Friday, June 29, 2012

What's next?


Need some input for more postings. Male Dom? Fem Dom? Theme? Pain? Something more subtle?

Wednesday, June 27, 2012

Conclusion/Epilogue 'To Serve Intact'


'Miss Genevieve and the Captain's Capitulation', epilogue to 'To Serve Intact' is now available from Lulu (as is the full story) at http://www.lulu.com/shop/chris-bellows/miss-genevieve-and-the-captains-capitulation/ebook/product-20196233.html. Price $4.00.

As noted, it is also available from Smashwords. http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/171883.

Enjoy.

CB

'To Serve Intact' XXII Final


The novelty has worn. Master, appearing to be a conquering gladiator in cropping the muscled buttocks of this mammoth human steed, seeks to otherwise impress the islanders with her power.

There is procured an ornate chariot, large, somewhat ostentatious, to be pulled by castrates. Yes, with the depleted strength of the hormone impaired former male, an entire trio is required. And the display of the well trussed naked male, scrotal sac emptied at a woman’s behest... by a woman’s hand... sends an equally vigorous message of gynecocracy... of land under the authority of a determined governess. 

Balls plundered by her hand, kept hooded in an amazing display of training and unfettered trust in their Master, the blinded trio labor in lockstep, feet thundering in unison, without sight most attentively responding to the lightest directing tug on the reins.

In achieving such exacting acquiescence, I am sure their training has been arduous and unending.

Costumed, briefly of course, coifed and bejeweled to appear identical, the Emperor mercifully gave the boys a reprieve from harsh incarceration, known to eventually either bring death or foster suicide. Yes, the local prison system is not designed or intended to rehabilitate... only serve as a symbol for deterrence. Perhaps even more aptly described as an orchard. Yes, plums ripening for Master to pluck.

In the African empire, crime is meted slow death... unless the Emperor relents and permits Master to ‘mercifully’ castrate and train. 

And so... what is to become of me?  

Not fettered in harness but kept exercised, I wile about and fantasize. First comes the illogical... release from the island... a return to society... free to roam... never again to feel the tightness of a leash... the constant constraint of bondage. Hands mobile. Able to touch... where the chaste male most desires to touch. Able to make love... to allure... to seduce.

But then come realistic thoughts. Freedom brings the awkwardness of disclosure for the Emperor and Master. I am a kept male... Caucasian... western... educated... such imprisonment not to be tolerated... not to be accepted among the nations of the cultured world.  

No, the Emperor is never to be in a position to have to explain. Thus, I will never leave the island.

But then, with my forced chastity no longer symbolic, perhaps a hand will be freed. My milkings have offered abundant seed. I remain fecund. Perhaps I will be permitted to spew... in climactic ecstasy rather then meekly coating Brandi’s dish in freezing numbness. Yes, a symbolic end to Master’s diabolic mastery! Orgasm!

Alas, why would she bother?

In my nirvana I conveniently forget about Miss Genevieve, her home completed, visiting on occasion. Mostly her time spent tormenting the local naked males while she languishes on the island between shadowy arms deals.

How could I forget her... her promise to own me?

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

“Remember, Genevieve, you now own... but he only stands for me,” Master’s tone is pleasant but firm, flexing the potency of her rule.

“Of course, Colonel. You know my thoughts on the wasteful vitality of the virile male.”

I am scared. I should be. For the past month or more, being held in reserve, so to speak, Master has come to be enamored by her castrates, the team seeming to proudly display the evidence of a woman’s ultimate governance over the male... neutering.

‘They crop marvelously,’ Master has quipped, uniform sets of stripes and welts adorning the effeminate flesh of well rounded cheeks. ‘And in not utilizing the elastrator the empty sacs nicely project my emasculation.’

It is true. The trio are not the ‘smoothies’ Master prefers as servants. The former gender of these castrates is apparent... as intended... tiny empty sacs flopping about with every well directed footstep. Though I have noted the penises tend to shrink, Master has countered that with some flamboyant jewelry which tends to draw both the eye... and the viewer’s quick conclusion as to her cruel alteration. Yes, the former male appendages are more bejeweled than mine!

At last I am to be run. Brandi harnesses me to a light riding cart. Miss Genevieve demands the anal hook, one of size, and as Brandi works it well within, I feel the twinges, the beginning of tumescence, the full achievement of which I suspect will not be permitted. Only in Master’s presence and at her whim.    

So I stand in the tacking area as Master and Miss Genevieve exchange thoughts. Bitted and bridled, I cannot offer words of farewell and the discomfort of my infibulated manhood futilely fighting its binding is diminished by my sense of loss and longing.

I will never again feel the security of Master’s controlling hand... in being exhibited, the sense of being needed... of pleasing... of proudly standing and displaying myself for her... the comfort of being owned... the simplicity of life with purpose well defined... the stability of having all needs fulfilled... humble needs... but needs never in want.

I am fed... bathed... exercised... and bedded. And in return I simply need to obey.

I am the wild beast that finds sanguineness in captivity... relieved of the unknown... the unexpected.     

Tears form... not of pain... but remorse. I shall miss Master. She saved me... protected me... graciously trained me to fulfill... a woman’s desires. Yet, there is more reason for remorse.

Master notes my lachrymal state and graciously steps to my side. A familiar sun blackened hand rises, a finger playfully tapping my nose for one last time. I whine into my bit. Master knows I want to speak and this final moment of frustration brings a smile.

I shall not.

“You’ve served well... and will continue to serve well. Miss Genevieve will end your frustration. It is best for you,” her index finger smoothing my left cheek to gather a long stream of moisture, her left thigh pressing forth to wondrously frottage against my penis and scrotum.

