Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Updates
For free, I have posted the complete manuscript for ‘Madam, Me and It’ on Smashwords (https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/255948). Here on the Blog it will run for two more parts, Numbers XVIII and XIX on December 1 and December 8.
Also on Smashwords, for $3.25 the first sequel is available, ‘Miss Pletcher’s Farm’ (some 22,000 words) (https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/255943). Since ‘Madam’ totals some 14,600 words, I am offering good value.
So once again I am experimenting to see just how many of the Smashwords vultures will read for free (scavenge) vs. actually purchasing, i.e. in my view envisioning the prospective reader as hunting and killing his/her prey rather than feasting on road kill.
I am working on a second sequel with a working title I am coming to dislike, so let’s term it unnamed for now. I am having trouble with the ending so I have put it aside which means it will be that much more difficult to complete. But I’ll get there. You readers have much to absorb in the meantime, assuming you’re willing to part with $3.25.
At this writing, ’To Serve Intact’ has been read 996 times on Smashwords with 16 readers buying the follow up. So 980 Smashwords readers don’t know the ending. Amazing! Yes, the term vulture seems apropos, never completing its meal. At 1,000 I am going to unpublish the manuscript, my patience with Smashwords readers wearing in terms of trying to attract commercial interest to my stuff.
Saturday, November 24, 2012
'Madam Me and It' Part XVII - Prepared
Prepared
I must assume it nears noon. And as desired, I am indeed exhausted. Should words be effective I would beg for some form of relief... just to lift a foot would be exquisite. But my ankles are closely secured, my wrists equally so, and the leash taut. The high broad neck collar inhibits even the slightest motion of my head.
Yet strangely, I somewhat harden, something not easily achieved of late. I am thus reminded of tales of those executed by hanging, the curious reaction to tension on the spinal nerves in fostering tumescence.
It is then that I hear the door knob rattle. Madam returns! I become a puppy eager to greet its master.
Alas, It enters, smiling, reveling in freedom, prancing like a young girl, under formed breasts bouncing, the letters of his branding rolling on feminine buttocks. It moves to the wall and begins assembling stuff on a tray. Meanwhile I quiver in fear, the testicles It so covets hanging and invitingly exposed.
“Bite me and I will have Madam pull your teeth,” I warn in desperation.
It smiles and approaches. My pubes is to be shaved and It adoringly lathers and works the razor, the hands soft and caring. But then more of my nakedness is lathered. Thighs, calves, buttocks. I am not hirsute, but have wisps which quickly and easily yield. A small stool is pushed adjacent. It mounts and arms, chest and back are likewise lathered and shaved.
Next my entire form is tenderly patted with a warm wet towel removing all traces of lotion. The caring touch, if that of a woman, would be appreciated. And though I have so often benefited, knowing now that the gentle fingers are those of a male... former male... I cringe in disgust.
But there is more. I am oiled, every inch of flesh kneaded, sensuously caressed. More disgust but my cramping muscles cherish the respite. I repress words of thanks.
I look to the mirror, my flesh glowing in the room light, a living statue.
Madam termed this the viewing room and that I was to be displayed. And so it is.
Finally attention is paid to my gluteal cleft. It lubricates and I recall his penetrating digits on that fateful day... the prolonged hand job... the bite... the amazing climax.
Yet, It is not to be denied his reward. He stows the tray and returns. With my organs at head height, he palms my testicles and begins to lick. I shudder... in repugnance?.. in joy?..
It is accomplished. A long tongue laps, laves, swishes and swirls. How many has he fellated under Madam’s direction?
My penis stiffens. It smiles. There is power in bringing arousal... something long denied him.
Then I hear voices and the door knob rattles again. For sure it must be Madam... and it is.
Saturday, November 17, 2012
'Madam Me and It' Part XVI - A Walk Home
A treat today. Two parts.
A Walk Home
Knowing of the potential for inordinate weight gain, for exercise I walked to Madam’s house of torment. So in returning to my apartment I have twenty minutes to think and revel in the renewed capacity of moving arms and legs.
Madam kept the pills. Her desire to have control impresses, equaling... exceeding... my quirky penchant for ceding it.
But in two or three days time, doctor’s paperwork completed, I shall have a fresh supply, I console myself. Yet meanwhile, I shall not only be physically leashed, but emotionally as well.
I try to assuage my concern, convincing myself that going one or two days without the medication cannot be too disastrous. But then the image of It comes to mind, and that tiny vestige of maleness so meekly dangling... useless other than to amuse and accept Madam’s catheter.
Degloving... how insidious! The organ modified to the point that it cannot even be touched!
