Saturday, June 27, 2015

Miss Amanda's Bitch Boys II

“I’d tell you not to be embarrassed, that many inmates under Feminine control react similarly. But I don’t think you’d find comfort in that... me pointing out that your erection tells a secret.”

Luke Donovan’s shocking introduction to super max continues. He must admit to himself, his antagonist says what she does and does what she says. She has indeed left him restrained, naked and on toes... for over an hour. And he curses his reaction, feeling his penis throb. Though he cannot see below, nose ring tied high, plastic yoke impeding his peripheral vision, Guard Amanda Contrell confirms what he has feared. He is stiff.

“Let me down!”

“Tired? So soon? A big strong boy like you? You’re not in a position to make demands here, Luke boy. You make requests... humble requests. Keep in mind, all comes from me... and the other guards... and it may not come at all. At times we can be rather capricious... sometimes forgetting feeding time. And water as well. Had one inmate trained to drink from his toilet. The more verbal abuse offered, the less likely he was to obtain his ration of fresh water. So he found that by kneeling and placing his yoke on the toilet seat, his tongue was just able to lap up some vital liquid. He got so good at it that I stopped his supply altogether. Good tongue exercise for him.”

Highlighting the ignominy, the tip of an index finger gently diddles the underside of Luke Donovan’s upstanding manhood. The turgid strip of flesh waggles about in response.

“Why not suck it, bitch.”

“Tsk, tsk. Such naughty talk. But if you want it sucked, I can have you accommodated. There’s a trusty in the observation room right now. No yoke. Free to move about... except when I need a chair. Then I sit on Jami. He adores erections, no longer able to achieve one himself.”

The diddling continues, the touch teasing and evanescent. Looking into the woman’s smiling face, Luke Donovan, killer of men, recognizes evil. It is familiar. How often has he seen that look as a prospective employer offered to exchange cash for murder... when, in receiving due payment, he described the violent death of a rival.

Noting that there is no offer for emancipation, the subject matter straying to the bizarre protocol for super max discipline, Luke takes stock. The woman is irritating, relentless, aloof to male needs... and in charge.

This is a game, he tells himself. One which he cannot win, only strive for a draw. One of compliance. And he not only must learn the rules, but he must play. No play... no food. No play... no water. No play... no clothing. But most importantly right now, no play no liberty from the bars! 

“May I be released?” the voice forced to meekness as Luke feels his legs quaver.

“No, not like that Luke boy. It’s ‘may I be released please Miss Amanda’”, the tone light and jovial.

Yes, a game. One in his former world of male brawn, bodily mayhem and death, in which he would refuse to engage. As he hears laughter from the adjoining cells... no one having laughed at him since elementary school... he senses rage. Despite the equally nefarious backgrounds of his super max cell mates, given the opportunity he’d bring vengeful injury.

But how? Wrists encumbered, his hands are useless, not even able to scratch his nose much less wreak havoc on those who mock. Then for the first time the inmate in the opposing cell across the narrow corridor arises from his low bunk. Tall, muscular, skin deeper than that of Amanda Contrell, he is also yoked, a thin string leading from an identical nose ring to the cells bars where it is teasingly tied off in a loose knot... ironically easily released... for those with mobile hands.  

“Put him in panties, Miss Amanda,” the voice deep, the accent of the rural south. “Pink for that boy!”

“You enjoy panties, don’t you, Julie. Been a while for you. Quiet or I’ll have you back in them,” Guard Amanda momentarily turning away.  

“We’ve found that putting the big brawny inmates in frilly silk panties calms them. Would that serve to calm you, Luke boy?” turning back, her finger continuing to graze, the penis throbbing in delight.

Finally the tall guard steps back, Luke oddly disappointed that the faint pleasure of a sole digit is withdrawn.

“No covering. It appears that nakedness is best for you.”

With that, Guard Amanda folds her arms, letting the slow torment continue. Finally come the expected words, the capitulation inevitable... as well she knows.

“May I be released please, Miss Amanda?”

Amanda pauses, smirking. Finally she steps forth. Thumb and index finger pull on the loose end of the knotted string. It instantly goes slack. Luke offers a notable sigh of relief as the looseness permits him to go to his knees. Amanda reties, the string now offering movement throughout the tiny cell.

“I’ll keep your clothing. I think for now it’s best that you go naked, Luke boy,” Amanda stepping to the bars of the opposing cell as she speaks. “And you’ll come to understand that deep within, you enjoy. Erections don’t lie.”

