Saturday, November 26, 2011

More of the 'Power' series

Next week, 'Power, Admiring It".

Hope all are enjoying.


'Power, Having It (Part Three of Three)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

"Need the rent money, Mr. Davis."

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

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

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

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

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

Men look good in shackles.


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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ahh... $300."

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

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

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

Another gulp.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But I’ll need to get to the bank..."

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

Squeezed indeed.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

One would think it was actually his money he safeguards.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

                                                                            Maria de Havillier

Saturday, November 19, 2011

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There are empty rooms to be had.

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I conspire.

Sunday, November 13, 2011


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

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

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

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

Saturday, November 12, 2011

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

Power, Having It

Copyright 2011

by Chris Bellows

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Madam Chang smiles warmly.

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The man glumly nods.


‘Tuesday and Friday.’

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

The man nods again.

‘So how should this be dealt with?’

‘I do not know, ma’am.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


The man nods.

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

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

‘To the stool.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Madam Chang turns to the trembling form.

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

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

Madam Chang nods in agreement.

"I’ll just call her Mia."

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, she has.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

Saturday, November 5, 2011

The 'Power' Series

In general, visit every Saturday morning, U. S. east coast time, for the continuation of this series.

Next week, "Power, Having It'.

And buy a book some time so I can afford to purchase paper and toner!


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

I love the look on Trevor’s face as, for the first time, I try out the leash and nipple clamps. It does not require much to control Harold, responding instantly to verbal commands. But that can make a woman seem cheeky, constantly uttering sharp pitched words of authority.

So I have each nipple clamped... very modestly... and connected by a slim chain. To that I attach the new dog leash and Harold most meekly follows the slightest motion of my hand. In this manner I can be a controlling bitch without sounding like a controlling bitch, no forceful utterances required for total obedience.

Thus I return to the bedroom, leash in hand, disregarding my open robe which flashes all womanly things pink. Trevor appears aghast, surveying a woman, one of supreme governance, leading about a naked well restrained male. And I must smile noting that his hormone laden male brain wants to visually ravage my display of feminine charms... but his curiosity demands a thorough inspection of Harold as well.

Yes, Harold is quite the sight... chains clattering... freshly shaven... well oiled... Mia coated him with fragrant lotion disturbingly effeminate. Yes, Harold glows, attracting the ears, eyes and nose.

I note Trevor is down to his boxer shorts... and that the front is strained by the erection I induced moments ago. I am heartened that the small parade has not brought flaccidity. So whatever his concerns, such do not temper his needs.

"See what I bought for you Harold," I coo gesturing to the steel cage as if offering a birthday gift to a child.

Curious that I can feel Harold trembling through the taut leash, another wonderful aspect of the controlling length of leather. Harold is not displayed often to others, and never before another male... intact male. So I am sure absent the nipple clamps and attached leash, he would turn and dash from the room as quickly as his hobbling chains permit.

"Come, don’t be afraid. This is Trevor, a nice boy who’s helped with your new cage. I’m going to fuck him,"
I proclaim as my leash hand lowers and Harold immediately knows to fall to his knees.

The cage is some three feet high. A large door offers entry, to be closed shut utilizing a latch... simple for a human to release, yet not to be opened by creatures with paws. I make a note to purchase a formidable padlock... maybe two or three just to make Harold feel extremely secure. I would not want him to ever think he can free himself. Psychologically that won’t do. He must constantly feel under the control of a woman. It is important for him.

"Well Trevor, without a lock, it appears I’ll have to improvise a little to ensure my husband feels properly secured in place. It is best for males like him."

With that, I draw a kneeling Harold, knees shuffling, into the cage, my hands exchanging the leash through the bars to guide him well away from the door. Though his wrists remain secured behind his back, I would not want to let him think he can some how work the latch.

So at the far end, of the eight foot by six foot enclosure. I tie the nipple leash to the bars, limited slack in ensuring that Harold stays well away from the latched opening.

"There, a perfect view of the bed," I cannot help noting as I spy tears of humiliation streaming down Harold’s cheek.

I turn to see that Trevor’s stunned look has transformed to one of observation, that of scientist in the laboratory.

"He... he can’t talk."

"Never. It does lead one to occasionally guess at what it is he would say... times like this when his wife is going to have a long night of deep penetrating sex. But then, it really would not matter, would it, Harold?"

"That thing... on his cock."

"Just a little chastity device. Hardened steel, the tube is filled with nasty little spikes to ensure his thoughts remain pure... which they don’t of course. He constantly hurts himself."

With that I toss off my bathrobe to exhibit myself in the buff to husband and Saturday night bull lover. Trevor ceases staring at Harold and I approach to assure he is in the proper frame of mind, once again caressing that massive appendage through the boxer shorts.

"It is best for inadequate boys like Harold," my voice resuming its sultry ‘lets fuck’ tone, my free hand pushing him backwards towards my bed.

I smile in hearing Harold whine, his only form of protest.

"Right here, in front of him?" finally dawning on Trevor my own frame of mind.