Her nearness, her touch, excites! Always!

But my heart throbs otherwise. I am to be neutered. Master knows this. After graciously offering a reprieve years ago, it has been deemed time.

“You’ll have your final moment of male pleasure. Then you will be trained to embrace the curious narcotic of pain. It can be addictive for those forever deprived of ecstasy... almost as addictive as for we who dispense it.”

I feel my waist belt tighten, bearing the stress of a laden cart. Mistress Genevieve has mounted. The reins are gathered. The woman I most despise returns to being in control, now permanently. Master steps away, her smile wry. She knows my testicles are doomed. Hog feed.

There comes a tug, a crisp expertly placed snap of the crop, a throaty ‘giddup’ and without thought I react. Muscles contracting, feet digging, I must labor, my training ingrained despite my abhorrence. Miss Genevieve quickly brings me to a demanding pace... to her new home... to my new life.

As I labor, I cannot help thinking of her words... ‘They all need thoroughness, men like this. They come to appreciate it. And that’s when I enjoy bringing the ultimate capitulation... slow castration. It sends a message... one never to be forgotten.’

Saturday, June 23, 2012

Smashwords

A good following on Smashwords. Quite the active site. Since 6/13, there have been 325 downloads of ‘To Serve Intact’.

The bad news, only 9 downloads of the epilogue ‘Miss Genevieve and the Captain's Capitulation’ (at a cost of $4.00).

So, the conclusion... folks on Smashwords really love free stuff. But it is perplexing that so many don’t care to read the conclusion.

'To Serve Intact' XXI


As Miss Genevieve’s house, the Emperor’s gift, is being built, Master’s capacious home serves as quarters. Her hospitality includes me and I find myself harnessed more often and run daily throughout the island.

Gleaming with sunblock lotion, the sun brings a glow to white, well muscled hairless flesh. Fettered with white leather reins and waist belt, this Caucasian male, the only one on the island, makes quite the impression... particularly when well cropped... which of course Miss Genevieve is given to do.   

So on a typical sunny day I am run hard, Miss Genevieve never satisfied with my performance. Strangely, I am grateful for the exertion. My penis remains infibulated, as always when not in Master’s presence, and the oxygen demanded by straining muscles promotes flaccidity. This brings curious looks from the empowered women of the island, normally Master running me with a raging hard on proceeding prongs, cart and rider.

We come across a small gathering of islanders. Two girls, teens, cute, lively mischievous eyes. There are two naked island boys. Ankles shackled. As Miss Genevieve pulls on my reins to slow I note that thick wrist cuffs are chained in front, partially encumbering the hands. I also note the remnants of Dictate Six... the flange of formidable butt plugs wedged between well rounded buttocks.

Miss Genevieve pulls more firmly bringing me to a halt. The girls look to me covetously... every island woman should own one... their thoughts apparent.
 
Miss Genevieve offers greetings. Words are exchanged. Two pairs of brothers and sisters... out for a walk... out for some fun.  

“Do they enjoy each other... your brothers?” Miss Genevieve inquires, dismounting the cart.

Males on the island remain silent unless words are demanded... an unwritten dictate which seems to evolve from the natural order of the gynecocracy.

The girls look at each and smile. One sister replies.

“They enjoy whatever we tell them to enjoy.”

Miss Genevieve nods, a twinkle coming to her eye as she notes that the boys begin to firm, the sight of an alluring blonde woman not often encountered. Plus I suppose the sizeable anal plugs will foster stimulation.

“You’ve kept them chaste. See how they harden in the presence of a woman? That is good. Discipline... no matter the age, girls. But there are times when your brothers should be rewarded. How are they at masturbating... performing for you?”

The girls breakout into raucous giggles.

“We don’t allow that. The hands are only shackled in front so we can better walk them,” the second girl explains.

“Well. Despite the prostate manipulation of the anal plugs, sometimes it is best they be permitted relief. But only at your behest of course... under your strict tutelage... always.”

The girls find themselves nodding.

Miss Genevieve steps forth, riding crop in hand. She uses the tip to diddle penis number one then turns slightly to offer like treatment to penis number two. The purple tips now thrust forth, sliding briskly from the mocha flesh of the foreskin. Miss Genevieve is amused... as are the girls. The boys look aghast.

“How about a contest? Have the boys masturbate each other. The loser is the boy who ejaculates first. The winner can then butt fuck him while he licks up his own seed. I assume their rectums have been opened and lubricated?”

The eyes of both girls open in wonderment with such a deviant and entertaining proposal. The boys, homophobia apparent, appear more horrorstruck, thoughts of such intimacy with a male bringing repugnance.

But what to do? What possible resistance is to be offered? Master’s elastrator awaits the disobedient... testicles removed with zeal on this island of feminine caprice.

“I think you’ll find they know exactly what to do. Have them kneel facing each other. They can reach each other just fine. And they’re both nicely sized so a good butt fucking will want to be avoided... isn’t that true boys?”

Of course it is. There are few things more revolting than touching another males privates... one is feeling his organ splitting your backside.

Boy number one quickly realizes that despite the intense humiliation... it can become more intense if he comes first and then must bend to accept the winner’s stiffness while ingesting his own wad of sperm. He thus grasps the penis of boy number two... and to strident girlish laughter begins to stroke.

And Miss Genevieve is correct in her assessment. Despite the aura of homophobic revulsion, the hand grips knowingly, the thumb gyrating the moist underside to impel more firmness. Yes, boys know how to handle the penis.

Boy number two must counter... and quickly. He in turn reaches and an amusing session of mutual masturbation begins.

What debauchery hath Miss Genevieve wrought?  

