'To Serve Intact' XIV

Master crops, desiring a steady but challenging pace. There is no leisure under her tutelage. She works me and I have come to enjoy the sense of performing... of pleasing.

We leave the town square. A tug on the right rein and I instantly turn, not a thought to be conjured. The path leads not to her palatial home but to the water, the island’s dock.    

It is down hill, the speed sufficient. I put aside thoughts of the drudgery of the return uphill trip. I put all thoughts aside. I do... not think.

Another tug, a left turn. Into view comes the lengthy strip of pilings and planks jutting into the Atlantic Ocean. There is a boat, in the distance the coast of the main land. Standing on the dock, regal, tall yet with notable breasts, a woman. Blonde, her white somewhat tanned skin contrasts sharply with the sun blackened flesh of the local naked males, scurrying about to unload the craft. She waves, apparently responding to Master’s gesture of greeting. I feel the sting of the crop and somewhat lurch not expecting the unneeded encouragement.

The firm stroke is merely for show, Master demonstrating her unbridled authority. The woman smiles broadly, not a hint of demureness in being surrounded by exposed subservient males... and approached by an equally exposed human steed.  

The woman seems familiar but I have not opportunity to gaze. Master turns me to face away then sharply tugs to bring the brisk run to an end. She dismounts.

The ginger juice has diluted, yet the Viagra causes my penis to remain firm. Master notes, standing proximate with a welcomed plastic bottle, thrusting the attached straw past my bit and squeezing to hydrate.

“Good boy. Keep yourself up for me. You have a special visitor and I think she will very much enjoy your subjugation. And I know you so much like to humble yourself before women...”

Her left foot slips forward. Incredibly I feel the cloth of her covered thigh press against my upturned penis. It is rare that she so blatantly lets me frottage. When she feels my hips thrust forth, futilely contesting the total denial, she smiles then softly laughs.

“Yes keep yourself nice and firm for me.”   

I swallow. The bottle empties. Sadly her leg withdraws. Behind me I hear thuds and feel the prongs of the chariot stress my waist belt. The naked obedient natives are loading the chariot.

“You’ll need to work hard for me... returning to the house. I have a guest,” a finger playfully tapping my nose.

Uphill, a fully laden chariot, yes I will be worked hard. Then comes the voice... the blonde woman... and more familiarity... I know it.

“So you gave the Captain a reprieve,” the woman’s tone sardonic, suggesting Master’s mercy to be misplaced.

My mind focuses. She knows my rank... my former rank... in the special forces. We have met... we have had dealings... bad dealings. And here I stand naked, bridled, harnessed... my penis performing like a trained circus animal. I blush, my heart pounding. I have become accustomed to displaying myself to the women of the island... the gynecocracy. But not before... her!

I feel rage. Master seems to be aware, hooking her right finger through the bridle strap to the left, a symbolic gesture... demonstrating her governance... my subservience. She knows presciently of the intensity of my reaction, making sure I am steady and well under feminine control as the woman steps to my front. She smiles wickedly, arms akimbo in a most authoritative pose. She visually examines... I cannot deny her scrutiny.

Yes, regal, athletic, surprisingly well endowed... and I must stand before her totally exposed, my well muscled, well exercised, toned male form brought to total submission.

And the subjugation... with penis standing she seems to know I enjoy!

“The Emperor has been kind to you, Captain. Certainly kinder than I would have been.”

I cannot move. I cannot talk... I would so much like to physically avenge... and say... words of invective. But Master remains holding my bridle and the bit mandates silence.

“I like the diamonds, though they must aggravate... tsk, tsk,” her words mocking my bejeweled manhood.

“Have you had a male perform for you in harness before, Genevieve?” Master inquires, ignoring the sarcasm.

“In suspension. With males, I just prefer to whip. The only performance expected is to beg, shed tears and then faint.”

“But that’s so evanescent. Train a good steed and you can put him under the whip and crop for hours.”  

