28 visits in the first hour of posting. Guess there is some interest in this theme.
Still, please comment.
And have a Happy New Year!
CB
Saturday, December 31, 2011
'The Clinic' (Female dominant/female submissive)
I will post a couple of segments of this book length story. Please keep in mind the book will be published so the 'meat' of the story will appear for sale on Lulu or the Erotic Book Network
***************************************************************************
The Clinic
Copyright 2011
by Chris Bellows
The room is austere, the lighting bright, the matron firm... crisply commanding.
“Always look directly at the camera... stare at the lens.”
As the directive comes there quickly follows another flash and a click.
“Feet further apart, arms at your sides, palms toward me.”
Flash. Click.
Somehow I maintain my composure, stifling tears. The intensity of the humiliation is daunting. I am naked.
“Cup for your breasts for me. Present them. No smile. No frown.”
Flash. Click.
“Good girl. Now turn and face to the right, feet always parted. Arch your back for me. Very nice. You’re going to do just fine here.”
Flash. Click.
Words of support as the matron senses my deteriorating resolve. As I instantly respond, all sense of resistance dissolved, my mind finds the need to wander...
******************************************************************************
“Shoplifting. You know young lady, I used to give lenient sentences to first time offenders. But then I noticed so many faced me again. Too many reunions... and too soon.”
The judge is senescent... talking endlessly as I await her decision. Her words offer little hope for compassion.
“Now, under the law I can mandate five years...”
My heart sinks.
“You could appeal of course, but that would require a large bond while awaiting a decision and the engagement of very expensive lawyers.”
The woman takes off her glasses to glare at me from the bench. Hair gray, cut short, combed straight, Hollywood would have her cast as a boarding school headmistress... an authoritative and exacting headmistress.
“And then the state and the taxpayers would be equally burdened. Lots of money expended keeping naughty girls behind bars.”
‘Get on with it’, I am tempted to blurt.
“So, I am willing, with your concurrence, to recommend a new program... rather experimental... of rehabilitation. Shorter than five years... and in being sponsored by a psychiatric clinic, less costly to the state.”
A heart sinking begins to ascend.
“Should you concur, your sentence will be commuted to two years of therapy. If you change your mind, resist treatment, the sentence will be re-instituted to five years of incarceration.”
I repress a smile.
“If I fully understand the program, I think a girl like you will respond well to the therapy.”
A pause... a long pause... finally she inquires.
“Do you concur?”
I nod enthusiastically.
“The court stenographer will need a verbal reply.”
With my one word... my concurrence... here I am.
******************************************************************************
“Now turn and face to the left for another profile. Arch your back. There will be need to assess the buttocks.”
The thought is so salacious... yet the setting so clinical. I have not a stitch of covering. And the matron was pleased to note that I am shaven... down there. ‘Saves us time,’ she noted in positioning me for the first snapshot.
“Back towards me... mind the feet.”
I turn and by rote part my feet. Flash. Click.
“And now bend. Be a good girl.”
I obey. Having already been repeatedly photographed, I respond like a robot. I am surprised by my quickly attained level of compliance.
Flash. Click.
“Further.”
I lean and feel my boobs dangle. I am proudly well endowed there.
Flash. Click.
“Now feet as wide apart as possible.”
Flash. Click.
“Now hold just like that and reach back to part your cheeks.”
Salacious transcends to obscene. Why am I so meekly complying?
Flash. Click.
“Yes, very nice. Lot’s of pink for us. You’ll do just fine here. Feet just a little further apart.”
Flash. Click.
“Now stand and turn. Hands on head.”
For the first time the woman approaches. Quite the figure of authority. Middle aged, starched blue uniform. I am shocked when she reaches forth and diddles my nipples, chagrined to see my aureolas crinkle to pebbles. More chagrined that I neither move nor verbally protest as my breasts rise and firm, seemingly even more obedient and compliant than me.
She steps back.
Flash. Click.
“Yes, you will fit into our program very nicely.”
She returns. Hands remaining on head, for some reason I no longer move unless commanded. Her right hand lowers, palm upwards. She cups my mons!
I freeze in shock. The palm presses against my clitoral hood. Then two fingers brazenly part my labia and glide into my quim.
I am moist... no... I am wet... and for the first time the woman smiles.
Withdrawing, she raises her hand and I blush, her sopping digits glistening in the bright lights.
“Yes, you will fit quite nicely indeed.”
The intense humiliation has aroused... and she knew this... and I did not!
******************************************************************************
I inquire about clothing. Matron number two not so much giggles as she cackles.
“Not really necessary. It’s just us girls,” her response pleasant but nonchalant.
“Your restraints will suffice. In time you will acclimate.”
As I remain in wonderment about the need to take dozens of naked photos, there comes more to incite curiosity. I stand in complete deshabille in a small room, Matron number two, appearing to be stamped from the same mold as the first, steps forth holding some dozen lengths of thin plastic.
“Cable ties. Cheap. Easy to secure. Not to be removed ... other than by cutting. And should you somehow locate a sharp instrument... you’ll not cut,” she forewarns.
Spoken as wrists, arms above the elbows, ankles, thighs above the knees are encircled, the end of each tie pressed through a receptive eye and pulled taut to form a loop. I note the women tightens with one finger inside the circle which she subsequently slips out, offering precisely uniform rings of plastic about my limbs... not tight, circulation not impeded... but certainly not loose.
Then a longer somewhat thicker cable tie is looped about my neck. Lastly a more formidable length circles my waist.
The woman steps back and momentarily assesses. Then she returns with clippers and carefully snips away the ends, leaving absolutely no excess length of plastic beyond the receiving eye.
“You’ll tug at these for a few days. All the girls do. But I assure you the restraints are not to be snapped open or broken.”
She steps away and I quiver in fear as she lights a propane torch.
“Be careful not to move. This assures the locking clasp is secure and not to be further tightened. And all the sharp cut ends will be smoothed.”
It is apparent that I am not the first girl the matron has placed in such unique, fast and cheap fetters. For one by one, a protective pad is slipped under the connecting clasp and the blue flame is momentarily applied, melting the plastic to accomplish just as she suggested, smoothing the cut ends and distorting the receiving clasps to assure such neither further tighten nor somehow yield and allow the loops to slip open.
Task completed, the flame is extinguished. Fingers return to rub each connecting point. The matron expresses satisfaction.
“Well tethered... with $1.50 worth of vinyl,” laughing with the irony of inexpensive thoroughness.
With that the door opens. Another aging woman enters, civilian in dress. Judging from Matron number two’s instant obeisance, the woman is in charge.
“I am the chief therapist...”
I am then read the rules...
***************************************************************************
The Clinic
Copyright 2011
by Chris Bellows
The room is austere, the lighting bright, the matron firm... crisply commanding.
“Always look directly at the camera... stare at the lens.”
As the directive comes there quickly follows another flash and a click.
“Feet further apart, arms at your sides, palms toward me.”
Flash. Click.
Somehow I maintain my composure, stifling tears. The intensity of the humiliation is daunting. I am naked.
“Cup for your breasts for me. Present them. No smile. No frown.”
Flash. Click.
“Good girl. Now turn and face to the right, feet always parted. Arch your back for me. Very nice. You’re going to do just fine here.”
Flash. Click.
Words of support as the matron senses my deteriorating resolve. As I instantly respond, all sense of resistance dissolved, my mind finds the need to wander...
******************************************************************************
“Shoplifting. You know young lady, I used to give lenient sentences to first time offenders. But then I noticed so many faced me again. Too many reunions... and too soon.”
The judge is senescent... talking endlessly as I await her decision. Her words offer little hope for compassion.
“Now, under the law I can mandate five years...”
My heart sinks.
“You could appeal of course, but that would require a large bond while awaiting a decision and the engagement of very expensive lawyers.”
The woman takes off her glasses to glare at me from the bench. Hair gray, cut short, combed straight, Hollywood would have her cast as a boarding school headmistress... an authoritative and exacting headmistress.
“And then the state and the taxpayers would be equally burdened. Lots of money expended keeping naughty girls behind bars.”
‘Get on with it’, I am tempted to blurt.
“So, I am willing, with your concurrence, to recommend a new program... rather experimental... of rehabilitation. Shorter than five years... and in being sponsored by a psychiatric clinic, less costly to the state.”
A heart sinking begins to ascend.
“Should you concur, your sentence will be commuted to two years of therapy. If you change your mind, resist treatment, the sentence will be re-instituted to five years of incarceration.”
I repress a smile.
“If I fully understand the program, I think a girl like you will respond well to the therapy.”
A pause... a long pause... finally she inquires.
“Do you concur?”
I nod enthusiastically.
“The court stenographer will need a verbal reply.”
With my one word... my concurrence... here I am.
******************************************************************************
“Now turn and face to the left for another profile. Arch your back. There will be need to assess the buttocks.”
The thought is so salacious... yet the setting so clinical. I have not a stitch of covering. And the matron was pleased to note that I am shaven... down there. ‘Saves us time,’ she noted in positioning me for the first snapshot.
“Back towards me... mind the feet.”
I turn and by rote part my feet. Flash. Click.
“And now bend. Be a good girl.”
I obey. Having already been repeatedly photographed, I respond like a robot. I am surprised by my quickly attained level of compliance.
Flash. Click.
“Further.”
I lean and feel my boobs dangle. I am proudly well endowed there.
Flash. Click.
“Now feet as wide apart as possible.”
Flash. Click.
“Now hold just like that and reach back to part your cheeks.”
Salacious transcends to obscene. Why am I so meekly complying?
Flash. Click.
“Yes, very nice. Lot’s of pink for us. You’ll do just fine here. Feet just a little further apart.”
Flash. Click.
“Now stand and turn. Hands on head.”
