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
Saturday, September 27, 2014
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.”
Saturday, September 20, 2014
A Woman in Control - Solidifying my power I
Solidifying My Power I
I am now a director of Olivier Flavors and Fragrances!
You see, the only voting stock is jointly held by Mr. and Mrs. G. Douglas Olivier. And I course we know who decides in what manner to vote the stock.
So for Mrs. Olivier the choice was simple... vote me onto the board and continue living and socializing in high circles... or decline my advancement and endure the humiliation and ridicule when the sordid pics of G. Douglas begin to circulate on the internet.
But I must say, our tete a tete was not completely acrimonious. Guzzling that third Mimosa loosened up the old harridan. She asked some pointed questions concerning Jack. While her control of G. Douglas has been subtle and cerebral, my control of Jack, obvious and thorough... mentally, emotionally, physically... seemed to not only intrigue but inure a degree of envy.
More of our brunch...
“So beneath that skirt, you have his penis under control?” the inquiry coming as Jack steps forth with the fourth Mimosa.
“Locked in steel and electrified. It’s useless, other than to empty his bladder. I castrated him. But in denying him the opportunity to even touch his penis, there is a vigorous feminine message sent. Wouldn’t you agree, Mrs. Olivier?”
For the first time she smiles... than slowly nods in thought and responds to my demands.
“You are holding all the cards, Mrs. Montrove. There’s no reason to deny you a board seat at Olivier Flavors and Fragrances, photographs notwithstanding. But may I suggest a little quid pro quo? It would also send a message... to Douglas. I want Jack to clean for me... and I’ll want him to do so naked. The maid’s costume is cute... but distracting.”
A gleam comes to Mrs. Olivier’s eye. Having kept G. Douglas denied and psychologically controlled, she’s eager to take another step... rather dauntless for a woman of her age.
“I will be happy to pay for a second remote control,” she adds.
I look to see Jack trembling. My hand and fingers are demanding when utilizing the remote... but understood... punishment equitably meted. But the notion of ceding occasional power to the termagant Mrs. Olivier brings delightful thoughts... for me... and abject fear for Jack.
“It is probably time, Mrs. Olivier. The hormonal imbalance affects his thinking... muddles the mind... that and the intensity of the sensory deprivation. His days of complicated chemical engineering are probably best in the past.”
“So he’s also a company employee. Well, all the more reason to keep him on the payroll and well controlled. It will not be an issue.”
“That being said, tidy things up Jack. I’m going to bed you until Monday morning. I have some very, very well endowed acquaintances for tonight and tomorrow.”
“He’ll sleep that long?”
“Probably hallucinate would be the more apt term. I keep him well bound and have a special montage of male subservient photos I force him to watch. When not forced to watch, he’s kept hooded at all other times. It ingrains the exchange of power I insist upon.”
Mrs. Olivier is further intrigued.
“Why not stay a few minutes longer. Your show can wait.”
Mrs. Olivier nods in agreement.
“Jack, when you’re through clearing and cleaning, go to your room, strip naked for me and put on your Posey cuffs... nice and tight like a good boy.”
It’s the standing order for Saturdays, usually coming at midmorning after he has cleaned the apartment and prepared meals for me. So he curtsies to acknowledge my command, meekly waits for me to press the remote so he can pass from dining room to kitchen and return for more dishes, then starts his final task before beginning the endless weekend tedium.
“It’s like having a child... the caring and the training,” Mrs. Olivier notes.
“More like a pet... but one who is loyal and obedient... and trainable as you suggest. The shift in the testosterone level is quite the noteworthy event. It’s no wonder they neuter so many dogs.”
Mrs. Olivier laughs, warming nicely to the environment, gazing openly each time Jack turns to expose those girlish buttocks, prudish parlor manners cast aside, all reservations dissipating.
“I will want to inspect that chastity device... steel did you say?”
“Yes, stainless, locked in place by way of a rather formidable genital piercing.”
The steady tapping of Jack’s heels ends. He enters the dining area one last time and humbly lingers. I let him stand in silence, head bowed, waiting for me to change the setting on the remote while Mrs. Olivier gazes without a scintilla of compunction.
“Go,” I finally press the remote to extend my authority.
He scampers like a little girl.
“Posey cuffs?” Mrs. Olivier inquires.
“Institutional, comfortable, safe and most secure. Jack and his bed will be one until Monday morning.”
“Bathroom needs?”
“You’ll see. He wears a steel tube inserted into his penis... partially catheterizing. It ensures his chastity, delivers a punishing jolt where the male most feels it, and the tip can be easily attached to a draining tube. Come.”
I lead to the spare bedroom, Jack has disrobed and is encircling his ankles with cuffs. As we enter I hear the click of one tiny padlock then another, Jack, in his nakedness becomes delightfully shy, blushing in pink, not accustomed to exposure to the boss’s wife.
“Secure yourself and lie down Jack, Mrs. Olivier needs to look at you.”
He woefully encircles his wrists then knows to lie supine. Mrs. Olivier is impressed with the ease and quickness, as I clip straps to the cuffs and the waist belt, tightening to the max then plugging in the recharger of the battery pack.
“Let’s see, what shall I have you watch today?”
I step to the simple computer which drives the slide show, offering the montage of males being immersed in some form of humiliating subservience, a lesson from the Nazi Minister of Propaganda, Joseph Goebbels in terms of deluging the mind. Jack is being daily brainwashed.
The wedding pictures may be a little over the top for Mrs. Olivier... at least currently. So I press and click on the collection from ‘Men in Lace’ magazine, attractive males attired in scanty serving attire, some photos revealing the presence of well secured chastity devices, all women not only fully clad but quite preeminently.
“This is from Jack’s creepy stash of pornography... assembled before our marriage. Such an understanding wife am I... permitting him to continue viewing such naughtiness,” I offer with a snicker.
Onto the screen comes, of course, a man in lace, along with apron, high heels, makeup, tending to what one would assume is a wife’s, or perhaps other woman of governance, tea party. Many fully clothed women, a scantily clad male... and one whose short flimsy skirt veils little.
Mrs. Olivier glares at the ceiling with interest. As the slides progress, so many poses appear familiar, Mrs. Olivier having been similarly served minutes ago. She nods.
“How often... is he so exposed to this input?”
“Every night for an hour or two. More on weekends. After many hours of viewing, for the scenes to be fully absorbed, it is best he be hooded and left in bound darkness. The eidetic male mind... that which makes it given to enjoy pornography also makes it susceptible to visual programming and prompting. Curtailing the flow of most testosterone makes him even more malleable.”
Mrs. Olivier nods. Noting that Jack is riveted on the soft but kinky porn projected directly over his face, she turns her attention to the steel cock cage, prominently displayed between thighs restrained and well parted.
“His testicles... removed?”
“No, almost completely atrophied. Done chemically. A rather ironic fate for a chemical engineer... wouldn’t you agree, Mrs. Olivier?”
She chuckles. An evil expression of merriment, the prudish woman of society has now completely doffed her facade.
“So the penis cage locks in place?”
I nod, “it connects to the rings about the base of the penis and the scrotum. The latter ring is held permanently in place by a piercing. You’ll note the post penetrating his flesh. It’s not a fetish toy, it is surgically implanted... and the cock cage is only unlocked and removed under medical supervision. Not having a key has saved me from the aggravation of hearing him beg... when there remained a scintilla of desire to be unlocked. Now it does not matter. There is no normal sexual desire... only the desire to please... serve a governing woman. Just as seen every night on the montage,” I gesture to the continuing scenes flashing on the ceiling above.
It is then that I demonstrate the neatness factor of the Prince’s Wand, slipping what is essentially a Texas catheter over the steel tube emanating from the tip of the cock cage. It leads to a collection bag which Jack will tend to on Monday morning.
“Prostate problems? Douglas constantly alludes to it in begging me for sexual release.”
“He’s clinically drained weekly. A rather imposing nurse applies some forty volts by way of a rectal insertion. Amazingly effective. Essentially he’s jerked off, emptied more readily and thoroughly then by manual release or copulation, exploding through the Prince Wand tube without any sensation other then the painful jolts of electricity.”
Mrs. Olivier reaches to touch, stepping completely out of her envisioned character!
“So you know this nurse and doctor?” inquiring as she pulls to test the device’s security then nodding with approval.
“They have a clinic. It’s covered by the company health plan... of that I made quite the assurance.”
Her fingers move to the flesh of the withered scrotum, a small mass of pulpy flesh. Thumb and forefinger knead and caress, the testicles, tiny, not to be so easily located.
“All gone Jack. Nothing left here. You must feel so relieved in having no male distractions... in now being able to concentrate on your secret desires... to serve... women of authority... in apron, skirt and heels,” Mrs. Olivier mockingly lectures as I watch Jack squirm in his bonds, the humiliation delightfully intense.