“Guess I will have to learn.”

I am watered more, the plastic straw thrust past my bit, my altered teeth not to inhibit the introduction of mass quantities of liquid. I gulp. Then I am shocked to see Master hand the woman her crop. I am appalled. I want to perform for Master. I want to perform mayhem on this ‘Genevieve’. The woman notes my look of disconcertion and smirks, slapping the business end of the crop into her left palm. It is a masculine gesture and it evidences her comfort with instruments of correction and encouragement.

Then begins polite conversation, questions about this ‘Genevieve’s’ journey as the women step from view behind me and I feel the prongs of the Chariot shift to further stress my waist belt.

“Can he handle us both?’ Genevieve inquires.

“He will have to,” Master’s reply coming as my foremost memory of ‘Genevieve’ rolls forth...

Segment XIV to be posted Wednesday

To move things along, I will post 'To Serve Intact' XIV on Wednesday May 30, 2012.


Hope all are enjoyng the story

'To Serve Intact' XIII

The trip to the village was quick. Despite the heavily loaded chariot... Master and some dozen shackles and chains... I pulled with vigor. Yes, as Master mounted, Brandi’s caring fingers splayed my buttocks and inserted Jackie’s ‘gift’... a stout plug of ginger root... figging me.

The effect is threefold... first setting afire my anus... second spurring incomparable firmness in an organ already steeled by desire and Viagra... third inspiring a need to run, working into a rapid sweat to dilute the plug’s juices.

The latter does not work of course... but Master is quite proud of the results. And she needs not apply the crop. My speed has sufficed.

Yes, entering the village square being transported by a well harnessed perspiration coated Caucasian makes quite the impression among the African locals. With every outing, every moment exposed to the sun, I am coated with sun block, keeping my bare flesh alabaster. I am akin to the white stallion of a Hollywood adventure script, the ooos and ahhhs of the native islanders I am sure bringing a smile of Schadenfreude to Master. 

The right rein tightens directing me to circle once the poster board and punishment platform where public fellatio is performed by offending males.

Master dismounts, snapping her fingers. Two naked local males scurry forth. She directs the many shackles and chains to be placed on the platform. Then she mounts the low stage and unfurls a rolled piece of paper... a poster with sizable print. A crowd gathers, many feminine eyes admiring the state of my penis, standing in tribute to Master.

“More dictates,” Master announces in her authoritative voice.

“Dictate number three... no male is to use the toilet without both the permission and supervision of a woman.”

Master pauses for effect then continues in a lower tone.  

“Too much temptation to play when permitted the seclusion of the bathroom. This rule is corollary to the ban on masturbation. And I recommend whenever possible the direction of the penis be controlled by a woman as well. Males are not to touch themselves there.”

The crowd collectively snickers. Master has further empowered, the island males not daring to disobey, her elastrator quick, her hands determined. 

“Dictate number four... males both young and old will be bathed by a woman.”

Another pause. Then the voice again lowers to offer more explanation.

“Mother’s, aunts, sisters, cousins... males are not to touch themselves... even in washing themselves. I strongly recommend the male be bathed by more than one woman, perhaps a group. Intimacy is not to be offered.”

This time there are murmurs of appreciation, the dictate wickedly thoughtful in furthering the goal... of gynecocracy.

The male body, already constantly exposed and displayed, will now be open to cleansing... examining, palpating fingers and feminine hands explicitly given the right of access by the Emperor’s potentate. Women’s bodies remain private and intimate... all males are to concede access... to any and all.

“Dictate number five... all males will be fed... from a woman’s hand. Food will be a reward. For obedience. To be earned, never expected... and certainly never demanded.”

“Dictate number six... all males are to be anally plugged. And all women have the right to inspect to ensure appropriate tightness.”

There comes raucous laughter. I note the observing males cower in horror.

