Midnight - Segment II

Author's note: The practice of 'gukuna imishino' is real and continues in certain African regions. If the ritual was a Swedish custom, Midnight would be blonde and Caucasian. Thus the ethnicity of our protagonist. 

At the Ranch - Adolescent Years

“You’ll need to learn responsibilities, Oliver. I am aware of the prurient interests the girl inspires, but you must offer care. She’ll never ever have use of her hands. So you must feed and bathe, plus help with her training.”

Mother lectures as I gawk. Hormones have begun to flow and in concurrence with the resulting physical transformation... at least so it seems... mother has acquired a girl... a girl to be trained and used as an equine. 

She’s naked, skin as black as the night. I have not before seen a naked girl. Not often been in the company of any ethnicity other than Caucasian. Thus I am both excited and curious. Yes, my trousers somewhat tent... there comes a degree of firmness... down there. 

“She’s dark.”

“She’s from Rwanda, Oliver. Africa. The skin pigmentation offers protection from the sun. It’s stronger there and more direct.”

The girl appears to be my age and I am amazed that she’s taller. A thick leather collar encircles her neck. Her arms are drawn behind her back, bent at the elbows. Cuffed wrists are secured to the back of the neck collar, tightly, cruelly holding her hands high, forcing her to thrust forth a developing chest. Yet she shows no signs of distress.

It is evident the girl is accustomed to bondage.

“What is her name, mother?”

“No name. What would you like to call her?”

“Well... she’s dark... like the night.”

“So call her ‘night’.”

I pause in thought.

“‘Midnight’. It has a better ring.”

“Then she is now ‘Midnight’. I will train her and exercise her... initially. You will feed and bathe. In time you’ll learn my role as well. Now I will show you how to loop her nose. Lots of nerve endings there. We’re going to have one obedient pony girl... aren’t we, Midnight.”

Mother pinches a puffy nipple, firmly grasping the modest mound of breast flesh. The girl represses a wince and follows mother’s directing hand to a low table in the barn. Kneeling, Midnight’s nose is to be looped. A smooth but rugged elliptical length of hollow plastic is inserted into one nostril, cruelly pressed through the sinus cavity and pushed to exit the other nostril. Mother is quick and agile, minimizing the discomfort. But when thick glue is inserted to add firmness and the open ends pressed together to indeed form a loop, I am amazed how quickly the girl... Midnight... has been made to bear a most simple but imposing restraint device.

“Control the nose loop... control the pony girl.” mother quips, standing back to let the glue set.

I note there are tears, not so much of sadness, the girl stoic, but in an uncontrollable reaction. The plastic invades most intolerably.

“Mother, she’s crying,” I note.

“She does need to acclimate to being leashed. Why not walk her a bit, Oliver. I think you’ll come to enjoy her company.”

Mother hooked a leash to a nose ring deemed dried and set. In handing it to me, I felt something within I had not before experienced. Yes, I was to learn responsibility, but I was to also learn that utmost control excites.

Lulu's new accounting/reporting

At long last, Lulu is now tracking both books sold and free downloads. As you are aware, I have commented on the voracious appetite for free stuff on Smashwords. It now appears that Lulu users are a close second.

Yesterday someone downloaded five free stories from Lulu and bought nothing. I assume it was the same person because there were no duplicates. ‘The Toy’, ‘The Masturbatrix’, ‘Power Series’, ‘To Serve Intact’, ‘Madam, Me and It’. And no book was purchased by anyone.

Well, one would think that after reading some 130,000 words of free quality smut it would prompt pecuniary action, i.e. spending a dollar or two for more. (my short stories on Lulu are available for as little as $2.25).

We’ll see. But in general, the ‘give to get’ mode under which I have been posting free stuff too often goes unrequited.

In posting the beginning of a story, as I have with ‘The Extraction Nurse’ and 'Madam, Me and It’, I try not to leave the reader too much in a lurch, attempting as best I can to balance the satiation of reading a complete segment with the desire to read more (through purchase), to learn of the conclusion.

So maybe I’ll instead stop posting a story in mid sentence...   

