Return to the Ranch
Copyright 2014
by Chris Bellows
As the limousine approaches the ranch, Markie becomes more apprehensive. The cover story presented in the Queen’s letter to the Prince is only partially true... that the Queen desired Markie’s presence so she could threaten recalcitrant guards with the repulsive delights of being sexually serviced by a genderless prettified blond.
Indeed, Markie so offered herself. The well experienced Helen demonstrated the age old trick of applying a condom to the raging erection of men reluctant to use protection. She showed Markie how to surreptitiously insert the oval of rubber into her mouth, then fellate, in one smooth motion orally taking a stiff phallus, engulfing and unraveling the latex down the shaft without the knowledge of the bearer.
A young guard, quite virile, quite repulsed in having to offer himself to another male... former male... lay on Helen’s so termed ‘jerking table’, naked and restrained, as Helen instructed.
Quite intriguing how sexual release is apportioned at the Palace, Markie came to realize.
“This is where the guards receive their reward for loyal service. The Queen wants them calm, yet eager to return for more. So I deplete the hormones... and do so in a manner which never completely satisfies. There is also the matriarchal symbolism the Queen desires. They are never to control their own orgasms...”
Helen deftly gripped the base of the shaft to forestall ejaculation while Markie practiced again and again, unraveling some half dozen condoms, the last three meeting approval... applied in one smooth continuous motion of her head.
The guard, wide eyed with both pleasure and frustration, struggled against his bonds, pleading for ultimate release. At the end, expertly sensing pending eruption, a cruel Helen instructed Markie to withdraw and she simply withdrew her hand as well. No strokes, no application of Markie’s oral skills, Helen smiled evilly as, with penis throbbing and wrists restrained, the priapic young lad meekly dribbled into the condom, unable to even stroke himself.
“Note how the spunk oozes with each beat of the heart. That’s when you know you’ve maximized their frustration. They want to come... but they don’t want to come without a downstroke or swirl of the tongue... they try to hold back... and in the end they just leak. So tame, so docile.”
A laughing Helen then summarily tossed the semen filled condom into the garbage, conforming to the Queen’s rule of neatness, disposing of male filth.
“Yes, frustrating, but they always come back... don’t they boy?” Helen taunted.
The art of the controlling hand job... incomplete hand job.
Markie understands there will not be similar teasing and denial of the Prince. Given opportunity, Markie will have him explode into the clandestinely applied condom, most copiously. Then turn her head to veil the collection effort, somehow getting to the freezer as quickly as possible where it will pried from her mouth and stored.
It must be done, she realizes. With a second failure, the Queen’s special dungeon beckons. And indeed, the Kingdom needs an heir... an heir sans depravity.
As the sun sets, the Queens’s limousine pauses to deposit, then quickly turns for the return journey. A lit stable reveals the Prince’s whereabouts.
“Where have you been?” the Prince inquires, as Markie enters, presuming the question to be a test of the Queen’s letter... her cover story.
“The Queen summoned me to the Palace, sire. I’ve been fellating her guards.”
The Prince smiles and nods.
“It’s good for a girly boy to stay in practice. Choke at all?”
“No sir. I am trained. Perhaps... perhaps...”
“Perhaps what?”
“I would very much enjoy serving the Royal penis sire. I... I... find you attractive. I so much wish to please,” the sentiment, though demanded by the Queen’s quest, not entirely false.
“Ha, ha, ha. More like you’re envious. This is power girl,” the Prince pointing to his pubes. “I have it and you don’t. And it’s power best utilized in putting a squeamish white boy in his proper place. You’re already there, ha, ha, ha.
“But I am glad you enjoyed your day. I had to tend to your duties, swabbing down Tuesday. And the herd wasn’t exercised. So it’s double time tomorrow, Markie. I want them worked hard, kept well muscled and trim. They can better grapple when resisting the Royal pecker... though they always succumb.”
“Yes, sire,” Markie grateful that the Queen’s ruse appears to be working.
Yet how is Markie ever to fellate and extract semen? Meekness... femininity... fail to attract the Prince, a conquering warrior... not a lover. Missing from Markie’s perception, Markie’s picture of the Prince’s existence, is life outside the stable and the long jaunts on the veld. What goes on in his pied-a-terre when not tormenting and fucking his steeds?
Markie knows of one girl, she who daily wheels a cart of gruel to the stable. Are there others? Does the Prince engage carnally with the opposite gender. Does he engage at all with the opposite gender? Proximity will be required in order to fulfill the Queen’s demand and someone must keep house, clean and serve him meals. Should Markie endeavor to enter household duties?
“Now get the rope. I want to have my balls licked... watch a boy helplessly dangle while showing off a useless erection. Need to relax a little, with a fine glass of wine. The Queen’s intrusion has made me put in an exhausting day.”
Saturday, December 27, 2014
Saturday, December 20, 2014
The Sash - To Be Motivated
To Be Motivated
Copyright 2014
by Chris Bellows
Markie finds his own heart rate racing. Upon preparing to exit the well secured chamber, for the first time she noted the array of implements adorning the walls. Yes, it is a torture chamber indeed, the Queen able to press, pull, pry, squeeze, tear, human flesh with impunity. There was even a small coal fired stove to heat clamps, knives and the many needles... long vicious needles... that which Sir Egbert has come to relish.
The Prince’s quirky depravity seems to be hereditary.
“So, Markie, some motivation for you. Fear,” the words offered with a pleasant laugh.
Having returned to the Palace reception chamber, the seated Queen speaks as Markie stands before her, feet parted, hands on head. Once again she toys with the remnants of her maleness... the tiny penis, the folds of her boy labia. The Queen perhaps envisions her own hands ripping away his testicles. For some strange reason Markie senses distant joy, the diddling fingers, the controlling hand deemed so threatening after touring the secret dungeon. Such brings a frisson of odd excitement.
“Markie, your many sperm samples were sterile. I would hate to believe thwarting my efforts was intentional. Not a single spermatozoa alive.”
“No, your Majesty,” a stunned Markie rejoins. “I carefully sealed every bag and immediately froze,” Markie's concern legitimate.
“I have a vengeful streak, Markie, as you just witnessed. You had best be truthful. Many cells in my dungeon. Your next visit there will be a one way excursion. How were such samples procured?”
“From the steeds. After every run I gathered such for safe keeping.”
“Gathered from where?”
“The Prince, he prefers anal penetration... and rather deeply. It required time to retrieve, done under the guise of cleansing.”
“Too deeply... and too much time. Heat kills the sensitive little squirmy things. As well as exposure to air. Hard to believe the entire world has been populated by such delicate male essence. Your efforts are for naught.”
“I am so sorry, your Majesty.”
“We will need to try again, utilizing different methods. I have a rather experienced woman, a former reform school matron, who satiates the Palace guard. She will train you. I want you to fellate the Prince... into a condom which you will immediately tie off to seal and then freeze.”
“It would be a privilege to please the Royal penis, your Majesty. But such is not my role at the ranch. I merely tend to, tease and torment his herd. The Prince finds me... undesirable. My charms fail to attract.”
“Can you offer massage?”
“I have experienced such, your Majesty. My nurse.”
“Try to tempt him... when he’s tired and cares not to expend the energy for the silly acrobatic carnal pursuit of anally raping a resisting boy. Men think with their penis, Markie. Seduce him, fellate him, gather my seed.”
“I will try, your Majesty.”
“It’s not possible to place you in a humbler, my neutered little toy. But with another failure, I will assure that your suffering is slow and unending.”
The Queen laughs in feeling Markie tremble. She then turns and presses an intercom button.
“Send in Helen,” the Queen commands.
“You are not to divulge to Helen why I want you to acquire this talent. I am going to tell her you will also be sucking the phalli of the Palace guard and that I insist on neatness. You’ll see what I mean.”
The reception room door opens. In steps a surprisingly prim Caucasian woman, conservatively attired, not at all brandishing the aura of a woman of pleasure. She is handsome, not ravishing, staid not flashy. She enters with an air of authority... perhaps that of a strict school teacher. No Palace visitor would surmise her Royal function. Markie assumes her restrained presentment is intentional.
For the young members of the Palace guard she must be considered maternal.
Markie recalls the Queen’s comment during her visit... ‘I have my guards emptied regularly. Keeps them calm... and loyal’.
How devilish to have the deed performed by a mature woman of authority. Certainly not to be considered the masculine encounter about which most young males fantasize, being brought to orgasm by such an imposing figure. But if the Queen insists that is how Palace pleasure is meted... then that is how subordinate males will receive.
“Helen, I am going to offer the boys an alternative form of sexual release. Thought it would be fun to insist they have relations with a castrated male. Rather distressing for them, don’t you think? Would make your offerings even more preferable.”
The woman nods and suppresses a smile. It is evident that she has a degree of disdain for the male.
“Helen specializes in the so termed ruined orgasm, Markie. In the end, after much teasing, she withdraws all efforts and forces a boy to more leak his essence rather then spurt in ecstasy. The hormonal release calms, but denial of ultimate male pleasure keeps them randy and eager for the next try.
“Have Markie practice on one of the undeserving guards, Helen. Someone on report.”
Copyright 2014
by Chris Bellows
Markie finds his own heart rate racing. Upon preparing to exit the well secured chamber, for the first time she noted the array of implements adorning the walls. Yes, it is a torture chamber indeed, the Queen able to press, pull, pry, squeeze, tear, human flesh with impunity. There was even a small coal fired stove to heat clamps, knives and the many needles... long vicious needles... that which Sir Egbert has come to relish.
The Prince’s quirky depravity seems to be hereditary.
“So, Markie, some motivation for you. Fear,” the words offered with a pleasant laugh.
Having returned to the Palace reception chamber, the seated Queen speaks as Markie stands before her, feet parted, hands on head. Once again she toys with the remnants of her maleness... the tiny penis, the folds of her boy labia. The Queen perhaps envisions her own hands ripping away his testicles. For some strange reason Markie senses distant joy, the diddling fingers, the controlling hand deemed so threatening after touring the secret dungeon. Such brings a frisson of odd excitement.
“Markie, your many sperm samples were sterile. I would hate to believe thwarting my efforts was intentional. Not a single spermatozoa alive.”
“No, your Majesty,” a stunned Markie rejoins. “I carefully sealed every bag and immediately froze,” Markie's concern legitimate.
“I have a vengeful streak, Markie, as you just witnessed. You had best be truthful. Many cells in my dungeon. Your next visit there will be a one way excursion. How were such samples procured?”
“From the steeds. After every run I gathered such for safe keeping.”
“Gathered from where?”
“The Prince, he prefers anal penetration... and rather deeply. It required time to retrieve, done under the guise of cleansing.”
“Too deeply... and too much time. Heat kills the sensitive little squirmy things. As well as exposure to air. Hard to believe the entire world has been populated by such delicate male essence. Your efforts are for naught.”
“I am so sorry, your Majesty.”
“We will need to try again, utilizing different methods. I have a rather experienced woman, a former reform school matron, who satiates the Palace guard. She will train you. I want you to fellate the Prince... into a condom which you will immediately tie off to seal and then freeze.”
“It would be a privilege to please the Royal penis, your Majesty. But such is not my role at the ranch. I merely tend to, tease and torment his herd. The Prince finds me... undesirable. My charms fail to attract.”
“Can you offer massage?”
“I have experienced such, your Majesty. My nurse.”
“Try to tempt him... when he’s tired and cares not to expend the energy for the silly acrobatic carnal pursuit of anally raping a resisting boy. Men think with their penis, Markie. Seduce him, fellate him, gather my seed.”
“I will try, your Majesty.”
“It’s not possible to place you in a humbler, my neutered little toy. But with another failure, I will assure that your suffering is slow and unending.”
The Queen laughs in feeling Markie tremble. She then turns and presses an intercom button.
“Send in Helen,” the Queen commands.
“You are not to divulge to Helen why I want you to acquire this talent. I am going to tell her you will also be sucking the phalli of the Palace guard and that I insist on neatness. You’ll see what I mean.”
The reception room door opens. In steps a surprisingly prim Caucasian woman, conservatively attired, not at all brandishing the aura of a woman of pleasure. She is handsome, not ravishing, staid not flashy. She enters with an air of authority... perhaps that of a strict school teacher. No Palace visitor would surmise her Royal function. Markie assumes her restrained presentment is intentional.
For the young members of the Palace guard she must be considered maternal.
Markie recalls the Queen’s comment during her visit... ‘I have my guards emptied regularly. Keeps them calm... and loyal’.
How devilish to have the deed performed by a mature woman of authority. Certainly not to be considered the masculine encounter about which most young males fantasize, being brought to orgasm by such an imposing figure. But if the Queen insists that is how Palace pleasure is meted... then that is how subordinate males will receive.
“Helen, I am going to offer the boys an alternative form of sexual release. Thought it would be fun to insist they have relations with a castrated male. Rather distressing for them, don’t you think? Would make your offerings even more preferable.”
The woman nods and suppresses a smile. It is evident that she has a degree of disdain for the male.
“Helen specializes in the so termed ruined orgasm, Markie. In the end, after much teasing, she withdraws all efforts and forces a boy to more leak his essence rather then spurt in ecstasy. The hormonal release calms, but denial of ultimate male pleasure keeps them randy and eager for the next try.
“Have Markie practice on one of the undeserving guards, Helen. Someone on report.”
Saturday, December 13, 2014
The Sash - An Audience with the Queen
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Saturday, December 6, 2014
The Sash - To Be Used
To Be Used
Copyright 2014
by Chris Bellows
After many days, much sodomy, much semen, many collection bags filled and frozen, the expected messenger of the Queen arrived, his timing good. In traversing the veld, tugging reins, stroking with his crop, penetrating a welcoming orifice, the Prince was unaware of his visit.
“The Queen conveys her appreciation,” the trim young male offered, barely able to keep his eyes off the straining buttocks of five naked steeds laboring on the treadmills.
Long blond hair, well styled, polished red nails both hands and feet, the mandatory lipstick applied to a tiny penis tip, the Queen’s messenger had equal difficulty not gawking at the pretty castrate, true gender... former gender... well veiled.
Into a well insulated, iced chest, the freezer emptied of what seemed like quarts of male essence, Markie felt both accomplishment and relief, the evidence of her subterfuge removed. The Prince is not to suspect her involvement in the conspiracy, Markie sighed in thought as the messenger departed. Months hence a child will be born. Years hence the Queen will surprise her son Samja with news of his fatherhood. A wedding announcement will follow.
How will the Prince ever suspect Markie’s participation?
And so the daily routine at the ranch returns to normal. Sperm collection curtailed, a spritz enema quickly offered with a quick cooling douse of spray water before the worn steed is bedded.
Apprehension removed, Markie’s attraction to the Prince, her envy of a fully functioning penis, her adoration of handsome virility, blossoms anew. Though free to frottage with the steeds, tease and torment their chaste forms, there is a sense of emptiness, lack of filfillment. The steeds offer oral stimulation upon demand... boy labia... boy pussy. The lipstick though, is not to be smeared, the Prince using it as a defacto gauge as to whether there has been trespass on Markie’s comical once male organ.
Still, during lonely restless nights Markie is known to lift a hood, straddle a face and offer herself.
Yet, it satiates not. The steeds, oral skills accomplished, gratify mechanically. And adding to the sense of ennui is the fact that Markie’s castration precludes any ultimate orgasm. She senses a pending sneeze that just won’t come. Thus coercing fellatio is not only precarious, should the Prince discover, but unsatisfying.
‘Why bother,’ has become Markie’s mental response when considering such coupling. It is the Prince... pleasing him would be the pinnacle... her tender efforts awarded with an eruption of male seed. Trained in sexual subservience, she yearns to give... and she yearns to bring delight to he most fertile, he who commands, he who provides... he who owns. Such has been ingrained in her psyche. Pleasure for the Prince... fulfillment for Markie.
Yes, Markie feels the need to be used.
One month, two? There comes a far off swirl of dust as the Royal long white limousine wheels forth just at the moment the Prince’s cart and human steed disappear onto the veld.
Has someone been observing? Or perhaps the timing coincidental?
It is the Queen’s messenger again, on this occasion arriving as Markie works to release the remaining herd from the sleeping mats and run them on the treadmills.
“The Queen summons you,” the messenger abruptly proclaims. “You are to come to the Palace.”
“But I have chores. The Prince insists his boys be well worked.”
“You are to come immediately. This is for the Prince,” the messenger presenting an envelope, sealed in wax, the Royal crest prominently displayed in conveying the authenticity its origination. “I suggest you comply... and promptly. There is no time for your chores. The Queen is best kept pleased.”
The handsome young African smiles warmly, assuaging fears.
“Your safety and well being are assured. I am told this letter will adequately explain your brief absence.”
“How long?” Markie inquires, returning a naked steed to his respective sleeping mat.
“The Palace is an hours drive. I know not of the Queen’s intentions.”
“I’ll need covering.”
“The queen insists that you be naked. She suggests that it is best for you,” a hand extending to tweak a nipple, highlighting Markie’s state of deshabille.
Markie cannot help giggling with the unexpected touch. Silly of me... and curious that public nudity remains of concern, Markie ponders. She has not worn a scrap of clothing in many, many months... other than her shoes. Yet, she demurs in exhibiting herself.
“Come,” the messenger brazenly taking her hand in offering more familiarity, “this is a Kingdom. Fealty is required. Royalty is to be obeyed.”
He leads to the limousine. In opening the door for access, Markie feels a hand smooth over her girlish cheeks. The many touches suggest attraction, she realizes in seating herself. Her gender may confuse, but the pent up desire of the young male is apparent. The messenger follows sitting opposite.
“I believe you will be more comfortable kneeling on the floor,” the voice becoming more authoritative as Markie hears the click of the door locks. “And an hour long ride should be just enough time,” the words received as ominous, the messenger unzipping himself.
Not approaching the size of the Prince, the messenger produces a male organ uncircumcised, a dark pink tip slipping past the foreskin, seemingly eager to greet the day.
“The ride can be otherwise boring. You may suck me. Cleanse the smegma first. I like a girl to be neat. Suggests obedience, proper humbleness...”
Copyright 2014
by Chris Bellows
After many days, much sodomy, much semen, many collection bags filled and frozen, the expected messenger of the Queen arrived, his timing good. In traversing the veld, tugging reins, stroking with his crop, penetrating a welcoming orifice, the Prince was unaware of his visit.