“I want the boys and men of the island to constantly feel a woman’s governance. Anal plugs will be made available. I suggest women make the insertion to assure the initial proper tightness. Keep in mind... if it comfortably fits... it’s not large enough.”

Master pauses, gesturing to the pile of iron on the platform.

“Dictate number seven... it shall be the right of every mother, sister and wife to shackle the male.”

Master bends and reaches to pick up and hold high some links of wrought iron, thick open circles seeming to beckon a male limb.

“More will be provided if necessary. I think you will all find that the mental side of subservience comes easier with physical restraint and constant reminders of control. I have also ordered humblers. If you have not placed a male into one of the cleverly simple devices I suggest every woman learn to use it... and often.”

As Master speaks, the fire of the ginger root renews, in being held stationary the juices more readily absorbed. The effect is amazing. Despite the burning, my erection turns to stone. I feel the tip, purple I am sure, further rise to abrade my lower belly. An island woman notes, her eyes wandering as Master turns to post her latest dictates. She leans and whispers to a boy, naked of course. He shakes his head. Then she slaps his buttocks and he reluctantly steps forth to kneel in front of me.

Yoked and bound, harnessed and bridled, I can do little to resist as small hands reach up to cup well displayed testicles, then tenderly knead. He looks with concern to the woman... mother? Aunt? Older sister? She nods, her look stern. Then she offers a flat hand, that which spanked. A gesture of warning.

With that I tension the reins to look downward, my lower peripheral vision seeing the neck crane, the face point upwards, the tongue extend. The boy licks, my hairless scrotum coated with sweat. It feels good. It feels repulsive. Though the tongue falters, the bisexuality forced, the boy obediently offers his tendance. How many others has he been made to lick? 
 
Yet he knows to avoid the penis, the hyper sensitive underside of the upturned tip where ultimate male pleasure leads to climax. To bring me to climax without an express command can be dire.

That is not permitted, not without feminine direction and approval.

Master steps from the low stage and approaches her steed. She looks on approvingly as the boy teasingly licks, my hard on not to waver... yet ejaculation never to be attained.

“He’s a good cock tease,” Master notes.

The boy’s governess proudly steps forth, joining Master in admiring the boy’s laving tongue.

“I exercise and stretch his tongue daily. When he licks well I condition him, associating the licking of the male genitals with pleasure by feathering him to have him show me a nice erection... but that is all of course,” the woman gleefully offers.

Master nods adding, “boys with long, strong tongues make good servants. It will keep him out of the fields and away from the whip.”

“Enough lad. Master must depart,” mother, sister, cousin directs.

I am both disappointed and heartened when the tongue retracts and the boy stands. I note the boyhood sized penis has firmed. As suggested he has been psychologically trained, bisexually adapted to serve all with tongue and lips... and to enjoy. Mentally I am sure he senses his governess’s feather and I envision the many hours of forced tongue exercise.

“Can he deep throat? Perhaps when ready he will fellate for us in the town square,” Master suggests, referencing the weekly displays of feminine power.

“I am sure, as I train him most diligently, he will relish both the humiliation and the subjugation of offering another male the ultimate... while he remains denied of course.”

Master nods, “it is best. Male pride can be such a distraction to complete servitude.”

I am chagrined when Master steps to my front and I feel her fingers at my penis tip. No, not here... my mind panicking... not in the town square before so many!

“I am sure Brandi watered you well. And I don’t want to have to stop on the way home,”

The urethral agitator is pressed and slipped out. I am indeed full, my bladder brimming with the insistent offerings of Brandi. But here! Before dozens of onlookers!

Master graciously places her left hand over my eyes. She leans. I feel a brisance of joy, sensing her touch, the warmth of her breath. She whispers, her nearness bringing goose bumps.

“Be a good boy for me. I spared your balls so you could show off for me.”

She has indeed. And with the Viagra, the ginger and the warm wet tongue bath, I am in fact pleasing.