Meanwhile in observing the mastery of the female, my infibulated penis no longer spared by the demanding exertion, my own neglected organ defies me.

What is it about the scene of feminine dominion that so excites? Brings unwanted arousal?

Meanwhile the girls lend a hand, assisting in increasing the unwanted lust, embarrassing words, mocking the oddly achieved level of fervor as each boy labors to avoid anal penetration. Soft fingers tweak nipples, the girls heightening the sensory input. A free hand awaits, the ejaculate to be captured and returned orally to its spewing owner.

Miss Genevieve, that look of Schadenfreude radiating, snickers with the intensity of the scene. The women of the island can never lose in such encounters. Which boy spurts, consumes his juices then must bend and spread... which boy butt fucks in jubilation... is of little consequence.

It is the women of the island who ultimately triumph... always. 

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

'To Serve Intact' XX


Servicing a woman there... in the dark odoriferous crevice... smell and taste revolting... brings such mental conflict... particularly with a woman of Miss Genevieve’s beauty and shapeliness. Any place else, at another time, given freedom, given restored masculinity, I would be seducing... romancing... bringing her to ecstasy... under my auspices... my proud member frictioning the fleshy folds of her quim. Instead I lie hooded under her buttocks, licking in deference.

She is a stunning woman. Yet in disrobing, perhaps merely hiking up her pleated skirt, my eyes were not to feast, my hands not to touch. She just used me... for odious pleasure.

Returned to Master’s abode, the capstan turns. I prance, my nose ring tethered high to force me to my toes. Master and Miss Genevieve watch from the porch, wiling away a hot afternoon with a cold beverage as I am worked... and worked... and worked.

Master enjoys bringing me to a sweat while she relaxes. And as I circle, completing another lap to face the porch, it appears Miss Genevieve enjoys as well. Yet, perhaps it is the thought of the morning’s long session of analingus. She climaxed strongly, flooding my mouth with her juices.

I drank from her.

Despite being in Master’s presence, I am infibulated. She has chosen to have me worked while struggling to remain flaccid. And it is a struggle, my penis desperately wanting to display itself with a good stiff stand. It is psychologically ingrained. And should Master’s nod come, Brandi will step forth, remove the slim wire and I will harden. Such obedience... so firmly instilled.  

The hobbling chain has been removed. Yet with overhead tether taut, I must take small quick steps to minimize the stress. As a result my balls flop about, bringing mirthful looks. Brandi, in attendance as always, is particularly amused... the balls of the intact attract... her little plums succumbing to Master’s elastrator years ago.

Gratefully, the hood has been removed, any misstep bringing immediate agony and tearing of nostril flesh. Thus I step with deliberation, the controlling hand of a woman replaced by the crueler unrelenting armature of an unyielding machine.

I cannot hear the exchange of words. Is there a bargain being set... negotiation for my nakedness... my 270 lbs. of well muscled yet servile flesh?

I complete another turn. Master and Miss Genevieve arise and step from the porch. She wants, Miss Genevieve does, to own me... for the simple reason that she knows I despise her. And that she will take particular pleasure in assuring my despisement is for good reason. She will nurture it... make my loathing grow... like a well cultivated weed.

“Does he whip well?” Miss Genevieve inquires, the voices now within hearing range.

“I have not needed to be thorough in that respect. He’s quite obedient,” Master smiling in reply, the notion bringing fascination. “We have a protocol for indoctrinating subservient males... he took to it well.”

“They all need thoroughness, men like this. They come to appreciate it. And that’s when I enjoy bringing the ultimate capitulation... slow castration. It sends a message... one never to be forgotten.”

“He serves me best intact... for now,” Master’s ending words bringing horripilation.

She gives the expected nod to Brandi, standing at the ready near the machine’s control box. A knowing hand brings the rotation device to a pause. Then the cute naked castrate scampers forth, my infibulation wire to be removed.

The fingers deft and quick, the wire is slipped away. I can feel my foreskin begin to recede as an eager penis wants to show itself. I rejoice... normally. But to perform before the hated Miss Genevieve? It brings distress.

Still, Master’s presence serves as adequate catalyst. Plus she has Brandi kneel and lick my scrotum.

“Sweaty balls, Brandi. I know you cannot resist,” Master laughs as the tongue eagerly laves.

She does not. Yes, the tongue laps. My penis swells and rises, the diamonds scraping the tender glans as the foreskin retracts to expose a purple untouched tip, steadily swelling. Within seconds I stand for them... Master smiling in a curious maternal pride... Miss Genevieve with wickedness.

“I want to whip him. The islanders would benefit... a virile Caucasian reduced further by a woman... to be her pin cushion. It would augment the perception of your authority... and the dynamics of the female led regimen.”

Master steps forth. For some reason my erection waggles. She smiles again, noting the humble greeting, then pinches my cheek.    

“Would you enjoy that my beast? Being whipped a woman... one who so facilely outwitted you? All the ferocity, training and muscles... and you’re now naked, yoked and worked by a woman. Genevieve bested you. Should I grant her the trophy of your flesh?”

“Pwease no, Master,” my voice quavering in fear.

Master merely pats my cheek then nods to Brandi, a silent signal to return to the control box. The capstan resumes. With my first step I feel the burgeoning tip of my penis dip. But then come more twinges and it rises to press against my lower belly. I again curse myself, my psyche finding such odd arousal in the nakedness, bondage and threat of intense pain.

Perhaps, deep within, I would enjoy being whipped... the physical pain, the emotional trauma... the irony... such ignominious closure with the woman who duped all. Perhaps Miss Genevieve would do so in furs.