“The Queen conveys her appreciation,” the trim young male offered, barely able to keep his eyes off the straining buttocks of five naked steeds laboring on the treadmills.
Long blond hair, well styled, polished red nails both hands and feet, the mandatory lipstick applied to a tiny penis tip, the Queen’s messenger had equal difficulty not gawking at the pretty castrate, true gender... former gender... well veiled.
Into a well insulated, iced chest, the freezer emptied of what seemed like quarts of male essence, Markie felt both accomplishment and relief, the evidence of her subterfuge removed. The Prince is not to suspect her involvement in the conspiracy, Markie sighed in thought as the messenger departed. Months hence a child will be born. Years hence the Queen will surprise her son Samja with news of his fatherhood. A wedding announcement will follow.
How will the Prince ever suspect Markie’s participation?
And so the daily routine at the ranch returns to normal. Sperm collection curtailed, a spritz enema quickly offered with a quick cooling douse of spray water before the worn steed is bedded.
Apprehension removed, Markie’s attraction to the Prince, her envy of a fully functioning penis, her adoration of handsome virility, blossoms anew. Though free to frottage with the steeds, tease and torment their chaste forms, there is a sense of emptiness, lack of filfillment. The steeds offer oral stimulation upon demand... boy labia... boy pussy. The lipstick though, is not to be smeared, the Prince using it as a defacto gauge as to whether there has been trespass on Markie’s comical once male organ.
Still, during lonely restless nights Markie is known to lift a hood, straddle a face and offer herself.
Yet, it satiates not. The steeds, oral skills accomplished, gratify mechanically. And adding to the sense of ennui is the fact that Markie’s castration precludes any ultimate orgasm. She senses a pending sneeze that just won’t come. Thus coercing fellatio is not only precarious, should the Prince discover, but unsatisfying.
‘Why bother,’ has become Markie’s mental response when considering such coupling. It is the Prince... pleasing him would be the pinnacle... her tender efforts awarded with an eruption of male seed. Trained in sexual subservience, she yearns to give... and she yearns to bring delight to he most fertile, he who commands, he who provides... he who owns. Such has been ingrained in her psyche. Pleasure for the Prince... fulfillment for Markie.
Yes, Markie feels the need to be used.
One month, two? There comes a far off swirl of dust as the Royal long white limousine wheels forth just at the moment the Prince’s cart and human steed disappear onto the veld.
Has someone been observing? Or perhaps the timing coincidental?
It is the Queen’s messenger again, on this occasion arriving as Markie works to release the remaining herd from the sleeping mats and run them on the treadmills.
“The Queen summons you,” the messenger abruptly proclaims. “You are to come to the Palace.”
“But I have chores. The Prince insists his boys be well worked.”
“You are to come immediately. This is for the Prince,” the messenger presenting an envelope, sealed in wax, the Royal crest prominently displayed in conveying the authenticity its origination. “I suggest you comply... and promptly. There is no time for your chores. The Queen is best kept pleased.”
The handsome young African smiles warmly, assuaging fears.
“Your safety and well being are assured. I am told this letter will adequately explain your brief absence.”
“How long?” Markie inquires, returning a naked steed to his respective sleeping mat.
“The Palace is an hours drive. I know not of the Queen’s intentions.”
“I’ll need covering.”
“The queen insists that you be naked. She suggests that it is best for you,” a hand extending to tweak a nipple, highlighting Markie’s state of deshabille.
Markie cannot help giggling with the unexpected touch. Silly of me... and curious that public nudity remains of concern, Markie ponders. She has not worn a scrap of clothing in many, many months... other than her shoes. Yet, she demurs in exhibiting herself.
“Come,” the messenger brazenly taking her hand in offering more familiarity, “this is a Kingdom. Fealty is required. Royalty is to be obeyed.”
He leads to the limousine. In opening the door for access, Markie feels a hand smooth over her girlish cheeks. The many touches suggest attraction, she realizes in seating herself. Her gender may confuse, but the pent up desire of the young male is apparent. The messenger follows sitting opposite.
“I believe you will be more comfortable kneeling on the floor,” the voice becoming more authoritative as Markie hears the click of the door locks. “And an hour long ride should be just enough time,” the words received as ominous, the messenger unzipping himself.
Not approaching the size of the Prince, the messenger produces a male organ uncircumcised, a dark pink tip slipping past the foreskin, seemingly eager to greet the day.
“The ride can be otherwise boring. You may suck me. Cleanse the smegma first. I like a girl to be neat. Suggests obedience, proper humbleness...”
Wednesday, December 3, 2014
Segments of 'The Sash' to end
In fairness, I should forewarn that the last segment of the Sash will be published on 12/27. As posted, the entire manuscript is available from Lulu.
Yes, the postings have been a 'teaser', but I have offered some 22,000 words for free. Not a bad bargain. Amazon discourages offering a single page!
Not sure what will begin in January.
Yes, the postings have been a 'teaser', but I have offered some 22,000 words for free. Not a bad bargain. Amazon discourages offering a single page!
Not sure what will begin in January.
Saturday, November 29, 2014
The Sash - The Subterfuge Begins
The Subterfuge Begins
Copyright 2014
by Chris Bellows
Markie finds herself torn. She adores the Prince. His puissance, his sexual prowess, is to be esteemed. She fantasizes that some day, just as one of the blond, blue eyed and well muscled Caucasian steeds brings gratification, it will be her charms that please.
Yet she knows not how. The massive royal manhood would tear her rectum... and she cannot quite envision taking much more than the very tip of the Prince’s turgid penis into her mouth. Would her hands satisfy? Alas she assumes not... she has not the strength... the Prince’s mighty phallus desiring the tightness of male muscling which scalpel and hormones have robbed from her.
Still, though she realizes she is unlikely to ascend beyond her role of stable hand, the notion of betraying the Prince bothers.
But would assisting the Queen be betrayal? Does the Prince really have any desire to accede to the throne? Perhaps it is best to offer him an option as well... an alternative may be acceptable. Life at the ranch is good.
Also to be considered is incurring the Queen’s wrath by not cooperating... or failing in her efforts to procure the demanded sperm. Thoughts of the deep secluded Palace dungeon... where occupants never again see the light of day... bring another shudder.
She justifies... her choice not easy to accept... but easy to undertake. The Prince most consistently ends his daily escapade with anal penetration... for which, upon return to the stable, Markie offers a quick spritz enema to preclude a soiled sleeping mat when the well worn steed is bedded.
Yes, incredible globs of gooey white are known to ooze from rectums well frictioned. After all, it is due to the Prince’s size and virility that a boy is only sodomized once per week. Thus there is abundance. Markie would merely need to gather rather then flush away.
And the refrigerator is nearby and convenient, a weekly application of ice required in order to return a priapic and frustrated steed to his respective cock cage after intimate shaving and cleansing.
So it is decided. Markie will surreptitiously gather what she can and tuck the many specimen bags into the back of the freezer.
Who is to ever know?
“Steady, Monday, be a good boy and spread for me.”
Another day, another run, another well fucked, well sodomized human steed. A satiated Prince has departed the stable. A late luncheon awaits. Markie has returned Monday to the marble cleaning slab, ankles clipped to opposing corners, wrists released from the neck band and secured as well. The exhausted human steed humble presents himself on all fours.
Though spending deeply, remnants of the gruff coupling show about the anus. Markie begins to gather, the blade of a knife smoothing about the pink flesh, then wiping the white gel into the specimen bag.
“Don’t move,” she forewarns, “ but do push with your anus. The Prince spent deeply as always, if I don’t clear you out you’ll be oozing all day.”
Not a complete prevarication, neatness beckons her attention. But today the Prince’s essence is not to be flushed to the drain. It is to be treasured... frozen... delivered to her Majesty.
“Come now Monday, make like you’re moving your bowels. It is only the Prince’s fine deposit which will be expelled. I cleansed you of all else.”
There is reluctance. Monday blushes with the intensity of having to perform such a humiliating deed for the pretty castrate. Yet the cattle prod is both handy and well charged. And the embarrassment of performing for his caretaker can hardly exceed the ignominy of being sexually used by another man.
A dainty hand palms a well exposed scrotum. By now all the steeds are aware of Markie’s envy of the intact... of her delight in palpating that which was plundered from her.
“Give me all you can. I’ll offer a treat.”
Markie steps away. Hanging on the side of the refrigerator is the small but so meaningful and sought after key... to the cock cages. She returns. Markie holds it before Monday’s frustrated eyes.
“You’ll not tell the Prince... and you will press to return his daily gift.”
“Yes, Miss Markie,” Monday energetically nods.
Whatever is required to earn freedom of the sharp spikes Monday will gratefully offer.
“Will you masturbate me, Miss Markie? Please!”
“Of course not. But you can put on a good stand and watch it bob about ... for a while.”
Though the joy will be insufficient, it is a rare treat. Monday therefore needs no further encouragement. He closes his eyes and begins to work the tight muscling of his abdomen. He will comply. He will essentially defecate for the cute castrate who rules.
It requires time, the Prince not entirely exaggerating when he wittily suggests exploding into a boy’s stomach. But as a stultified Monday works his sphincter, more whiteness slowly appears. And as the gelatinous mass exits, the knife blade carefully smooths and the collection bag fills and fills.
The Prince is indeed most fecund, Markie concludes. So manly...
Copyright 2014
by Chris Bellows
Markie finds herself torn. She adores the Prince. His puissance, his sexual prowess, is to be esteemed. She fantasizes that some day, just as one of the blond, blue eyed and well muscled Caucasian steeds brings gratification, it will be her charms that please.
Yet she knows not how. The massive royal manhood would tear her rectum... and she cannot quite envision taking much more than the very tip of the Prince’s turgid penis into her mouth. Would her hands satisfy? Alas she assumes not... she has not the strength... the Prince’s mighty phallus desiring the tightness of male muscling which scalpel and hormones have robbed from her.
Still, though she realizes she is unlikely to ascend beyond her role of stable hand, the notion of betraying the Prince bothers.
But would assisting the Queen be betrayal? Does the Prince really have any desire to accede to the throne? Perhaps it is best to offer him an option as well... an alternative may be acceptable. Life at the ranch is good.
Also to be considered is incurring the Queen’s wrath by not cooperating... or failing in her efforts to procure the demanded sperm. Thoughts of the deep secluded Palace dungeon... where occupants never again see the light of day... bring another shudder.
She justifies... her choice not easy to accept... but easy to undertake. The Prince most consistently ends his daily escapade with anal penetration... for which, upon return to the stable, Markie offers a quick spritz enema to preclude a soiled sleeping mat when the well worn steed is bedded.
Yes, incredible globs of gooey white are known to ooze from rectums well frictioned. After all, it is due to the Prince’s size and virility that a boy is only sodomized once per week. Thus there is abundance. Markie would merely need to gather rather then flush away.
And the refrigerator is nearby and convenient, a weekly application of ice required in order to return a priapic and frustrated steed to his respective cock cage after intimate shaving and cleansing.
So it is decided. Markie will surreptitiously gather what she can and tuck the many specimen bags into the back of the freezer.
Who is to ever know?
“Steady, Monday, be a good boy and spread for me.”
Another day, another run, another well fucked, well sodomized human steed. A satiated Prince has departed the stable. A late luncheon awaits. Markie has returned Monday to the marble cleaning slab, ankles clipped to opposing corners, wrists released from the neck band and secured as well. The exhausted human steed humble presents himself on all fours.
Though spending deeply, remnants of the gruff coupling show about the anus. Markie begins to gather, the blade of a knife smoothing about the pink flesh, then wiping the white gel into the specimen bag.
“Don’t move,” she forewarns, “ but do push with your anus. The Prince spent deeply as always, if I don’t clear you out you’ll be oozing all day.”
Not a complete prevarication, neatness beckons her attention. But today the Prince’s essence is not to be flushed to the drain. It is to be treasured... frozen... delivered to her Majesty.
“Come now Monday, make like you’re moving your bowels. It is only the Prince’s fine deposit which will be expelled. I cleansed you of all else.”
There is reluctance. Monday blushes with the intensity of having to perform such a humiliating deed for the pretty castrate. Yet the cattle prod is both handy and well charged. And the embarrassment of performing for his caretaker can hardly exceed the ignominy of being sexually used by another man.
A dainty hand palms a well exposed scrotum. By now all the steeds are aware of Markie’s envy of the intact... of her delight in palpating that which was plundered from her.
“Give me all you can. I’ll offer a treat.”
Markie steps away. Hanging on the side of the refrigerator is the small but so meaningful and sought after key... to the cock cages. She returns. Markie holds it before Monday’s frustrated eyes.
“You’ll not tell the Prince... and you will press to return his daily gift.”
“Yes, Miss Markie,” Monday energetically nods.
Whatever is required to earn freedom of the sharp spikes Monday will gratefully offer.
“Will you masturbate me, Miss Markie? Please!”
“Of course not. But you can put on a good stand and watch it bob about ... for a while.”
Though the joy will be insufficient, it is a rare treat. Monday therefore needs no further encouragement. He closes his eyes and begins to work the tight muscling of his abdomen. He will comply. He will essentially defecate for the cute castrate who rules.
It requires time, the Prince not entirely exaggerating when he wittily suggests exploding into a boy’s stomach. But as a stultified Monday works his sphincter, more whiteness slowly appears. And as the gelatinous mass exits, the knife blade carefully smooths and the collection bag fills and fills.
The Prince is indeed most fecund, Markie concludes. So manly...
Saturday, November 22, 2014
The Sash - The Visit Ends
The Visit Ends
Copyright 2014
by Chris Bellows
“It is good of her Majesty to visit my unworthy abode,” the Prince politely bowing.
“You may dispense with the courtship, Samja... mother will do.”
“It is good of you to visit, mother.”
The Prince arrives for his morning jaunt. The Queen has remained in the stable observing Markie work. Though she disapproves of the Prince’s lifestyle, the seven naked forms bring entertainment. The juxtaposition of a prettified altered male offering care to the collection of muscular brawn intrigues... Markie controlling urination... feeding... for which each boy must beg... cleansing and harnessing... and then one by one freeing from the sleeping mats to begin a long morning of work on the treadmills.
As with every morning, a boy awaits in harness. Internally cleansed.... the process bringing great amusement for the Queen... lubricated and coated in sun oil, Saturday will have a long Saturday.
“Whatever do you see in all this, Samja? Such decadence. When it becomes your turn to rule, whatever are you going to do? What kind of leadership are you going to show your subjects... being conveyed by chastised men... cropping naked buttocks as they labor in harness...”
The Queen taunts. As suggested to Markie, she doubts that the Prince will agree to ascend to the throne... yet if so an alternative plan percolates.
“Perhaps I will have a special dungeon... or enlarge yours,” the Prince jousts in return.
His conjecture angers the Queen.
“My special dungeon is discreet... limited in scope... and only for the very contemptuous. I don’t flog in public,” the words uttered in rebuke as the Prince mounts the cart and takes the reins.
“Perhaps you should give it a try, mother. Nothing brings more awe and respect from a boy than watching another endure pain and humiliation,” the Prince reaching low to apply a modest but agonizing stroke of the crop to Saturday’s well exposed scrotum.
With the pain, a whoosh of air expels past a bridle held most taut. Saturday, now made most eager to run, must obediently stand in harness, sensing fire as the feel of the crop sears his cerebral cortex.
The mother son duo glare, then with a sheepish smile, the Prince begins his daily exchange of power, tapping the buttocks, tugging on the reins to guide from the corral area, then stroking in earnest to compel speed. Saturday complies.
The Queen and Markie silently watch the as the dust of the cart dissipates and Master and tethered human steed disappear over a ridge.
“Such obstinance. Yet to avoid Royal scandal I am forced to abet this degenerative life of his. Can you imagine him as King greeting dignitaries with a naked white boy at the end of a leash?”
Markie suppresses her own observation... that the Queen seemed quite disposed to watch the humiliation of the morning routine. The Prince’s herd... obedient, docile to the controlling hands of a feminized castrate, uncomfortable in being forcefully exposed to the exacting gaze of a woman... brought her delight... repressed and subtle... but delight.
“Come to the Royal chariot,” the Queen sardonically referencing her limousine. “The Queen is conveyed by four tires and a motor... mundane but without detraction.”
The long limousine, white with deeply tainted windows to dispel the rays of the African sun, awaits, engine idling, air conditioning roaring to offer comfort as the heat of the noon hour approaches. An ornately uniformed chauffeur promptly opens a rear door. The guard stands at the passenger side scanning the horizon for interlopers.
“We’ll talk. Wait here,” commanding the driver. “Get in Markie. We’ll finish our discussion. The interior is soundproofed,” the Queen following to an opposing seat.
“So you see my dilemma, Markie. Even if the Prince should concede to an arranged marriage he knows not of vaginal penetration. The friction of feminine flesh would hardly bring arousal. At this point such may even disgust,” the Queen rueful with cynicism, signaling Markie to spread his thighs. “So with or without his knowledge, it is I who will induce the insemination of Royal sperm. Ironic is it not?”
“Yes, your Majesty,” the reply coming as a dark Royal hand reaches forth.
Markie is surprised to find that his tiny penis, not yet fully colored with the daily application of lipstick, seems to attract. The Royal fingers diddle and roll, the Queen comfortable that no subject can observe as she has her way. Again Markie places his hands atop his head in symbolic capitulation.
“Though I doubt he’ll want the throne, I must assure my loyal subjects that he not ascend, not bring debauchery to the Palace. You heard his suggestion... that I in turn place a boy in harness... join the ranks of the sexual reprobates. The Prince is incorrigible.
“Once a grandson is born, I can deal with the Prince more forthrightly. For then there will be options. But a mother can’t just order a son to masturbate into a specimen jar, no matter the level of perversity here at the ranch. So that task is yours,” the Queen’s fingers withdrawing to hand Markie a package. “Within are sealable plastic specimen bags. Make sure there is limited air before sealing closed. Also some condoms.”
Distant joy removed, the Queen’s diddling reminds of the maternal touch of Nurse Benson, controlling, humiliating but pleasant. A disappointed Markie accepts the package and peers within.
“The Prince rides about the same time each day?”
“Yes, your Majesty.”
