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.


len said...

Now we are getting somewhere. I suppose that man is going to become her husband / Maria's father?

I thought the 1st part was somewhat dry. The flashback was nice, but nothing we didn't already know. No offense; I was pretty much just scrolling down looking for the kicker.

That said, just how old is Mia now? If he already was a boy when he was first acquired, that means he is close to 50 at the start of the story? (assume 10+ years, +20 for Maria to get pregnant, another 18 years for Gigi). And he is able to still pass off as some prepubescent girl?

Chris Bellows said...


Thanks for the input.

Yes, at some point focusing on developing the plot/story line does tend to bring coolness to the erotic side.

Future episodes will return to steam.

Mia, like Peter Pan, will not age. But a point well taken, with Mia much literary license is utilized on my part.



len said...

Ah, that makes sense (well, kinda). I was wondering what the "Peter Pan" reference alluded to.

So this means Mia will be like some sort of immortal retainer who will be with the family for eons, forever servicing each new generation of dominant females? :D