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.

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