I am now a director of Olivier Flavors and Fragrances!
You see, the only voting stock is jointly held by Mr. and Mrs. G. Douglas Olivier. And I course we know who decides in what manner to vote the stock.
So for Mrs. Olivier the choice was simple... vote me onto the board and continue living and socializing in high circles... or decline my advancement and endure the humiliation and ridicule when the sordid pics of G. Douglas begin to circulate on the internet.
But I must say, our tete a tete was not completely acrimonious. Guzzling that third Mimosa loosened up the old harridan. She asked some pointed questions concerning Jack. While her control of G. Douglas has been subtle and cerebral, my control of Jack, obvious and thorough... mentally, emotionally, physically... seemed to not only intrigue but inure a degree of envy.
More of our brunch...
“So beneath that skirt, you have his penis under control?” the inquiry coming as Jack steps forth with the fourth Mimosa.
“Locked in steel and electrified. It’s useless, other than to empty his bladder. I castrated him. But in denying him the opportunity to even touch his penis, there is a vigorous feminine message sent. Wouldn’t you agree, Mrs. Olivier?”
For the first time she smiles... than slowly nods in thought and responds to my demands.
“You are holding all the cards, Mrs. Montrove. There’s no reason to deny you a board seat at Olivier Flavors and Fragrances, photographs notwithstanding. But may I suggest a little quid pro quo? It would also send a message... to Douglas. I want Jack to clean for me... and I’ll want him to do so naked. The maid’s costume is cute... but distracting.”
A gleam comes to Mrs. Olivier’s eye. Having kept G. Douglas denied and psychologically controlled, she’s eager to take another step... rather dauntless for a woman of her age.
“I will be happy to pay for a second remote control,” she adds.
I look to see Jack trembling. My hand and fingers are demanding when utilizing the remote... but understood... punishment equitably meted. But the notion of ceding occasional power to the termagant Mrs. Olivier brings delightful thoughts... for me... and abject fear for Jack.
“It is probably time, Mrs. Olivier. The hormonal imbalance affects his thinking... muddles the mind... that and the intensity of the sensory deprivation. His days of complicated chemical engineering are probably best in the past.”
“So he’s also a company employee. Well, all the more reason to keep him on the payroll and well controlled. It will not be an issue.”
“That being said, tidy things up Jack. I’m going to bed you until Monday morning. I have some very, very well endowed acquaintances for tonight and tomorrow.”
“He’ll sleep that long?”
“Probably hallucinate would be the more apt term. I keep him well bound and have a special montage of male subservient photos I force him to watch. When not forced to watch, he’s kept hooded at all other times. It ingrains the exchange of power I insist upon.”
Mrs. Olivier is further intrigued.
“Why not stay a few minutes longer. Your show can wait.”
Mrs. Olivier nods in agreement.
“Jack, when you’re through clearing and cleaning, go to your room, strip naked for me and put on your Posey cuffs... nice and tight like a good boy.”
It’s the standing order for Saturdays, usually coming at midmorning after he has cleaned the apartment and prepared meals for me. So he curtsies to acknowledge my command, meekly waits for me to press the remote so he can pass from dining room to kitchen and return for more dishes, then starts his final task before beginning the endless weekend tedium.
“It’s like having a child... the caring and the training,” Mrs. Olivier notes.
“More like a pet... but one who is loyal and obedient... and trainable as you suggest. The shift in the testosterone level is quite the noteworthy event. It’s no wonder they neuter so many dogs.”
Mrs. Olivier laughs, warming nicely to the environment, gazing openly each time Jack turns to expose those girlish buttocks, prudish parlor manners cast aside, all reservations dissipating.
“I will want to inspect that chastity device... steel did you say?”
“Yes, stainless, locked in place by way of a rather formidable genital piercing.”
The steady tapping of Jack’s heels ends. He enters the dining area one last time and humbly lingers. I let him stand in silence, head bowed, waiting for me to change the setting on the remote while Mrs. Olivier gazes without a scintilla of compunction.
“Go,” I finally press the remote to extend my authority.
He scampers like a little girl.
“Posey cuffs?” Mrs. Olivier inquires.
“Institutional, comfortable, safe and most secure. Jack and his bed will be one until Monday morning.”
“Bathroom needs?”
“You’ll see. He wears a steel tube inserted into his penis... partially catheterizing. It ensures his chastity, delivers a punishing jolt where the male most feels it, and the tip can be easily attached to a draining tube. Come.”
I lead to the spare bedroom, Jack has disrobed and is encircling his ankles with cuffs. As we enter I hear the click of one tiny padlock then another, Jack, in his nakedness becomes delightfully shy, blushing in pink, not accustomed to exposure to the boss’s wife.
“Secure yourself and lie down Jack, Mrs. Olivier needs to look at you.”
He woefully encircles his wrists then knows to lie supine. Mrs. Olivier is impressed with the ease and quickness, as I clip straps to the cuffs and the waist belt, tightening to the max then plugging in the recharger of the battery pack.
“Let’s see, what shall I have you watch today?”
I step to the simple computer which drives the slide show, offering the montage of males being immersed in some form of humiliating subservience, a lesson from the Nazi Minister of Propaganda, Joseph Goebbels in terms of deluging the mind. Jack is being daily brainwashed.
The wedding pictures may be a little over the top for Mrs. Olivier... at least currently. So I press and click on the collection from ‘Men in Lace’ magazine, attractive males attired in scanty serving attire, some photos revealing the presence of well secured chastity devices, all women not only fully clad but quite preeminently.
“This is from Jack’s creepy stash of pornography... assembled before our marriage. Such an understanding wife am I... permitting him to continue viewing such naughtiness,” I offer with a snicker.
Onto the screen comes, of course, a man in lace, along with apron, high heels, makeup, tending to what one would assume is a wife’s, or perhaps other woman of governance, tea party. Many fully clothed women, a scantily clad male... and one whose short flimsy skirt veils little.
Mrs. Olivier glares at the ceiling with interest. As the slides progress, so many poses appear familiar, Mrs. Olivier having been similarly served minutes ago. She nods.
“How often... is he so exposed to this input?”
“Every night for an hour or two. More on weekends. After many hours of viewing, for the scenes to be fully absorbed, it is best he be hooded and left in bound darkness. The eidetic male mind... that which makes it given to enjoy pornography also makes it susceptible to visual programming and prompting. Curtailing the flow of most testosterone makes him even more malleable.”
Mrs. Olivier nods. Noting that Jack is riveted on the soft but kinky porn projected directly over his face, she turns her attention to the steel cock cage, prominently displayed between thighs restrained and well parted.
“His testicles... removed?”
“No, almost completely atrophied. Done chemically. A rather ironic fate for a chemical engineer... wouldn’t you agree, Mrs. Olivier?”
She chuckles. An evil expression of merriment, the prudish woman of society has now completely doffed her facade.
“So the penis cage locks in place?”
I nod, “it connects to the rings about the base of the penis and the scrotum. The latter ring is held permanently in place by a piercing. You’ll note the post penetrating his flesh. It’s not a fetish toy, it is surgically implanted... and the cock cage is only unlocked and removed under medical supervision. Not having a key has saved me from the aggravation of hearing him beg... when there remained a scintilla of desire to be unlocked. Now it does not matter. There is no normal sexual desire... only the desire to please... serve a governing woman. Just as seen every night on the montage,” I gesture to the continuing scenes flashing on the ceiling above.
It is then that I demonstrate the neatness factor of the Prince’s Wand, slipping what is essentially a Texas catheter over the steel tube emanating from the tip of the cock cage. It leads to a collection bag which Jack will tend to on Monday morning.
“Prostate problems? Douglas constantly alludes to it in begging me for sexual release.”
“He’s clinically drained weekly. A rather imposing nurse applies some forty volts by way of a rectal insertion. Amazingly effective. Essentially he’s jerked off, emptied more readily and thoroughly then by manual release or copulation, exploding through the Prince Wand tube without any sensation other then the painful jolts of electricity.”
Mrs. Olivier reaches to touch, stepping completely out of her envisioned character!
“So you know this nurse and doctor?” inquiring as she pulls to test the device’s security then nodding with approval.
“They have a clinic. It’s covered by the company health plan... of that I made quite the assurance.”
Her fingers move to the flesh of the withered scrotum, a small mass of pulpy flesh. Thumb and forefinger knead and caress, the testicles, tiny, not to be so easily located.
“All gone Jack. Nothing left here. You must feel so relieved in having no male distractions... in now being able to concentrate on your secret desires... to serve... women of authority... in apron, skirt and heels,” Mrs. Olivier mockingly lectures as I watch Jack squirm in his bonds, the humiliation delightfully intense.
