Saturday, December 31, 2016

Serving the Queen II

Exiting the expensive restaurant, dinner ordered as takeout, Audrey Timmons cloaks her reaction of awe as Richard leads to a gleaming black Bentley.

“What, no Rolls Richard?”

“It’s... ah... at the summer house.”

Audrey nods slipping into the back seat, gladdened to see the opulent rear compartment partitioned from the driver. Her tour of nursing for the Queen known to very few, she seeks discretion yet knows that Richard, though shy, will wish to continue the conversation. Having directed the exchange at the restaurant bar, she resumes.

“What do you expect of me... besides dinner Richard? Should I have concerns... now that you’re clothed, able to move about without direction?”

“I suppose I’m seeking understanding. The ordeal was... well you were there.”

“I was.”

“Spending years in an underdeveloped oil rich African country. Why?”

“Money for one. The Queen pays well, quite generous. Plus the change of pace. Nursing can be tiresome... regular nursing. And the scenery was... invigorating. The weather is sunny yet tepid... though I suppose you were not able to enjoy.”

“There were occasions when I... ah... served... outdoors.”

“Yes, of course. The Queen does enjoy exhibiting her... her playthings. I recall now there was an occasional sunburn on some of the boys. You blond boys all have such fair skin.”

“Boys? There were others?”

“Of course. How often were you caned?”

“If I counted the days correctly, about once per week.”

“So who else do you presume entertained the Queen? You don’t think her misandry would be satiated solely on your buttocks, do you Richard? Yes, there were others. Taking care of all of you occupied much time.”

Audrey Timmons pauses, expecting not a reply, instead letting the revelation broil. Silence ensues as Richard presses open a compartment at the back of the driver’s seat. Retrieving a slim cord, Audrey is first surprised then smiles knowingly, taking the offered length with a warming snicker.

“It can’t be the same one. But it will suffice,” smoothing her fingers over the small snap hook at the end. “Used often Richard? And who’s been at the controlling end?” unraveling to teasingly dangle the length.    

“It’s... well... it’s a memento... kept in my... well... ah... special place.”

Richard pauses, struggling to find the words. Despite the dimness of the limousine’s interior, Audrey detects blushing.

“I’m sure you’ll be showing me where,” gesturing for him to lean and lower his head.

The hand of Nurse Audrey Timmons is quick, her fingers dextrous. Once again going to the nose of multi millionaire Richard Lundquist. In one effortless motion the snap hook is opened, the prongs entering the nostrils left and right. Then it instantly clicks to close within the stainless steel grommet cruelly inserted into the cartilage of the septum.  

Richard softly grunts... the hushed reaction telling. Audrey is sanguine in noting no resistance. Even when she slowly pulls left then right, the obedience is revealing. Despite the tension on a myriad of nerves, head and face follow her motion with precision and without protest.

“The training doesn’t dissipate does it? Your needs ingrained. You’ve missed me... missed a woman’s directing hand,” Audrey muses.

Richard merely nods, returning to the regimen of silence mandated during his servitude at the palace.

“Anyone in your penthouse? Servants?”

“No Ma’am.”  

“Excellent. When we arrive at your building, I’ll walk you with my hand on your shoulder. In the darkness your leash probably won’t be noticed... not that such matters to you.”

Saturday, December 24, 2016

Serving the Queen I

Not that any one has noticed... I suspended posting on my Facebook account. Not a good medium for smut as most folks utilize their real identity in communicating... something that had not occurred to me when I initiated the effort.

New story. Merry Christmas to all.


Serving the Queen

Copyright 2016

By Chris Bellows

“How is it you found me? You must have spent much time and money.”

The white uniformed woman of some fifty years sits, legs crossed, leaning back in the bar stool, the pose one of self assurance. She sips her wine, smiling, amused that her host somewhat fidgets.

“Money... no time. I hired a search firm. With the internet, these types of things aren’t impossible... particularly with a sizeable checkbook.”

“I’m glad to learn you have that, Richard. I assume I can still call you Richard?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” the man’s expression becoming sheepish with his unintended show of servility.

“So your servitude to the Queen was fruitful... in the end.”

“I suppose... in a way... yes. She put me through college... as agreed. And graduate school,” the tone one of conciliation.

The woman becomes emboldened. Expecting a confrontation, the man’s truckling demeanor brings a degree of tranquility. Though the meeting has been at his quest, she finds herself directing rather than responding to verbal examination.

“Glad all is for the better. What is it you want from me Richard? It’s been some ten years since I wiped your ass for you.”

The coarse words bring discomfort, as intended. There comes thoughtful silence as the woman sips again. Richard rattles the ice in a cocktail barely touched.

“Not enjoying your drink?”
“I... I... really don’t drink.”

The woman snickers, her courage mounting.

“Then what is it you do... to relax I mean?”

“I trade. I’m a trader. Stocks... I’ve become rather good.”

“So that’s it? That’s your recreation?”

Richard nods, glumly.

“I’ve read that somewhere... about men... boys... who have been altered. Something about the hormonal changes that bring better balanced thinking and analysis. More focus, less diversions. In battle the Roman generals favored castrates... as advisors... emotionless in formulating strategy... least that was the conjecture.”

“Why did you do it?” the non sequitur query blurted with frustration.

The woman snickers, placing her wine glass on the bar to focus intently.

“Full head of beautiful blond hair, your voice has not changed, limited body fat. And you’re a successful business man. I’d say the procedure has not been overly detrimental,” the woman smiling, deliberately avoiding the question.

Richard finally sips, finding sudden attraction in the alcohol, annoyed with the non response.

“Hormone pills,” he finally explains, finding himself obligated to reply despite the woman’s diversion. “Plus exercise... and an occasional injection.”

Delighted in having taken control of the discourse, the woman pounces, wickedly putting aside all pretense.

“And your penis? I’m told it shrinks. That would be too bad. You were quite a sizable boy. I enjoyed handling you.”  

The brash words bring a flurry of thoughts... recollections... further spurred when the woman reaches forth, left hand extending to gently cradle the back of Richard’s head. A slim index finger of the right hand goes to the nose. In a bold yet smooth motion, otherwise ungracious, the digit instantaneous slips into the left nostril then withdraws.

“How curious Richard, your nose remains grommeted. And here I am without my leash. All the money you’ve been making and you’ve not had it removed.”

“I... I... well... over time you become used to it. I don’t give it much thought. And no one sees it.”

“But you know it’s there. A reminder... of being under control. And the time in bondage? Being tended to like a toddler? Your time... ah... entertaining the Queen? You don’t give all that much thought?”

“It’s all in the past. I try not to think about it,” the reply brusque in frustration.

“Yet you made such an effort to find me. The email sent to my hospital address brought concern Richard. It’s monitored. Rather nasty of you to endanger my employment.”

“Not intentional. I made the note innocuous. I’m aware of the... ah... possible controversy.”    

“Yes. It suggested you needed to talk to me. But it seems I’m doing all the talking.”

“I have a penthouse... upper east side. I know you’re in Manhattan as well. Since you’re nearby, I thought... I... well it would be good to discuss things... better understand.”

“Yes, you want me to come home with you. You find the need to bond with the woman who so tenderly cared for you. Some maternal supervision. It’s common. Having shared in the trauma, patients so often want to marry their nurse. And the castration thing... such remorse over losing two mostly useless glands. Am I to console you Richard? Care for your emotional wounds as I did for the physical. Mentally still feeling the searing sting of the Queen’s canings are you? Need Nurse Audrey’s aftercare?” 

