Saturday, December 29, 2012

The Extraction Nurse III

Have a Happy New Year everyone.


The Cleansing Nurse

Robert stirs. How long has he been asleep? He knows not.

Eyes focus on a pretty young nurse. She stoops about his midsection, fingers working at a loincloth encircling his waist.

“Oh. You’ve come to a little early. I’ll put that in the chart. Everyone reacts a little different when the nitrous oxide is turned off and we switch to oxygen.”

Nimble fingers continue to labor as the nurse speaks. Within a moment the thick, soft white expanse of cloth is slipped from under Robert’s supine form. It is soiled. It smells. It is a diaper.

The nurse quickly disposes.

“And what position are you to assume when conscious?” the pleasant nurse becoming stern.

Robert recalls the instructions of the extraction nurse... decubitus... knees to chest... ankles pressed to the above horizontal bar. He understands but hesitates. He can feel his moist skin, sense the odorous sludge. Raising his legs will further evidence his befouled condition.

“Come now, Robert. It’s almost time for your extraction and you need to be cleaned up. Don’t be embarrassed. I diaper boys, it’s my job. I also clean. And after you’ve been masturbated, I’ll have a nice clean diaper to put back on you.”

It is not embarrassment, it’s outright humiliation, Robert thinks, finally lifting his legs and feeling the room air waft about wet soiled buttocks and scrotum.

“Good boy.”    

Quick and dextrous, Robert is cleansed. Though much chagrined, he finds it comforting. It feels good to be rid of the traces waste.

“May I speak?” the voice soft and humble, the words garbled by the breathing mask.

“Quickly. It’s against the rules,” the nurse reaching to slip aside the mask

“How long have I....”

“Been out? We don’t divulge that. Sensing time offers a degree of empowerment. You are not to have that. You are to passively lie and offer sperm out our behest. It’s the protocol. That is all you are to think about.”

Robert peers downward as best he can. He notes his pubes is shorn! Then his eyes rove. His thighs are equally hairless. A glance right and left suggests the same for his arms. Not hirsute, youthful patches of body hair had been forming. Now it appears all is gone.

“Someone shaved me!”

“Shush. Be silent. Hair is an unnecessary distraction and can be unsanitary. I have been depilating you. More of the protocol.”

The nurse proclaims her task, strong chemicals applied daily, with a degree of pride. Transforming the appearance of the naked and bound male empowers. At a very young age she is offered governance. It is apparent such enthuses.

“And to answer your next question before you again break the rules and inquire... yes your head is being depilated as well. Shampooing a boy is too time consuming.”

Robert is stunned. Bound in unconsciousness, there have been so many changes... diapered... brought to complete glabrousness... shearing his head must have been an awkward task requiring considerable effort. All while he slept.

A warm cloth swaths about his scrotum. The feeling is intense... but good. There is no doubt all protective and insulating pubic hair has been removed. The soiled cloth is disposed. A fresh cloth is drawn, moistened in a basin of soapy water and Robert’s entire form receives a thorough sponge bath. The nurse is tender and caring... yet there is no doubt she is in charge. Just as with his pubes area, Robert is shocked when the warm wetness swipes over his head. Yes, he is bald. And he notes the degree of alacrity... his head cleansed in moments versus a cumbersome and time consuming shampoo.

“There. Feel good? Ready to perform for us? Your scrotum feels full of juiciness... though I am told that has no bearing on the specimen to be extracted.”

Robert finds himself nodding, then chiding himself for agreeing.


With that, the pretty nurse tweaks a left nipple then departs. It is then that Robert notes the scent. He has been bathed with sweet smelling effeminate soap. Then, for the first time Robert notes that he is somewhat firm. Yes, the nurse is correct. Apparently, despite the humiliation of being bathed like a child, his penis indeed found that it felt good.

Saturday, December 22, 2012

The Extraction Nurse II

Have a good Christmas everyone.


The Nutrition Nurse

Robert senses the ennui of post coitus ecstatic release... yet there has been no ecstasy... only the agony of electrical shock. He lies immobile, hands and arms tethered, collared neck holding rigid his head. He attempts to assess the modest room... institutionally ascetic, tiled floor, cabinets, medical paraphernalia hanging from white walls, the electro ejaculation machine with other unknown devices resting at the far wall. 

Within minutes of the departure of the extraction nurse, the room door abruptly opens, no knock.

Another nurse enters, dour, middle aged, white uniform, wheeling a cart.

She wordlessly moves to the side of the masturbation table and picks up a chart from the cart.

“Robert. Well, Robert, I’m about to become one of your best friends. I’m going to feed you.”

Robert begins to utter words and catches himself, heeding the advice of the extraction nurse concerning silence... and obedience.

“You new boys always have trouble with the feeding tube. But keep in mind it is what will keep you going. Entering your system, at all times, will be a special formula of nutrients, carbohydrates, hydration, vitamins... and hormones...  which will have you spurting like a whale,” the latter words coming with a boisterous laugh.

A long thin tube is retrieved from the cart. Large meaty hands coat it with unguent.

“Once the tube is in place, it will require a few days for you to acclimate, but you’ll soon learn the joys of never being hungry... never being thirsty. I will control everything that goes into you. You’ll not get fat... you’ll not get thin,” more laughter as the nurse steps forth with the tube.

“Be a good boy for me,” a sizable left hand entwines in the cranial hair, firmly holding in place the head. “Easy now, relax. And when you feel something pressing at the back of your throat just swallow. It will make it so much easier for you.”

The fingers of the right hand aline the tube with the left nostril. The nurse instantly presses, slipping the long tube inwards. Robert senses his head being invaded, his sinus cavity pressured. Then there comes the feeling of something pushing into the depths of his throat. He gags. The nurse laughs.

“Swallow. You will take the tube. They all do. I have much time and suspect you have limited resistance.”

Robert obeys. The tube slithers to his stomach. The left hand releases its formidable grip and pats his head, owner to compliant dog.

“Very good.”  

The opposing end of the tube is unraveled and connected to a waiting spigot on the wall to Robert’s left.

“Have that pecker of yours standing in a heartbeat,” the nurse crassly proclaims as a valve is turned.

Robert is horrified to see the clear tube slowly fill with whiteness. Sludge glides forth to his nose. A moment later he feels his stomach forcibly accept whatever it is the nurse decides he should ingest. 

“Rather scary isn’t it? Could be slow poison. That’s something for you to think about. But then again, if we wanted you dead... didn’t want your seed... you’d be dead.”

Another boisterous laugh as the nurse steps to the right wall and unhooks a breathing mask.

“We like our boys to be nice a calm when not being jerked off,” the words crass and notably unprofessional. “You’ll be sleeping most of your time here. If your dick isn’t performing for us, there’s no point in having you conscious.”

With that, a breathing mask is slipped over Robert’s head, a pouch of rubber covering nose and mouth. Hands secured, he has no choice but accept... and eventually inhale. The sweet fragrance of nitrous oxide enters his uncluttered nostril. He begins to feel drowsy. His last vision is that of his nutrition nurse, standing arms akimbo, smiling, reveling in her governance. His last thought is precisely as she promulgated... ‘what is it she is forcing into my system?’.

Saturday, December 15, 2012

The Extraction Nurse

 OK. Something new. Perhaps a little soft. It will run few weeks then, just as with 'Madam, Me & It' I will post a sequel for sale on Smashwords.

If you like this theme, try 'Milking Male Essence' a full length story I wrote a while back for the Erotic Book Network




The Extraction Nurse

Copyright 2012

by Chris Bellows

The First Extraction

“I’m your extraction nurse. You are here to perform for me. And in time I think you’ll learn to enjoy it... just like all my boys.”

The lad blushes, the nurse amused by the pink hue brought by rushing circulation. He lies supine on the special masturbation table. Naked, neck encircled with a rigid yet comfortable foam lined collar, the wrists and biceps are restrained in matching foam lined cuffs. All are secured to the table. From the waist upwards, the youth and the table are one.

“Now, we have rules. Very simple rules. When you are conscious, feel yourself returning to consciousness, that means it is time for your extraction. I’ll want you in what we term the decubitus position, knees to your chest, lifting your feet to the horizontal bar above. You’ll find it quite comfortable to rest your ankles against the bar while I do my thing. No talking. Maintain eye contact with me at all times. That will help us bond. I like bonding with my boys, it is best in obtaining a nice healthy sample.”

The lad nods in bewilderment, indeed maintaining eye contact with the handsome nurse, the bright white uniform contrasting notably with the deep mocha of her face and hands.

“What’s your name. You may speak.”

“Robert, ma’am.”

“Very good Robert. And so polite,” the compliment bringing a meek smile.

“There are two ways I can obtain my extraction, Robert. One is by way of electro ejaculation. It will give me the maximum sample in the shortest amount of time. Yet I do not think you will like having your male tidbits shocked with 40 volts.”

Electrical shock! The nurse notes the lad shudders in concern. He should.

“Fortunately I can also obtain it manually. For that you’ll need to be obedient. So keep that in mind. Disobedient boys get electro ejaculation. Obedient boys, a manual release. But Robert, I always get my sample. That you must understand.”

A hand reaches forth, thumb and forefinger gently tweaking a nipple. It is a gesture of affection but also one of control and governance. Robert is helpless to resist her touch.

“You’ll be well cared for here. You just have to lie and let the nurses take care of you. Most times you’ll not see them. But you’ll know of their attendance. Massage nurse, cleansing nurse, nutrition nurse. Everything your body needs. You just need to ejaculate for me and everything will be fine.”  

The nurse steps away to wheel in place a small cart. Wires and tubing drape from an electrical box on the top surface.

“I will need to begin with electro ejaculation. That will give me a basis for what you can produce and what I’ll need to extract manually. Painful, but it will abet my verbal message... concerning obedience. Now assume the position... decubitus.”

