Since I am not permitted to use the bathroom, every door locked, Mia graciously presents a bowl for me to use. I sit up, stretch out my legs, parting my feet as far as the many chains permit. Mia stoops, aligning my caged penis, impaled by the Prince’s Wand, so I can empty myself into the bowl. There is not enough slack in my shackling wrist chain to touch my entrapped organ. For neatness, Mia must assist.

Neither of us can speak. Communication is through hand gestures and touch... that which still makes me quake in homophobic repugnance. And that is why on so many nights, Miss Maria has him/her sleep with me. The warm smoothness brings stirring to a penis long denied. A long night of constantly abrading his/her soft flesh brings the curse of nocturnal penile tumescence. Miss Maria knows this. It amuses.

As I relieve myself, the fingers of Mia’s free hand plays with my right nipple, brought to incredible sensitivity by the unending chastity. It feels both good and repulsive. Mia has no true empathy as to what his/her touch does. She thinks it soothes. Instead my penis is given to stir and fight the many tiny sharp spikes in the cock cage.

Still, I indeed need to go, and the bowl fills.

At the front door, I hear Maria departing and know that means being left alone with 18 year old Miss Gigi. She offers a sense that she feels more secure now that I am shackled and in forced chastity. Yes, she now feels very comfortable with me, the perverted stepfather who allegedly forced her to disrobe and be photographed.

Being the minx she is and knowing that in being silenced, neither Mia nor I can convey any deeds of naughtiness to Miss Maria, her mother’s absence gives her free reign. As a result, I conclusively know the damning photos were not taken under coercion or duress. The mischievous Gigi is just a fine actress.

Words of adieu exchanged, the front door closes as I finish. Mia arises to dutifully dispose of my excretions. Gigi enters wearing the flimsy robe which so teasingly flipped open at breakfast.

"How’s our little pet?" the voice transforming to sultry temptress.

Sitting up right, my face at the level of her waist, she parts the robe and fully exhibits her charms. Gigi now shaves down there... or rather she has Mia shave her. Thus the many fleshy folds of complicated and divine female genitalia are fully displayed. Now I indeed gawk... just as she likely accused years before the brash plot first became evident.

She is more then aware that I am helpless, barely able to move, speechless, effectively as neutered as Mia. I am thus very obedient... very docile... completely harmless. Even more of an object than Mia.

I inadvertently whine into my mouth bondage, the dental gag... termed a molt mouth gag... modified to buckle behind my head and constantly hold open my incisors and lips. In addition, Miss Maria has had my tongue pierced... for no other reason than she could do it... making even more remote the possibility of ever forming discernible words.

The sense of vulnerability cannot be described.... anyone... at any time... able to insert something into my orifice.

My behavior is thus quite temperate. A bar of soap has become a simple and common tool of discipline... so easily introduced... impossible for my altered tongue to eject. And when it triggers the gag reflex, there comes panic which in turn serves to entertain.

Miss Gigi steps closer, her wondrous young mons inches from the face of he long denied. My penis, partially aroused by Mia’s touch, firms even more. I would so much like to taste her!

My whine turns to a grimace, the cruel cock cage offering disciplinary pain. Full erections are not permitted.

"Would you like me to have Mia tongue you," the voice pleasantly turning to that of mother to child as her fingers lower and begin playing with the meatiness of her outer labia.

I shake my head, most obsequiously, expressing a pleadful look. Miss Gigi is most amused when she has Mia lick my scrotum, that portion of thin pink flesh exposed between the cock cage and the steel ring. It is torture... both physical and mental... orally serviced by a male... one time male. Arousal hurts. The homophobia brings troubling thoughts.

Meanwhile I detect the musky scent of the steamy female portal. My bound nakedness... her empowerment... brings arousal.. And unlike my condition, does not bring her anguish... only a look of Schadenfreude. To her, the naked male in bondage stimulates.

"Well, how about if I have you plugged. I’ve read that it is good for the chaste male... to manipulate the prostate from time to time."

I know this means Miss Gigi has spent more time on the internet... reading... scheming... devising... and purchasing.

"Mia... come... I want you."

Into the sun porch the feet prance in return... the bronzed buttocks roll.

"Bring the inflatable anal plug and some lubricant."

It is apparent that the Miss Gigi and my Hermaphroditic care taker have conspired. For Mia scampers away without another word of direction required and returns, jar of hand cream in hand and pulling from a box what appears to be a soft rubber dildo with a tube attached. It ends with a hand sized bulb of rubber, a puffolator to be squeezed.

As Mia’s soft little hands roll me to the side, I watch in apprehension as Miss Gigi squeezes the puffolator and to the sound of rushing air the dildo shaped opposite end expands.

Mia’s touch is familiar, showering with me daily, he/she bathes with me on Saturday evenings, the sight of two males frolicking in sudsy water quite the amusement for both mother and daughter. Thus Mia quickly splays my gluteal cleft and finds my rectum with aplomb. The hand cream is slathered about and Miss Gigi deflates then gives up the sordid device. Mia inserts and presses inward with equal deftness.

It is large, giving rise to much concern in realizing that it is designed to become even larger.

Miss Gigi seats herself, throwing her legs right and left over the arms of an easy chair. The robe gives way to fully part as she most obscenely spreads.

"Let him lie for a while, Mia, and acclimate."

She then wriggles her finger and points, knees further parting to open herself completely to my gaze and Mia’s face. I am to become the catalyst for multiple orgasms as Mia knows to approach, kneel, extend his/her enormous tongue and engulf the young girl’s entire sex with lips trained to perfection.