Midnight - Segment I

Midnight

Copyright 2013

by Chris Bellows

Author's Note (mea culpa): For some reason I refrain from spending time on ribald and lusty titles. Publishers suggest it is essential to sell books. I prefer to labor on story line and character development.

The Subterfuge

Naked, well toned muscling somewhat straining to pose on toes, dark skin gleaming, my wife not so much envies as she assesses.

“She’s tall,” finally managing to find words.

She is. Six foot two, 190 pounds, waist 30 inches, limited bust of 34 inches, an impressive 40 inches at the hips... really at the buttocks. I know this, not needing to peruse the offering brochure.

An apprehensive wifely hand reaches forth, a trembling finger tip lifts a metal disk attached to a formidable ring piercing the naked flesh at the right hip. Wife Victoria reads.

“Her name is Midnight. And she was born in the same year as you! You’re the same age!”

I just nod, feigning limited awareness. Then the eyes of my domineering wife move lower. I know the examination of Midnight’s identifying disk is a ruse, offering visual proximity to that which most attracts... the male... and most perplexes the female.

“My goodness, look at her pussy!”

I do. Midnight, in being shorn of all hair, cranium included, most prominently displays a mammoth clitoris and protruding inner labia.

“Her bud... it’s enormous... and it’s been ringed!”

My wife stoops and gawks at the thumb sized vestigial penis. Yes, abundant hormones induced to perfect muscling, have also enhanced her nubbin of joy. It protrudes and seems to welcome jewelry, a bright ring of stainless steel. And I also know it serves to both arouse and offer the bearer a sense of ownership. Dare I mention that a once fleshy clitoral hood has been surgically trimmed to offer better exhibition?

“And the labia!”   

Stretched ad infinitum, the deep pink provocatively contrasts the smooth dark skin of the inner thighs.

“She’s from Rwanda, dear. It’s a custom there.”     

The statement is factual, but rather incomplete. The process indeed began in Rwanda when Midnight first entered puberty, but continued with fervor after acquisition... by my mother. Midnight’s lips are longer than I recall, someone has furthered the process over the years.

“Would it be alright to touch?” my wife timorously inquires.  

“Of course. She’s placed on display for evaluation... your evaluation.”

“And yours, Oliver.”

True, but I need not evaluate. I know Midnight... know every inch of flesh, every ounce of muscle sculpted to perfection. As my wife reaches forth to inspect, I look up into the face of the well trussed girl... now woman I suppose. We’re both age 35.

Midnight offers no indication of familiarity, gratefully feigning noted aloofness. Gagged, leashed and yoked, there are no words to be offered, no ability to challenge. Besides, resistance has been long stifled. Many years in bondage and servitude.

My eyes lower to see my wife’s finger tip ever so gently smooth down the left labia and then up the right. I know the touch brings a brisance of delight, Midnight’s stretching attentively achieved utilizing the special herbal lotions of her native country. Sensitivity therefor not only remains, the native women will testify that proper stretching in fact enhances feel... thus the curious African custom prevails, despite much controversy suggesting the practice is akin to female genital mutilation.

I glance up to see that Midnight’s nipples, also elongated, crinkle and turn to pencil points. Yes, the slightest touch brings a thrill, greatly enhanced by years and years of forced chastity. Midnight has never touched herself there, at least never under my mother’s tutelage. Therefore, no matter the circumstances, any attention is not only welcomed, such brings a crashing wave of delight.

“Gukuna imishino, dear. It’s Swahili meaning ‘to make long labia’.”

I immediately regret sharing that tidbit of information, placing my little game, which an astute
Midnight seems to comprehend, in peril.

“She’s moist!” Victoria’s finger detects. “She’s enjoying this!”

Yes, it is imbued in the psyche. The intensity of the humiliation brings arousal to the subservient. Being displayed naked, all parts pink open to visual and physical examination fosters strange joy. I make a note to remain silent concerning the abundant vaginal wetness. It is a welcomed genetic trait. How many times have I masturbated Midnight to a gushing orgasm?

Yet such thoughts are not to be revealed.

My wife becomes more brazen as Midnight becomes objectified, her complete nakedness welcoming palpation. The finger penetrates, parting the dangling strips of flesh and slipping inward with ease.