“No bastinado, Genevieve. I will need use of his feet,” the words fading as the capstan directs me away and the women return to the porch.

Saturday, June 16, 2012

'To Serve Intact' XIX


Master sent a message in having Brandi ice my penis and return the infibulating wire. That is... her steed is only permitted erection in her presence... and certainly only when she chooses.

So after enduring the jolt of coldness, my organ obediently shrinks and Brandi instantly returns me to forced flaccidity. Then my yoke is finally freed from the floor brackets and I hear the click of a leather leash attached to my nose ring. Hood remaining in place, I am dismayed to find that Miss Genevieve intends to walk me blinded.

“I’ll want a hobbling chain,” the authoritative directive obviously for Brandi.

To the sound of two more clicks a length of chain connects my ankle bands. Then I feel feminine fingers playfully pinch my right cheek.

“Bad boys sometimes kick... and though I very much enjoy punishing bad boys it’s too warm and sunny to work myself into a fury. Plus, when I flog a boy, I like to do so in the nude. It’s a rather singular scene of power exchange... but requires privacy.”

Such plants a curious thought, visions of the ravishing blonde meting excoriating strokes of leather as a priapic male endures both pain and lust. The woman, though hated, is alluring. That point I must concede. Yet further reflection is curtailed as the leash tensions and there comes a stab of pain, the myriad of nerve endings in my nose strongly suggesting instant obedience.

“Come... up,” her tone pleasant but firm.

Sightless, I must concentrate... and I must offer total trust to this woman of deceit, the catalyst of slaughter and castration.

I arise. Responding to slight tension, I step. Brandi has hobbled me well, my stride quite abbreviated.

“On your toes for me. Be a good boy,” feeling the tap of a riding crop on my buttocks.

My thoughts of vehement hate suggest resistance, yet I must obey, sensing more tension as Miss Genevieve apparently begins walking. Instinctively, on toes indeed, I follow recalling the lessons from the machine... the many, many weeks of standing, bending, sitting, lying in response to a mechanical device.  

My mind seethes, forced to so meekly follow the woman I loathe. Yet there is nothing, no resistance to be offered. She has handled men before, prescient in obviating my ability to kick. Plus yoked as always and blinded there is nothing to be done other than to minimize the painful tugs of the leash and avoid her crop bearing hand. And then come the twinges... down there.

What is it? Months of forced chastity. Yes. But my hatred for this woman, however beautiful, overwhelms. Yet my reaction is one of arousal. The firm voice. The directing hand. The ‘tap’ of leather... what brings forth this need to display myself?

The encased penis tip fights the tight wire and brings agony. Strangely it is welcomed, for that will encourage softness. Yet it comes not. Step after step, my addled mind tries to concentrate on flaccidity as I prance, the hobbling chain rattling notably.

Where she guides me I know not. But after many minutes the warming radiance of the sun terminates. Shade. I suspect she has strolled to a copse of trees, the uphill path hinting we are on a small hill overlooking Master’s abode.

“Sit.”

I do, the ground soft, covered in moss.

“So you only stand for the Colonel... your Master.”

“Yesh, Miss Genevieve. It is the rule. I am to be erect only in her presence and when she desires.”

“So your penis has capitulated... to a woman’s whim. It’s no longer yours, for the most part.”

I nod.

“Lie back.”

The leash slackens. I lie supine and hear the rustle of clothing.  

“Castrates have nimble tongues. Well trained, humble and eager to please. Still on occasion I enjoy oral servitude from the less eager... perhaps a male with reluctance... one in need of encouragement.”

I cannot imagine any level of reluctance until I sense Miss Genevieve straddling my face and lowering herself, pulling the leash over my head. I sense her feet at my ears. She sits facing my feet and the pungent aroma of her crevice fills my nostrils.

Her fingers begin to play about my entrapped penis, deliberately bringing more arousal. Such wickedness!

“Analingus, Captain. Knowing how much you despise me, there’s no reason for decorum. You’re going to service me where the castrated male finds reserve. And you’re going to learn to enjoy it.”        

Physical pain as Miss Genevieve encourages tumescence, mental trauma as her rectum greets my lips... such an urge for revenge... to bite! But with what?

Thursday, June 14, 2012

The elastrator


Ok guys, be forewarned.


Let's say you have a late night out with the guys... the cover story, a poker game. Except there is a visit to the strip club.


So you get home and the wife... girl friend... significant other... greets you with the above.


That is an elastrator and the real bad news... such sells on the internet for as low as $10. Worse...the constricting rubber bands are only 20 cents... and she will only need one.


I have published the completed novella, 'To Serve Intact', on Smashword (www.smashword.com) for free. Segments 19, 20, 21 & 22 will be posted here over the next two weeks to complete the story on the blog.


Also on Smashword is the epilogue available for $4.00


Enjoy


CB

Wednesday, June 13, 2012

To experiment?

I have learned about another self publishing venue, 'Smashword'.

Anyone have any thoughts or experience?

In general, better royalty cuts for authors plus they convert manuscripts more facilely than Lulu and into a variety of formats.

One drawback, they insist on cover art before placing anything in their 'Premium Catalogue' (which essentially promotes books to the likes of Amazon, Apple, Barnes etc... where the money is).

I have never placed much credence on cover art. In erotica such is ususally a 'come on' and nine times out of ten the sketches, photos, etc. have no relevance to the story inside the covers. Also it takes time and effort which I feel is better spent writing. For example the cover for 'Billie and Mary (available on Lulu) was graciously donoted by YPVS who conformed some existing Poser artwork to fit my needs. Then I had to trim and conform to Lulu specs.

Thereafter, as I have noted, I sold something like two hard cover copies in the ensuing twelve months. Not much reward for the effort.