“Good. Late some morning I will send a car in a few weeks to retrieve as many samples as you can procure. The plan is simple... but must be kept very confidential. He’s addicted to sexual power, Markie. Over time his addiction may grow, furtively cropping naked buttocks on the veld may not bring sufficient gratification. The notion of forcing more public humiliation at the Palace may intrigue. I must assure that his debauchery can be tempered... and am relying on you to help. With the birth of a grandson, I will be empowered to press my son the Prince for abdication.
“And Markie, keep in mind the Prince’s flippant remark about my special dungeon. Since he has exposed my little secret, I will confirm it indeed exists... and it is for miscreants who will never again to see the light of day. Those who have angered or affronted the Queen at a very personal level. Therefore I punish... personally...”
Markie nods, cloaking a frisson of fear. The woman watched the well bound naked steeds with little compunction, in fact smiling as Saturday suffered under the duress of a high unending enema. Markie has little doubt that the threat is sincere... the Queen’s dungeon deep and secluded.
The alternative threat of the penitentiary seems comparatively innocuous.
Copyright 2014
by Chris Bellows
“It is good of her Majesty to visit my unworthy abode,” the Prince politely bowing.
“You may dispense with the courtship, Samja... mother will do.”
“It is good of you to visit, mother.”
The Prince arrives for his morning jaunt. The Queen has remained in the stable observing Markie work. Though she disapproves of the Prince’s lifestyle, the seven naked forms bring entertainment. The juxtaposition of a prettified altered male offering care to the collection of muscular brawn intrigues... Markie controlling urination... feeding... for which each boy must beg... cleansing and harnessing... and then one by one freeing from the sleeping mats to begin a long morning of work on the treadmills.
As with every morning, a boy awaits in harness. Internally cleansed.... the process bringing great amusement for the Queen... lubricated and coated in sun oil, Saturday will have a long Saturday.
“Whatever do you see in all this, Samja? Such decadence. When it becomes your turn to rule, whatever are you going to do? What kind of leadership are you going to show your subjects... being conveyed by chastised men... cropping naked buttocks as they labor in harness...”
The Queen taunts. As suggested to Markie, she doubts that the Prince will agree to ascend to the throne... yet if so an alternative plan percolates.
“Perhaps I will have a special dungeon... or enlarge yours,” the Prince jousts in return.
His conjecture angers the Queen.
“My special dungeon is discreet... limited in scope... and only for the very contemptuous. I don’t flog in public,” the words uttered in rebuke as the Prince mounts the cart and takes the reins.
“Perhaps you should give it a try, mother. Nothing brings more awe and respect from a boy than watching another endure pain and humiliation,” the Prince reaching low to apply a modest but agonizing stroke of the crop to Saturday’s well exposed scrotum.
With the pain, a whoosh of air expels past a bridle held most taut. Saturday, now made most eager to run, must obediently stand in harness, sensing fire as the feel of the crop sears his cerebral cortex.
The mother son duo glare, then with a sheepish smile, the Prince begins his daily exchange of power, tapping the buttocks, tugging on the reins to guide from the corral area, then stroking in earnest to compel speed. Saturday complies.
The Queen and Markie silently watch the as the dust of the cart dissipates and Master and tethered human steed disappear over a ridge.
“Such obstinance. Yet to avoid Royal scandal I am forced to abet this degenerative life of his. Can you imagine him as King greeting dignitaries with a naked white boy at the end of a leash?”
Markie suppresses her own observation... that the Queen seemed quite disposed to watch the humiliation of the morning routine. The Prince’s herd... obedient, docile to the controlling hands of a feminized castrate, uncomfortable in being forcefully exposed to the exacting gaze of a woman... brought her delight... repressed and subtle... but delight.
“Come to the Royal chariot,” the Queen sardonically referencing her limousine. “The Queen is conveyed by four tires and a motor... mundane but without detraction.”
The long limousine, white with deeply tainted windows to dispel the rays of the African sun, awaits, engine idling, air conditioning roaring to offer comfort as the heat of the noon hour approaches. An ornately uniformed chauffeur promptly opens a rear door. The guard stands at the passenger side scanning the horizon for interlopers.
“We’ll talk. Wait here,” commanding the driver. “Get in Markie. We’ll finish our discussion. The interior is soundproofed,” the Queen following to an opposing seat.
“So you see my dilemma, Markie. Even if the Prince should concede to an arranged marriage he knows not of vaginal penetration. The friction of feminine flesh would hardly bring arousal. At this point such may even disgust,” the Queen rueful with cynicism, signaling Markie to spread his thighs. “So with or without his knowledge, it is I who will induce the insemination of Royal sperm. Ironic is it not?”
“Yes, your Majesty,” the reply coming as a dark Royal hand reaches forth.
Markie is surprised to find that his tiny penis, not yet fully colored with the daily application of lipstick, seems to attract. The Royal fingers diddle and roll, the Queen comfortable that no subject can observe as she has her way. Again Markie places his hands atop his head in symbolic capitulation.
“Though I doubt he’ll want the throne, I must assure my loyal subjects that he not ascend, not bring debauchery to the Palace. You heard his suggestion... that I in turn place a boy in harness... join the ranks of the sexual reprobates. The Prince is incorrigible.
“Once a grandson is born, I can deal with the Prince more forthrightly. For then there will be options. But a mother can’t just order a son to masturbate into a specimen jar, no matter the level of perversity here at the ranch. So that task is yours,” the Queen’s fingers withdrawing to hand Markie a package. “Within are sealable plastic specimen bags. Make sure there is limited air before sealing closed. Also some condoms.”
Distant joy removed, the Queen’s diddling reminds of the maternal touch of Nurse Benson, controlling, humiliating but pleasant. A disappointed Markie accepts the package and peers within.
“The Prince rides about the same time each day?”
“Yes, your Majesty.”
“Good. Late some morning I will send a car in a few weeks to retrieve as many samples as you can procure. The plan is simple... but must be kept very confidential. He’s addicted to sexual power, Markie. Over time his addiction may grow, furtively cropping naked buttocks on the veld may not bring sufficient gratification. The notion of forcing more public humiliation at the Palace may intrigue. I must assure that his debauchery can be tempered... and am relying on you to help. With the birth of a grandson, I will be empowered to press my son the Prince for abdication.
“And Markie, keep in mind the Prince’s flippant remark about my special dungeon. Since he has exposed my little secret, I will confirm it indeed exists... and it is for miscreants who will never again to see the light of day. Those who have angered or affronted the Queen at a very personal level. Therefore I punish... personally...”
Markie nods, cloaking a frisson of fear. The woman watched the well bound naked steeds with little compunction, in fact smiling as Saturday suffered under the duress of a high unending enema. Markie has little doubt that the threat is sincere... the Queen’s dungeon deep and secluded.
The alternative threat of the penitentiary seems comparatively innocuous.
Saturday, November 15, 2014
The Sash - A Royal Visit
A Royal Visit
Copyright 2014
by Chris Bellows
Markie awakens not to the smell of the rich morning gruel, but instead to the stentorian sound of a man unknown. It startles. For months, the only significant voice heard being the deep sonorous words of the Prince.
“All bow to the Queen!”
Markie rests lying with Sunday, head pressed to his chest where she has teasingly licked and sucked a nipple throughout the night. A dainty left hand cups the scrotum, feeling the heartbeat, sensing comfort in palpating organs callously ripped from her, on occasion jostling to send her message of governance. Knowing that, as a result, Sunday’s entrapped male organ attempts to harden within the restrictive cock cage brings solace... power for the otherwise powerless.
Eyes adjusting, Markie moves to kneel upright, spying a uniformed countryman of the Prince standing at attention at the stable entrance. Within moments a regal woman of color steps within, the impressive garb of flowing silk suggesting royalty. Markie scrambles to stand, knowing to bow her head.
There comes a pause, Markie finally ever so slightly raising her chin to peek. Occupying the door frame, surveying the stable, is a tall African woman, shoulders broad, waist narrow, hips suggesting athleticism.
“Where is my son? You girl, answer. Where is the Prince?” the words barked, the tone stern.
“He comes not to the stable until later in the morning, your Majesty,” Markie’s voice timid.
In being addressed, Markie looks up from his position of reverence. The Queen steps forth. Markie notes in her left hand an ornate walking stick... the shaft resembling the rattan with which Prince metes punishment.
“Such decadence, such debauchery,” the Queen glaring at the seven naked and well bound steeds. “And you girl! What is your name?”
“Markie, your Majesty,” humbly offered as the Queen’s eyes shift to her feminized nakedness... then dip lower.
“You’ve been castrated,” remnants of red lipstick remaining, the tiny penis tip belying Markie’s long blond locks and polished finger and toe nails.
“Yes, your Majesty,” the reply timidly mournful.
“And those shoes, very strange.”
“Without them I cannot walk, your Majesty. My feet... have been altered as well.”
The Queen moves proximate, the walking stick extends. For some reason Markie knows to place her hands atop her head as her vestigial male organ is flicked back and forth with the tip. A smile blooms, one of amusement... but easily interpreted as wicked as well.
“I am aware of my son’s bizarre predilections. Of what use are you?”
“I serve the Prince, your Majesty. Here in the stable, tending to the... ah... the steeds.”
“Ha. You mean his sex toys.”
The hand of the walking stick stops diddling and rapidly moves the tip to the right foot of the supine Sunday. Cruelly, the Queen applies a quick but limited stroke to the sole. Not a vigorous blow, yet beneath the hood Sunday howls in agony, the myriad of nerves sending a fiery message of pain.
“Had I the time and just a little more inclination, I’d string them all up for long sessions of bastinado... then see if the Prince can have his dalliances. They’ll not be prancing about after I’ve had my way with them. Human ponies... such childishness.”
Attention returns to Markie. The tall woman of Royalty looks downward at the diminutive girly boy. The smile returns. Is it one of wickedness? Markie quivers.
“Castrated and feminized... for some it is best. Leave us,” the Queen turning to the uniformed guard.
The man obediently steps out. Seeing that all present are either shackled or impotent, the Queen is deemed to be safe.
A hand extends, kindly brushing the golden locks. The eyes become lively... more assessment... more thought. The Queen must have been a young mother. There is vibrance.
“Lick my fingers,” moving the offered hand to Markie’s mouth.
The altered tongue extends, the doctor’s frenectomy becoming evident as Markie’s training conveys tantalizingly lustful applications of warm wetness. The smile broadens as the Queen thrusts her finger inward. By rote, Markie sucks then begins the swishing and swirling demanded months before by Nurse Benson.
“Castrated, feminized and trained to suck cock. A talent of limited use here. These boys are under lock and key,” the walking stick sweeping the air over the seven supine steeds, “and I am aware of my son’s prowess... you’d choke on him, ha, ha, ha,” the hand withdrawing.
“I would be privileged to serve him... in any manner,” Markie divulging his adoration.
“Well... I suppose being sexually served by a little girly boy would be an improvement... orally raping and sodomizing white boys is socially taboo. That’s why I bought him this ranch, more or less banished him to the veld. But there will be a time when the throne will require a new occupant. And then what? You can’t hold court while penetrating a boy’s backside... can you?” Markie stifling any reaction to the sarcasm of the suggested scenario.
“The country needs an heir. Markie did you say?”
“Yes, your Highness.”
“Offered the throne, he’ll probably abdicate. The Prince is controlled by his penis. His only yearning for ruling is that over his stud muffins. But where would that leave the Realm? Is the absence of strong leadership to be desired over perversion? A grandson... that would ameliorate the country’s need. Years hence, upon my demise, there would be dynastic continuity. The Prince could remain here splitting open his white boys. A grandson would continue family rule.”
A pause, the Queen in thought.
“Come over here, Markie. You can lick my boots while we have a little talk... sub rosa,” the Queen realizing that the hooded collection of naked males are blinded but with hearing.
To the Prince’s throne, the Queen clucks her tongue in noting the split seat, to her its function apparent.
“I can only imagine the lechery undertaken here,” the Queen notes in sitting, a finger pointing to a polished leather boot.
Markie instantly kneels, the accomplished tongue broadly lapping.
“Do you know what sperm is, Markie? At one point you may have ejaculated.”
“Yes your, Majesty. I cleanse... the steeds.”
“I need not inquire where,” the Queen laughs. “The Prince’s ways are known. Well, I’ll want some. You’ll be provided with specimen bags. You’ll gather and hide it in the freezer there. The Prince needs not to know. I’ve selected a girl of good upbringing... nubile of course... she’ll bear well... wide hips, ample breasts. Later, a marriage can be contrived to legitimize the birth. I’ll not have the Prince in a position in which he can renege, disavowing the child after insemination. After an heir is born, it is then he can be apprized of my scheme. It is then that I can press for his abdication without throwing the Realm into turmoil.”
A hand lowers and gently jostles the hair.
“And Markie, you’ll not tell him. If you are impressed by the power of the Prince, keep in mind it is bestowed by me. It is by my decree that the Prince’s spent reprobates are remanded to the Royal prison, tightly tucked away to never tell of this Royal nest of sexual deviance. Keep that in mind... imagine the reception your blushing pink and white cheeks would have in a penitentiary filled with lusty desperate men... intact men. They’ll put you in a short pink skirt and take away those shoes...”
A Royal hand feels Markie shudder in dread.
“Conversely, if you assist with my plan, I will assure your safety. Should the Prince take issue with you conspiring in my scheme, I will have you serve at the Palace. Do you enjoy entertaining? Showing yourself? For the likes of you, humiliation excites.”
“Yes, your Majesty,” Markie reminded of the hours spent hanging in the doctor’s sash, tiny erection becoming the center of attention.
“And how would a little girly boy amuse?”
With reluctance, Markie tells of the sash... so comforting... a catalyst for otherwise unachievable tumescence... yet indeed humiliating. The Queen chuckles in envisioning the scenario.
“Dangling erect and naked for the woman who castrated you... that does say something about your psyche Markie.
“Well I would require more practical duties of you. I have my guards emptied regularly. Keeps them calm... and loyal. A girl like you needs to suck... it humbles...”
Copyright 2014
by Chris Bellows
Markie awakens not to the smell of the rich morning gruel, but instead to the stentorian sound of a man unknown. It startles. For months, the only significant voice heard being the deep sonorous words of the Prince.
“All bow to the Queen!”
Markie rests lying with Sunday, head pressed to his chest where she has teasingly licked and sucked a nipple throughout the night. A dainty left hand cups the scrotum, feeling the heartbeat, sensing comfort in palpating organs callously ripped from her, on occasion jostling to send her message of governance. Knowing that, as a result, Sunday’s entrapped male organ attempts to harden within the restrictive cock cage brings solace... power for the otherwise powerless.
Eyes adjusting, Markie moves to kneel upright, spying a uniformed countryman of the Prince standing at attention at the stable entrance. Within moments a regal woman of color steps within, the impressive garb of flowing silk suggesting royalty. Markie scrambles to stand, knowing to bow her head.
There comes a pause, Markie finally ever so slightly raising her chin to peek. Occupying the door frame, surveying the stable, is a tall African woman, shoulders broad, waist narrow, hips suggesting athleticism.
“Where is my son? You girl, answer. Where is the Prince?” the words barked, the tone stern.
“He comes not to the stable until later in the morning, your Majesty,” Markie’s voice timid.
In being addressed, Markie looks up from his position of reverence. The Queen steps forth. Markie notes in her left hand an ornate walking stick... the shaft resembling the rattan with which Prince metes punishment.
“Such decadence, such debauchery,” the Queen glaring at the seven naked and well bound steeds. “And you girl! What is your name?”
“Markie, your Majesty,” humbly offered as the Queen’s eyes shift to her feminized nakedness... then dip lower.
“You’ve been castrated,” remnants of red lipstick remaining, the tiny penis tip belying Markie’s long blond locks and polished finger and toe nails.
“Yes, your Majesty,” the reply timidly mournful.
“And those shoes, very strange.”
“Without them I cannot walk, your Majesty. My feet... have been altered as well.”
The Queen moves proximate, the walking stick extends. For some reason Markie knows to place her hands atop her head as her vestigial male organ is flicked back and forth with the tip. A smile blooms, one of amusement... but easily interpreted as wicked as well.
“I am aware of my son’s bizarre predilections. Of what use are you?”
“I serve the Prince, your Majesty. Here in the stable, tending to the... ah... the steeds.”
“Ha. You mean his sex toys.”
The hand of the walking stick stops diddling and rapidly moves the tip to the right foot of the supine Sunday. Cruelly, the Queen applies a quick but limited stroke to the sole. Not a vigorous blow, yet beneath the hood Sunday howls in agony, the myriad of nerves sending a fiery message of pain.
“Had I the time and just a little more inclination, I’d string them all up for long sessions of bastinado... then see if the Prince can have his dalliances. They’ll not be prancing about after I’ve had my way with them. Human ponies... such childishness.”
Attention returns to Markie. The tall woman of Royalty looks downward at the diminutive girly boy. The smile returns. Is it one of wickedness? Markie quivers.
“Castrated and feminized... for some it is best. Leave us,” the Queen turning to the uniformed guard.
The man obediently steps out. Seeing that all present are either shackled or impotent, the Queen is deemed to be safe.
A hand extends, kindly brushing the golden locks. The eyes become lively... more assessment... more thought. The Queen must have been a young mother. There is vibrance.
“Lick my fingers,” moving the offered hand to Markie’s mouth.
The altered tongue extends, the doctor’s frenectomy becoming evident as Markie’s training conveys tantalizingly lustful applications of warm wetness. The smile broadens as the Queen thrusts her finger inward. By rote, Markie sucks then begins the swishing and swirling demanded months before by Nurse Benson.
“Castrated, feminized and trained to suck cock. A talent of limited use here. These boys are under lock and key,” the walking stick sweeping the air over the seven supine steeds, “and I am aware of my son’s prowess... you’d choke on him, ha, ha, ha,” the hand withdrawing.
“I would be privileged to serve him... in any manner,” Markie divulging his adoration.
“Well... I suppose being sexually served by a little girly boy would be an improvement... orally raping and sodomizing white boys is socially taboo. That’s why I bought him this ranch, more or less banished him to the veld. But there will be a time when the throne will require a new occupant. And then what? You can’t hold court while penetrating a boy’s backside... can you?” Markie stifling any reaction to the sarcasm of the suggested scenario.
“The country needs an heir. Markie did you say?”
“Yes, your Highness.”