Greeted by she in charge, a pleasantly surprised Julie instantly falls to his knees. Through the bars it is now his string captured in the hand of Guard Amanda. As she guides the nose ring lower, head, yoke, arms and chest follow. Luke is shocked when the face of the black prisoner greets the guard’s right boot and he begins to lick... in earnest... in genuine joy... in gratitude? 

“Enjoy looking at your newbie friend, Julie? He has a nice penis, for a white boy. But don’t upset him, Julie. He first has much to learn.”

“Yes, Miss Amanda.”

The innuendo of homosexuality alerts. Luke the Leg Breaker senses a brisance... of fear?

Friday, June 26, 2015

'The Party Boy' released

My latest effort for Pink Flamingo/Erotic Book Network has been released.

'The Party Boy'.

Female Dominant/male submissive, lots of humiliation and subtle feminine control. Light on corporal but unending CFNM, chastity and denial.



Saturday, June 20, 2015

Miss Amanda’s Bitch Boys I

Copyright 2015

Female dominant, male submissive.




“I may be a bitch. But you’re going to be my bitch.”

Guard Amanda Contrell’s words are calm and cool. She smiles, always enjoying the arrival of a big, rugged, recalcitrant inmate. For in the end each one falls so hard and begs so pitifully. As the immense woman of color stands arms akimbo at the cell bars, verbally jousting with the new arrival, she surveys the supine and yoked form with a sang froid which brings disquiet. For the powerful prisoner, known as ‘Leg Breaker Luke’, expects his hissing menacing words to bring distress.

Instead his insult seems to have amused the brown uniformed woman and brought awed silence from the five inmates in adjoining cells. Guard Amanda Contrell is rarely spoken to in a derogatory manner... much less be termed a bitch.

She must be aware of my convictions, my years of contract killing, Luke Donovan thinks to himself. Even grizzled mobsters have been known to fear him. Yet this woman cowers not.

“Shall I show you how we use your new jewelry, Luke boy?”

“That’s Donovan... Luke Donovan.”

“In this cell block, it’s Luke boy... or whatever I decide.”

Amanda Contrell reaches to the right. Through the bars she grasps a thin cord... ironically thin... mercifully thin. For it is designed to break should a guard inadvertently... or perhaps in anger... pull too hard.

“Get off your cot and come here to me at the bars. We need to sort out the hierarchy, Luke boy. I know you’ve served time before... juvenile crimes. But this is super max. This is where we tame the hardest, the toughest, the most belligerent.”

The meaty dark hand slowly, almost gracefully tugs. Amanda recalls her training as a teen, a summer on a ranch, learning horses... memorable times for a city girl. And in pulling on the defacto leash the advice of a wizened ranch hand comes to mind, crassly worded, as she for the first time took the bridle reins of a huge and imposing stallion.

‘Think of the bit as pinching your cunny, sweetheart. The horse’s mouth is that sensitive.’

And indeed, the slightest tension instantly commanded the stallion’s attention

And so, despite the feisty words, the truculent attitude, Amanda kindly takes control, pulling inmate Luke to the bars. 

“What the fuck!” Luke Donovan gasping in pain.

The words bring another smile... a knowing, matronly smile.

“You don’t think the Bureau of Prisons bestowed a steel ring on you just to improve your looks do you?”

Amanda thrills with a prisoner’s discovery of the simple but most effective trinket of restraint, control and punishment. Surgically implanted into the cartilage of the septum, the heavily gauged stainless ellipse is unlikely to tear away. But it will impart an unforgettable burst of agony, the nerve endings transmitting immediate messages to the cerebral cortex... the most important of which is... minimize the tension... capitulate... and quickly.

And so the yoked inmate jumps... awkwardly... from his supine position and follows the taut string... really a thread... to where Guard Amanda Contrell awaits. Both quick and obsequious, his reaction ends the stunned silence of the cell block, his fellow inmates laughing raucously.

“Good boy,” Amanda taking in the slack, holding her hand high to force the mammoth prisoner well up on his toes.

“How does the yoke feel?” a notable wince obviating an answer.

“Fuck you!” exhaling in pain.

“You’ll tell me if it’s too tight. With the body scans they tend to get the measurements just right. And you’ll become accustomed to it in time.”