For the first time the woman approaches. Quite the figure of authority. Middle aged, starched blue uniform. I am shocked when she reaches forth and diddles my nipples, chagrined to see my aureolas crinkle to pebbles. More chagrined that I neither move nor verbally protest as my breasts rise and firm, seemingly even more obedient and compliant than me.
She steps back.
Flash. Click.
“Yes, you will fit into our program very nicely.”
She returns. Hands remaining on head, for some reason I no longer move unless commanded. Her right hand lowers, palm upwards. She cups my mons!
I freeze in shock. The palm presses against my clitoral hood. Then two fingers brazenly part my labia and glide into my quim.
I am moist... no... I am wet... and for the first time the woman smiles.
Withdrawing, she raises her hand and I blush, her sopping digits glistening in the bright lights.
“Yes, you will fit quite nicely indeed.”
The intense humiliation has aroused... and she knew this... and I did not!
******************************************************************************
I inquire about clothing. Matron number two not so much giggles as she cackles.
“Not really necessary. It’s just us girls,” her response pleasant but nonchalant.
“Your restraints will suffice. In time you will acclimate.”
As I remain in wonderment about the need to take dozens of naked photos, there comes more to incite curiosity. I stand in complete deshabille in a small room, Matron number two, appearing to be stamped from the same mold as the first, steps forth holding some dozen lengths of thin plastic.
“Cable ties. Cheap. Easy to secure. Not to be removed ... other than by cutting. And should you somehow locate a sharp instrument... you’ll not cut,” she forewarns.
Spoken as wrists, arms above the elbows, ankles, thighs above the knees are encircled, the end of each tie pressed through a receptive eye and pulled taut to form a loop. I note the women tightens with one finger inside the circle which she subsequently slips out, offering precisely uniform rings of plastic about my limbs... not tight, circulation not impeded... but certainly not loose.
Then a longer somewhat thicker cable tie is looped about my neck. Lastly a more formidable length circles my waist.
The woman steps back and momentarily assesses. Then she returns with clippers and carefully snips away the ends, leaving absolutely no excess length of plastic beyond the receiving eye.
“You’ll tug at these for a few days. All the girls do. But I assure you the restraints are not to be snapped open or broken.”
She steps away and I quiver in fear as she lights a propane torch.
“Be careful not to move. This assures the locking clasp is secure and not to be further tightened. And all the sharp cut ends will be smoothed.”
It is apparent that I am not the first girl the matron has placed in such unique, fast and cheap fetters. For one by one, a protective pad is slipped under the connecting clasp and the blue flame is momentarily applied, melting the plastic to accomplish just as she suggested, smoothing the cut ends and distorting the receiving clasps to assure such neither further tighten nor somehow yield and allow the loops to slip open.
Task completed, the flame is extinguished. Fingers return to rub each connecting point. The matron expresses satisfaction.
“Well tethered... with $1.50 worth of vinyl,” laughing with the irony of inexpensive thoroughness.
With that the door opens. Another aging woman enters, civilian in dress. Judging from Matron number two’s instant obeisance, the woman is in charge.
“I am the chief therapist...”
I am then read the rules...
Saturday, December 24, 2011
'Power Series' ends
This concludes the 'Power' series.
Hope all have enjoyed. 28,000 words of free stuff, as qualitative as I can make it.
Comments are welcomed as always.
For ease of reading, the entire series is now available for free on Lulu.
Currently writing a Fem/fem story, book length, with a smattering of dominant male action. Forced lactation theme... my quill not tussling with such subject matter since 'Ship of Remorse'.
Anyone have interest?
Have a good Christmas.
Regards,
CB
Hope all have enjoyed. 28,000 words of free stuff, as qualitative as I can make it.
Comments are welcomed as always.
For ease of reading, the entire series is now available for free on Lulu.
Currently writing a Fem/fem story, book length, with a smattering of dominant male action. Forced lactation theme... my quill not tussling with such subject matter since 'Ship of Remorse'.
Anyone have interest?
Have a good Christmas.
Regards,
CB
'Power, Succumbing to It' (Part Two of Two)
Naked on a train!
Madam sits proximate. In hindsight the lack of clothing adds to her ability to control and my inability to run off. And in the tropical heat and abject poverty of the region, the young are commonly afforded limited covering.
Still I am older than a toddler and am quite conscience of my nakedness.
We share a cabin with a Caucasian woman. Haughty, older, prim, proper, she visually inspects and I have no manner of hindering her gaze.
"You’ve had him fixed. I so often wished I had that option," the woman striking up a conversation with Madam Kaishek.
Madam Kaishek detects my discomfort and smiles.
"Sit back and show the woman," she commands.
I remain trembling with the trauma, the pain, the callous doctor’s incisions and snips. Mentally and emotionally I am overwhelmed. I meekly sit back and draw my knees to my chest. Madam Kaishek reaches, her hands parting my inner thighs and buttocks.
"I want her smooth" she explains. "In my work it is best."
Having popped the gonads from their nest, the doctor gathered the fleshy folds of my empty scrotum and pinched with a device appearing to be a set of pliers. She termed it an elastrator. And when she withdrew the device I felt tightness... down there. A taut rubber band enshrouds that which once held my testicles. I can still feel the tightness.
So the Caucasian woman is offered an unfettered view of my transformation, the reddened pouch of banded epidermis gathered into a withering soon to drop clump... appearing to be the waddle of a turkey.
"With the circulation cut off, in a few days this excess skin will topple off and she’ll be very smooth for me. The only hint of maleness remaining will be a cute little penis... rendered useless of course."
In hearing the pronoun ‘she’, the woman smiles in agreement.
"Ran a boy’s reform school for many years. I caned... I feminized often... but this ultimate modification for undesired behavior was not an option, unfortunately."
The woman proves to be bold in matters concerning boys. She leans forward and extends her hand. Fingers caress and knead the small gathering of banded flesh. I am shocked to feel almost nothing. She pinches and in noting there is little reaction, smiles in satisfaction.
"All gone. Her behavior will be quite acceptable now."
Her hand lowers and a finger smooths about my anus, circling to bring a brief brisance of delight to an otherwise mortifying encounter.
"I also figged. You may wish to consider should the behavior indeed not improve."
I would later learn... and feel the results... of the effective English custom... inserting ginger root into the rectum. It burns without producing a scintilla of physical harm and the insertion purportedly assures that buttocks awaiting a brisk caning are properly presented.
"I understand castrated boys make good servants... the removal of the testicles bringing focus to young minds that would otherwise be addled by the flow of hormones."
Madam Kaishek nods in agreement.
"She will serve, but not as a servant. I have clients with... shall we say exotic tastes. She will be trained to please... orally and anally. They tell me that the backside of the male... former male... is naturally tighter. And that fellatio is better learned... and more quickly."
The woman’s smile turns to a look of Schadenfreude, apparently visualizing the intensity of the degradation.
"And there’s the curious phenomenon of aging... snipped before any significant flow of hormones, she’ll always be young."
The train begins to slow. Madam withdraws her hands. The woman leans back to return to sitting upright.
"The border crossing. I hope you don’t mind... err... Miss..."
"Hartsdale... Miss Penelope Hartsdale."
"I am Madam Kaishek. I hope Miss Hartsdale that you don’t mind being present as we sort things out with the Thailand customs and immigration. My girl has no papers and there is a certain protocol to be followed."
As the train slows to a stop, I am given instructions... to be obedient... very obedient. In my nakedness, flushed with embarrassment as the two women talked about me, inspected my privates, my vulnerability has been made quite apparent. Have I a choice?
I nod concurrence, my altered vocal cords mandating silence.
There comes commotion as the many doors of the adjoining cabins open and the numerous passengers offer documents, agents shouting instructions. Miss Hartsdale reaches to her purse as does Madam Chang. Our cabin door opens and up steps a uniformed woman of authority. She is homely, somewhat past middle aged and evidently in charge. In her arms... shackles and a collection of chains.
She drops the bindings and checks the passports, oddly ignoring me. It becomes evident that she is familiar with Madam Kaishek as the passport is returned and the woman officer is offered a tube of unguent. She accepts and looks at this Miss Hartsdale with concern.
"It’s not a problem. Miss Hartsdale seems to be one of us and I think will be entertained," Madam Kaishek seeming to read the officer’s mind.
The uniformed woman nods then sits next to Miss Hartsdale. For the first time she looks at me and I shiver in fear. She is aloof, calloused and wickedly gazes at my nakedness as something to be savored... prey to be eaten. She opens the tube and lubricates her hands. Then she wriggles her finger, gesturing for me to come to her lap. My shiver transforms to outright trembling.
I look to Madam Kaishek and she nods. I meekly slide my nakedness from the seat and step towards her. The woman brusquely grabs my arm and rapidly positions me sitting on her lap.
"We all have our curious little penchants, Miss Hartsdale," the woman proclaims. "I trust you can be tolerant of mine. Castrated boys offer such a thrill... the loss of virility... potential virility... such brings stimulation. I so much revel in both the physical and emotional comeuppance."
As she speaks, her left hand works at my bottom. I am horrified to feel a greased finger penetrate my anus. It slips inward locating my opening with ease. Mine is not the first aperture she has impaled.
Then the fingers of the right hand smooth up my thigh to playfully toy with the gathering of banded flesh.
"Something’s missing here. You have a tiny penis but are closer to being a little girl," the voice sarcastic.
Then the fingers move and begin to caress my penis. I am chagrined to find it feels good. I sense a certain throbbing. There come twinges. The woman is expert, smiling so evilly as she works to bring me to erection.
"You won’t have too many more of these... little girl," she taunts, as we both sense the organ begin to firm.
She knows the male anatomy... the former male anatomy. I feel the penetrating finger score a bull’s eye on the prostate gland. I lurch. The evil smile broadens. The humiliation is intense. I am to be masturbated before three women! And I am amazed when I am brought to full erection, something I have experimented in doing but mainly experienced only nocturnally, a full bladder abetting tumescence. Puberty just approaching... self pleasure limited.