The discomfort of lying completely naked and exposed rises as Robert lifts his legs. As his thighs press his chest and his ankles find the perfectly positioned horizontal bar above, he feels his testicles shift to hang at his crevice. For some reason, his sense of exposure heightened, he feels himself begin to firm. The nurse notices and smiles.

“You all have the same reaction You all so much enjoy showing off for me.”

The nurse steps to the side of the table and Robert is surprised when she presses a lever and the bottom portion, once serving to support thighs, calves and feet, folds downward. There comes another shudder as the vulnerability of his precious gonads becomes evident.

“A very nice set of balls, Robert, though we tend to call them testicles here. But all my boys are well equipped... otherwise they would not be here. Now just relax. Pain is all in the mind. There will be no damage. We tend to pamper well endowed boys here. You’ll soon feel like an Olympic athlete... a star performer... and eager to perform... eager to show off for me.”

The words intend to comfort, but do not. Latex gloves are donned. Robert emits a comical squeak as one hand cups and lifts the weighty scrotal sac and two fingers of the other gruffly penetrate to lubricate his anus. Then a firming penis is capped with a specimen collect vessel. It resembles a condom with a tube at the tip.  

“Nice of you to get hard for me. Speeds thing along,” the nurse quips with a chuckle.

A switch clicks. There comes a hum from the electrical box.

“The male organ erupts in a series of three, Robert. So we replicate that in electro ejaculation. It may seem like I am torturing you, but really it’s what nature dictates in extracting the maximum yield.”

A nurse calloused through the extraction of countless specimens, cloaks her insouciance with a smile as she inserts a sizable probe into a well greased rectum.

“You’re tight. We’ll be changing that.”

The fingers of a deft right hand begin to manipulate the lad’s stiffness. It feels good. Robert is chagrined. It even feels better than when he has toyed there with his own digits. 

“Nice and stiff. My goodness you are a big one,” the stroking marvelously exact, the underside of the penis worked with crisp precision.

“Here we go now,” the words bringing disappointment as the fingers cease.

Though Robert’s humiliation is intense, the physical pleasure cannot be denied. But then he sees the left hand move to the electrical box and press a button. There follows an uncontrollable cry of pain, Robert’s entire body lurches. It feels as if his viscera is instantaneously exploding.

Then comes a pause and the finger presses again. Another cry. Another massive spasm.

The smile of the nurse broadens.

“And just one more.” 

The finger presses again... as promised three jolts. Robert is barely conscious as the nurse reverses the hook up, carefully sliding away the collection vessel and tube, slipping out the probe and stowing the electrical device.

“So Robert, a very nice yield,” the nurse holding up the clear plastic bag of semen. “And that is why you are here. Keep in mind you can be brought to ejaculation electrically any time you wish... and every time you are disobedient.”

The nurse returns to the side of the table and rights the bottom half.

“Legs down,” the words offered as a command... and one quickly obeyed.

“Your nutrition nurse will stop in to insert your feeding tube and induce a nice comfortable stupor, a little nitrous oxide... continuously administered.  The cleansing nurse will shave and diaper you. You will probably not meet your massage nurse. Most times we are going to keep you comatose. Lots of rest... lots of sperm production.”

The nurse snickers noting the return to bewilderment. This ‘Robert’ has no clue concerning his new existence... if sleeping and being masturbated can be so termed. For many years, he’ll be doing nothing else.   

Saturday, December 8, 2012

'Madam, Me and It' - Part XIX - Sold

As noted, this ends the beginning. The remainder of the story, term it sequel number one, 'Miss Pletcher's Farm', is available on Smashwords and now Lulu. The entire 'Madam Me and It' is also available for free at both sites.

Next week, 'The Extraction Nurse'  softer Female Domination of the male. There will be five parts then the remainder will be for sale.




I am returned to the pedestal. Drained, mentally depleted, physically exhausted, Madam connects my leash and lifts the rope... as high as ever. She moves to a wall and presses a button. Miss Pletcher strips off her gloves and sits on one couch, not so much adoring the naked subjugated male form as further assessing.

Madam joins her as I struggle once again on toes. 

“Yes, I think he’ll fuck wonderfully. Practically a virgin. You have the name of his doctor?”

“It’s on the pill bottle. She’s one of us,” Madam informs.

“Good. That keeps the discussion short. I assume she’ll take the going rate.”

“She’ll provide a legitimate medical diagnosis to justify an orchiectomy I am sure. No reason to think otherwise. Besides, look at the sac. It wasn’t biting for long, but it doesn’t take much... does it?”

“Not much at all,” Miss Pletcher smiling wickedly.

The door opens. It enters with a tray. Refreshments... a bottle of Champagne... a bowl of strawberries. He serves. Then when Madam kicks off her shoes he kneels and begins licking her feet.

The women partake, speaking about me as if not present.

“No family... no one to trace him?”

“I’ll give you all his information and I have already done some checking. Cousins out west, not much contact. By the time anyone begins to look for him, you’ll have him well indoctrinated.”

Miss Pletcher nods in agreement.

“Yes, it does not take long before they enjoy sucking cock. And in neutering, they know there is no going back... though some of them look at me like I can grow another set of balls for them...”

The women laugh with the thought. The discussion brings consternation... Madam looking into my private situation... and accurately gauging my limited family contacts.

“He’s homophobic, by the way... not that that matters.”

Miss Pletcher smiles.

“No. Matter of fact it makes the transition all the more enjoyable.”

“Really bristled with the thought of It sucking him off.”

“Well, it seems he passed up his last chance. Your fee?”

“$10,000. He’s older than most, but will resist more.”

“Yes, the challenge will be worth that.”

 “Feminized? Work him in the lodge or the preserve?”

“I’ll have him serve me first. Then make a decision when I tire of him. There’s only so much tightness that alum can bring before the rectum gets stretched to the point of becoming the cunt of an aging whore. That’s when they either put out or get put to work.”

Saturday, December 1, 2012

'Madam, Me and It' Part XVIII - Miss Pletcher

Miss Pletcher

More demented thrill... greeting a fully clothed woman while naked, erect and perched.

Miss Pletcher is amused yet clucks her tongue in the rebuke of a school mistress.

Meanwhile a truckling It falls to his knees, bends at the waist and begins licking Madam’s shoes.

“Leave us, It. Go to your cage.”

He arises and prances out, Miss Pletcher unfazed. Remembering to be obediently silent, needing that pill, I merely balance on the pedestal in ignominy. 

“He stiffens nicely,” Miss Pletcher notes. “But the discoloration of the scrotum indeed suggests damage.”

“An unfortunate accident, as I said.”

“He’s blushing.”

I am indeed.

Miss Pletcher is large, tall with broad shoulders. Short black hair, strands of silver suggest mid forties. Her demeanor is stern, indeed an exacting school mistress and one envisions many knuckles rapped without compunction.

She moves to the wall where It assembled the cleansing paraphernalia. I hear the squeaks of rubber. Latex gloves are donned. She returns. My inspection begins.

Miss Pletcher palms my scrotum. 

“I see you’ve done some of your signature work... not to the knees but the balls present nicely. Still stretching him?”

“No. There’s no point until his condition stabilizes. It could be that there will be nothing to stretch.”

Miss Pletcher nods and squeezes... firm... firmer. She smiles approvingly again nodding to Madam. My heart sinks. I feel so little. She teasingly bends my erection downward. I grimace, an angle not to be achieved without anguish. Her smile broadens with my reaction.

“Enjoy. This could be one of your last,” she ominously forewarns.

Then my flesh, every inch, is kneaded... palpated with discerning exactness. My nipples are afforded particular attention, my oiled flesh making it possible to squeeze and roll about each areola, comically popping the pink nubs from between thumb and forefinger.

There is a degree of pain but more... I am humiliated... a side of beef to be inspected and bid upon. 

Seemingly satisfied, the huge woman kicks away the pedestal, leaving me to hang by my neck collar. She laughs at my reaction of panic... gagging... eyes bulging in fear... entrapped feet attempting to kick into the air. Then mercifully she embraces my nakedness and laughs, thrusting her hands under my arms to lift. In an impressive display of strength, she relieves the tension as a smiling Madam moves to the tied off rope and releases the knot.

Miss Pletcher lowers me, a child in mother’s arms. With feet on the floor I better gauge the woman’s size. Though five foot eight, Miss Pletcher towers over me. She is well over six foot tall, not lean... certainly not fat... and strong.

“I’ll want to spread him.”

“Of course,” Madam replies, expecting the request.

Miss Pletcher returns to the wall of medical implements. Madam bends and unclips my ankle cuffs. I can move! And do so most humbly as the leash is released from the ceiling hook and a firm hand guides me to the horizontal bar.

There Madam pulls then presses, tummy to the smooth bar of wood. Then she lowers the leash steps on it to take in the slack and I know to bend... low... lower... forehead almost to the floor.

My ankle cuffs are again secured, now to the supporting posts. I am well spread... as Miss Pletcher desires.

“He’s well lubricated?” Miss Pletcher inquires.

“I think you can depend on It in that regard,” Madam quips.

“And you say he has not been used anally.”

“Not by me. But as discussed, he’s well into kink. Lord only knows what levels of abuse he’s put himself through.”

“Into pain? Or is his masochism more cerebral?”

“Other than the scrotal stretching I have not induced pain.”

“That is good. Once they begin to enjoy it the exchange of power blurs.”

Fingers splay my cheeks. Something cold and metallic is introduced. Whereas I have indeed experimented with anal play... experimented with almost everything for that matter... I have long since cast such aside from my portfolio of activities.

It appears it will return... at least for this afternoon.

Madam continues standing to my front tensioning the leash. I stare at her shoes as whatever has been slipped within my anus slowly expands.

“A speculum, Mr. Grieves. Miss Pletcher is going to work you open... wide open.”    