Richard sips again, his hand trembling.

“You’ll not answer my question... why?”

“Why do you think it was I who did it? Most times you were hooded. Did you hear my voice?”

“No. But you’re medically trained. The hands, the soft fingers. You... you... caressed me there just before...”

“Before the life transforming snap of rubber," nurse Audrey Timmons interrupts. “Richard any woman who’s worked on a ranch knows how to use an elastrator. On a sheep farm the procedure is performed by the dozens... quickly... humanely... painlessly... but for that most meaningful snap. Not much happened at the palace without the Queen’s concurrence, Richard. You should not doubt that what was done was under her auspices. Perhaps she wanted to be remembered... offering you a parting gift... a life without distractions... freed of dalliances. You’re well off Richard, focusing on your fortune rather than trivial sex... the fruitless search for the perfect woman. Were the Roman generals wise seeking the input of those without balls?”    

Monday, December 19, 2016

What's next?

As a reminder, 'Digital Indoctrination VI' is the last snippet to be posted.

The complete story can be purchased at


Saturday December 24 will begin 'Serving the Queen'.


Saturday, December 17, 2016

Digital Indoctrination VI

“We handle very violent patients here at Mills.”

The voice booms through my headphones, startling me.  Still the interruption is welcomed. The smooth maternal voice of Dr. Becky has come to soothe. And other then taps to my nose, it is my only human interaction. Unauthorized speech forbidden, I find myself moaning like a puppy in need of attention.

“And we do so cautiously. Perhaps to an extreme, but cautiously. Plus there’s certain comfort for those in need of strict guidance... to understand that recalcitrance is quickly countered.”

To what is this leading?

“And there’s the power exchange element. Most of those we treat here have used sex as an outlet for expressing dominance. We’ve found it is best to counter that... at all times.”

I am at last relieved of the unending darkness, my goggles alighting.

“To begin indoctrination, you’ll need to be released from your bindings... temporarily of course. The punishment chamber is in the bowels of the building... noise to be suppressed by floors of thick concrete.”

Punishment chamber? How does this juxtapose with my therapy? 

“I’m going to have you caned, Mr. Ross. There’s reluctance that must be overcome... refusing to fully divulge to me the course of events that mandated your court appearance... and your court ordered therapy. That will change.”

With that, the goggles return me to the medical chamber where the rest of me resides in nakedness on the rubber padded platform. The camera moves about, focusing on my right ankle. I am shocked to see a sizable ring penetrating at the Achilles heel, evidently thrust through my flesh between the ankle bone and tendon. In disbelief, I subconsciously wriggle my toes. The digits in the camera lens move in coordination. The foot and ankle are mine.

I have been pierced!   

The camera moves, confirming that the left ankle has been similarly ringed, then onward. Knowing that there have been fingers puttering about my biceps, my fears are well founded. Above the right elbow is another sizable ring, deeply set interiorly, no doubt also snaring a tendon. I close my eyes in horror as the camera moves to the left elbow.

“Such can be reversed, Mr. Ross... with little permanent effect. It’s the penis ring which may require some... well... term it rehabilitation... should it ever merit removal.”

With that, the camera moves to zoom in on my pubes. My heart sinks. Protruding from the urethral opening is a curved and heavily gauged strand of steel... stainless... matching my elbow and ankle piercings. It disappears, under my balls. If there is an end... and I suspect not... it is beneath my scrotum.

Dr. Becky refers to the penetrating metal as a ring. If so, somewhere at the perineum there must be another opening.

I can feel the rush of my circulation. I now understand the burdensome task of urinating... the puddle of excretions... my wet buttocks.

“Yes, a modest alteration, Mr. Ross. Drastic but necessary if you’re to be leashed by your penis. You’ll be squatting to urinate when freed of the table.”

The goggles go momentarily blank then alight anew.

“Some indoctrinating videos for you. You’ll find the computer graphics to be amazing. Virtual reality.”

It’s me! Freed of the platform, my estranged body no longer strapped supine, head and body reunited. Some how, the Mills Institute software most advanced, there comes onto the screen of my goggles a portrayal of my nakedness, assuming positions and moving about in vivid simulations.   

There comes this dichotomous rush, strangely sensing my real self moving. But then I note my arms are well pulled back at the elbows. Below a blue nylon strap runs from ankle to ankle, buckled in place utilizing my newly inserted rings. But most disquieting... my penis ring. To the thickly gauged loop of steel is a matching strip of blue nylon. My eyes widen as the length tightens, rising from the floor, the slack taken in by an unseen hand. There comes a woman’s voice, young, sweet and innocent. Yet it commands.

‘Come Mr. Ross. Let’s walk a bit... get you acclimated to being leashed.’

The graphics are stunning. It’s my form! How?

Then I recall standing naked before the green screen, commanded to assume a variety of poses while the half dozen cameras apparently whirred away. Once into the computer, the sophisticated software replicates my nakedness and moves it about in simulation.

I watch. I have no choice. My computer double clumsily strolls about, the leash tightening, the unseen hand jostling playfully, acclimating indeed... my simulation... succumbing to the whims of a controlling woman.

In this faux practice session my hobbled feet shuffle rapidly, tension on the penis ring, penetrating where a man feels most, to be avoided. I realize... I am being prepped... trained... learning what to expect and the utility of the monstrous rings inserted at the ankles, elbows and pubes.   

I feel myself blush, the humiliation intense. Yet I also sense stirring. Body unseen, something stirs within my loins. In so viewing, my real ringed penis is attempting to harden and the penetrating steel ring denies normal erection. Within moments I am in pain. There comes a moan. Then the recorded voice of the supervising nurse is interrupted.

“You’re exciting yourself Mr. Ross,” the clear soothing voice of Dr. Becky booming into the headphones. “You need to calm. Your penis will not... cannot... stand. It’s fighting tempered steel. You’ll need to control your thoughts... cede to the ring and the leash.”

It is firming. And I try to remain flaccid. But the scene excites. Why?

I begin to squirm, the discomfort building as the unseen hand guides my computer self around and around, my arousal building. Finally the graphic ends, the small screen within the goggles going blank. I am saddened to be returned to darkness yet oddly cheered to hear Dr. Becky’s maternal voice resume.

“You now know what to expect, Mr Ross. No inmate... ah... patient is ever free to roam about at the Mills Institute. The supervision is constant... and as you observed strict. And performed in a manner that makes the power exchange evident... reversed for the many sexual offenders we treat. It’s cathartic. Part of the therapy.”

I find myself nodding in agreement... as best my neck enclosure permits.

“Tomorrow it’s to the punishment room for you. You’ll be led there naked and leashed. And you have an appointment... a long appointment... with the Mills Institute disciplinarian... Fan Ling. You won’t enjoy her company... but you will learn to respect her skills. Thereafter we’ll speak. You’ll want to tell me more... so eager to avoid another appointment... everything concerning your drug induced encounter with stepdaughter Cindy.”

The ominous words are offered matter-of-factly. Then, with a click, the headphones go silent.

Am I quivering?  

Saturday, December 10, 2016

Digital Indoctrination V

“You objectify women, Mr. Ross... particularly your stepdaughter. She’s become an object of envy and admiration... but also scorn.”

Scorn yes. The minx seduced, set me up and pressed charges. Yet I cannot... dare not... come across as belligerent or vengeful. The report of Dr. Rebecca Rogers will be given great weight in determining my ultimate fate. In recalling the strip show that evening in the bathroom, emulating a fan dance with a bath towel, the words of attorney and friend Henry Foster come to mind... that if it comes to a trial the prosecutor will have Cindy in a little girl’s dress, wearing pigtails and carrying a toy doll during testimony. The girl could do it... she role plays with zeal.