I whine again and lay back, somewhat disappointed with Mia’s head blocking the exquisite exhibition, knowing that Miss Gigi wants me to attentively watch her enjoyment.

To divert thoughts of painful stimulation, my mind returns to the day of my downfall...


Arriving home, no job, no car, relieved of much potential wealth, I have no choice but to counsel with Maria. With the aunt’s untold millions invested somewhere, her resources make my six figure mortgage pale. And there are other bills. Without the sizeable paycheck, the squeeze of insolvency will be quickly felt.

Since Maria turned over the computer, she is well aware of the circumstance of my termination. There is no point in trying to cloak anything... just to deny... deny... deny.

"Gigi has been advising me for sometime, Harold. Shocking. She is 16! And you’ve been visually and covertly molesting her for years. I know of the bathroom incident."

I deny deliberate intent.

"What of all the pics! Gigi told me exactly where they’d be found."

I deny knowledge.

"You’re always looking at her."

That I cannot deny. Gigi is a head turner. I have indeed been intrigued with the process of metamorphosis... pupa to caterpillar to butterfly. I was unaware Gigi was given to molt... shedding her clothing for the camera.

I bring up the sexting thing, subsequently reading of the teenaged trend, unfortunately after Gigi acquired her smartphone.

"Is it possible Gigi took the pics herself, Maria? The kids are doing that these days."

The notion irritates Maria... Miss Maria... that her cherished daughter could engage in such lascivious conduct.

"I downloaded copies, Harold. I studied the look on her face. She is being coerced... by you!"

Or is simply being a fine actress, I think to myself, but dare not fuel the fire.

The heated discussion continues, the main thrust not addressed... that I am no longer in financial control of the household. It is then that Maria... Miss Maria... steps into the breach.

"There is plenty of my aunt’s money to care of us... us being Gigi and me. But we can’t be together, Harold. Not as before. You can’t be near Gigi. I should be calling the police!"

The threat frightens. Maria’s downloaded copies are not sufficient evidence, but the originals in my computer certainly are. My former employer would give up the laptop in a heartbeat should a subpoena be issued. Would a full police investigation reveal Gigi’s duplicity?

I cannot take the chance. Possible jail time. A lifetime on the sex offenders list.

"Maria, I’m broke. There must be a way of working this out."

She pauses... a most frighteningly wicked look of empowerment comes over her face.

It seems there is.


I know the molt gag and chastity device are recently acquired... little custom items either Miss Maria or Miss Gigi come across on the internet. I suspect it has been a conniving Gigi... Maria empowering her to choose that form of bondage which would bring her the most comfort in remaining alone with me in the house.

Yes, Gigi needs to assure my continuing silence.

But the shackles? Part of the aunt’s estate... family heirlooms. Yes, there is a predilection that seems to run in the family... disdain for the male... the aunt apparently preferring burdensome restraints... or castration. Who wore these cuffs and chains and when? I will never know.

I had no choice but to agree to the process... the fitting... the piercing of my pubes for the steel support ring for the chastity cock cage. Where else was I to live? If Maria moved out, the mortgage would not be paid. Unless I capitulated, I was doomed.

But there is a glimmer of joy to be had. For some two years now I have been unencumbered in observing the caterpillar Miss Gigi continue to morph... to the beautiful butterfly she has become. And now there is more proximity offered... in being restrained and forcibly kept chaste... more opportunity to gaze at her charms... now unabashedly exhibited in that she knows that there is nothing that I can physically do... nothing I can report to mother Maria... nothing to happen unless she condescends. And Miss Gigi does, quite teasingly... so often offering a glimpse as my devious butterfly molts, shedding clothing to expose herself as she does now, sitting well spread with Mia performing deep, thorough oral satiation.

I am envious. Her odoriferous scent fills the room, bringing me to whine again.

The minx slides in the chair, further raising her thighs to present the rosebud of her anus. Mia knows to shift his/her face lower and service her there. Miss Gigi’s fingers then gather about the clitoral hood to knead and caress. I visually partake with lust, my cock cage strained, my firming penis wounded with many self inflicted stabs. Finally there comes a shriek of delight, a jet of female essence soaks Mia’s face and hair. Yes, Miss Gigi is a squirter, ejaculating copiously.

She pauses, becoming somewhat torpid in the glow of an thunderous climax, then recovers to beckon. I crawl forth as best I can, my many chains clattering, my motion joggling the anal impalement. I kneel in proximity and stare in wonderment at the hairless, newly ripened love nest. Such perfection! Mia’s assiduous oral attention has brought a wet gleam to soft fleshiness licked and sucked to torrid crimson. The fingers of Miss Gigi’s right hand dance to gather up as much of her feminine essence as can be seen, Mia’s forehead, face and hair, my attentive gaze riveted without disruption. The wet fingers then move to my face, dabbing to offer to my forcibly opened mouth the tasty juices of a most concupiscent teen. In welcome, I extend my tongue as best I can... the house pet begging for a treat. My truckling greeting brings a prideful, confident smile.

Mia wordlessly slips to my rear and grasps the puffolator. The connecting tube unravels as he/she knows to hand it to Miss Gigi.

There comes another whine of frustration and desire. Miss Gigi just laughs, her fingers ever so slowly squeezing. Deep within I feel the controlling hand of my temptress. My penis renews its futile effort to harden, the spikes of the cock cage again announcing themselves, the discomfort/pleasure of prostate manipulation jumbling the sensors of my cerebral cortex.