Like the tide, Madam’s words, her monologue, ebb and flow about my cerebrum. My spirits rise in having this thing of mine satiated, my need for the tutelage of a commanding woman. But then my pluck subsides with the realization that what was formerly recreation is transforming to reality. It is a pet!
Is that what I want? To be kept... in a cage?
But do I have a choice? Dare I defy Madam, refuse to return to her and go days without hormones? And if so will any effects be reversed when I resume the medication?
I do not know... and cannot take the chance.
Then comes to mind Madam’s final directive... ‘I want to put you on display’. Will I indeed deep within enjoy that as well?
I make a note to call the doctor’s office, see if I can get word of the effect of skipping the dosage. But then I look at the time. Madam kept me caged for a good part of the day. It’s well after office hours and I shall not have opportunity to contact the doctor before the demanded appointment tomorrow morning.
So, I shall be obedient and inveigle one more pill, then make the determination as to whether I will need to grovel for more.
As I turn the last corner, I think of a toothless It. And I have no doubt that with a nod of my head Madam will indeed make him edentulous. Why stop with just castration, degloving, tattooing and branding?
A 9:00 a.m. Appointment
“Very prompt. Very obedient,” Madam compliments as she closes the door behind me.
To the dining room and I know to strip under her watchful gleeful eye.
“Cuffs, collar and leash today, Mr. Grieves. A little redundant but I think in time you’ll have your excitement.”
I am so adorned, expecting another dull stay caged on hands and knees. Instead the firm hand of Madam leads me back to the entry hall where a set of stair leads to the second floor.
“As you are now aware, I entertain a variety of clients... many tastes... many needs... many proclivities,” explaining as we ascend.
The old Victorian homestead is sizable, built in days when families of 6, 7, 8 were more prevalent than rare. I thus surmise many bedrooms... more likely bedrooms turned dungeons.
It was thoroughly caned somewhere in the house and I heard neither a thwack nor a whimper. The structure is vast, the walls thick.
“I term this the viewing and inspection room,” Madam leading past two closed doors to open a third.
We enter a room, probably at one time the master bedroom. The ceiling is high, the space considerable. Sparsely furnished, there is a knee high platform in the center, perhaps large enough to accommodate a vase of flowers... nothing more. To the right and left are comfortable couches. On the walls above are huge mirrors. The windows straight ahead are heavily draped, the material dark and thick. There is a horizontal wooden bar propped at waist height by posts left and right. Above the tiny platform there is a strong ominous steel hook attached to a heavy rope leading to a pulley at the ceiling.
Madam pulls me to the platform.
“Up,” she commands.
I so step, the surface just large enough for my feet. She loops the leash onto the steel hook. She then clips together my ankle cuffs, checks to assure my wrists cuffs are firmly secured behind my back and moves to the wall. There she tugs, the opposing end of the heavy rope moving downward. I feel my leash tighten, more, more and find I must rise to my toes.
“I’ll want you tired and nice and humble in greeting Miss Pletcher. So enjoy for now. And a good boy may get a nice pill later.”
May?
“You will be silent when displayed and inspected. A pill will be your reward for obedience.”
Madam departs, leaving me well bound and on toes. In shutting the door behind her I note the wall to the right of the doorway is littered with an array of implements, appearing to be medical. A dispensing box of latex gloves further evidences this assumption.
So once again I am to endure feminine caprice. I do not know when I will be lowered much less released. There is little mobility afforded to counter cramping muscles... and I know such will soon cramp.
But I can turn, carefully tapping my toes on the platform surface. Should I slip off the edge, I shall hang by my neck. When I face one of the large mirrors my nakedness seems to fill the room. I am disheartened to see that my scrotum remains discolored and Madam’s stretching, not noticeable when lying in the bathtub or doing my daily inspection, has resulted in my dormant testicles, once the envy of It, dangling at mid thigh.
But I am heartened to note that my form remains male. Though not athletic, I have monitored well my weight over the years, and I cannot help envisioning with concern the possible plumping effects of hormone deprivation... a la It.
And once again the dual torments of tedium and the unknown begin to wear... mentally and physically. How long? For what purpose? Will I indeed obtain the desperately needed medication?.. and who is Miss Pletcher?
A Walk Home
Knowing of the potential for inordinate weight gain, for exercise I walked to Madam’s house of torment. So in returning to my apartment I have twenty minutes to think and revel in the renewed capacity of moving arms and legs.
Madam kept the pills. Her desire to have control impresses, equaling... exceeding... my quirky penchant for ceding it.