Urinating while erect is possible, but the required concentration is intense. Usually I perform for her in some distant location, secluded, the dusty soil of the African climate seeming to welcome rare moisture. Just me and Master, intimate moments of bringing her the joy of mastering the male.

But the town square?

A free hand lowers to my chest. She toys, diddling right nipple then left. She shushes into my ear. She is divine... divine in her touch... her words... her care. I am in want of nothing... fed... exercised... bathed. And I have my testicles. She condescends, graciously letting me remain intact. I do so much want to please...

Master senses my pressing, contracting muscles, straining. I sense her step aside just as I am able to muster a flow. I feel the sting of urine pass through a slightly irritated urethra. I hear laughter. I know a strong flow arches upwards then splatters to the compacted soil of the square. Then Master removes her hand from my eyes. More of her authority, forcing me to perform for her as I must look into the many faces of island women... some adoring her control... some mocking my humiliation... some appreciating my diamond studded rock hard manhood. So virile... so much under feminine control.

I finish. Master leans from the side. Another brisance as she whispers in my left ear and reaches to knead my right, stimulating the curious erogenous zones.

“Good boy. A nice show for me. The girls are all so envious,” offering a light knowing laugh.

She mounts, the prongs stressing my waist belt. Though it is not needed, my obedience and response to the reins without waver, she crops my buttocks and tugs firmly. My feet instantly respond. I lean. My leg muscles contract. I pull. As the chariot accelerates I feel an inner warmth... a degree of pride.

A frightfully simple existence... but it is all I have... along with my balls.
  

Author's Inquiry

For some reason I cannot get the Lulu software to accept my manuscripts and publish such in 'E Book' format. Tried reformatting my stuff and nothing works. 

So, I am quitting the effort. It's a guessing game attempting to correct, I do not understand all the idioms Lulu throws out, and I have better use for my time (like writing stuff for you readers).

Thus my question... if I publish on Lulu in PDF format can the manuscripts be read on the Kindle, Nook, Apple and other Ebook media devices? 

I believe (hopefully) the only difference is that a PDF file can be read but also shared and transmitted while an E Book cannot. I am not concerned about sharing abuse, we perverts are possessive. 

Can someone confirm one way or the other?

'To Serve Intact' XII

Master returns. I am heartened. Though I have been well acclimated... having been indoctrinated on the strange machine at the prison... being forced to exercise walking in circles, ankles hobbled, is mentally grueling, not to mention the physical, of course. I know Master will run me, being as eager as I am to put me on display, my penis freed to stand and be exhibited to all. Though bitted, bridled and harnessed, the relative freedom of movement thrills.

And so it is another bright sunny day on the tropical African island as a naked Brandi completes my morning care. I know I am to be run, water is forced into me, a second quart bottle squeezed into my mouth, one set of fingers pinching closed my nostrils another holding closed my lips. In order to inhale without choking I must swallow. Cute and neutered, Brandi is most determined when it comes to the mandatory care allotted.

Lastly a pill is slipped into my mouth and with a final squeeze of the water bottle, I swallow again.

Yoke freed of the floor brackets, ankle bands released, I am led to the tacking area, mindfully following a finger thrust through my nose ring. The bit is effortlessly pressed to my altered dentation, a head bridle strapped in place to firmly hold it in place and then reins are attached. As Brandi buckles a broad waist belt, that which makes me one with the wheeled conveyance, Master’s sonorous authoritative voice calls out from the porch.

“No anal hook today, Brandi. I want him figged.”   

Brandi smiles wickedly, putting aside the devilishly shaped steel implement and moving to the final preparatory step, attaching the prongs. Today the human pony cart not to be pulled, instead  my waist belt is attached to the prongs of a heavier chariot.

I begin to feel twinges, my penis attempting to harden, knowing that Master will soon have the infibulating wire removed... to gloat in curious feminine pride as tribute to her superiority is paid.