Ejaculation is not possible. The woman seems to know and also seems to know how to prolong my odd state of arousal... arousal never ever to be satiated. And I sense the power exchange, feel the woman robbing me of what little virility and maleness that remains. She is draining me of male essence which can ever again be produced. Some fluid begins to ooze, the woman quick to mockingly point such out to Miss Hartsdale and Madam Kaishek. In having been neutered she knows she depletes the remnants of maleness... the last vestige... the final trace of virility. I can sense her feeling of empowerment.
"It’s your last... enjoy..." spoken as the penetrating finger wriggles about and the right hand oh so sensuously strokes.
Then I feel something... something joyous... but faint... distant. And the woman feels it too, the triggering of the ejaculatory muscles. But there is nothing to be expelled. It is a feeble orgasm... dry... incomplete... and it brings me both delight and frustration... and the woman knows it.
"I so much adore the forlorn look, don’t you ladies? It comes with the realization that hence... pleasure is solely for others..."
Yes, a curious penchant indeed... masturbating the castrated male. And what is most irksome... she is aware...she so much enjoys the transfer of power.... my loss... her gain.
With the incomplete orgasm past, the sensuous joy of her continuing strokes turns to irritation. I soften. Nothing manly has spurted, my penis tip merely drooling prostatic fluid. The women are greatly amused, my look of chagrin... of dread... serving to entertain.
"Be sure to let me know when you have another one snipped," the woman abruptly pushing me from her lap.
She picks up the shackles.
"Let’s get you properly dressed for entry into Thailand."
Wrists and ankles, I am tethered and hobbled, the woman gleefully snapping closed the locks and handing Madam Kaishek a key.
"Little girly boys always look so cute in irons."
The woman next hands Madam Kaishek some papers. I am to later learn such identify me as a criminal juvenile delinquent with Madam Kaishek serving as my guardian, a subterfuge for the remaining journey to Bangkok. Then as the woman arises, the train begins to move, the acceleration slow. She steps out.
I shall not forget her... nor the frustratingly muted feel of my last orgasm. The sound of her cackle shall forever remain...
Madam sits proximate. In hindsight the lack of clothing adds to her ability to control and my inability to run off. And in the tropical heat and abject poverty of the region, the young are commonly afforded limited covering.
Still I am older than a toddler and am quite conscience of my nakedness.
We share a cabin with a Caucasian woman. Haughty, older, prim, proper, she visually inspects and I have no manner of hindering her gaze.
"You’ve had him fixed. I so often wished I had that option," the woman striking up a conversation with Madam Kaishek.
Madam Kaishek detects my discomfort and smiles.
"Sit back and show the woman," she commands.
I remain trembling with the trauma, the pain, the callous doctor’s incisions and snips. Mentally and emotionally I am overwhelmed. I meekly sit back and draw my knees to my chest. Madam Kaishek reaches, her hands parting my inner thighs and buttocks.
"I want her smooth" she explains. "In my work it is best."
Having popped the gonads from their nest, the doctor gathered the fleshy folds of my empty scrotum and pinched with a device appearing to be a set of pliers. She termed it an elastrator. And when she withdrew the device I felt tightness... down there. A taut rubber band enshrouds that which once held my testicles. I can still feel the tightness.
So the Caucasian woman is offered an unfettered view of my transformation, the reddened pouch of banded epidermis gathered into a withering soon to drop clump... appearing to be the waddle of a turkey.
"With the circulation cut off, in a few days this excess skin will topple off and she’ll be very smooth for me. The only hint of maleness remaining will be a cute little penis... rendered useless of course."
In hearing the pronoun ‘she’, the woman smiles in agreement.
"Ran a boy’s reform school for many years. I caned... I feminized often... but this ultimate modification for undesired behavior was not an option, unfortunately."
The woman proves to be bold in matters concerning boys. She leans forward and extends her hand. Fingers caress and knead the small gathering of banded flesh. I am shocked to feel almost nothing. She pinches and in noting there is little reaction, smiles in satisfaction.
"All gone. Her behavior will be quite acceptable now."
Her hand lowers and a finger smooths about my anus, circling to bring a brief brisance of delight to an otherwise mortifying encounter.
"I also figged. You may wish to consider should the behavior indeed not improve."
I would later learn... and feel the results... of the effective English custom... inserting ginger root into the rectum. It burns without producing a scintilla of physical harm and the insertion purportedly assures that buttocks awaiting a brisk caning are properly presented.
"I understand castrated boys make good servants... the removal of the testicles bringing focus to young minds that would otherwise be addled by the flow of hormones."
Madam Kaishek nods in agreement.
"She will serve, but not as a servant. I have clients with... shall we say exotic tastes. She will be trained to please... orally and anally. They tell me that the backside of the male... former male... is naturally tighter. And that fellatio is better learned... and more quickly."
The woman’s smile turns to a look of Schadenfreude, apparently visualizing the intensity of the degradation.
"And there’s the curious phenomenon of aging... snipped before any significant flow of hormones, she’ll always be young."
The train begins to slow. Madam withdraws her hands. The woman leans back to return to sitting upright.
"The border crossing. I hope you don’t mind... err... Miss..."
"Hartsdale... Miss Penelope Hartsdale."
"I am Madam Kaishek. I hope Miss Hartsdale that you don’t mind being present as we sort things out with the Thailand customs and immigration. My girl has no papers and there is a certain protocol to be followed."
As the train slows to a stop, I am given instructions... to be obedient... very obedient. In my nakedness, flushed with embarrassment as the two women talked about me, inspected my privates, my vulnerability has been made quite apparent. Have I a choice?
I nod concurrence, my altered vocal cords mandating silence.
There comes commotion as the many doors of the adjoining cabins open and the numerous passengers offer documents, agents shouting instructions. Miss Hartsdale reaches to her purse as does Madam Chang. Our cabin door opens and up steps a uniformed woman of authority. She is homely, somewhat past middle aged and evidently in charge. In her arms... shackles and a collection of chains.
She drops the bindings and checks the passports, oddly ignoring me. It becomes evident that she is familiar with Madam Kaishek as the passport is returned and the woman officer is offered a tube of unguent. She accepts and looks at this Miss Hartsdale with concern.
"It’s not a problem. Miss Hartsdale seems to be one of us and I think will be entertained," Madam Kaishek seeming to read the officer’s mind.
The uniformed woman nods then sits next to Miss Hartsdale. For the first time she looks at me and I shiver in fear. She is aloof, calloused and wickedly gazes at my nakedness as something to be savored... prey to be eaten. She opens the tube and lubricates her hands. Then she wriggles her finger, gesturing for me to come to her lap. My shiver transforms to outright trembling.
I look to Madam Kaishek and she nods. I meekly slide my nakedness from the seat and step towards her. The woman brusquely grabs my arm and rapidly positions me sitting on her lap.
"We all have our curious little penchants, Miss Hartsdale," the woman proclaims. "I trust you can be tolerant of mine. Castrated boys offer such a thrill... the loss of virility... potential virility... such brings stimulation. I so much revel in both the physical and emotional comeuppance."
As she speaks, her left hand works at my bottom. I am horrified to feel a greased finger penetrate my anus. It slips inward locating my opening with ease. Mine is not the first aperture she has impaled.
Then the fingers of the right hand smooth up my thigh to playfully toy with the gathering of banded flesh.
"Something’s missing here. You have a tiny penis but are closer to being a little girl," the voice sarcastic.
Then the fingers move and begin to caress my penis. I am chagrined to find it feels good. I sense a certain throbbing. There come twinges. The woman is expert, smiling so evilly as she works to bring me to erection.
"You won’t have too many more of these... little girl," she taunts, as we both sense the organ begin to firm.
She knows the male anatomy... the former male anatomy. I feel the penetrating finger score a bull’s eye on the prostate gland. I lurch. The evil smile broadens. The humiliation is intense. I am to be masturbated before three women! And I am amazed when I am brought to full erection, something I have experimented in doing but mainly experienced only nocturnally, a full bladder abetting tumescence. Puberty just approaching... self pleasure limited.
Ejaculation is not possible. The woman seems to know and also seems to know how to prolong my odd state of arousal... arousal never ever to be satiated. And I sense the power exchange, feel the woman robbing me of what little virility and maleness that remains. She is draining me of male essence which can ever again be produced. Some fluid begins to ooze, the woman quick to mockingly point such out to Miss Hartsdale and Madam Kaishek. In having been neutered she knows she depletes the remnants of maleness... the last vestige... the final trace of virility. I can sense her feeling of empowerment.
"It’s your last... enjoy..." spoken as the penetrating finger wriggles about and the right hand oh so sensuously strokes.
Then I feel something... something joyous... but faint... distant. And the woman feels it too, the triggering of the ejaculatory muscles. But there is nothing to be expelled. It is a feeble orgasm... dry... incomplete... and it brings me both delight and frustration... and the woman knows it.
"I so much adore the forlorn look, don’t you ladies? It comes with the realization that hence... pleasure is solely for others..."
Yes, a curious penchant indeed... masturbating the castrated male. And what is most irksome... she is aware...she so much enjoys the transfer of power.... my loss... her gain.
With the incomplete orgasm past, the sensuous joy of her continuing strokes turns to irritation. I soften. Nothing manly has spurted, my penis tip merely drooling prostatic fluid. The women are greatly amused, my look of chagrin... of dread... serving to entertain.
"Be sure to let me know when you have another one snipped," the woman abruptly pushing me from her lap.
She picks up the shackles.
"Let’s get you properly dressed for entry into Thailand."
Wrists and ankles, I am tethered and hobbled, the woman gleefully snapping closed the locks and handing Madam Kaishek a key.