But in two or three days time, doctor’s paperwork completed, I shall have a fresh supply, I console myself. Yet meanwhile, I shall not only be physically leashed, but emotionally as well.
I try to assuage my concern, convincing myself that going one or two days without the medication cannot be too disastrous. But then the image of It comes to mind, and that tiny vestige of maleness so meekly dangling... useless other than to amuse and accept Madam’s catheter.
Degloving... how insidious! The organ modified to the point that it cannot even be touched!
Like the tide, Madam’s words, her monologue, ebb and flow about my cerebrum. My spirits rise in having this thing of mine satiated, my need for the tutelage of a commanding woman. But then my pluck subsides with the realization that what was formerly recreation is transforming to reality. It is a pet!
Is that what I want? To be kept... in a cage?
But do I have a choice? Dare I defy Madam, refuse to return to her and go days without hormones? And if so will any effects be reversed when I resume the medication?
I do not know... and cannot take the chance.
Then comes to mind Madam’s final directive... ‘I want to put you on display’. Will I indeed deep within enjoy that as well?
I make a note to call the doctor’s office, see if I can get word of the effect of skipping the dosage. But then I look at the time. Madam kept me caged for a good part of the day. It’s well after office hours and I shall not have opportunity to contact the doctor before the demanded appointment tomorrow morning.
So, I shall be obedient and inveigle one more pill, then make the determination as to whether I will need to grovel for more.
As I turn the last corner, I think of a toothless It. And I have no doubt that with a nod of my head Madam will indeed make him edentulous. Why stop with just castration, degloving, tattooing and branding?
A 9:00 a.m. Appointment
“Very prompt. Very obedient,” Madam compliments as she closes the door behind me.
To the dining room and I know to strip under her watchful gleeful eye.
“Cuffs, collar and leash today, Mr. Grieves. A little redundant but I think in time you’ll have your excitement.”
I am so adorned, expecting another dull stay caged on hands and knees. Instead the firm hand of Madam leads me back to the entry hall where a set of stair leads to the second floor.
“As you are now aware, I entertain a variety of clients... many tastes... many needs... many proclivities,” explaining as we ascend.
The old Victorian homestead is sizable, built in days when families of 6, 7, 8 were more prevalent than rare. I thus surmise many bedrooms... more likely bedrooms turned dungeons.
It was thoroughly caned somewhere in the house and I heard neither a thwack nor a whimper. The structure is vast, the walls thick.
“I term this the viewing and inspection room,” Madam leading past two closed doors to open a third.
We enter a room, probably at one time the master bedroom. The ceiling is high, the space considerable. Sparsely furnished, there is a knee high platform in the center, perhaps large enough to accommodate a vase of flowers... nothing more. To the right and left are comfortable couches. On the walls above are huge mirrors. The windows straight ahead are heavily draped, the material dark and thick. There is a horizontal wooden bar propped at waist height by posts left and right. Above the tiny platform there is a strong ominous steel hook attached to a heavy rope leading to a pulley at the ceiling.
Madam pulls me to the platform.
“Up,” she commands.
I so step, the surface just large enough for my feet. She loops the leash onto the steel hook. She then clips together my ankle cuffs, checks to assure my wrists cuffs are firmly secured behind my back and moves to the wall. There she tugs, the opposing end of the heavy rope moving downward. I feel my leash tighten, more, more and find I must rise to my toes.
“I’ll want you tired and nice and humble in greeting Miss Pletcher. So enjoy for now. And a good boy may get a nice pill later.”
May?
“You will be silent when displayed and inspected. A pill will be your reward for obedience.”
Madam departs, leaving me well bound and on toes. In shutting the door behind her I note the wall to the right of the doorway is littered with an array of implements, appearing to be medical. A dispensing box of latex gloves further evidences this assumption.
So once again I am to endure feminine caprice. I do not know when I will be lowered much less released. There is little mobility afforded to counter cramping muscles... and I know such will soon cramp.
But I can turn, carefully tapping my toes on the platform surface. Should I slip off the edge, I shall hang by my neck. When I face one of the large mirrors my nakedness seems to fill the room. I am disheartened to see that my scrotum remains discolored and Madam’s stretching, not noticeable when lying in the bathtub or doing my daily inspection, has resulted in my dormant testicles, once the envy of It, dangling at mid thigh.
But I am heartened to note that my form remains male. Though not athletic, I have monitored well my weight over the years, and I cannot help envisioning with concern the possible plumping effects of hormone deprivation... a la It.