There is discomfort... yet I can only wish that is all, for hands I know to be most powerful are also unyielding. The device slowly expands and expands. Muscles contract in reaction, defying the need to relax. A moan turns to a bit of an outright cry of pain. I hear Madam laugh... a dour Miss Pletcher merely slows her efforts.

Mercy? Or a sadist’s desire to maximize the interval of agony?

“Yes, nice and tight here. This boy will fuck well... at least for a while. And most importantly, there is no enjoyment. Quite disappointing when they look forward to it. That’s when I toss them aside... find fresh meat.”

I cannot imagine how far open is my rectum. There is aching... there is the burning sensation of skin stretched too far. I try to remain silent, but it is impossible. The woman is splitting me into two.

“Yes the male affinity for prostate manipulation,” Miss Pletcher proclaims as her efforts finally stop. “Forced into chastity it becomes quite the source of sexual pleasure.”

Something enters me. It feels that I am open enough to accommodate a whole hand... perhaps a forearm? But instead it is a gloved finger. It teases, my portal a spacious tunnel, her digit grazing the walls of my colon in a demonstration of my helplessness.

A free hand grasps my penis. I am amazed to feel that it remains stiff through all the pain and discomfort. Miss Pletcher snickers.

“They all moan, groan and yelp... but they always get hard,” the words sardonic.

The digit begins to knead at the lower wall. The woman has found my prostate with aplomb... a bull’s eye.

“Move his face back toward his feet a little more. Have him look up and watch.”

Madam offers slack on the leash then presses my head with her shoe to so position. I look up to see the speculum plunging deeply, its tongs parted to bring disbelief that my opening can be made to yield in a such a manner.  

“Let’s see what these glands give up. I don’t often milk a boy... I let my dildo do that.”

The prostate manipulation continues. She is expert and the strange pain pleasure distracts my thoughts. Then there comes a droplet... then a steady ooze... and holding my erect penis at the base, Miss Pletcher directs the flow... to my face.

Prostatic fluid splashes onto my chin. The goo is clear and viscous... devoid of sperm and confirming the doctor’s diagnosis of days ago. 

“Yes this one’s nuts are in fact dysfunctional. And in being numbed, not even useful for torture.”

The single digit kneads and wriggles, kneads and wriggles. Yes, I am milked... drained. It feels good... it feels cathartic... but most of all... it is most humiliating.

“May as well have them excised and plastinated. Better used as paperweights.”

Wednesday, November 28, 2012


For free, I have posted the complete manuscript for ‘Madam, Me and It’ on Smashwords ( Here on the Blog it will run for two more parts, Numbers XVIII and XIX on December 1 and December 8.

Also on Smashwords, for $3.25 the first sequel is available, ‘Miss Pletcher’s Farm’ (some 22,000 words) ( Since ‘Madam’ totals some 14,600 words, I am offering good value.

So once again I am experimenting to see just how many of the Smashwords vultures will read for free (scavenge) vs. actually purchasing, i.e. in my view envisioning the prospective reader as hunting and killing his/her prey rather than feasting on road kill.

I am working on a second sequel with a working title I am coming to dislike, so let’s term it unnamed for now. I am having trouble with the ending so I have put it aside which means it will be that much more difficult to complete. But I’ll get there. You readers have much to absorb in the meantime, assuming you’re willing to part with $3.25.

At this writing, ’To Serve Intact’ has been read 996 times on Smashwords with 16 readers buying the follow up. So 980 Smashwords readers don’t know the ending. Amazing! Yes, the term vulture seems apropos, never completing its meal. At 1,000 I am going to unpublish the manuscript, my patience with Smashwords readers wearing in terms of trying to attract commercial interest to my stuff.

Saturday, November 24, 2012

'Madam Me and It' Part XVII - Prepared


I must assume it nears noon. And as desired, I am indeed exhausted. Should words be effective I would beg for some form of relief... just to lift a foot would be exquisite. But my ankles are closely secured, my wrists equally so, and the leash taut. The high broad neck collar inhibits even the slightest motion of my head.

Yet strangely, I somewhat harden, something not easily achieved of late. I am thus reminded of tales of those executed by hanging, the curious reaction to tension on the spinal nerves in fostering tumescence.

It is then that I hear the door knob rattle. Madam returns! I become a puppy eager to greet its master.

Alas, It enters, smiling, reveling in freedom, prancing like a young girl, under formed breasts bouncing, the letters of his branding rolling on feminine buttocks. It moves to the wall and begins assembling stuff on a tray. Meanwhile I quiver in fear, the testicles It so covets hanging and invitingly exposed.

“Bite me and I will have Madam pull your teeth,” I warn in desperation.

It smiles and approaches. My pubes is to be shaved and It adoringly lathers and works the razor, the hands soft and caring. But then more of my nakedness is lathered. Thighs, calves, buttocks. I am not hirsute, but have wisps which quickly and easily yield. A small stool is pushed adjacent. It mounts and arms, chest and back are likewise lathered and shaved.

Next my entire form is tenderly patted with a warm wet towel removing all traces of lotion. The caring touch, if that of a woman, would be appreciated. And though I have so often benefited, knowing now that the gentle fingers are those of a male... former male... I cringe in disgust.

But there is more. I am oiled, every inch of flesh kneaded, sensuously caressed. More disgust but my cramping muscles cherish the respite. I repress words of thanks.

I look to the mirror, my flesh glowing in the room light, a living statue.

Madam termed this the viewing room and that I was to be displayed. And so it is.

Finally attention is paid to my gluteal cleft. It lubricates and I recall his penetrating digits on that fateful day... the prolonged hand job... the bite... the amazing climax.

Yet, It is not to be denied his reward. He stows the tray and returns. With my organs at head height, he palms my testicles and begins to lick. I shudder... in repugnance?.. in joy?..

It is accomplished. A long tongue laps, laves, swishes and swirls. How many has he fellated under Madam’s direction?

My penis stiffens. It smiles. There is power in bringing arousal... something long denied him.

Then I hear voices and the door knob rattles again. For sure it must be Madam... and it is.

Saturday, November 17, 2012

'Madam Me and It' Part XVI - A Walk Home

A treat today. Two parts.

A Walk Home

Knowing of the potential for inordinate weight gain, for exercise I walked to Madam’s house of torment. So in returning to my apartment I have twenty minutes to think and revel in the renewed capacity of moving arms and legs.

Madam kept the pills. Her desire to have control impresses, equaling... exceeding... my quirky penchant for ceding it.

But in two or three days time, doctor’s paperwork completed, I shall have a fresh supply, I console myself. Yet meanwhile, I shall not only be physically leashed, but emotionally as well.

I try to assuage my concern, convincing myself that going one or two days without the medication cannot be too disastrous. But then the image of It comes to mind, and that tiny vestige of maleness so meekly dangling... useless other than to amuse and accept Madam’s catheter.

Degloving... how insidious! The organ modified to the point that it cannot even be touched!

Like the tide, Madam’s words, her monologue, ebb and flow about my cerebrum. My spirits rise in having this thing of mine satiated, my need for the tutelage of a commanding woman. But then my pluck subsides with the realization that what was formerly recreation is transforming to reality. It is a pet!

Is that what I want? To be kept... in a cage?

But do I have a choice? Dare I defy Madam, refuse to return to her and go days without hormones? And if so will any effects be reversed when I resume the medication?   

I do not know... and cannot take the chance.

Then comes to mind Madam’s final directive... ‘I want to put you on display’. Will I indeed deep within enjoy that as well?

I make a note to call the doctor’s office, see if I can get word of the effect of skipping the dosage. But then I look at the time. Madam kept me caged for a good part of the day. It’s well after office hours and I shall not have opportunity to contact the doctor before the demanded appointment tomorrow morning.

So, I shall be obedient and inveigle one more pill, then make the determination as to whether I will need to grovel for more.

As I turn the last corner, I think of a toothless It. And I have no doubt that with a nod of my head Madam will indeed make him edentulous. Why stop with just castration, degloving, tattooing and branding?

A 9:00 a.m. Appointment

“Very prompt. Very obedient,” Madam compliments as she closes the door behind me.

To the dining room and I know to strip under her watchful gleeful eye.

“Cuffs, collar and leash today, Mr. Grieves. A little redundant but I think in time you’ll have your excitement.”

I am so adorned, expecting another dull stay caged on hands and knees. Instead the firm hand of Madam leads me back to the entry hall where a set of stair leads to the second floor.

“As you are now aware, I entertain a variety of clients... many tastes... many needs... many proclivities,” explaining as we ascend.

The old Victorian homestead is sizable, built in days when families of 6, 7, 8 were more prevalent than rare. I thus surmise many bedrooms... more likely bedrooms turned dungeons.

It was thoroughly caned somewhere in the house and I heard neither a thwack nor a whimper. The structure is vast, the walls thick.

“I term this the viewing and inspection room,” Madam leading past two closed doors to open a third.

We enter a room, probably at one time the master bedroom. The ceiling is high, the space considerable. Sparsely furnished, there is a knee high platform in the center, perhaps large enough to accommodate a vase of flowers... nothing more. To the right and left are comfortable couches. On the walls above are huge mirrors. The windows straight ahead are heavily draped, the material dark and thick. There is a horizontal wooden bar propped at waist height by posts left and right. Above the tiny platform there is a strong ominous steel hook attached to a heavy rope leading to a pulley at the ceiling.

Madam pulls me to the platform.

“Up,” she commands.

I so step, the surface just large enough for my feet. She loops the leash onto the steel hook. She then clips together my ankle cuffs, checks to assure my wrists cuffs are firmly secured behind my back and moves to the wall. There she tugs, the opposing end of the heavy rope moving downward. I feel my leash tighten, more, more and find I must rise to my toes.

“I’ll want you tired and nice and humble in greeting Miss Pletcher. So enjoy for now. And a good  boy may get a nice pill later.”


“You will be silent when displayed and inspected. A pill will be your reward for obedience.”