"Little girly boys always look so cute in irons."
The woman next hands Madam Kaishek some papers. I am to later learn such identify me as a criminal juvenile delinquent with Madam Kaishek serving as my guardian, a subterfuge for the remaining journey to Bangkok. Then as the woman arises, the train begins to move, the acceleration slow. She steps out.
I shall not forget her... nor the frustratingly muted feel of my last orgasm. The sound of her cackle shall forever remain...
Saturday, December 17, 2011
'Power, Succumbing to It' (Part One of Two)
Power, Succumbing to It
Copyright 2011
by Chris Bellows
Each Saturday evening, in bathing this Trevor, Ms. Maria’s bull stud, I am reminded of my duties while owned by Ms. Maria’s aunt... Miss Eve.
********************************************************************************
Only the rhythmic hiss of air through the breathing tube suggests life. Ed de Havillier, aka Miles Stapleton Campbell, lies entombed in a room of concrete walls and flooring. He is bound and shackled, lying supine, bearing the chains that I once wore. Yet, such bindings permit motion... and this Miss Eve will never allow. So in addition there are thick padded straps of nylon making Mr. de Havillier one with the table, and denying all movement... latex covered wrists, forearms, biceps, calves, thighs, chest, waist.
At one time, when initially entombed, he was given to wriggle fingers and toes from time to time. Now even this does not occur, mentally succumbing to being a captive... the futility of resisting the many restraints bringing capitulation. He is deprived of all... relying on the mercy of a governing woman for food, water and air... rarely sound... never sight.
Miss Eve regrets she cannot deny touch, once commenting...
‘I suppose he will need to be bathed from time to time. But do not over do it and spoil him, Mia. Once a week with a sponge should suffice. And never ever touch his penis... is that clear?’
I obediently nodded my head, fully aware of Miss Eve’s penchant, her insatiable appetite for full control... for ownership.
And so it has been, the organ goes untouched.
Bathing is a laborious process and is undertaken when niece Maria is in school, the presence of a prisoner/husband never to be disclosed. So every Wednesday, I prepare a simple lunch and serve my Master, then fill a bucket with soapy water and descend to the basement of the ancient mansion.
The door to Mr. de Havillier’s chamber is cleverly tucked away behind innocuous appearing storage boxes, easily pushed aside to permit entry every morning when I replenish the liquid food and water which slowly oozes through his gastric tube to siphon to his stomach. I also empty the collection bags of bowels and bladder, such modest ‘care’ requiring relative moments.
But on bathing day, my visit becomes a chore.
Remaining in the full body latex suit first slipped on by Nurse Beverly in Bangkok, I must temporarily release each limb, peel away the thick rubber, and wash. It is curious that with each Wednesday visit, my initial touch brings a spastic lurch, snapping Miss Eve’s captive from an unending stupor. There is no awareness of time. His firm tight incarceration is seemingly endless.
The right leg first, tearing away the velcro straps, instant release for she with usable hands, offering hopeless restraint for those without. Then the zipper is unzipped and the rubber is folded away to reveal the smooth hairless skin, Miss Eve insisting that irritating depilating lotion be applied before returning the captive to his status as living mummy.
At first, Mr. de Havallier was given to utilize the moments of relative freedom to offer comfort for constrained muscles, lifting the freed limb, restoring circulation, relieving cramps. But that is no more, his physicality deteriorating, Miss Eve adding something to the water to mandate relative ennui.
He moves not.
As I lave with a chamois over flesh now appearing effeminately smooth, muscling flabby with disuse, I hear murmurs. The gastric tube obviates discernible speech. But Mr. de Havillier, he remains attempting to communicate.
‘It’s the bank information, Mia. In his delusion he remains convinced that in offering it to me I will release him,’ my Master cackling in wickedness in having reneged on her promise... and continuing to renege.
‘As long as he remembers, I will need to keep him tucked away. Can’t have him revealing the information for someone to begin a search for the money.’
And so it is, poor Mr. de Havillier, having so fastidiously committed the complicated account numbers and codes to memory, must now forget. And it does not happen. So release does not happen.
Thus he remains a prisoner.
Right leg then left, next the arms are washed then the chest, rolling his supine form this way and that to cleanse the back. Never ever is there allowed complete freedom, only the straps needed to offer access to one portion of his body are released... and quickly returned to bind after the depilating lotion is applied and the latex zipped to cover.
But lastly, it is time for Mia’s recreation. I am permitted so little. I unzip at the crotch and the once virile male package pops into view, wizened in disuse. Mr. de Havillier, he remains catheterized, and as per Miss Eve’s orders, nothing ever, ever touches the penis. But the testicles... those organs determining maleness, mine surrendered to Madam Kaishek years ago... they so vulnerably dangle. And such need care and cleansing.
So I wash in envy. Held in chastity, the scrotum feels full... ripe. I have licked so many, tenderly caressed so many, I relish my closeness to male glands, mine summarily plucked away many years ago in Burma. So after cleansing, smiling as my tendance causes the emaciated penis to stir, I kneel on the table, stoop, cradle the plums and begin to lave the hairless sac with my tongue. I have been well trained to service the male organs. And despite the catheter, within moments the penis begins to firm. Knowing that it is as useless as mine brings a smile. The irony in knowing that Miles Stapleton Campbell formerly paid so handsomely to be bound and placed in sensory deprivation years ago in Bangkok intrigues.
At Miss Eve’s brothel there was always a discussion of limits, the client verbally outlining his scene... his proclivity... the lady associate mindful to observe the desired level of pain... the length of torment or bondage.
And now... for Mr. de Havillier... what limits are to be heeded?
The penis, untouched of course, becomes fully erect. A moan of frustration emanates from the intubated throat, yet not a limb attempts to move. Such total capitulation to a woman’s dominion...
Offering such joy brings vicarious delight... and brings poignant thoughts... to when I had balls...
******************************************************************************
Madam Kaishek and my mother converse warmly. Then cash is offered and my mother accepts. So many siblings, I see her smile in relief, knowing that the family will be relieved of one mouth with funds to feed the rest.
I am led to an ox drawn cart, the unpaved roads of rural Burma not receptive to an automobile. There is to be an afternoon’s ride to the village, there to visit a doctor then to board a train to Bangkok.
A hired plantation worker guides the ox, Madam Kaishek and I ride in the back of the cart, encased in a pen, the walls high for a lad of my age.
"Where are we going?" I inquire in the clipped local dialect.
Madam Kaishek smiles, her understanding of my tongue limited, but in visiting the region often to procure talent, her language skills are adequate.
She begins to remove my clothing, not much effort, poverty and the hot climate dictating limited covering.
"In time, to Bangkok. But first you are to be fixed."
My soiled well worn attire is summarily tossed to the roadside. I am naked.
"Fixed?"
"These. You’ll not need them. And I don’t want you to have them. I want you meek and docile."
Spoken as a practiced hand lowers to gently yet rather firmly cup then close over a very limited ball sac.
"You’re at the perfect age. Within a few months the hormones will begin to flow in abundance. That is not desired."
Having no idea of the repercussions, I look down in silence as her free hand joins in the palpation of my pubes, working to stimulate an equally limited penis. Other than being bathed as a toddler, no one has touched me there... and it feels good.
I stiffen. Madam Kaishek smiles knowingly. She has handled the male organ often.
Meanwhile I feel a strange thrill being naked in the presence of this commanding woman, her hands having their way with me. Mother instructed me to be obedient. And I am, her thrashings for recalcitrance well remembered.
"You’re a good boy to get hard for me. Does this grow stiff often?"
"Sometimes. When I wake up in the morning."
Not the complete truth. I have toyed there, on occasion bringing forth the dry orgasms of youth.
"And does anything come out... other than when you go to the bathroom?" obviously concerned about my state of pubescence.
"Just a little," shaking my head, just beginning to journey the road of youthful discovery and masturbation.
Madam Kaishek’s authoritative but pleasant look turns to a smile of satisfaction.
"Excellent. Stay hard for me. I like that. And you want to please me. It feels good does it not?"
I must agree... better than when I touch myself. And I do indeed stay hard for her, all the way to the village, the fingers returning whenever my erection wavered.
******************************************************************************
"I recommend two steps, Madam Kaishek. Excise the testicles then use an elastrator for the smooth look you desire."
I smell alcohol. The lady doctor frightens as her gloved hands explore where Madam Kaishek’s fingers graciously labored to keep me firm during the cart ride to the village.
In a gritty medical office, I sit strapped into a examination chair, my ankles secured high, my knees parted. I am frightened. I am under the tutelage of a woman unknown, and she in turn gives free reign to this aging woman who apparently has no compunction about imbibing during professional office hours.
Madam concurs with the assessment. Then the doctor explains the limited availability of anesthetics.
"It matters not, doctor. It is probably best. The intense pain will be remembered along with the momentous change in life. And I’ll want the usual oral modification. And this one’s rather chatty. We’ll not want her able to tell any stories."
Her?
The doctor nods, smiling in understanding. I will never speak out to denounce those who castrated me.
Copyright 2011
by Chris Bellows
Each Saturday evening, in bathing this Trevor, Ms. Maria’s bull stud, I am reminded of my duties while owned by Ms. Maria’s aunt... Miss Eve.
********************************************************************************
Only the rhythmic hiss of air through the breathing tube suggests life. Ed de Havillier, aka Miles Stapleton Campbell, lies entombed in a room of concrete walls and flooring. He is bound and shackled, lying supine, bearing the chains that I once wore. Yet, such bindings permit motion... and this Miss Eve will never allow. So in addition there are thick padded straps of nylon making Mr. de Havillier one with the table, and denying all movement... latex covered wrists, forearms, biceps, calves, thighs, chest, waist.