Envy and admiration? For some reason, despite being emboldened by a confluence of narcotics, I strangely succumbed that evening, surrendered to the charms of a most precocious temptress... an 18 year old aspiring trollop. And the manner of my capitulation? Ah... the sordid details...

“I’m going to immerse you Mr. Ross. It’s an arduous course of action... there will be needed some modifications... harsh yet reversible... and necessary. We don’t molly coddle here at the Mills Institute. And your reluctance to fully relate the events and the actions that brought you here is counter productive. If you’re attempting to abridge your therapy, it won’t work. You’re here until I can report change and improvement. And for that I am going to have you indoctrinated.”

The normally soft soothing voice of the maternal Dr. Becky is firm and ominous. It brings concern. But of more concern is that I have no hint of what she has install for me. Visions of the MILF prosecutor... the mother I’d like to fuck... come to mind. Could it be me ultimately fucked? The woman was uncharacteristically gleeful with the judge’s slam of the gavel. 


Mostly acclimated to the bizarre form of restraint... mind and body separated by a thick wall... there comes renewed distress. One by one my limbs are released, each time after the jab of a needle. Is there numbness? I cannot determine in remaining immobile, but I do know that after each jab... right ankle and left, right elbow and left... hands and fingers putter about. And there’s discomfort... masked... but there is a sense that something penetrates.
Then come jabs which terrorize... about my pubes. When fingers fiddle there, I realize for certain that I have been numbed.

What is happening?

Finally whomever attends, whatever is being done, ends. And though the minutes, hours and days are countless, there comes a long interval during which the only sensory input is someone regularly swabbing elbows, ankles and pubes. Plus there is the tap of my nose and the offering of bland sustenance and water. Yet now the offering of liquid seems increased. Yes, the flow through the offered straw seems endless, a pause required to refill the bottle.

Minutes later... hours later?.. there comes the requisite urge. By now I know to just release. But there is a degree of arrest and stinging pain, the flow somewhat hampered. Something is different! I must press with my abdomen.

Then I feel immediate response. A warm wet towel cleanses. Normally I am left to wallow in my excretions. Instead someone is carefully attending to me! The thought disturbs... that someone is assigned to constantly observe my nakedness.  

The ensuing hours... days?.. I am watered frequently. Over time, urinating becomes less of a task. but something is different. The warm wetness puddles about my buttocks, no longer streaming to my thighs. What have they done to me? Rather what have they done to my estranged body?

Meanwhile the boredom... the isolation... dulls the mind. I pine for the return of my therapist, admonishing lectures notwithstanding.

I am to be indoctrinated, she threatened... forewarned... her normal cheeriness clouding with the advisement.

I divert my thoughts wondering if I will ever be permitted access to legal counsel. Friend and attorney Henry Foster, having placed on the hold my criminal matter, is hopefully fervently engaging in civil actions. My assets, transferred from joint accounts in the dead of night, need to be reclaimed. Queen Vicky has graciously opened her checkbook... burgeoning with much of my money... to pay Henry on the criminal matter... as agreed when I surrendered myself to the Mills Institute. But in a fair division of assets, my share should approach half a million. Such will be needed as the financial institutions which hire foreign currency traders require thorough background checks... clean background checks. That I now lack. Therapy successfully completed, the unemployment line beckons.

Wednesday, December 7, 2016

Lady Z writes

Found this note from Lady Z. Not for the squeamish male, but you governing women may give consideration.


My thoughtful chastity protocol

After years of numerous chastity regimens, I have implemented what I consider the ultimate form of male denial and feminine delight.

Former regimens and drawbacks...

The honor system. Works for a while, but let’s be forthright... all males cheat. All it takes is a late night out with the girls (or your bullstud) and your subordinate male will find porn and masturbate. He’ll tell you otherwise, never fess up unless placed under duress... but they all do it at some point.

Chastity devices. The complaining and at times outright begging is distracting. Getting the right fit, assuring no rubbing or chafing, keeping the thing clean, removing for shaving, the burden of unlocking (and relocking) when penetrative sex is desired... all becomes tiresome. It’s like having a toddler in constant need of a diaper change... except the chaste male never grows up.

Piercings. Effective but over time there is migration, the onus of removal for intercourse, not to mention the possibility of infection.

Castration. Effective, but I enjoy vaginal penetration from time to time... when I want...not when he pleads. Neutering brings waning desire, over time requiring growing effort to bring erection. Plus the penis shrivels. Fun to observe the male horror, and to press home the realization, but again, if you enjoy occasional penetration as do I, you’re working against yourself.

So, I will explain my protocol then detail the variety of benefits.

The male receives some 80% of his sexual pleasure from kneading and caressing a small patch of skin on the underside of his penis tip (such biological limitations!). It’s surprising but true. So to focus there is efficient. And I do.

My regimen requires tight bindings (Posey cuffs are safe, comfortable, quick and quite thorough), some tools and great feminine resolve, but you can both physically and psychologically transform the male by desensitizing that tiny patch... in most males no larger than a square inch. Amazing to think about... all that brawn... all that muscle... yet thoughts, desires, even the manner in which he thinks of you and about you, can be modified... relatively quickly... and permanently... by directing a few minutes of attention there.

So he’s bound naked and supine. You’ll need to heat metal. Perhaps this can be done in the kitchen... him on the table you at the stove. Or a propane torch is easily procured at any hardware store (Benzomatic torch kit, $16.97 at Home Depot) and the basement utilized. (I have a 4 x 8 sheet of thick plywood propped on work benches, eye hooks in each corner for wrist and ankle cuffs).

The metal can be the object of your choice, held with pliers as you heat it to glowing hotness. And while you’re preparing, words of advice can be offered, a lesson taught, a message delivered. Bad behavior is addressed. Your superiority bolstered, naughty boys get punished, naughty thoughts purged.

Take your time, there is no rush.

And while he begs, perhaps sip some wine, chilled glass in free hand. Remember it’s important to display insouciance. It may be a most significant erogenous zone to him, but it’s just a little piece of skin to you. Plus, think of the branding of cattle and other livestock. The irons are larger, the results more prominent and all survive in good health. (Keep in mind the average steer is worth some $2,000. No rancher wants to cause harm.)

Then yes, apply the heated metal. As with branding a count assures desired results. I recommend going to five... slowly.

There will come screaming, pleading... the rushes of air will impress... so be prepared for noise. It’s a nuisance, but gagging can impede breathing. He’ll need that.

So what does this do?

1. For the next week, possibly longer, he’ll not give masturbation a thought, the healing wound not touchable. And orally pleasing you will become a vicarious sexual outlet.

2. When healed, the sensitivity will be greatly diminished... if any remains. Attempts at cheating may occur, but with limited pleasure he’ll soon tire of stroking himself. Plus with every futile stroke, he’ll think of you... pliers in one hand, wine glass in the other.

3. There will be scarring. Hopefully a nice lump of keloided flesh will form. And when you’re ready for the vaginal penetration every woman needs from time to time, the sensation will be wondrous. Yes, as opposed to castration, the hormones will remaining flowing, he’ll want to achieve an erection, he’ll be able to achieve an erection, but it will be for you... not for him. And if there has been a problem with premature ejaculation... voila... it’s cured. For with the diminished sensitivity, much more friction... deep and continuous... will be required for ejaculation... should you choose to allow it. (Yes, after orgasming several times, I’m given to roll off and mount his face while his system frustratingly lingers in la la land).