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
The Sash - Practice
Practice
Copyright 2014
by Chris Bellows
“Come here, Markie. I have a task for you.”
The Prince stoops over the supine mummified form, knife in hand. Will the strange cargo be freed? Markie asks himself, recalling the precaution of binding those deemed to be strong and virile.
As knees and hands shuffle forth, Markie notes that instead the knife carefully cuts about the pubes, slicing downward across a single horizontal strip of thick white bandaging. At the very apex of the bump of maleness, the Prince slowly incises.
“May as well begin acclimating both of you... Thursday here to denial... you to constant teasing.”
The slit is small, but through it the Prince is able to free the male appendage. Large, but not the size of the Prince, white with pinkness where a man most enjoys himself. In sensing fingers rummaging there, the mummified form stirs. Yet the tightness of the bindings is thorough. For the most part, the penis is the only anatomical part which clearly moves.
“You shall suck him. I am told your tongue has been altered as well and that Nurse Benson has offered adequate training. But you will not bring him to orgasm. Matter of fact you will never bring any of my boys to orgasm. That rule is sacrosanct! For disobedience, you will be caned... and a little girly boy like you will feel the fiery anguish more than most. You’ve lived a pampered life compared to the rigors of punishment meted at my stable.”
The words bring a shudder of fear and concern. The Prince is correct. Markie’s hormonal transformation has brought an extremely low tolerance for pain, Nurse Benson able to bring intense agony with merely her thumb and index finger applied to a nipple. And yes, he has learned things with his tongue. The frenectomy has enabled it to dance, Nurse Benson quite complimentary when he dutifully sucked her fingers, swishing and swirling with aplomb.
But the Prince presents not a finger. It is a penis... a proud penis... of size... not emaciated as a result of castration and estrogen. The organ’s virility is feared... but there is also admiration.
Yes, there comes more envy. Though the boy Thursday is bound in silent darkness, he has a penis that functions. But is it indeed his penis? Markie begins to realize... though the Prince has ultimate power, he as castrated feminized stable hand will also be empowered. Handling fully functioning penises!
Mine has been rendered useless, not even capable of emptying my bladder, Markie reminds himself. Even while hanging in the doctor’s sash, of late there has been little tumescence. And now the Prince presents something that not only works... it can be forced to work at Markie’s behest!
“Come. Get him up for me. Let’s see if that gag training has been sufficient. And if you feel pending ejaculation, withdraw... immediately. Just let his hard on waggle in the cabin air. It will amuse.”
There is reluctance... but there is strange eagerness. His subconscious recalls the pleasant nipple manipulation whenever Nurse Benson found her fingers to be adequately sucked. And putting aside any homophobic thoughts, does Markie really have a choice?
Logically, should he in fact feel revulsion? He begins to rationalize... he has been castrated by a woman, made into a little girl... and one trained to suck cocks! Why should any phobia sensibly remain? A fait accompli... Markie has indeed been transformed... to a girly boy sucker of cocks. A powerful hand entwines in Markie’s golden locks, slowly pressing downward. The encouragement is surprisingly gentle, considering the muscling of his owner. Markie knows to open his lips. The hand guides to the penis tip, Markie offering no resistance. Fellatio begins for real. Unlike Nurse Benson’s fingers, he senses the more pronounced pulsation of Thursday’s heart beat. Unlike Nurse Bensons’ fingers, he feels it jump in response to the slight initial swish of a tongue trained ad infinitum to please.
Yes! Markie senses control. A rare privilege. Heady stiff.
With a second swish the organ stiffens, the tip racing to the back of his mouth. The boy Thursday is young, his virility physically felt. Markie effortlessly opens his throat. The penis tip further slithers inward. He gags not. Oddly, he senses the pride of accomplishment.
Yes, Markie feels empowered!
Well impaled, the Prince’s entwined hand pulls his head upwards then abruptly reverses to firmly press down, the swollen tip forced well inward. Markie hears a deep guttural laugh. The Prince enjoys the intensity of the humiliation... enjoys in knowing Markie’s offer of pleasure will never be requited... knows that Thursday will never be permitted the ultimate in male ecstasy.
Up, down, up, down, finally the hand controlling the puppet Markie pulls away his face. The erection plops from a mouth well used, a throat well frictioned. Rock hard purple stiffness rigidly points to the cabin ceiling.
“You see, he’s a nice sized boy. And he’ll soon be put under the penis as well. Now keep him hard for me... the remainder of the flight.”
The knife bearing hand returns, cutting to carefully lengthen the slit in the encasement of white. Two meaty plums are brought into the cabin light.
“Lick and suck his balls... slowly. You may as well adore what a woman took from you,” the Prince’s hand releasing to move to Markie’s empty scrotum.
There, Markie is surprised to feel fingers sensuously knead where the doctor quickly yet cruelly flicked with her scalpel.
“Whatever do you think happened to them, Markie? Nurse Benson make some earrings did she? Ha, ha, ha.”
Copyright 2014
by Chris Bellows
“Come here, Markie. I have a task for you.”
The Prince stoops over the supine mummified form, knife in hand. Will the strange cargo be freed? Markie asks himself, recalling the precaution of binding those deemed to be strong and virile.
As knees and hands shuffle forth, Markie notes that instead the knife carefully cuts about the pubes, slicing downward across a single horizontal strip of thick white bandaging. At the very apex of the bump of maleness, the Prince slowly incises.
“May as well begin acclimating both of you... Thursday here to denial... you to constant teasing.”
The slit is small, but through it the Prince is able to free the male appendage. Large, but not the size of the Prince, white with pinkness where a man most enjoys himself. In sensing fingers rummaging there, the mummified form stirs. Yet the tightness of the bindings is thorough. For the most part, the penis is the only anatomical part which clearly moves.
“You shall suck him. I am told your tongue has been altered as well and that Nurse Benson has offered adequate training. But you will not bring him to orgasm. Matter of fact you will never bring any of my boys to orgasm. That rule is sacrosanct! For disobedience, you will be caned... and a little girly boy like you will feel the fiery anguish more than most. You’ve lived a pampered life compared to the rigors of punishment meted at my stable.”
The words bring a shudder of fear and concern. The Prince is correct. Markie’s hormonal transformation has brought an extremely low tolerance for pain, Nurse Benson able to bring intense agony with merely her thumb and index finger applied to a nipple. And yes, he has learned things with his tongue. The frenectomy has enabled it to dance, Nurse Benson quite complimentary when he dutifully sucked her fingers, swishing and swirling with aplomb.
But the Prince presents not a finger. It is a penis... a proud penis... of size... not emaciated as a result of castration and estrogen. The organ’s virility is feared... but there is also admiration.
Yes, there comes more envy. Though the boy Thursday is bound in silent darkness, he has a penis that functions. But is it indeed his penis? Markie begins to realize... though the Prince has ultimate power, he as castrated feminized stable hand will also be empowered. Handling fully functioning penises!
Mine has been rendered useless, not even capable of emptying my bladder, Markie reminds himself. Even while hanging in the doctor’s sash, of late there has been little tumescence. And now the Prince presents something that not only works... it can be forced to work at Markie’s behest!
“Come. Get him up for me. Let’s see if that gag training has been sufficient. And if you feel pending ejaculation, withdraw... immediately. Just let his hard on waggle in the cabin air. It will amuse.”
There is reluctance... but there is strange eagerness. His subconscious recalls the pleasant nipple manipulation whenever Nurse Benson found her fingers to be adequately sucked. And putting aside any homophobic thoughts, does Markie really have a choice?
Logically, should he in fact feel revulsion? He begins to rationalize... he has been castrated by a woman, made into a little girl... and one trained to suck cocks! Why should any phobia sensibly remain? A fait accompli... Markie has indeed been transformed... to a girly boy sucker of cocks. A powerful hand entwines in Markie’s golden locks, slowly pressing downward. The encouragement is surprisingly gentle, considering the muscling of his owner. Markie knows to open his lips. The hand guides to the penis tip, Markie offering no resistance. Fellatio begins for real. Unlike Nurse Benson’s fingers, he senses the more pronounced pulsation of Thursday’s heart beat. Unlike Nurse Bensons’ fingers, he feels it jump in response to the slight initial swish of a tongue trained ad infinitum to please.
Yes! Markie senses control. A rare privilege. Heady stiff.
With a second swish the organ stiffens, the tip racing to the back of his mouth. The boy Thursday is young, his virility physically felt. Markie effortlessly opens his throat. The penis tip further slithers inward. He gags not. Oddly, he senses the pride of accomplishment.
Yes, Markie feels empowered!