“My goodness,” Victoria obviously encountering much vaginal flow. “She’s loose! The brochure suggests she’s kept in chastity but she is vaginally as open as the Holland Tunnel.”

Yes. Again I am aware. For various reasons, girls of Midnight’s ilk are opened, minimizing if not completely negating any joy to be derived from vaginal penetration. Midnight is thus more inclined to be used orally and anally... as intended. Many hours... night after night after night... Midnight’s feminine aperture was splayed open utilizing a speculum. For normal copulation she has been ruined... and someone has continued the practice.   

Meanwhile I again look up into the coal black handsome face. From above a slim chain attached to Midnight’s nose restraint holds her face high. A smooth thick plastic yoke encumbers the neck and secures hands and wrists at shoulder height well to the right and left. With the chain’s tautness, Midnight is forced to obsequiously stand on toes, stress on the nose loop most painful. Mounted on a low platform, stature noted, Midnight’s face and head tower above, placing her privates at chest height where such can be facilely opened and examined... just as Victoria demonstrates. 

They have taken the time to gloss her skin. Every inch has been oiled, made to shine brilliantly under the powerful ceiling lamps, any blemish of the skin to be quickly detected by the connoisseur of servility. For aficionados such as me the presentation brings allure. For the likes of my wife... well... rattan and nasty strips of leather come to mind. And sure enough, finished rummaging within Midnight’s vagina, Victoria steps to the side and gazes at the profile.

“My goodness, such buttocks.”

An emboldened hand reaches forth and grasps a meaty tuft of skin. I know it to be firm, the layers of epidermis sculpted through precise diet, unending exercise. Two inches of thickness which welcome the crop, whip and cane cover muscling which propels with speed and grace. Now, Victoria has genuine interest.

“They seem to beckon a good brisk caning,” Victoria observes.

I cannot help wondering if it is now she becoming moist.

Yes, wife Victoria cheerfully domineers, and if my subterfuge plays out, she’ll be offered much cheer.

“Pony girls are kept well exercised, dear, for obvious reasons. I think you will enjoy supervising a demanding regimen.”

“And Douglas?”

Our son. I knew our offspring would enter the equation. We’ve kept our more deviant escapades cloaked, concealed from our teenaged son. Yet it is time to educate. Besides I am tired getting neither any eggs benedict nor the other thing which the old joke suggests a man cannot get at home. My beautiful, glorious and regal wife will not orally satiate.     

“You know my mother was a trainer, Victoria.”

“Yes.”

“Well I was even younger than Douglas when I first... well first handled the human equine. I think he will adapt. It’s in the genes.”

My wife nods pensively, her hand continuing to more presumptuously caress and knead pony flesh. Metaphorically, Victoria is at the market and Midnight becomes a large melon, ripe for purchase and consumption.

Thoughts of my mother bring reminiscence...

Some thoughts/response to comments

Thank you all for the input.

There are so many facets and subsets within the D/s genre that it’s difficult to please everyone. So bear with me. I think what I have written so far will entertain (first segment to be posted Saturday), though I’m well into the story and have yet to weave any direct Femdom/fem sub action into the storyline. (It will come).

Regular readers of my stuff may find some parallels to other stories I have written, after nearly 3 million words that is difficult to avoid. So I beg forgiveness if that aspect brings irritation.

I often ask myself why pony play is so prevalent within the multitude of D/s fantasies, mine included. Some thoughts...

First there is the objectification, human portrayed as beast. Then there is the bondage. It’s essential, not imbued because the Dominant enjoys but because the human equine must be tethered, just like every other beast of burden. Necessary corporal punishment follows, after all even expensive thoroughbreds must endure the crop for proper encouragement. Conditioning, the human beast must  improve his/her strength and endurance. And my favorite element, the exacting training, ingraining in the mind of the human pony a demanded instant somatic response to simple tugs on reins, bridle and bit (I suppose a subset of objectification).

Any way, one must care not to over analyze otherwise it’s like a child taking apart his/her favorite toy to see how it works... only to find as a result that it no longer functions.

Look for the start on Saturday.