4. Psychologically, in displaying the resolve to alter and rearrange things down there, there will come new found awe and respect. A ‘How could you do that to me?’ type of reaction. His penis will become objectified as over time he understands it is more for your pleasure than his. Mentally the organ will be thought of as something you can mold at your whim.

Some tips...

Anesthetic? I don’t bother. The notion of feminine awe is better transmitted without it, the pain better remembered. But I suppose in a moment of mercy (weakness?) ice or some type of topical numbing agent could be applied.

Instead I use vaseline. It sizzles and heats with the application of searing metal, better spreads the pain and thereafter offers salve without having to touch the raw skin.

The heated implement I recommend, for ease, is an alligator clip. Apply it, release the pliers and step away to let it cool on its own... no counting required. I simply finish my wine and watch the agonizing thrashing and squirming.

There may be, and I recommend such, repeated applications. After desensitizing the underside of the tip, further sessions can offer more keloided penile flesh. Think of yourself as a sculptress. Reshape the entire shaft! Think of the ridges and bumps on your favorite sex toy. Think of shaping your penis (not his) as you would most enjoy feeling it.     

Another benefit, on those business trips, where you’re not there to monitor and supervise his behavior, he’ll have an interestingly awkward time picking up some bimbo and explaining the condition of your penis. ‘No, it’s not a’s been...’ Well, just how will he explain it? 

Care must be taken to avoid the urethral opening. Obviously cauterizing the skin there will cause urinary problems.

And if you take a liking to the process, consider outright branding. The trollop he engages will find amusement in discovering your initials permanently engraved on some intimate part of his anatomy.

Remember ladies, propane is cheap.

Lady Z

Saturday, December 3, 2016

'Digital Indoctrination' published

I have published on Lulu, my latest novella, 'Digital Indoctrination'.

Female dominant/male submissive. Bondage, body modifications, humiliation.

Some 27,000 words. $6.55.

Snippets will continue for two more weeks.




Digital Indoctrination IV

It’s the red Corvette that was the catalyst for the heated exchange. Over dinner Cindy announces she is using the money sent from her biological father to purchase a flashy high performance car. Having had her driver’s license for mere months, I consider her decision to be brash and impulsive. I so state. Vicky intercedes in front of Cindy suggesting... no... more like commanding... that I have no say in the matter.

Fueled with lasting traces of the day’s dosage of methamphetamine, the irritation of an unsettling trading day, I still manage to calm, ceding the matter. Yet the irrepressible Cindy needs to further aggravate, smirking in telling me to kiss her ass. I fume, unaccustomed to being so powerless. And wife Vicky does nothing... says nothing in admonishment.

I find that though early, it is time for my quaalude, that which brings quiescence... the hurly burly of the trading desk... the lost battle of the Corvette... to be forgotten in the languor of a narcotic haze.

I arise from the dinner table. Wife Vicky, knowing of my addiction, smirks as well, for some reason basking in my chemical dependence, pills needed to endure the events of a typical day. She is well aware of my destination... the den... my desk... the locked drawer... the small but so meaningful pill bottle smuggled from an underground laboratory in Mexico.

I sit back at my desk and rest, but not fully. As stated it is early, and when the remnants of the meth mix with the soapers there comes this sense of omnipotence. Still I manage to compose in the den trying to put aside thoughts of Princess Cindy and her regal mother Queen Vicky.

Then something happens. Digestive tumult. The raucous over dinner brings sudden pressure, though I am sure the deluge of narcotics abets colonic distress. A quick trip to the bathroom is imperative. In the obscurity of uppers and downers I race up the stairs, to the nearest bathroom. The door is closed, but the omnipotence prevails. I enter, hearing the shower, seeing steam waft about.

Why is not Vicky using the master bath?

I drop my drawers and sit, attention riveted to my immediate need... grateful to have made the journey without mishap... more grateful when whatever is needed to be expelled does so with promptness.

The relief is instantaneous. In flushing there comes a plaintive cry. It is the sweet young voice of vixen Cindy! In the fog of meth and ludes it had not occurred that it is she showering, particularly with the acute need for the toilet. My gorgeous stepdaughter dashes from the shower stall, the drop in pressure bringing a rushing spray of overheated water.

She is naked of course, her wet flesh gleaming in the bright halogen. She spies me, glares then smiles, the temptress quickly realizing that I am gawking, the omnipotence of my narcotic deluged brain finding no need to look away, no need to cover my eyes, shield Cindy from my  lustful gaze. I note that like her mother she is shaven... where a man most appreciates smoothness.

“Daddy want something?” she taunts, her tone sultry.

In reaching for a towel she moves slowly... seductively... the exhibition deliberate.

I am high... I am relaxed... I now feel empowered... but what should concern most... I am aroused. And the exchange at dinner, my paternal input so brusquely subordinated, remains irritating.

“You wanted your ass kissed,” I flippantly express but with hope... that such words are seriously received.

There I end my tale, my heart racing despite the forced hormonal shift... the discharge... the unloading of chemicals... norepinephrine, serotonin, oxytocin, vasopressin, nitric oxide, prolactin... the activation of the cingulate cortex and amygdala.

Dr. Becky is not pleased with the pause.    

Saturday, November 26, 2016

Digital Indoctrination III

“Mr. Ross, how are you feeling? Tummy full?” the soft comforting words booming through the headphones.

I am returned to reality... relative reality. Dr. Becky has this chafing speech mannerism, as if addressing a child in need. Perhaps such is apropos.

“I’m... I’m fine.”

“Your latest blood test suggests you have needs. Advanced levels of norepinephrine and serotonin. Prolactin is high as well... as in most males of your age.”

I have no idea what such means, but have no need to come across as questioning her scholarship or authority. I do know I’ve been pricked... the other half of me has been pricked... regularly, blood no doubt drawn.

“You’re becoming fidgety. That’s likely to return the desire for sedatives. I’ll want you hormonally more balanced, Mr. Ross. I’m going to have you masturbated... won’t that be nice?” the tone mother to child.

It’s a degrading notion, restrained naked, my exposure and vulnerability in the adjoining room unbounded. Yet there have been many days... and many times when I sense I am erect.... though I have no manner of confirming my condition... flaccid or tumescent.

“I... I...” somewhat flabbergasted, I stammer, picturing being stroked to climax by one of the dour nurses who stripped, cleansed and depilated me upon orientation.

I am in no position to object. And my bashful silence is assumed to be consent, though I am not sure at the Mills Institute such is ever sought.

“Good boy. As a treat we’ll skip today’s journey. I’ll have you watch in real time instead. It will increase your arousal and you’ll better discharge for me.”

Ah... the clinical verbiage, not being jerked off... but discharging.

The blackness ends, Dr. Becky finally pressing her finger, that which frees me from my mental prison. The goggles alight. The small high tech screen mere inches before my eyes takes me to the ascetic medical chamber where my body resides, strapped in four point restraint to the wheeled padded platform. Not seen of course is my head, thrust through the rubber lined opening. Again comes the term surreal. I am surveilling myself, my bound hairless nakedness.

The camera lens zooms inward, a close up. I am shamed at my complete exposure, my body centerpieced in a room, but for walls of medical devices, that is barren. Hands come into view. My ankle cuffs are released from tethers at the end of the platform. I both feel and see my legs lifted. Then comes through the headphones the pleasant but syrupy voice of Dr. Becky.