Well impaled, the Prince’s entwined hand pulls his head upwards then abruptly reverses to firmly press down, the swollen tip forced well inward. Markie hears a deep guttural laugh. The Prince enjoys the intensity of the humiliation... enjoys in knowing Markie’s offer of pleasure will never be requited... knows that Thursday will never be permitted the ultimate in male ecstasy.
Up, down, up, down, finally the hand controlling the puppet Markie pulls away his face. The erection plops from a mouth well used, a throat well frictioned. Rock hard purple stiffness rigidly points to the cabin ceiling.
“You see, he’s a nice sized boy. And he’ll soon be put under the penis as well. Now keep him hard for me... the remainder of the flight.”
The knife bearing hand returns, cutting to carefully lengthen the slit in the encasement of white. Two meaty plums are brought into the cabin light.
“Lick and suck his balls... slowly. You may as well adore what a woman took from you,” the Prince’s hand releasing to move to Markie’s empty scrotum.
There, Markie is surprised to feel fingers sensuously knead where the doctor quickly yet cruelly flicked with her scalpel.
“Whatever do you think happened to them, Markie? Nurse Benson make some earrings did she? Ha, ha, ha.”
Sunday, September 14, 2014
A Woman's Servant - The Second Semester
Just came to my attention that the sequel to 'A Woman's Servant' has been published.
http://eroticbooknetwork.com/featured-products/a-woman-s-servant-the-second-semester.html
Strong Female Domination as always.
Enjoy
http://eroticbooknetwork.com/featured-products/a-woman-s-servant-the-second-semester.html
Strong Female Domination as always.
Enjoy
Saturday, September 13, 2014
A Woman in Control - Reaching my zenith IV
Reaching My Zenith IV
Monday morning I reward Mr. G for his compliance... a long, slow... and overdue... weekly update. He shot quite the load for an old timer.
Then Saturday finally arrives. Whereas normally on Saturday mornings I have Jack cook several meals for the weekend then just keep him hooded and tightly restrained until Monday morning, I’ll want to show him off to Mrs. Olivier.
So he prepares French toast and eggs benedict, then steps to the bedroom to don his maid’s attire. Just as in serving Harry the Horse, there is a degree of apoplexy. Daintily attired, buttocks well presented, he knows the possible consequences of being so exhibited to the boss’s wife. This is not the Bed and Breakfast episode of our wedding... completely naked before my cohorts of kink. In some ways completely naked could be more easily explained.
Instead he’ll be in the attire of a young serving girl... and he knows very well how much I enjoy showing people his controlling cock cage and my remote.
Mrs. Olivier may remember him from an office Christmas gathering, but in maid’s cap, blouse, apron and skirt, it is doubtful
Meanwhile I assure that my laptop is properly running and that the photos I uploaded are easily assessable. Jack’s thorough subservience will certainly push the conversation in the intended direction. And though I am sure the prim and proper Mrs. Olivier will initially feign discomfort... perhaps even shock... she’ll come around.
In her own way, she relishes control of the male herself.
The doorman calls to announce the arrival of Mrs. G. Douglas Olivier. The clock reads 12:40 p.m., graciously late. Jack begins to fidget. I merely pick up the remote and wave it in front of him. There will be no delays in greeting Mrs. Olivier as with Harry the Horse. Two minutes later the doorbell rings, I nod, Jack’s heels tap away, I remain in the livingroom.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Olivier. Mrs. Montrove is expecting you.”
Jack curtsies and just as with Harry the Horse there is a moment of stunned silence. Jack is neutered yes. But his attempts to appear girlishly feminine fall comically short. I will have to let his hair grow.
Finally there comes a regal ‘thank you’, condescending to speak to a servant with apparent gender issues.
The gray haired, prim Mrs. Olivier enters.
“Mrs. Olivier, thank you for coming.”
“So gracious of you to have me,” the polite words do not conform to the tone and lack of enthusiasm.
“I have had my husband Jack make some Mimosas, but we also have tea, coffee and plain orange juice.”
“A Mimosa will suffice.”
“Let’s sit and talk here. Jack will need a moment for the eggs benedict.”
My maid knows to retrieve the refreshments and Mrs. Olivier is delightfully shocked when he turns, her eyes gluing to the soft round buttocks of a pubescent girl.
“Did you say husband?” the question posed in disbelief.
“Yes, Jack. But nights and weekends he serves me as a maid and perhaps should be called Jackie,” I calmly explain gesturing to a chair.
We sit. I continue. I am sure Mrs. Olivier requiring time to gather words.
“I’m sure you have household help as well,” I prompt.
“I have a woman who cleans and tidies up... a couple days per week.”
Jack enters, strolling rather well in his heels, carefully balancing tulip glasses filled with orange juice and Champagne.
“I prefer to be served by the neutered male,” I bluntly explain. “They have a need to please and are more focused on doing so.”
Jack dips at the knees to offer, Mrs. Olivier accepts. When he turns his girlish backside is not only again displayed but now offers proximity.
“Return to the kitchen and stay. I will let you know if we need anything else and when I want to be served in the dining room,” my words sharp and direct.
As Jack steps through the kitchen door I make a show of pressing the remote, always at my side, always ready to punish. As planned, with a look of perplexity Mrs. Olivier watches me set the electrified cock cage.
“I not only emasculated Jack, I have what is left of his penis locked away in an electrified chastity device. It helps address his special needs.”
“I see,” Mrs. Olivier manages to succinctly respond.
“Many men have special needs, Mrs. Olivier. Fortunately there are women such as me who know how to address those needs... and do so with a degree of passion. It is best for him.”
“But you must have certain needs as well... you’re... you’re young.”
Mrs. Olivier is too prim and proper to bluntly say a girl needs to get laid on occasion. But I get her gist, that Jack cannot serve all my needs.
“You mean sex? Men are hounds, Mrs. Olivier. A girl can get that anywhere any time. It’s being pampered, having financial stability, for those one must truly endeavor in earnest to attain... wouldn’t you agree? Cheers.”
We click glasses. Mrs. Olivier needs alcohol. I need her to have alcohol. I am heartened when she first sips, nods approval, then partakes with a goodly draw. It would seem a half naked, servile man in a frilly uniform fosters a certain thirst.
“I suppose, but Douglas and I are of an age when we no longer need to consider that.”
“Really? We talked briefly about the company’s experimental product line and you suggested your Douglas’s reaction was to spend time doing something...” I prompt.
Mrs. Olivier nods reluctantly, taking another sip... more fortification?
“So what could it possibly be that the scent of butter spurred?” I inquire mysteriously, reaching for my nearby laptop computer.
“Much time in the bathroom... showering,” Mrs. Olivier blurts, attempting to truncate any thoughts of untoward behavior.
“Cold showers, no doubt,” filling in idle time as my computer boots.
“Whatever,” the disgust in her tone suggesting disapproval.
I tap a few keys, note Mrs. Olivier’s glass then reach for my remote. I press, inaugurating a reminder charge to Jack’s cock cage and Prince’s Wand. There comes a yelp from the kitchen as I press a second button to turn off the charger which restricts Jack to that room. He knows that he has been summoned and prances to us with alacrity.
“Two more Mimosas, Jack,” I command as I turn my laptop toward Mrs. Olivier.
On the screen an early depiction of G. Douglas Olivier, standing at the edge of the conference table, pants down, a buttered hand firmly wrapped about a turgid penis. It’s the initial encounter, my pics stored chronologically.
“This was taken years ago. Your husband performed for me. I had him ejaculate right on cue. Quite obedient. As stated, many males... most males?.. have special needs. I’ve been accommodating for years now.”
I press, scrolling ahead. An aghast Mrs. Olivier gapes at pics in which I have taken more control. It’s my hand, my face not seen. The ashtray sits at the ready to accept the bosses ignominious discharge.
“You can see for yourself. Press here to advance. Some dozen photos, taken each week... for over four years now. Quite a collection.”
Mrs. Olivier is silent in her shock. There is a degree of disbelief which rapidly wanes as there is no question it is indeed the debonair captain of industry G. Douglas Cooper who so obediently stands reveling in the delight of my controlling hand and spurting with fervor into the ashtray... week after week after week.
“You’ll note how much he enjoys the anal penetration. Are you aware of that Mrs. Olivier? It’s common among many males. Something about the prostate gland...”
Mrs. Olivier, having her fill, pushes the laptop back toward me.
“What’s this all about?”
I smile, press Jack’s remote and listen for the girlish yelp.
“We’re moving to the dining room to be served,” I call out knowing I have his attention.
I arise, sweeping with an open hand to suggest we partake in brunch.
“Control, Mrs. Olivier. It’s all about control,” I step following Mrs. Olivier.
“You see just as Jack has special needs, I in turn have some of my own. Your husband has been quite accommodating in that respect. The promotions and hefty annual raises have been much appreciated. And now running Olivier Flavors and Fragrances... yes, G. Douglas has not made a meaningful decision in years... has served to scratch a certain itch.”
