Saturday, December 26, 2015

Tie Me Chicago II

It’s a three hour drive from the fair grounds back to Chicago. Lots of time for thought. And of course repeating in my mind are the afternoon events, the raucous laughter as the crowd of brawny males watched my 220 well muscled pounds succumb. The Matsumoto woman was agile, knowing and used her notable strength to counter mine, though no doubt inferior.

But my thoughts mostly focus on the somatic reaction below, her grazing hand seeming to know exactly what was to be found beneath my zipper. I try to convince myself that such penile tumescence is normal, every male responding to certain pressure and tension at points on the spine and perineum.

But then I reflect on her words... ‘You have enjoyed, Matt. Women of authority excite.’

So my stiffness... more then just taut rope judiciously applied?

I think back some 15 years, to days of adolescence... and an older sister. She was brash. But even more brash was her friend Eve, a girl of size, or so it seemed. At 13, my growth spurt had just begun, though sexual development was well under way. And at 17 Eve was not only fully grown but heavily into athletics. Though a handsome girl, her strength was a more impressive attribute and this gave rise to troubles in dating. I suppose no teenaged boy is comfortable with the notion that his date can physically overpower.

And so Eve had problems relating to the opposite sex at a time when hormones raged and drive countered reason.    

Matt the brat, as my sister teased, of course stepped into the situation, adding to Eve’s frustration with pert questions, asking about her latest Friday night date... which of course was at home with her mother. I otherwise taunted, a brat indeed, I suppose my own burgeoning hormones warping any sense of decorum.

Well after many weeks of my stupid remarks and questions, Eve had had enough. She and my sister were in the basement doing laundry. I called out from the top of the stairs, invoking the name of an idolized high school senior whom I knew Eve esteemed but had zero chance of ever dating, suggesting he was on the phone asking for her.

Well, Eve just looked at my sister who nodded concurrence, hinting at some kind of silent conspiracy.

‘Come down here Matt. Take the laundry upstairs,’ my sister wriggling her finger most authoritatively.
Why did I choose that moment to obey, I often ask myself. As a brat I usually ignored such sisterly requests. But I descended the stairs and should have been concerned when my sister passed by me quite quickly to leave me alone with the Amazon Eve.

To shorten the story, with sister abandoning the basement, Eve grabbed at my waist, lowered my trousers, shaking my slim youthfulness about like a rag doll. Moving to sit on a stool she gripped my frame with convincing force, lowering my underpants, and spanked... and spanked... and spanked... relieving herself of many weeks of pent up vitriol and me of any urge to again taunt.

Worse was her masterful grasp... the specifics. With the pain I lurched about most paroxysmally. After some half dozen smacks Eve found it more effective to enshroud my scrotum with her free hand, lessening her efforts to hold me in place and assuring that my futile attempts to free myself would result in more agony.

My little plums captured by a woman! Such ignominy!

The humiliation mounted. And when finally freed, adequate punishment applied, I was summarily pushed from her lap... with a hard on! 

So there I stood, dungarees and underpants at my ankles, buttocks smarting, erect penis, limited in size, pointing to a smirking Eve.

"Ha, ha, ha," the derisive laugh lingers so vividly in my memory, "you’ll not be dating much either with that useless little thing... Matt the brat."

I stood, stunned. Eve reached down, grabbing the bundle of loose clothing at my ankles. Stripping me more fully proved to be facile, my shoes parked as always by the front door. Yes, with her quick grasp and a powerful snap of her hand I was deprived of the ability to return myself to cover. And she pulled so vigorously I toppled to the floor.

I now looked up at the girl whom I so brazenly taunted.

“I know what boys your age like to do, Matt. Want to do it now? Want to make that tiny thing spurt for me? You little pervert!”

I was appalled. How was it she knew... how was she aware of my furtive late night penile manipulation? And most disconcerting, this imposing girl... really a woman in the mind of a 13 year old... knew I indeed wanted to make it spurt for her.

She quickly and aptly exposed my charade. Taunting, mocking, exposing her as undesired... sexually unwanted... and suddenly with her hands and words I melted. I indeed wanted to perform for her... amuse her... entertain her. My thoughts and emotions were many and conflicting.

My memories are put aside. Interstate 57 ends. I must guide the car into the urban traffic of Interstate 94. There are more recollections concerning Eve, curiously spurred by the provocative words of Midori Matsumoto. Such will need to wait.

Saturday, December 19, 2015

Lulu Book Pricing

Just noticed that I have books/short stories available in Lulu priced such that I receive less than $1.00.