“Offered the throne, he’ll probably abdicate. The Prince is controlled by his penis. His only yearning for ruling is that over his stud muffins. But where would that leave the Realm? Is the absence of strong leadership to be desired over perversion? A grandson... that would ameliorate the country’s need. Years hence, upon my demise, there would be dynastic continuity. The Prince could remain here splitting open his white boys. A grandson would continue family rule.”
A pause, the Queen in thought.
“Come over here, Markie. You can lick my boots while we have a little talk... sub rosa,” the Queen realizing that the hooded collection of naked males are blinded but with hearing.
To the Prince’s throne, the Queen clucks her tongue in noting the split seat, to her its function apparent.
“I can only imagine the lechery undertaken here,” the Queen notes in sitting, a finger pointing to a polished leather boot.
Markie instantly kneels, the accomplished tongue broadly lapping.
“Do you know what sperm is, Markie? At one point you may have ejaculated.”
“Yes your, Majesty. I cleanse... the steeds.”
“I need not inquire where,” the Queen laughs. “The Prince’s ways are known. Well, I’ll want some. You’ll be provided with specimen bags. You’ll gather and hide it in the freezer there. The Prince needs not to know. I’ve selected a girl of good upbringing... nubile of course... she’ll bear well... wide hips, ample breasts. Later, a marriage can be contrived to legitimize the birth. I’ll not have the Prince in a position in which he can renege, disavowing the child after insemination. After an heir is born, it is then he can be apprized of my scheme. It is then that I can press for his abdication without throwing the Realm into turmoil.”
A hand lowers and gently jostles the hair.
“And Markie, you’ll not tell him. If you are impressed by the power of the Prince, keep in mind it is bestowed by me. It is by my decree that the Prince’s spent reprobates are remanded to the Royal prison, tightly tucked away to never tell of this Royal nest of sexual deviance. Keep that in mind... imagine the reception your blushing pink and white cheeks would have in a penitentiary filled with lusty desperate men... intact men. They’ll put you in a short pink skirt and take away those shoes...”
A Royal hand feels Markie shudder in dread.
“Conversely, if you assist with my plan, I will assure your safety. Should the Prince take issue with you conspiring in my scheme, I will have you serve at the Palace. Do you enjoy entertaining? Showing yourself? For the likes of you, humiliation excites.”
“Yes, your Majesty,” Markie reminded of the hours spent hanging in the doctor’s sash, tiny erection becoming the center of attention.
“And how would a little girly boy amuse?”
With reluctance, Markie tells of the sash... so comforting... a catalyst for otherwise unachievable tumescence... yet indeed humiliating. The Queen chuckles in envisioning the scenario.
“Dangling erect and naked for the woman who castrated you... that does say something about your psyche Markie.
“Well I would require more practical duties of you. I have my guards emptied regularly. Keeps them calm... and loyal. A girl like you needs to suck... it humbles...”
Saturday, November 8, 2014
The Sash - A Humbled Penis
A Humbled Penis
Copyright 2014
by Chris Bellows
The small key turns to click open the cock cage lock... tiny yet so drastically confining. With the penis so prominently engorged, knowing fingers work, kindly slipping away with minimal scraping, the interior spikes functioning well in pricking the sensitive but naughty penile flesh.
Still, Thursday shrieks.
“Shush. It is what you want... what you all so ravenously desire,” Markie admonishes.
Actually more than just freedom is desired. Strokes culminating in orgasm would be ecstatic... but such is never known to happen.
Separated from the support ring, decoupled from the capped Prince’s Wand, Markie places aside the stainless steel mesh then returns. Pressed well into the urethra is the tube which so greatly adds to the frustration of thorough chastity. Markie gently pulls, Thursday howling anew. Deep within, the tube broadens to a bulbous lump, cruelly... cleverly... designed to constantly abrade the prostate. Removal is thus laborious and painful, the bulb stretching the ultra sensitive urethral passage as it is slid away. When finally exiting the tip, there comes even more roars of agony.
But when freed the relief is instantaneous. Markie steps away and marvels. Virility liberated at last, Thursday’s penis steadily engorges to full blossom, turning upwards, the tip pressing against his belly.
Of good size, such wonderfully controlled maleness, Markie thinks to herself. The spontaneous erection proves to be an amazing display of sexual power... yet so well tamed and held captive... a ferocious lion freed of its cage. She looks to see the Prince also reveling in the exchange... cock sucked... anus licked... watching another naked duo under his tutelage forced to engage... homosexually entwine... with a well worked sweat coated body. Yes, the tongues cleanse Thursday with fervor... as the Prince has commanded.
“Ha, ha, ha. You see how much they enjoy it, Markie. Their Master is so gracious is he not?”
The Prince laughs as the duo lick with zeal, fearing the cane... fearing the cattle prod. Much sweat is consumed, disgust palpable but suppressed.
“The scrotum, Monday. Long gentle laps... swish and swirl with that accomplished tongue. But never touch that humble erection. Tuesday, I left someone for you. But you’ll need to work hard for it. Press that face between his cheeks. That sphincter is holding back what you boys savor. I took him quite deeply this morning. It required lots of time and effort but young Thursday’s rosebud opening fully succumbed to nearly an hour of manly thrusts. And he enjoyed it... is that not so Thursday?”
“Yes, Master, I so much enjoy being fanny fucked by you,” the words mechanically uttered in trepidation.
“Fanny fucked, yes. But I think my seed may have gushed well past you bowels, Thursday. The Royal pecker is known to spurt deeply and copiously. Is that not right Monday?”
“Yes, Master. And I too so much enjoy being put under the penis,” another rote response.
The psychological degradation seems to be just another element of the Prince’s penchant, Markie begins to realize. The Prince is fully aware that in fact his steeds seethe with rage and revulsion in being forced to perform the vile acts.
Markie finds she can finally unwind, for now, tasks completed. She marvels at the lustiness of the Prince. Having coupled anally with Thursday just an hour or more before, he thoroughly enjoys Saturday’s fellatio, stifling grunts of delectation as the boy’s head bobs and bobs, deep throating the largest penis she has ever seen.’Face fucking’... the term so apropos.
An obedient Tuesday kneels upright, licking Thursday’s buttocks, the velvet rope hindering access to that which the Prince deposited, the gluteal cleft blocked.
“Markie, help the lad. We’ll not deny him an offering from the Prince, ha, ha, ha.”
Wrists tethered, Tuesday presses the rope with his nose, obedience absolute. Markie steps forth, manicured hands working to separate the parallel lengths. Anus made accessible, Tuesday’s mouth immediately dives forth, hunger apparent. Yet, Markie, in spying the remnants of the morning sodomy, knows the eagerness is feigned, that Tuesday’s true sexual preference, as with all the Prince’s young blond steeds, is for that of the female.
“So I am sure the taste is familiar to you, Tuesday. You feast on it weekly.”
“Yes, sir, I so much enjoy your spunk. You are generous as always sir,” Tuesday briefly pulling away to reply.
Markie notes the lad’s nose is indeed coated with slimy white. Still Tuesday’s face presses forth again, returning to the task which is so reviled.
“Well, there is plenty of it for you... for all you boys.”
Markie steps back, astounded with the Prince’s staying power. His organ remains rock hard. Slight choking noises are evident with an occasional downward thrust of Saturday’s face and head, the penetration deep, the penis tip incredibly bulbous.
It is then that Markie feels remorse, finds herself/himself distant. Neutered, forcibly feminized, there is no possibility of joining the libidinous antics. When the Prince’s meaty hands push away Saturday’s head for a brief respite, there comes into view the raging Royal penis. Vast in its tumescent state, the thick length so wondrously symbolizes the power, emblemizes the dynamics of the sexual servitude she witnesses.
Markie looks downward with regret, her organ shrunken to that of her pinkie finger, its last stand months ago in the doctor’s office den, the catalyst of the sash required to produce what resulted in mere pusillanimous swelling.
Envy envelops the psyche. Other than the Prince, hers is the only penis free to flop about, uncaged and capable of standing, should the hormonal imbalance end. Yet, tip coated in red lipstick as the Prince demands, it instead brings only humiliation, announcing to all that a woman chose to end his/her maleness.
She attempts to console herself, reminding that she holds the key for those that can achieve. But that power is limited. Authority is ultimately with the Prince... and he chooses to use it sexually on brawny young males... conquering... physically, psychologically, sexually.
Yes, there comes envy... and Markie finds herself gracefully falling into a well of adoration. She gawks in thought at the huge mocha stiffness, coated in saliva, casually awaiting the return to a throat well used. The Prince notes her look of contemplation.
“You like a good stiff cock do you, Markie? I know you’ve been well trained to please. But ravaging soft little girly boys is not my thing. I like my boys strong and muscular. So much enjoy entering a boy as he squirms in revulsion. Like to feel him slowly calm as he faces the inevitability of deep sodomy, ha, ha, ha. There is the resistance... the fight... the struggle... the shock as they find themselves becoming stimulated against their will... and finally the capitulation. In the end they kneel and accept. It’s heady stuff Markie. But there will be none of that for you.”
The realization brings mourn. Markie’s addled hormonal imbalance prompts tears. To the Prince... the adored Master of the Ranch... she is sexually useless... nothing more then a servant to the Prince’s herd.
She has not the vitality, the brawn, the strength, to please the Prince... satiate his penchant.
Copyright 2014
by Chris Bellows
The small key turns to click open the cock cage lock... tiny yet so drastically confining. With the penis so prominently engorged, knowing fingers work, kindly slipping away with minimal scraping, the interior spikes functioning well in pricking the sensitive but naughty penile flesh.
Still, Thursday shrieks.
“Shush. It is what you want... what you all so ravenously desire,” Markie admonishes.
Actually more than just freedom is desired. Strokes culminating in orgasm would be ecstatic... but such is never known to happen.
Separated from the support ring, decoupled from the capped Prince’s Wand, Markie places aside the stainless steel mesh then returns. Pressed well into the urethra is the tube which so greatly adds to the frustration of thorough chastity. Markie gently pulls, Thursday howling anew. Deep within, the tube broadens to a bulbous lump, cruelly... cleverly... designed to constantly abrade the prostate. Removal is thus laborious and painful, the bulb stretching the ultra sensitive urethral passage as it is slid away. When finally exiting the tip, there comes even more roars of agony.
But when freed the relief is instantaneous. Markie steps away and marvels. Virility liberated at last, Thursday’s penis steadily engorges to full blossom, turning upwards, the tip pressing against his belly.
Of good size, such wonderfully controlled maleness, Markie thinks to herself. The spontaneous erection proves to be an amazing display of sexual power... yet so well tamed and held captive... a ferocious lion freed of its cage. She looks to see the Prince also reveling in the exchange... cock sucked... anus licked... watching another naked duo under his tutelage forced to engage... homosexually entwine... with a well worked sweat coated body. Yes, the tongues cleanse Thursday with fervor... as the Prince has commanded.
“Ha, ha, ha. You see how much they enjoy it, Markie. Their Master is so gracious is he not?”
The Prince laughs as the duo lick with zeal, fearing the cane... fearing the cattle prod. Much sweat is consumed, disgust palpable but suppressed.
“The scrotum, Monday. Long gentle laps... swish and swirl with that accomplished tongue. But never touch that humble erection. Tuesday, I left someone for you. But you’ll need to work hard for it. Press that face between his cheeks. That sphincter is holding back what you boys savor. I took him quite deeply this morning. It required lots of time and effort but young Thursday’s rosebud opening fully succumbed to nearly an hour of manly thrusts. And he enjoyed it... is that not so Thursday?”
“Yes, Master, I so much enjoy being fanny fucked by you,” the words mechanically uttered in trepidation.
“Fanny fucked, yes. But I think my seed may have gushed well past you bowels, Thursday. The Royal pecker is known to spurt deeply and copiously. Is that not right Monday?”
“Yes, Master. And I too so much enjoy being put under the penis,” another rote response.
The psychological degradation seems to be just another element of the Prince’s penchant, Markie begins to realize. The Prince is fully aware that in fact his steeds seethe with rage and revulsion in being forced to perform the vile acts.
Markie finds she can finally unwind, for now, tasks completed. She marvels at the lustiness of the Prince. Having coupled anally with Thursday just an hour or more before, he thoroughly enjoys Saturday’s fellatio, stifling grunts of delectation as the boy’s head bobs and bobs, deep throating the largest penis she has ever seen.’Face fucking’... the term so apropos.
An obedient Tuesday kneels upright, licking Thursday’s buttocks, the velvet rope hindering access to that which the Prince deposited, the gluteal cleft blocked.
“Markie, help the lad. We’ll not deny him an offering from the Prince, ha, ha, ha.”
Wrists tethered, Tuesday presses the rope with his nose, obedience absolute. Markie steps forth, manicured hands working to separate the parallel lengths. Anus made accessible, Tuesday’s mouth immediately dives forth, hunger apparent. Yet, Markie, in spying the remnants of the morning sodomy, knows the eagerness is feigned, that Tuesday’s true sexual preference, as with all the Prince’s young blond steeds, is for that of the female.
“So I am sure the taste is familiar to you, Tuesday. You feast on it weekly.”
“Yes, sir, I so much enjoy your spunk. You are generous as always sir,” Tuesday briefly pulling away to reply.
Markie notes the lad’s nose is indeed coated with slimy white. Still Tuesday’s face presses forth again, returning to the task which is so reviled.
“Well, there is plenty of it for you... for all you boys.”
Markie steps back, astounded with the Prince’s staying power. His organ remains rock hard. Slight choking noises are evident with an occasional downward thrust of Saturday’s face and head, the penetration deep, the penis tip incredibly bulbous.
It is then that Markie feels remorse, finds herself/himself distant. Neutered, forcibly feminized, there is no possibility of joining the libidinous antics. When the Prince’s meaty hands push away Saturday’s head for a brief respite, there comes into view the raging Royal penis. Vast in its tumescent state, the thick length so wondrously symbolizes the power, emblemizes the dynamics of the sexual servitude she witnesses.
Markie looks downward with regret, her organ shrunken to that of her pinkie finger, its last stand months ago in the doctor’s office den, the catalyst of the sash required to produce what resulted in mere pusillanimous swelling.
Envy envelops the psyche. Other than the Prince, hers is the only penis free to flop about, uncaged and capable of standing, should the hormonal imbalance end. Yet, tip coated in red lipstick as the Prince demands, it instead brings only humiliation, announcing to all that a woman chose to end his/her maleness.
She attempts to console herself, reminding that she holds the key for those that can achieve. But that power is limited. Authority is ultimately with the Prince... and he chooses to use it sexually on brawny young males... conquering... physically, psychologically, sexually.
Yes, there comes envy... and Markie finds herself gracefully falling into a well of adoration. She gawks in thought at the huge mocha stiffness, coated in saliva, casually awaiting the return to a throat well used. The Prince notes her look of contemplation.
“You like a good stiff cock do you, Markie? I know you’ve been well trained to please. But ravaging soft little girly boys is not my thing. I like my boys strong and muscular. So much enjoy entering a boy as he squirms in revulsion. Like to feel him slowly calm as he faces the inevitability of deep sodomy, ha, ha, ha. There is the resistance... the fight... the struggle... the shock as they find themselves becoming stimulated against their will... and finally the capitulation. In the end they kneel and accept. It’s heady stuff Markie. But there will be none of that for you.”
The realization brings mourn. Markie’s addled hormonal imbalance prompts tears. To the Prince... the adored Master of the Ranch... she is sexually useless... nothing more then a servant to the Prince’s herd.
She has not the vitality, the brawn, the strength, to please the Prince... satiate his penchant.
Saturday, November 1, 2014
The Sash - The Insatiable Prince
The Insatiable Prince
Copyright 2014
by Chris Bellows
“My goodness, this one remains tight,” the Prince proclaims with enthusiasm, stepping from the cart.
Markie’s index finger loops through Thursday’s nose ring to steady, the shift in control symbolic but necessary... the human steed never ever afforded a sense of liberty. She notes that joining the rivulets of sweat at the buttocks, thighs and calves are streams of moisture at the cheeks.
Tears! Of pain?.. of humiliation?.. of frustration?
It matters not. The Prince is pleased.
“It’s so much more fun when you have to work and work a boy open. It’s my morning exercise. And you should hear him beg, Markie. He finds a good sized cock to be revolting, this one. But in the end he sucks... and deep within I left him a nice size wad of manliness... didn’t I boy? Ha, ha, ha.”
Bit and bridle in place, the question goes unanswered.
“Bring him into the stable. Before cleaning him I feel a need. It’s a lustful day for me, Markie. Let’s see what this boy looks like... all of him.”
Into the stable, Markie follows the proud swaggering Prince, leading Thursday by his nose, the cart rolling behind. Within moments, the spent steed finds himself leashed, bit and bridle slipped away, waist belt unbuckled to free him from the cart.
“Have I showed you how to hang a boy?” the Prince inquires as he proudly watches his five heavily perspiring steeds labor on the treadmills.
“No sire.”
“Well I think you will find familiarity. But I’ve no fine pink sash... I don’t pamper as at the doctor’s clinic.”
The Prince moves to a chest of drawers, known to contain various implements of chastisement and restraint. Slipping open at the bottom he retrieves a length of thick rope. Tossing it to Markie’s feet she notes it is some two inches in diameter, covered in soft felt with a sizable hook at each end.
“Hang him. You remember how the doctor displayed you? With that sash...”
“Yes, sire.”
“Well wrap him as you were and hook the rope to those ceiling cords. You’ll find a stool in the far corner.”
The Prince moves to special chair... ‘my throne’ he has humorously referenced the curiously shaped device.
The seat is split, supporting the thighs but leaving accessible the gluteal cleft.
“I’ll want two boys servicing me here... and two boys for Thursday. A little reward for so nicely offering his face and backside.”
Markie must scurry, leading Thursday under the dangling ceiling cords, she quickly enshrouds him with the velvet rope... draped over the back of the neck, ends brought to the front, slipped between the thighs, two ends pulled up between the wrists and slipped under at the neck. The stool is drawn forth. Markie steps up and must reach high to attach the rope hooks right and left to waiting loops at the ends of the cords.
She works with celerity, so often being similarly suspended in the doctor’s office den. She senses revenge, empowerment once again, as she now becomes the puppeteer... no longer the puppet.