Evidencing the long morning to come, the fingers squeeze just a little more. I gasp feeling my insertion further balloon. Yes, the aura of her sense of power pervades. A droplet of fluid exudes to bead at the tip of my Prince’s Wand. An attentive Mia rushes to capture it with a tissue. Meanwhile, I glare with intense need and desire... feminine perfection unveiled, my gaze unfettered.

"So much more enjoyable than my pictures, don’t you think, Harold?"

Saturday, October 15, 2011

'Power, Losing It' (Part One of Two)

A little short story to keep my fingers active.


Power, Losing It

Copyright 2011

by Chris Bellows

Mia’s tiny hand scours the bottom of the bowl to gather the final spoonful of tasteless glop. There comes an ostensibly pleasant smile, which I interpret as wicked, as the cute face turns back to me, the left hand steadies my chin and the right approaches with the brown mush. Into the opening of my mouth bondage, the smooth sludge slithers to the back of my throat. As I struggle to swallow, mastication neither permitted nor required, the sound of desperate gulps fosters a broader smile as the combined sense of choking and drowning brings physical retching and mental panic. Somehow I once again ingest.

Such a subtle form of power exchange, being fed like a child. But in shackles, one cannot resist. And besides, sustenance is needed. I am fed in no other manner... and with no other form of food. I often imaginatively compare the process to the production of foie gras... that in which the gullet of a duck or goose is stuffed with an abundance of corn in order to both fatten and enlarge the liver for slaughter.

"You being a good boy?" Maria de Havillier inquires, passing by the table on her way to the toaster and tapping my nose as one would playfully cuddle a pet.

I murmur, discernible words long denied, as child-like Mia takes the empty bowl and slides from straddling my naked thigh, the smooth warmth of flesh on flesh bringing a brisance of joy... unwanted joy.

Meanwhile daughter Gigi enters the kitchen, flimsy robe covering little, the folds flapping to enticingly reveal intimate pinkness as she moves about. Age 18, no longer jail bait, Gigi is an accomplished tease... a vixen... well aware of her display of charms to this former man of the house.

Mother Maria encourages, often putting on a show of her own.

Gigi pours herself a glass of orange juice and strolls to the table where I sit. She reaches forth and tweaks my right nipple, smiles and sits. Her brief sensuous touch brings a shiver of delight, causing the many links of my chains to momentarily clatter, expanding her smile with the satisfying sense of dominion.

"Morning, Harold. Mia taking good care of you?"

Name mentioned, I look as the naked cherubic form beams with pride, prancing to the sink, the uncovered buttocks rolling so luridly.

Mia does not wear clothing. Yes, the expanse of golden brown skin is always on display, to bring visual delight to the unwary. Quite cute, quite effeminate, the nakedness initially conjures wicked sexual thoughts in first encountering the ingenue... until one spies the tiny vestige of maleness... the pinky sized penis which flutters as Mia skips about the house.

No one knows Mia’s age. Neutered in native Burma, sold as a slave, presumably for sex, Maria’s wealthy aunt rescued him... her?.. and somehow brought him/her into the country.

‘They make wonderful servants,’ I recall the dowager remarking during my only visit to her home. ‘Loyal and hard working, grateful to no longer have to endure the constant pegging demanded at Asian bordellos. Damned if I can get her to wear clothing...’

Whether the latter was true, I don’t know. I wager that with the aunt’s predilections... now known to run in the family... Mia has never been offered the benefits of clothing.

Maria, addressed by me as Miss Maria during the short intervals of permitted speech, returns to the table, coffee and toast in hand.

"Scoot. Go play," the words, all her words, known to be a command, sending the family pet away.

I hastily arise making room for her at the table. Gigi, Miss Gigi, smiles as the many links resound, her satiation apparent in knowing that I am cruelly bound at her behest.

Wrists cuffed and chained behind my back... not tight but certainly not loose. Ankle cuffs, thigh bands, an assortment of chains connecting all four circles of heavy steel, all make for very effective hobbling. But most wickedly, there is a fifth point of connection which drives home the sense of loss of all power. Between my thighs a set of links rises from the thigh chain to attach to the large ring of my chastity device, that which circles my penis and scrotum. Completely unnecessary from a mobility standpoint, it instead serves to remind of my servitude as with each step taken I can feel the effects of bondage on my male package. There is constant tugging on my balls.

Putting aside the limited mobility allowed, being kept in chastity is bad enough. The large steel ring is permanent, for the most part, embedded through openings made in my skin at the sides of my scrotum, atop the penis and at the perineum below. Locked to the ring, to be removed for cleansing... and when Miss Maria desires to gaze at my entrapped maleness... is a devilish cock cage... quite confining... internal spikes obviating erection... with a Prince’s Wand connection which inserts well into my urethra. Mia controls the key, releasing the cage portion for bathing and shaving. And I have come to the conclusion that being kept in chastity by the castrated male is the most drastic of dilemmas.

Mia has no compunction! Balls excised at a presumably early age.... he/she has no basis for understanding the constant need... the constant torment... the hormonal drive... only that it amuses to observe my penis become erect during the abbreviated period of shaving and cleansing.

Yes, Mia now controls the male organ which years ago brought her suffering as he/she knelt in a seedy bordello to be penetrated... offered to deviants for money.

My steps are many in exiting the kitchen, the metallic sounds known to bring both cheer and comfort to my superiors. I retire in thought to the livingroom ... for that is all I have... thought. I am not a servant... I am not used or forced to perform labor. Mia does all housework and cooking. I am a pet... just kept... to be displayed... petted... toyed with at the whim of another. And Miss Maria knows that the boredom... the intense unending tedium... is the cruelest manifestation of her governance.

