Saturday, August 29, 2015

A Cuckolded Gimp

New Story. The complete manuscript is available on Lulu. $3.50, 16,400 words.

'Miss Amanda's Bitch Boys' continues to be under construction and when completed will also be made available. 

A Cuckolded Gimp

Copyright 2015

by Chris Bellows

I suppose it’s natural to wonder whether anyone is with me. And I do. But not as often as when first placed in extreme bondage. For over time I’ve come to the realization that it is of no matter. It is of a little consequence if some observer peers at me in curiosity... or in pity... or perhaps in sadistic delight. For there is nothing I can do to discourage or encourage... nothing to be gained... certainly nothing to be lost. There is nothing more to lose. Nothing to offer... nothing to sacrifice... for I have nothing... at least nothing of which I can avail myself.

There were times... months ago... years ago... when I preoccupied myself by trying to move. Quite the effort... yet I found certain fingers could be wriggled, toes curled. But to what end... other than to heighten the damning frustration? So now, other than my thoughts, I just hang, drool and listen.

Oh yes, little does my nurse realize that despite the thick stuffing placed over my ears and the heavy layering of latex encompassing my head, there comes discernible sound. With the many hours of silent isolation the sense of hearing becomes amazingly acute. And so I listen. And incredibly I can hear the voice of my wife, my idol, despite the fact she’s thousands of miles away.

Yes, I hear her moans, her cries of ecstasy as the deep penetration she craves brings her to orgasm after orgasm. I know the name of her latest lover, for she calls it out, emptying her lungs in a rush of climactic triumph. It’s Robert... at least it is for this week.

I’d stiffen with the sounds, knowing she’s enduring carnal nirvana... a fifth climax... a sixth? But I cannot. Erections are of the past. Erections are for men, my wife has decreed. Therefore erections are not for me. And my dear Nurse Elsa most attentively assures that I will never ever stiffen.     

Something about engendering male pride, the sight and feel of a good engorged standing penis. And that notion annoys... and therefore it is not to be.

Still I imagine erections... large. But never mine. Mine is small and relatively limp. Those imagined are of size, virile and about to thrust... about to explode Yes thrust into the divine portal of my wife... to inseminate... as would the man I am not.

I so often worshiped her there... and mentally still do in the induced stupor of constant sensory deprivation and strict bondage.

Ah, my thoughts interrupt. I do believe another droplet is about to slither to my chin. There to pause until the force of gravity randomly dispatches it to my drool cup. It’s my only other diversion... drooling. That and a sporadic spray of water, presumably dispensed by Nurse Elsa. I must assume it is Nurse Elsa. Who else would offer such kindness? Hydrating me. But not too much hydration please. That brings a need... an unwanted call from nature which only heightens the unending torment. Skin abrading urine soaked rubber is such slow aggravation. 

Yes, in being sightless, the only opening for the latex hood being at my nose and mouth, I know not who is tending to me. And I cannot inquire, my molt gag cruelly obviating speech, forcing open my mouth at all times, readying my throat and stomach for the induction of anything and everything... and for the discharge of saliva... drop after drop after drop.

Still I am confident of the attentive care which strict bondage and sensory deprivation require. For there are comments, passed along during the brief intervals of my daily cleansing... I assume it is daily... and apparently stemming from the overhead camera, its red blinking light evidencing constant function. The care is evidenced by the mercy of light ephemeral massage. Though clinical, it is welcomed. I like to think the knowing hands intend to offer the gift of joy. Yet I realize it solely for medical purposes... Nurse Elsa at one time using the term orthostatic syncope... fainting due to hypotension.

That would not do... fainting. That would offer relief, the nothingness of unconsciousness. That would end the torment... at least for an undesired moment. So my circulation is stimulated, pressure applied to known anatomical regions. So quick, so evanescent, really augmenting the torment more than relieving it.

There was a time when I could sense myself moving. I envisioned twisting. It makes sense that I would, the sole supporting chain certainly furnishing the capability. But now I am not sure at all. For there is no way of determining. With my entire body encased in latex, I cannot feel the room air, have no sensory input from that standpoint, the wafting brought about by motion. And if I do indeed twist, it’s slowly... quite slowly... my vestibular system not detecting change. Yet if I were to twist, what of my drool cup, that collecting the unending flow of saliva?