“You’ll need cords for his ankle bands,” the Prince instructs, gazing at the treadmills and the many rolling buttocks. “And then bring me... let’s see... Saturday and Sunday. Friday can rest for tomorrow’s run. Monday and Tuesday can tend to Thursday. I’m sure they are thirsty. Lots of sweat for them, ha, ha, ha.”
Hooked and ready, Markie knows to slide away the stool. She finds the Prince to be prevenient. Thursday moves to his toes, straining to touch the floor but still finding undesired support. As Markie scampers for ankle cords, she laughs to herself, fully aware of the effect of full body suspension, she many times achieving erection even in her altered state.
Yes, revenge. She imagines the somatic reaction and finds delight even before full suspension.
Returning, a cord is clipped to the left ankle band, drawn upward to pull the foot from the floor, then clipped to the neck collar. When the right follows, Thursday hangs in a kneeling pose. He moans, tumescence... painful tumescence... already commencing.
Next it is to the treadmills. A long morning of forced exercise ends... but never the ignominy of being completely under the auspices of the avenging castrate.
As instructed, one by one, Saturday and Sunday are led to the sitting Prince, hobbling cords returned, wrists remaining attached to the back of the neck collar.
As Markie releases Monday and Tuesday, she peers to see the Prince has pushed aside his kimono. The massive Royal penis briefly comes into view, thereafter disappearing as a kneeling Saturday is instructed to begin fellatio. Yet Sunday has the nastier task, told to lie supine beneath
the throne, for him it is analingus, humble tongue to please the Royal sphincter.
“It’s good of you white boys to so eagerly partake in tasty chocolate flesh,” the Prince quips with a laugh. “Have those two lick down Thursday... every inch of him. The boy worked hard. I cropped him well...”
An aghast Monday and Tuesday are led hobbled to the dangling Thursday. Ah, the stable reeks of homophobia, notes Markie. All display disgust, so many male tongues licking so much male flesh!
Yet, the revulsion quells not Thursday’s need to harden. The cock cage is strained by penile flesh. Thursday cries out, beseeching words sputter forth. His reward for pleasing is not well accepted.
The Prince laughs heartily then commands.
“Remove the cock cage, Markie. Let’s see what the tiny organ looks like. Monday, Tuesday... you are to lick everywhere... every droplet of sweat, balls included. But if you touch his erection you will be caned.”
With so many tasks Markie regrets she has not opportunity to enjoy observing the combination of torment and humiliation being dispensed. She must retrieve the key to the cock cage and perform the rare function of removal, normally done weekly when she cleanses and shaves. Yes, it is a rare treat for those so cruelly held in strict chastity. But for Thursday, will it be a treat?
Copyright 2014
by Chris Bellows
“My goodness, this one remains tight,” the Prince proclaims with enthusiasm, stepping from the cart.
Markie’s index finger loops through Thursday’s nose ring to steady, the shift in control symbolic but necessary... the human steed never ever afforded a sense of liberty. She notes that joining the rivulets of sweat at the buttocks, thighs and calves are streams of moisture at the cheeks.
Tears! Of pain?.. of humiliation?.. of frustration?
It matters not. The Prince is pleased.
“It’s so much more fun when you have to work and work a boy open. It’s my morning exercise. And you should hear him beg, Markie. He finds a good sized cock to be revolting, this one. But in the end he sucks... and deep within I left him a nice size wad of manliness... didn’t I boy? Ha, ha, ha.”
Bit and bridle in place, the question goes unanswered.
“Bring him into the stable. Before cleaning him I feel a need. It’s a lustful day for me, Markie. Let’s see what this boy looks like... all of him.”
Into the stable, Markie follows the proud swaggering Prince, leading Thursday by his nose, the cart rolling behind. Within moments, the spent steed finds himself leashed, bit and bridle slipped away, waist belt unbuckled to free him from the cart.
“Have I showed you how to hang a boy?” the Prince inquires as he proudly watches his five heavily perspiring steeds labor on the treadmills.
“No sire.”
“Well I think you will find familiarity. But I’ve no fine pink sash... I don’t pamper as at the doctor’s clinic.”
The Prince moves to a chest of drawers, known to contain various implements of chastisement and restraint. Slipping open at the bottom he retrieves a length of thick rope. Tossing it to Markie’s feet she notes it is some two inches in diameter, covered in soft felt with a sizable hook at each end.
“Hang him. You remember how the doctor displayed you? With that sash...”
“Yes, sire.”
“Well wrap him as you were and hook the rope to those ceiling cords. You’ll find a stool in the far corner.”
The Prince moves to special chair... ‘my throne’ he has humorously referenced the curiously shaped device.
The seat is split, supporting the thighs but leaving accessible the gluteal cleft.
“I’ll want two boys servicing me here... and two boys for Thursday. A little reward for so nicely offering his face and backside.”
Markie must scurry, leading Thursday under the dangling ceiling cords, she quickly enshrouds him with the velvet rope... draped over the back of the neck, ends brought to the front, slipped between the thighs, two ends pulled up between the wrists and slipped under at the neck. The stool is drawn forth. Markie steps up and must reach high to attach the rope hooks right and left to waiting loops at the ends of the cords.
She works with celerity, so often being similarly suspended in the doctor’s office den. She senses revenge, empowerment once again, as she now becomes the puppeteer... no longer the puppet.
“You’ll need cords for his ankle bands,” the Prince instructs, gazing at the treadmills and the many rolling buttocks. “And then bring me... let’s see... Saturday and Sunday. Friday can rest for tomorrow’s run. Monday and Tuesday can tend to Thursday. I’m sure they are thirsty. Lots of sweat for them, ha, ha, ha.”
Hooked and ready, Markie knows to slide away the stool. She finds the Prince to be prevenient. Thursday moves to his toes, straining to touch the floor but still finding undesired support. As Markie scampers for ankle cords, she laughs to herself, fully aware of the effect of full body suspension, she many times achieving erection even in her altered state.
Yes, revenge. She imagines the somatic reaction and finds delight even before full suspension.
Returning, a cord is clipped to the left ankle band, drawn upward to pull the foot from the floor, then clipped to the neck collar. When the right follows, Thursday hangs in a kneeling pose. He moans, tumescence... painful tumescence... already commencing.
Next it is to the treadmills. A long morning of forced exercise ends... but never the ignominy of being completely under the auspices of the avenging castrate.
As instructed, one by one, Saturday and Sunday are led to the sitting Prince, hobbling cords returned, wrists remaining attached to the back of the neck collar.
As Markie releases Monday and Tuesday, she peers to see the Prince has pushed aside his kimono. The massive Royal penis briefly comes into view, thereafter disappearing as a kneeling Saturday is instructed to begin fellatio. Yet Sunday has the nastier task, told to lie supine beneath
the throne, for him it is analingus, humble tongue to please the Royal sphincter.
“It’s good of you white boys to so eagerly partake in tasty chocolate flesh,” the Prince quips with a laugh. “Have those two lick down Thursday... every inch of him. The boy worked hard. I cropped him well...”
An aghast Monday and Tuesday are led hobbled to the dangling Thursday. Ah, the stable reeks of homophobia, notes Markie. All display disgust, so many male tongues licking so much male flesh!
Yet, the revulsion quells not Thursday’s need to harden. The cock cage is strained by penile flesh. Thursday cries out, beseeching words sputter forth. His reward for pleasing is not well accepted.
The Prince laughs heartily then commands.
“Remove the cock cage, Markie. Let’s see what the tiny organ looks like. Monday, Tuesday... you are to lick everywhere... every droplet of sweat, balls included. But if you touch his erection you will be caned.”
With so many tasks Markie regrets she has not opportunity to enjoy observing the combination of torment and humiliation being dispensed. She must retrieve the key to the cock cage and perform the rare function of removal, normally done weekly when she cleanses and shaves. Yes, it is a rare treat for those so cruelly held in strict chastity. But for Thursday, will it be a treat?
Saturday, October 25, 2014
The Sash - Exercise... and Amusement
Exercise... and Amusement
Copyright 2014
by Chris Bellows
Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday... one by one the naked steeds are leashed, released from the sleeping mats and led to the treadmills. Caution requires time. No matter the desired alacrity, care is taken in returning to restraint, two limbs never simultaneously freed.
At the treadmill, the leash at the nose ring is replaced with a connecting cord. In removing all slack, the steed is made one with the machine. Wrists secured to the back of the neck collar, hobbling chain removed, Markie knows to slowly accelerate the rotating canvas, observe to assure a challenging level of exertion, then return to release and escort the next naked form to the exercise area.
Finally with morning tasks completed, five pearly white blond boys trotting to slow exhaustion, Markie can relax and take a morning break.
What better form of relaxation then to demand that the extended care and favors be returned? Since a hooded Wednesday remains at rest, having been run and deeply sodomized the day before, his restrained nakedness is a likely place to recline.
Markie kneels at Wednesday’s mat. The hood is whisked away. Another handsome face blinks with the sudden exposure to the well lighted stable.
“You need a testicle massage,” Markie summarily proclaims.
“No, Miss Markie. Please no,” the bound male renouncing what would be welcomed, penis freed, palpating fingers those of a caring female.
But instead, with any penile swelling bringing the agony of the spikes, Wednesday knows to avoid. There are also homophobic thoughts... the revulsion brought by the touch of a male.
“Oh yes. You get the best of care here, Wednesday. The Prince was pleased with you yesterday. Said your tongue was particularly lively,” Markie taunting as she straddles Wednesday’s head facing his feet.
“It is only because I am forced to offer him pleasure,” Wednesday protests.
Markie inwardly smiles, very much aware that when the likes of Wednesday no longer finds objection to weekly servicing the superior male, it will be off to prison... there to offer himself daily... if not more often.
Knees bend to slowly lower as Wednesday continues his futile entreaties.
“Thursday was kind enough to treat my boy labia,” Markie’s sobriquet for the empty scrotal sac. “But there was not time to lick my boy pussy.”
With that, Markie presses his perineum to Wednesday’s face, sliding about so his anus aligns with sputtering lips. Then she leans forth, both hands finding the scrotum, the male nest so inviting, the constant chastity seeming to plump with an abundance of essence.
A gentle massage begins, but in sensing no reciprocating tongue work, Markie slowly squeezes, right gonad and left. She smiles in sensing a rush of air, the pain emptying the lungs.
“It will be better for you to lick. I will squeeze... firmly. Or I can be very caring. I like feeling ripe balls. And like it even more when such are so vulnerable and under my control.”
A tongue reluctantly extends. It slowly laves. Markie’s smile broadens. A girlish giggle cannot be repressed. Nurse Benson’s extensive training developed a new erogenous zone for the altered male. Momentarily looking up to see her charges running to exhaustion on the treadmills brings further exhilaration.
“I may not have balls of my own, but I have many with which to play, Wednesday. Is your penis beginning to swell? You must like servicing a girly boy there.”
There is swelling, of course. Despite the horror, analingus upon demand, intimately touched by a male, the many, many months of neglect become evident. Within minutes the spikes of the cock cage function... punishment for the temerity of attempting erection. Wednesday begins to blubber, speech indiscernible. Markie knows the words to be a plea.
“See, maybe having a nice set of balls isn’t all that much fun, Wednesday. No cock cage for Miss Markie, ha, ha, ha.”
Markie, seeing the expanse of pink penile flesh fill the metal mesh of the cock cage, is very much aware of the anguish her gentle massage brings. Yet, she cannot help herself, handling with impunity that which was so callously plucked from her.
“If you take my offering, not a drop spilled, I will stop,” Markie finally tiring despite the double delight.
She lifts to shift herself, momentarily freeing Wednesday’s mouth of her obstructing sphincter.
“Please, Miss Markie, I have tried my best!”
“Then you can try some more. I help you pee every morning and every evening. You can return the favor. Besides, you’re thirsty. I can tell. Or perhaps the cattle prod can convince,” Markie positioning then lowering once again. “And I know exactly where to apply it for the best response,” an index finger jiggling the scrotal sac.”
The threat of shock there ends resistance. Markie’s altered urethral opening finds Wednesday’s mouth. Tiny muscles which once spasmed for ejaculation work. Markie opens herself... slowly at first. Then sensing that Wednesday is indeed compliant, she fully empties herself to complete the otherwise odorous task. Not a drop escapes on obedient mouth.
“Good boy,” Markie compliments, rolling from Wednesday’s head. “Would you like some ice?” the fingers cruelly tapping a cock cage straining under the pressure of engorged flesh.
“Yes, please Miss Markie. It hurts.”
“It’s supposed to hurt. You shouldn’t harden like that. You know you’re to become erect only when it is deemed time to amuse,” stepping to a far refrigerator.
Curious that the supply of ice is akin to having a handy fire extinguisher... for essentially the chilling lumps within perform a similar function... suppressing conflagrations... of lust.
Markie returns, ice in hand. As heady as it is to force a boy to erection... partial erection... bringing flaccidity is equally empowering. She prefers a slow and leisurely application. But hearing distant rapid footsteps and the thwack of leather on wet flesh, the task must be truncated. The Prince returns.
Copyright 2014
by Chris Bellows
Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday... one by one the naked steeds are leashed, released from the sleeping mats and led to the treadmills. Caution requires time. No matter the desired alacrity, care is taken in returning to restraint, two limbs never simultaneously freed.
At the treadmill, the leash at the nose ring is replaced with a connecting cord. In removing all slack, the steed is made one with the machine. Wrists secured to the back of the neck collar, hobbling chain removed, Markie knows to slowly accelerate the rotating canvas, observe to assure a challenging level of exertion, then return to release and escort the next naked form to the exercise area.
Finally with morning tasks completed, five pearly white blond boys trotting to slow exhaustion, Markie can relax and take a morning break.
What better form of relaxation then to demand that the extended care and favors be returned? Since a hooded Wednesday remains at rest, having been run and deeply sodomized the day before, his restrained nakedness is a likely place to recline.
Markie kneels at Wednesday’s mat. The hood is whisked away. Another handsome face blinks with the sudden exposure to the well lighted stable.
“You need a testicle massage,” Markie summarily proclaims.
“No, Miss Markie. Please no,” the bound male renouncing what would be welcomed, penis freed, palpating fingers those of a caring female.
But instead, with any penile swelling bringing the agony of the spikes, Wednesday knows to avoid. There are also homophobic thoughts... the revulsion brought by the touch of a male.
“Oh yes. You get the best of care here, Wednesday. The Prince was pleased with you yesterday. Said your tongue was particularly lively,” Markie taunting as she straddles Wednesday’s head facing his feet.
“It is only because I am forced to offer him pleasure,” Wednesday protests.
Markie inwardly smiles, very much aware that when the likes of Wednesday no longer finds objection to weekly servicing the superior male, it will be off to prison... there to offer himself daily... if not more often.
Knees bend to slowly lower as Wednesday continues his futile entreaties.
“Thursday was kind enough to treat my boy labia,” Markie’s sobriquet for the empty scrotal sac. “But there was not time to lick my boy pussy.”
With that, Markie presses his perineum to Wednesday’s face, sliding about so his anus aligns with sputtering lips. Then she leans forth, both hands finding the scrotum, the male nest so inviting, the constant chastity seeming to plump with an abundance of essence.
A gentle massage begins, but in sensing no reciprocating tongue work, Markie slowly squeezes, right gonad and left. She smiles in sensing a rush of air, the pain emptying the lungs.
“It will be better for you to lick. I will squeeze... firmly. Or I can be very caring. I like feeling ripe balls. And like it even more when such are so vulnerable and under my control.”
A tongue reluctantly extends. It slowly laves. Markie’s smile broadens. A girlish giggle cannot be repressed. Nurse Benson’s extensive training developed a new erogenous zone for the altered male. Momentarily looking up to see her charges running to exhaustion on the treadmills brings further exhilaration.
“I may not have balls of my own, but I have many with which to play, Wednesday. Is your penis beginning to swell? You must like servicing a girly boy there.”
There is swelling, of course. Despite the horror, analingus upon demand, intimately touched by a male, the many, many months of neglect become evident. Within minutes the spikes of the cock cage function... punishment for the temerity of attempting erection. Wednesday begins to blubber, speech indiscernible. Markie knows the words to be a plea.
“See, maybe having a nice set of balls isn’t all that much fun, Wednesday. No cock cage for Miss Markie, ha, ha, ha.”
Markie, seeing the expanse of pink penile flesh fill the metal mesh of the cock cage, is very much aware of the anguish her gentle massage brings. Yet, she cannot help herself, handling with impunity that which was so callously plucked from her.
“If you take my offering, not a drop spilled, I will stop,” Markie finally tiring despite the double delight.
She lifts to shift herself, momentarily freeing Wednesday’s mouth of her obstructing sphincter.
“Please, Miss Markie, I have tried my best!”
“Then you can try some more. I help you pee every morning and every evening. You can return the favor. Besides, you’re thirsty. I can tell. Or perhaps the cattle prod can convince,” Markie positioning then lowering once again. “And I know exactly where to apply it for the best response,” an index finger jiggling the scrotal sac.”
The threat of shock there ends resistance. Markie’s altered urethral opening finds Wednesday’s mouth. Tiny muscles which once spasmed for ejaculation work. Markie opens herself... slowly at first. Then sensing that Wednesday is indeed compliant, she fully empties herself to complete the otherwise odorous task. Not a drop escapes on obedient mouth.
“Good boy,” Markie compliments, rolling from Wednesday’s head. “Would you like some ice?” the fingers cruelly tapping a cock cage straining under the pressure of engorged flesh.
“Yes, please Miss Markie. It hurts.”
“It’s supposed to hurt. You shouldn’t harden like that. You know you’re to become erect only when it is deemed time to amuse,” stepping to a far refrigerator.
Curious that the supply of ice is akin to having a handy fire extinguisher... for essentially the chilling lumps within perform a similar function... suppressing conflagrations... of lust.
Markie returns, ice in hand. As heady as it is to force a boy to erection... partial erection... bringing flaccidity is equally empowering. She prefers a slow and leisurely application. But hearing distant rapid footsteps and the thwack of leather on wet flesh, the task must be truncated. The Prince returns.
Tuesday, October 21, 2014
'A Dog's Life' corrected.
Seems there was a screw up converting the sequel to PDF.
If you purchased and received only one page please email me.
Regards,
CB
If you purchased and received only one page please email me.