“We prefer to have our boys discharge in the decubitus position. Such offers better access to the necessary organs and the effluent is more neatly captured for evaluation.”

Such clinical words for an otherwise sordid male deed. Indeed my knees are brought to my chest. Then the hands work a broad strap about the back of my upturned thighs holding me in place.

Watching from an odd angle... feeling from a different place... is bizarre. I am displaced, my mind and body separated. Adding to the opprobrium is the humiliating exposure, my testicles dangling, covering the bright pink of my rosebud opening.      

Then for the first time I note the hands... meaty, the fingers craggy. Though the touch seems caring and tender, such are the digits of a man! There comes a frisson of consternation. Somehow Dr. Becky is aware, her smooth even voice booming...

“Charles is very good, Mr. Ross. He’s a fixture here at Mills Institute, a long time patient. If this was a prison, he’d be considered a trusty.”

I am horrified. Thoughts of being helplessly stroked to climax by a pretty young nurse were disturbing enough. But this!

“No!” I blurt, my tone of great distress.

“Oh come now Mr. Ross. It’s for the best. Charles is very slow... but tender and thorough. He’ll soon have you discharging for me... when he wants. Just lie and enjoy like a good boy.”


I have discharged... I suppose Charles finally tiring of endlessly teasing... withdrawing those accomplished fingers of his time after time whenever he felt pending climax. Yes, Charles proved to be very good indeed. Despite the anxiety, he brought me to a massive climax.

Such ignominy, spurting into a collection vessel, on cue, like a trained animal. The cue being an index finger penetrating then gently yet energetically wriggling about within my well exposed anus. Charles has before masturbated... but for his gender, the induced sensations sublime.

“See how much calmer you are Mr. Ross. In offering your effluent you’ve unloaded a mass of chemicals. You’ve been depleted of norepinephrine, serotonin, oxytocin, vasopressin, nitric oxide, and the hormone prolactin.  This all activates the cingulate cortex and amygdala, calling for peace and calm.”

More clinical analysis, Dr. Becky pleased with my performance. Adding to the frustration of being made to so humiliatingly discharge, the camera never revealed the face of my masturbator Charles. For some reason this adds to the distress. Should I some day some how encounter him on the street, will he know me? Offer some sly glance hinting that he made my penis stiffen and spurt for him.

I console myself... convincing myself that Charles knows not what I look like either. And that as a sexual deviant, his stay at Mills will be lengthy.

“So now that you’re relaxed... nicely masturbated... tell me again about the reason you need therapy Mr. Ross. From the beginning. Tell your Dr. Becky all about your desires and misdeeds... what brought you here to Mills Institute.”

I am inclined to respond that my presence is the a result of connivance... amongst a vengeful wife, a bitch prosecutor and a calloused judge. But I dare not. I am determined to earn my release... be deemed cooperative... be rehabilitated. For that I must play along, putting aside thoughts of the malicious setup.

Her quest comes with what I know to be another press of her finger. The goggles momentarily go blank. Then I am alarmed when there comes the image of stepdaughter Cindy. She is ravishing... as always. Blonde and blue eyed, her biological father Nordic... my wife, her mother, of German descent.

Cindy was athletic in her formative teen years, adding alluring physique to an angelic face. Yet she was... is... far from angelic.

Told of her good looks from the time she was a toddler, she uses such... she teases... games people. Yes, she’s a spoiled child. But for her beauty I often told myself she’d be beaten and punished regularly for her mischief and sauciness. Yet as step father, marrying her mother Vicky well into Cindy’s formative years, I never had influence... not that I cared to have it. Such was exemplified by her calling me ‘Joe’... never Dad or Daddy. And certainly never acknowledging me as head of household.

I suppose her demeanor could partly be ascribed to a successful mother... Vicky a high level pharmaceutical researcher... and that her natural father... assuaging the guilt of his departure...  sends a monthly stipend which offers financial independence.

Thus when it comes to my stepdaughter I have no leverage... no influence... and a spiteful teenaged Cindy harps on it. 

Seeing the image of my obstreperous accuser, smiling at me, her short skirt flaunting legs of exquisite form, brings unease. She sits on the hood of a car. Then I find the image is not a still photo, but a video. Her hand raises, it waves and I hear the voice... most consider it to be sweet and innocent. For me it is vexing.

‘Hi Joe. Enjoying your therapy?’

She mocks, enunciating the word therapy such that she is aware of the acute ignominy. I horripilate, feeling the hairs bristle on the back of my neck. She is the girl... woman... who has had me incarcerated. Yet I have no choice but to gaze at loveliness I know veils such wickedness. 

‘I’m enjoying my new car. My boys have kept it polished for me... but now they’re going off to college. Maybe you can wash it for me when you’re... ah... better.’  

I know her reference to ‘boys’ to be a bevy of sycophantic admirers which she uses for her amusement and comfort. My stepdaughter never carried her own books to school. Does she reward them? And how? Step fathers aren’t empowered to ask.

Cindy slips from the hood, stands, turns and leans, an arm waving about to highlight the shiny red of her new Corvette. Yet there is a subtle undercurrent in her demonstrative gesture. In so moving she thrusts forth her buttocks... a silhouette of her divinely rounded hillocks... shaped to perfection through years of gymnastics.

It is a second message... besides the belittling suggestion that I am to wash her car. It’s in so brazenly wriggling about that exquisite derriere... that which I kissed... well... more than kissed in the night in question. She tempts... she’s a temptress.

“Nice of your stepdaughter to offer her greetings, Mr. Ross... particularly after the trauma you caused. Care to talk about it?” Dr. Becky prompts.

I don’t... but I must...

Saturday, November 19, 2016

Digital Indoctrination II

My thoughts are interrupted when there comes a playful tap on my nose. I know it to be my nurse, her evanescent touch snapping me into reality, if being bound naked, blinded and deafened can be so described.

Yes it’s feeding time and by now I know to open my mouth in expectation of sustenance. It’s salubrious fare I am sure, but bland... certainly not to gastrically excite. Still it’s needed and her exacting tendance ends the loneliness.

I’ve tried speaking to her, kind words of thanks, never anything crass and certainly not suggestive. The Mills Institute will be submitting reports on my progress, my therapy, the MILF prosecutor I am sure eagerly anticipating some slip in my behavior. Thus I am humble, knowing to be obeisant. But she responds not, her training absolute.

So in silence I docilely lay masticating whatever is offered, oddly looking forward to the next visit of my therapist and another press of her finger. Perhaps at some point I will be reunited with my body. It’s a strange thought... but the nature of my restraint is equally strange.

Undergoing orientation at Mills Institute, stripped naked, bathed and depilated by two pretty but dour young nurses, I was thereafter directed to pose before a green screen. A half dozen cameras suggested my completely exposed form was video taped from a variety of angles, a very authoritative nurse instructing me to slowly turn then assume some very revealing positions.

I was unaware that it would be the last occasion during which I gazed at my body. For immediately thereafter I was led to a room, ominously equipped with much medical paraphernalia, and laid on a wheeled platform of latex coated foam. Strapped in place, I was told to close my eyes. I did not and there came an instant of claustrophobia as a nurse of size and strength pushed the platform toward the wall such that my head was thrust through a circle of rubber. It was then that I closed. The rubber yielded and when I reopened I found my face and head in another room, separated from the rest of me by a wall with the rubber lined opening firmly accommodating my neck... oxygen permitted but denying any glimpse of my naked body.  