Thanks again.

CB    

What's Next?

Not too much feedback on ‘The Extraction Nurse’. Some have purchased the sequels so I can conclude there has been some level of enjoyment.

Thank you.

What should be next?

I have in the hopper a male/female dominant pony girl story, a genre in which I formerly wrote ad infinitum.

Anyone interested?

CB

The Extraction Nurse V - Final

The final episode of this story segment. As stated, the followup is posted on Smashwords, entitled 'Grateful Servitude'. Also the second sequel, 'Conditioning the Male'.

Hope you have enjoyed.

CB

Extraction Number Four Hundred and Fifty Two

A groggy Robert slowly returns to consciousness, the computer changing the flow of nitrous oxide tainted air to a more salubrious mixture of oxygen and nitrogen. Straining eyes see that the cleansing nurse is completing her ablutions, a warm wet chamois smoothing everywhere, removing the traces of massage oil. He has never met or seen his massage nurse, the woman who meticulously kneads and palpates every muscle, toning the otherwise immobile, precluding cramps. He knows that in his chemically induced slumber, each arm and leg is momentarily released, presumably limbered with zeal then returned to inexorable bondage. But for whoever’s attentive efforts, Robert would have the physique of a sponge, he has come to realize, notwithstanding the precision balanced, highly nutritious, hormone laden sludge of the nutrition nurse.

The cute cleansing nurse, remaining youthful despite the many years, smiles. Robert knows not to try to speak. There is nothing to say. The isolation has numbed the mind. Indeed his only thoughts have been to perform and to please... fervently dispensing his seed into the welcoming collection pouch of the extraction nurse... accepting the only full sensory input offered... a knowing, gentle, stroking feminine hand.

“Time to be milked,” the nurse quips stepping away to stow the dirty diaper, her towels and soap.

The effeminate fragrance of her soap has come to serve as one of the many prompts, a catalyst for masturbation. Robert’s system reacts, knowing that within moments, the extraction nurse will enter and dutifully drain him. He thus begins to harden, indeed a Pavlovian dog.

The nurse turns back and chuckles seeing the penis harden, knowingly shaking her head as Robert obediently lifts his legs, ankles searching for the overhead horizontal bar.

The decubitus position... as mandated. 

“You’re all so eager... all so well trained. And when it comes to offering your sperm... all so easily trainable. I’ll be back to diaper you, but I suspect you’ll be asleep.”

Yes, he has always been returned to his comatose state completely naked and awoken to see either the diaper being removed or seeing the remnants of his excretions being washed away. The nurse has returned and with the care of a mother, diapered after each and every extraction.

With that, the nurse departs, leaving Robert to await what he knows will be a very short interval. He has come to realize over the years that the scheduling is precise. Just as with the flow through the feeding tube, his induced coma is computer controlled, the period of consciousness to be minimized.

Within seconds, certainly no longer than a minute, the door opens and the handsome extraction nurse enters.

“Good boy. And already hard for me.”

The tray is retrieved. The lever released, the lower portion of the table lowered.

“Robert, your last specimen indicated more decline in the sperm count. You’re aging.”

Robert mumbles into his mask, humbly suggesting he would like to utter a word. It has been an unknown number of extractions, his only basis for judging time, since he last spoke. Offering incoherent gibberish signals the desire to communicate. It is not always accommodated, the psychological cruelty continuous in being most times muted.   

Yet, this session seems different and sure enough the nurse reaches forth and slips the breathing mask to the side.

“How old am I, ma’am?” the years of solitude and coma making it impossible to determine.

The nurse shrugs.

“The male reproductive organs peak at age nineteen, then there is a slow decline in fecundity for the remainder of life. For us, at the institution, it is inefficient to harvest semen with a low sperm count. This all costs money, Robert,” the nurse sweeping her hand about the well equipped spotlessly clean chamber, “and only the most prolific sperm can be sold.”

Ah! Information Robert has not before learned... the sale of his spurted offerings.  

“So at a certain point, every boy gets replaced... like culling a herd of dairy cows... there is always a boy younger, stronger, eager to perform.”

“And trainable,” Robert interjects with temerity.