Regards,
CB
Monday, October 20, 2014
'A Dog's Life', (sequel to 'The Power of Money')
For those who are enjoying... have enjoyed... 'The Power of Money', I have published a brief sequel (8,100 words) on Lulu. $2.10
http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/a-dogs-life/15456276
Enjoy enjoy
CB
http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/a-dogs-life/15456276
Enjoy enjoy
CB
Sunday, October 19, 2014
'The Power of Money'
I have published on Lulu a story of extreme Female Dominance, 'The Power of Money'. 47,000 words. $6.50.
http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/the-power-of-money/15443634
Enjoy
CB
http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/the-power-of-money/15443634
Enjoy
CB
Saturday, October 18, 2014
The Sash - A Morning Jaunt
A Morning Jaunt
Copyright 2014
by Chris Bellows
Markie holds high her left hand, her index finger looped through Thursday’s nose ring. This painfully forces the tethered naked steed to present himself on his toes. Once again Markie’s free hand toys with the testicles, so vulnerably presented, the support ring of the cock cage seeming to thrust the pink plums into the palm of her right hand.
“Steady boy, steady. You’re going to please the Prince today. A nice long run for you. A good fucking. You’re going to taste the Royal pecker... what a treat, ha, ha, ha.”
Bridle and bit in place, Thursday cannot reply. Yes, he’s been tethered, a broad leather waist belt secured to the prongs of the Prince’s low sleek pony cart, wrist bands hooked to his neck collar, arms awkwardly folded in discomfort at the elbows.
Thursday’s alabaster nakedness gleams in the African sunlight, every inch of flesh coated with sun block, the Prince insisting that his penis penetrate only the whitest of male flesh... his penchant.
Bringing more gleam to the buttocks are the remnants of lubricant applied to the rectum. Markie knows it will not be enough, that the Royal pecker, vast in both length and girth, will most painfully open, stretch and penetrate... slowly... deliberately... relentlessly. Yes, Thursday will be penetrated despite his tightness, his sphincter still acclimating to weekly sodomy.
“Be good to his highness now,” Markie’s final words as she spies her Master approaching.
The Prince is garbed in a colorful silk kimono. Markie knows that beneath the flowing folds there is nothing... that with a quick flip of his hand the Prince can facilely display the only normally functioning penis at the ranch... that after running Thursday into a good sweat he will pause, unhitch the well worked steed and take him... orally... anally... most likely both.
“Good morning, Markie. You look pretty this morning.”
“Thank you, sire,” the naked castrate blushing with the kind words from he so admired.
“And you’ve nicely prepared my steed for a good run and fucking. I’m going to take him to the oasis... swim in the cool water while the sun heats the steel of his cock cage. It’s deliciously slow torment. Makes them eager to run... a cooling breeze becomes most welcomed, ha, ha, ha.”
The Prince gathers the reins, Markie marveling at the powerful hands, the well muscled arms. As well conditioned are the human steeds, the Prince is even bigger and stronger... and his penis is fully functioning... and unlocked, Markie notes to herself with adoring envy.
“Have a good run, sire.”
“Thank you Markie. Make sure my boys are well exercised. I like to feel firmly toned muscling succumb to me... as you know,” mounting the cart.
A riding crop awaits. With a forceful swing and calloused splat, feet scurry, leg muscles labor, the reins tug to guide Thursday from the corral.
“Be a few hours... work ‘em hard,” the Prince calls out as Thursday eagerly jogs to avoid more strokes of the crop.
Suffering under the crop and tethers will only be interrupted when the Prince decides the Royal penis needs satiation, Markie notes to herself, turning to return to the stable.
Five more steeds await her tutelage... for them, hours on the treadmill.
Meanwhile the Prince finds himself entering nirvana. His psyche daily ceding to his need, a wry smile slowly broadens as the prominent white cheeks of his human steed strain... only to receive brisk snaps of the crop, right then left. He feels the cart shudder with paroxysmal reaction to the sharp pain. This spurs a boisterous laugh of delight.
“You’ll better move those legs and thighs... tempt me with those pearly white buttocks... or feel more sting, Thursday. I like making a boy work for me, ha, ha, ha.”
The pace accelerates. The sound of air rushing past bit and bridle comforts the Prince. Though the noon hour is not yet, the intensity of the direct rays of the African sun quickly bring perspiration, the wet mixing with the sun lotion to commence streams of moisture.
Ah, thinks the Prince, perhaps my naked steed will feel the power of the Royal penis along his entire body. Yes, I’ll frottage every inch of flesh, feeling him quiver and squirm in distaste. Then I’ll face fuck him, the sound of choking always empowers. Lastly, when rock hard, then I’ll take him anally. Such tightness these new boys possess. Such a delicious reaction of horror as I slowly enter. Such revulsion as I pump and pump.
Into a valley, the road is dusty but smooth, well worn with the daily excursions. A turn to the right, a slight descent, and there comes the reflection, a modest pond, the glint of water beckoning.
The reins direct to the shade of a tree. The Prince positions such that Thursday is left in the daylight, facing the sun. He dismounts. A short chain is quickly clipped right ankle to left. Leaving no slack, the reins are tied to a tree branch above. An exhausted Thursday will remain standing... for now.
“You’ll be eager to kneel and spread for me... in an hour or two. You’ll hate taking my cock... but you’ll also welcome it, ha, ha, ha,” the words offered as the Prince disrobes.
Kimono cast into the cart, the Prince displays his well chiseled masculinity. The impressive muscling is only exceeded by a thick manhood, the tip swinging heavily between the knees. Thursday, selected for purchase due to his own prominent endowment, gulps in dread, knowing he must service, submit to the royal penis, before being cropped and run again.
Thursday does not like Thursdays.
Copyright 2014
by Chris Bellows
Markie holds high her left hand, her index finger looped through Thursday’s nose ring. This painfully forces the tethered naked steed to present himself on his toes. Once again Markie’s free hand toys with the testicles, so vulnerably presented, the support ring of the cock cage seeming to thrust the pink plums into the palm of her right hand.
“Steady boy, steady. You’re going to please the Prince today. A nice long run for you. A good fucking. You’re going to taste the Royal pecker... what a treat, ha, ha, ha.”
Bridle and bit in place, Thursday cannot reply. Yes, he’s been tethered, a broad leather waist belt secured to the prongs of the Prince’s low sleek pony cart, wrist bands hooked to his neck collar, arms awkwardly folded in discomfort at the elbows.
Thursday’s alabaster nakedness gleams in the African sunlight, every inch of flesh coated with sun block, the Prince insisting that his penis penetrate only the whitest of male flesh... his penchant.
Bringing more gleam to the buttocks are the remnants of lubricant applied to the rectum. Markie knows it will not be enough, that the Royal pecker, vast in both length and girth, will most painfully open, stretch and penetrate... slowly... deliberately... relentlessly. Yes, Thursday will be penetrated despite his tightness, his sphincter still acclimating to weekly sodomy.
“Be good to his highness now,” Markie’s final words as she spies her Master approaching.
The Prince is garbed in a colorful silk kimono. Markie knows that beneath the flowing folds there is nothing... that with a quick flip of his hand the Prince can facilely display the only normally functioning penis at the ranch... that after running Thursday into a good sweat he will pause, unhitch the well worked steed and take him... orally... anally... most likely both.
“Good morning, Markie. You look pretty this morning.”
“Thank you, sire,” the naked castrate blushing with the kind words from he so admired.
“And you’ve nicely prepared my steed for a good run and fucking. I’m going to take him to the oasis... swim in the cool water while the sun heats the steel of his cock cage. It’s deliciously slow torment. Makes them eager to run... a cooling breeze becomes most welcomed, ha, ha, ha.”
The Prince gathers the reins, Markie marveling at the powerful hands, the well muscled arms. As well conditioned are the human steeds, the Prince is even bigger and stronger... and his penis is fully functioning... and unlocked, Markie notes to herself with adoring envy.
“Have a good run, sire.”
“Thank you Markie. Make sure my boys are well exercised. I like to feel firmly toned muscling succumb to me... as you know,” mounting the cart.
A riding crop awaits. With a forceful swing and calloused splat, feet scurry, leg muscles labor, the reins tug to guide Thursday from the corral.
“Be a few hours... work ‘em hard,” the Prince calls out as Thursday eagerly jogs to avoid more strokes of the crop.
Suffering under the crop and tethers will only be interrupted when the Prince decides the Royal penis needs satiation, Markie notes to herself, turning to return to the stable.
Five more steeds await her tutelage... for them, hours on the treadmill.
Meanwhile the Prince finds himself entering nirvana. His psyche daily ceding to his need, a wry smile slowly broadens as the prominent white cheeks of his human steed strain... only to receive brisk snaps of the crop, right then left. He feels the cart shudder with paroxysmal reaction to the sharp pain. This spurs a boisterous laugh of delight.
“You’ll better move those legs and thighs... tempt me with those pearly white buttocks... or feel more sting, Thursday. I like making a boy work for me, ha, ha, ha.”
The pace accelerates. The sound of air rushing past bit and bridle comforts the Prince. Though the noon hour is not yet, the intensity of the direct rays of the African sun quickly bring perspiration, the wet mixing with the sun lotion to commence streams of moisture.
Ah, thinks the Prince, perhaps my naked steed will feel the power of the Royal penis along his entire body. Yes, I’ll frottage every inch of flesh, feeling him quiver and squirm in distaste. Then I’ll face fuck him, the sound of choking always empowers. Lastly, when rock hard, then I’ll take him anally. Such tightness these new boys possess. Such a delicious reaction of horror as I slowly enter. Such revulsion as I pump and pump.
Into a valley, the road is dusty but smooth, well worn with the daily excursions. A turn to the right, a slight descent, and there comes the reflection, a modest pond, the glint of water beckoning.
The reins direct to the shade of a tree. The Prince positions such that Thursday is left in the daylight, facing the sun. He dismounts. A short chain is quickly clipped right ankle to left. Leaving no slack, the reins are tied to a tree branch above. An exhausted Thursday will remain standing... for now.
“You’ll be eager to kneel and spread for me... in an hour or two. You’ll hate taking my cock... but you’ll also welcome it, ha, ha, ha,” the words offered as the Prince disrobes.
Kimono cast into the cart, the Prince displays his well chiseled masculinity. The impressive muscling is only exceeded by a thick manhood, the tip swinging heavily between the knees. Thursday, selected for purchase due to his own prominent endowment, gulps in dread, knowing he must service, submit to the royal penis, before being cropped and run again.
Thursday does not like Thursdays.
Saturday, October 11, 2014
The Sash - Preparation
Preparation
Copyright 2014
by Chris Bellows
Having offered bladder relief to the remaining steeds, Markie feeds, stuffing heaping spoonfuls of nutritious gruel into seven toothless mouths. Yes, all have had the demanded dental alteration, teeth filed to nothingness, biting precluded, the ability to deny entry to Master’s raging cock greatly impeded.
In finishing, it is time to prepare Thursday for Master’s morning cart ride. Thus, leash and cattle prod in hand, Markie clips the length of leather to Thursday’s nose ring, places the prod most proximate and begins to release the blond form from his sleeping mat.
Markie marvels at the physique, all of the Prince’s human steeds a picture of male vitality. There comes envy as two hands carefully release the right wrist of a well muscled arm. By rote, Thursday partially rolls to his side, knowing to give Markie control, the arm limp as the wrist band is quickly clipped behind his back to his neck collar.
The left wrist follows. When Markie releases the left ankle cuff, Thursday draws his foot across the mat to join his right. There the ankle bands are connected with a short hobbling chain before final release of the right ankle band.
Then leash in one hand, cattle prod in the other, Thursday is encouraged to arise and shuffle to the cleansing table. There the steed is positioned kneeling, ankle bands released then secured to rings in the bottom corners. The nose leash is tied off forcing the head high. Then, prod always ready to counter resistance, the right wrist band is released then secured to one corner and the left follows, placing Thursday on all fours, well restrained, well spread.
Despite the many weeks of ownership, apprehension remains. Markie, hands tender and somewhat soothing, will also administer the massive enema which the Prince insists upon. Though the discomfort is notable, the humiliation exceeds. Thursday will not be deemed sufficiently cleansed until he begs for the simple press of the valve to deflate the ineluctable enema nozzle.
As commanded, Thursday’s cohorts are forced to watch Markie ply her governance. And Markie finds the Prince to be correct, the more the herd watches him/her work a boy’s body with impunity the less and less such resist.
Mentally, emotionally, despite the size and well toned muscling, all control has been ceded to a plumped naked nymph. Such irony!
And Markie has learned such exhilarates.
“Do you like it when I penetrate you, Thursday? Press a big fat enema nozzle into your rectum,” Markie taunts. “Not as big as the Prince, and probably not as enjoyable, but I am sure you want to be clean and please him.”
Thursday remains silent, feeling Markie’s left hand grip his testicles for leverage as the nozzle slithers inward. Air whooshes to expand. A valve is then released to begin the flow of warm water. It calms... at first. Markie smiles slyly knowing that her charge will slowly fill as she cleanses... and fill... and fill. Pressure on the prostate, her gentle touch, both will soon bring tumescence to he thoroughly denied. Who to better understand the curious anatomical reaction than a former male?
A spray of warm water, soap, as Markie washes the entire nakedness she also feels for body hair, verboten and quickly shaven when encountered.
“Please, Miss Markie, enough,” Thursday squirming with the pressure.
“No, you’re to be cleansed inside and out. Be a good boy, just relax and let Markie have her way.”
A rub of the tummy confirms Thursday’s need. Bloated... and expanding... Markie again smiles. Having the intact male beg brings an odd sense of solace... retribution. Perhaps she will never close the valve, comes a brief fancy of cruelty.
But alas, the helpless and well exposed mass of flesh is property of the Prince... not to be impaired. Instead Markie slows the flow then moves to the nose cord immobilizing Thursday’s head. She tightens to bring both a jab of pain and an increase to the slow suffering as Thursday is forced to look skyward.
“Now you’ll be quiet. I will decide when you’ve had enough.”
The tightened cord, Markie well knows, forces a change in posture, further arching the back, better opening the colon, the bowels to welcome more of the massive enema.
Markie turns her head to note the six other human steeds, remaining secured to their sleeping mats, gawk... a combination of pity for Thursday’s stressed nose ring and bloated belly... and awe of the sang froid with which the neutered stable boy/girl metes punishment.
As expected, Thursday’s entrapped male appendage begins to swell, fighting the spikes of the cock cage. There comes more sound, words repressed, but attempts to stifle reaction to the agony not possible.
With another smile, Markie moves to Thursday’s side, slips her hand between well spread thighs and pats the impressive manly plums.
“Yes, you may be proud of these, but such are useless to you. Simple playthings for me,” Markie taunts with a snicker, “That cock cage getting a little tight for you, ha, ha, ha,” the laugh coming as the fingers move to the stainless steel mesh, jostling with impunity.
A pause, more flow, and Markie takes no pity but knows the Prince will soon want to take his morning jaunt. She closes the valve.
“Thank you, Miss Markie, Thank you,” Thursday instantly sensing relief.
“You’ll hold it for me,” Markie retorts, spraying to rinse away the soapiness.
Always keep them waiting, she tells herself. They are never to know when I choose to exercise my control...
Copyright 2014
by Chris Bellows
Having offered bladder relief to the remaining steeds, Markie feeds, stuffing heaping spoonfuls of nutritious gruel into seven toothless mouths. Yes, all have had the demanded dental alteration, teeth filed to nothingness, biting precluded, the ability to deny entry to Master’s raging cock greatly impeded.
In finishing, it is time to prepare Thursday for Master’s morning cart ride. Thus, leash and cattle prod in hand, Markie clips the length of leather to Thursday’s nose ring, places the prod most proximate and begins to release the blond form from his sleeping mat.
Markie marvels at the physique, all of the Prince’s human steeds a picture of male vitality. There comes envy as two hands carefully release the right wrist of a well muscled arm. By rote, Thursday partially rolls to his side, knowing to give Markie control, the arm limp as the wrist band is quickly clipped behind his back to his neck collar.
The left wrist follows. When Markie releases the left ankle cuff, Thursday draws his foot across the mat to join his right. There the ankle bands are connected with a short hobbling chain before final release of the right ankle band.
Then leash in one hand, cattle prod in the other, Thursday is encouraged to arise and shuffle to the cleansing table. There the steed is positioned kneeling, ankle bands released then secured to rings in the bottom corners. The nose leash is tied off forcing the head high. Then, prod always ready to counter resistance, the right wrist band is released then secured to one corner and the left follows, placing Thursday on all fours, well restrained, well spread.
Despite the many weeks of ownership, apprehension remains. Markie, hands tender and somewhat soothing, will also administer the massive enema which the Prince insists upon. Though the discomfort is notable, the humiliation exceeds. Thursday will not be deemed sufficiently cleansed until he begs for the simple press of the valve to deflate the ineluctable enema nozzle.
As commanded, Thursday’s cohorts are forced to watch Markie ply her governance. And Markie finds the Prince to be correct, the more the herd watches him/her work a boy’s body with impunity the less and less such resist.
Mentally, emotionally, despite the size and well toned muscling, all control has been ceded to a plumped naked nymph. Such irony!
And Markie has learned such exhilarates.
“Do you like it when I penetrate you, Thursday? Press a big fat enema nozzle into your rectum,” Markie taunts. “Not as big as the Prince, and probably not as enjoyable, but I am sure you want to be clean and please him.”
Thursday remains silent, feeling Markie’s left hand grip his testicles for leverage as the nozzle slithers inward. Air whooshes to expand. A valve is then released to begin the flow of warm water. It calms... at first. Markie smiles slyly knowing that her charge will slowly fill as she cleanses... and fill... and fill. Pressure on the prostate, her gentle touch, both will soon bring tumescence to he thoroughly denied. Who to better understand the curious anatomical reaction than a former male?
A spray of warm water, soap, as Markie washes the entire nakedness she also feels for body hair, verboten and quickly shaven when encountered.
“Please, Miss Markie, enough,” Thursday squirming with the pressure.
“No, you’re to be cleansed inside and out. Be a good boy, just relax and let Markie have her way.”
A rub of the tummy confirms Thursday’s need. Bloated... and expanding... Markie again smiles. Having the intact male beg brings an odd sense of solace... retribution. Perhaps she will never close the valve, comes a brief fancy of cruelty.