At one time, when initially entombed, he was given to wriggle fingers and toes from time to time. Now even this does not occur, mentally succumbing to being a captive... the futility of resisting the many restraints bringing capitulation. He is deprived of all... relying on the mercy of a governing woman for food, water and air... rarely sound... never sight.
Miss Eve regrets she cannot deny touch, once commenting...
‘I suppose he will need to be bathed from time to time. But do not over do it and spoil him, Mia. Once a week with a sponge should suffice. And never ever touch his penis... is that clear?’
I obediently nodded my head, fully aware of Miss Eve’s penchant, her insatiable appetite for full control... for ownership.
And so it has been, the organ goes untouched.
Bathing is a laborious process and is undertaken when niece Maria is in school, the presence of a prisoner/husband never to be disclosed. So every Wednesday, I prepare a simple lunch and serve my Master, then fill a bucket with soapy water and descend to the basement of the ancient mansion.
The door to Mr. de Havillier’s chamber is cleverly tucked away behind innocuous appearing storage boxes, easily pushed aside to permit entry every morning when I replenish the liquid food and water which slowly oozes through his gastric tube to siphon to his stomach. I also empty the collection bags of bowels and bladder, such modest ‘care’ requiring relative moments.
But on bathing day, my visit becomes a chore.
Remaining in the full body latex suit first slipped on by Nurse Beverly in Bangkok, I must temporarily release each limb, peel away the thick rubber, and wash. It is curious that with each Wednesday visit, my initial touch brings a spastic lurch, snapping Miss Eve’s captive from an unending stupor. There is no awareness of time. His firm tight incarceration is seemingly endless.
The right leg first, tearing away the velcro straps, instant release for she with usable hands, offering hopeless restraint for those without. Then the zipper is unzipped and the rubber is folded away to reveal the smooth hairless skin, Miss Eve insisting that irritating depilating lotion be applied before returning the captive to his status as living mummy.
At first, Mr. de Havallier was given to utilize the moments of relative freedom to offer comfort for constrained muscles, lifting the freed limb, restoring circulation, relieving cramps. But that is no more, his physicality deteriorating, Miss Eve adding something to the water to mandate relative ennui.
He moves not.
As I lave with a chamois over flesh now appearing effeminately smooth, muscling flabby with disuse, I hear murmurs. The gastric tube obviates discernible speech. But Mr. de Havillier, he remains attempting to communicate.
‘It’s the bank information, Mia. In his delusion he remains convinced that in offering it to me I will release him,’ my Master cackling in wickedness in having reneged on her promise... and continuing to renege.
‘As long as he remembers, I will need to keep him tucked away. Can’t have him revealing the information for someone to begin a search for the money.’
And so it is, poor Mr. de Havillier, having so fastidiously committed the complicated account numbers and codes to memory, must now forget. And it does not happen. So release does not happen.
Thus he remains a prisoner.
Right leg then left, next the arms are washed then the chest, rolling his supine form this way and that to cleanse the back. Never ever is there allowed complete freedom, only the straps needed to offer access to one portion of his body are released... and quickly returned to bind after the depilating lotion is applied and the latex zipped to cover.
But lastly, it is time for Mia’s recreation. I am permitted so little. I unzip at the crotch and the once virile male package pops into view, wizened in disuse. Mr. de Havillier, he remains catheterized, and as per Miss Eve’s orders, nothing ever, ever touches the penis. But the testicles... those organs determining maleness, mine surrendered to Madam Kaishek years ago... they so vulnerably dangle. And such need care and cleansing.
So I wash in envy. Held in chastity, the scrotum feels full... ripe. I have licked so many, tenderly caressed so many, I relish my closeness to male glands, mine summarily plucked away many years ago in Burma. So after cleansing, smiling as my tendance causes the emaciated penis to stir, I kneel on the table, stoop, cradle the plums and begin to lave the hairless sac with my tongue. I have been well trained to service the male organs. And despite the catheter, within moments the penis begins to firm. Knowing that it is as useless as mine brings a smile. The irony in knowing that Miles Stapleton Campbell formerly paid so handsomely to be bound and placed in sensory deprivation years ago in Bangkok intrigues.
At Miss Eve’s brothel there was always a discussion of limits, the client verbally outlining his scene... his proclivity... the lady associate mindful to observe the desired level of pain... the length of torment or bondage.
And now... for Mr. de Havillier... what limits are to be heeded?
The penis, untouched of course, becomes fully erect. A moan of frustration emanates from the intubated throat, yet not a limb attempts to move. Such total capitulation to a woman’s dominion...
Offering such joy brings vicarious delight... and brings poignant thoughts... to when I had balls...
******************************************************************************
Madam Kaishek and my mother converse warmly. Then cash is offered and my mother accepts. So many siblings, I see her smile in relief, knowing that the family will be relieved of one mouth with funds to feed the rest.
I am led to an ox drawn cart, the unpaved roads of rural Burma not receptive to an automobile. There is to be an afternoon’s ride to the village, there to visit a doctor then to board a train to Bangkok.
A hired plantation worker guides the ox, Madam Kaishek and I ride in the back of the cart, encased in a pen, the walls high for a lad of my age.
"Where are we going?" I inquire in the clipped local dialect.
Madam Kaishek smiles, her understanding of my tongue limited, but in visiting the region often to procure talent, her language skills are adequate.
She begins to remove my clothing, not much effort, poverty and the hot climate dictating limited covering.
"In time, to Bangkok. But first you are to be fixed."
My soiled well worn attire is summarily tossed to the roadside. I am naked.
"Fixed?"
"These. You’ll not need them. And I don’t want you to have them. I want you meek and docile."
Spoken as a practiced hand lowers to gently yet rather firmly cup then close over a very limited ball sac.
"You’re at the perfect age. Within a few months the hormones will begin to flow in abundance. That is not desired."
Having no idea of the repercussions, I look down in silence as her free hand joins in the palpation of my pubes, working to stimulate an equally limited penis. Other than being bathed as a toddler, no one has touched me there... and it feels good.
I stiffen. Madam Kaishek smiles knowingly. She has handled the male organ often.
Meanwhile I feel a strange thrill being naked in the presence of this commanding woman, her hands having their way with me. Mother instructed me to be obedient. And I am, her thrashings for recalcitrance well remembered.
"You’re a good boy to get hard for me. Does this grow stiff often?"
"Sometimes. When I wake up in the morning."
Not the complete truth. I have toyed there, on occasion bringing forth the dry orgasms of youth.
"And does anything come out... other than when you go to the bathroom?" obviously concerned about my state of pubescence.
"Just a little," shaking my head, just beginning to journey the road of youthful discovery and masturbation.
Madam Kaishek’s authoritative but pleasant look turns to a smile of satisfaction.
"Excellent. Stay hard for me. I like that. And you want to please me. It feels good does it not?"
I must agree... better than when I touch myself. And I do indeed stay hard for her, all the way to the village, the fingers returning whenever my erection wavered.
******************************************************************************
"I recommend two steps, Madam Kaishek. Excise the testicles then use an elastrator for the smooth look you desire."
I smell alcohol. The lady doctor frightens as her gloved hands explore where Madam Kaishek’s fingers graciously labored to keep me firm during the cart ride to the village.
In a gritty medical office, I sit strapped into a examination chair, my ankles secured high, my knees parted. I am frightened. I am under the tutelage of a woman unknown, and she in turn gives free reign to this aging woman who apparently has no compunction about imbibing during professional office hours.
Madam concurs with the assessment. Then the doctor explains the limited availability of anesthetics.
"It matters not, doctor. It is probably best. The intense pain will be remembered along with the momentous change in life. And I’ll want the usual oral modification. And this one’s rather chatty. We’ll not want her able to tell any stories."
Her?
The doctor nods, smiling in understanding. I will never speak out to denounce those who castrated me.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Power Series Continued
Next week, 'Power, Succumbing to It'.
Hope all are enjoying this offering. And keep in mind.... a 'Kindle' stuffed with Chris Bellows stories would make a wonderful Christmas gift.
Hope all are enjoying this offering. And keep in mind.... a 'Kindle' stuffed with Chris Bellows stories would make a wonderful Christmas gift.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
'Power, Craving It'
Power, Craving It
Copyright 2011
by Chris Bellows
This cage thing is a bummer. Mom has the door secured with three padlocks! I have not a chance of ever opening it.
So stepfather Harold kneels within, hour after hour, with Mia on occasion knowing to reach through the bars, hold Harold’s caged cock and offer a bowl for urination.
I miss listening to him slink about the house, the clatter of the many chain links which serve to restrain drives home the intense humiliation of being under complete control.
Still, I can sit and view in Mom’s bedroom, teasing in complete nakedness as I have become notably comfortable exhibiting myself. For me it’s like disrobing in front of the family dog. So helpless... so vulnerable... he can watch, to a point indulge his sick fantasies... but never ever touch me... or bring self gratification.
I cannot help but cultivate this craving. I have Mia lick me to orgasm at least once per day... and always... well when Mom’s not present any way... almost always while sitting totally naked and spread, clutching the back of Mia’s head as Harold kneels in his cage and watches.
I fantasize of what I would do... hopefully what some day I will do... given a subservient male of my own. I have learned so much... and am so eager to implement my knowledge.
As Mia’s gifted tongue works, I gaze at Harold just as years ago he gazed at me... with a degree of want and lust. Shackled and hobbled... so physically unnecessary with the sturdy stainless steel bars of the cage. Plus three locks... not one... not two... but three. Then there is the leash, restricting much motion within the cage. And most importantly the penis is secured in Mom’s cock cage. Knowing that Harold suffers, bringing self inflicted pain, if he ever lets his thoughts become too impure, thrills for some reason. And so I am given, whenever Mom’s out of the house, to strip naked and offer Harold all the viewing of my eighteen year old charms that he can handle. He either learns to control that long neglected male organ or the many, many spikes in his cock cage do it for him.