Madam departs, leaving me well bound and on toes. In shutting the door behind her I note the wall to the right of the doorway is littered with an array of implements, appearing to be medical. A dispensing box of latex gloves further evidences this assumption.

So once again I am to endure feminine caprice. I do not know when I will be lowered much less released. There is little mobility afforded to counter cramping muscles... and I know such will soon cramp.   

But I can turn, carefully tapping my toes on the platform surface. Should I slip off the edge, I shall hang by my neck. When I face one of the large mirrors my nakedness seems to fill the room. I am disheartened to see that my scrotum remains discolored and Madam’s stretching, not  noticeable when lying in the bathtub or doing my daily inspection, has resulted in my dormant testicles, once the envy of It, dangling at mid thigh. 

But I am heartened to note that my form remains male. Though not athletic, I have monitored well my weight over the years, and I cannot help envisioning with concern the possible plumping effects of hormone deprivation... a la It.  

And once again the dual torments of tedium and the unknown begin to wear... mentally and physically. How long? For what purpose? Will I indeed obtain the desperately needed medication?.. and who is Miss Pletcher?

Saturday, November 10, 2012

'Madam Me and It' - Part XV - My Pill at Last

My Pill at Last

It gingerly crawls. He’s a mass of welts, though the tattooed flesh veils the many strokes of the cane. As Madam guides him back into his cage, the source of his awkward manner of conveyance becomes evident.

Bastinado. During the hours while my energy slowly ebbed, head drooping to stress the neck collar and leash, It has been the whipping boy for some sadistic woman who, as Madam suggested, relishes caning the subordinate male... or one time male. It appears the soles of the feet have received particular attention.    

“Very good, It. Good boy,” Madam compliments as It humbly crawls within the confines of the steel bars and positions himself.

Within moments the wrists and ankles are tethered and the dangling chains are hooked to the intrusive ear loops. Despite the long painful beating he shall not lie in rest.

Having spent some two hours restrained in a similar position, the torment slow as muscles ache and cramp and the head begins to feel like a heavy block of granite, I begin to understand Its eagerness for release... even to greet a most sadistic woman.

The catheter tube is expertly slipped back into place, for Madam a daily task. And I note It lurches in pain with the handling of his penis, the acid baths making it constantly sore to the touch. Lastly It is intubated, which appears to offer the most discomfort, gagging as Madam heartlessly presses the large tube to the depths of his gullet.

“And how is Mr. Grieves?” finally turning her attention to me.

I remain silent, in awe of the callousness. It is a defacto piece of beef, poked and prodded, orifices penetrated at a woman’s whim.

Madam steps to the front, genuinely enthused in seeing how much my muscles yearn for motion, my energy depleted. She stoops and peers, my low hanging purple sac quite prominent between forcibly parted thighs.

“My goodness, I think your penis has shrunk almost half an inch,” she mocks knowing full well of the many effects of hormone imbalance.

“May I have my pills, please Madam?”

“Of course. First tell me how you feel? It has been well punished today. Does that offer satisfaction? I told my client he has been naughty, no details about the fateful bite. But she responded with quite the caning. Bastinado cannot be endured. It squealed and squealed.”

I say nothing. I cannot possibly believe that It is totally responsible for my castration. He does nothing without the firm direction of Madam. Still there is something within, a little glow, seeing the creature so well tormented. The agony of bastinado... searing pain... and applied reputedly to the largest set of nerves in the body.  

Madam steps away and returns, chair in one hand glass of water in the other. She sits. It is apparent my silence it not to be accepted.

“So, held in strict bondage by a woman. You must be happy but so tired. And I am the only person who can offer relief. Yet, you’re also naughty. Silence does not fare well, Mr. Grieves. You’re not too many steps from Its fate. I may just shave your head and begin tattooing you. But please rest assured, I am more accomplished than when I began on It. I can now do better.”

Once again I shudder in fear and concern. Madam notices and laughs. Then she reaches into her pocket and extracts the pill bottle, holding it before me suggestively. She waves it about, the message... I am close... yet far.

“You like it... suffering for me. You even enjoy the isolation, kneeling in my cage, helpless, not knowing when I will return... if I will return. And the whole time your system slowly transforms, crying for chemicals your body can no longer produce.”

She pauses, smiling. She knows she is right.

“You hope for just a little mercy. Something as simple as untying your leash. Just a moment of time permitting you to lower your head. A brief respite. But how brief? And I just may tighten, forcing your head higher, beginning again the slow cascade of cramping tiring muscles.”

She opens the pill bottle. I look upon the tablets as I would a feast of delicacies. Is my penis shrinking? Are my nipples puffing? I need my dosage.

“At some point you must sleep and to do that I must slacken the leash. But you’ll not know when. It’s my caprice. You control nothing... not even the fate of your genitals.”

She laughs, her hand pressing through the bars palm up, the blue dose of hormones offered at last. I lick it from her hand. Then the water glass is offered, holding it to my lips.

Medication at last! I drink and swallow like a hungry dog, Madam quite amused.

“Tomorrow morning. Be here at 9:00 a.m. At some point in the day you’ll have another pill. But you’ll do some things for me first. I want to put you on display. Deep within you’ll enjoy that.”

She makes a point of tucking my pill bottle back into her pocket. With that she unlocks the cage and releases my right wrist knowing that will allow me to release left wrist, neck collar and ankles.

“Your clothes are in the dungeon.”

She arises and moves to the stairs.

“And Mr. Grieves. If you favor some revenge, I’ll have Its teeth pulled.”

Wednesday, November 7, 2012

Reader’s expectations, meeting such, attaining goals

Reader’s expectations, meeting such, attaining goals

As written, I have found the world of Smashwords to be curious. I have posted much free stuff there, achieved a degree of notoriety judging from the many downloads, and continue to be perplexed.

‘The Power Series’, a near full length story which I posted here and then made available on both Lulu and Smashwords for free, has been panned for the second time.

I cannot fathom what the expectations are of the Smashwords readers. More importantly I have no idea of their literary tastes, knowledge of writing and their ability to distinguish style from the quality they expect to encounter.

Here are some of my unwritten warranties in offering stories...

1. Typos painstakingly minimized to the best of my ability.

By the time a story is posted or published I have read and honed probably a dozen times. Nothing is 'slapdashed’ from my wordprocessor, ever. On occasion there may be translation errors in copying text from Wordperfect to Blogspot, but even those errors I work to go back and correct.

2. Proper grammar, again to the best of my ability.

3. Minimization of profane words.

    When such do appear it will be mainly in dialogue, the utterances of a character. 


I have read and, to a certain extent, still read lots of smut. It has been a lifetime habit. I have learned what stimulates, which is a paramount goal, and what distracts. Typos, bad punctuation (no punctuation?), misuse of words (smut writers need to focus on the difference between ‘your’ and ‘you’re’), revolting profanity, all distract. In encountering such I sometimes go into ‘edit’ mode, desiring to mark up the pages instead of relaxing and letting my eidetic mind become immersed in the storyline.

So, here is what I have encountered on Smashwords.

There seems to be a propensity to critique rather than enjoy. And a certain huffiness... ‘how dare you try to entertain me with a free story I may not like.’

The latest ‘Power Series’ review...

Overactive verbage (sic)...not impressive. Must be some ego! Did not finish.

Okay. Let’s address ‘verbage’. In proper English the word is ‘verbiage’. But the misspelling, when deliberate, is known to be used critically as in rhyming with ‘garbage’. Is the misspelling deliberate? I will not know.

So in donating a story of some 28,000 words, one which seemed to receive a good reception here on the blog, I am awarded with one succinct line.

I donate, post and offer free stuff, to make people comfortable when it comes time to purchasing a Chris Bellows story... to imply that the aforementioned warranty applies to all my stuff... to offer assurance that the base writing meets expectations which the reader acquires from the many samples... that there is value received in the exchange.    

This does not work when a reader, despite all warnings, is aghast with the storyline and subject matter, or is seeking for free the next literary masterpiece from J. D. Salinger or Margaret Mitchell.

So, I am unpublishing ‘The Power Series’ on Smashwords, downloaded 911 times after being posted there for 133 days.

It remains free on Lulu. Feel free to review it. But please take the time to give your critique substance.   

Saturday, November 3, 2012

'Madam, Me and It' - Part XIV - The Dining Room

The Dining Room-Dungeon Once Again
“I think you’ll feel better in restraints,” Madam knowingly suggests.

Yes, she graciously invited me to stop in, my pills indeed in her possession. But of course she cannot merely hand such to me. Madam favors rituals... and one of the most foremost is having a man strip naked for her.

So in the dining room-turned-dungeon I disrobe while she selects from her wall of implements. Her choice... neck collar and wrist cuffs again... joined by ankle cuffs.

For some reason such do imbue comfort. And I blush when she snaps on the leash, thinking of her remark about being walked naked and outdoors.

“I have the pills locked away downstairs. You can only imagine how much It would like to get his hands on them.”

I had not given the possibility much thought but note that Madam smiles knowing of the futility, It having been deprived of testosterone for so long.

“I will concede to you your dosage, Mr. Grieves, if you’ll grant me one favor,” her tone rather authoritative considering that she makes a request.

She tugs on my leash, turns and I must follow, my wrists once again secured behind me. Whatever are the ankle cuffs for? 

We traverse the stairs, returning to the basement. I remain silent, knowing not to consent to anything until I am fully aware of the request.

The cages come into view along with the blue, red, yellow of Its ghastly fattened form. In nearing, the whites of the eyes once again glare, sending a silent message of unending tedium and torment.

I note in the empty cage there is a metal lockbox. The hinged opening in the front bears a formidable padlock.

“Your pills, safely secured from a much desiring eunuch.” 

Madam points but makes no further move to unlock my much needed medication. Finally I must comment.

“I need to take one. It’s hours overdue.”

“Yes, of course. You would not want to endure further alteration... like It.”

Madam reads my mind... I suppose able to read the mind of any male undergoing my circumstances. But the pause continues. Then finally...