I do nothing... day in and day out. And that is what she wants... and for Miss Maria... she always gets what she wants. She knows I relive the events of my downfall and her ascendency many times each and every day. And that pleases her.

And so the thoughts repeat...


Ivy league educated, masters in business, by early thirties my W-2 was sizable. I met Maria de Havillier, my busy career keeping me single and traveling... and relocating, at the local diner where she worked. Handsome, some would say beauteous, knowledgeable, an unfortunate very early marriage produced a degree of disdain for the male and produced daughter Gigi. I later learned that Gigi nearly came first, the marriage finally agreed to, not while in labor, but as Maria suggested... close enough.

It did not last. And the baggage of having a child at age 18 brought a degree of ennui toward the whole process of refinding a lifelong mate. Gigi became everything and Maria lived in near poverty in attempting to both support her and find time for maternal bonding.

We hit it off. And in hindsight, I suspect I was the life preserver Maria was inwardly seeking. No more waitressing, forced to work the more parsimonious day shifts in order to be with Gigi at night.

Upon our betrothal Maria could become a stay at home mom. I had a ‘tiny mansion’ in the suburbs, in a town with a good school system, a lucrative job. What I did not have was capital... relatively speaking. Any wealth was in the form of stock options, to be harvested when the company stock rises, and when I chose to share my stipend with the government in the form of income taxes. Believing that to defer is best, the stock kept rising and I kept deferring.

Bad move.

One should always be aware, I learned, of the moral turpitude clause in almost all deferred compensation arrangements. Explained as being inserted only for tax purposes... making the arrangement subject to substantial risk of forfeiture to ensure deferral... it is always shrugged off upon entering. But in my case... not upon exiting.

How did Maria know? I keep asking myself... but only myself. For I am rarely not gagged and therefore cannot ask Miss Maria. The forced silence adds to the frustration... which pleases Miss Maria.

I shuffle through the livingroom to the enclosed sun porch where, like a lazy dog, I lie many hours per day in wonderment. There is a comfy shag rug. Other than sitting in the kitchen for feeding time, I am not permitted to use the furniture. Miss Maria says I drool to much. And she is correct, the prostatic fluid of the virile male does not yield to chastity, the male glands constantly prepped for ejaculation despite being long denied.

So I lie down, push about the many chains, find a comfortable position and reminisce the many steps...

First... marrying Maria. A simple ceremony. Her second time and therefore an overly festive celebration not desired as with young brides. Gigi served as a bridesmaid, quite the little jail bait at age 13. Pretty, I was to later learn her mischievousness was less than innocent.

Some work colleagues attended, a few friends... and the dowager aunt, explained as eccentric and Maria’s only living relative.

Not explained... perhaps unknown to Maria... was the woman’s vast wealth. Her home was sizeable, but I mistakenly attributed that to a husband long gone, the interior decorations ancient and in desperate need of refurbishment thus suggesting a degree of impoverishment. Visiting shortly after the honeymoon, Maria forewarned me about Mia... the naked servant who cleaned and cooked. Hairless... ball-less... long cranial hair cloaking the true gender... and the tiny appendage between the thighs evidencing birth gender... Mia offered quite the shock, despite being forewarned.

The aunt smiled warmly while supervising Mia’s servitude... and I suppose observing my reaction as well... deemed to be one of unwarranted prudishness.

Afterwards, during the drive home, Maria defended the arrangement, considering her aunt to be a savior, rescuing Mia from a life of sexual slavery. I tried to reserve judgement but avoided visiting again. I had a career to protect, always using the New York Times criteria when assessing certain possible acquaintances and relationships... i.e. how would such be viewed if divulged on the front page of the New York Times.

Maria’s own moral compass was less stringent, hugging the naked form upon departure, pressing the tiny penis into her thigh and clasping then affectionately patting those most effeminate well rounded cheeks. Her gesture of womanly authoritative brought a glowing smile from the little Asian girl/boy.

How often... how much interaction... had Mia and Maria undertaken over the years?

Since Mia does not talk, I presume the vocal cords altered along with the castration, his/her true reaction to relationships cannot be determined. No one ever taught Mia to read or write, so communication is limited to an occasional hand gesture in response to attentive and exacting listening on her part.

Other then the curious relative and the hint of attachment to Mia, we began to live as a conventional family... wife, stepdaughter, husband. Gone from the circle was Gigi’s biological father, a reprobate who years ago offered child support for all of two months then disappeared. Gigi was in the early stages of puberty. Hormones were beginning to flow... not noticeable from her disposition, which ostensibly remained somewhat mature, so I thought.

But there was the mischievousness, first noted at the wedding. It continued. Little pranks. Harmless... at first.

Gigi began to ripen sexually, finding male attraction to the female form to be amusing. She still does. She began to flash, young breasts beginning to plumpen... the mounding of her pubes to be noted. She never missed an opportunity for her robe to momentarily part while exiting the bathroom. Tight slacks become the garment of choice, mother Maria never seeming to discourage. I pretended not to notice... but how could I not?

Gigi was blossoming before me. Was there sexual attraction? Libidinous thoughts?

Yes, I suppose. Would I act on such? No. Maria kept me satisfied. But there was curiosity... just how voluptuous would young Gigi become? The breasts seemed to grow each day. And the nipples seemed to sit up and beg for attention.

