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.


Anonymous said...

I see where this is going, but that doesn't make the anticipation for the next chapter any less.

They really should come up with a new catchphrase. "If this taboo doesn't sound seductive, it just means that Chris Bellows hasn't gotten round to writing it yet." :D

Chris Bellows said...

Thank you for the feedback

Kind of inspired by Nabakov (Lolita).

Curious if this will be considered consensual or non-consensual D/s.



Chris Bellows said...

Make that Nabokov.