The extraction nurse laughs as she reaches to lubricate her hands.

“You’re all trainable, Robert. That is never a criteria for selection. Every boy can be brought to please by offering me what is normally expelled in furtive frustration.”

The masturbation begins. The handling never changes, never wavers.

“This is your last, Robert. Make it a nice big one for your nurse. Show off for me.” 

Mechanical, rhythmical... stroke, stroke, twist... stroke, stroke, twist, the thumb rubbing the underside. Finally, Robert explodes, to the nurse’s verbal command as always, then obediently pulls with his PC to assure thorough drainage.

“What will happen to me?”

The nurse delays in her response, feigning being busy with the collection pouch.

“No more talking, Robert. What normally happens is a boy awakes somewhere else. Sometimes on a bus, sometimes on a train, sometimes at a busy public place like an airport. We cloth of course, stuff some money in the pocket. But otherwise the servitude here becomes like a distant dream from which you have finally awakened.”

“But where am I?”

The nurse offers her stern look of authority than reaches forth and replaces the mask to silence. Gratefully the remote control, that which returns the flow of nitrous oxide, remains in her pocket.

“You are never to know that. It is best you just resume your life.”

Robert mumbles into the mask, “I have no life”, but the words are indiscernible.

Still, the nurse seems to understand, shrugging again. Does Robert detect a look of concern... of pity?

It matters not. The remote is produced. The sweet aroma returns. Robert once again leaves behind the nirvana of forced ecstatic release and enters oblivion.

'The Extraction Nurse' and sequels available

The fifth and final segment of 'The Extraction Nurse' will be posted on Saturday 1/12 as scheduled.

Meanwhile, for ease of reading, I am offering the five segments for free on Smashwords.

 https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/268435

Also available are two sequels, 'Grateful Servitude', (https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/268440)

and 'Conditioning the Male', (https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/268904) to be read in that order, a nominal fee to be 'extracted'.

For those who prefer written smut, there will be a print version of the short trilogy available from  QSM (www.qualitysm.com).

Enjoy,

CB

The Extraction Nurse IV

Extraction Number Two

“I always like to see a boy with a plump set of testicles dangling in wait for me.”

The extraction nurse enters shortly after the cleansing nurse closes the door. She holds up a small pouch of clear plastic.

“Your role here, Robert, is to fill this... whenever I visit... every time I visit. It is all you need to think about... your only task.”

The nurse steps to a cabinet, retrieves a tray and approaches. She places the tray on a small table then works the lever to fold away the bottom portion of the masturbation table. The pleats of her uniform are felt brushing against his upturned thighs and buttocks. Robert quivers with her proximity, recalling the excruciating jolts of electricity endured in the last encounter.

“And I see you’re expecting me... beginning to harden in my presence. Normally it takes a boy a couple of extractions before he is psychologically conditioned to respond to me... a Pavlovian reaction to what I have to offer,” the nurse chuckling with her observation.

A hand extends, caresses and pats the swinging balls. Yes, perhaps such are indeed juicy, just as the cleansing nurse suggested, Robert ponders. There is felt a degree of need. The nutrition nurse suggested hormones were to be forcibly induced. Has this so heightened his priapic response... his need?

“Ok. A primer on the male anatomy. I will masturbate you and you will cooperate, maximizing the yield I want. To do that you’ll ejaculate on cue, when I feel the ejaculatory muscles well primed. I will give the command and you will meekly and obediently fill my little specimen pouch. And you will also pull strongly with your pubo coccygeus muscles. Do you know what they are Robert? You may speak.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Commonly referred to as the ‘PC’ muscles you use them... formerly used them... when you urinated... before we diapered you. Whenever you endeavor to conclude urinating... to cut off the flow... you pull down here,” the fingers of the right hand brushing the perineum to demonstrate. “The muscles will also assist in assuring you’re well depleted. In so assisting, I will obtain a nice large and clean specimen. While you pull, I’ll manipulate as well, tugging away on your penis, just as on a cow’s udder. Yes, Robert, think of yourself as being milked. I want you drained of every drop. And I will know if you’re not cooperating. Masturbated many boys, countless times. Electro ejaculation awaits for those who cannot... will not... properly use the PC muscles.”