But there is more, a stronger urge, one beyond that which I can normally suppress. Despite the mental discipline developed over the months of naked servitude, my manhood disobeys, swelling to fight its entrapment. Punishment is quick, physical rebuke for attempting to harden other then under Master’s purview. The engorging tip greets the infibulating wire and injures itself. I wince, repressing a groan. I do not understand this seemingly outsized physical need to harden.

Finally Master exits the house. Following is Jackie, naked but for brief kitchen apron, bejeweled, hair effeminately coifed. Another neutered and naked servant follows him/her. Their upturned arms are piled with steel... chains... cuffs... shackles.   

Master notes my predicament, my penis shaft firming but of course the trapped head remaining painfully ensheathed.

“I see Brandi offered the Viagra. I know how much my beast enjoys showing off. Curious how quickly it works... and so effectively.”

Viagra! There is no end to the depravity... the depths of feminine control. 

Radiant as always Master stands before me arms akimbo as her servants load the chariot. I feel the prongs shift under the load, many pounds of metal loaded. I will be physically tested... in addition to having to mentally attempt flaccidity... patiently made to wait for my penis to be relieved of infibulation.

To beg, I gasp into the bit, the beseeching words indiscernible. Master laughs.

“But you males always take such pride in achieving a nice big erection. Now second thoughts?” she mockingly inquires.

Brandi pops from the stable and hands Master my urethral agitator, set in place to inhibit urination whenever I am not infibulated. Normally I shrink in spying the wicked spiked cylinder. Now I do not. It bides well, my penis to be freed.

Still there is more torment to be endured as Master instructs to Jackie to return to the kitchen for her ‘gift’.

“I do hope you appreciate her efforts. She arose early to carve the largest finger of ginger root she could find... just for you.”

'To Serve Intact' XI

Lathered on the grooming table, I reflect on the grueling day, being endlessly walked in circles. The capstan turned and turned without relent. I once again subordinated myself to a machine for hour after hour.

Thus as Brandi adoringly massages, including a good brisk testicular rub down of course, I am grateful for her tendance... an opportunity to rest.

Displayed as an object, a symbol of feminine authority, the girl leisurely ‘dressed’ her beau... clothes pin after clothes pin... to his scrotum... to the meat of his mammary glands encircling the nipple pins... down one side of his turgid penis then up the other. He winced, he moaned, but he protested not, his hands obediently folded to the back of his head.

All while observing my subjugation, leashed and compelled to be subservient to a mechanical device. Did my exhibition serve as a catalyst for his priapic reaction? The soft but dominant words of the girl? Perhaps having his forced nakedness displayed before the fully clothed pretty girl, the powerful psychological contrast highlighted by a diddling finger so gingerly and faintly applied to the very tip of his upturned stiff manhood, spurred his arousal despite having to endure the steady suffering of clothes pin after clothes pin.

Having finished her wine and a sumptuous meal, the boy offered none, having applied dozens of pins, the girl moved to seat herself atop the table at the edge, facing me and the controlling device and guiding pole. She then snapped her fingers and pointed to the soil between her dangling feet. The youth shuffled, the many clothes pins bobbing about. He knelt between her knees, hands remaining where demanded. Then the girl lifted the hem of her flowing flimsy sarong. It became time for oral servitude, the lad’s head dipping then slipping forward between her knees and under the flowing colorful garb.

So I labored away, watching as best as my nose restraint permitted as the naked chastised islander performed cunnilingus, my well bound nakedness serving to spur the girl’s concupiscence no doubt.

Sounds of wet flesh, moans of pleasure, sighs of delight, yes, the girl laid back and wiled away the afternoon having her beau, physically tormented by the many gripping pins, emotionally tormented in being half masturbated, lick away beneath the billowing garment.

Master’s dictates, so simple but so effective in engendering a female led enclave.

Finally there came a stifled but climactic shriek of joy, the thighs squeezing tightly in what I imagined to be a thunderous orgasm. Then the girl lifted her feet to the boy’s shoulders and pushed. He fell backwards to the soil, the hormonal shift of the girl’s release rapidly transforming the sensitivity of her quim, the tongue and lips deemed to irritate rather than bring further delight.