Then came a more outright mischievous tease. Gigi was in the bathroom to begin her shower. She called out that there was no paper. I assisted, retrieving a roll from the hall closet. I knocked, inquiring if entry was feasible. She responded, my ears suggesting an affirmative reply. Did I hear wrong? I opened, the completely naked ingenue seeming to at first regale me with youthful shapely curves, then feigning a scream of shock and offense. I tossed the roll to the sink basin and quickly exited.

Why do I suggest it was a tease? The belated timing of her response. Plus I later could not locate the cardboard spindle for the allegedly used up roll of toilet paper. Only partially used I am sure, it had been removed and hidden to provide a subterfuge for my entrance.

The next telling event... inordinate pressure for a smartphone and acceding thereto... camera option included. I was unaware of the phenomenon termed ‘sexting’, in which hormone laden teens were given to circulate licentious self pictures. Apparently Gigi joined the trend, learning to take lurid photos of herself. At least that is my assumption.

Shortly thereafter my relationship with spouse Maria began to deteriorate. She become aloof, rebuffing sexual advances... even on Friday evenings when we normally cracked open a bottle of wine, sending Gigi to a friends house or the movies. Something was wrong, the standoff going well beyond the monthly womanly inconvenience.

But that distraction soon faded when Maria’s aunt died. The denial remained but in being the only surviving relative, Maria’s time became occupied and coincidentally I had to travel on business.

It is probably then that the suspected conspiracy began to snowball. Mother and daughter alone for many days, exchanging thoughts, I am sure Gigi telling of the staged bathroom encounter. That incident on its own would be a situation of my word against hers... a harmless mistaken intrusion in its worst context, even if my suggestion of the staging was not to be believed.

What perplexed me... why would Gigi stage such a thing? At such an age is there thrill in exhibitionism?

Her prank should have put me on guard. It did not. I left myself open. Still, I do not fully understand the roles played... the prime instigator... who is ultimately responsible for my bondage and forced chastity.

As it turned out, the eccentric aunt, with naked effeminate houseboy, was incredibly wealthy. Within weeks, I returned from my business trip. Maria had finished much of the heavy estate work. A concupiscent Gigi was introduced to our new houseboy Mia... Maria either continuing to deny clothing or him/her refusing to wear such.

Where else would Mia go? No education... no ability to communicate. He/she was defacto property of the aunt’s estate.... in essence inherited by Maria.

Well I suppose there are times in life for anatomy lessons. One can always argue at what age. But Gigi was instructed by mother Maria that Mia’s missing testicles meant he/she was asexual... and thus to ignore his/her presence when in any state of deshabille... in the bathroom... in the bedroom. I felt a touch of envy when Maria suggested Mia was excellent at massage and that after a grueling cheerleading practice, Gigi should feel free to insist in utilizing his/her talents.

Gigi would not scream with Mia gazing at her rapidly developing charms. And in that bathroom incident I was only afforded a brief peek... no touching.

‘The neutering makes him/her harmless,’ I once heard Maria lecture. ‘Unlike...’ that observation truncated when it became apparent I was listening to the mother/daughter exchange concerning the bizarre but somewhat welcomed servant. It was apparent, to conclude her explanation, harmless unlike me... the ogre and intact lurking male.

Yes, my life preserver was not only no longer needed, I became treated as a leper in my own house. Sexual relations ended, resulting in more and more gazing, attraction with the forbidden charms of Gigi. Steam needed to be blown off. But what of Maria’s ‘steam’? I was to learn that Mia’s massage talents extended beyond the use of his/her hands... the deviant aunt apparently insisting on perfecting his/her cunnilingus.

Revolting? Yes. But Mia was looked upon as an object.

Meanwhile concern over employment became a factor. With my ‘New York Times’ standard of conduct, there would be no barbecues or cocktail parties at my suburban mansion. One can imagine the reaction in being served by a naked castrate, however cute and obeisant.

So with fewer and fewer reasons to socialize, spend quality time together, we drifted apart, Maria and me. My ingrained homophobia obviated developing acquaintance with a one time male. Other then Mia cooking and serving food that was it in terms of contact. In time Maria moved to an empty bedroom, her need to be massaged, coded words for having Mia’s face between her thighs, becoming stronger and stronger.

So our marriage didn’t so much end as our needs diverged. And with Maria’s financial independence I was considered completely superfluous... even seeming to be an annoyance in spotting Gigi whispering what I assume to be complaints about my gawking... or stalking... or whatever it was she imagined... or just made up.

Something had to change... and it did.

Some three years into living as a family, I am called into the office of the general counsel at work. Not an unusual request, particularly around contract time. And there is always the occasion when an employee has transgressed and as a supervisor I am apprized of the situation and counseled on how to handle such from a legal standpoint. Well I am shocked to learn which employee has transgressed... me!

Ed Duvall, general counsel, a guy I’ve had drinks with on many occasions, is disconcertingly formal.

"Please sit down, Mr. Townsend," gesturing to a chair before his massive oak desk. "This is Rand Collier, an investigator we engage from time to time on... let’s say touchy internal matters. All discussed here is to be held in the highest confidence."

I nod as Ed turns to this Rand Collier standing to the side, a dour looking character, probably early retired from the FBI, and signals that the meeting is his. Moving to stand behind Ed he steps to approach the desk, folder in hand.

"Mr. Townsend, is this the company laptop assigned to you?"

I had not noticed. They all look alike. It rests on Ed’s desk. As I peer following his pointing finger, I note familiar scratches and a sticker, the company logo. I adhered it to the cover so I could distinguish it if and when working in groups. So I nod. I had not used it in weeks leaving it in my den to work at home, something not of need of late. Somehow it got to Ed’s office.