And once again the dual torments of tedium and the unknown begin to wear... mentally and physically. How long? For what purpose? Will I indeed obtain the desperately needed medication?.. and who is Miss Pletcher?
Saturday, November 10, 2012
'Madam Me and It' - Part XV - My Pill at Last
My Pill at Last
It gingerly crawls. He’s a mass of welts, though the tattooed flesh veils the many strokes of the cane. As Madam guides him back into his cage, the source of his awkward manner of conveyance becomes evident.
Bastinado. During the hours while my energy slowly ebbed, head drooping to stress the neck collar and leash, It has been the whipping boy for some sadistic woman who, as Madam suggested, relishes caning the subordinate male... or one time male. It appears the soles of the feet have received particular attention.
“Very good, It. Good boy,” Madam compliments as It humbly crawls within the confines of the steel bars and positions himself.
Within moments the wrists and ankles are tethered and the dangling chains are hooked to the intrusive ear loops. Despite the long painful beating he shall not lie in rest.
Having spent some two hours restrained in a similar position, the torment slow as muscles ache and cramp and the head begins to feel like a heavy block of granite, I begin to understand Its eagerness for release... even to greet a most sadistic woman.
The catheter tube is expertly slipped back into place, for Madam a daily task. And I note It lurches in pain with the handling of his penis, the acid baths making it constantly sore to the touch. Lastly It is intubated, which appears to offer the most discomfort, gagging as Madam heartlessly presses the large tube to the depths of his gullet.
“And how is Mr. Grieves?” finally turning her attention to me.
I remain silent, in awe of the callousness. It is a defacto piece of beef, poked and prodded, orifices penetrated at a woman’s whim.
Madam steps to the front, genuinely enthused in seeing how much my muscles yearn for motion, my energy depleted. She stoops and peers, my low hanging purple sac quite prominent between forcibly parted thighs.
“My goodness, I think your penis has shrunk almost half an inch,” she mocks knowing full well of the many effects of hormone imbalance.
“May I have my pills, please Madam?”
“Of course. First tell me how you feel? It has been well punished today. Does that offer satisfaction? I told my client he has been naughty, no details about the fateful bite. But she responded with quite the caning. Bastinado cannot be endured. It squealed and squealed.”
I say nothing. I cannot possibly believe that It is totally responsible for my castration. He does nothing without the firm direction of Madam. Still there is something within, a little glow, seeing the creature so well tormented. The agony of bastinado... searing pain... and applied reputedly to the largest set of nerves in the body.
Madam steps away and returns, chair in one hand glass of water in the other. She sits. It is apparent my silence it not to be accepted.
“So, held in strict bondage by a woman. You must be happy but so tired. And I am the only person who can offer relief. Yet, you’re also naughty. Silence does not fare well, Mr. Grieves. You’re not too many steps from Its fate. I may just shave your head and begin tattooing you. But please rest assured, I am more accomplished than when I began on It. I can now do better.”
Once again I shudder in fear and concern. Madam notices and laughs. Then she reaches into her pocket and extracts the pill bottle, holding it before me suggestively. She waves it about, the message... I am close... yet far.
“You like it... suffering for me. You even enjoy the isolation, kneeling in my cage, helpless, not knowing when I will return... if I will return. And the whole time your system slowly transforms, crying for chemicals your body can no longer produce.”
She pauses, smiling. She knows she is right.
“You hope for just a little mercy. Something as simple as untying your leash. Just a moment of time permitting you to lower your head. A brief respite. But how brief? And I just may tighten, forcing your head higher, beginning again the slow cascade of cramping tiring muscles.”
She opens the pill bottle. I look upon the tablets as I would a feast of delicacies. Is my penis shrinking? Are my nipples puffing? I need my dosage.
“At some point you must sleep and to do that I must slacken the leash. But you’ll not know when. It’s my caprice. You control nothing... not even the fate of your genitals.”
She laughs, her hand pressing through the bars palm up, the blue dose of hormones offered at last. I lick it from her hand. Then the water glass is offered, holding it to my lips.
Medication at last! I drink and swallow like a hungry dog, Madam quite amused.
“Tomorrow morning. Be here at 9:00 a.m. At some point in the day you’ll have another pill. But you’ll do some things for me first. I want to put you on display. Deep within you’ll enjoy that.”
She makes a point of tucking my pill bottle back into her pocket. With that she unlocks the cage and releases my right wrist knowing that will allow me to release left wrist, neck collar and ankles.
“Your clothes are in the dungeon.”
She arises and moves to the stairs.
“And Mr. Grieves. If you favor some revenge, I’ll have Its teeth pulled.”