No, slobbering on the cleansing table beneath me would involve an unnecessary task for Nurse Elsa. She would not want that. And there would be messiness, those watching on camera, I assume someone is watching on camera, put off by the spewing viscous effluent. 

So I don’t twist. I guess I don’t twist.

Wait! I feel motion. My supporting chain oscillates! Is it cleansing time already?

Amazing how I have learned to withhold my excretions. Pooping in my suit of black latex is smelly and unsightly, but urinating is what can bring the most frustration and aggravation. The acidity brings self torment, the skin chafing to the point of blistering. And so I have learned discipline... just what the wife envisioned... to hold .. and hold... and hold. Until the chain moves, lowering me a distance so short yet so meaningful... the six inches to the smooth marble, well drained table. There to be unzipped... momentarily relieved... to feel air... to go potty... to listen to the Jamaican patois of Nurse Elsa as she supervises my toilet then bathes and feeds.

Ah yes, the suspension is ending... how many hours I know not... will never know. My belly touches the table top, then my thighs. I am released from the hog tie, my encased feet secured to the back of my hood. My muscles celebrate, the circulation rushing.

‘Thank you, thank you, Nurse Elsa,’ I so much wish to express my sincere gratitude. But the molt gag remains in place as I know to straighten my legs and feel the vibrations of the long zipper, neck to ankles, being released.

I am peeled open, like a ripe banana, as Nurse Elsa once explained, the fruit of her native tropics coming to mind.  

Before the hood is unbuckled, I begin working my bowels. Cleansing time is quick... deliberately quick, my wife dictating that the joy of freedom be minimal. If I do not relieve myself now, I will either need to hold until the next cleansing or poop within the latex encasement... both options not desirable.

So I work, comparing my efforts to being walked like a dog, learning to empty myself when Master offers the opportunity... not before... not after.

With the muscle action, bladder relief also begins. Yes, somewhere under the steel mesh of my chastity device, catheterized by a wicked Prince’s wand, my penis will finally function... but only to drain my bladder... certainly not for pleasure.

The chastity device is superfluous of course. With the sleeveless latex suit holding my arms at my side, I cannot touch myself. But my wife describes the added abject cruelty of the steel mesh as a message... ‘don’t even think about ever again using it’.

Docility ingrained, I resist not as I feel the firm grip of Nurse Elsa take each limb and secure it. The brief cleansing requires four point restraint. Bondage... bondage... bondage... my adored wife dictating it is best for the beta male.

And so wrists and ankles are encircled in soft yet strong foam padded strips of nylon, in turn secured to the corners of the table.

It is only then that the hood is unlocked, unbuckled and whisked away, sight and real sound returned. As my eyes acclimate, I look down to see my drool cup.

“Mrs. Charles... she be watching you, Mr. Charles. Sent another email. Says her latest lover also enjoys seeing you latexed and hanging hogtied. He’s quite the cocksmith... her description not mine,” Nurse Elsa chides, her Jamaican accent adding frivolity to the dalliances of my cuckolding wife.

I cannot verbally reply. I am kept muted at all times. Words, expressions of feeling have long been denied. At times a laptop computer is presented, pictures of my wife being fucked by her latest bull offered, a humble reply to be awkwardly typed by a restrained right wrist sometimes permitted. 

I feel the warm wet of my urine, relieved that the cleansing table is well drained and that a comforting spray hose will chase away excretions, bowel movement included. So I let it all out, quickly, sloppily, eagerly, so performing for Nurse Elsa humiliating but required... more wifely dictates.

“Get you shaved, cleaned up, fed then let you read her message. Something about money. Not my business but she certainly takes care of her bulls. Making a lot of big dicked island boys rich. Word gets around, Mr. Charles. Your Misses, she likes ‘em big and stiff... and often... ha, ha, ha. So they take good care of her as well. Just as well your little thing is under lock and key, Mr. Charles. A woman stretches down there you know. She’d probably not feel you... if you were ever again allowed.”