But alas, the helpless and well exposed mass of flesh is property of the Prince... not to be impaired. Instead Markie slows the flow then moves to the nose cord immobilizing Thursday’s head. She tightens to bring both a jab of pain and an increase to the slow suffering as Thursday is forced to look skyward.
“Now you’ll be quiet. I will decide when you’ve had enough.”
The tightened cord, Markie well knows, forces a change in posture, further arching the back, better opening the colon, the bowels to welcome more of the massive enema.
Markie turns her head to note the six other human steeds, remaining secured to their sleeping mats, gawk... a combination of pity for Thursday’s stressed nose ring and bloated belly... and awe of the sang froid with which the neutered stable boy/girl metes punishment.
As expected, Thursday’s entrapped male appendage begins to swell, fighting the spikes of the cock cage. There comes more sound, words repressed, but attempts to stifle reaction to the agony not possible.
With another smile, Markie moves to Thursday’s side, slips her hand between well spread thighs and pats the impressive manly plums.
“Yes, you may be proud of these, but such are useless to you. Simple playthings for me,” Markie taunts with a snicker, “That cock cage getting a little tight for you, ha, ha, ha,” the laugh coming as the fingers move to the stainless steel mesh, jostling with impunity.
A pause, more flow, and Markie takes no pity but knows the Prince will soon want to take his morning jaunt. She closes the valve.
“Thank you, Miss Markie, Thank you,” Thursday instantly sensing relief.
“You’ll hold it for me,” Markie retorts, spraying to rinse away the soapiness.
Always keep them waiting, she tells herself. They are never to know when I choose to exercise my control...
Saturday, October 4, 2014
The Sash - Naked Servitude Begins
Naked Servitude Begins
Copyright 2014
by Chris Bellows
The day begins with a serving girl wheeling a food laden cart into the stable. Markie knows not her name. Silence seems to be the unproclaimed rule, and every day she wordlessly scampers back to the ranch house, presumably to prepare the Prince’s breakfast. She takes no interest in the seven naked well bound human steeds. And in being restrained and hooded, they have no cognition of her brief presence. She does occasionally titter while peering at Markie’s missing jewels. For her, a neutered white boy amuses, offering more reminder of his alteration.
Smelling the gruel, Markie knows to arise to begin feeding. On this morning he has been slumbering with Thursday, ostensibly offering comfort to the relatively new arrival. Instead, throughout the night, Markie has felt the lad both tremble with the disgust of homophobia... and lurch as an unruly penis fights the tight cock cage... the feel of Markie’s warm hairless flesh spurring tumescence despite the disdain for male on male coupling.
Markie’s own maleness, the remnants thereof, has surrendered. It feels oddly good to sleep with a human beast he controls. And despite Thursday’s physical revulsion, Markie knows the lad remains traumatized from the Prince’s recent modifications, and deep within is somewhat comforted as Markie freely frottages against his well bound nakedness.
Yes, there is consolation offered... but it distresses.
Thursday’s teeth have been filed to obviate both biting and the ability to deny his Master oral entry for a deep face fucking. Grommets have been embedded in the flesh about the pubes at the twelve o’clock, four and eight o’clock positions. Such deep punctures are healing, but the large ring of steel threaded through the openings and the attached well spiked cock cage require acclimatization... as does the Prince’s Wand deeply inserted into the urethra.
Markie rolls to a kneeling position then lowers his face to the encased male tidbits. A well trained tongue thrusts forth and begins laving the pink scrotum, well presented by the ring about the pubes. He giggles in feeling Thursday stir, the warm wetness both welcomed and abhorred as more priapism is kindled.
“Your day to be run, Thursday,” Markie withdrawing to watch as the penis swells and fights its punishing cage.
“Please, Ma’am, no more,” a muffled voice entreats from beneath the hood. “And please... I need to go.”
The Prince’s Wand is capped, precluding urination. And just as the Prince prognosticated, Markie has learned to use the tormenting device to abet his authority.
“Well, it is good of you to politely ask. But you know what I like first.”
“Please don’t make me do that!”
“I thought you would want to please me. I take such good care of you,” Markie cynically proclaims in sliding away Thursday’s hood.
The boy blinks, his eyes adjusting to the morning light. Markie looks into the handsome young face, looks barely diminished by the stainless steel nose ring inserted well into the nostrils and piercing the cartilage of the septum.
“Come just a few licks for me. I’ve been good to your balls.”
“You have none,” Thursday contemptuously reminds, emotionally not able to fully accept Markie despite the girly boy’s transformation.
“Then think of it as my labia. Be a good boy,” the words offered as a kneeling Markie straddles the head, lowering to present his empty scrotal sac.
Yes, Markie has come to learn that there is evanescent joy in being orally served there. Plus he distantly joins the Prince in his penchant... sensing the horripilation of the virile male in being forced to capitulate to... a man? Thursday’s perception of Markie’s gender is understandably blurred.
A slim finger loops through the nose ring, jostles then levers to align tongue and lips with the withered sac. With the slightest tension there bringing instantaneous pain, a reluctant Thursday begins to indeed lick. Complete capitulation follows, engulfing the mass of flesh to bring a squeal of pleasure from Markie.
“Good boy. You see how easy that is? Understand how much delight it brings me? You should not deny me... you will not deny me. We need to take care of each other, Thursday,” Markie finally arising to procure a urination bowl.
“And keep in mind, since I have no balls, I’ll just have my fun controlling yours,” Markie suggests in returning to Thursdays’ pubes.
In demonstration, the fingers of the left hand playfully squeeze a meaty right gonad then move to the left. The fingers of the right remove the cap of the Prince’s Wand. Despite the discomfort an immediate flow begins.
“Feel better? See what Markie can do for you? And next shaving day, I’m going to have you get hard for me. You’d like that wouldn’t you Thursday, showing off for me? A nice erection for me.”
Thursday nods, his excretions tapering. It is a hesitant nod, for he knows fully well that the moments of freedom from the cruel cock cage will not culminate... well never culminate... with ejaculation. No instead, Markie will ice him down, insert the Prince’s Wand and return the cock cage to a neglected penis, ultimate satiation denied.
Copyright 2014
by Chris Bellows
The day begins with a serving girl wheeling a food laden cart into the stable. Markie knows not her name. Silence seems to be the unproclaimed rule, and every day she wordlessly scampers back to the ranch house, presumably to prepare the Prince’s breakfast. She takes no interest in the seven naked well bound human steeds. And in being restrained and hooded, they have no cognition of her brief presence. She does occasionally titter while peering at Markie’s missing jewels. For her, a neutered white boy amuses, offering more reminder of his alteration.
Smelling the gruel, Markie knows to arise to begin feeding. On this morning he has been slumbering with Thursday, ostensibly offering comfort to the relatively new arrival. Instead, throughout the night, Markie has felt the lad both tremble with the disgust of homophobia... and lurch as an unruly penis fights the tight cock cage... the feel of Markie’s warm hairless flesh spurring tumescence despite the disdain for male on male coupling.
Markie’s own maleness, the remnants thereof, has surrendered. It feels oddly good to sleep with a human beast he controls. And despite Thursday’s physical revulsion, Markie knows the lad remains traumatized from the Prince’s recent modifications, and deep within is somewhat comforted as Markie freely frottages against his well bound nakedness.
Yes, there is consolation offered... but it distresses.
Thursday’s teeth have been filed to obviate both biting and the ability to deny his Master oral entry for a deep face fucking. Grommets have been embedded in the flesh about the pubes at the twelve o’clock, four and eight o’clock positions. Such deep punctures are healing, but the large ring of steel threaded through the openings and the attached well spiked cock cage require acclimatization... as does the Prince’s Wand deeply inserted into the urethra.
Markie rolls to a kneeling position then lowers his face to the encased male tidbits. A well trained tongue thrusts forth and begins laving the pink scrotum, well presented by the ring about the pubes. He giggles in feeling Thursday stir, the warm wetness both welcomed and abhorred as more priapism is kindled.
“Your day to be run, Thursday,” Markie withdrawing to watch as the penis swells and fights its punishing cage.
“Please, Ma’am, no more,” a muffled voice entreats from beneath the hood. “And please... I need to go.”
The Prince’s Wand is capped, precluding urination. And just as the Prince prognosticated, Markie has learned to use the tormenting device to abet his authority.
“Well, it is good of you to politely ask. But you know what I like first.”
“Please don’t make me do that!”
“I thought you would want to please me. I take such good care of you,” Markie cynically proclaims in sliding away Thursday’s hood.
The boy blinks, his eyes adjusting to the morning light. Markie looks into the handsome young face, looks barely diminished by the stainless steel nose ring inserted well into the nostrils and piercing the cartilage of the septum.
“Come just a few licks for me. I’ve been good to your balls.”
“You have none,” Thursday contemptuously reminds, emotionally not able to fully accept Markie despite the girly boy’s transformation.
“Then think of it as my labia. Be a good boy,” the words offered as a kneeling Markie straddles the head, lowering to present his empty scrotal sac.
Yes, Markie has come to learn that there is evanescent joy in being orally served there. Plus he distantly joins the Prince in his penchant... sensing the horripilation of the virile male in being forced to capitulate to... a man? Thursday’s perception of Markie’s gender is understandably blurred.
A slim finger loops through the nose ring, jostles then levers to align tongue and lips with the withered sac. With the slightest tension there bringing instantaneous pain, a reluctant Thursday begins to indeed lick. Complete capitulation follows, engulfing the mass of flesh to bring a squeal of pleasure from Markie.
“Good boy. You see how easy that is? Understand how much delight it brings me? You should not deny me... you will not deny me. We need to take care of each other, Thursday,” Markie finally arising to procure a urination bowl.
“And keep in mind, since I have no balls, I’ll just have my fun controlling yours,” Markie suggests in returning to Thursdays’ pubes.
In demonstration, the fingers of the left hand playfully squeeze a meaty right gonad then move to the left. The fingers of the right remove the cap of the Prince’s Wand. Despite the discomfort an immediate flow begins.
“Feel better? See what Markie can do for you? And next shaving day, I’m going to have you get hard for me. You’d like that wouldn’t you Thursday, showing off for me? A nice erection for me.”
Thursday nods, his excretions tapering. It is a hesitant nod, for he knows fully well that the moments of freedom from the cruel cock cage will not culminate... well never culminate... with ejaculation. No instead, Markie will ice him down, insert the Prince’s Wand and return the cock cage to a neglected penis, ultimate satiation denied.
Saturday, September 27, 2014
A Woman in Control - Solidying my power II
Solidifying My Power II
“Dr. Helmstadt, so good of you to call. A problem with Jack?”
“No, not at all. I incised his frenum as I recommended. Nurse Benson has him performing special tongue exercises. Our efforts will offer both agility and added length. You should be feeling the difference, better penetration.”
“I am. And I am glad the surgery is covered by the company health care plan.”
“That’s the reason I called. Is there a G. Douglas Olivier covered by the plan?”
“Yes, he’s the sycophant CEO I’ve talked about.”
“Well it seems that his wife has acquired special powers over his affairs. Normally arranged with people who are non compos mentis.”
“Or arranged by a wife with particular concerns,” I offer with a snicker.
“Well, if you say he’s covered then I will proceed. She seems familiar with the Prince’s Wand and cock cage, like that we have Jack locked into. She’s demanding such for husband G. Douglas Olivier... and she has the paperwork to make it happen.”
“Electroejaculation?” I must inquire smiling to myself.
“Yes, that as well. But irregularly, only with her concurrence. Seems she wants him sensing the frustration of denial and build up. Ordered the longest and sharpest spikes for the cock cage. And though I explained it’s not necessary with the intact male, she wants the scrotal ring surgically implanted... like Jack. Quite the coincidence... has she seen Jack?”
Mrs. Olivier and I have formed a cabal... and we’ve agreed to keep it secret. I control the business... she controls G. Douglas Olivier. And we share Jack.
“I would assume she’s getting advice from a woman of supreme governance. Mr. Olivier is known to stray,” I offer as cover, not directly addressing the question.
Well, a newly humbled Mrs. Olivier politely suggested that my ‘weekly updates’ cease. It was a modest concession on my part. I do visit his office from time to time...after spritzing some butter spray on my hands. It’s amusing to see him fidget as the Pavlovian response to the strong scent brings a tent to the front of his trousers.
He asks for his update and I deny. Obviously, henceforth, if the aging penis of G. Douglas is locked in steel, even his humble requests will indeed terminate. Those cock cage spikes will bring torment with the slightest degree of tumescence. And I shall miss the antics, having the boss squirt only at my behest, listening to him beseech for final climax.
Now it will be Nurse Benson’s task... rectal insertion, the press of a button, the electrical jolt, the painful explosion of male seed harmlessly gushing into a clinical collection vessel.
“How has Jack been performing for you?” Dr. Helmstadt changes the subject matter. “We’re almost five years into his castration. Any mental/emotional issues?”
“When I have him stand naked in front of the mirror, he tends to sob a bit. You’ve seen what the daily quart of buttermilk has done. He’s nice and soft and plump. And yes, as expected his concentration is deteriorating. He no longer works here, it’s too challenging for him. I have him doing full time maid service. That way I avoid having to offer the dignity of male clothing. Matter of fact he only dresses now in his maid’s costume... and then only when I want to show him off. He is mostly kept naked full time.”
“Excellent. He’ll feel much better... serve you better... and overall be happier. It’s best for boys like Jack. His destiny is to serve. We see that often here.”
I voice concurrence, recalling the naked and leashed human canine in the doctor’s waiting room, the pretty young receptionist, a governess in training, tossing the dog biscuit. Then came the snap and the point of a finger... the commanding gesture to have my shoes licked.
“Well, I have to go. The Oliviers have a 3:00 p.m. appointment.”
We hang up and I must wonder what Jack is up to alone at Mrs. Olivier’s pretentious Greenwich, Connecticut mansion. So I pick up my remote control and offer two quick reminder charges, the code for Jack to call me. If he does not do so within 5 minutes, I simply apply more voltage until I hear the phone ring. I particularly enjoy knowing where the former male feels the manifestation of my power... in his useless sex organs. Such are no longer for pleasure... such are to endure the caprice of woman’s controlling hand.
Jack visits three times per week, keeping Mrs. Olivier’s vast abode spotless and greatly pleasing the gray haired, once-thought-of-as-prim, woman of the house. Jack has indicated she watches intently, remote in hand, having dire authority over a neutered male quite rewarding.
The phone rings.
“Yes, Miss Desiree, you signaled?”
“Where are you Jack?”
“I am in Mrs. Olivier’s kitchen preparing dinner for her and Mr. Olivier.”
“Good boy. You can stay late. I have a date tonight, dinner with one of my bullstuds. New. I think you’ll enjoy his taste,” repressing a wicked laugh.
“But I need to go to the bathroom, Miss Desiree.”
A problem. Mrs. Olivier has wired her home just as my apartment has been wired. Jack cannot leave any room without the gracious press of a woman’s finger. It is best not to intercede with another woman’s control. To do so brings confusing and conflicting thoughts to Jack’s addled mind. He must focus on staying where a governing woman has designated.
“Use a jar... and be neat. You can depose of your excretions when Mrs. Olivier returns. How has your dildo training been coming along?”
Mrs. Olivier has deviously... and deviantly... been training Jack to deep throat a fairly good sized rubber phallus, the gag reflex to be brought under control. I must say, once the woman steps out of her prude persona... she steps out with vigor.
I cannot envision her purchasing such an implement. But with the internet, all is confidential.
“I still choke a bit,” a remorseful Jack replies, knowing full well of the training’s purpose.
“Well, you’ve learned to enjoy a man’s taste... a real man. Soon you’ll be able to enjoy the feel as well. It’s best for you, Jack. There is no purpose in having any male pride. You’re no longer male. Your role is to please... in all capacities.”
G. Douglas is aware that husband Jack, remaining on the company payroll, serves in his home as a maid. Over time I believe Mrs. Olivier will be expanding those duties. Could it be that any offer to remove G. Douglas’s newly installed stainless steel chastity cock cage will only come under very challenging circumstances? Such as to be fellated... by a naked neutered male? Yes, he’ll beg for climactic relief... and such wickedness in the choice Mrs. Olivier will offer to G. Douglas... either submit to Nurse Benson’s electroejaculation or entertain Mrs. Olivier with a lewd display of male on male oral sodomy... Jack’s dildo training so deviantly applied.
In hanging up, Bob enters my office. He presents a memo from the corporate secretary. It seems the controlling shareholders of Olivier Flavors and Fragrances, i.e. Mr. and Mrs. G. Douglas Olivier, have called for a special meeting of the shareholders and a subsequent meeting of the board of directors. The only item on the agenda... G. Douglas Olivier to relinquish his board seat and accordingly his title as chairman of the board to be surrendered. Interesting. I had not thought of that, Mrs. Olivier apparently getting on board, so to speak, with the notion of more apparent feminine control, in her own way further emasculating husband G. Douglas.
Solidifying my power, G. Douglas will become even more of a puppet. Though remaining with the title of CEO, he will report to the board, of which I am a member. Now, who is a likely candidate to take the chairman’s position? That must be decided upon at the special subsequent board meeting.
I mentally review the board’s four other comprising members, wondering which male sycophant would most benefit from nice long controlling hand jobs. I only need two other votes, and there’s lots of memory in my cell phone camera...
********************************************************************************
This concludes the story. Hope all have enjoyed.
CB
“Dr. Helmstadt, so good of you to call. A problem with Jack?”
“No, not at all. I incised his frenum as I recommended. Nurse Benson has him performing special tongue exercises. Our efforts will offer both agility and added length. You should be feeling the difference, better penetration.”
“I am. And I am glad the surgery is covered by the company health care plan.”
“That’s the reason I called. Is there a G. Douglas Olivier covered by the plan?”
“Yes, he’s the sycophant CEO I’ve talked about.”
“Well it seems that his wife has acquired special powers over his affairs. Normally arranged with people who are non compos mentis.”
“Or arranged by a wife with particular concerns,” I offer with a snicker.
“Well, if you say he’s covered then I will proceed. She seems familiar with the Prince’s Wand and cock cage, like that we have Jack locked into. She’s demanding such for husband G. Douglas Olivier... and she has the paperwork to make it happen.”
“Electroejaculation?” I must inquire smiling to myself.