With regard to erotica, one of the reasons I believe such is becoming very popular in Ebook format is the very fact that the reader is not displaying a racy, sordid cover while perusing on a train, subway or airplane... i.e, as opposed to a paperback, there is no display of the cover and that is preferred (akin to selling porn in the old brown paper bag).

Anyway, I will experiment, for now ignoring the entreaties to have cover art, and publish 'To Serve Intact' there for free as promised. The epilogue, to be sold at a nominal price, I will give some thought to.

Anyone who has thoughts or experience with Smashword please drop a note, here or chris_bellows @hotmail.com.

CB 
   

'To Serve Intact' XVIII


I do not sleep well. Brandi spends the night lying on top of me. Despite the repulsion, his/her soft and warm flesh serves to stimulate and of course with the infibulating wire in place, my penis struggles to firm and instead merely brings the agony of attempted arousal. Plus he/she is given to adoringly lick my nipples. More arousal.

The restlessness brings thought and reflection. There is not much else to occupy the mind when lying bound and hooded.

Miss Genevieve is more than imposing... she is threatening. She is a conniver, not only enriching herself with the overpayment from my oil company employer, but wheedling huge sums from the Emperor in return for deception resulting in macabre and castration. Also, in feeling her masterful strokes of the crop, not shrinking from applying corporal punishment to attain performance, she is apparently an accomplished flagellatrix.

So as I lie excogitating, fear of her potential ownership begins to overwhelm. With Master I am treasured. There is needed correction and encouragement, yes. But overall I am her prized show dog, a symbol of her authority, of the mastery of the governing female over the hapless male... strong... virile... but well controlled. Thus for best display, I am meticulously exercised... more than adequately fed... prinked and preened daily by the castrates. My skin is pampered, my comparatively extreme alabaster covering radiates, the African island populace quite impressed that a woman of color so facilely directs every aspect of my existence.

Strangely... I am needed... like a villain in a soap opera. Viewers may not find affinity with such, but he is essential to the plot. Yet what if Master tires of me? Or perhaps finds another Caucasian to symbolize feminine mastery?

I reflect on Miss Genevieve’s fucking of my mouth... at one point demonstrating her dominion and my vulnerability by thrusting to the very back of my throat... triggering the gag reflex. She laughed as I choked. And there was nothing I could do!

I so much wanted to bite... but even with jaws clenched, my filed incisors and bicuspids form an oral opening which beckons mischief.

In summation, in the mind of Miss Genevieve... I am potential hog feed... or perhaps are only my testicles. Yes, Miss Genevieve finds directing the male beast to be whimsical and entertaining. For Master it is an important expression of her power as the Emperor’s potentate.

Thoughts end as Brandi stirs. The pressing warmth of her body slides away. I feel my ankle bands being released and know to assistant in the morning ritual by contracting my stomach muscles as Brandi lifts my legs. Feet pulled to the brackets which secure my yoke, the bands are reattached. Then I feel fingers rummaging about my anus, the daily suppository to be thrust well within.

Demeaning... degrading... but I am not to think for a single moment that anything is under my control... right down to moving my bowels. I do so at the behest of others.

My infibulating wire is carefully slipped away and Brandi aligns the penis tip with a receptacle. Within minutes I empty myself of all wastes, my anus is wiped, my feet are released and my legs returned to the floor.

Next I am fed, hood remaining in place. Brandi will permit me to see when she so deems it necessary... a sightless human steed much more docile and easy with which to deal.

Next Brandi works about my feet and toes. A pedicure, no level of care too trifling for the Master’s human conveyance. Then, as I hear the tapping of boots, knowing Master’s purposeful gait, I smell acetone. What’s this?

“Good morning my beast. Did you sleep well?”

Yes, it is she and my heart leaps with her presence... she who is all... and so kind to inquire.   

“No Mashter,” speech impaired, my reply bringing a chuckle.

“Perhaps I did not work you enough. Maybe a couple of hours in the training pen and you’ll rest easier.”

She moves most proximate and I feel leather on my right cheek. I know to turn my head and lick her boot. Master so much enjoys the symbolic gesture.

“No please, Mashter. I am worn,” indeed quite worn from yesterday’s long session in harness.

“Just as well. Brandi is giving you a pedicure and painting your nails... a very nice blushing pink. Wouldn’t want you to muddy your feet. She’ll do your fingernails as well. It’s good for the psyche of the kept man to look pretty.”

Master’s nearness, my tongue paying homage to she I adore, brings unwanted stimulation. I cannot help myself. I have been indoctrinated to stand for her. Just the sound of her voice excites. With the painful attempt to swell for her, I somewhat squirm with the anguish.

“Brandi, let him harden for me while we speak.”

“Thank you Mashter,” gratitude expressed as Brandi unties and slips away that which is so small yet so effectively mandates chastity.

My foreskin steadily retracts and I grimace as the studs of the diamond piercings perform their function.

“Genevieve has taken a liking to you, my beast. You should feel complimented. Normally she prefers the neutered male... perhaps better described as those about to be neutered. She’s known to whip until a man begs for the relief of castration. A rather focused and determined woman.”

The words offer no comfort. Still I feel the expected twinges as erectile chambers freely engorge and I stiffen for Master. Showing appreciation, I lick with more fervor.

“She wants to own me,” I humbly express my concern.

Master laughs.

“Every woman on this island owns a male. So will Genevieve. Should I concur, the Emperor has given his blessing....”

“But I am yours. You spared me to serve you.”