It gingerly crawls. He’s a mass of welts, though the tattooed flesh veils the many strokes of the cane. As Madam guides him back into his cage, the source of his awkward manner of conveyance becomes evident.
Bastinado. During the hours while my energy slowly ebbed, head drooping to stress the neck collar and leash, It has been the whipping boy for some sadistic woman who, as Madam suggested, relishes caning the subordinate male... or one time male. It appears the soles of the feet have received particular attention.
“Very good, It. Good boy,” Madam compliments as It humbly crawls within the confines of the steel bars and positions himself.
Within moments the wrists and ankles are tethered and the dangling chains are hooked to the intrusive ear loops. Despite the long painful beating he shall not lie in rest.
Having spent some two hours restrained in a similar position, the torment slow as muscles ache and cramp and the head begins to feel like a heavy block of granite, I begin to understand Its eagerness for release... even to greet a most sadistic woman.
The catheter tube is expertly slipped back into place, for Madam a daily task. And I note It lurches in pain with the handling of his penis, the acid baths making it constantly sore to the touch. Lastly It is intubated, which appears to offer the most discomfort, gagging as Madam heartlessly presses the large tube to the depths of his gullet.
“And how is Mr. Grieves?” finally turning her attention to me.
I remain silent, in awe of the callousness. It is a defacto piece of beef, poked and prodded, orifices penetrated at a woman’s whim.
Madam steps to the front, genuinely enthused in seeing how much my muscles yearn for motion, my energy depleted. She stoops and peers, my low hanging purple sac quite prominent between forcibly parted thighs.
“My goodness, I think your penis has shrunk almost half an inch,” she mocks knowing full well of the many effects of hormone imbalance.
“May I have my pills, please Madam?”
“Of course. First tell me how you feel? It has been well punished today. Does that offer satisfaction? I told my client he has been naughty, no details about the fateful bite. But she responded with quite the caning. Bastinado cannot be endured. It squealed and squealed.”
I say nothing. I cannot possibly believe that It is totally responsible for my castration. He does nothing without the firm direction of Madam. Still there is something within, a little glow, seeing the creature so well tormented. The agony of bastinado... searing pain... and applied reputedly to the largest set of nerves in the body.
Madam steps away and returns, chair in one hand glass of water in the other. She sits. It is apparent my silence it not to be accepted.
“So, held in strict bondage by a woman. You must be happy but so tired. And I am the only person who can offer relief. Yet, you’re also naughty. Silence does not fare well, Mr. Grieves. You’re not too many steps from Its fate. I may just shave your head and begin tattooing you. But please rest assured, I am more accomplished than when I began on It. I can now do better.”
Once again I shudder in fear and concern. Madam notices and laughs. Then she reaches into her pocket and extracts the pill bottle, holding it before me suggestively. She waves it about, the message... I am close... yet far.
“You like it... suffering for me. You even enjoy the isolation, kneeling in my cage, helpless, not knowing when I will return... if I will return. And the whole time your system slowly transforms, crying for chemicals your body can no longer produce.”
She pauses, smiling. She knows she is right.
“You hope for just a little mercy. Something as simple as untying your leash. Just a moment of time permitting you to lower your head. A brief respite. But how brief? And I just may tighten, forcing your head higher, beginning again the slow cascade of cramping tiring muscles.”
She opens the pill bottle. I look upon the tablets as I would a feast of delicacies. Is my penis shrinking? Are my nipples puffing? I need my dosage.
“At some point you must sleep and to do that I must slacken the leash. But you’ll not know when. It’s my caprice. You control nothing... not even the fate of your genitals.”
She laughs, her hand pressing through the bars palm up, the blue dose of hormones offered at last. I lick it from her hand. Then the water glass is offered, holding it to my lips.
Medication at last! I drink and swallow like a hungry dog, Madam quite amused.
“Tomorrow morning. Be here at 9:00 a.m. At some point in the day you’ll have another pill. But you’ll do some things for me first. I want to put you on display. Deep within you’ll enjoy that.”
She makes a point of tucking my pill bottle back into her pocket. With that she unlocks the cage and releases my right wrist knowing that will allow me to release left wrist, neck collar and ankles.
“Your clothes are in the dungeon.”
She arises and moves to the stairs.
“And Mr. Grieves. If you favor some revenge, I’ll have Its teeth pulled.”
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Reader’s expectations, meeting such, attaining goals
Reader’s expectations, meeting such, attaining goals
As written, I have found the world of Smashwords to be curious. I have posted much free stuff there, achieved a degree of notoriety judging from the many downloads, and continue to be perplexed.