"Your wife, Ms. Maria Havillier brought it to us. Seems she has concerns... and she is right to have such."

Rand Collier opens the folder with a flair for drama, withdrawing a photograph.

"Do you recognize this girl?" he cross examines.

I nod. It is a picture of Gigi, cropped at her shoulders. I am concerned. The shoulders are bare. I affirm that it is she, my stepdaughter.

"We located this photo... and many more... in your laptop. We found it necessary to edit the photo for printing, Mr. Townsend. I assume you know why?"

I do not, but can certainly guess. The expression on Gigi’s face is one I have seen before... that bathroom incident. Her look expresses surprise... distress... communicating the notion that she is being photographed unwillingly. Still I shake my head.

"Your laptop contains dozens of similar photographs. In all your stepdaughter is naked. Your wife suggests she is age sixteen, Mr. Townsend, appearing possibly younger in some shots."

I deny knowing of the photos. But the denial is obviously open to suspicion... my laptop... my den... my stepdaughter.

"Can I examine your phone, Mr. Townsend?"

Paid for by the company... the initial purchase... plus the monthly expense... I have no right to refuse the request. I slip it from my pocket. Like most smartphones it has a camera, a feature I would not begin to know how to use. The device really is a business tool and such a capability has no use in my line of work. I hand it to my inquisitor. He presses some buttons, shows the screen to Ed, then steps from behind the desk. With more flair and drama he holds it before me. On the screen comes Gigi... the tease... the vixen. She is naked. The look on her face is one of fear. Someone is photographing her and she does not appear to be totally compliant. Budding breasts, a modicum of pubic hair, her youthful age, well under that of consent, cannot be disputed.

I am screwed.

"No need to look any further," Collier continues with the drama. "These tend to disgust... most people."

In a scripted scene, Rand Collier hands me back my phone and departs, placing the file folder before me. Ed and I are alone.

"We’ll keep the laptop, Harry," he informs as I hear the door close. "It’s company property. We’ll seal it away so no one else will see your.... well whatever. But we must protect the company should you choose to litigate your termination."

Ed proceeds to read aloud the moral turpitude clause of my employment contract. I am fired. On the spot. No severance. But most hurtful... the stock options! Over a million dollars of gain to be garnered had I exercised, paid the tax and banked the difference. Now gone!

"Security will escort you to your office so you can retrieve any personal items. Keep the phone. But my god Harry, get rid of those pictures. It’s your stepdaughter!"

I take a cab home. My company car remains in the parking lot of course. And I carefully press buttons on the smartphone, finding an option termed ‘gallery’. There are indeed photos and as my finger works, my shaking hand assures that the cab driver and no one else for that matter, will see the evidence of my alleged moral turpitude.

When did Gigi get hold of my phone? And when did she perfect such looks of woe? If only she was smiling! But instead it appears she is being coerced, that under some threat she has been made to disrobe and pose.

I recall the whispering... mother and daughter... her looks of dread when the three of us have been together... but no such expression when alone with me... not that Maria has permitted much of that of late. Such acting!

A set up job. But what to do?

I have nothing. My tiny mansion. A large mortgage. A very modest bank account. Lots of bills. Maria’s new found wealth has not been used for upkeep, remaining invested, her contribution being that Gigi’s college education will be taken care of by her. That will have to change. I suspect I am unemployable, terminated with cause, no reference available from my employer of ten years.

Then I reflect on how this all unfolded. Maria took my laptop from the den and handed it over to the company! She knows of the photos... will be well aware of the true nature of my termination! The alleged misdeeds of my firing... however wrongfully perceived... cannot be denied.

But does she know how the photos were taken... how they got in my phone and computer? Is she aware of her daughter’s mischievousness? Now bordering on criminal vandalism.

For the past year my only raison d’etre, in the eyes of Maria, has been to keep a roof over the family. Now I cannot do that.

Whatever leverage... whatever power I had... is gone.

Saturday, October 8, 2011

'Balls, They Have 'em, I Want 'em'

From a short story I have published on Lulu. More 'non-consenusl' D/s.

A little repetitious in terms of setting.

The complete story runs 11,400 words


Balls, They Have ‘em, I Want ‘em
Copyright 2011
by Chris Bellows

"All comfy?"

The question is somewhat sardonic, yet somewhat relevant. It becomes ironic that after a few weeks in my ‘care’, a boy indeed feels comfortable in good tight bondage. Not in a stress position. Nothing pinches or presses. Just tightness... offering the sense that all mobility is at the discretion of another. And the mind comes to accept it... the subconscious succumbing, sending the message that all significant motion, anything more than the wriggling of fingers and toes, perhaps a slight nod or shake of the head, is at the prerogative of another... me.

In response there comes the slight nod, discernible verbal response inhibited by the penis gag which constantly nags... deeply... forcefully triggering the gag reflex... offering constant aggravation.

"Have the nurses been good to you?"

Another slight nod as I release the right ankle cuff. The leg goes limp, so humbly offering me control. I guide it to the side, lifting it from the padded table top. The thigh muscles knowingly contract, the leg rising as I pull upward to reattach the padded nylon cuff to a cable hanging from the ceiling, just at the level of my boy’s waist. Simple ‘D’ clamps... instantly released... instantly resecured. With my boy’s wrists restrained to his sides, his hands are never in a position to offer himself the moments of liberation that me or the nurses extend during the sponge baths.