In falling, the clothes pin at the right nipple snapped away, and the boy howled in intense agony, the pain ironic in exceeding that endured when the nub was first caressed and clothes pinned. The girl laughed. Sitting up she wriggled her finger, commanding the boy to pick up the freed pin and stand before her. The pin was returned in place with another howl, the nipple now hyper sensitive.   

She remained seated. He stood and the tip of the index finger renewed its slow teasing, tormentingly tantalizing circling motion at the underside of the penis tip. The organ waggled. Pre ejaculatory fluid streamed in excess... but no ultimate relief was granted.

That was it. The girl satiated with what I judged to be nearly an hour of oral servitude... the boy... torment and frustration.

Clothes pins remaining, the boy was instructed to stow the remnants of the picnic lunch and then the duo left, the many gripping implements bobbing about, evidencing a young girl’s wicked callousness.     

Brandi coats my cleansed form with a powerful chemical depilatory. I squirm as it burns, its weekly application assuring that the dignity of hair, however feeble the growth, is forever denied.  Then at last she rinses, a nice large fluffy towel drying. Finally after a long day of exhausting exertion, I am bedded, a dainty finger thrust through my nose ring to guide me to my mat.  
     
I never move without direction, a shepherding finger... a controlling leash. I never rest without restraint. Always under feminine control, Brandi secures the brackets about the ends of my yoke, my ankle bands likewise restrained to waiting rings embedded in the concrete floor. The hood brings darkness. It is welcomed.

Some thoughts

Viewers have been down almost every day this week including posting day, Saturday.

Not sure what's diverting everyone's attention. Lulu book sales are off too, but it appears in that case the reporting mechanism may be malfunctioning.

Any way, one half of 'To Serve Intact' has been posted, so expect a few more weeks before conclusion.

To be written is an epilogue which I will probably write first person, Dominant female. I am considering making this available on Lulu for a nominal fee (at that time I will post on Lulu the entire 'To Serve Intact' manuscript for free).

Any thoughts?

Economically, this blog thing has not fostered the pecunious state desired.

CB   

'To Serve Intact' X

Master is gone from the island. I am therefore not to be run in harness. Yet there is no respite, no opportunity to idle about. Brandi releases my penis for urination, dutifully slipping back the foreskin just enough to expose the urethral opening and hold in place a collection vessel. I need no invitation, my bladder brimming. The infibulation wire is replaced and next she frees my ankle bands. I then know to assume what is termed the ‘diaper’ position, lifting my legs, parting my knees such that my feet are drawn toward my head, my toes touching the steel of my bracketed yoke. She then inserts a suppository into my rectum. As stated, all excretions are supervised... well supervised. As Brandi awaits my bowel movement I am fed.

It is a morning ritual with which I am familiar, yet the intense humiliation brings twinges and memories of lying on that dungeon floor becoming erect while the Colonel, my Master, brought death and emasculation. Thus again my entrapped penis somewhat engorges bringing pain to myself, something so well understood by Master yet perplexing to me.

My business finished, Brandi wipes me clean then attaches a hobbling chain left ankle to right. Next the tender hands coat me in sun block lotion, the equatorial sun quite intense. Thereafter my nose ring is leashed, the hood removed and the yoke released.

It is curious how docilely and how alacritously I respond to such a dainty hand on the leash. I arise watching and moving, anticipating the slightest change in direction, shuffling my feet vigorously to assure adequate slack. My hobbling chain allows only a series of rapid half steps. Brandi looks backs and smiles, her gaze moving to a swaying penis and scrotum flopping about like a mass of jello.