‘The Power Series’, a near full length story which I posted here and then made available on both Lulu and Smashwords for free, has been panned for the second time.
I cannot fathom what the expectations are of the Smashwords readers. More importantly I have no idea of their literary tastes, knowledge of writing and their ability to distinguish style from the quality they expect to encounter.
Here are some of my unwritten warranties in offering stories...
1. Typos painstakingly minimized to the best of my ability.
By the time a story is posted or published I have read and honed probably a dozen times. Nothing is 'slapdashed’ from my wordprocessor, ever. On occasion there may be translation errors in copying text from Wordperfect to Blogspot, but even those errors I work to go back and correct.
2. Proper grammar, again to the best of my ability.
3. Minimization of profane words.
When such do appear it will be mainly in dialogue, the utterances of a character.
Why?
I have read and, to a certain extent, still read lots of smut. It has been a lifetime habit. I have learned what stimulates, which is a paramount goal, and what distracts. Typos, bad punctuation (no punctuation?), misuse of words (smut writers need to focus on the difference between ‘your’ and ‘you’re’), revolting profanity, all distract. In encountering such I sometimes go into ‘edit’ mode, desiring to mark up the pages instead of relaxing and letting my eidetic mind become immersed in the storyline.
So, here is what I have encountered on Smashwords.
There seems to be a propensity to critique rather than enjoy. And a certain huffiness... ‘how dare you try to entertain me with a free story I may not like.’
The latest ‘Power Series’ review...
Overactive verbage (sic)...not impressive. Must be some ego! Did not finish.
Okay. Let’s address ‘verbage’. In proper English the word is ‘verbiage’. But the misspelling, when deliberate, is known to be used critically as in rhyming with ‘garbage’. Is the misspelling deliberate? I will not know.
So in donating a story of some 28,000 words, one which seemed to receive a good reception here on the blog, I am awarded with one succinct line.
I donate, post and offer free stuff, to make people comfortable when it comes time to purchasing a Chris Bellows story... to imply that the aforementioned warranty applies to all my stuff... to offer assurance that the base writing meets expectations which the reader acquires from the many samples... that there is value received in the exchange.
This does not work when a reader, despite all warnings, is aghast with the storyline and subject matter, or is seeking for free the next literary masterpiece from J. D. Salinger or Margaret Mitchell.
So, I am unpublishing ‘The Power Series’ on Smashwords, downloaded 911 times after being posted there for 133 days.
It remains free on Lulu. Feel free to review it. But please take the time to give your critique substance.
As written, I have found the world of Smashwords to be curious. I have posted much free stuff there, achieved a degree of notoriety judging from the many downloads, and continue to be perplexed.
‘The Power Series’, a near full length story which I posted here and then made available on both Lulu and Smashwords for free, has been panned for the second time.
I cannot fathom what the expectations are of the Smashwords readers. More importantly I have no idea of their literary tastes, knowledge of writing and their ability to distinguish style from the quality they expect to encounter.
Here are some of my unwritten warranties in offering stories...
1. Typos painstakingly minimized to the best of my ability.
By the time a story is posted or published I have read and honed probably a dozen times. Nothing is 'slapdashed’ from my wordprocessor, ever. On occasion there may be translation errors in copying text from Wordperfect to Blogspot, but even those errors I work to go back and correct.
2. Proper grammar, again to the best of my ability.
3. Minimization of profane words.
When such do appear it will be mainly in dialogue, the utterances of a character.
Why?
I have read and, to a certain extent, still read lots of smut. It has been a lifetime habit. I have learned what stimulates, which is a paramount goal, and what distracts. Typos, bad punctuation (no punctuation?), misuse of words (smut writers need to focus on the difference between ‘your’ and ‘you’re’), revolting profanity, all distract. In encountering such I sometimes go into ‘edit’ mode, desiring to mark up the pages instead of relaxing and letting my eidetic mind become immersed in the storyline.
So, here is what I have encountered on Smashwords.
There seems to be a propensity to critique rather than enjoy. And a certain huffiness... ‘how dare you try to entertain me with a free story I may not like.’
The latest ‘Power Series’ review...
Overactive verbage (sic)...not impressive. Must be some ego! Did not finish.
Okay. Let’s address ‘verbage’. In proper English the word is ‘verbiage’. But the misspelling, when deliberate, is known to be used critically as in rhyming with ‘garbage’. Is the misspelling deliberate? I will not know.
So in donating a story of some 28,000 words, one which seemed to receive a good reception here on the blog, I am awarded with one succinct line.