"It so nicely empowers a woman like me, Trevor. And overall it’s good for beta males like Harold," turning my head to see the eyes of my sullen husband riveted on my nakedness and Trevor’s bulging shorts.

"You can further inspect Harold later, Trevor. Even take him for a walk if you’d like."

I stoop, move my hands to his hips, the fingers right and left hooking the waist band of his shorts, his sole remaining garment. Such boldness, I pull downward quickly and with eagerness. Then I step back as Trevor instinctively kicks away the rumpled shorts to finally present himself to me.

I have chosen well.


The bedroom smells of sweat and the heated feminine essence which coats Trevor’s entire pubes. Being on top... I am always on top... my quim exuded copiously. Plus I ejaculate with orgasm, something that enthused my bull lover, so there’s been a notable exchange of bodily fluids.

Grunts, groans, moans... but hearing Harold’s mournful well muffled pleas brought the most enjoyable audio input. Leashed in the cage, his head and face are inches from where Trevor and I lie basking in the glow of carnal embrace.

Not having been penetrated in weeks, sexual release coming by way of the tongue and lips of my castrated servant, my vagina proved to be incredibly tight, making Trevor most appreciative and Harold doubly distraught as I announced that fact in first mounting him.

But a woman of my ilk, quite earnest in matters of copulation, slowly lowered herself, pausing to enhance Trevor’s thrill and allow the vaginal walls to stretch in accommodation and further moisten. Then I rode him like a cow girl, hips plunging, vigorously bringing forth the friction which a good fucking demands.

Trevor, I judge to be in his early twenties, proved to have good stamina... not the best... that will come with my training... but he certainly lasted long enough to bring forth two orgasms before he in turn exploded deeply, the splurge I am sure dousing my cervical opening.

So now in satiation, Trevor the bull returns his attention to Harold, glumly kneeling in his new cage, forced in chastity to view his wife eagerly copulate with a well hung man of color.

Such precious moments.

I roll to the far side, reach to Trevor’s semi flaccid organ and draw it upwards for Harold to better view. Even when not turgid it is impressive and I smile wickedly as I emulate a hand job for Harold to watch in both shame and envy.

"What’s with the mouth thing," Trevor needing to know more.

"It silences... it degrades... and orally keeps him well open for anything we want to induce."

With that my right hand retreats from Trevor’s impressiveness to reach to my wet and steamy love pouch, filled with Trevor’s spending. Fingers gingerly work, my reddened feminine flesh well worn, and find a goblet of spunk... thick... creamy... brimming with the seed of life. I scoop.

"Watch," feeling it necessary to offer ‘poor’ Harold some attention.

I arise from the bed. It is only one step to the cage. My dry hand takes the leash and draws in what little slack I permitted, forcing Harold to press his face to the bars. I then introduce the slime of my wet fingers, first letting the substance drip between the slim bars of the molt gag then carefully smearing tongue and lips with the combination of semen and vaginal fluid.

"In being forced open, his mouth is essentially transformed to a sink and a drain... whatever goes into the sink eventually finds its way down the drain. You’ll note he can’t eject or spit anything out."

I push back on Harold’s forehead letting gravity work, the slime leaching to the back of his throat.

"Yum, yum Harold, swallow for me."

He has no choice but to comply, his gag reflex not permitting him to choke. And sure enough with a notable gulp, the foul mass disappears. I laugh evilly, turning to see Trevor smiling.

Yes, I have found quite the bull.

"‘We’... you said ‘we’," Trevor inadvertently entangling himself further in my web.

"I have a maid. Keeping a male in constant restraint requires much attentive care... feeding... washing... shaving. As a matter of fact Trevor, for your next visit, I’ll want you trimmed... down there. Pubic hair can be quite distracting and my maid will accommodate."

I will have to remember to find some little pink panties for Mia.... to be worn only for Trevor’s introduction of course. That little penis of hers can turn off the homophobic male... and I certainly do not want my bull stud turned off.


Wealth, power, abundant sex... and only the way I like it.

Plus some subservient males... one a former male.

Yes, in addition to Harold, my bull stud Trevor is in fact subservient... to me. Psychologically I know he experiences odd empathy in viewing my shackled, caged and chastised Harold. Still he readily joins in the fun, literally rattling Harold’s cage after every Saturday night of torrid love making. No longer bashful about displaying his full standing member... and his sexual prowess... as I offer slow teasing hand jobs as a prelude to coupling... Trevor is given to tauntingly press his golden brown manhood through the bars before succumbing to my charms and rather docilely lying beneath me while I fuck him with fervor.

Knowing that Harold can neither bite nor touch, Trevor flauntingly displays himself and Harold’s combined look of envy and distress never ceases to amuse. And Trevor in turn shows this occasional look of relief... communicating the thought that but for Harold providing the drastic form of entertainment which a woman of my predilection demands, it would be he caged, shackled and chastised.

‘But for size, stamina and vigor, there go I’, I read his thoughts.

After a couple of Saturday evening rendevous, Gigi out of the house, I have a pantied Mia answer Trevor’s ring at the door. Having kept my neutered servant tucked away as Trevor acclimates to cuckolding Harold, part of the step by step plan is to include Mia in the cuckolding dalliances. For in time, I want Trevor to be comfortable in a bisexual environment. So tonight maid and bull stud will meet.