To the corral, I will spend the morning once again subordinating myself to a machine. In the center of a barren, dusty parcel of Master’s sizable estate there rests a capstan with a long pole attached, some thirty feet in length. Though Brandi guides I know to step to the end. There a short cord awaits my nose ring. The leash is removed, the cord attached and Brandi prances to the capstan, her cute girlish buttocks rolling with disturbing allure. She adjusts, the pole rising, forcing me to my toes. Next she flips a switch and I prepare, knowing that as the motorized capstan turns, the pole will move and I must follow, forced to scamper in a broad circle about the corral.      

I am to be exercised.

******************************************************************************

Well into the morning a young island couple come to visit. Master enjoys exhibiting me, a naked well bound Caucasian quite the amusing sight amongst the dark skinned African populace. Thus  all are welcomed to view.

There will be a picnic. And what better form of entertainment then to watch as I must submit to a mechanized walker, my struggling feet causing my genitals to flutter about quite notably.

The girl is young and pretty, attired in a loose colorful flowing sarong so prevalent in the tropics, protecting from the sun but receptive to cooling breezes. And the boy... not a stitch of clothing. Master’s dictate number one.

As I circle about, the duo assemble at a wooden table, affording a close and unimpeded view of my nakedness.

I catch glimpses. The naked youth carries a pouch... food and drink. The girl sits. On this female led island enclave, she is to be served, I am sure feminine control of the male sex drive leading to many levels and facets of power exchange.

Control the libido... control the male.

The boy is athletically built yet reverent. I cannot help wondering if he has been forced to perform public fellatio, a straying hand violating Master’s dictate number two. If so, he will need to be most obedient, Master’s elastrator lies in wait for the second offense, the emasculating bands of rubber cheap and plentiful.

The table is spread, fruit, sandwiches, a bottle of wine. The boy completes the task as the girl gazes at me... in wonderment?.. in lust? The eyes are lively... mischievous.

She snaps her fingers and the boy kneels at her feet, placing his hands behind his head. He turns shifting about on his knees to face me. The duo talk as they watch. She smiling, he listening intently. Then as I complete another turn, one more of hundreds, I see his penis begins to stir. He is a lad of size and in constant nakedness, daily exposure to the African sub, the shaft is coal black. Thus as the foreskin retracts and the tip glistens, the pink flesh contrasts noticeably.

I cannot hear the words but something the girl is saying serves to augment his rapid engorgement. Then Brandi steps from the house, water bottle in hand. As stated I am kept well water in the hot sun, my bladder in constant need of relief.            

The boy’s gaze shifts to the naked hermaphrodite as Brandi’s buttocks jounce invitingly. She moves to the capstan and pauses. As my encircling form nears the picnic, she stops the machine. I am mere feet from the island duo, now displaying myself fully.

“You see how docile he is. Not a gesture of resistance,” the smooth voice of the island girl lectures.

I begin to better understand the subtleties of the seemingly casual congregation. The boy is being indoctrinated, the power imbued upon the island women explained by example.

Brandi approaches with the water bottle. Squeezable plastic, topped with an attached straw she reaches up and presses the tip into my mouth. Teeth ground to the gums, my lips readily yield. She squeezes. Water flows. I drink.   

“You see how well cared for is the Colonel’s beast. He has not a care in the world. He is owned. All of life’s responsibilities are now those of another... the woman to whom he belongs,” the girl’s voice soft yet offering her explanatory comments with authority.

The boy nods. The girl sips some wine, her free hand lowering to a penis now standing well. Viewing my bound nakedness... and I suppose the girl’s words of indoctrination have brought a curious reaction.

“His virility is no longer his... it belongs to his Master... to be displayed at her whim... to amuse... to entertain... to labor in harness when she requires conveyance,” the lecture continues.

The free hand wraps about the upstanding penis shaft. I note her grip is firm yet caring. At a young age she has handled before the turgid male organ, knowing to lower the angle of its projection to assure no untimely eruption. The boy grimaces, his organ desiring to point skyward. But he protests not and his hands remain complacently folded at the back of his head. There is no doubt who is in charge.