This is when the molt gag frustrates the most, listening to Nurse Elsa, her tendance otherwise welcomed, chide me, the cuckold husband, with no ability to retort.

Saturday, August 22, 2015

Miss Amanda's Bitch Boys X

“Yes, you’re a good boy... a good white boy,” inmate Julie jeers, standing at the bars of his cell. “Miss Amanda, she likes obedient white boys. You’ll do well to lick her boots too. Lots and lots of licking for you, ha, ha, ha,” the tone sarcastic.

“You’ll be licking as well... my ass,” Luke snarls.

Nurse Simms having completed her rounds, the inmates of the super max cell block are left to their own. Six dangerous criminals... all ready to create danger... given the opportunity.

“You be polite white boy. I won’t be licking your ass, but Miss Amanda, if she gets in one of her playful moods, your ass just may get some attention. Little Julie here... ten inches. Ten rock hard inches where you’ll not be too appreciative... ha, ha, ha.”

Leg Breaker Luke glares through the bars. He knows not of the full relationship... guard and inmate. Would she condone anal sodomy? Promote anal sodomy? It would not require much effort should she so desire to entertain herself. Luke decides not to press the issue. Guard Amanda certainly has the power. Nothing that happens in super max is seen or heard by the outside world. And in being yoked and naked, Luke’s vulnerability is more than apparent.

He decides to return to silence... not to further taunt.

“You’ve killed... but so have I white boy. Not as many, but you needed a gun. I only needed my hands. More fun that way. You know when you break a neck, there’s this strange muscle reaction. Things kind of spasm... gets all tight... specially your little ass hole. Nice way for a guy to get off. Makes your cock feel really good. Yeah, there’s tightness that gets even tighter when you snap the neck. Did a few girls... but found guys to be tighter... and they put up a better fight. Kind of like fishing... you want something that gives you a little fight. Got myself off a lot that way. But they got this thing now... DNA. It’s unique. They use that to identify now. And that’s how they got me... lots and lots of DNA pumped into lots of ass holes. Guess they had to dig pretty deep to get samples, ha, ha, ha. Little Julie here, he explodes like a cannon. Crack the neck... little Julie goes boom! Ha, ha, ha.”    

For the first time, Luke takes comfort in the yoke... particularly that of inmate Julie.

“Miss Amanda, she says if I’m really good, she’s going to have me do Jami. Won’t snap his neck, but he’ll be tight. Oh yes, a nice tight little white boy for Little Julie. Love it.”

It dawns that Guard Amanda could easily make it happen and Luke shudders with the thought.

“But young Molly, I heard her say you strangled. Just once... and a woman. Not much fight there. But it would be slow. And the asshole... think it would dilate instead of tighten. Probably get messy. Is that right white boy? No oxygen, the muscles go all soft. Piss and shit all over the place, I imagine. Kind of sloppy. Is that right? Is that how you like it?”

“Shut and take a nap, Julie,” Luke firm in wishing to curtail further talk.

“Can’t do that tell nap time. You know that.”

It is true. For several hours a day, Guard Amanda takes the time to shorten the nostril string of each inmate, retying high to the bars to assure the bunks are beyond range and the prisoners must stand. Not as stressful as Luke’s first day, forced to his toes. But limited slack is offered... only enough to forestall cramping muscles... and little else. The daily process is thought to replace the need for normal exercise.  

So in silence inmates Luke the Leg Breaker and Julie the Neck Snapper are forced to stand and stare at each other. And Luke’s reticence is with purpose. He has no knowledge of the macabre aftereffects of strangulation... for he has not strangled.

The sound of tapping boots comes. A brown hand free to move one by one pulls on the thin strings, untying the simple knots which force even mammoth inmates like Julie into a state of slow exhaustion.

“You boys have talked enough. Nap time,” the voice assertive, a finger pointing to the bunks.

Saturday, August 15, 2015

Miss Amanda's Bitch Boys IX

Nurse Simms is not old. But her examining hands and fingers suggest experience. Luke forcibly kneels, learning that a so termed ‘tummy thumper’ is an erection so firm that when callously pressed downward it thumps his lower belly upon release.... as Guard Amanda gleefully tested.

