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.


"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."


The doctor nods, smiling in understanding. I will never speak out to denounce those who castrated me.

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