“I spared you to amuse... and you will do so by serving whomever I designate. And it could be that castrating someone of your size and virility should be done with more savoir-faire than while lying naked in chains in a grimy warehouse. Have you ever thought about that?.. that I have chosen to humiliate and torment first then remove your testicles in a much more ignominious manner.” 

This exchange does not bode well. The matter is apparently under consideration. And it is disheartening to learn indeed that Miss Genevieve is accomplished with the whip. One cannot help wondering how long the male can withstand until he succumbs to the elastrator or some other instrument of castration.

She makes them beg to be altered!

Observing my consternation, my thoughtful silence, Master bends and graciously brushes a finger on my cheek.

“You’re amazingly erect, my beast. The subject both frightens and arouses. Why do you think that is?”

She chuckles and I know her gaze is on the organ that saved me, its impressive size and firmness gaining her attention... ‘something she must master’ I am sure were her thoughts. The scintillating diamonds designate that it is hers... the male phallus, bejeweled at a woman’s whim.

“Yes, the elastrator is effective and quick. Yet sometimes too quick. There are occasions when, for males of special status, it is better to clamp... slowly squeeze until the gonads pop. The pain can be exquisite...”

In noting that her words bring trembling, there comes soft laughter. Yet there are also twinges... down there.

More footsteps. It can only be Miss Genevieve. The castrated servants are kept barefoot.

“Your Jackie offers wondrous cunnilingus, Colonel,” the voice indeed Miss Genevieve. 

She nears, apparently focusing on my tumescence, as Brandi moves to my entrapped hands.

“So he stands for you. Perhaps you’ll permit some fellatio. Castrates so much enjoy the intact...” Miss Genevieve notes with enthusiasm. 

“Never. His energy is to be expended serving me... in harness. Not spewing his seed,” Master most stern in her proclamation.

I of course know this to be the demanded protocol. Still it disappointments to hear my state of chastity so adamantly reinforced.

“I like the nails... fuchsia... it contrasts nicely with his well muscled physique. A woman owns... the message is evident.”

Yes, moving from right hand to left, Brandi continues her handiwork, the smell of acetone stronger. As stated I am pampered, at times thinking of myself as the well groomed prize poodle at a dog show.

“I would like to walk him,” Miss Genevieve declares as Brandi completes her task.

“Brandi, ice him down then get Genevieve a leash.”

Saturday, June 9, 2012

'To Serve Intact' XVII


I kneel on the low wash table. My yoke is secured as always to brackets left and right, my ankle bands to rings forcing apart my knees and thighs. Sweat and caked mud vanish as Brandi douses with a warm comforting spray. This begins the ending part of the day which I both love and hate... placed in soothing, kneading, massaging hands... but those of an effeminate castrate.

I have apparently piqued the curiosity of this ‘Genevieve’ woman. As I am lathered, closing my eyes, pretending I am under the auspices of a pretty girl and not a male, the tall blonde returns to the stable building. She is radiant. Having changed she is casually attired in a silk blouse which does little to cloak abundant breasts, glass of wine in hand. But for the ghastly memory of useless clicking rifles and later the executions and neuterings, she is a woman I would attempt to seduce... in another life. Yes, I would conquer her, despite her size, apparent strength and brusk demeanor.

And now I kneel in thorough bondage, my well muscled 270 pounds instantly responding to the whim of a hermaphrodite, a directing finger curled into my nostril ring all that is required to demand instant obedience.      

As Brandi soaps my shoulders, fingers slipping beneath to toy with nipples she some how knows are hypersensitive in strict chastity, Genevieve steps to my rear. A free hand cups my swinging scrotum. A thumb abrades, feeling the testicles within. There comes a squeeze... not painful... but sending a message of authority... of control.

It is well received.

“I watched the Emperor’s hogs being fed, Captain. Most of your brigand cohorts ended life loyally serving by fattening swine for a palace feast... others ended life as a male, loyally serving by sacrificing their masculinity.”

Her tone is matter-of-fact, such chilling sang froid in describing the humble demise of so many.

She releases my sac, offering a chuckle in seeing my pardoned masculinity swing about between well parted thighs. Next she reaches to inspect my penis, now infibulated of course, quite the contrast from the upstanding pole which greeted her at the dock. She snickers and casually handles my organ as if inspecting fruit for purchase, apparently fascinated that something which stood so proudly can succumb so forthrightly to Brandi’s fingers and a thin strip of wire. Then as Brandi dutifully continues to clean, the woman steps to my front, left arm across her midsection, left hand casually grasping her right elbow as she raises the wine glass in her right.

“I am Miss Genevieve... as you’ve most likely perceived. The Emperor has rewarded my loyalty by gifting me with a vacation home here on the island. In my business, it’s not easy to find a location safe from the cutthroats with whom I must deal. So though it’s rather quiet and secluded here, there are certain attributes in which a woman such as me can find attraction.”

She sips. Then the wine glass lowers and the left hand extends, the index finger hooking into my nose ring. She slowly pulls to the left... smirking as her digit mandates that my face must follow. Then she amuses herself directing my face back to the right... then again to the left. Noting my immediate compliance, her smirk broadens to a smile... the term Schadenfreude quite apropos with the likes of a ‘Miss Genevieve’.

Yes, avoidance of pain dictates that I instantly follow the directing finger. Such frustration, ceding to this woman of repugnance. My heart pounds. My circulation rushes, the loathing coming to a boil. Yet I have no choice but to react with complete obeisance.

“Why?” in tempering what I would like to say, forced to put aside what I would like to do, the question raspily passes through altered teeth. I rarely speak.

“Why what? Why spend my idle time on an tropical island where estrogen rules and testosterone merely serves to frustrate?”

“Why the bad ammunition?”