Resting on Luke Donovan’s shoulders, probably in violation of most conventional rules and regulations throughout the world’s institutions of incarceration, is a rectangular block of thick polymer. Light but strong, smooth yet inexorable, it’s sealed, perfectly measured holes entrapping the neck and wrists, making the hands useless... for aggression... for eating... and most distressingly for the long term incarcerated... for masturbation. To be removed only upon years of demonstrated tamed behavior, ultimate release from prison or death, Guard Amanda knows for the likes of Luke Donovan, serving 19 consecutive life terms for first degree murder, the latter will be the case.

With a simple knot, Amanda reties the defacto leash high on the bars, freeing her hands. Next she lowers, reaching through the bars at the waist of inmate Luke Donovan. There she works the belt buckle.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Just a little demonstration of the power exchange you’ll need to adapt to here. Most new inmates get it at chow... when they discover the need to either find politeness and be spoon fed... or eat from a bowl like a dog. For you Luke boy, I think the lesson needs to start now.”      

With that the inmate’s belt is unbuckled, the zipper lowered and Amanda stoops to pull the canvas grey pants to the concrete floor.

“Now be a good boy and step out of your trousers. Slippers too.”

Amanda commands as she rights herself and her thumbs slip under the waist band of prison issue underpants. In a well practiced move she lowers herself again, whisking the newly issued shorts to the floor as well, stripping Luke Donovan waist to ankles.

“You can’t do this!”

“I just did. And if I have to forcefully pull your clothes out from under you, it will be agonizing should you trip and fall. That nose ring is effective, I assure you. So be a good boy. Step out, slippers too. Let’s begin your lesson.”

Luke reflects and realizes the woman’s warning is to be heeded, standing balanced on toes. He is aggravated, appalled... and uncharacteristically bashful. For upon entry to super max, prisoners are deloused, the process involving the removal of most hair. Thus he stands before the woman he insulted as being a ‘bitch’, not only half naked but without the veil of manly foliage.    

“Yes, Luke boy, you look like a plucked chicken... just like every prisoner I have to strip naked for behavioral reasons,” the words intended to sooth as Guard Amanda spirits away the slippers and garments.

Pulling the clothing through the bars, a brown right hand returns to reach through and cup a shorn low hanging scrotal pouch. Luke is aghast with the intimate handling, but quickly understands his vulnerability, hands useless, nose ring tied off high. And then comes the grip... firm... frighteningly comfortable. The woman has before handled a man, he quickly comes to realize. But then comes a threatening squeeze, his precious organs susceptible to a woman’s whimsy.

“I’m reporting this!”

“To whom? And to what end, other than to gain a reputation as a prison rat?”

Amanda’s thumb palpates, brushing over the top of the scrotum, assessing the jewels within. Nice and plump. She feels a twinge, within her loins. Power over the virile male... a serial killer for hire... brings sexual thrill.

“Yes, Luke boy, you’re going to be my bitch.”

Amanda releases, offering a concerned Luke a moment of reprieve. But then her hands move higher, working the Velcro strips of the special prison shirt, to be removed for laundering without requiring release from the yoke. Yes, the sleeves part open without delay. Within seconds killer Luke Donovan stands completely naked. Again, no chest hair, the nipples invite. And Amanda, smiling wickedly, accepts the invitation.

“Nice tits. You’re going to make a fine bitch indeed,” fingers tweaking right nipple then left. “We’ll talk again... in an hour or two. In time I’ll give you an introduction... to some of my other bitches...” Amanda casually strolling the corridor.

“You can’t leave me like this!” killer Luke Donovan immediately assessing his precarious position, forcibly held by a simple thread and ring of steel, forehead pressed to the bars as toes and feet strain.

“I just did,” Amanda playfully calls out from her observation room at the end of the cell block.

Saturday, June 13, 2015

Next week...

We'll begin a new series. Back to prison life where Luke the Leg Breaker comes under the auspices of Guard Amanda Contrell and her cohorts. Posted on Saturday as usual.


Stroking the Male - Segment XII

March 2015

And so Randy’s awe and admiration of authoritative women advanced, visits to 225 Washington immersing him real time into what once secretly delighted in adolescent fantasy. Plus there came a profound dose of reality... pervert... former pervert... John W. Davis living out the ultimate in sadomasochistic reverie... or did he find himself forever submersed in dark, silent, immobile hell?