Surreal... weird... but in the many days of continuous therapy, things happening in the adjoining room which make the imagination foment in consternation, the psyche oddly acclimates to the separation. I am bifurcated... there is my body... there is my head and mind. I have no control over the former... and the latter is being molded... into what I have not a clue.

The last real thing I saw, before the headset covered my eyes and forehead and the headphones my ears, was the smiling handsome face of my therapist.

Dr. Rebecca Rogers... Dr. Becky I was encouraged to call her... when rarely opportuned speech. Curious that her perfectly even features, short dark hair and kind words were the last real thing I saw and heard. Since, for days not to be counted, everything comes through the goggles and the headphones.

A second tap to my nose suggests feeding time is over and that water is to be offered. I drink, no longer concerned that within an hour or two, the interval meaningless, I will soil the rubber coated platform. It matters not, I am acclimating. It’s not me urinating... and cleansing will follow, the staff of the Mills Institute most attentive.

The straw retreats. Stillness returns. Thoughts return to the courtroom... counselor’s chamber...


“Lots to read and evaluate, Henry,” seating myself in the stark ascetic side room where defendants are permitted sub rosa discussions with their attorneys.

Henry Foster, an attorney of modest legal prowess but an old friend, nods, making no effort to peruse the Mills Institute manuscript.

“So you want me to read it first?”

“Don’t bother, Joe. You’re taking the deal.”

“Just like that? How do I know what I’m facing... getting into.” 

“I know what you’re avoiding. The bitch prosecutor is going for the throat, Joe. She is threatening to expand the charges... that in addition to the sexual assault in the indictment you groped your stepdaughter when she was a minor.”

“Never,” the charge both ghastly and untrue.

“Doesn’t matter, Joe. She’ll testify to it under oath... and juries believe sweet little girls undergoing the duress of having to give such emotionally stressful testimony.”

“She’s not a little girl. Eighteen... and quite sexually active I might add.”

“Joe, they’ll put her in a little girl’s dress, wearing pigtails and carrying a toy doll to comfort her on the stand. You’ll get twenty years. And the bitch will make it hard time in a place where child molesters are not... shall we say appreciated.”

“This sucks. I won’t agree to it.”

“There’s another aspect to be considered, Joe. The legal bill is into five figures now. Trial will bring it to six figures... appeals a seven figure number.”  

“So its about money?”

I had mistakenly put everything in joint name... bank accounts, brokerages accounts, the works. In separating after my stepdaughter announced her charge of sexual misconduct, my wife quickly depleted the accounts leaving me penniless. I’m battling that, but it’s a secondary front so to speak... staying out of jail the first. Worse, under advice of counsel, the house has long been in my wife’s name. Not only cannot I not borrow against it, I am homeless. But now Henry is forcing the issue of funds.

“Your wife has offered to pay the legal, Joe... if you agree to therapy.”

So, old friend Henry has sold me out. It’s about money... of which I have little remaining... at least that I can put my hands on...

In desperation I wearily place my forehead on my folded hands atop the bleak bare wooden table.

“It’s best Joe. You’ll come out clean,” Henry patting my shoulders.

Old friend Henry is aware of the basis for the problem... the genesis of the intemperate action on my part. Drugs. Methamphetamines during the day... supercharging my high pressure career in foreign currency trading... quaaludes at night, countering the stimulants so I can sleep. When the two overlap, as when I assaulted stepdaughter Cindy, the psychoactivity can be alarming... the meth urging the body to run through a brick wall... the quaadules proposing no harm or pain will result.

I become omnipotent.

“Henry... all I did was kiss her ass... at her behest.”

“And you did... then there came more than that Joe... and you know it. Take the deal.”

I did.  

Saturday, November 12, 2016

Digital Indoctrination I

 New story. We'll see how far I take it on the blog.

Digital Indoctrination

Copyright 2016

by Chris Bellows

Lying supine in seemingly endless nothingness, there comes the insatiable yearning to bring the dark soundless world to an end. My mind envisions things, hallucinates... taking my psyche to other places, other times. It helps, the frustration temporarily assuaged. But what I really pine for is my therapist and the press of her finger. Such alights the goggles of the virtual reality headset enshrouding my head. In so doing she will take me to another world... one of her choosing. Her simple deed both invigorates... such vivid sights... such virtual sounds... yet also frightens. Into what I will be immersed I have no control. I am helpless.

Yes, strapped in place, my nakedness long not seen, with each digital journey comes an odd sense of things happening to me. Though it feels as if my head has been severed there come sensations. Someone is doing something to me... ankles... arms... pubes. I am washed... at least it feels like I am on occasion washed. And there are of course bodily functions which cannot be forever denied. I poop. I pee.

Yes at this point, many countless days into my therapy, I just go, releasing bladder and bowels upon the slightest urge, returned to infancy in terms of going potty, knowing that someone at some point will cleanse.

It must near time for the next burst of colors and bold sounds to break the monotony!

I try to convince myself. But, having no conception of time, it is a futile guess. So, when not made to view an array of videos, my mind occupies itself with thoughts. Though intended to ameliorate, I instead bring heightened frustration. Alas, the words of the judge reverberate, her stern look bringing renewed trepidation as she peers down from the bench...


“These are serious charges, Mr. Ross. No reason not to go before a jury. Motion to dismiss denied!”

No surprise, my attorney apprizing me well in advance that dismissal was a long shot. But then comes a surprise indeed. And from the prosecutor of all sources.

“Your Honor, may it please the court, the complainant... ah... the victim... has in consultation with her mother offered to drop the charges if the defendant agrees to undergo appropriate counseling.”

‘Such a MILF!’ has always been my reaction in gazing at the professionally attired counsel for the state... tight skirt and high heels always distracting. But she annoys... such a condescension to the press and public relations in interchanging the terms ‘complainant’ and ‘victim’. She’s my stepdaughter, the so termed ‘victim’ a vixen, setting me up in knowing my... my... condition.

“Despite the nature of the crime, the court is obligated to assess any arrangement to avoid the cost of trial... particularly if such is agreeable to the complainant,” her Honor pontificates.     

“Special counseling, your Honor. A program recently developed for sex offenders. Well past the experimental stage and the results have been promising. If the defendant agrees to undergo, the state will suspend the charges pending later evaluation.”

With that the MILF prosecutor approaches the bench and offers a thick folder. Such brings concern, my fate bandied about between termagant judge and ball busting prosecutor, the nature of this proffered counseling unknown. Adding to the concern is knowing that my wife... estranged wife... has had input into this curious turn of events. She remains enraged.... understandably enraged... the assault on her daughter’s virtue considered a defacto assault on her own.

“The Mills Institute... very reputable,” the judge notes as her eyes quickly scan various pages. “There is better use of court’s time, however. If defendant Ross cedes to such counseling, the court will agree to the suspension of adjudication,” her Honor returning the packet and nodding for it to be presented to the defendant’s table.     

I feel doomed. Yet after denying the prosecutor’s offer of one year prison time and registration as a sex offender, it seems that with this latest offer the hazards of litigation and eventual incarceration are to be avoided. That heartens... somewhat... my wife’s involvement bringing ongoing concern.  

“We’ll need time to evaluate, your Honor,” my attorney’s intercession coming across as meek.

“Two hours should be enough,” the judge’s reputation for rocket docket determinations evident. “Use the counsel’s chambers. One way or the other, this matter is to be off my agenda,” the directive coming with a slam of her gavel.

Monday, November 7, 2016

An enlightening blog

Came across an erudite and curiously informative blog...

Many suggestions and a recommended protocol for a female led relationship. The author is impressively knowledgable.