Now it is Nurse Simms’ turn to test, palming the scrotal sac, gently squeezing the testicles. Luke watched her handle the giant Julie like a piece of livestock. Her intimate examine includes shaving, foamy lotion and a straight edged razor returning the pubes areas of the super max prisoners to glabrousness.

No lice in super max.

With her pretty smiling face, Luke finds it facile to remain hard for her... and that seems to please. But then comes the demanded urine sample. Luke is chagrined when encouraging words and sibilant sounds urge bladder relief, a collection vessel daintily held in wait.

Not accustomed to the degrading protocol, Luke has difficulty performing. This brings a knowing smile from the nurse. Guard Amanda joins, hearing the nurse’s verbal efforts, smirking in noting that Luke presses in futility.

“Naughty boy, Luke. All your cohorts have learned to perform. Concentrate, tighten your belly. Push.”

Alas, the stiffness obviates, particularly with the nurse’s left hand angling the organ down, bringing added distress.

“Prison rules, Luke. A drug test once per month. You will urinate for us. Would you rather that I have you posted, cane your bare buttocks until you open up with the stinging agony? Have an embarrassing little accident? I have Henry pissing for me quite regularly. Of course soiling himself adds to the humiliation and therefore his perverse enjoyment.”

Luke closes his eyes, so much wanting to end the intense humiliation. Should the pretty nurse stroke him, end the long interval of chastity, perhaps then ejaculation would bring flaccidity and compliance. But then there is the annoying Guard Amanda, taunting... threatening... reviving terrifying images of the caning of masochist Henry.    

Yet, this brings added urgency to the matter. Luke contracts his stomach muscles anew.

“Oh, good boy Luke. It’s only a dribble but there’s not much needed for testing. Do that once more,” Nurse Simms’ momentarily releasing the stiff shaft to tenderly pat the scrotum in reward.

This causes the ‘tummy thumper’ to thump again, bringing laughter and a look of Schadenfreude  as the fingers quickly return and draw downward to resume the awkward angle.

“He’s blushing,” the nurse notes, her observation serving to bring more blushing.

So much desiring to end the mental ordeal, Luke again contracts mightily, offering another small spurt of excretion.

“Good boy,” Guard Amanda now complimenting. “You’re learning to perform for governing women, Luke. That’s important here in super max. We like that... and you will too. Soon I’ll have you in clothing... and perhaps permit a visit from Jami. I like to have my bitches sucked off regularly, keeps them quiet and obedient... and Jami well nourished.”

Saturday, August 8, 2015

Miss Amanda's Bitch Boys VIII

“Okay, my super max bitches. Everyone to the bars. It’s the first of the month.”

Guard Amanda Contrell calls out from the observation room. Luke notes that the giant Julie humbly arises from his bunk and with celerity indeed steps to the bars. There he lowers himself to his knees.

Luke too arises, lumbering. His demeanor remaining somewhat obstreperous, he stands, defiant but also amazed at the acquiescence of the powerful inmate. Julie notes his renitence.

“You best be kneeling, white boy. You may have killed for a living, but here you’re just another one of Miss Amanda’s bitches. First of the month, get down and get ready to perform for her.”

Julie’s knowledge of Luke’s nefarious pursuits surprises him, then he recalls yesterday’s feeding, the minx Molly and her questions. Information divulged and overheard.

Luke hears the thump of boots on concrete, Guard Amanda announcing herself as she enters the corridor, the inmates of super max given soft slippers for footwear. Then comes the rustling sound of clothing.

“Oh yes, get yourself nice and hard for Miss Amanda.”

He hears the imposing guard move about, the tap, tap, tap of boots suggesting she is stepping cell to cell. Finally she comes into view, moving to stand before the kneeling Julie. She reaches through the bars, grasps the nostril cord, ties it off then stoops. In a well practiced move, Luke observing on the day of his arrival in super max, the large brown hands lower, the inmate Julie’s slacks are unbuttoned, the zipper lowered and Amanda stoops to pull the canvas grey pants to the concrete floor. 

“Get it up nice and big for me, Julie boy.”