“So you will grant me a favor?”

“What is it?” I cautiously request to be informed.

“Try the cage. You’ve relished being strapped to my jerking table. The cage can bring equal if not enhanced thrill.”

“The jerking table excited because for all those sessions I envisioned you working... well... doing what was done.”

Spoken as Madam retrieves a key and unlocks the padlock.

“I’ll be firmer with my quest. You will not have the strong box opened until you enter the cage,” smirking as she swings open the heavy steel bars comprising the front access.

Besides the pills being locked away, I am cuffed, not able to grab and open.

“Go ahead. Get in. Be a good boy for me,” the matronly tone returning to that of the many sessions... when I was indeed a good boy for her.

She offers slack on the leash. Have I a choice? I kneel. As my knees shuffle forth, Madam reaches inward and snatches the strong box. In an instant the box is pulled without and the cage door closes. I am locked within.

Treachery? Not entirely. I could not open the box anyway with wrists cuffed.

“Face this way. Feet apart,” the commanding words come as the leash is tied to the top bars.

Madam deftly moves to the rear. Right ankle cuff then left are quickly secured to the straps in the rear corners.

“You’ll be more comfortable if I undo your wrist cuffs and connect then to the front corner straps. Long term bondage, comfort is important.”

She is correct of course. The limited height of the cage will not permit me to kneel upright. The leash will not permit me to lean totally forward and rest my head on the bottom bars. I quickly conclude any standoff in ignoring her suggestion will result in very slow wearing of my stomach and back muscles.  

“You’re well secured. You may as well be cozy.”

She reaches within and attaches a long strap from the right corner to my right wrist.

“I can get the cattle prod... you may as well yield...”

I do. Within another minute, unhooking the connected cuffs and pulling in the corner straps, I am guided to all fours... hands and feet well apart... tethered to the bars of the cage just as is It.... except graciously, I do not have chains holding my head at the ears.

“How long?”

Madam laughs.

It was caged for three months while I assured his transformation. First the elastrator. Then the tattooing was delightfully slow. And with the branding... he shrieked like a little girl. Only then did he realize there was no going back... his balls were gone... his money was gone... his life was gone. Long term bondage, physical alteration, emotional stress. He really no longer needs to be physically secured. He just feels better when I restrain him... the tighter the better.”

Madam reaches within and taps my nose.

“Let’s see how you feel knowing that you’re pleasing me,” the hand retreating as she turns toward Its cage.

“What about my pill?”

“Perhaps later. It has an appointment with a woman who relishes bamboo.”

Saturday, October 27, 2012

'Madam, Me and It' - Part XIII - A Dilemma

A Dilemma

Some how I sleep. Then in arising early, I reach for my pills. Gone.


She went through my pockets, ostensibly to obtain new credit card information. For some reason the pills were not returned.

It is too early to make phone calls. I must wait in apprehension. Did Madam intentionally withhold the hormones? Getting them back on a timely basis means returning to her. For some reason the thought is bothersome.

There is traumatic catharsis in visiting the staid Victorian homestead... particularly now that I am aware of the details... a naked, marked and caged castrate in the basement. 

By 9:00 a.m. I decide to call the doctor’s office.

“It’s Mr. Grieves. I’ve lost the pills the doctor prescribed for me and will need a replacement.”

The nurse receptionist puts me on hold, returning after several minutes.

“Oh, Mr. Grieves. That compound is now on the controlled substances list. A potential performance enhancing drug... you’ve probably read about the controversy. Legally the doctor cannot give you a refill until the original prescription expires in two weeks. The regulations obstruct possible blackmarket sale.”

“But I don’t have any to take or to sell. They’re lost.”

“Well, I will talk to the doctor and see what we can do. Lots of paperwork to explain what would appear like an over prescription. We must avoid fines and possible sanctions...”

“Please see what you can do.”  

She’s young... either unaware of the dire need for hormones or aloof to my plight. I am not comfortable putting my fate in her hands. Then that unprofessional snicker comes to mind when the doctor described the slow transformation in absence of hormone treatment.

Will she go out on a limb for me and re prescribe? 

I panic, envisioning myself visiting her office in two weeks for the permitted refill prescription... shrunken penis, puffy nipples, experiencing the mood swings of a pubescent girl.

By midmorning there is no call from the doctor’s office. I am jittery. Too much coffee? Too much concern? I begin to doubt my own judgement. How quickly does a diminished level of hormones affect the capacity to reason? 

Finally the phone rings. It is the nurse receptionist.

“The doctor is preparing to leave for a conference. She’s taking the paperwork with her and will fax it here when completed. Then you can come in for a new prescription.”

“How long?”

“Well a couple days, Mr. Grieves. She’s traveling to the west coast, expected to speak at the conference and the required government forms are considerable. A very busy time.”

Too long. I can already feel changes. Psychosomatic?

“Please let me know as soon as possible.”

I hang up, my hand shaking. I cannot wait. Gaping at my discolored scrotum is distressing enough. Now I must live in wonder as to whether my penis is shrinking!

I conclude I have no choice but to phone Madam. Could it be she’s expecting my call?

Saturday, October 20, 2012

'Madam, Me and It' - Part XII - Reflections

Reflections on the Caging of It

I return home and decide to soak, that dull ache returning. I run the bath water, strip and inspect below as the doctor recommended. No discernible change.

Is that good or bad?

The tub fills. I step within, the soothing heat calming to engender thoughts.

Before departing the basement, Madam poured from a large industrial looking metal can a most insalubrious sludge. Cloudy and thick the oozing mass proved to be the lard, Its mainstay nutrition. It slithered into the funnel, gravity to eventually forcefully introduce the mass to Its stomach. Just as with the touching of his altered penis, It lurched in his bonds, a silent and feeble protest, despite knowing that Madam’s plumping efforts are without end... and to be administered without compunction. 

Daunting was her invitation, the hint of being likewise caged. The thought cannot be put aside.

‘I have clients, other than those in need of strict feminine guidance,’ Madam suggested. ‘It accommodates. But they would welcome fresh... opportunity...’ enunciating the term most ominously.

She noted my look of intrigue.

‘Yes, one is a policewoman. Ironically she knows all about It and his financial peccadilloes. It is not aware that when I tire of him, I’ll have him taken into custody in a whisker. Meanwhile the policewoman enjoys caning him. As stated, It still can squeal. And his plump softened flesh can be quite inviting for a woman of certain tastes.’

How can my anger with It possibly overcome my thoughts of pity? It will live a life of abject obedience, bonding with the woman who castrated, only in the end to serve the prison time he has so wantonly tried to avoid. And in the interim be regularly caned to boot.    

‘How are you in taking a strap on, Mr. Grieves? You’d be surprised how prevalent is the craving of some women to vanquish anally...’

Teasing words... taunting words, Madam is so cognizant of the needs of males of my ilk. And in having castrated It, she is much attuned... actually more attuned... to what I am facing. The doctor’s advice... more akin to a lecture... most likely only scratches the surface of the life I face without functioning balls. Yet Madam knows.

In returning to Madam’s dining-room-turned-dungeon she cleverly stood most proximate, her leash hand lifting well over my head, tugging at the broad neck collar, forcing up my face. Looking straight up into my eyes as I had to rise to my toes, she inquired...

‘Do you feel anything, Mr. Grieves?’

I replied yes, the tension on my neck not to be ignored.

‘Anything else?’

I shook my head as best I could.

Her action with the leash was a diversion. With her free hand she was grasping my testicles, apparently gripping quite firmly... and I felt nothing! 

Failing her test... perhaps in her mind passing her test... brought an outright cackle.

‘They’re dead... dead and useless. You’ll succumb. Perhaps in a month... if not less. You’re a man of special needs, Mr. Grieves. I know, I make a bountiful living catering to such. And trust me when I say... your needs will now become stronger... and more deviant.’

She lowered the leash allowing me to look downward at her clenched hand.

‘Curious what happens when a man loses these. Enlightening for a woman of my propensities... and entertaining...’

Despite the warmth of the bath water, I shudder again in recalling her... her threat?.. her prognostication?..

Saturday, October 13, 2012

'Madam, Me and It' - Part XI - Visiting It

Visiting It

I remain silent in thought as Madam ends her monologue, watching her move to the wall of torment. She selects a thick leather collar and cuffs.

“I assume you’ll enjoy being walked on a leash,” lifting my head to buckle on the neck collar.

Next my wrists are released from the straps of the table and matching cuffs are buckled in place. Then the waist strap is released, the forearm straps and I am directed to sit up.

“Some day I will walk you... outside. Public nudity can offer quite the degrading thrill,” spoken as my wrists are drawn behind me and secured together.

Her words indeed thrill. But it is different, a peculiar emotional reaction not felt during the many visits... when intact. There is no sexual rush, so to speak. Instead more like that of a neglected child being returned to the comforting arms of his/her mother.

A leash is retrieved, quickly snapping onto my neck collar. Lastly the thigh and ankle straps are released, freeing me from the straps.

“Come,” the simple command offered with a brief controlling tug.

I step from the jerking table and follow, gazing at Madam with adulation. Curious that over the many months I have had rare opportunity to visually indulge. As stated, quite athletically shaped, Madam is a handsome woman. She forgoes glamor, but is professionally attired... white silk blouse, a dark blue skirt which suggests but does not overly reveal. Hair neatly coiffed, she wears limited jewelry, expensive but not ostentatious.

Led outdoors, she would appear to be a successful attorney walking her pet... with the sole element of kink being the latter is naked and human.  

Down a set of stairs, as suggested It is kept caged in the basement.

“With It being wanted by the authorities, I am sure you understand the precautions. He is revealed to very few clients. And only to those with whom I have a long relationship.”

The basement is high ceilinged. We step past the pulley, that which I assume hoisted It by his nuts. In a distant alcove I spy the gleam of shining metal. Polished stainless steel, bars, vertical and thick. Such form cages, a little higher than the waist. In one kneels the shocking and hideous form of It.    