Begun in July 2016, hopefully the author will continue her fine efforts.

Saturday, November 5, 2016

A Trained Penis IV

This will be the last post from this story. Not sure what is next.

The entire story is available from Lulu, as noted in the October 17 post.




“Naughty boy, Jack. I can smell your misdeed just stepping through the front door. You really need to develop self control... discipline.”

Yes, I am chagrined, feeling like a puppy in need of being house broken.

“Where did you go? I hope not on the carpet,” Molly turning on the lights.

“Ah, in the bowl,” nodding to the odorous fruit.

“At least that can be easily cleaned.”

I gawk at Molly, dressed simply but glamorously. In full make up she appears to be returning from a photo shoot, modeling some chic attire. Slim, her firm rounded breasts appear to be chiseled by a master sculptor. I have indeed reloaded as promised, my hormones surging, my penis twitching, standing naked and bound before this goddess.

“I’ll wash it in the bathtub,” once again turning and presenting my cuffed wrists for release.

“Not a problem. I’ve certainly tended to enough bed pans.”

Some ten years into her nursing career, Molly is not put off by such foul excretions. She ignores my gesture, carefully picks up the bowl and moves to the bathroom. I gawk anew, now lustfully assessing buttocks which distract, perfectly outlined by sheer red satin.

It becomes apparent I will remain in bondage. Still I know not to beg. Molly is amused by such meekness in men and I have learned that beseeching words only serve to embolden and inspire.

“How was dinner?” trying not to sound timorous in my concerns over being so long cuffed and shackled.

“Expensive. We had a rare Pinot Noir and some 30 year old port with dessert. Oscar’s has a good wine list,” Molly calls out from the bathroom as I hear water running in the tub.

Molly returns. I again twist about, hinting for release. She smiles... a devilish smile.

“No Jack. Naughty boys get punished. You’ll stay in bondage... though it seems you enjoy,” nodding to my shorn pubes.

Yes, it seems the ruined orgasm did not completely deplete me of burgeoning semen as returning is the male desire to rid oneself with an ecstatic eruption. With Molly noting my firming condition, such begins the loop. Ravishing, fully clothed, in exercising her authority this thing of mine is triggered, leading to arousal with my nakedness forcibly put on display. And in becoming erect for her, the resulting humiliation leads to more firmness. Molly folds her arms and watches in silence. Chained to the radiator I can do no more than watch as well. Within moments I am fully erect, penis tip searching for the ceiling.

“A tummy thumper, Jack. Very impressive.”

Yes, the purple tip brushes at my navel and I can’t help thinking to perhaps request more sun tan lotion. Molly has such delightful training in massage, part of her nursing education concerning care for long term bed ridden patients. I do believe she can feel what I am sensing, as evidenced by the afternoon’s ruined orgasm.  

Ah, that impish smile as her right hand lowers, index finger extending. Such vulnerability, I must stand and endure, the finger pressing the top of my turgid phallus and slowly pushing downward. I grimace and her smile broadens. Low, low, lower, air rushes from my lungs with the slow torment, penis tip angled to my feet. In a ludicrous pose, I arch my back in attempting to diminish the anguish.

“What’s the matter Jack? Your little thing seemed to enjoy my attention this afternoon.”

Molly knows there’s no damage, just suffering. Drat her medical training.

“Please Molly,” instantly regretting the utterance in knowing that pleading brings more resolve.

Finally, in a demonstration of feminine omnipotence, she withdraws, quickly curling her finger. Indeed my aching erection snaps upwards to thump my lower belly.

“It would be shameful to waste it,” I coyly hint, libido completely restored.

“Just because you’ve reloaded doesn’t mean you’re going to shoot again. I’ve been doing some reading Jack. You take advantage of my affection for you, playing these games... having me lead you about naked and bound. Should we take it another step?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“You’ve scheduled us here for the weekend. I assume I’m going to walk you about tomorrow as well. Give you a little more thrill. What about after that?”

“Back to the city. You work, I write.”

“Any reason you can’t write here? When does George next visit?”

“George is overseas for a few months. Construction project in Dubai.”

“So what’s the rush? He won’t mind you staying. You can write any where.”

“But what about your job?”

“I’ll work. And visit. You brought your webcam?”


“Then that’s it. You’ll be staying.”

“I... I... what if I don’t want to... not much to do here.” 

“You’ll be kept busy. And you don’t have a choice, Jack. Remember your clothing is locked up... and I again hid the car keys. Long walk back to New York naked and in shackles.”

“You can’t do that.”

“I can and I will. Remember, it is you with the affinity for authoritative women. So I decide, not you. I’ll make some arrangements. You said my New York apartment was too confining... and yours is no larger. Here you can live your fantasy... your sick fantasy.”

The hand extends again, this time to gently palm my freshly shaven scrotal sac. Warm, firm and assertive, it feels good... controlling but good. It distracts, and I realize I should ask for details... living my fantasy... but I don’t.

“I’ll get some things in town tomorrow.”



Friday, November 4, 2016

Latest Pink Flamingo effort... 'Nusquam'

My latest full length story is now available from Pink Flamingo... 'Nusquam' at...

Female Dominant/female/male submissive I believe the story line will serve to intrigue and entertain.



Saturday, October 29, 2016

A Trained Penis III

Within hours the kink returns... at least thoughts of quirkiness return. No television, no radio, no music, Molly left me in the small farm house, partially restored by friend George but lacking many of the entertaining diversions of my New York apartment. In turning off all the lights, I am in darkness and the thoughts percolate.

How much has Molly planned and how much of her afternoon antics were spontaneous? Having ankle shackles stowed in her bag certainly required forethought. And whereas normally, even when cuffed, I could somehow squirm about and turn on some lights, Molly produced a longer chain before departing. Where did that come from?

Yes, my hobbled feet are further restrained, right ankle cuff secured to an antique radiator in the living room.

So how much have my warped desires awakened something within Molly? Restraining me with so little room to maneuver isn’t part of my thing... whatever that is.  

And who is the friend joining Molly for dinner? Despite my nervous cross examination, calling out to her as she prettified herself in the bathroom, nothing was divulged.

Then there’s that look as she spoon fed me the bland oatmeal... something I have not eaten since childhood. She seemed to enjoy my helplessness, pinching and squeezing my right nipple when I stubbornly refused more spoonfuls. More Schadenfreude.

In the darkness, the quiet, no sounds other than the serenade of frogs and insects, I ruminate on some foreboding comments. During my feeding, Molly was insistent that I describe my feelings when she withdrew her stroking hand, the sunny afternoon of CFNM ending so... so... ruefully I suppose is the word.

Ruefully for me any way, as I recall Molly gleefully capturing my frustration with the camera.

“It... it... felt... well like something good was about to happen... but didn’t.”

“Like a sneeze?” Molly inquired. “One that just doesn’t come?”

“Yes,” amazed that she could so adequately describe the combination of pending ecstasy and disappointment.

“Suppose it was your last, Jack?” her tone quite plain... innocuous.

At that point I paused, pretending to masticate the horrid oatmeal, gathering thoughts.

What was Molly inferring?

“How would you feel about that... your last orgasm meekly drooling to the soil,” the words further stimulating... stimulating something within.

“Why would it be my last?” finally finding a response.

“Answering a question with a question.... tsk, tsk.”

With that, bowl of blandness consumed, she snickered and arose from the table, washing, rinsing, then departing for the bathroom.