The index finger of the right hand diddles the underside of the massive black cock. Guard Amanda girlish giggles in seeing the organ instantly spring to life, Jami’s fellatio many day’s past.

Then she turns, her look quickly becoming stern as she sees Luke standing.

“Get down now or you’ll be posted, Luke boy. First of the month. It’s show time.”

Not pausing for a response, Guard Amanda steps to the bars, grabs Luke’s nostril string and cruelly pulls. The pain is instantaneous. A defiant Luke yields, dropping to his knees without word or gesture of resistance. The defacto leash is tied off, a simple slip not, only to be loosened by mobile hands... and the only mobile hands are those of Miss Amanda.

“Bad news my bitches. Jami did the entire Cell Black A this morning. Tummy full of sperm and dog biscuits, so no one gets sucked off today. But I’ll want to see six nice big hard ons for the nurse. Get ‘em through the bars. I want tummy thumpers,” Amanda moving to the center of the corridor calling out to all.

She pauses, glaring from cell to cell. As her smile glows, Luke understands that erections unseen by him apparently are one by one stabbing through the bars.

“I’ll give you a hand in a moment, Henry.”

Guard Amanda notes that Luke is slow to tumefy. She returns to his cell bars.

“Henry always is the slowest. But if I squeeze his balls hard enough, he’ll get it up. The disgusting masochist needs to feel a woman’s controlling touch.”

Guard Amanda folds her arms and stares, towering over the kneeling Luke. He finds himself cowering, surprising himself with his reaction. 

“And what about you, Luke? Shouldn’t be too hard to pay proper homage. You’ve been chaste and naked for some three weeks... unless you’ve somehow been getting yourself off rubbing on the concrete walls, ha, ha, ha.”

Guard Amanda’s proximity, her jeering words, perhaps indeed the long interval of penile neglect. Whatever the cause, Luke feels that twinge... within his loins. He slowly complies, not fully understanding his reaction.

“Good boy,” the words cooed, mother to child.

With that, the solid impenetrable steel door of super max creaks open. The trundle of wheels is heard. Molly and the food cart? The timing seems off.

“Ok, everyone remain still for Nurse Simms. No nicks, no bleeding. And get ready to offer a urine sample,” Guard Amanda calls out again. “Some water Luke? You’ll piss for me. Testing for drugs is mandatory, super max or not. ”      

Saturday, August 1, 2015

Miss Amanda's Bitch Boys VII

“Read your file. Mom lets me read anything I want. You’re Luke Donovan... murderer... for hire... lots of killing.”

The precocious Molly... young, blonde and beautiful... and knowing it... wheels the food cart into the windowless mausoleum of super max. Yes, mausoleum, as most of the chamber’s inmates have come to think of it. For no one leaves alive, the sentences so long, the existence so arduous, that few out live the time to be served.

“And now you’re trapped... like a rat... a naked rat. And one that can’t even feed itself.”  

The teen brashly snaps her fingers, pointing downward to the designated area on the cell floor where Leg Breaker Luke knows he must kneel in order to be spoon fed. No supplication to the young girl, no food, that seems to be the rule. There is no method of protest for his treatment, no one to whom he can appeal. Instead there is the threat of being posted. And in observing arsonist Henry be so casually and callously caned, there comes horripilation in recalling the haunting scene.

So the man of size and viciousness indeed kneels, repressing the urge to snarl. 

“You killed with guns,” Molly gathering a large dollop of the tasteless gruel. “Mainly. But there was one you strangled.”

The free left hand reaches through the bars and gathers the slack nostril string. Molly pulls, slowly but steadily, knowing that though huge and powerful, the yoked inmate must follow her guiding hand.

“That’s better. It gets tiring reaching in so many times,” smiling wickedly as a kneeling Luke finds his face forcefully pressed to the bars, nose piercing held high.  

The feeding begins, young mother but no infant or toddler. Instead the grown man must open, lips encircling, tongue gathering. There is no choice, other than slow starvation.

Luke hungrily partakes. The food is surprisingly nutritious, his body feeling a mild burst of energy after every meal. But the fare is not formulated for enjoyment. Instead it is to keep him healthy for many, many years of mental duress. Denied exercise, he has come to realize the individualized bowls contain the exact number of carbohydrates and calories required for an inmate’s lethargic existence... and nothing more. No weight loss... and certainly no weight gain.  