Beginning 1/1/16 I will be increasing those minimally priced stories.

'The Masturbatrix' and 'The Toy' will also be repriced and no longer free.

Such changes have already been made to books available on Smashwords.

Tie Me Chicago

Tie Me Chicago

Copyright 2015

by Chris Bellows

It’s an odd story, but one which I think will amuse, perhaps titillate as well.

Despite my many years of bachelorhood, humping with noted indiscrimination, I’ve never had an Asian girl... woman. Maybe that was the initial attraction. Or maybe it was just her manner, her understated yet alluring good looks, tight black slacks which highlighted firm thighs and a degree of athleticism, black leather boots suggesting authority, loose white blouse which teased... hinting at firm upstanding breasts beneath. Or maybe it was the exhibition... a demonstration of Shibari... Japanese rope bondage.

Rather kinky... rather risque... for a county fair. But I suppose country events have always had some such Bohemian attraction... something prurient... for the adult male attendees. 

So... my story...


The Macon County fair, for a city guy it’s an attraction. Lots of Games of chance, rides for the kids, blues bands, food for both young and old, bucolic exhibitions of farm equipment, a livestock contest... hogs. I tour, many things not before seen, only read about in books, seen on television. Then I come across this tent, a large sign drawing attention... ‘Tie Me Chicago’.

What’s this? I pause, learning more.

The Asian woman stands on a pedestal, fulfilling the role of circus barker.

“Come one, come all. I’ll tie up any man and have him restrained within five minutes. Ten dollars to the man who volunteers... the bigger the stronger the better.”

The woman in loose white blouse shouts to a crowd of strolling passersby, her announcement causing diversion, a gathering quickly assembling behind me. It’s Illinois, it’s farm country, a woman of Asian descent is considered exotic, I suppose. And as stated, she’s certainly attractive. Plus the air of machismo is evident, burly farm workers disbelieving that the woman, though evidencing strength in her fitness, could so constrain man... big or small.

So it’s no surprise when I glance behind me and note the assemblage is mostly male... their chauvinism aghast with the proffered challenge.

“You sir, you’re a man of size. Come into the tent and earn a quick ten dollars. One hundred if I don’t have you immobilized and under control within five minutes,” directing her words at me.

Well, at six foot two and some 220 pounds, twice weekly gym visits assuring shape, I suppose I appear to be a challenging enough candidate. And though I need not ten dollars, I am intrigued. Then there is also my own machismo. She challenges, her words provocative... and she does so before a sizable growing crowd.

I smile, I nod, the crowd roars with excitement. Her index finger beckons, come hither, as she grins and steps from the pedestal.

I follow, into the tent, as does the assembled crowd, the murmurs growing to a dull roar.

Within there is a stage, three feet high, constructed between the two tent poles. As one would expect, hanging from hooks is a collection of rope, many loops.

“I am Midori Matsumoto, master of the Japanese art of Shibari... the term translated into English as ‘to tie’,” the tone stentorian as she summons me to join her on the stage. “And you sir are?”

“Matt,” for some reason my voice no where near as firm and commanding.

The Midori Matsumoto woman stoops. From a large glass jar labeled ‘tips’ she draws a bill.

“Well, Matt, here is your ten dollars,” extending her hand.

In turn I extend my hand and am shocked. The loose blouse, sleeves long for the heat of summer, proves to be veiling and practical. For as I reach for the ten dollar bill in her right hand, her left instantly loops a length of rope over my wrist. Next her left boot kicks behind my knees, firmly, not enough to damage, but certainly hard enough such that I collapse to the stage floor. As I go down, I am amazed when the hands work with celerity, looping more rope which evidently unravels from beneath her blouse.

The crowd roars approval. Before I can gather my wits, my wrists are not only encircled with hemp, but secured together.

Midori stands over, holding the loose end of the rope, grinning triumphantly. When I attempt to right myself I find that though her end of the rope is slack, her full weight presses it below against the stage floor, booted foot holding me down.   

“Shibari with a little judo,” she smilingly announces to the crowd.

The assemblage laughs boisterously, the noise covering her words as she leans and speaks to me sotto voce.

“No, no Matt, we’re not done,” admonishing my attempt to stand. “Be a good boy for me. Earn your ten dollars.”

I blush. Then I find the woman is indeed athletic, tugging, the rope becoming a defacto leash, forcing me to crawl to where there hang the many loops of hemp, her right boot kicking with authority with each attempt to rise from my knees.