In summary, the feminine dominion offers a great lesson from Mom...
‘He’ll feel much better being thoroughly restrained and totally controlled. Once there is the realization that he will never, ever have complete freedom of movement... the mind succumbs. He’ll become as gentle as a lamb... there will be acceptance... he will almost beseech for a woman’s touch and attention. Something as simple as caressing his ear will be a most welcomed highlight of his day.’
And so I note, while Mia’s tongue vigorously thrusts past my inner labia, that Mom has cruelly tied Harold’s leash high, to one of the top bars, forcing him to kneel upright... for hour after hour.
A stress position. Wherever did mother learn such a thing?
So in addition to being shackled and caged, the leash, attached to painful nipple clamps, prevents Harold from comfortably lying down.
I wonder what Harold would offer for a few moments of respite?
I shift, raising my thighs. Analingus has come to be the culmination of good oral service, and Mia knows to work her tongue and lips lower, lapping away at my rosebud, while my fingers go to my clitoral hood and began a brisk massage that triggers ultimate climax. I see Harold stir, careful not to tension his leash. I close my eyes in complete ecstasy, my loins oscillating in joy. Then presto! I once again soak the bangs of Mia’s forehead with a forceful spray of feminine essence.
I calm, lying back in bliss in the large easy chair. I look to Harold, his expression priceless... such need... such frustration...
"Mia so much cares, so desirous to bring pleasure to others, don’t you think Harold?"
Castration, every woman should consider it for the kept male... perhaps I will even teach myself to snip...
I push Mia’s head away, the hormonal release temporarily distracting from what is otherwise a constant need. I stand, Harold feasting his lusting eyes on my budding nubile form. My nose detects my fragrance and I smile knowing this so much adds to Harold’s stimulation.
"I can give you some slack, Harold... if you’re a good boy."
Yes, one need satiated... another arises... this craving.
He nods quite gingerly, careful not to stress his leash. I stroll to the cage and untie the simple knot which serves to hour after hour bring slow torment. I hear a rush of air from his lugs as for the first time in hours his back and stomach muscles are not straining to hold him upright and assure his nipple clamps do not painfully tear his overly sensitive pink nubs. I pass the leash from one hand to another guiding him to the locked door. Within there is a small hatch, offering an opening larger than the bars, ostensibly for the introduction of a feeding bowl.
"Come, be a good boy for Gigi."
I kneel and pull open the hatch, my leash hand guiding Harold’s face to the low opening. The molt gag, as always, holds open his mouth, the piercing of his tongue, Mom’s cavalier augmentation done for no other reason than she could do it, glittering in the room light.
"I think you’re a thirsty boy and need some drink," I coax in the voice of master to pet.
Harold likes looking at my pink parts. So I let him have a visual feast... in exchange for a simple kindliness.
"I’ll go real slow so you don’t miss a drop," pulling the leash outward such that his forehead presses the bar above the opening and his open mouth is partially thrust through the hatch.
I press forward with my hips, smiling as Harold’ eyes widen. My lower belly presses to the bars, sensing the warmth of his forehead. The fingers of my free right hand splay my lips. Well shorn, I offer an unfettered close up of what he would so much like to touch and taste... wet pink flesh, well reddened by Mia’s attentive tongue.
"Drinkie, drinkie," I encourage, the grip on the leash firming to send my message of earnest control, forcing him to crane his neck.
Yes, as Mom so humorously suggests, Harold’s molt gag has transformed mouth and throat to a sink and a drain. As I open my bladder, careful to first dribble and judge his ability to swallow, I blush in a different form of satiation... hearing the gulps, my excretions totally ingested... sensing that such streams directly into his gullet. He must ingest what I discard, take whatever I offer... and savor it. I am giddy with my own mastery.
Harold spills not a drop. He knows to please. And I smile in seeing him grimace. I know the look, know the suppressed sound of aggravation. Drinking from me, offering such proximity to that which he would so much like to savor, has brought those impure thoughts, his firming penis once again engaging in the losing battle with the spikes of Mom’s cock cage.
I frown lugubriously, feigning sympathy.
"I think it is best not to make me use the leash, Harold. Going forward when I release you from the bars, just crawl to the hatch on your own and I’ll quench your thirst for you."
He’ll do it. He does everything I want.
What is this craving? Having been orally brought to amazing gratification, I still need to govern... to humiliate... to continuously drive home my power... power that seems to be blossoming.
Copyright 2011
by Chris Bellows
This cage thing is a bummer. Mom has the door secured with three padlocks! I have not a chance of ever opening it.
So stepfather Harold kneels within, hour after hour, with Mia on occasion knowing to reach through the bars, hold Harold’s caged cock and offer a bowl for urination.
I miss listening to him slink about the house, the clatter of the many chain links which serve to restrain drives home the intense humiliation of being under complete control.
Still, I can sit and view in Mom’s bedroom, teasing in complete nakedness as I have become notably comfortable exhibiting myself. For me it’s like disrobing in front of the family dog. So helpless... so vulnerable... he can watch, to a point indulge his sick fantasies... but never ever touch me... or bring self gratification.
I cannot help but cultivate this craving. I have Mia lick me to orgasm at least once per day... and always... well when Mom’s not present any way... almost always while sitting totally naked and spread, clutching the back of Mia’s head as Harold kneels in his cage and watches.
I fantasize of what I would do... hopefully what some day I will do... given a subservient male of my own. I have learned so much... and am so eager to implement my knowledge.
As Mia’s gifted tongue works, I gaze at Harold just as years ago he gazed at me... with a degree of want and lust. Shackled and hobbled... so physically unnecessary with the sturdy stainless steel bars of the cage. Plus three locks... not one... not two... but three. Then there is the leash, restricting much motion within the cage. And most importantly the penis is secured in Mom’s cock cage. Knowing that Harold suffers, bringing self inflicted pain, if he ever lets his thoughts become too impure, thrills for some reason. And so I am given, whenever Mom’s out of the house, to strip naked and offer Harold all the viewing of my eighteen year old charms that he can handle. He either learns to control that long neglected male organ or the many, many spikes in his cock cage do it for him.
In summary, the feminine dominion offers a great lesson from Mom...
‘He’ll feel much better being thoroughly restrained and totally controlled. Once there is the realization that he will never, ever have complete freedom of movement... the mind succumbs. He’ll become as gentle as a lamb... there will be acceptance... he will almost beseech for a woman’s touch and attention. Something as simple as caressing his ear will be a most welcomed highlight of his day.’
And so I note, while Mia’s tongue vigorously thrusts past my inner labia, that Mom has cruelly tied Harold’s leash high, to one of the top bars, forcing him to kneel upright... for hour after hour.
A stress position. Wherever did mother learn such a thing?
So in addition to being shackled and caged, the leash, attached to painful nipple clamps, prevents Harold from comfortably lying down.
I wonder what Harold would offer for a few moments of respite?
I shift, raising my thighs. Analingus has come to be the culmination of good oral service, and Mia knows to work her tongue and lips lower, lapping away at my rosebud, while my fingers go to my clitoral hood and began a brisk massage that triggers ultimate climax. I see Harold stir, careful not to tension his leash. I close my eyes in complete ecstasy, my loins oscillating in joy. Then presto! I once again soak the bangs of Mia’s forehead with a forceful spray of feminine essence.
I calm, lying back in bliss in the large easy chair. I look to Harold, his expression priceless... such need... such frustration...
"Mia so much cares, so desirous to bring pleasure to others, don’t you think Harold?"
Castration, every woman should consider it for the kept male... perhaps I will even teach myself to snip...
I push Mia’s head away, the hormonal release temporarily distracting from what is otherwise a constant need. I stand, Harold feasting his lusting eyes on my budding nubile form. My nose detects my fragrance and I smile knowing this so much adds to Harold’s stimulation.
"I can give you some slack, Harold... if you’re a good boy."
Yes, one need satiated... another arises... this craving.
He nods quite gingerly, careful not to stress his leash. I stroll to the cage and untie the simple knot which serves to hour after hour bring slow torment. I hear a rush of air from his lugs as for the first time in hours his back and stomach muscles are not straining to hold him upright and assure his nipple clamps do not painfully tear his overly sensitive pink nubs. I pass the leash from one hand to another guiding him to the locked door. Within there is a small hatch, offering an opening larger than the bars, ostensibly for the introduction of a feeding bowl.
"Come, be a good boy for Gigi."
I kneel and pull open the hatch, my leash hand guiding Harold’s face to the low opening. The molt gag, as always, holds open his mouth, the piercing of his tongue, Mom’s cavalier augmentation done for no other reason than she could do it, glittering in the room light.
"I think you’re a thirsty boy and need some drink," I coax in the voice of master to pet.
Harold likes looking at my pink parts. So I let him have a visual feast... in exchange for a simple kindliness.
"I’ll go real slow so you don’t miss a drop," pulling the leash outward such that his forehead presses the bar above the opening and his open mouth is partially thrust through the hatch.
I press forward with my hips, smiling as Harold’ eyes widen. My lower belly presses to the bars, sensing the warmth of his forehead. The fingers of my free right hand splay my lips. Well shorn, I offer an unfettered close up of what he would so much like to touch and taste... wet pink flesh, well reddened by Mia’s attentive tongue.
"Drinkie, drinkie," I encourage, the grip on the leash firming to send my message of earnest control, forcing him to crane his neck.
Yes, as Mom so humorously suggests, Harold’s molt gag has transformed mouth and throat to a sink and a drain. As I open my bladder, careful to first dribble and judge his ability to swallow, I blush in a different form of satiation... hearing the gulps, my excretions totally ingested... sensing that such streams directly into his gullet. He must ingest what I discard, take whatever I offer... and savor it. I am giddy with my own mastery.