And so he knows to take in every salubrious ounce, despite the lack of taste, despite the ignominy of being spoon fed.

“Did it excite you, the killings?” Molly boldly inquires.

“It was a job. How I made a living.” Luke’s voice without inflection as the empty spoon returns to the bowl.

Then he feels below. The girl’s gripping left hand on the nostril string does not permit him to look downwards. His penis, she is pressing against it, presumably with her leg... her booted leg. There is ulterior motive for her guiding hand. Thighs up against the bars, his genitals are thrust through into the narrow corridor.     

Molly smiles in noting Luke’s realization.

“Yes, in answer to your cynical question, on occasion I like looking at cock. But when it’s nice and hard... and in need... in frustrating need, ha, ha, ha.”

Molly jostles her leg... in a surprisingly adept manner... adept in fostering the reaction of a virile male held in abject chastity. Luke curses himself in sensing his reaction. He feels the twinge, knowing that he will soon be erect... and there is nothing he can do to stop or prevent her frottaging motion.

“Don’t! Stop!”

“I thought you had made an invitation, Luke. Withdrawing it?”

Molly continues, leg vigorously rubbing, left hand assuring immobility, right hand spooning more fare.

“So the strangulation. The report said the woman died slowly. Bare hands used, no ligature marks. Interesting change in your modus operandi, Luke. All the shootings and then comes a strangulation. Run out of bullets? Perhaps you got bored? Needed a change? How did it feel, sensing a life slowly end?”

Luke seethes, her taunting words riling a man normally not to be trifled with, not to anger. But with week after week of chastity, the smooth leather, the steady rhythm, the masterful pressure on the neglected frenum, brings joy. Wanted? Unwanted? The girl, though young, knows the male anatomy, somehow knows she’s kneading the most sensitive portion of a sensitive organ. 

With this realization, as Luke’s anger slowly chills, the emotion transforms to concern. Perhaps fear, but does a man of his ilk ever fear? Still, the precocious girl has power, that cannot be denied. But can it be avoided? Some how diverted to another super max inmate... or perhaps to that hapless prisoner in Cell Block D... to he eating her excrement.

“No reply?” girl Molly further taunts, pulling back her boot, her timing superb in knowing she has brought a froth of need, that climax is eminent.

There comes a moan of disappointment, embarrassing but not to be suppressed. Molly laughs, offering the last spoonful.

“Lesson learned, Luke. I never bring them off. Mother would find it rather inglorious. But I will suggest to Amanda that you need a visit from Jami. He’s always willing to accommodate... always in need of his next meal.”

The empty spoon is stowed. The gripping left hand lowers, forcing Luke to bend at the waist. The pretty face turns stern, the blue eyes twinkle in mischief as Luke’s nostril piercing assures compliance. His face must follow, in bending now able to note the purple tip of his raging erection.

“Yes, now I like looking at your cock... in such dire need. And if you like the feel of my boots, you may lick them. Lots ands lots of slow licks. And when I next visit, you’ll tell me more. More about bringing slow death. It must make one feel quite empowered.”

Molly pauses, her smile transforming to an annoying giggle as Luke finds no alternative but to lick, the gripping hand young, soft yet bringing relentless pain as the penetrating steel ellipse pressures a myriad of olfactory nerves. The long wet appendage thrusts, swirls and thrusts, spawning much laughter.

Task completed, Molly releases, the slack allowing Luke the Leg Breaker to right himself and return to the center of the small cell, turning away to sheepishly veil his hard on.

“And I have some fresh water for you... flavored. You enjoyed my taste the other day.”

With that, Molly reaches to the clear plastic water bottle hanging low on the cell bars. She takes and switches it with an identical bottle from the rolling cart, replacing the phallic drinking tube. Luke notes the liquid within is not clear but instead an ominous yellow.

“Just a diluted mix... for now. But I’ll make it stronger. Got an inmate in Cell Bock C who has come to savor it. Likes it pure... and warm... ha, ha, ha.”