As I am to later read, the art of Shibari began with Japanese warriors placing their captives in bondage for triumphant display. Indeed I am captured... and indeed Midori Matsumoto displays in triumph. For the next five minutes, her hands are busied as I am enshrouded, neck to thighs in rope knotted most artistically. When finished, arms entrapped about my torso, Midori grips a sizable loop at the back of my neck, almost like a handle. She whispers before lifting...

“If you’d like to lick my boots, there will be another five dollars,” mocking wickedly.

I shake my head. She feigns disappointment as an amazingly strong arm brings me to stand upright, the crowd both laughing and cheering.

In humility, I bow my head, I don’t know why. A conquering Midori waves to the mass of impressed onlookers. I note below that the large tip jar begins to fill. Farm folks appreciate entertainment, bold and avant guard. And as the woman formally declared, I am tied up and convincingly restrained... well within five minutes. With her hand remaining gripping the loop, I feel like a puppy, scruff of the neck held within the jaws of a mother hound. And it is then that I realize how comfortable is the labyrinthine web in which I am bound. There is tightness but no pinching, no pain. With my breathing slightly labored, there is no doubt I am indeed under the auspices of this firm exotic woman.

It oddly thrills.

Crowd quieting, Midori shifts to stand facing me. Her hand lowers, ostensibly to loosen a knot. But it brushes against my pubes, prominently outlined by strands of rope strung between my thighs. With her touch I become cognizant that I am hardening. And she is as well. Oddly, Midori does not seem to be daunted, almost expecting what her fingers briefly discover.

“You have enjoyed, Matt,” her tone one of calm authority as she loosens. “Women of authority excite.”

I am shocked when the assembled coils of rope instantly fall to the stage floor, both freeing me and enhancing the mystique of her mastery.

“Do stop into my studio in the city. Tie Me Chicago. It’s an art, Matt. And I can be much more intricate given the time. Yes, you’ll even more enjoy the feel of firm binding hemp,” her invitation coming as the rope about my wrists is unwound, “on bare skin,” her pause serving to emphasize the latter words.

I am grateful her voice is once again low, the inducement only for my ears.

Saturday, December 12, 2015

A Man's Chastity XIV

This will be the last posting from 'A Man's Chastity'. As a reminder, the remainder of this segment, plus the two other parts of the trilogy ('Continuing a Man's Chastity', 'Ending a Man's Chastity') are available from Lulu as well as a compendium.

There is also an Epilogue 'The Harlot of Bowers Enterprises'.

Next week... 'Tie Me Chicago'.




I earned another week in chastity for that brazen erection. My wife explained that her relative leniency resulted due to the extenuating circumstances. Normally such opprobrious comportment would result in an additional month. 

With the encounter came another rule. I am now to immediately disclose the slightest feeling... those twinges... to the woman in charge... whether or not my penis is under lock and key.

It’s degrading, but deemed a requirement for behavioral control and modification.

Workdays become smoother, learning to subordinate myself to Miss Madeleine at the office. Curious that I have not been yet caught in the lady’s room, Miss Madeleine prescient in choosing the timing for the cock cage implementation and day’s end release. 

Interacting with security guard Pam brings a daily morning challenge. The young woman, working part time while attending college, is fascinated with my collar and wrist bands, verbally expressing her observation that, though decorative, the encircling nylon could also serve to bind.

‘Have you been leashed lately?’ she brusquely inquired this morning while waving the electric wand over the wire stitches.

I think my silent wane smile gave me away.

For the ride home, my wife still not able to lock me up in the parking lot, I must still sit with wrists bands clipped together. But now she opens my zipper and pulls out my four inches, assuring that I remain flaccid during the drive, an ice bag at the ready should I harden... which, under the threat of extended chastity, I try my best not to do.

So now I sit in the waiting area of marriage counselor Dr. Zeke Bronski. My wife wants to assure that my male psyche... once male psyche... is appropriately decimated. My words not hers.

Her words are to describe the therapy as cathartic... and mandatory. 

“Come in Henry. You know where I want you to sit,” Dr. Zeke popping his head through a partially opened office door.

I do, responding like a well trained puppy.

“Your wife says you’ve taken well to the collar. She’s been keeping you leashed?” Dr. Zeke’s forthright tone immediately going to counseling phase with his question.


“Yes, what, Henry? Your wife wants you to show respect for alpha males.”

“Yes sir,” repressing the urge to stamp out and leave.

“That’s better. About the house? She leashes you in the house?”