I move to the left side and unclip the opposing ‘D’ clamp. Both foot and ankle are equally compliant, thigh rising, another ‘D clamp clipped to a second cable to leave my boy lying well spread, the penis and testicles presented most vulnerably.

I note he begins to quiver and I don’t blame him for the apprehension. But that’s why I keep my boys so tightly bound. Whatever is to happen will happen, he has no choice but to lie and take it... all of it.

I lower the bottom half of the special table. It is hinged just below the buttocks. My boy’s male package now dangles over the newly formed edge. I move to stand between the raised thighs and knees and cannot help palming the massive plums I have been working on for over a week.

"An hour today, they’re responding beautifully," I note with a smile, the gonads having ungainly girth.

I knead the thin warm flesh of the sac with my thumbs, satisfied in feeling that the glands within remain firm. It is important they not become mushy. Too much of my special treatment will do that... either striking too firmly... or for too long an interval. Over the years... many boys... bringing many plums to ripeness... I have become accomplished. Within ten days to two weeks they will be ready for harvest.

"You going to get hard for me like a good boy?" my voice coos as if addressing a toddler, encouraging some otherwise mundane performance.

And sure enough, despite the fear... despite the concern... I note the sizable length begins to engorge. I always feel complimented when a boy I torture day after day greets me with a nice firm erection. The masochism becomes ingrained. Yes, deep within, there is strange stimulation in offering his male bits to a woman.

I smile warmly, my ‘Donna Reed’ matronly look of comfort, and step away to retrieve my special stick of torment. Short, less whippy then a cane, the bamboo is no less effective for the task at hand. I also lubricate my left hand... my boy may as well have some joy in the horror he is about to face.

"Here we go... do try to remain quiet."

I always encourage silence... but never get it. I suppose I am just too masterful... too sadistic.

My left hand wraps about the firming penis. I impart a moment of delight, helping it to a good stand. Yes, a twist then a modest stroke. And then I begin... just a tap with my right hand... but to the scrotum... and the first of dozens of muffled roars erupts into the penis gag as my slight blow causes the massive eggs to swing wildly, every limb spasmodically lurching, fighting in futility the tight straps, cuffs and cables.

The sound of the first splat always brings a smile... from me.

"Oh yes, you take it so well for me. And it’s good exercise for you, pulling so vigorously."

I leisurely let the message of pain subside, knowing that to strike again too soon diminishes the horror. I want the expectation to build. And while pausing I again stroke the penis, a most evanescent stroke, to spur endorphins. This will allow my boy to take so much more without passing out.

Calmness resumes, then I swing again... the splat... same rush of air, same wrenching of hands and feet.

With my torment stick not much longer than a ruler, swatting a boy’s balls requires close work, adequate aim. I do not want too much unsightliness... want to avoid deep hematomas. I just want to imbue trauma... causing the gonads to swell. With repeated treatment... day after day... after day... some degree of swelling will remain to become permanent. My boy is going to have one very large set of balls. And then... well then I am going to have one large set of balls.

Yes, they’ll be harvested. At times I feel like a patient gardener... each and every day weeding and hoeing... swinging away with just the right velocity... the perfect firmness... to bring the swelling I so much desire.

"And another," I advise, a third brisk tap, listening for the rush of air from the hollow penis gag, watching gleefully as the entire body attempts to bound from the table top. Yes such pain, such frustration, such futility.

Yet my left hand detects evidence of the intrepid male sex drive. Yes, the stiff penis thrusts into my grip, a fruitless attempt to frottage to ejaculation. That will not happen of course. I am much too experienced to permit the ultimate male pleasure. No, my boys are kept chaste. True or not, I like to think all that built up gism abets my efforts, accumulating to further swell that which I seek... large... bulbous testes.

My boy begins to sweat. It’s a normal reaction to the intensity of the trauma... physical... emotional. He has by now come to realize the inevitable... that while he so desperately wants the cessation of the daily torture... it will only come when he and his plums part ways. Yes, he knows he’ll be put to pasture... my term for wiling away the remainder of his life as a castrate. Meek, docile, harmless, the memories of me, my hand, my stick, shall never fade. Yes, he will try to recall his virility, the times when he was free to play with his penis, free to relish in the rush of spurting male essence. Yet as he lies and takes a fourth ‘tap’, he knows his organs are doomed.

Yes, I want them... and I shall have them... large, luscious, swelling with ripeness... symbolizing male power.... but when encased and bedecking my trophy room... more symbolizing my power... that of the governing female.

A fifth tap, the rush of air diminishes, but his firmness not. During the pause I tenderly brush my hand over the hairless sac, chemically depilated for many days in preparation. Yes the balls... my balls... are swelling. By hour’s end such will be pressing against his well spread thighs.

With the sixth tap, I sense the erection is wavering. The lurch becomes more of a slight tug. Though the cerebral cortex sends its message of flight, exhausted muscles fail to respond.

"I’ll soon have you yoked and you’ll be otherwise free to frolic," offering words of inspiration.

He knows an impressive shiny steel yoke for neck and wrists awaits the boys whom I have harvested. There will be those who will enjoy sodomizing him, the eventual soft flabby flesh of the neutered male found to be attractive. With hands and wrists restrained, he’ll not offer resistance... instead obsequiously bending and kneeling to accept the potent penetration... feeling the virility of the intact... sensing the intensity of the male thrust... that which I will forever deny to him.

It keeps the intact inmates calmed... easier to command. And the matrons enjoy watching.

Another tap and I am disappointed that most of my boy’s vigor seems to have waned. Yes, there comes eventual acceptance. Even that gush of air from the lungs abates. And I must smile in how facilely the male is tamed. My taps, applied to any other portion of the anatomy, would be felt as mosquito bites.