Madam directs to the front, wordlessly permitting me to visually partake.

I feel a degree of anger, facing the cannibalistic beast that so direly altered. But then comes a sense pity.

On all fours, the first thing that impresses is the stout tube emanating from Its mouth. The thick rubber ends in the shape of an upturned funnel. It suggests caprice... wicked feminine caprice... in that anything introduced to the funnel immediately flows downward into the mouth and, if I properly surmise Madam’s resolve, further into the stomach.

“A gastric tube?” I must inquire.

It sometimes has trouble with his diet. The tube facilitates his feeding. Early on he resisted... foolishly resisted... when I decided to fatten him. Now the lard just glides into his stomach. Lots of lard... and anything else I decide he is to ingest.”  

It peers through the bars. The eyes beseech, the glow of the whites pierce the dimness as the face and bald head have been tattooed dark shades of red and blue. I note the ears are pierced, not only cheap little girl earrings dangle from the lobes, but the cartilage at the top, left and right, have thickly gauged loops. Slim chains are strung from the loops to the top bars constantly holding up Its head. The wrists are tethered to the side bars with nylon straps similar to those on the jerking table as are the ankles as well.

It is evident that though the restraints are simple, It and the cage are one, the ear chains mandating that he at all times kneel upright... never to rest prostrate or supine.

“He does not lie down... to sleep?”

“Sleep is a privilege to be meted by his owner. Makes him eager to see me. Isn’t that right It?” Madam extending a free hand through the bars.

She cups the right breast. The gland, as with the left, remains uncolored and diverts attention to a meaty globe topped by a puffy effeminate nipple. Madam playfully caresses, completing her manipulation with a gentle milking motion. A sigh of delight erupts from somewhere in Its altered and intubated throat.

“Amazing the hormonal transition. His mammary glands have the sensitivity of a young girl.”

I am chagrined to understand it is true, the doctor’s words concerning undesirable effects coming to mind.

Madam steps to the side pulling on my leash, permitting a profile view. The body art is crude and without form or substance. One may as well have painted the flesh with a broad brush to attain the results. There the buttocks are natural in color but with terrifying brands as noted... the letter ‘M’ emblazoned on keloided flesh at the apex of each hillock.

It is catheterized, the tube clamped shut. Madam heeds my stare.

“Yes, I control what goes into him... and when it comes out as well. It is best for him.” 

My heart sinks with the full cognition of Its plight, of the unfathomable level of control and governance ceded to a woman who not only has such incredible power... but utilizes it with such glee.

Permanently colored, appearing like a jungle bird, Its fate is sealed. Continued existence is either under Madam’s exacting tutelage or in jail.

Madam again thrusts her free hand through the bars, palming the perineum where the intact male proudly exhibits his virility.

“All gone,” she mocks, the digits apparently freely tantalizing.

Then she grasps the catheter and draws into view as best she can the penis of a toddler.

“I had him partially degloved after I read somewhere that castrated males can still achieve an element of pleasure by way of the penis tip. Simple to remove that oversensitive patch of flesh. Not much larger than a thumb nail. A couple weeks of daily acid baths for the remaining shaft sealed the transition. He no longer has any desire to play here... instead he’d rather play with the likes of yours, Mr. Grieves,” Madam’s chuckle particularly venomous.

Yes, the penis tip is deformed indeed and I note that It stirs, tugging in anguish against his bonds. When Madam releases the tiny organ, It resumes his pose of obedient supplication. The shrunken strip of flesh is sore to the touch.

“So there you have it, Mr. Grieves. We bond... castrated and castratrix. Everything It has... everything It needs... comes from me,” explaining as she steps to the adjacent cage.

It is identical. Empty, nylon straps at the four corners await some miscreant occupant. Madam’s free hand pats the top bars as if to invite.

“A rather benumbing existence... for the intact. But as I alluded, think of the capon. The once virile creature merely sits about, abundantly fed, awaiting slaughter. For some it’s appropriate. For the emasculated male, life’s needs are quite diminished.”

Madam looks me straight in the eye. Her stare disconcerts as much as her words.

“You will find the comfort of sleep to be greatly enhanced when it becomes a privilege... one granted by a superior woman. Yes, it will be one of life’s diminished needs which I will ration... closely.”

I shudder.

Saturday, October 6, 2012

'Madam, Me and It' - Part X - Its Story II

Its Story... as related by Madam - Part II

My client, having lost use of his testicles, was not heard from... a few weeks as best as I can remember. Then, as discussed, there came this need to bond. But the need was more then psychological. It seems the generous tribute offered, compensation for week after week of long double sessions, was not entirely his to give.

Yes, my client was both deviant and devious. A crook. A very successful crook for a while, embezzling many thousands. One can offer conjecture about his slip up. Would his ill gotten gains be discovered had he remained intact?

I am sure they’ve made you aware of potential emotional changes. And I shall forever wonder whether the loss of male self esteem led to diminished reasoning. Perhaps there came a need to be exposed... so to speak.

Well, if so, the need was transient, for he called here in desperation. To be succinct he was wanted by the authorities... still is wanted... and had no place to go. All those years of theft and no back up plan... no arrangements for going on the lam.

‘I have money,’ he cautiously whispered over the phone.

Well, that proved riveting... ‘lots of money’ he added... further piquing my interest.

So I invited him to stay, demanding that he must earn his keep... though I must say the satchel of cash he brought was impressive. Quite the thief. 

Well, obviously It cannot venture outside the home. And to assure his identity remained secret I forced him to agree to modifications. Not a very challenging decision for the neutered and the desperate. It had little choice... jail or my dominion. And with me holding his purloined cash, there was not much chance of hiring an accomplished attorney. Public defender’s are good at plea bargaining. It would serve much time but for my benevolence.

First thing, those useless gonads had to go. Though non functioning, they imbued a degree of male pride I deemed he should not have. An elastrator and a few days completed what my pulley and hoist had begun. Pitifully simple to remove.

Next I bought a tattoo machine. You’ve seen the results. I’m afraid I am not very skilled and probably should have begun learning the art somewhere other than his face and head. But so be it. And the tears... with the hormone imbalance It wept like a little girl... day after day. The verbal protests became annoying. So I had a doctor friend silence him... though It can still squeal like a little piglet.  

Saturday, September 29, 2012

'Madam, Me and It' - Part IX - Its Story

Its Story... as related by Madam

It had a name. But it is no longer relevant or needed. Having a name inures a sense of identity. Such is no longer permitted. It is simply It.

He was a client... as kinky and quirky as they come. A successful executive he could afford to frequent my lair regularly... or so it seemed. And it also seemed he was intent on having me utilize every item of my trade, every implement of pain, restraint, humiliation.

I sometimes teased, buying something new just to see if he noticed it idly hanging amongst the myriad of whips, shackles, crops and canes. And sure enough he would, insisting on having me use it, abuse his body, torment his mind in one manner or another. 

The sessions progressed in terms of severity, seeming to offer challenge. Would there be anything I refused to do... anything too extreme?

Well of course there was not. I never refuse anyone’s quest for suffering... mentally... physically... emotionally. Why should I? One must eat... though in addition to the pecuniary satisfaction my joy is genuine.

So my eager client begins to get into the CBT thing... cock and ball torture/torment. I suppose he assumes I would moderate my efforts in some manner, actually back off at a given point in a session. And of course I never did. After all, such are not my tidbits at risk... and I was not the person requesting the extreme ignominy of having a woman take complete charge of a male’s otherwise intimate parts.

So one night, I hung him by his balls. If you think this is purely male fantasy, such is a misconception. The physical torment is extreme, real... and very enjoyable... for a woman of my ilk. Why would I in any manner moderate the request?

Back down? Not this woman.

So the scene is this...

Stripped naked, pubes shorn as I insist, my client lies supine, tall wooden blocks at the feet and hands. I loop his scrotum with a frighteningly thin strand of wire which in turn is secured to a rope hanging from a geared pulley at the ceiling. He begins to harden just watching me do the hook up. And by the time I begin to pull and tighten, he’s stiff as a rail.

So up we go, higher and higher, the balls winched toward the ceiling, the legs and arms straining to lift in response, the back arching. There are grunts and groans but no pleas for mercy. And then the wooden blocks come into play as I slowly pull and pull. He scrambles to raise himself, balancing first on hands and feet. But as I continue to lift, the pulley well geared, the tension increasing with relative ease, there comes the need to go to toes and finger tips... and oh so carefully balance on the blocks.

A delicious scene. The male will struggle divinely to maintain a most subservient pose and stay on the blocks.

It is then that the begging begins... reality setting in as the thin wire brings both pain and the threat of emasculation.

So I pause. After all it is I in control... and not my gonads at risk.

Crimson... purple... deeper purple... the changing hue amuses... beseeching words flow like water. To me, a song.

Then the phone rings. I tie off the hoisting rope, give my plaything a comforting pat on the head, and step to the living room to answer.

A call from a long lost friend, a conversation of nostalgia, tales of old times are bantered back and forth. I suppose it was a lengthy conversation... a little too lengthy.

When I return, my dangling client no longer dangles... but outright hangs. Did the supporting wooden blocks topple? Did my client make a desperate move to grasp the rope, to futilely attempt to hoist himself and relieve the tension?

I’ll never know. He’s passed out and the hanging balls are the most amazingly dark color with the thin wire loop pulled tight to the point that those nuts are about to part with the owner.

Tsk, tsk. I heard him yelp while on the phone. But they all yelp at some point. It’s part of the scene. No yelps... I must not be properly performing my role.

So, being a woman of some mercy, I untie the rope and let him down. But subsequently, days later, my client finds the damage is done. Castrated, those little nuggets never again to function and pollute the demented male psyche with testosterone.  