Harold spills not a drop. He knows to please. And I smile in seeing him grimace. I know the look, know the suppressed sound of aggravation. Drinking from me, offering such proximity to that which he would so much like to savor, has brought those impure thoughts, his firming penis once again engaging in the losing battle with the spikes of Mom’s cock cage.
I frown lugubriously, feigning sympathy.
"I think it is best not to make me use the leash, Harold. Going forward when I release you from the bars, just crawl to the hatch on your own and I’ll quench your thirst for you."
He’ll do it. He does everything I want.
What is this craving? Having been orally brought to amazing gratification, I still need to govern... to humiliate... to continuously drive home my power... power that seems to be blossoming.
Saturday, December 3, 2011
'Power, Admiring It'
Power, Admiring It
Copyright 2011
by Chris Bellows
Some gig. And every Saturday evening!
Ms. Maria de Havillier offers more cash than I earn in a week at the pet store. And I only have to take off my clothes and follow directions.
Of course I only do it for the money... least I did at first. Then deep within I learn there is something about giving up one’s self... for pleasure. To start, I am bathed. This Mia servant, age absolutely indeterminate, is amazingly skillful, smiling so coyly as she shaves my balls. She has this strange thing about testicles...
Then I am pampered in being washed.
Yes, I am pampered indeed, and I guess there are times when even the most macho guy likes that, even though the sweet smelling bubble bath is a little over the top.
But then comes the scene that both appalls and oddly thrills... this guy Maria de Havillier terms her husband... gagged... shackled... caged.
Last semester in college, in my psychology course, I learned of a 1971 Stanford University experiment... involving 24 student volunteers, pre tested to be psychologically normal. The group was divided... half designated as prisoners... half anointed as their as jailers. The goal was to observe the change in behavior... the jailers becoming emboldened... the prisoners passively accepting capitulation. Famously, the experiment had to be truncated when the jailers became notably cruel and the prisoners entered a depression in which excessive authoritative behavior was strangely accepted.
And so here I am in Ms. de Havillier’s home and with each and every visit I seem to be drawn further into this web of power and control... participating in the amazing level of cruelty.
Something about knowing that the guy is kept... shackled and locked in a cage... and silenced. Yes, a prisoner... what he sees and hears never to be divulged...
It brings peculiar comfort, knowing that no matter my actions or level of participation, he can not ever reveal anything. Ms. de Havillier certainly can’t let him go, suddenly free him to tell the world of her cruel governance. And my role is so tame... so comparatively innocent. I just lie on the bed and let this becoming woman ride ‘little Trevor’ to multiple orgasms... the caged guy watching intently... moaning something as Ms. Havillier shrieks in climax.
She’s amazingly wet... and warm... and tight... and knowing. Yes, vanilla dates have come to be disappointing after lying beneath as Ms. de Havillier takes her pleasure. She squeezes, knowing to use her kegel muscles to heighten her joy... and mine, though that seems to be of little concern. And then she squirts, her ultimate climax strong, a small geyser coating my pubes in fragrant lubricity.
The sounds made by her whining husband have come to add a certain psychological dynamic to the seemingly endless copulation. Something about the abundant ecstasy being shared... with him watching in permanent and total denial... that adds quirkiness to the thrill... quirkiness I have come to accept.
‘He will never, ever again ejaculate,’ Ms. de Havillier profoundly emphasized after the conclusion of one lengthy night of fucking. ‘He hasn’t even been permitted to touch his in months,’ the observation coming in post coital bliss as her fingers drew a semi flaccid ‘little Trevor’ toward the ceiling, stretching fully to show the length off to her envious ‘pet’.
Then, awaiting for me to reload, she rummaged about her cunny and arose to stand naked at the cage. Tugging on her captive’s leash, her sopping fingers slowly dripped into his forcibly opened mouth the slime of our coupling.
Yes, of late she has taken great care to gather that which has bespattered her cunny and let it slowly drool into what she terms Harold’s ‘sink and drain’.
‘Yum, yum,’ she taunts knowing that the odoriferous goo must be ingested.
I find myself smiling with the facial expression of this Harold character... so vulnerable... so humble... so much in need... but so thoroughly denied... of everything.
Ms. de Havillier encourages me to actively participate in the torment. And though I don’t lock the cage... tug on the leash... apply any duress... direct duress... I surprise myself... the Stanford University experiment being replicated.
There has come this esteem for the power... the governance... the control... the abject capitulation she demands and has attained.
******************************************************************************
"You look divinely randy tonight, Trevor," spoken in the sultry voice which always kick starts my libido.
Mia has shaved me, after rinsing away the excess shaving lotion, her tongue generously lapping the smooth skin of my scrotum. It feels good. And with my level of comfort piquing after many Saturday trysts, I relax and let ‘little Trevor’ show off, the tip of my penis engorging, the shaft rising in stiffness to press against my belly.
Ms. de Havillier is correct. I am indeed horny. Mid week vanilla dates have been put aside, the sexual passion paling in comparison to my Saturday evening obligations. I thus feel well stocked with spunk.
Ms. de Havillier gains curious joy in watching her little serving girl tend to me. I initially rolled with this ritual for the money, she sitting covered only by her robe, the folds enticingly flipping open to flash her feminine charms as she observes Mia’s care. Now I kind of join her in the enjoyment...
I step into the hot bath and Mia works to soap me, scurrying about the perimeter to chamois my entire nakedness. She is tender and accomplished, a skill set I cannot imagine how acquired.
"You know I think Harold has come to enjoy your taste, Trevor. So much juice I’ve fed him over the many weeks. I am thinking maybe you’d like to share your generosity. With his pent up sexual desire, watching me ride my bull stud excites him. Instills certain envy... and I imagine a thirst."
Gagged, unable to even gesture with his hands, it is absolutely indeterminate what this Harold likes and dislikes. He moans and whines a lot. Otherwise, all I know is... I have nothing to do with his torment... directly.
Mia finishes. I stand and step from the tub, the little serving girl scrambling for a large towel. As part of the ritual, she dries me then knows to lick my balls and restore any degree of wavering stiffness. Ms. de Havillier insists. She likes having me hard. And whom am I to object? I am a guy after all...
Fully erect, Ms. de Havillier arises from the chair where she sits. As Mia continues to kneel and lick my balls, my benefactress parts her feet to stand over her servant then hugs me. The robe parting, she presses her nakedness against mine. Such a brisance of pleasure... being both licked and hugged, her substantial breasts abrading my nipples, my erection greeting the smooth flesh of her tummy.
"Mia is very good with her hands, too," the comment somewhat self evident after the gentle swathing of the chamois.
"An extra stipend tonight, Trevor. You just have to stand at the cage and let Mia be Mia. A little game we’ll play... keep your hands at the back of your head and there’s an extra two hundred for you."
Wow! The money certainly flows during these Saturday night visits. Ms. de Havillier’s wealth must be substantial... the offered pile of dollars growing each week... along with the depravity.
As always, a small parade departs the bathroom, Ms. de Havillier leading, a prancing Mia following, those cute little buttocks rolling in tight pink panties, then me, now with hands on head, guided by Mia’s right hand cupping my balls.
Such decadence! But for me such lucrative decadence. And the power... Ms. de Havillier revels in it and I marvel at her enjoyment as one would enviously view a gentleman savoring a glass of fine, expensive port.
Into the bedroom there kneels in the shining steel cage a shackled, leashed and hairless Harold, oiled skin glowing... placed on display as one would exhibit a treasured sculpture. There is such pride taken in his subjugation!
"Come my pretty pet," Ms. de Havillier reaching to take in the leash and draw the gagged face to the bars.
Harold has no choice but to respond, the leash attached to nasty nipple clamps, the slightest jostle bringing inordinate pain.
"You’ve so much enjoyed Trevor’s taste these past few weeks, Harold..." the voice mocking.
I am alarmed as Mia’s soft hand pulls to direct me to stand at the bars. The two women work in conjunction, my erection pressing through the bars to align with the molt gag which constantly forces open Harold’s mouth.
"Hands on head," Ms. de Havillier reminds as I feel Mia’s grip change.
It is rare that she touches my penis, ostensibly reserving that privilege for Ms. de Havillier, plus for some reason deriving inordinate delight in instead handling my testicles. But now Mia wraps her little hand about the shaft and strokes most sensuously.
"So Harold, Trevor has something he’d like to share with you... something you’ve been forcibly denied expelling for quite some time."
I am amazed to feel the hands and fingers of this Mia servant become even more tender and caring as one of the most exquisite hand jobs begins. It is as if she can vicariously feel exactly what I feel... stroking, twisting, gripping with expert pressure. She knows the male organ, precisely where the most sensation is felt.
Meanwhile Ms. de Havillier cackles wickedly, her leash hand assuring that Harold’s open mouth remains aligned with my penis tip.
"I think you’ve got enough sperm for both of us tonight, Trevor. Just let little Mia have her way. She’s quite accomplished as you can feel. And in shooting a load first for Harold, you’ll be beneath me even longer... not so quick to pull the trigger a second time. I’ll have a nice long ride on my bull stud."
The look on Harold’s face is one of horror. And I find myself smiling, akin to joining in the Stanford University experiment, conspiring with the cruelty of Harold’s jailer.
I close my eyes. The hands are exquisite. The pleasure mounts. The scene is as depraved as any Saturday night. I feel the twinge of the seminal vessels preparing. Incredibly, Mia knows too. I look down to see her nodding to Ms. de Havillier. The wicked woman reaches with her free hand, tweaking my right nipple as she is wont to do when I lie beneath her... when she cues me to ejaculate.
"Come for me a like good bull stud," the words, her touch, bringing forth the desired burst of essence.
The minx Mia assures that the splatter, a considerable explosion, erupts directly into the sink of Harold’s mouth... to flow to the drain of his throat.