We sit. I press the remote to allow Jack out of the kitchen. He immediately steps forth with two plates of eggs benedict cooked to perfection, his Hollandaise sauce unsurpassed. He than dashes back to the kitchen and returns with a platter of French toast, centered between us. Jack then knows to step to the corner and await the snap of my fingers. Brunch is served.
“You’re a bitch,” Mrs. Olivier finally blurts, her Haughtiness finally stepping out of character.
“No question,” snapping my fingers to have Jack instantly step forth. “Have some more cinnamon at the table for Mrs. Olivier... and by all means some butter,” the irony not to be avoided.
Jack moves toward the kitchen door and shocks himself. I reach to the remote and press, having forgotten to offer electronic passage.
“Yes control, Mrs. Olivier. I have used the threat of disclosure of my graphic photos for years to keep G. Douglas Olivier under my thumb. And yet he has not unduly suffered. Matter of fact he was quite perturbed when I recently delayed his weekly update... it’s our code word for when I step into his office and masturbate him onto his desktop or conference table. He’s learned quite nicely to pose for the camera... wouldn’t you agree?”
“Disgusting. It’s all about sex.”
“Perhaps... but in dealing with the male, sex becomes power. And we all crave power to a certain extent... don’t we Mrs. Olivier? You have used the denial of sex as power over your husband. I have simply taken an opposite but equally effective track.”
Mrs. Olivier is upset but eats.
“Another Mimosa for Mrs. Olivier, Jack,” having placed the butter and cinnamon on the table.
She does not refuse. The woman is in need of more of something which soothes.
“Where is this conversation leading?” Mrs. Olivier losing her prudish parlor manners.
“Power over you, of course. I finally came to the conclusion that as humiliating as the photos are to G. Douglas, his weekly submission evidencing his desperate need to keep his perversion shrouded in secrecy, they are equally embarrassing for you. The Garden Club... the Daughters of the American Revolution... the Greenwich Woman’s Club...” I proceed to rattle off all the snooty organizations in which Mrs. Olivier finds social consolation in mingling amongst the idle wealthy. “Now they would find this of great interest. I am sure they’ll all recognize in the photos the debonair CEO of Olivier Flavors and Fragrances. I wonder how that would affect your membership status... your social standing... married to a libertine pervert.”
“Douglas will find this to be quite expensive,” she threatens.
“Douglas is not to know... never to know that you’re aware of this. I think at this point it behooves us booth to keep him under a woman’s thumb... wouldn’t you agree?”
Mrs. Olivier draws a very unladylike gulp from a fresh tulip glass.
“My demands are simple, Mrs. Olivier... and just as G. Douglas adapted, you will as well...”
Monday morning I reward Mr. G for his compliance... a long, slow... and overdue... weekly update. He shot quite the load for an old timer.
Then Saturday finally arrives. Whereas normally on Saturday mornings I have Jack cook several meals for the weekend then just keep him hooded and tightly restrained until Monday morning, I’ll want to show him off to Mrs. Olivier.
So he prepares French toast and eggs benedict, then steps to the bedroom to don his maid’s attire. Just as in serving Harry the Horse, there is a degree of apoplexy. Daintily attired, buttocks well presented, he knows the possible consequences of being so exhibited to the boss’s wife. This is not the Bed and Breakfast episode of our wedding... completely naked before my cohorts of kink. In some ways completely naked could be more easily explained.
Instead he’ll be in the attire of a young serving girl... and he knows very well how much I enjoy showing people his controlling cock cage and my remote.
Mrs. Olivier may remember him from an office Christmas gathering, but in maid’s cap, blouse, apron and skirt, it is doubtful
Meanwhile I assure that my laptop is properly running and that the photos I uploaded are easily assessable. Jack’s thorough subservience will certainly push the conversation in the intended direction. And though I am sure the prim and proper Mrs. Olivier will initially feign discomfort... perhaps even shock... she’ll come around.
In her own way, she relishes control of the male herself.
The doorman calls to announce the arrival of Mrs. G. Douglas Olivier. The clock reads 12:40 p.m., graciously late. Jack begins to fidget. I merely pick up the remote and wave it in front of him. There will be no delays in greeting Mrs. Olivier as with Harry the Horse. Two minutes later the doorbell rings, I nod, Jack’s heels tap away, I remain in the livingroom.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Olivier. Mrs. Montrove is expecting you.”
Jack curtsies and just as with Harry the Horse there is a moment of stunned silence. Jack is neutered yes. But his attempts to appear girlishly feminine fall comically short. I will have to let his hair grow.
Finally there comes a regal ‘thank you’, condescending to speak to a servant with apparent gender issues.
The gray haired, prim Mrs. Olivier enters.
“Mrs. Olivier, thank you for coming.”
“So gracious of you to have me,” the polite words do not conform to the tone and lack of enthusiasm.
“I have had my husband Jack make some Mimosas, but we also have tea, coffee and plain orange juice.”
“A Mimosa will suffice.”
“Let’s sit and talk here. Jack will need a moment for the eggs benedict.”
My maid knows to retrieve the refreshments and Mrs. Olivier is delightfully shocked when he turns, her eyes gluing to the soft round buttocks of a pubescent girl.
“Did you say husband?” the question posed in disbelief.
“Yes, Jack. But nights and weekends he serves me as a maid and perhaps should be called Jackie,” I calmly explain gesturing to a chair.
We sit. I continue. I am sure Mrs. Olivier requiring time to gather words.
“I’m sure you have household help as well,” I prompt.
“I have a woman who cleans and tidies up... a couple days per week.”
Jack enters, strolling rather well in his heels, carefully balancing tulip glasses filled with orange juice and Champagne.
“I prefer to be served by the neutered male,” I bluntly explain. “They have a need to please and are more focused on doing so.”
Jack dips at the knees to offer, Mrs. Olivier accepts. When he turns his girlish backside is not only again displayed but now offers proximity.
“Return to the kitchen and stay. I will let you know if we need anything else and when I want to be served in the dining room,” my words sharp and direct.
As Jack steps through the kitchen door I make a show of pressing the remote, always at my side, always ready to punish. As planned, with a look of perplexity Mrs. Olivier watches me set the electrified cock cage.
“I not only emasculated Jack, I have what is left of his penis locked away in an electrified chastity device. It helps address his special needs.”
“I see,” Mrs. Olivier manages to succinctly respond.
“Many men have special needs, Mrs. Olivier. Fortunately there are women such as me who know how to address those needs... and do so with a degree of passion. It is best for him.”
“But you must have certain needs as well... you’re... you’re young.”
Mrs. Olivier is too prim and proper to bluntly say a girl needs to get laid on occasion. But I get her gist, that Jack cannot serve all my needs.
“You mean sex? Men are hounds, Mrs. Olivier. A girl can get that anywhere any time. It’s being pampered, having financial stability, for those one must truly endeavor in earnest to attain... wouldn’t you agree? Cheers.”
We click glasses. Mrs. Olivier needs alcohol. I need her to have alcohol. I am heartened when she first sips, nods approval, then partakes with a goodly draw. It would seem a half naked, servile man in a frilly uniform fosters a certain thirst.
“I suppose, but Douglas and I are of an age when we no longer need to consider that.”
“Really? We talked briefly about the company’s experimental product line and you suggested your Douglas’s reaction was to spend time doing something...” I prompt.
Mrs. Olivier nods reluctantly, taking another sip... more fortification?
“So what could it possibly be that the scent of butter spurred?” I inquire mysteriously, reaching for my nearby laptop computer.
“Much time in the bathroom... showering,” Mrs. Olivier blurts, attempting to truncate any thoughts of untoward behavior.
“Cold showers, no doubt,” filling in idle time as my computer boots.
“Whatever,” the disgust in her tone suggesting disapproval.
I tap a few keys, note Mrs. Olivier’s glass then reach for my remote. I press, inaugurating a reminder charge to Jack’s cock cage and Prince’s Wand. There comes a yelp from the kitchen as I press a second button to turn off the charger which restricts Jack to that room. He knows that he has been summoned and prances to us with alacrity.
“Two more Mimosas, Jack,” I command as I turn my laptop toward Mrs. Olivier.
On the screen an early depiction of G. Douglas Olivier, standing at the edge of the conference table, pants down, a buttered hand firmly wrapped about a turgid penis. It’s the initial encounter, my pics stored chronologically.
“This was taken years ago. Your husband performed for me. I had him ejaculate right on cue. Quite obedient. As stated, many males... most males?.. have special needs. I’ve been accommodating for years now.”
I press, scrolling ahead. An aghast Mrs. Olivier gapes at pics in which I have taken more control. It’s my hand, my face not seen. The ashtray sits at the ready to accept the bosses ignominious discharge.
