Saturday, November 26, 2011

'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


len said...

Is it funny that I feel the money is actually better served stolen and used for such a purpose, than utilised for subprime loans, has this story happened today? :p

Quick query - if their "marriage" was never consummated, then who is Maria's real father? Or am I overlooking something? I only quickly glanced through the story; will read through it more thoroughly tomorrow when I have some time to actually sit down.

All in all, I guess it is a necessary, albeit somewhat boring (don't take it the wrong way) interlude into how this whole thing came about. Made for easy reading, but nothing that really makes me sit up and go "Hey!!!".

Chris Bellows said...

Maria is a niece. The daughter of Eve de Havillier's brother and sister-in-law, both of whom died in a car accident, precipating Eve's early retirement from the brothel.

In constructing a cohesive story line, there are going to be some not so hot (stimulating) segments.

In my mind it separates the tale from the mountains of pulp erotica becoming so prevalent on the net.