"Yum, yum Harold," offered with such a savage and spiteful giggle... and such a pitiful moan of distress in return.
Then comes the gurgling sound of Harold’s ‘drain’. Swallow or choke, he cannot reject my sizable offering of slithering male ooze.
I have been masturbated... and made to discharge into the mouth of another male!
I once again convince myself... it is only for the money.
Copyright 2011
by Chris Bellows
Some gig. And every Saturday evening!
Ms. Maria de Havillier offers more cash than I earn in a week at the pet store. And I only have to take off my clothes and follow directions.
Of course I only do it for the money... least I did at first. Then deep within I learn there is something about giving up one’s self... for pleasure. To start, I am bathed. This Mia servant, age absolutely indeterminate, is amazingly skillful, smiling so coyly as she shaves my balls. She has this strange thing about testicles...
Then I am pampered in being washed.
Yes, I am pampered indeed, and I guess there are times when even the most macho guy likes that, even though the sweet smelling bubble bath is a little over the top.
But then comes the scene that both appalls and oddly thrills... this guy Maria de Havillier terms her husband... gagged... shackled... caged.
Last semester in college, in my psychology course, I learned of a 1971 Stanford University experiment... involving 24 student volunteers, pre tested to be psychologically normal. The group was divided... half designated as prisoners... half anointed as their as jailers. The goal was to observe the change in behavior... the jailers becoming emboldened... the prisoners passively accepting capitulation. Famously, the experiment had to be truncated when the jailers became notably cruel and the prisoners entered a depression in which excessive authoritative behavior was strangely accepted.
And so here I am in Ms. de Havillier’s home and with each and every visit I seem to be drawn further into this web of power and control... participating in the amazing level of cruelty.
Something about knowing that the guy is kept... shackled and locked in a cage... and silenced. Yes, a prisoner... what he sees and hears never to be divulged...
It brings peculiar comfort, knowing that no matter my actions or level of participation, he can not ever reveal anything. Ms. de Havillier certainly can’t let him go, suddenly free him to tell the world of her cruel governance. And my role is so tame... so comparatively innocent. I just lie on the bed and let this becoming woman ride ‘little Trevor’ to multiple orgasms... the caged guy watching intently... moaning something as Ms. Havillier shrieks in climax.
She’s amazingly wet... and warm... and tight... and knowing. Yes, vanilla dates have come to be disappointing after lying beneath as Ms. de Havillier takes her pleasure. She squeezes, knowing to use her kegel muscles to heighten her joy... and mine, though that seems to be of little concern. And then she squirts, her ultimate climax strong, a small geyser coating my pubes in fragrant lubricity.
The sounds made by her whining husband have come to add a certain psychological dynamic to the seemingly endless copulation. Something about the abundant ecstasy being shared... with him watching in permanent and total denial... that adds quirkiness to the thrill... quirkiness I have come to accept.
‘He will never, ever again ejaculate,’ Ms. de Havillier profoundly emphasized after the conclusion of one lengthy night of fucking. ‘He hasn’t even been permitted to touch his in months,’ the observation coming in post coital bliss as her fingers drew a semi flaccid ‘little Trevor’ toward the ceiling, stretching fully to show the length off to her envious ‘pet’.
Then, awaiting for me to reload, she rummaged about her cunny and arose to stand naked at the cage. Tugging on her captive’s leash, her sopping fingers slowly dripped into his forcibly opened mouth the slime of our coupling.
Yes, of late she has taken great care to gather that which has bespattered her cunny and let it slowly drool into what she terms Harold’s ‘sink and drain’.
‘Yum, yum,’ she taunts knowing that the odoriferous goo must be ingested.
I find myself smiling with the facial expression of this Harold character... so vulnerable... so humble... so much in need... but so thoroughly denied... of everything.
Ms. de Havillier encourages me to actively participate in the torment. And though I don’t lock the cage... tug on the leash... apply any duress... direct duress... I surprise myself... the Stanford University experiment being replicated.
There has come this esteem for the power... the governance... the control... the abject capitulation she demands and has attained.
******************************************************************************
"You look divinely randy tonight, Trevor," spoken in the sultry voice which always kick starts my libido.
Mia has shaved me, after rinsing away the excess shaving lotion, her tongue generously lapping the smooth skin of my scrotum. It feels good. And with my level of comfort piquing after many Saturday trysts, I relax and let ‘little Trevor’ show off, the tip of my penis engorging, the shaft rising in stiffness to press against my belly.
Ms. de Havillier is correct. I am indeed horny. Mid week vanilla dates have been put aside, the sexual passion paling in comparison to my Saturday evening obligations. I thus feel well stocked with spunk.
Ms. de Havillier gains curious joy in watching her little serving girl tend to me. I initially rolled with this ritual for the money, she sitting covered only by her robe, the folds enticingly flipping open to flash her feminine charms as she observes Mia’s care. Now I kind of join her in the enjoyment...
I step into the hot bath and Mia works to soap me, scurrying about the perimeter to chamois my entire nakedness. She is tender and accomplished, a skill set I cannot imagine how acquired.
"You know I think Harold has come to enjoy your taste, Trevor. So much juice I’ve fed him over the many weeks. I am thinking maybe you’d like to share your generosity. With his pent up sexual desire, watching me ride my bull stud excites him. Instills certain envy... and I imagine a thirst."
Gagged, unable to even gesture with his hands, it is absolutely indeterminate what this Harold likes and dislikes. He moans and whines a lot. Otherwise, all I know is... I have nothing to do with his torment... directly.
Mia finishes. I stand and step from the tub, the little serving girl scrambling for a large towel. As part of the ritual, she dries me then knows to lick my balls and restore any degree of wavering stiffness. Ms. de Havillier insists. She likes having me hard. And whom am I to object? I am a guy after all...
Fully erect, Ms. de Havillier arises from the chair where she sits. As Mia continues to kneel and lick my balls, my benefactress parts her feet to stand over her servant then hugs me. The robe parting, she presses her nakedness against mine. Such a brisance of pleasure... being both licked and hugged, her substantial breasts abrading my nipples, my erection greeting the smooth flesh of her tummy.
"Mia is very good with her hands, too," the comment somewhat self evident after the gentle swathing of the chamois.
"An extra stipend tonight, Trevor. You just have to stand at the cage and let Mia be Mia. A little game we’ll play... keep your hands at the back of your head and there’s an extra two hundred for you."
Wow! The money certainly flows during these Saturday night visits. Ms. de Havillier’s wealth must be substantial... the offered pile of dollars growing each week... along with the depravity.
As always, a small parade departs the bathroom, Ms. de Havillier leading, a prancing Mia following, those cute little buttocks rolling in tight pink panties, then me, now with hands on head, guided by Mia’s right hand cupping my balls.
Such decadence! But for me such lucrative decadence. And the power... Ms. de Havillier revels in it and I marvel at her enjoyment as one would enviously view a gentleman savoring a glass of fine, expensive port.
Into the bedroom there kneels in the shining steel cage a shackled, leashed and hairless Harold, oiled skin glowing... placed on display as one would exhibit a treasured sculpture. There is such pride taken in his subjugation!
"Come my pretty pet," Ms. de Havillier reaching to take in the leash and draw the gagged face to the bars.
Harold has no choice but to respond, the leash attached to nasty nipple clamps, the slightest jostle bringing inordinate pain.
"You’ve so much enjoyed Trevor’s taste these past few weeks, Harold..." the voice mocking.
I am alarmed as Mia’s soft hand pulls to direct me to stand at the bars. The two women work in conjunction, my erection pressing through the bars to align with the molt gag which constantly forces open Harold’s mouth.
"Hands on head," Ms. de Havillier reminds as I feel Mia’s grip change.
It is rare that she touches my penis, ostensibly reserving that privilege for Ms. de Havillier, plus for some reason deriving inordinate delight in instead handling my testicles. But now Mia wraps her little hand about the shaft and strokes most sensuously.
"So Harold, Trevor has something he’d like to share with you... something you’ve been forcibly denied expelling for quite some time."
I am amazed to feel the hands and fingers of this Mia servant become even more tender and caring as one of the most exquisite hand jobs begins. It is as if she can vicariously feel exactly what I feel... stroking, twisting, gripping with expert pressure. She knows the male organ, precisely where the most sensation is felt.
Meanwhile Ms. de Havillier cackles wickedly, her leash hand assuring that Harold’s open mouth remains aligned with my penis tip.
"I think you’ve got enough sperm for both of us tonight, Trevor. Just let little Mia have her way. She’s quite accomplished as you can feel. And in shooting a load first for Harold, you’ll be beneath me even longer... not so quick to pull the trigger a second time. I’ll have a nice long ride on my bull stud."
The look on Harold’s face is one of horror. And I find myself smiling, akin to joining in the Stanford University experiment, conspiring with the cruelty of Harold’s jailer.
I close my eyes. The hands are exquisite. The pleasure mounts. The scene is as depraved as any Saturday night. I feel the twinge of the seminal vessels preparing. Incredibly, Mia knows too. I look down to see her nodding to Ms. de Havillier. The wicked woman reaches with her free hand, tweaking my right nipple as she is wont to do when I lie beneath her... when she cues me to ejaculate.
"Come for me a like good bull stud," the words, her touch, bringing forth the desired burst of essence.
The minx Mia assures that the splatter, a considerable explosion, erupts directly into the sink of Harold’s mouth... to flow to the drain of his throat.
"Yum, yum Harold," offered with such a savage and spiteful giggle... and such a pitiful moan of distress in return.
Then comes the gurgling sound of Harold’s ‘drain’. Swallow or choke, he cannot reject my sizable offering of slithering male ooze.
I have been masturbated... and made to discharge into the mouth of another male!
I once again convince myself... it is only for the money.
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