But not here... not where I choose to ready for collection... choose to evidence the dominion of femininity.

The scrotum turns to a bulbous mass of purple. I note the absence of deep crimson, my expert hand, the precision force, avoiding the discoloration which would require many, many days to heal. Such unsightliness is undesired. Meanwhile the gonads within blossom, my garden analogy seeming so apropos, expanding to press the thin flesh of the scrotal sac, bringing a fascinating sheen to skin stretched to noteworthy smoothness.

But I tap again. Pause. And again. No attempted resistance seen or felt. The penis goes limp, in my mind offering a sense of triumph. My boy now lies in a pool of perspiration, his psyche once again learning of the futility of fighting the tight bonds which serve to offer his nakedness to the whim of my hand and the torment stick.

One more tap and I inspect. The testicles have swollen to three times the size. Overnight, such will shrink... but not return to normal size... not even to the size at the start. No, each and every agonizing session brings a permanent expansion. It requires weeks, but they will soon be the size of grapefruit... and I will pick them.
Before ending there comes a series of brief quick taps, assuring that the entire circumference has endured my handiwork. It emphasizes the vulnerability. Nothing, not an inch of flesh, avoids my attention.

Ending the ordeal, I return the table to its original length then release, lower and resecure the feet. I reach to encourage, tenderly pinching my boy’s cheek.

"Just a few more days and you’ll be yoked and offering yourself to your fellow inmates. The nurses will keep you clean and well lubricated and you’ll learn the joys of prostate manipulation."

My boy docilely murmurs into the penis gag. At some point, I will have to ascertain what it is they want to tell me. I like to think they are humbling offering thanks... the twisted communication of masochist to sadist.

Before departing, I cup the massive plums and lift, offering my boy a view of my efforts while I in turn imagine them adorning my trophy case.

Such a curiously woeful look in return... I do believe he’s offering them to me... so desirous to conclude the daily torment.

"Almost saline time," I proclaim with enthusiasm.

We must ensure that the flesh of the scrotum can accommodate the nice big set of balls I want to propagate. So to add to the physical trauma of my incessant tapping there will next come the mental trauma of a saline infusion of the scrotal sac. Yes, my boy will docilely lie and watch as a tending nurse slips an intravenous needle into the top of the ball sac and supervises as close to a liter of solution very slowly flows to infuse his scrotum, inflamed genitals within, expanding it to something the size of a party balloon.

We must make room for those nice plumped balls of mine.

As I step away, I note the photos and artifacts placed on the wall at easy gazing level above the feet of my supine donor. High above is the waiting shiny steel yoke, a four foot length of polished metal, recently fabricated openings measured to perfectly enshroud his neck and wrists. Below hangs the brief little pink skirt my boy will wear while ‘grazing’ in the prison yard. Really nothing more than the tutu of a lithe ballerina, offering covering for no significant part of the anatomy, instead worn as the symbol of his new status. It won’t impede anal sodomy for even a second... instead being suggestive and rather inviting.

To the right and left of the frilly pink, our dear psychologist has posted a bevy of photos... pairs of inmates... typically a large black inmate and his ‘girl’... a smaller naked and yoked Caucasian. Depicted in the photos are various poses and acts... some poignantly affectionate... others offering lustful scenes of anal coupling... fellatio as foreplay... later tongue and lips cleansing in obeisant aftercare.

There is no doubt that my boy knows what awaits after I have harvested my trophies.

In one of my favorite photos, a virile black inmate demonstrates his sexual prowess, shown deeply penetrating a humble neutered boy who bends with tutu pushed up to his waist. In the background, three smiling matrons can be seen enjoying the scene of sodomy as the inmate shows off.

Yes, they love to watch the daily homoerotic antics we so much encourage.

"You’re young... almost pretty," I suggest in offering words of consolation as I note that my boy also gazes most woefully at the wall which deliberately instills psychological duress.

"You’ll have no trouble being adopted."

Yes, once neutered, yoked, tutu adorning his waist, pierced, urethral valve inserted, my boy will be reintroduced to the general prison population. There will be some arguments... possibly a scuffle or two... but in the competitive jungle of prison life, my boy will end up in the care of some alpha male. The ‘bitch’ of some nicely muscled, well endowed inmate, my boy will soon be licking, sucking, bending then cleansing just as in the photos.

Yoked, someone will need to feed him, his wrists only to be freed for occasional medical care. Plus, there is the ingenious urethral valve, ensuring his capitulation to a man... a real man... intact... one I have not harvested.

Yes, our nurses are most adept. For inserted into the penis tip, cleverly designed with tiny sharp prongs, fashioned such that slipping inward is facile, slipping outward painfully impossible, will be a short metal tube with a valve. Opened only by inserting almost any slim length of metal... perhaps even a tooth pick... my boy cannot.... will not... empty his bladder without assistance. Someone will need to hold his penis and consistently press inward, ensuring that the valve remains open by utilizing a small rod, while my boy empties himself.

So in addition to needing feeding care, he’ll also be begging for assistance with the most basic of bodily functions.

Yes, any homophobia will very quickly be subdued. My boy will have his penis handled by another male several times per day. And I know how he will reciprocate for the tender care.

My thoughts are interrupted as a pretty young nurse enters pushing a wheeled stanchion, a sizable clear plastic bag of saline hanging from a hook, tubing dangling below. She nods at me, assesses my boy then smiles.

"What a nice big set of balls you have waiting for me," she gushes.