Miss Genevieve cackles, finally settling herself and sipping more wine. Then she snaps her fingers, pointing toward the exit to direct Brandi from the stable.

“Give us a few minutes,” her voice most stentorian.

I hear the patter of bare feet, a most truckling Brandi departing.

“Is that how you spend your time in unending bondage, wondering why a woman would so effectively emasculate with disarmament? Goodness Captain, putting myself into a position in which I could feed the hogs some boyish testicles certainly brought me a thrill, but the Emperor’s money offered much more stimulation. You overpaid for the ammo... but the Emperor paid me five times that to ensure most was without powder charge.”

She cackles again, straining to repress her annoying expression of mirth.

“You were had... you and your employers. A complete set up. Your rebellion never had a chance.”

She pauses, the index finger tapping my nose just as Master does in offering affection.

“And you are now the only person who knows the truth... other than me and a few of the Emperor’s subjects. And that, Captain, puts me in a precarious position. Even arms dealers have a reputation to protect. So you and I are going to become very close. I have to assure our secret stays a secret. You will never leave this island... of that I can assure you.”

A warm hand smooths along my cheek. I curse myself... not only having to accept her touch, however gracious... but finding that it feels good.

“I know your type, Captain... quite evident in seeing you so proudly standing erect, in harness, reveling in your capitulation to a superior woman. You’re quite responsive to a woman’s caprice. Quite easily directed.

“You see, I know these things. You need to be with women such as me and the Colonel. After a career of bravado you found it was all an act... contrived. It was a role you were playing, feigning the macho soldier of fortune. But the Colonel has offered a more attractive role... and one you have come to cherish.”

There is a pause in her soliloquy as she sips. 

“So for one simple act of kindness, sparing both your life and your balls, you have allowed yourself to succumb to a woman... mentally... physically... emotionally. I think the mental bondage exceeds the physical, Captain. Bringing such simplicity. Not a care in the world. Just obey... respond to the crop... and harden of course.”

Such wicked truths! The presence of Miss Genevieve, memories of her duplicity... costly duplicity... have burst the bubble of fantasy. That of being owned... cared for... leaving behind the contrived role of jousting with danger and displaying inordinate courage. Once dauntlessly fighting for the freedom of others... I am now kept. And it oddly appeals. 

A hand smooths over my head bringing more frustration as I cannot repudiate her touch... and it serves to sooth. Then her index finger plunges into my mouth, my filed incisors seeming to welcome penetration. She momentarily diddles about, demonstrating my oral helplessness, then with two fingers begins a fucking motion...in ... out... in... out.

“When your Master tires of you... you’re to become mine. Another aspect of the Emperor’s appreciation. As a gracious gift, I will own you.”

I shudder... quite noticeably... and in sensing my trepidation, Miss Genevieve laughs again.

“Yes, I’ll also raise some hogs... here on the island. Whatever shall I feed them?..”  

Wednesday, June 6, 2012

'To Serve Intact' XVI


The chariot is burdensome indeed. There comes a tug on the reins, notably gruff, then a smack of the crop to right cheek then left. After months of laboring under Master’s tutelage, I note the crisp firmness. It is not the hand of Master... yet it is a hand that metes encouragement without compunction.

I seethe as I do whenever recalling the duplicity that brought death and castration to so many. There is hate and revulsion. Yet despite the proximity of the woman responsible I can do nothing. Yoked and harnessed, there is no vengeance to be slaked, instead I endure... her mocking words... her taunts... and now her crop bearing hand.

Trained, indoctrinated, strangely accepting of my bondage and servitude, there are no words of protest... can be no words of protest. The bit silences. Instead I humbly lean, dig in and pull. Well developed muscles, toned and worked daily for no other purpose, contract in earnest. The chariot instantly begins to roll despite the ponderous load. I suck air knowing oxygen will quickly be depleted.

And... I also feel familiar twinges in my loins... my penis further stirs. A commanding woman reigns supreme... this one not adulated... but hated. Still, my somatic reaction is the same. I further stiffen and labor to please.  

The path begins its rise to the plateau of the island. Feet and legs work fervently. There must be momentum built to ascend, this Genevieve instinctively knows and the stings of the crop continue. Over the slap of leather on perspiring flesh and the rumble of the chariot I hear pleasant conversation. Dispensing pain is by rote. The words are indiscernible but I know to include suggestions concerning the handling of the human equine.

‘Firmness,’ I imagine Master’s lecture ‘always direct with firmness. It is best for the kept male.’

The slope is slight but long, the strokes many, the sweat abundant. The limited velocity fails to offer the continuous self generated cooling breeze which serves to bring evaporation. Thus the sweat rolls to my ankles and feet causing dust to cling. The resulting mud begins to fling. Brandi will need to cleanse with diligence, her caring tending hands to be appreciated.

Nearing the apex the cart slows, the crop strokes increase. Mere paces from the luxury of a flat stretch of road, the hand begins to encourage with ardor, the crop slipping between my thighs and tapping upwards. I lurch... more in concern... more in fear than in pain. I have labored many months to assure I remain intact. Now the leather instrument of correction threatens.

My effort instantly renews and to the sound of girlish laughter, my zealous effort to save my precious gonads from the whim of feminine caprice fostering amusement, the chariot reaches the level plateau. Though there is well over a mile to the stable, I am much better able to adequately perform for Master and guest.

My feet pound. We accelerate. Despite my loathing of the woman who commands, I feel a degree of pride and accomplishment. When life is compacted to doing one thing, there is comfort in doing it well... no matter the circumstances.