“You can see for yourself. Press here to advance. Some dozen photos, taken each week... for over four years now. Quite a collection.”
Mrs. Olivier is silent in her shock. There is a degree of disbelief which rapidly wanes as there is no question it is indeed the debonair captain of industry G. Douglas Cooper who so obediently stands reveling in the delight of my controlling hand and spurting with fervor into the ashtray... week after week after week.
“You’ll note how much he enjoys the anal penetration. Are you aware of that Mrs. Olivier? It’s common among many males. Something about the prostate gland...”
Mrs. Olivier, having her fill, pushes the laptop back toward me.
“What’s this all about?”
I smile, press Jack’s remote and listen for the girlish yelp.
“We’re moving to the dining room to be served,” I call out knowing I have his attention.
I arise, sweeping with an open hand to suggest we partake in brunch.
“Control, Mrs. Olivier. It’s all about control,” I step following Mrs. Olivier.
“You see just as Jack has special needs, I in turn have some of my own. Your husband has been quite accommodating in that respect. The promotions and hefty annual raises have been much appreciated. And now running Olivier Flavors and Fragrances... yes, G. Douglas has not made a meaningful decision in years... has served to scratch a certain itch.”
We sit. I press the remote to allow Jack out of the kitchen. He immediately steps forth with two plates of eggs benedict cooked to perfection, his Hollandaise sauce unsurpassed. He than dashes back to the kitchen and returns with a platter of French toast, centered between us. Jack then knows to step to the corner and await the snap of my fingers. Brunch is served.
“You’re a bitch,” Mrs. Olivier finally blurts, her Haughtiness finally stepping out of character.
“No question,” snapping my fingers to have Jack instantly step forth. “Have some more cinnamon at the table for Mrs. Olivier... and by all means some butter,” the irony not to be avoided.
Jack moves toward the kitchen door and shocks himself. I reach to the remote and press, having forgotten to offer electronic passage.
“Yes control, Mrs. Olivier. I have used the threat of disclosure of my graphic photos for years to keep G. Douglas Olivier under my thumb. And yet he has not unduly suffered. Matter of fact he was quite perturbed when I recently delayed his weekly update... it’s our code word for when I step into his office and masturbate him onto his desktop or conference table. He’s learned quite nicely to pose for the camera... wouldn’t you agree?”
“Disgusting. It’s all about sex.”
“Perhaps... but in dealing with the male, sex becomes power. And we all crave power to a certain extent... don’t we Mrs. Olivier? You have used the denial of sex as power over your husband. I have simply taken an opposite but equally effective track.”
Mrs. Olivier is upset but eats.
“Another Mimosa for Mrs. Olivier, Jack,” having placed the butter and cinnamon on the table.
She does not refuse. The woman is in need of more of something which soothes.
“Where is this conversation leading?” Mrs. Olivier losing her prudish parlor manners.
“Power over you, of course. I finally came to the conclusion that as humiliating as the photos are to G. Douglas, his weekly submission evidencing his desperate need to keep his perversion shrouded in secrecy, they are equally embarrassing for you. The Garden Club... the Daughters of the American Revolution... the Greenwich Woman’s Club...” I proceed to rattle off all the snooty organizations in which Mrs. Olivier finds social consolation in mingling amongst the idle wealthy. “Now they would find this of great interest. I am sure they’ll all recognize in the photos the debonair CEO of Olivier Flavors and Fragrances. I wonder how that would affect your membership status... your social standing... married to a libertine pervert.”
“Douglas will find this to be quite expensive,” she threatens.
“Douglas is not to know... never to know that you’re aware of this. I think at this point it behooves us booth to keep him under a woman’s thumb... wouldn’t you agree?”
Mrs. Olivier draws a very unladylike gulp from a fresh tulip glass.
“My demands are simple, Mrs. Olivier... and just as G. Douglas adapted, you will as well...”
Wednesday, September 10, 2014
The Sash - Rules
Rules
Copyright 2014
by Chris Bellows
Freed of the sash, Markie, now completely naked, rests on the plush carpeting of the sleek jet. The engines quietly spool, soon to be propelling the sizable craft towards Africa. The Prince gazes downward, brimming with lustiness at his latest acquisition, flight phone to his right ear. Markie feels... well he’s not sure. The man is not only large and muscular but handsome. Such contrasts markedly to Markie’s feminized and well groomed... well exposed... soft flesh. Perhaps there is envy. Markie, robbed by a doctor’s scalpel, a subsequent deluge of estrogen, of any hint of former masculinity, finds the Prince’s physicality to be imposing... but oddly alluring.
“Bought me a new colt... plus what I think what will be an interesting addition to the stable. Have the van meet me at the airport. Flight time six hours... we’re taxiing now,” the whine of the engines rising.
Markie looks to his right further down the isle. Joining the curious duo on the lengthy flight to Africa is a supine mummified form also resting on the carpet. Breathing tubes aside, it is completely covered in circles of white bandaging Certain anatomical bumps about the pubes, lacking hillocks at the chest, suggest the form is male. The Prince notes Markie’s inquiring peer, returning the phone set to its cradle.
“That’s the new colt,” meaty black hands extending. “I like ‘em strong and virile... so for travel it’s best to keep ‘em well bound, blinded and in total silence. It’s like ripening good fruit. Once at the ranch, shackling and some caning will obviate any thoughts of resistance.”
The hands become surprisingly gentle, unbuckling the gag from the back of Markie’s head. Throughout the process of being examined and purchased, he has remained forcibly silenced. As the straps loosen, the Prince carefully pulls towards the front, noting that the implement does not easily fall free. With curiosity he tugs and into the cabin lighting a long stout dildo gag slowly slides from the depths of Markie’s throat. At the end come the cruel flippy strands of rubber which serve to constantly trigger the gag reflex, teasing the depths of the gullet to ceaselessly spur a choking sensation should the bearer not learn to concentrate and control his throat.
“The doctor is thorough in her oral training... and in earnest.”
“May I speak, sir,” Markie working to clear his throat of much spittle.
“Yes,” the hands placing the enormous length to the side.
“It was Nurse Benson, sir. Her attention was consummate, the gag offered with the slightest sound if I did not silently take the thrust of a dildo.”
The Prince smiles. Ah the cruelty of the female, he thinks to himself, the dark hands smoothing the golden locks, required prinking caused by the gag straps.
“It is best for you. Have you been put under the penis? A real penis?”
“No sir,” Markie responding glumly in admitting what he realizes is a shortcoming.
“Well, you will have adequate opportunity at the ranch. You’ll serve there... me and the livestock.”
“May I have my shoes, sir? I cannot walk without them.”
“Not necessary for now. You may crawl. And we’ll need to find you something more... durable... for working in the stables.”
“I know nothing about horses, sir.”
“You’ll not need to know horses, Markie. You’ll need to know men. Very strong, powerful and virile men. I have a certain penchant which very few men are able to accommodate. It is only in being both wealthy and of Royal birth that I can keep a boy... many boys.
“I like blond ‘em... and light skinned... smooth... strong... well hung, as they say. But most importantly, they must be ragingly heterosexual. I like it when they quiver in disgust at my touch. Like it when they spasm in repulsion when I enter them. I enjoy the wrenching as I face fuck... the tightening of the sphincter as they futilely attempt to resist sodomy... long mornings of sodomy.”
The Prince smiles. Markie notes a bulge in his slacks, his own words spurring priapism.
“Yes, it’s power, Markie. I have it... and they don’t. And I bring a boy to revulsion each and every day... one for each day of the week, ha, ha, ha. That one there will replace my Thursday boy. He became too complacent... began to enjoy the penis. That’s when I send them off... to prison where they can get all the black cock they desire, ha, ha, ha.”
“I am not that way, sir. I am more girl than boy... now... with the doctor’s transformation.”
“That’s obvious, Markie,” the hands again proving to be surprisingly tender as the right fingers diddle Markie’s left nipple. “But I have a rule at the ranch... actually many rules. But the first is that the only penis that ever spurts is that of Royalty... mine. So when the doctor put you on display it gave rise to thought. I’ll certainly not want a stable hand that can ejaculate... that would not do. And when women tend to my boys it takes an edge off the... well call it the frustration. Denial is constant and unrelenting at the ranch. A feminine hand, though never to bring orgasm, would still be viewed as a source of relief. That won’t do as well. But the boys need to be fed... and bathed... and kept shaven... not to mention having their cock cages cleansed. And I think a neutered little girly boy is just the right form for the role. They’ll be cringing in abhorrence under your tender care and touch... just as much as my more brutal penetration.”
The Prince pauses, unzipping himself. Markie’s eyes widen in amazement as a mammoth uncircumcised penis, semi erect, springs into the cabin lights. It would seem to exceed the size of Nurse Benson’s most formidable rubber phalli.