He later calls, having undergone a medical evaluation. No anger, just remorse. And I have remorse as well. Good steady clients are most welcomed. The weekly revenue shall be missed.

I wish him well, adding sardonically that neutered men are known to make good servants. Then I hang up. Not much more I can do. I need my day to be filled with those with working balls. Nothing to be earned from those without. No testicles... no drive... neither vanilla nor deviant.

Saturday, September 22, 2012

'Madam, Me and It' - Part VIII - Trembling


I approach the Victorian abode of Madam. Whereas I formerly quivered in anticipation of erotic thrill, I now tremble in apprehension. This is where my testicles last functioned.

The neighborhood is seedy but rapidly gentrifying, restoring creaky old homes now fashionable among the young up and coming. So it is ideal for Madam’s profession, the neighborhood watch more concerned with suppressing the presence of fading drug dealers than the commerce of a woman who caters to ‘gentlemen with refined erotic tastes’.    

I ring the doorbell and step into the foyer. There comes the clatter of locks and chains and a smiling Madam gestures as always. I step into the dining room turned dungeon, forgoing the usual disgorgement of cash.

Madam enjoys watching me strip... at least her authoritative pose and wry smile suggest so. I then lie supine and the strapping begins, the jerking table and I become one. My trembling becomes quite noticeable, the stabbing pain of the bite overriding all memory of the intense orgasm, the parting glimpse of It also coming to mind. 

Satisfied that I am most rigorously secured, the woman’s desire for tight bondage unwavering, I must watch as she again rummages through my clothing, emptying my pockets of keys, bills, change, wallet.

“Your credit card no longer works,” Madam smirks in holding up the replacement, arriving by overnight delivery.

She also notes the bottle of pills, the doctor’s prescription of hormones. She smiles then momentarily steps from the room, the new credit card information to be duly recorded.

Then she returns, brusquely gathering all taken from my pockets and piling such on the armoire.

“So... you have some questions, Mr. Grieves...What is It? Who is It? Why is It? And expressed with such frustration.”

She peers at my scrotum, the coloration remaining quite purple. The flesh appears as would a hand or foot enduring the constraint of a tourniquet. She smiles knowingly.

“I need to know,” my voice quavering in weakness.

“And so you shall. It is somewhat shy and it is not in my best interests to parade him about the neighborhood, as I am sure you will agree. So he’s mostly caged in the basement and on occasion assists with a scene. Overall he serves a need and what little attention he requires more amuses than obligates. Castrated men can make wonderful companions, Mr. Grieves. Docile... and with limited needs. And so enjoyable to torment. Did you like my tattoos?”

“I did not have an opportunity to fully appreciate,” a sheepish It exiting rapidly.

“We’ll take a look later.”   

So... the story of It...

Thursday, September 20, 2012

Amazon employees can read! (see comments for update)

Just received this note forwarded from the publisher of much of my stuff, Pink Flamingo...


We’re contacting you regarding the following book(s) that you submitted for sale in our Kindle Store:

Laura Davidson, Keeper of Men (ID: B004DNW4EK)

During our review process, we found that your book contains content that is in violation of our content guidelines. As a result, we will not be offering this book for sale.

Our content guidelines are published on the Kindle Direct Publishing website.

To learn more, please see:

Best regards,

Kindle Direct Publishing

So you Kindle users should be comforted that Amazon is protecting you from stuff you should not be reading.

And to think we fear government censorship...

Saturday, September 15, 2012

'Madam, Me and It' - Part VII - A Need for Counseling

A Need for Counseling

The heat of the bath meliorates the dull ache. I arise from the tub and towel myself. The soaking has not changed the discoloration of my scrotum for better or for worse. And I must wonder when will I know... will the circulation return to normal or not?

Hormones pills are taken. Though my testicles no longer function I notice no change... no physical change. But as the doctor suggested weeks ago, I am no longer a rampaging bull when it comes to drive. I have not made an appointment to see Madam and have little desire to do so... for climactic relief. But another need arises.

The doctor, in surmising that my condition has been self induced, suggested a need for counseling... almost concluding that such would result in total gender modification.

Well, I indeed feel a need, but such is for discussion. A need to know and understand.

Why did this happen?

So I move to the phone. A call to Madam. She has probably already charged a credit card for the visit I failed to arrange last week. At the very least I must put a stop to her financial shenanigans. I make a note to report my cards as lost and obtain new ones.
In searching for the cell phone, the final moments of the encounter which has changed my life rolls from my hippocampus.

After the intense ejaculation, It withdrew from the jerking table, righting at the waist in having been stooped over to suck on my balls. Quickly departing, I noted more tattoos covering a cherubic nakedness. The forms and shapes of the body art were indistinguishable. If there is a thought or message to be conveyed by Its tattoos, I do not know what it could be... other than that someone doodled on his flesh.   

Yes, just as with me, It was completely denuded. The lack of muscle structure suggested femininity... and without the athleticism of Madam. The breasts were limited and the doctor’s comments about puffy and sensitive nipples flashed into memory. The pubes area revealed little but a tiny penis flopped about... very tiny... with nothing noted below. When It turned and pranced to the kitchen, plump, uncolored soft and rounded buttocks yielded brands... a sizable letter ‘M’ prominently displayed, the flesh incarnadine from searing heat, upon the apex of each globe. And such jiggled saucily.

At that point Madam unbuckled a wrist strap and then silently strolled out, leaving me to release myself from my remaining bonds. There was no subsequent discussion and there has not been subsequent discussion since then.

Thus the need to talk. 

“Hello,” the accented cultured voice of Madam comes on line after the second ring.

“It’s Grieves.”

“I did not hear from you last week. More naughtiness.”

“I was at the doctors. A certain injury needed to be assessed.”

“Well I charged your card. If you’d like to visit, tomorrow or Friday, you’ve already funded my time.”

Just as I suspected. Madam is a woman of purpose, doing what she says and saying what she does.

“I’d like to stop by and just talk... to you and It.”

It does not talk. A little adjustment I thought appropriate. The ability to communicate can embolden. My pet has nothing about which to be bold.”

“What is It? Who is It? Why is It?” I blurt in exasperation.

Madam responds with her wicked chuckle.

“Yes, Mr. Grieves, perhaps you should stop by... and listen... not talk. But I will want you naked and in a subservient position. It is best that we communicate in such a manner. I am your superior.

“How did your doctor’s visit go? A positive assessment of your injury I hope.”

Her tone seems mocking... sarcastic. At least I interpret such as mocking and sarcastic. Yes, my proclivity inures such deviance.

“I... I... I’m taking some pills and awaiting further evaluation.”

“Yes, it was rather nasty of It. I wanted just a little nip. Such can add spice to a good orgasm. Its envy must have spurred an overreaction,” Madam chuckling again. 

“I’d like to drop by Friday,” finding the need to change the subject.

“If it’s just to talk, morning is best. It will still be caged. Say 10:00 a.m.”

I agree and hang up, somewhat perplexed. But why shouldn’t It be caged? It is Madam’s pet.

Saturday, September 8, 2012

'Madam, Me and It' - Part VI - The Transforming Encounter

The Transforming Encounter

My biweekly visit comes. I find myself quivering as I approach Madam’s house. Commanding, controlling, offering ecstatic release in a manner so gratifying to my penchant.

Every session is a little different. The unknown adds layer upon layer to the quirky thrill. In place of ennui the anticipation of delight builds with each encounter.

Will It be revealed to me on this visit?

Plus I ask myself... what if I am not thoroughly strapped down? Will I accede to the tendance, however sensuous, of Madam’s pet if not tethered?

I ring the doorbell and step into the foyer. Madam does not like her ‘clients’ lingering on the porch. There I wait, listening for the clatter of locks and chains. Within moments the inner door opens. Madam smiles and wriggles her finger, a wordless command. I know to saunter within, move to what was once the dining room of the capacious old house and place Madam’s largesse on the armoire.

Madam stands arms akimbo as I strip. The commanding pose, obedient nakedness before she regally attired, brings more quivers. I know to lie on the table... the jerking table... as many firm but comfortable straps await.  

Wrists then ankles, thighs, and forearms. Finally a broad strap is drawn over my abdomen... more symbolic than augmenting any element of restraint. Still, it is pulled and buckled to tautness.

It has missed you, Mr. Grieves,” playfully tapping my nose as every strap is double checked and tightened just a little more.   

Madam turns to a wall decorated with the apparatus of her trade... whips, canes, crops, cuffs, gags, insertions for orifices and openings of every size. She retrieves my hood.

“We will forgo the parachute for now. You know how much my pet savors your balls.”

She steps to the table smiling. It is a pleasant matronly smile, but it is spurred I am sure by the vision of my nakedness... my helplessness... my vulnerability. The hood is slipped over my head. I am blinded. I hear the padded footsteps of which I am more cognizant. It enters from somewhere. I must assume the kitchen where warm water and shaving paraphernalia have been assembled for my visit.

I am lathered. I again note the caring softness of the fingers and hands. How can It possibly be male? Perhaps my concerns are misplaced. Yet there is indeed the apparent adoration of my testicles as the fingers so gently pry and prod the folds of my scrotum, exposing to best accommodate the razor’s stroke.

I think of the many massages I have experienced, the young Asian women so well trained to feign awe as the male organs triumph in explosive climax. Yes, perhaps Its adoration is ingrained by some Asian culture, that It is a geisha of some sort.

But if so, why the concealment? Why am I to feel, smell and hear and not to see?    

A warm wet towel laves, cleansing my pubes of shaving lotion. I can feel myself... semi erect. I know Madam is proximate and sure enough a hand smooths the cloth hood at my right cheek.

“You present well, Mr. Grieves. Plump balls, long pink hairless sac. And you’re becoming so nicely erect. Why not ask for fellatio this afternoon? Why deny yourself the ultimate male pleasure? You should know at your age that the joy of oral prowess can certainly exceed that offered by vaginal penetration. The mouth and lips can be precise... pleasure a man with perfect pressure... and be applied with focus. It can offer that.”