The breezes cool. Perspiration evaporates. Caked mud remains. Threatening taps to my scrotum cease. Master’s abode comes into view. In imagining Brandi’s touch there comes renewed effort. Then I feel both reins tighten... the signal to slow. I obediently come to a walk then feel a hand about my cheeks, slipping into my cleft.

The plug of ginger root remains. Fingers grasp the flanged end. The bulbous insertion is jostled then twisted. It kneads the prostate. I am also surprised to feel the return of the burning sensation, remaining juice oozing to resume the searing encouragement of figging.

Master knows exertion has caused my penis to waver... knows that her steed needs to be erect... wants to be erect. I feel stirring. I need not look downward... cannot look downward... but know my penis tip engorges, my erection firms... my diamonds further rise and sparkle.

In reaching the stable entrance my manhood stands as desired. Brandi exits the wide door. Naked and neutered, a tiny flaccid appendage immediately proclaims her former gender despite the effeminate layers of gelatinous mocha flesh and the page boy coiffure.
  
The stress of the prongs eases as Master and guest step from the chariot.

“A castrate, how cute,” Genevieve gushes, seeing Brandi blush in response.

“Loyal and focused. They make excellent servants,” Master explains stepping to my front.

I am chagrined when she slips out the urethral agitator, normally a task for Brandi. I therefore know what is to come. Master wants me to show off, to exhibit the results of months of ingrained discipline, her thorough control.

But not before her!.. the woman I so much detest! 

I am stultified... yet I feel myself as stiff as ever.

“Psst, psst. Perform for me like a good boy. Show Genevieve how you so much enjoy pleasing and responding to women of authority.”

I close my eyes. I contract my muscles. There is a need. I am filled, over a quart ingested at the dock.

“No. Open your eyes. Look straight into Genevieve’s face.”

With total obedience, I do. Goose bumps form... the humiliation intense... yet a flow begins. A laughing Genevieve knows to quickly step to the side, peering intently. She so much enjoys my subjugation.

And I so much despise her... but I so much need to perform...

Saturday, June 2, 2012

'To Serve Intact' XV


An oil platform, well anchored off the coast of Africa. A very clandestine assembly, my employer, a major integrated oil company is not to be involved, no one to know that there has been a decision. Yes, the Emperor is bad for business, demanding mammoth bribes... holding hostage one the largest oil finds of the past two decades.

There is an assessment. With just a modicum of funding, the promise of freedom plus arms for the beleaguered subjects of the African empire, the despotic Emperor can be overthrown.

I do not do politics... sociology... prognosticate the psychology of rebellion. As stated... I train... I fight... and I am hired to effectuate someone else’s flawed analysis.

Money is no object, the value of the sought after oil in the billions. I procure weapons. The logistics simple, all supplies move under the cover of oil equipment. Missing... ammunition. Live rounds are not to be transported with guns and weapons. Not only are explosive and incendiary implements dangerous in areas where natural gas is flared, there must be control established. Rebellions can work two ways, oil companies not having the admiration of missionaries. 

And so there is the one missing element... live rounds. Such are arranged but under tight secrecy and control. The final acquisition and payment to be cautiously arranged on the deck of a company owned oil platform, 20 miles into the Atlantic, just over the horizon from the main land.

I arrive by helicopter, a satchel stuffed with cash. In landing I note a boat one half mile to the north... a tramp freighter, Joseph Conrad perhaps serving as first mate. It is that dingy. Such is the murky world of arms dealers.

I have a powerful light. Though bright and sunny my two flashes are returned with three from the freighter. Within minutes, a launch is lowered. It approaches. In the stern I am surprised to see a woman. Not many females in the grimy world of oil exploration... fewer in the sordid world of arms dealing.

Blonde, though sitting seemingly tall, well shaped, well endowed... regal.... I am impressed.

Within minutes she ascends to the landing pad of the oil platform. Millions in cash, I am also armed, not to rely on roustabouts for support in the well armed world of dealing in arms.

The woman, now known to me as Genevieve, is surprisingly calm and cool, and attractive. But such thoughts have to be put aside.

She remains silent, then finally gestures with her hands prompting me to speak first. She feigns a degree of docility I know serves not in selling firearms... illegal weapons.

“You have the ammo?” I finally inquire.

She nods, crossing her arms... more expression of calm confidence.

“You have the money?”

I nod and she flips her hands palm upwards, a gesture of ‘well?’.

I open the satchel careful not to let wads of greenbacks flutter in the ocean breezes.

“So now you will have the ammo,” a firm proclamation.

She directs a compatriot standing at the top of the metal stairway. He steps forth, ostensibly to take the satchel. I quickly close it and retract it from his grasp.

“Come now, Captain, you are well armed... we are not. With the payment, Miguel will signal the ship and your ammo will be unloaded and ferried here. While being transhipped, you shall have me... as security.”

She appeals to the prurient male mind and I contemplate the outcome of a deal gone bad... the oil company out millions while I procure an alluring blonde.  

‘Sorry boss... it was a tough day,’ a sheepish imaginative explanation.

I hand over the cash. Little do I know the purchase is for rounds that are dead... the top layer of every crate live... those bullets beneath without powder charge.

Deceit, the consequences of which rooting deeper than the loss of cash, funds which a major oil company earns back in minutes of the day. My cursorily trained rebels, their aim open to question, found any shooting skills acquired and honed to be superfluous. So many bravely fired... pulled the trigger at least... defied the Emperor, only to meet his well disciplined troops... and later the Colonel with her hypodermic needle and elastrator.

Yes, we were taken... duped... the calm, cool confident blonde selling blanks. Lying bound and naked every night, I seethe... asking myself... to what end? There is little cost savings in forgoing the powder charge. Live rounds vs. dead rounds... little dollar difference.

Why the mendacity?