“Yes, brutal... wouldn’t you agree?”
Copyright 2014
by Chris Bellows
Freed of the sash, Markie, now completely naked, rests on the plush carpeting of the sleek jet. The engines quietly spool, soon to be propelling the sizable craft towards Africa. The Prince gazes downward, brimming with lustiness at his latest acquisition, flight phone to his right ear. Markie feels... well he’s not sure. The man is not only large and muscular but handsome. Such contrasts markedly to Markie’s feminized and well groomed... well exposed... soft flesh. Perhaps there is envy. Markie, robbed by a doctor’s scalpel, a subsequent deluge of estrogen, of any hint of former masculinity, finds the Prince’s physicality to be imposing... but oddly alluring.
“Bought me a new colt... plus what I think what will be an interesting addition to the stable. Have the van meet me at the airport. Flight time six hours... we’re taxiing now,” the whine of the engines rising.
Markie looks to his right further down the isle. Joining the curious duo on the lengthy flight to Africa is a supine mummified form also resting on the carpet. Breathing tubes aside, it is completely covered in circles of white bandaging Certain anatomical bumps about the pubes, lacking hillocks at the chest, suggest the form is male. The Prince notes Markie’s inquiring peer, returning the phone set to its cradle.
“That’s the new colt,” meaty black hands extending. “I like ‘em strong and virile... so for travel it’s best to keep ‘em well bound, blinded and in total silence. It’s like ripening good fruit. Once at the ranch, shackling and some caning will obviate any thoughts of resistance.”
The hands become surprisingly gentle, unbuckling the gag from the back of Markie’s head. Throughout the process of being examined and purchased, he has remained forcibly silenced. As the straps loosen, the Prince carefully pulls towards the front, noting that the implement does not easily fall free. With curiosity he tugs and into the cabin lighting a long stout dildo gag slowly slides from the depths of Markie’s throat. At the end come the cruel flippy strands of rubber which serve to constantly trigger the gag reflex, teasing the depths of the gullet to ceaselessly spur a choking sensation should the bearer not learn to concentrate and control his throat.
“The doctor is thorough in her oral training... and in earnest.”
“May I speak, sir,” Markie working to clear his throat of much spittle.
“Yes,” the hands placing the enormous length to the side.
“It was Nurse Benson, sir. Her attention was consummate, the gag offered with the slightest sound if I did not silently take the thrust of a dildo.”
The Prince smiles. Ah the cruelty of the female, he thinks to himself, the dark hands smoothing the golden locks, required prinking caused by the gag straps.
“It is best for you. Have you been put under the penis? A real penis?”
“No sir,” Markie responding glumly in admitting what he realizes is a shortcoming.
“Well, you will have adequate opportunity at the ranch. You’ll serve there... me and the livestock.”
“May I have my shoes, sir? I cannot walk without them.”
“Not necessary for now. You may crawl. And we’ll need to find you something more... durable... for working in the stables.”
“I know nothing about horses, sir.”
“You’ll not need to know horses, Markie. You’ll need to know men. Very strong, powerful and virile men. I have a certain penchant which very few men are able to accommodate. It is only in being both wealthy and of Royal birth that I can keep a boy... many boys.
“I like blond ‘em... and light skinned... smooth... strong... well hung, as they say. But most importantly, they must be ragingly heterosexual. I like it when they quiver in disgust at my touch. Like it when they spasm in repulsion when I enter them. I enjoy the wrenching as I face fuck... the tightening of the sphincter as they futilely attempt to resist sodomy... long mornings of sodomy.”
The Prince smiles. Markie notes a bulge in his slacks, his own words spurring priapism.
“Yes, it’s power, Markie. I have it... and they don’t. And I bring a boy to revulsion each and every day... one for each day of the week, ha, ha, ha. That one there will replace my Thursday boy. He became too complacent... began to enjoy the penis. That’s when I send them off... to prison where they can get all the black cock they desire, ha, ha, ha.”
“I am not that way, sir. I am more girl than boy... now... with the doctor’s transformation.”
“That’s obvious, Markie,” the hands again proving to be surprisingly tender as the right fingers diddle Markie’s left nipple. “But I have a rule at the ranch... actually many rules. But the first is that the only penis that ever spurts is that of Royalty... mine. So when the doctor put you on display it gave rise to thought. I’ll certainly not want a stable hand that can ejaculate... that would not do. And when women tend to my boys it takes an edge off the... well call it the frustration. Denial is constant and unrelenting at the ranch. A feminine hand, though never to bring orgasm, would still be viewed as a source of relief. That won’t do as well. But the boys need to be fed... and bathed... and kept shaven... not to mention having their cock cages cleansed. And I think a neutered little girly boy is just the right form for the role. They’ll be cringing in abhorrence under your tender care and touch... just as much as my more brutal penetration.”
The Prince pauses, unzipping himself. Markie’s eyes widen in amazement as a mammoth uncircumcised penis, semi erect, springs into the cabin lights. It would seem to exceed the size of Nurse Benson’s most formidable rubber phalli.
“Yes, brutal... wouldn’t you agree?”
Saturday, September 6, 2014
A Woman in Control - Reaching my zenith III
Reaching My Zenith III
Mrs. Olivier calls... at my home... over the weekend.
Whatever did Mr G. do or say to prompt her to respond to my quest? I suspect some jewelry has been procured... lavish.
“Thank you for calling, Mrs. Olivier. Did you get my note and package?”
“Yes,” her inflection questioning, as if to ask... is this so important?
“I was just curious if you have noticed anything... different. Has the scent offered the hominess that we intend?”
“Well Douglas has been spending time... well that’s irrelevant. It’s a nice freshener around the kitchen area. Visitor’s actually think I’ve baked or cooked something.”
“Have you given your bedroom a little spritz?” suppressing laughter.
“No... what’s this about?” she becomes suspicious.
“I think we need to meet... and talk... about how your Douglas,” my tone lugubrious, Mrs. Olivier the only person to use that moniker, “is indeed spending his time. A quiet meeting... only you and I need to know about it.”
“What has that old goat been up to?” Mrs. Olivier sensing inappropriate behavior.
“Nothing we cannot bring under control, Mrs. Olivier. Why not stop in at my apartment? Perhaps brunch sometime Saturday or Sunday... while you’re in the City shopping.”
“Next Saturday would be fine. I have tickets to a show.”
Yes, of course you do, Mrs. Olivier, I think to myself. First balcony I am sure, unless there are more pretentious seats available.
“It’s a date. Say 12:30 p.m.”
Mrs. Olivier calls... at my home... over the weekend.
Whatever did Mr G. do or say to prompt her to respond to my quest? I suspect some jewelry has been procured... lavish.
“Thank you for calling, Mrs. Olivier. Did you get my note and package?”
“Yes,” her inflection questioning, as if to ask... is this so important?
“I was just curious if you have noticed anything... different. Has the scent offered the hominess that we intend?”
“Well Douglas has been spending time... well that’s irrelevant. It’s a nice freshener around the kitchen area. Visitor’s actually think I’ve baked or cooked something.”
“Have you given your bedroom a little spritz?” suppressing laughter.
“No... what’s this about?” she becomes suspicious.
“I think we need to meet... and talk... about how your Douglas,” my tone lugubrious, Mrs. Olivier the only person to use that moniker, “is indeed spending his time. A quiet meeting... only you and I need to know about it.”
“What has that old goat been up to?” Mrs. Olivier sensing inappropriate behavior.
“Nothing we cannot bring under control, Mrs. Olivier. Why not stop in at my apartment? Perhaps brunch sometime Saturday or Sunday... while you’re in the City shopping.”
“Next Saturday would be fine. I have tickets to a show.”
Yes, of course you do, Mrs. Olivier, I think to myself. First balcony I am sure, unless there are more pretentious seats available.
“It’s a date. Say 12:30 p.m.”
Wednesday, September 3, 2014
The Sash - The Prince
The Prince
Copyright 2014
by Chris Bellows
“By all means squirm and swing yourself about, Markie. But no noise, no moaning into your gag. Very unladylike,” Nurse Benson tenderly patting the soft right buttock.
Markie hangs once again, the pink sash tight but wonderfully comfortable. Of late Nurse Benson has taken to gagging her, Markie’s ability to control the gag reflex improving but remaining insufficient.
The slight motion of Nurse Benson’s hand commences a pendulous motion which Markie cannot stop. Conversely, as always when sashed, the increased force of gravity brings welcomed pangs of delight to the perineum, anus and nipples as her nakedness ever so slightly accelerates through the equilibrium position.
Yes, Markie concludes, she will definitely swing herself about.