I cannot bring myself to request it. The homophobia prevails.

With that, I assume some hand signal is given. I feel Its hot breath waft over freshly shorn scrotal flesh. Then I thrill in feeling the warm wetness. Right gonad then left, on this occasion Its mouth engulfs both organs, my sac slowly consumed, enshrouded in warm slippery wetness. I feel a nose prod the base of my penis. Then a lubricated hand begins the sensuous stroking of my penis as the tongue swirls and swirls.

Such ecstasy!  

Yet there comes another element of thrill. As one hand strokes, the lips press, the tongue swishes, one finger of the free hand slips beneath and knocks on my portal. Also lubricated, it presses inward, my sphincter first puckering in surprise then yielding.

Wickedly the stroking hand stops. My penis finds neglect. I hear Madam snicker. She again toys with my ears through the hood.

It knows the male anatomy, Mr. Grieves. Some prostatic massage is good for a man. I think It has rather spoiled you. You’re oozing fluid in expectation, yet you fail to request the ultimate attention. Perhaps It will just slowly milk you instead.”

The pleasure turns to torment. Then a single finger of the stroking hand presses downward on the penis tip, holding my manhood in a most awkward angle.

I cannot come. And It is so much aware. Madam’s pet is the master of my genitals.

“Rather tormenting, it is not Mr. Grieves? You so much need relief, yet you deny yourself... and you deny It. My pet so much savors male essence, the feel of exploding sperm.”

Torment indeed. I need to come. Such depravity!

“Please,” I beg feeling a second finger enter me.

Its penetrating digits begin to adroitly enhance my need.

“Well perhaps something a little different this afternoon,” Madam coyly suggests. “I’ll not grant you consummate pleasure. Your refusal of fellatio makes you undeserving. I suggest a little pain with any relief.”

With that I feel Its mouth tighten. For the first time I feel teeth!


Madam snickers. The stroking hand resumes its effort. The penetrating fingers expertly massage within my rectum, the jaw tightens... slow... slower. It bites! The combination of pleasure and pain mounts.... my need mounts. So evil!

And then Madam slips off the hood!

I blink. My eyes rapidly acclimate. Madam cradles, raising my head. I look downward. I do not recognize my own organ... huge... so bulbous... so purple... gleaming with fluid. And of course I look at It! A bald head, colored... gaudy reds, blues, yellows. Clumsily tattooed is every inch of cranial flesh. Glimmering earrings suggest femininity. A sizable meaty hand does not.

Yet assessing gender, a months long quest, is not foremost. For the jaws clamp, teeth clench, at the base of my scrotum, where the soft loose flesh greets the tightness of my raging erection.

“No! Please! Stop!”

The fingers within rummage. The hand strokes. The tongue swirls, yet the teeth tighten. And Madam laughs. 

“I think you’d like to come for me,” Madam firmly suggests.

And I do. With the intensity of pleasure and pain never before experienced, a glob of sperm arcs upwards and splashes on my chin.

“Very impressive Mr. Grieves. Yes, the subservient male so very much basks in such humiliation. Coming at a woman’s behest, reveling in being forcefully jerked off. You see, the homophobia is nothing more than a facade, Mr. Grieves. But with my pet, even the facade is misplaced. It has long since ceased passing himself as a male.”

I am drained. The hand stops. The penetrating fingers withdraw. In place of the normal glow of ecstatic release, the agony of Its clenching jaw begins to overwhelm. Finally Madam gestures. The mouth relinquishes, It slips back, and my testicles and scrotum return to view.

“More envy than adoration on this occasion, Mr. Grieves. I trust It has not gotten carried away.”

Per the doctor’s examination... It did.

Saturday, September 1, 2012

'Madam, Me and It' - Part V - More


The next session and the one thereafter, Madam played her games. I was not to see It. Never to hear her pet say a word. Strapped down, hooded, Madam would taunt, her hands smoothing about my covered face and head as It shaved me then brought manual pleasure, demonstrating convincingly that the manipulation of my penis was certainly not by the hand of a dominating woman. It was not Madam condescending to bring such ecstasy.

Frustrating, but I was becoming ingrained, being indoctrinated.

Nearing explosion, Madam would inquire... ‘some tongue work?’... and I would protest. I was forced to accept manual pleasure. I could not bring myself to request oral satiation from the unknown.

With my refusal... two more trips home, my testicles aching with incompleteness and need.

Then came a third visit with It’s attendance made evident.

“I am going to have It suck your balls today. You’re much longer now. I think we have added inches to your sac. It finds the long mass of flesh to be attractive. My pet both envies and adores.” 

I am of course strapped down as Madam makes the proclamation. No choice to be offered. No offer of fellatio. I am shaven and the parachute is foregone. It is to adore... to offer oral envy.

Warm, wet, soft... my scrotum was engulfed. New found pleasure. Another apex attained. It’s lips enshrouded, the tongue swirled and swirled, and there of course came the manual manipulation of my stiffness. All this while Madam spoke her words, on this occasion kneading my ears through the cloth of the hood.

Madam was kind on this visit. Yes, despite the dread, having no idea of the who and what of It, I came like a volcano.... gratefully... sheepishly... brought to gratification.

I had strange visions, perhaps It is neither male nor female. Perhaps some kind of animal... marvelously prehensile... but an animal none-the-less. One well trained and orally gifted. How strange. How delusional.

Between sessions I was given to much thought and analysis. Strapped down, hooded, unable to move, protestations futile, could an encounter with the likes of It really be considered homosexual in nature if It turned out to be male?

It was only when offered the choice that my repugnance flared. I did not object to the hand jobs. When It sucked my scrotum, tongue endlessly swishing my balls, I reveled in the joy. It was only when Madam inquired, offered a choice, that my homophobia erupted.

I was not to accept a blow job from a guy. Yet I could be forced... and without an utterance in remonstration.

Deep within, was I hoping Madam would simply give the command... ‘fellate him, It!’. Would my psyche find such a directive acceptable?

But then I am assuming It is male. Correct?

Saturday, August 25, 2012

'Madam, Me and It' - Part IV - Follow up Sessions

Follow up Sessions

So, there is the threat, should I be absent, to charge one of my credit cards. Do I use that to justify to myself the forthcoming visits? More likely my regular attendance is due to the fact that being with Madam is heavenly for a man of my penchants. A controlling dominant shaving and massage followed by an exquisite climax...

Four visits... five... Madam reveled in the inexorable stretching of my scrotum, commenting with each session how all women should require body modification of the male.

“Perhaps I will brand you” she suggested on one visit.

Such taunts came only after the straps were well tightened. She knew the thought added quite the thrill. Had she chosen to mark me, I was helpless to resist. I would be so marked, bearing forever the symbol of her authority. With my erection serving as a barometer, other scenes were verbally sketched. Madam’s role play was accomplished, her fingers deftly etching on my flesh where she considered branding, piercing or in some manner altering to symbolize her supreme governance.

She was masterful. Each session was a little different, inducing a little more fear which she knew led to a little more thrill.

But then came more than an incremental enhancement to the psychological/emotional exchange. While feeling the winch slowly tighten, the stretching never to end, I felt hands about my hood, lifting to cradle my head. This shocked. And the apoplexy was well in excess of my reaction to the verbal sadomasochistic innuendos.

If Madam’s hands were at my head, whose hands turned the winch? 

“Who is it?” I blurted in disconcertion. “What’s going on?”  

Madam laughed. A wicked laugh. Then she lowered her face. I felt her breath through the cloth of the hood.

“Do not be afraid of It. My pet is obedient.”

“Who is it?”

It has no name.”

The winch stopped. Despite my apprehension, the sense of comfort, being under total control, returned. Then, while Madam’s hands continued to cradle my head, her voice remaining proximate, the lubricated hand once again began to work a shaft firmer then ever. The unknown, the intrigue, of being restrained and exposed to someone unseen... ‘It’... brought forth another level of depraved delight.

“Did you really think that a woman of dominance would stoop so low as to masturbate you?” Madam inquired with a snicker. “It takes great glee in forcing you to ejaculate.”

The hand, gifted I had come to conclude, began it’s magic. By now my reaction was ingrained. The horror of not knowing who or what masturbated me brought no physical retrenchment. Stiff as ever, if not stiffer, I soaked up the slow controlling hand job. Madam, very much aware of my emotional dread, became enthused, my tumescent physical reaction defying my concern.    

“You have not before been fellated by It. The tongue and lips are equally talented. You’ll be sucked for hours and not climax. Did you know such can become a form of torture? Held at the edge for hours without relief? It knows exactly where the male organs are in the ejaculatory process and can withhold and withhold and withhold.”

I began to struggle against bonds I knew to be most ineluctable. Fruitless, I knew, but what other response was available?

“Say the word and It will accommodate. A blow job without end... nirvana for the sexually subservient male.”

Damn this woman. Who is It? More important... what is It? And the gender?.. Not to be divulged.

I remained silent. What should I do? There will be repugnance if It is a guy. The homophobia will sicken. But if female... and the tongue and lips are indeed as adroit as the hand? Nirvana indeed.

“Just a little tongue work, my pet,” Madam making the decision for me.


“Yes. And remember only obedient boys ejaculate for me. Very naughty of you.”

The hand slowly smoothed downward to hold my penis shaft at the base. Then as Madam commanded, the tongue work began. The tip fluttered about most teasingly just at the underside of the head. Just where some 80% of male sexual pleasure is experienced. Exquisite... delightful... but frustratingly evanescent, for it quickly withdrew, the hand sensing a pending eruption which apparently was not to be permitted.

“That’s enough, It, Mr. Grieves has been naughty.”

And just as expected with a woman of authority... that indeed was enough. The tongue withdrew. The hand released my shaft. I just laid there feeling my incredibly engorged penis throbbing.

“Perhaps with your next visit...” 

I was sent home in great need.