I donate, post and offer free stuff, to make people comfortable when it comes time to purchasing a Chris Bellows story... to imply that the aforementioned warranty applies to all my stuff... to offer assurance that the base writing meets expectations which the reader acquires from the many samples... that there is value received in the exchange.
This does not work when a reader, despite all warnings, is aghast with the storyline and subject matter, or is seeking for free the next literary masterpiece from J. D. Salinger or Margaret Mitchell.
So, I am unpublishing ‘The Power Series’ on Smashwords, downloaded 911 times after being posted there for 133 days.
It remains free on Lulu. Feel free to review it. But please take the time to give your critique substance.
Saturday, November 3, 2012
'Madam, Me and It' - Part XIV - The Dining Room
The Dining Room-Dungeon Once Again
“I think you’ll feel better in restraints,” Madam knowingly suggests.
Yes, she graciously invited me to stop in, my pills indeed in her possession. But of course she cannot merely hand such to me. Madam favors rituals... and one of the most foremost is having a man strip naked for her.
So in the dining room-turned-dungeon I disrobe while she selects from her wall of implements. Her choice... neck collar and wrist cuffs again... joined by ankle cuffs.
For some reason such do imbue comfort. And I blush when she snaps on the leash, thinking of her remark about being walked naked and outdoors.
“I have the pills locked away downstairs. You can only imagine how much It would like to get his hands on them.”
I had not given the possibility much thought but note that Madam smiles knowing of the futility, It having been deprived of testosterone for so long.
“I will concede to you your dosage, Mr. Grieves, if you’ll grant me one favor,” her tone rather authoritative considering that she makes a request.
She tugs on my leash, turns and I must follow, my wrists once again secured behind me. Whatever are the ankle cuffs for?
We traverse the stairs, returning to the basement. I remain silent, knowing not to consent to anything until I am fully aware of the request.
The cages come into view along with the blue, red, yellow of Its ghastly fattened form. In nearing, the whites of the eyes once again glare, sending a silent message of unending tedium and torment.
I note in the empty cage there is a metal lockbox. The hinged opening in the front bears a formidable padlock.
“Your pills, safely secured from a much desiring eunuch.”
Madam points but makes no further move to unlock my much needed medication. Finally I must comment.
“I need to take one. It’s hours overdue.”
“Yes, of course. You would not want to endure further alteration... like It.”
Madam reads my mind... I suppose able to read the mind of any male undergoing my circumstances. But the pause continues. Then finally...
“So you will grant me a favor?”
“What is it?” I cautiously request to be informed.
“Try the cage. You’ve relished being strapped to my jerking table. The cage can bring equal if not enhanced thrill.”
“The jerking table excited because for all those sessions I envisioned you working... well... doing what was done.”
Spoken as Madam retrieves a key and unlocks the padlock.
“I’ll be firmer with my quest. You will not have the strong box opened until you enter the cage,” smirking as she swings open the heavy steel bars comprising the front access.
Besides the pills being locked away, I am cuffed, not able to grab and open.
“Go ahead. Get in. Be a good boy for me,” the matronly tone returning to that of the many sessions... when I was indeed a good boy for her.
She offers slack on the leash. Have I a choice? I kneel. As my knees shuffle forth, Madam reaches inward and snatches the strong box. In an instant the box is pulled without and the cage door closes. I am locked within.
Treachery? Not entirely. I could not open the box anyway with wrists cuffed.
“Face this way. Feet apart,” the commanding words come as the leash is tied to the top bars.
Madam deftly moves to the rear. Right ankle cuff then left are quickly secured to the straps in the rear corners.
“You’ll be more comfortable if I undo your wrist cuffs and connect then to the front corner straps. Long term bondage, comfort is important.”
She is correct of course. The limited height of the cage will not permit me to kneel upright. The leash will not permit me to lean totally forward and rest my head on the bottom bars. I quickly conclude any standoff in ignoring her suggestion will result in very slow wearing of my stomach and back muscles.
“You’re well secured. You may as well be cozy.”
She reaches within and attaches a long strap from the right corner to my right wrist.
“I can get the cattle prod... you may as well yield...”
I do. Within another minute, unhooking the connected cuffs and pulling in the corner straps, I am guided to all fours... hands and feet well apart... tethered to the bars of the cage just as is It.... except graciously, I do not have chains holding my head at the ears.
“How long?”
Madam laughs.
“It was caged for three months while I assured his transformation. First the elastrator. Then the tattooing was delightfully slow. And with the branding... he shrieked like a little girl. Only then did he realize there was no going back... his balls were gone... his money was gone... his life was gone. Long term bondage, physical alteration, emotional stress. He really no longer needs to be physically secured. He just feels better when I restrain him... the tighter the better.”