“Yes, that as well. But irregularly, only with her concurrence. Seems she wants him sensing the frustration of denial and build up. Ordered the longest and sharpest spikes for the cock cage. And though I explained it’s not necessary with the intact male, she wants the scrotal ring surgically implanted... like Jack. Quite the coincidence... has she seen Jack?”
Mrs. Olivier and I have formed a cabal... and we’ve agreed to keep it secret. I control the business... she controls G. Douglas Olivier. And we share Jack.
“I would assume she’s getting advice from a woman of supreme governance. Mr. Olivier is known to stray,” I offer as cover, not directly addressing the question.
Well, a newly humbled Mrs. Olivier politely suggested that my ‘weekly updates’ cease. It was a modest concession on my part. I do visit his office from time to time...after spritzing some butter spray on my hands. It’s amusing to see him fidget as the Pavlovian response to the strong scent brings a tent to the front of his trousers.
He asks for his update and I deny. Obviously, henceforth, if the aging penis of G. Douglas is locked in steel, even his humble requests will indeed terminate. Those cock cage spikes will bring torment with the slightest degree of tumescence. And I shall miss the antics, having the boss squirt only at my behest, listening to him beseech for final climax.
Now it will be Nurse Benson’s task... rectal insertion, the press of a button, the electrical jolt, the painful explosion of male seed harmlessly gushing into a clinical collection vessel.
“How has Jack been performing for you?” Dr. Helmstadt changes the subject matter. “We’re almost five years into his castration. Any mental/emotional issues?”
“When I have him stand naked in front of the mirror, he tends to sob a bit. You’ve seen what the daily quart of buttermilk has done. He’s nice and soft and plump. And yes, as expected his concentration is deteriorating. He no longer works here, it’s too challenging for him. I have him doing full time maid service. That way I avoid having to offer the dignity of male clothing. Matter of fact he only dresses now in his maid’s costume... and then only when I want to show him off. He is mostly kept naked full time.”
“Excellent. He’ll feel much better... serve you better... and overall be happier. It’s best for boys like Jack. His destiny is to serve. We see that often here.”
I voice concurrence, recalling the naked and leashed human canine in the doctor’s waiting room, the pretty young receptionist, a governess in training, tossing the dog biscuit. Then came the snap and the point of a finger... the commanding gesture to have my shoes licked.
“Well, I have to go. The Oliviers have a 3:00 p.m. appointment.”
We hang up and I must wonder what Jack is up to alone at Mrs. Olivier’s pretentious Greenwich, Connecticut mansion. So I pick up my remote control and offer two quick reminder charges, the code for Jack to call me. If he does not do so within 5 minutes, I simply apply more voltage until I hear the phone ring. I particularly enjoy knowing where the former male feels the manifestation of my power... in his useless sex organs. Such are no longer for pleasure... such are to endure the caprice of woman’s controlling hand.
Jack visits three times per week, keeping Mrs. Olivier’s vast abode spotless and greatly pleasing the gray haired, once-thought-of-as-prim, woman of the house. Jack has indicated she watches intently, remote in hand, having dire authority over a neutered male quite rewarding.
The phone rings.
“Yes, Miss Desiree, you signaled?”
“Where are you Jack?”
“I am in Mrs. Olivier’s kitchen preparing dinner for her and Mr. Olivier.”
“Good boy. You can stay late. I have a date tonight, dinner with one of my bullstuds. New. I think you’ll enjoy his taste,” repressing a wicked laugh.
“But I need to go to the bathroom, Miss Desiree.”
A problem. Mrs. Olivier has wired her home just as my apartment has been wired. Jack cannot leave any room without the gracious press of a woman’s finger. It is best not to intercede with another woman’s control. To do so brings confusing and conflicting thoughts to Jack’s addled mind. He must focus on staying where a governing woman has designated.
“Use a jar... and be neat. You can depose of your excretions when Mrs. Olivier returns. How has your dildo training been coming along?”
Mrs. Olivier has deviously... and deviantly... been training Jack to deep throat a fairly good sized rubber phallus, the gag reflex to be brought under control. I must say, once the woman steps out of her prude persona... she steps out with vigor.
I cannot envision her purchasing such an implement. But with the internet, all is confidential.
“I still choke a bit,” a remorseful Jack replies, knowing full well of the training’s purpose.
“Well, you’ve learned to enjoy a man’s taste... a real man. Soon you’ll be able to enjoy the feel as well. It’s best for you, Jack. There is no purpose in having any male pride. You’re no longer male. Your role is to please... in all capacities.”
G. Douglas is aware that husband Jack, remaining on the company payroll, serves in his home as a maid. Over time I believe Mrs. Olivier will be expanding those duties. Could it be that any offer to remove G. Douglas’s newly installed stainless steel chastity cock cage will only come under very challenging circumstances? Such as to be fellated... by a naked neutered male? Yes, he’ll beg for climactic relief... and such wickedness in the choice Mrs. Olivier will offer to G. Douglas... either submit to Nurse Benson’s electroejaculation or entertain Mrs. Olivier with a lewd display of male on male oral sodomy... Jack’s dildo training so deviantly applied.
In hanging up, Bob enters my office. He presents a memo from the corporate secretary. It seems the controlling shareholders of Olivier Flavors and Fragrances, i.e. Mr. and Mrs. G. Douglas Olivier, have called for a special meeting of the shareholders and a subsequent meeting of the board of directors. The only item on the agenda... G. Douglas Olivier to relinquish his board seat and accordingly his title as chairman of the board to be surrendered. Interesting. I had not thought of that, Mrs. Olivier apparently getting on board, so to speak, with the notion of more apparent feminine control, in her own way further emasculating husband G. Douglas.
Solidifying my power, G. Douglas will become even more of a puppet. Though remaining with the title of CEO, he will report to the board, of which I am a member. Now, who is a likely candidate to take the chairman’s position? That must be decided upon at the special subsequent board meeting.
I mentally review the board’s four other comprising members, wondering which male sycophant would most benefit from nice long controlling hand jobs. I only need two other votes, and there’s lots of memory in my cell phone camera...
********************************************************************************
This concludes the story. Hope all have enjoyed.
CB
Wednesday, September 24, 2014
The Sash - The Ranch
The next segment of 'The Sash' will appear Saturday October 4. This is the last Wednesday posting.
*******************************************************************************
The Ranch
Copyright 2014
by Chris Bellows
Markie finds the Prince’s ranch house to be surprisingly modest. ‘My pied-a-terre’ the Prince often making reference.
For the first three days he crawls about in nakedness, the doctor’s special high heels deemed impractical. Then comes a delivery truck, a long trail of dust heralding interruption in the daily tedium of life in the hot seclusion of the African plains.
“Your shoes,” the Prince advises. “You’ll soon be visiting the stable.”
Indeed, replicas of the dainty high heels have been specially fabricated. But in place of the pointy heels, forcing Markie to constantly concentrate on balance, there are more or less platforms, enabling the wearer to traverse the craggy soil of the veld.
Markie is heartened.
“Thank you, your Highness,” the expression of gratitude genuine as Markie entwines his calves with the supporting straps.
“Now you will begin to learn your chores in the stable. And remember, no orgasms. And only you are to understand my little game. If any of my boys requests the attention of your gifted tongue and lips, I am to be informed immediately. When they stop seething in homophobia, when they mentally succumb to orally pleasuring or being sodomized by a male, that’s when my enjoyment of a boy ends and I have them imprisoned.”
Yes, Markie reminds himself... the revulsion, conquering the reluctant heterosexual male. It is what most thrills and empowers. It is the Prince’s penchant.
“You look very pretty, Markie.”
“Thank you sir,” Markie continuing his daily regimen... in full make up.... long golden hair coifed.
“But too pretty. Hence I’ll want you to wear lipstick on that tiny penis of yours. I want my steeds to have no doubt that a male... former male... is tending to them. It will further frustrate. Make it a sultry bright red.”
“Yes, sir,” Markie glumly replies, his castration remaining a subject of despondence, the thought of highlighting such a source of melancholy bringing more melancholy.
“Come, meet my boys.”
Markie is gladdened to find his new shoes to be fully functional. Hand in hand, father and son... father and daughter?.. the duo pace the many yards to the stable. It is a plain structure, the peaked roof high. Markie notes large fans venting at the apexes, the heat of Africa to be ameliorated.
“You’ll have keys for the cockcages, Markie. And I’ll show you the clever snap hooks used for restraint. Just remember they are always kept in bondage. You’ll need to release various implements of restraint for cleansing and shaving. When doing so, assure to do so one limb at a time and that all other restraints are in place. You’ll soon get the gist... and I think you’ll soon come to enjoy it.”
The interior of the stable is remarkably neat and clean... almost institutional, Markie thinks to himself, perhaps a hospital ward. Yet there are no beds and no bedding. Seven naked young males lie supine on thin mats. Seven naked young males are well shackled, wrists and ankles encircled in smooth, seamless stainless steel bands... all secured to eye rings embedded in the concrete flooring. Seven naked young males lie well spread and hooded, the thought of constant immobile dark tedium bringing Markie to shudder. Seven naked young males don formidable cock cages, the mesh of stainless steel gleaming in contrast to bright pink scrotums.
The Prince grabs a thin metal device hanging on the inside of the door frame.
“This is a cattle prod, Markie. It delivers a painful but physically harmless zing of electricity. My boys have come to labor hard to avoid its jolt,” the Prince pressing prongs to a soft and lovely right cheek.
Markie cries out with the instantaneous zap, the resulting spasm almost causing her to stumble from her perch atop the high shoes.
“You see, something to be avoided. Carry it with you when tending my boys.”
The duo stroll inward. The seven forms align the left wall.
“Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday,” the Prince introduces with a point of a finger to each. “No names. If I ever knew them, such are long forgotten. They will respond in calling out their respective days... a boy to be run, fucked and sodomized for each day of the week.”
The Prince reaches down with the cattle prod, pointing to the pubes of Monday.
“As I said, you’ll have keys to these cock cages. I suggest weekly removal for cleaning and shaving there. The support ring is threaded through grommets I’ve had embedded in the skin about the pubes, so they won’t slip or fall off. Notice that to the cock cage is attached a Prince’s Wand. It’s long, designed to constantly stimulate the prostate... and capped. You will control urination... and I suggest you grant the privilege sparingly. With such simple measures... that and feeding... you’ll establish your governance soon enough.”
“This is how you release the wrist and ankle bands,” the Prince putting aside the cattle prod. “Note that it requires two hands... pressing here and here. Clever little contraptions. Assuming you never simultaneously release two hands, a boy can never completely free himself.”
With the explanation the snap lock instantly springs open, releasing the right wrist band of Monday from the short chain connected to the embedded eye ring.
“I suggest you immediately guide the wrist to the neck ring and snap hook it there,” the Prince lifting the cloth hood to show indeed that the human steed dons a matching smooth stainless steel neck collar.
Markie shudders again, realizing that the bands encircling wrists, ankles and neck will be donned for life, welded closed quite decorously, not a seam to be detected.
The Prince steps to the wall opposite the seven languishing forms and gestures to a low platform of shaped marble. Hoses and plumbing fixtures hang above, steel eyelets at the corners, the surface beveled to a drain.
“This is where you will shave, wash and cleanse... internally. The boy to be run is to endure an enema... deep and high. I want no messiness when I split those pearly white cheeks. Make the others watch when you do so. It will better establish your authority and control.”
“You will exercise them down here,” the tour continuing with the Prince strolling to the opposing end.
Markie notes numerous treadmills... and other curious devices. A pair of thick cords hanging from the ceiling bring remembrances.
“A boy entertains me on his assigned day, is rested the day after, and exercised rigorously for the ensuing five days. They are to be kept well muscled and brawny, Markie. I spare no expense on nutrition. Therefore I want the manliest of males succumbing to me... to me and the Royal penis, of course. Do you understand my need to conquer... my penchant?” the Prince reiterates.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.”
“This is the cart I ride when I work them. You’ll learn to hitch them and have them ready for good long jaunts in the hot sun of the veld. You’ll need to be mindful that the boy I run must be well coated with sun screen. You notice how alabaster is the flesh. I want them kept that way. Most of the boys I procured come from Scandinavia... one is from Iceland but I cannot recall which. But the point is I like penetrating white boys... and I want their nakedness as white as possible.”
“Yes, sir.”
*******************************************************************************
The Ranch
Copyright 2014
by Chris Bellows
Markie finds the Prince’s ranch house to be surprisingly modest. ‘My pied-a-terre’ the Prince often making reference.
For the first three days he crawls about in nakedness, the doctor’s special high heels deemed impractical. Then comes a delivery truck, a long trail of dust heralding interruption in the daily tedium of life in the hot seclusion of the African plains.
“Your shoes,” the Prince advises. “You’ll soon be visiting the stable.”
Indeed, replicas of the dainty high heels have been specially fabricated. But in place of the pointy heels, forcing Markie to constantly concentrate on balance, there are more or less platforms, enabling the wearer to traverse the craggy soil of the veld.
Markie is heartened.
“Thank you, your Highness,” the expression of gratitude genuine as Markie entwines his calves with the supporting straps.
“Now you will begin to learn your chores in the stable. And remember, no orgasms. And only you are to understand my little game. If any of my boys requests the attention of your gifted tongue and lips, I am to be informed immediately. When they stop seething in homophobia, when they mentally succumb to orally pleasuring or being sodomized by a male, that’s when my enjoyment of a boy ends and I have them imprisoned.”
Yes, Markie reminds himself... the revulsion, conquering the reluctant heterosexual male. It is what most thrills and empowers. It is the Prince’s penchant.
“You look very pretty, Markie.”
“Thank you sir,” Markie continuing his daily regimen... in full make up.... long golden hair coifed.
“But too pretty. Hence I’ll want you to wear lipstick on that tiny penis of yours. I want my steeds to have no doubt that a male... former male... is tending to them. It will further frustrate. Make it a sultry bright red.”
“Yes, sir,” Markie glumly replies, his castration remaining a subject of despondence, the thought of highlighting such a source of melancholy bringing more melancholy.
“Come, meet my boys.”
Markie is gladdened to find his new shoes to be fully functional. Hand in hand, father and son... father and daughter?.. the duo pace the many yards to the stable. It is a plain structure, the peaked roof high. Markie notes large fans venting at the apexes, the heat of Africa to be ameliorated.
“You’ll have keys for the cockcages, Markie. And I’ll show you the clever snap hooks used for restraint. Just remember they are always kept in bondage. You’ll need to release various implements of restraint for cleansing and shaving. When doing so, assure to do so one limb at a time and that all other restraints are in place. You’ll soon get the gist... and I think you’ll soon come to enjoy it.”
The interior of the stable is remarkably neat and clean... almost institutional, Markie thinks to himself, perhaps a hospital ward. Yet there are no beds and no bedding. Seven naked young males lie supine on thin mats. Seven naked young males are well shackled, wrists and ankles encircled in smooth, seamless stainless steel bands... all secured to eye rings embedded in the concrete flooring. Seven naked young males lie well spread and hooded, the thought of constant immobile dark tedium bringing Markie to shudder. Seven naked young males don formidable cock cages, the mesh of stainless steel gleaming in contrast to bright pink scrotums.
The Prince grabs a thin metal device hanging on the inside of the door frame.
“This is a cattle prod, Markie. It delivers a painful but physically harmless zing of electricity. My boys have come to labor hard to avoid its jolt,” the Prince pressing prongs to a soft and lovely right cheek.
Markie cries out with the instantaneous zap, the resulting spasm almost causing her to stumble from her perch atop the high shoes.
“You see, something to be avoided. Carry it with you when tending my boys.”
The duo stroll inward. The seven forms align the left wall.
“Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday,” the Prince introduces with a point of a finger to each. “No names. If I ever knew them, such are long forgotten. They will respond in calling out their respective days... a boy to be run, fucked and sodomized for each day of the week.”
The Prince reaches down with the cattle prod, pointing to the pubes of Monday.
“As I said, you’ll have keys to these cock cages. I suggest weekly removal for cleaning and shaving there. The support ring is threaded through grommets I’ve had embedded in the skin about the pubes, so they won’t slip or fall off. Notice that to the cock cage is attached a Prince’s Wand. It’s long, designed to constantly stimulate the prostate... and capped. You will control urination... and I suggest you grant the privilege sparingly. With such simple measures... that and feeding... you’ll establish your governance soon enough.”
“This is how you release the wrist and ankle bands,” the Prince putting aside the cattle prod. “Note that it requires two hands... pressing here and here. Clever little contraptions. Assuming you never simultaneously release two hands, a boy can never completely free himself.”
With the explanation the snap lock instantly springs open, releasing the right wrist band of Monday from the short chain connected to the embedded eye ring.
“I suggest you immediately guide the wrist to the neck ring and snap hook it there,” the Prince lifting the cloth hood to show indeed that the human steed dons a matching smooth stainless steel neck collar.
Markie shudders again, realizing that the bands encircling wrists, ankles and neck will be donned for life, welded closed quite decorously, not a seam to be detected.
The Prince steps to the wall opposite the seven languishing forms and gestures to a low platform of shaped marble. Hoses and plumbing fixtures hang above, steel eyelets at the corners, the surface beveled to a drain.
“This is where you will shave, wash and cleanse... internally. The boy to be run is to endure an enema... deep and high. I want no messiness when I split those pearly white cheeks. Make the others watch when you do so. It will better establish your authority and control.”
“You will exercise them down here,” the tour continuing with the Prince strolling to the opposing end.
Markie notes numerous treadmills... and other curious devices. A pair of thick cords hanging from the ceiling bring remembrances.
“A boy entertains me on his assigned day, is rested the day after, and exercised rigorously for the ensuing five days. They are to be kept well muscled and brawny, Markie. I spare no expense on nutrition. Therefore I want the manliest of males succumbing to me... to me and the Royal penis, of course. Do you understand my need to conquer... my penchant?” the Prince reiterates.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.”
“This is the cart I ride when I work them. You’ll learn to hitch them and have them ready for good long jaunts in the hot sun of the veld. You’ll need to be mindful that the boy I run must be well coated with sun screen. You notice how alabaster is the flesh. I want them kept that way. Most of the boys I procured come from Scandinavia... one is from Iceland but I cannot recall which. But the point is I like penetrating white boys... and I want their nakedness as white as possible.”
“Yes, sir.”
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