Randy will never know. But the memory lingers... titillates... such unbridled feminine governance. And so in his thoughts he silently answers sister Melanie’s quest, his penis further firming, his male essence exuding.

“Time for some bacon fat, Melanie,” Susan advises in her pleasant maternal tone.

Melanie steps to the special draw. There, at Mrs. Breckenridge’s suggestion, lies a jar of rendered bacon fat, the supply replenished with each Saturday morning breakfast. It is not salted, never to be used as a penile lubricant as with Mrs. Breckenridge. Instead, younger sister Melanie dips her right index and middle finger and gathers a dollop. She herself has come to enjoy an element of feminine control, and knows full well of Randy’s masturbation therapy... that for many months he was trained to ejaculate to both the feel and scent of bacon.

And so as Randy kneels, reproductive organs primed, the intensity of his humiliation spurring his masochistic predilection, Melanie reaches and smears his upper lip, priming his olfactory nerves as well. She smiles with the immediate results, Randy’s penis waggling in further need. Then she looks to sister Susan who nods in concurrence.

Melanie smiles inwardly. Mischievous fingers move to the right nipple. She coats with bacon grease and kneads, knowing that with a penis made permanently sore to the touch, the useless male nub has become heightened in sensitivity.

“Want to come for me?” Melanie’s young voice becoming precociously sultry, hot breath blowing in Randy’s ear as her enticing fingers work.

The engorged organ throbs then discharges... exploding untouched... Randy’s male effluent scoring a bull’s eye in his yellow dog bowl.

“So we’ll never know what he thinks about when he squirts for us like that?”

It’s bedtime. Gathering in Randy’s bedroom, Susan continues to teach Melanie the care suggested of their defacto houseboy Randy by therapist Mrs. Matilda Breckenridge.

“I don’t know the catalyst for his climax... don’t really care. But the therapy has worked wonders, Melanie. Not only are his bed sheets clean, he now washes all the laundry as well. And such obedience and deference to women... you and I can attend college and return to a spotless house and a well prepared meal.

“Bed!” Susan authoritatively pointing to what is really a low wooden platform, eyelets awaiting. A thin mattress covering offers some comfort, covered in a sheet which Susan knows will remain unstained. 

Randy, having donned the powder blue cuffs gifted by Mrs. Breckenridge, immediately lies. Susan then circles, one by one clipping to the eyelets the right wrist cuff, right ankle, left ankle and finally left wrist. When finished Randy and the low platform are one.

“Now, once again watch as I do this, Melanie. Some day this will be your task... his penis remains very tender... very sore to the touch. The bonds prevent him from rolling over and hurting himself.”

Susan grasps a catheter. She leans, the very tip of her left index gingerly slipping under the penis tip to carefully lift and align. As the tube greets the urethral opening, Randy grimaces, though the touch slight. It is with great heed and deliberation that he endures his nightly catheterization, Susan ever so slowly gliding inward the lubricated tube. She next connects the free end to a collection vessel. With a nod, Melanie steps forth with a cloth hood, slipping it over Randy’s head to bring darkness.

“May I have a collar... some day?” the voice male yet so meek.

“Perhaps for your birthday, Randy. Sleep well,” Susan leading from the room.  

“He’s so tightly bound... yet he never objects,” Melanie wistfully notes as Susan turns off the light and closes the door behind her.

“Would it matter if he did?” Susan notes with a knowing shrug.


The story continues in the second part of the trilogy 'Denying the Male" and the third part 'Emasculating the Male'.

Available at

Hope all have enjoyed the story.

Sunday, June 7, 2015

Final part of the triology published

I have published on Lulu the third part of the trilogy 'Emasculating the Male' (Sequel to 'Stroking the Male' and 'Denying the Male'). 13,000 + words $3.75.




Saturday, June 6, 2015

Stroking the Male - Segment XI

Melanie Partland dutifully applies herself. Algebra... not sure of its significance... but she focuses and achieves. Bright and precocious, she is aware of household changes of late, furtive conversations, brother Randy skipping the school bus and arriving home so late.

Something’s going on, and youthful curiosity must be satiated. It is thus natural that when siblings Randy and Susan step into the bathroom together, Melanie quietly interrupt her studies and approach the closed bathroom door.

Randy is too old to be bathed, a task big sister Susan so often performed over the years.

What’s going on?

Ear to the door, she will listen and learn... more than algebra.


“Let me look at your penis. I am here to help.”