Since Gigi is given to prettify Mia... makeup and manicure... wearing panties brings gender confusion, the tiny remnant of one time maleness barely noticeable under shear panties, despite the tightness.

Thus, as Mia opens the door, I can’t help watching the reaction. With limited breasts Mia appears to be a prepubescent girl, despite her advanced years. And so Trevor is stunned to silence and immobility.

I step forth to intervene.

"My maid Mia, Trevor. I assure you she is of age."

This comforts and Trevor steps within, his eagerness apparent, as Mia knows to curtsy.

I know the money is only part of the equation, Harold looks so sullen when I peel off many hundreds in compensation, for Trevor arrives promptly and with a sheepish look of anticipation. Getting paid for sex... a male fantasy. And since it irritates Harold to no end, I pay handsomely.

"Mia does not speak. But I know she’s eager to get to know you. I know you’ve kept yourself trimmed below, but Mia, in taking care of Harold is quite adept. And I think you will enjoy her touch."

Spoken as I lead Trevor up the stairs to the communal bathroom where Mia has just finished shaving and bathing Harold so he can be properly displayed in his cage.

With bronzed skin and Asian features, I am sure Trevor thinks of Geisha girls and is warming to having his privates washed and shorn by my truckling servant. And guys are aware that keeping the undergrowth under control fosters the fellatio they crave.

"Strip and into the tub, Trevor. A nice warm bath first and Mia will soap you. Then I want you to join me in my bedroom. Be nice and erect for me. Mia will help there as well."

I am so devious!


Quite an effort to stifle girlish giggles as I observed Trevor sitting in bubble bath with Mia circling to chamois every inch of that marvelous youthful virility. Mia adroitly shaved, not a nick with the many Saturday nights denuding Harold. And Trevor displayed his manhood with relish, proudly letting himself become erect, not fully understanding the source of Mia’s smiling look of adoration.

So it’s to the bedroom where a caged Harold kneels in wait, smelling of fragrant soap, freshly shaven body glowing with a generous coating of lotion.

"How’s the family pet?" Trevor mockingly inquires, thrusting his hand through the bars to tousle Harold’s mane.

Standing proximate, Trevor’s organ, remaining somewhat engorged with Mia’s envious tendance, thrusts through the bars, bringing forth another comical whine from Harold. Trevor is nicely hung. And his joystick is free to stand... free to be handled... free to penetrate.

Trevor looks to see the many hundred dollar bills waiting for him on the dresser. His smile becomes one of giddiness. For some reason that really foments the male sex drive... a long night of nirvanic exchange of bodily fluids... culminating with a pocket stuffed with cash.

Whereas foreplay normally includes a slow and sordid hand job, just inches from Harold’s sullen face, I instead snap my fingers and point. Mia knows to fall to her knees, reach forth and cup the abundant balls.
She tenderly begins licking.

"Mia so much adores the male organs, Trevor. I do hope you don’t mind."

How could he object? It’s more fantasy. Homophobia not an issue with the brief pink panties cloaking what remains of Mia’s maleness, Trevor will have a mind blowing Saturday night... as will I.

The penis firms. A droplet of pre ejaculatory fluid oozes. Mia’s training in that Bangkok bordello becomes apparent. I do believe she could tease and taunt for hours, so very much aware of the male erogenous zones, vicariously knowing exactly what Trevor feels, and obediently forestalling ultimate climax.

Meanwhile Harold’s mournful look is precious... so angry... so envious... so frustrated.

I will have to unbuckle that gag at some point just to hear his fawning words.

Mia fondles and caresses, I must suppress more laughter as my sopping vagina quivers, so ready for the deep rhythmic penetration, the slow buildup of friction, the steady advance to a cascade of orgasms.

"You’re going to have quite the treat tonight, Harold," reaching forth to dab away the goo from the turgid penis tip, Mia sucking vigorously on the right gonad. "Trevor has quite the load of spunk."

I reach into the cage, my moist finger slipping past the molt gag to offer a taste of what Harold will later be feasting upon.

Yes, though spending deeply, in the glow of post coitus satiation I am given to patiently let the jism, Trevor’s seed and my essence, descend and be collected.

As I drip the fluid into Harold’s sink and listen for the gulp that sends it down the drain, Trevor so much enjoys watching Harold being fed the vestiges of our coupling.

Someday Harold will have a more direct feeding. But all in good time.

I snap my fingers again. Mia knows to withdraw and I am heartened as Trevor, like a trained dog, knows to wordlessly step to the bed and lie supine, his long thick phallus jutting straight to the ceiling like a telephone pole.

I shed my robe and join my chocolate bull stud in complete nakedness. The mattress dips as I kneel. I straddle. I grasp. I mount. Feeling the organ throb in anticipation brings exhilaration as I align and lower myself, my labia straining to part. Though tight, the mass of firm smooth warmth glides inward with ease, my quim a wellspring of welcoming juices. A long night’s ride begins, husband Harold whining in envy.

The power!