Meanwhile I gulp, the refreshing water welcomed... to a point. But as always I will be forced to imbibe more than I need or desire.

Finally the bottle empties, probably a quart or more ingested. Then Brandi’s attention turns to another need, freeing my entrapped penis for urination.

“You see how well he is controlled? He needs not give thought to anything,” the words come as the hand retreats, the penis returning to its desired angle, the bulbous tip rising to nearly his navel.

Brandi untwists the tight wire assuring my chastity. She slips it from its opening and slowly draws back my foreskin just enough to expose my pee hole. As always she pauses and I know I will empty myself with not only her hand in place... but before my young audience.

The girl smiles. There is not so much smugness but comforting satisfaction in seeing my massive frame brought to such intense subjugation. And in knowing that the scene in turn brings arousal to her naked cohort she seems to be in her element.

“Would you like to bear some pain for me? I think it will make you happy.”

The boy nods. There is reluctance but an understanding of the inevitable. With Master’s dictate number two, he cannot bring himself to climax. He must rely on the graces of the girl... or some other island woman. Thus in his state if intense arousal, there are only two outcomes... to remain frustratingly void of ultimate satiation... or cede to the girl’s desires. The male libido selects the latter of course. And the girl knows this, wise beyond her years in dealing with the male drive... so simple... so one dimensional.

From the pouch come clothes pins.

“I’m going to dress you,” she proclaims.

She twists on the bench of the table, more facing her kneeling and erect beau. Hands reach forth, fingers diddle the boy’s left nipple. She smiles, leaning to gently blow in the boy’s left ear. He shudders, goose bumps form, his erection waggles. Then the fingers retreat and fingers return with a clothes pin. She gathers up a modicum of male breast flesh and applies, pinching open the prongs and slowly closing on the pink nub with noted tenderness. The boy winces but his hands move not, obedience to a woman well ingrained.

Brandi observes with a smile, holding my penis to direct the expected flow away from my short hobbling chain. Finally I summon a flow, relieving myself as the girl reaches for another clothes pin. Yes the boy indeed will be dressed.      

The right nipple is likewise adorned, the fingers gentle, oddly contrasting the suffering meted.

I finish. Brandi slips down my foreskin. Though done with care, the studs painfully scrape as designed. As she aligns to return the infibulating wire, the girl lowers her right hand. The fingers roll into a loose fist, the index finger jutting forth to point.

The very tip oh so gently greets the underside of the upturned penis tip, the most sensual male erogenous zone.

Yes, someone on the island gynecocracy has taught well, the girl pinpointing where the male so wantonly seeks feminine attention.

And the boy shall have it... but not under his terms. She diddles, beginning a very slight rotating motion as Brandi scampers back to the capstan. The motor whirs and I know to turn, returning my mind to blank, my only thought to obeisantly follow the directing cord, my day’s exercise to continue.

The long pole begins its circular sweep. My feet begin the rapid shuffle mandated by the short hobbling chain. As the rotation returns me proximate to the table, I note the girl continues the slow circular motion, slight but steady, pre ejaculatory fluid beginning to ooze adding lubrication to her teasing effort. Then she abruptly stops, her finger maintaining contact, the soft warmth heightening the tantalization.

“I think you’d like another. Bear another clothes pin for me and I’ll continue. Otherwise I will just stop.”

The boy nods, the mental discipline impressive. I know he is desperate to stroke himself... but the consequences for so doing... to have to shamefully offer fellatio in the village square!

The girl retrieves another pin. This one finds its way to the scrotum, fingers caressing then gathering a tuft.

“You’re quite trainable,” the girl notes. “And you enjoy pleasing a woman of authority,” the words spoken as she releases the pin to convoke a groan of suffering.

As I circle and circle, the finger returns to resume the teasing, tantalizing, evanescent slight rotation. Such wicked torment!

And for some reason I know he will not be afforded climactic release.

In the girl’s mind... why bother?