Madam reaches within and taps my nose.
“Let’s see how you feel knowing that you’re pleasing me,” the hand retreating as she turns toward Its cage.
“What about my pill?”
“Perhaps later. It has an appointment with a woman who relishes bamboo.”
“I think you’ll feel better in restraints,” Madam knowingly suggests.
Yes, she graciously invited me to stop in, my pills indeed in her possession. But of course she cannot merely hand such to me. Madam favors rituals... and one of the most foremost is having a man strip naked for her.
So in the dining room-turned-dungeon I disrobe while she selects from her wall of implements. Her choice... neck collar and wrist cuffs again... joined by ankle cuffs.
For some reason such do imbue comfort. And I blush when she snaps on the leash, thinking of her remark about being walked naked and outdoors.
“I have the pills locked away downstairs. You can only imagine how much It would like to get his hands on them.”
I had not given the possibility much thought but note that Madam smiles knowing of the futility, It having been deprived of testosterone for so long.
“I will concede to you your dosage, Mr. Grieves, if you’ll grant me one favor,” her tone rather authoritative considering that she makes a request.
She tugs on my leash, turns and I must follow, my wrists once again secured behind me. Whatever are the ankle cuffs for?
We traverse the stairs, returning to the basement. I remain silent, knowing not to consent to anything until I am fully aware of the request.
The cages come into view along with the blue, red, yellow of Its ghastly fattened form. In nearing, the whites of the eyes once again glare, sending a silent message of unending tedium and torment.
I note in the empty cage there is a metal lockbox. The hinged opening in the front bears a formidable padlock.
“Your pills, safely secured from a much desiring eunuch.”
Madam points but makes no further move to unlock my much needed medication. Finally I must comment.
“I need to take one. It’s hours overdue.”
“Yes, of course. You would not want to endure further alteration... like It.”
Madam reads my mind... I suppose able to read the mind of any male undergoing my circumstances. But the pause continues. Then finally...
“So you will grant me a favor?”
“What is it?” I cautiously request to be informed.
“Try the cage. You’ve relished being strapped to my jerking table. The cage can bring equal if not enhanced thrill.”
“The jerking table excited because for all those sessions I envisioned you working... well... doing what was done.”
Spoken as Madam retrieves a key and unlocks the padlock.
“I’ll be firmer with my quest. You will not have the strong box opened until you enter the cage,” smirking as she swings open the heavy steel bars comprising the front access.
Besides the pills being locked away, I am cuffed, not able to grab and open.
“Go ahead. Get in. Be a good boy for me,” the matronly tone returning to that of the many sessions... when I was indeed a good boy for her.
She offers slack on the leash. Have I a choice? I kneel. As my knees shuffle forth, Madam reaches inward and snatches the strong box. In an instant the box is pulled without and the cage door closes. I am locked within.
Treachery? Not entirely. I could not open the box anyway with wrists cuffed.
“Face this way. Feet apart,” the commanding words come as the leash is tied to the top bars.
Madam deftly moves to the rear. Right ankle cuff then left are quickly secured to the straps in the rear corners.
“You’ll be more comfortable if I undo your wrist cuffs and connect then to the front corner straps. Long term bondage, comfort is important.”
She is correct of course. The limited height of the cage will not permit me to kneel upright. The leash will not permit me to lean totally forward and rest my head on the bottom bars. I quickly conclude any standoff in ignoring her suggestion will result in very slow wearing of my stomach and back muscles.
“You’re well secured. You may as well be cozy.”
She reaches within and attaches a long strap from the right corner to my right wrist.
“I can get the cattle prod... you may as well yield...”
I do. Within another minute, unhooking the connected cuffs and pulling in the corner straps, I am guided to all fours... hands and feet well apart... tethered to the bars of the cage just as is It.... except graciously, I do not have chains holding my head at the ears.
“How long?”
Madam laughs.
“It was caged for three months while I assured his transformation. First the elastrator. Then the tattooing was delightfully slow. And with the branding... he shrieked like a little girl. Only then did he realize there was no going back... his balls were gone... his money was gone... his life was gone. Long term bondage, physical alteration, emotional stress. He really no longer needs to be physically secured. He just feels better when I restrain him... the tighter the better.”
Madam reaches within and taps my nose.
“Let’s see how you feel knowing that you’re pleasing me,” the hand retreating as she turns toward Its cage.
“What about my pill?”
“Perhaps later. It has an appointment with a woman who relishes bamboo.”
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