Within moments the doctor enters her office, glances at the naked flesh encumbered in pink and smiles knowingly in seeing Markie shift her legs and feet to increase the period of the pendulous motion. The castrated male finds the simplest of pleasures she has come to realize.
“Bring the Prince directly in here when he arrives, Nurse Benson. I’m sure he will want to get right to business.”
Nurse Benson turns to leave and the doctor seats herself, deciding on some moments of adulation... the self adulation of a sculptor completing his her masterpiece. Yes, the altered male brought to complete capitulation. Though the sense of accomplishment satisfies, the thrill of power overrides.
“You’re very pretty, Markie. And soon you’ll not need the gag. Nurse Benson suggests you’re close to taking the stoutest and longest of phalli.”
Silence commanded, Markie knows to merely nod, feet continuing to pump as would a child on swing.
A knock interrupts the doctor’s reflection. Nurse Benson returns to step within and hold open the door.
“His Highness the Prince, doctor.”
Into the office den of the doctor steps a massive man of color, powerful legs bringing surprising grace to his gait.
“Good of you to stop in and visit us, your Highness,” the doctor arising and extending her hand.
“How could one deny himself the blessings of your hospitality, doctor,” hands clasping in greeting. “I’ve been made aware of your fine work and to ultimately visit is like finally completing a long planned tour of the Louvre.”
The suave rejoinder spoken as the Prince turns his head to gaze at Markie’s nakedness helplessly swaying in the corner.
“And an exquisite work of art hangs right here in your office...”
The doctor follows the Prince’s gaze and softly chuckles, wishing not to interrupt his visual inspection. Pausing for a moment, when the Prince’s attention returns, she gestures toward a large comfortable chair at the front of her desk, She waits for the Prince to seat himself. Instead, huge hands effortlessly pick up the sizable piece and turn it, positioning such that a slight turn of the head permits conversation to his left and more glimpses of Markie’s swinging form with a turn to his right.
The doctor is pleased with the subtle expression of interest.
“I am glad your Highness finds my work to be pleasing.”
“She’s quite lovely in bondage. Limited breasts but I am sure the nipples quite receptive to... ah amusement. Yet, I am sure you’re aware of my... penchants.”
The doctor nods. A quick hand gesture signals Nurse Benson, remaining near the door.
“Your Highness is noted for exquisite yet exacting taste. I would not have suggested a visit should we not be in a position to... assuage your expectations.”
With the words Nurse Benson moves to Markie. Dexterous fingers work the sash at the pubes, pushing aside the pink folds at the ‘V’. Into view pops the tiniest of penises, testosterone deprived, many months of estrogen injections withering, the shrinkage of the vestigial male organ continuing. The empty scrotum follows, Nurse Benson drawing the thin delicate flesh out from its hiding place.
Markie blushes, not fully accustomed to strangers... certainly not accustomed to having his alteration so prominently announced. The gnarled feet kick again... yet now in silent protest.
“He’s quite lovely in bondage,” the Prince corrects himself. “I should have better guessed... based on your laurels.”
“We should have more forthrightly presented his modification. But we do consider Markie to be more feminine than masculine at this point. Not a drop of male hormones remaining...”
“So I imagine.”
The doctor notes that the Prince’s gaze intensifies, brow furrowing in thought.
“I’m always looking to diversify my... well my sources of entertainment. The ranch is wonderfully secluded, you can run a boy for miles on the veld, but for the same reason it can be boring unless... shall we term it fresh livestock... yes, unless fresh livestock is procured. Thus my occasional world travels. I like ‘em blond and very fair skinned. Not easily found in Africa... as I am sure you imagine.”
The Prince pauses as the doctor shares in the mirth with a polite chuckle.
“Is this masterpiece of yours available, doctor?” a meaty black hand extending towards Markie’s dangling nakedness. “I wouldn’t run her... him... in harness. Much too dainty. Wouldn’t pull a cart more than a few yards in African heat. But I do require labor in the stables. My boys need a degree of maternal attention. I keep them well cared for... well fed... well exercised... and well fucked,” the latter sentiment coming with a wicked grin.
Copyright 2014
by Chris Bellows
“By all means squirm and swing yourself about, Markie. But no noise, no moaning into your gag. Very unladylike,” Nurse Benson tenderly patting the soft right buttock.
Markie hangs once again, the pink sash tight but wonderfully comfortable. Of late Nurse Benson has taken to gagging her, Markie’s ability to control the gag reflex improving but remaining insufficient.
The slight motion of Nurse Benson’s hand commences a pendulous motion which Markie cannot stop. Conversely, as always when sashed, the increased force of gravity brings welcomed pangs of delight to the perineum, anus and nipples as her nakedness ever so slightly accelerates through the equilibrium position.
Yes, Markie concludes, she will definitely swing herself about.
Within moments the doctor enters her office, glances at the naked flesh encumbered in pink and smiles knowingly in seeing Markie shift her legs and feet to increase the period of the pendulous motion. The castrated male finds the simplest of pleasures she has come to realize.
“Bring the Prince directly in here when he arrives, Nurse Benson. I’m sure he will want to get right to business.”
Nurse Benson turns to leave and the doctor seats herself, deciding on some moments of adulation... the self adulation of a sculptor completing his her masterpiece. Yes, the altered male brought to complete capitulation. Though the sense of accomplishment satisfies, the thrill of power overrides.
“You’re very pretty, Markie. And soon you’ll not need the gag. Nurse Benson suggests you’re close to taking the stoutest and longest of phalli.”
Silence commanded, Markie knows to merely nod, feet continuing to pump as would a child on swing.
A knock interrupts the doctor’s reflection. Nurse Benson returns to step within and hold open the door.
“His Highness the Prince, doctor.”
Into the office den of the doctor steps a massive man of color, powerful legs bringing surprising grace to his gait.
“Good of you to stop in and visit us, your Highness,” the doctor arising and extending her hand.
“How could one deny himself the blessings of your hospitality, doctor,” hands clasping in greeting. “I’ve been made aware of your fine work and to ultimately visit is like finally completing a long planned tour of the Louvre.”
The suave rejoinder spoken as the Prince turns his head to gaze at Markie’s nakedness helplessly swaying in the corner.
“And an exquisite work of art hangs right here in your office...”
The doctor follows the Prince’s gaze and softly chuckles, wishing not to interrupt his visual inspection. Pausing for a moment, when the Prince’s attention returns, she gestures toward a large comfortable chair at the front of her desk, She waits for the Prince to seat himself. Instead, huge hands effortlessly pick up the sizable piece and turn it, positioning such that a slight turn of the head permits conversation to his left and more glimpses of Markie’s swinging form with a turn to his right.
The doctor is pleased with the subtle expression of interest.
“I am glad your Highness finds my work to be pleasing.”
“She’s quite lovely in bondage. Limited breasts but I am sure the nipples quite receptive to... ah amusement. Yet, I am sure you’re aware of my... penchants.”
The doctor nods. A quick hand gesture signals Nurse Benson, remaining near the door.
“Your Highness is noted for exquisite yet exacting taste. I would not have suggested a visit should we not be in a position to... assuage your expectations.”
With the words Nurse Benson moves to Markie. Dexterous fingers work the sash at the pubes, pushing aside the pink folds at the ‘V’. Into view pops the tiniest of penises, testosterone deprived, many months of estrogen injections withering, the shrinkage of the vestigial male organ continuing. The empty scrotum follows, Nurse Benson drawing the thin delicate flesh out from its hiding place.
Markie blushes, not fully accustomed to strangers... certainly not accustomed to having his alteration so prominently announced. The gnarled feet kick again... yet now in silent protest.
“He’s quite lovely in bondage,” the Prince corrects himself. “I should have better guessed... based on your laurels.”
“We should have more forthrightly presented his modification. But we do consider Markie to be more feminine than masculine at this point. Not a drop of male hormones remaining...”
“So I imagine.”
The doctor notes that the Prince’s gaze intensifies, brow furrowing in thought.
“I’m always looking to diversify my... well my sources of entertainment. The ranch is wonderfully secluded, you can run a boy for miles on the veld, but for the same reason it can be boring unless... shall we term it fresh livestock... yes, unless fresh livestock is procured. Thus my occasional world travels. I like ‘em blond and very fair skinned. Not easily found in Africa... as I am sure you imagine.”
The Prince pauses as the doctor shares in the mirth with a polite chuckle.
“Is this masterpiece of yours available, doctor?” a meaty black hand extending towards Markie’s dangling nakedness. “I wouldn’t run her... him... in harness. Much too dainty. Wouldn’t pull a cart more than a few yards in African heat. But I do require labor in the stables. My boys need a degree of maternal attention. I keep them well cared for... well fed... well exercised... and well fucked,” the latter sentiment coming with a wicked grin.
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