The nurse pauses, surveying her helpless charge. Now hairless, once again blushing in pink, the lad appears alien... a beast to be handled... to be pampered and milked. The sight thrills.

“Three strong pulls, Robert. Remember the male anatomy erupts in a series of three.”

Left hand and right visit the tray where a jar of unguent awaits. No gloves, Robert notes, and when the nurse turns and both cradles his scrotum and grasps his stiffening penis, he understands why. The transfer of body warmth brings an instantaneous brisance of delight. Robert feels his erection jump into her right hand, which in turn offers a welcoming tender grip followed by an initial teasingly gentle stroke. The woman is masterful and he realizes he will soon be joining the nurse’s pack of Pavlovian dogs.

“Every boy has masturbated himself differently before arriving here. I am going to train you to erupt my way. With every visit you will be stroked and brought to ejaculation in exactly the same manner. It is best for you. Consistency will bring expectancy, abet your obedience. It will seem clinical, but that’s the way we prefer it. You’re a machine, Robert. A sperm machine and one which I will turn on and turn off at my caprice.”

The words come as Robert experiences the marvelous touch of a woman whose sole objective is to bring overwhelming pleasure and harvest the results. The right hand strokes and twists, the left jostles the scrotum, palpating the testicles with pluck. Lying bound and in isolation, the sensory input, quite limited for an unknown interval, becomes vast. Robert’s psyche finds a willingness to submit.

‘Let the woman have what she wants. Give,’ he tells himself.

“Look at me, Robert. Do not close your eyes. It is important for you to understand how much a woman of my ilk enjoys making a boy perform. You’ll learn to respond to me, please me with your essence.”

Stroke and twist, stroke and twist, the thumb rubs the overly sensitive under side, then stroke and twist. Rhythmic, mechanical, clinically ascetic in the brightly lit chamber of white walls and flooring. Though normally an act of intimacy, the encounter is oddly asexual.

“Oh, I feel a certain need coming. Some little male muscles are beginning to oscillate.”

With that the stroking hand bends the stiffness downward, Robert yelps with the comparative discomfort. The left hand finds the small collection pouch.

“I think this naughty boy wants to show off for me. Would you like to cum for your nurse? Fill my specimen bag?”

Robert energetically nods, succumbing to the building ecstasy.

The nurse caps the penis tip, putting in place the bag, a hat for the swollen head. Then in one well coordinated motion, she rights the angle, plunges two fingers into the lad’s anus and gives the command.

“Cum for me.”  

Robert explodes.

“Now pull!”

He complies as the gripping right hand again lowers the angle, assuring the captured effluent does not escape, squeezes at the base and slowly but firmly draws toward the penis tip. A bead of male essence joins the initial explosion while the penetrating fingers manipulate the prostrate.

Milked indeed.

“Pull again.”

Robert obediently pulls as the nurse replicates, squeezing and drawing downward to draw a second bead.

“Once more.”

This time the squeezing fingers draw nothing. This final effort brings a smug smile. Robert’s male organs are well drained... emptied by a master. Obediently looking straight into her face, he notes the look of Schadenfreude. She has made him perform, turned an act of male pleasure into an amusing performance for the governing female.

The pouch is sealed. The breathing mask is slipped back in place. The nurse extracts as small remote control from a pocket of her uniform. She presses. Once again the sweet smell of nitrous oxide fills Robert’s nostrils. Within a minute he returns to unconsciousness, realizing the interval of full alertness has been short... just enough allotted time to climax for his nurse... no time to enjoy the glow of intense release.    

Another Sequel to 'Madam, Me and It', 'Nurse Smith's Obedient Slave'

To start off the New Year, I am offering the second sequel to 'Madam Me and It', a follow up to 'Miss Pletcher's Farm'.

'Nurse Smith's Obedient Slave' is now available on Smashwords. 12,600 words. $3.25.

 https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/270012

Also available from Lulu... 

 http://www.lulu.com/shop/chris-bellows/nurse-smiths-obedient-slave/ebook/product-20605066.html

Read and enjoy. And let me know if the story should continue.