Susan stands arms akimbo, seeming to tower over a shy Randy, silently resisting her command to drop his pants. Finally she reaches forth and begins to unbuckle.

“I’ve seen you naked enough times... once more won’t make a difference,” the scolding words coming as she gruffly works, deliberately pressing where she knows Randy to be now quite sensitive.

“Ok, Ok,” Randy stepping back, reaching to replace her hands with his.

He unbuckles, unzips, pulls down his pants and closes his eyes in shame. Susan finds herself stifling laughter, lest Melanie’s study be disturbed.

“Wherever did you get that?” her hand going to her mouth to further repress giggling.

“May I take it off, Miss Susan?”

Randy’s hands move to his hips, fingers gripping the waistband of an undergarment Susan has not before seen. Silk, powder blue as with the restraints of Mrs. Breckenridge, the garment is really a male ‘G’ string, an effeminate glossy blue pouch covering his penis and testicles and nothing else, held in place by thin elastic strings about the waist and between his cheeks.

Though embarrassing, Randy has found a degree of comfort, just as Mrs. Boughton foretold when she confiscated his underpants and instructed him to so dress. Penis chafed, scrotum raw from shaving, the smoothness is appreciated.     

“Yes, by all means. A gift from Mrs. Breckenridge?”

“Well... she has an assistant. She prepares me... for the therapy.”

Randy shyly lowers the ‘G’ string, his feet stepping out, exposing that which Mrs. Breckenridge’s bacon greased hands masterfully worked for a good part of the afternoon. Susan seats herself on a low stool and summons Randy to step proximate... a full inspection required.

Well aware of the nature of Mrs. Breckenridge’s therapeutic counseling, there remains awe. Every inch of Randy’s male organ is the color of lobster. And with all hair removed, displayed so prominently.

“You’ve shaved.”

“No, Mrs. Boughton... Mrs. Breckenridge’s assistant.”

“Did you enjoy that? Having a woman handle you?” Susan reaching to tenderly palm the rawness.

“I... well... I had no choice,” Randy grimacing with the slightest touch.

“That doesn’t answer the question,” Susan’s knowing fingers bringing another grimace as she carefully skins back the foreskin as gently as possible.

There is irony that her touch brings torment... and it amuses her... the male normally taking delight in being so sensually toyed by a woman. 

Silence ensues as Susan closely inspects. Yes, beneath the foreskin the glans penis has been rubbed to equal rawness. Not a millimeter of the penile flesh has escaped the steel wool. There will be no self masturbation... no frottaging against the sheets... no soiled bed linen. Not tonight... not for many nights to come.

And then there’s the Friday therapy session coming...

“Hold still,” Susan’s left hand continuing to palm and lift the chafed cylinder of flesh.

She reaches for soothing ointment, recalling the days of tending to the diaper rash of an infant Randy. She squeezes, the contents of the tube oozing onto the top of the shaft, smiling in seeing Randy lurch, the unguent bringing shock but also cooling relief to the supersensitive male appendage. Next her fingers work it in, looking up into the eyes of the embarrassed Randy. Interesting that he so meekly places his hands atop his head in a pose of subservience, wordlessly letting her have her way with his precious manhood.

Normally a deed of foreplay, it is curious that in Randy’s mind her attention is deemed asexual. And Susan finds the transformation to be delightful. A brash and mischievous Randy is now so quiet and polite... sexually subdued. And she has attained more control.

Yes, ‘Miss Susan’ is now definitely in charge.


“Now pull that up, buckle your pants and get some studying done,” Susan pointing to the ‘G’ string. “I like the look. And it obviously makes your penis comfortable. I’ll buy more sets, have you wear them for me when Melanie’s not about the house.”

Ear remaining at the door, Melanie hears her name, sister Susan’s words indicating that the inspection has concluded. Yes, she listened with rapt attention upon hearing the initial words, ‘let me look at your penis. I am here to help’. Brother Randy has evidently undergone some ordeal involving ‘his thingy’, as girls Melanie’s age are wont to reference the male organ.

She tiptoes back to her room, understanding that ostensibly she is not to be aware of brother Randy and sister Susan’s bathroom rendevous.... particularly of the intimacy.

But much of the overheard conversation has served to further stoke her curiosity. Beneath his pants, brother Randy is wearing something that surprises... a gift from some woman. And sister Susan is pleased with it... yet it is not to be worn in front of Melanie. And there are references to therapy... being shaved...