“Yes.... sir,” trying not to choke on the simple but disheartening two words.

“How do you feel, kept restrained on a leash?”

“I... I... well it’s really a chain... a long chain.”

“Locked in place.”

“Yes... ah yes sir.”

“So you cannot free yourself. And...” he prompts.

“And... well... I guess it’s okay. I can work in the kitchen... and reach the den.”

“Any feelings of arousal? Does your penis swell?”

“That’s not permitted... not possible.”

“Yes, of course. You’re kept in a very tight cock cage. But do urges come, being under the auspices of an authoritative woman?”

They do. But must I tell Dr. Zeke Bronski? It’s bad enough that under the revised protocol I must inform my wife... or the woman in charge... about the twinges... urges in Dr. Zeke’s nomenclature.

“Sometimes... sir.”

“Interesting. So perhaps you’d like more... more restraint. Suppose your wife were to walk you about on a leash... outdoors? Would that excite you? Bring urges?”

With that, Dr. Zeke leans back in his chair. The change in position causes the male appendage that my wife so often covetously glares at to become clearly outlined by his trousers. It’s massive. I feel my penis shrink in its cage.

“I... I... don’t know... sir.”

Dr. Zeke smiles. I suppose some would deem it to be a wry smile.

“I think she should try it. It will be a nice challenge for you... and a woman of your wife’s ilk enjoys demonstrating... perhaps announcing... her tutelage... of beta males.”

This does not bode well. What Dr. Zeke suggests is almost always instituted.

“Feel any urges now?”

I do, cursing myself, my innate masochism dragging me into a pit, gnawing at me, bringing visions of further subjugation. I squirm on the hardwood chair. My chagrined silence answers for me. Dr. Zeke smiles knowingly. 

Thursday, December 10, 2015

Tie Me Chicago

I have published a novella, 'Tie Me Chicago'.

Female dominate, male submissive. Bondage, exhibitionism and of course intense humiliation.

$4.50. 18,350 words.

Teaser segments will be posted here beginning 12/19/15.




Saturday, December 5, 2015

A Man's Chastity XIII

“So you were obedient to Miss Madeleine?”

My wife drives. I sit most uncomfortably with wrist bands clipped together behind me. I am freed of the cock cage, my wife deeming it too awkward to replace in the building parking lot. Still, she feels it is necessary that I feel a woman’s control and with the double ‘D’ clamp such is quick and easy to implement. For some reason, I suppose the novelty of being driven about in bondage, there come those twinges. I slowly harden, hopefully my slacks veiling my priapic reaction.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Good. Having your penis free to harden is not good for you, Henry. It’s nice of Miss Madeleine to assist.”

With that, in pausing at a traffic light, my wife looks my way and notices the bulge at my zipper. Nothing similar to that which she lustfully views while visiting the marriage counselor Zeke Bronski... or talks about late into the night after one of her so termed tutoring sessions. But there is a bulge, rarely permitted.

“Henry, I let you have a few moments out of the cock cage and you harden... without permission!”

I am chagrined. My release and masturbation date is in a little over a week and I fear extension.

“I’m... I’m... sorry. I can’t help it.”

“Well, now you know why the cage is also spiked, Henry. You need to learn control. Hard on’s are not good for beta males.”

The traffic light turns green. My wife accelerates, a MacDonald’s in view.

“Male pride... no, no, no. Not for beta males... and therefore not for you, Henry. Get you some ice.”

Into the drive through, my wife orders one of those huge sugary drinks, extra ice. While waiting she reaches over and unzips me, assuring that my stiff four inches pops into view. I am helpless to stop her and dare not protest. My forthcoming supervised orgasm is at risk. Though surely to be ruined, it remains most desired. How much longer can I wait... must I wait?

Can the little MacDonald’s girl see me... my inadequate four inches?

“Spread your thighs Henry,” the command coming as change is handed over along with a large drink, extra ice, sealed top firmly in place.

Before departing the drive through, my wife affords more attention. Leaning from the driver’s seat, her hand assures that along with my penis, my scrotal sac is pulled through the zipper. It is then that the freezing cold drink is wedged in place, nestling against my genitals, the pending numbness to return me to flaccidity.

“I’ll need to give thought to your next release date, Henry. Only when I or the woman in charge releases you are you to stiffen. You know that. You’ll become erect only under the tutelage of a woman.”

Gratefully, my wife’s attention returns to driving and she pulls out of the parking lot. I remain silent for the remainder of the ride home. It is best.