'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.

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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?