My reflections become unfocussed as nature calls. And of course the bathroom cannot be reached. I had not given that a thought while Molly was chaining me to the radiator. So now the boredom shifts to panicking thoughts... soiling the carpet of my good friend George. Curious how given a specific time, one can manage to somewhat relax and hold. But given the unknown... at what time Molly will return and release me... significantly increases the concern of embarrassing oneself.

The urge increases and I make the mistake of standing. The weight shift seems to further press my bladder and the need becomes dire. In the moon lit living room I spy a decorative bowl filled with fake fruit resting on a low coffee table. It will have to do. I am gladdened to find I have enough slack on the chain. I position and release, splattering the faux fruit, chagrined in knowing Molly will be miffed. Still the release is most welcomed and I am heartened with the realization that, upon Molly’s return, I will finally be freed from bondage in order to clean up my excretions.         

Saturday, October 22, 2016

A Trained Penis II

“And now you’re limp,” Molly mockingly points out. “Sore? Did I get the lotion on in time?”

In the kitchen of my friend George’s old farm house I sit, chagrined and well worn.

Molly’s ankle shackles proved to be exhausting. Not so much the weight, which was felt, but the fact that during the return trek from the ridge, the short chain afforded the most limited of steps. So as Molly strolled freely, her long down hill strides quick and effortless, I had to shuffle, rapidly pressing forward my bare feet at more than twice her rate of pace. She giggled like a school girl, turning her head to view my male package as it flopped about most comically.

And yes the sun tan lotion was timely applied, no sun burn. But Molly’s nimble fingers worked the lotion with fervor, my erection gleefully standing in salute. Finally came the command.

“Let me know when you’re going to spurt for me,” her voice low and sultry.

Well, with all the thrill... naked, collared and leashed under the auspices of this playful yet controlling woman... it took not many strokes before I nodded.

With that, my playful friend turned wicked, withdrawing her hand and retrieving her digital camera. Unbeknownst to me, the video mode was preset.

Yes, she filmed the ruined orgasm, my neglected penis throbbing in need. With wrists remaining cuffed behind my back, my jism meekly oozed as I pulled mightily with my PC muscles in attempting to bring the ecstasy of normal ejaculation, my masturbating right hand struggling against its bond.

Was it the frustration or her laughter which most annoyed?

“Guess it’s time to take off the cuffs. Get a shower.”

“I’ll decide that,” Molly warmly apprizes. “It may be your fantasy... your game.... but I’ll make the rules.”

Having spent my load, hormone levels reset, for some reason her authoritative words don’t have the affect of arousal. Then it dawns, whereas I’ve had my jollies, in crass terms, Molly has graciously played along, sans any release for her. She is in need.

“Well, I can offer more attention without the cuffs and shackles.”

“You shot your load. Take a rest.”

“It really wasn’t shot, Molly. Just kind of oozed. Not very gratifying. I’ll reload while cooking dinner for you,” turning and pressing forth my restrained hands in seeking release.

“No. I’ll feed you. Then I have a dinner date... in Saratoga. An old friend from nursing school. You’d be welcome to join us except you only have a tank top, gym shorts and sandals. They won’t serve you in a good restaurant. Really Jack, you could have at least packed underwear.”

“That’s not kinky.”

“Not practical either,” Molly stepping out of the kitchen.

My quest for emancipation ignored, I sit on a kitchen chair, the quirky delight of bondage slowly transforming to exasperation. Then Molly returns, the few garments I wore on the drive from New York in her hand.

“You want kinky, you’re going to get kinky,” smirking in grabbing the car keys from the counter.

Helpless to intervene, Molly marches out the back door. I hear a click and then the slam of the car trunk. When she returns, her march seemingly triumphant, there are no clothes, no keys.

“No clothing. And the keys are well hidden in the yard, should you manage to exit the house to search.”

Standing arms akimbo, my beautiful Molly suddenly seems imposing. It’s that smile... Schadenfreude it’s termed.

“I’ll boil you some oatmeal. Then I need to change for dinner. Oscar’s, if you remember, is an expensive place... so I’ll take your credit card with me.”

Monday, October 17, 2016

New short story

I have published on Lulu 'A Trained Penis'. 12,300 words, $4.00.

Female Dominant, male submissive, CFNM, bondage, humiliation.

I will probably post another snippet or two here on the blog.

Saturday, October 15, 2016

A Trained Penis I

A new short story. Not sure how much I'll be posting.



A Trained Penis

Copyright 2016

by Chris Bellows
“CFNM... clothed female, naked male. And we had to drive 100 miles up the Hudson for this, Jack? My apartment wouldn’t do it for you?”

“The weather’s good, and the country is nice this time of year. And New York apartments... ah... well... can be confining.”

“Yeah, confining for this,” the words snickered.

With her retort, Molly shakes the leash. Her playful jostling brings a smile as she looks down, her exaggerated stare mocking my turgid reaction. I am erect... for her. At least that’s what my demented mind tells myself.

“You’re fortunate to have a secluded place for this Jack. Probably get arrested anywhere else. And I worry about my complicity... what local ordinances I’m breaking, leading you about cuffed and naked.”

“It’s private property. Many acres, George has been purchasing adjacent parcels, so we can walk a ways. There’s a high point... with a nice view.”

Wrists cuffed behind my back, I nod in the general direction.

“Who’s leading whom? You’ll follow the leash. I just might take you to the main road and tie you off. You can waggle your erection for the passing cars,” Molly’s tone turning stern.

I so much enjoy it when she gets into her role. It’s... well... fulfilling.

Still Molly tugs in the suggested direction. As a photographer... amateur but accomplished... she likes good vistas. On this cloudless perfectly sunny day, I know it will please her... and I want to please.

“George have any idea what you do here when you visit his old farm.”

“No. Just a weekend out of the City. Told him you’d enjoy the scenery... you’d be taking pictures.”

“So I’m the beard. Molly wants to use her camera. Nothing about cuffs, collars, leashes and the lack of clothing. And didn’t you pack anything to wear? Thought we’d at least go to dinner.”

The rebuking words come as Molly casually strolls and I follow, doing my best in obedience by keeping tension off the leash.

My silence brings her to pause and peer back. She smiles anew, her free hand reaching for the digital camera about her neck. Proficiency attained, she snaps off a series, my erection I am sure centered in the frame.

“Very photogenic Jack. You were right to have me shave you. Lots of pink for the camera lens. But can’t you do that yourself?”

"Thought you’d enjoy that. Kind of a control thing.”

Molly nods, checking the photos for clarity then resuming, snapping the leash taut and seeming pleased to feel my head buck in response. Is she indeed enjoying her role? I so much hope so.

The trail ascends. I tell myself on the next journey to have footwear. Unbecoming, contrasting the thrill of total nakedness, sticks and pebbles bring pain and an awkward gait. My bare feet suffer.

Reaching the crest, I am heartened to see Molly beam in happiness. She somehow knows to tie off the leash, more and more readily accepting her role in continuing her aura of control and my sense of ownership. She sighs in giddiness reaching again for the camera. The view is breathtaking, this particular vantage point a major factor in closing the purchase of the aging farm... my friend George similarly impressed.         

“It’s lovely Jack,” turning the lens toward my bound nakedness and clicking away. “And I do believe you're getting harder.”

Her observation comes as she removes a canvas bag from her shoulder.

“Now. I don’t like the idea of you having so much freedom with your feet.”

Ankle cuffs! Black wrought iron, and a disturbingly short connecting chain. My heart leaps. Molly is readily stepping into her role. But wherever did she procure shackles?

“And I’d better get some lotion on you. The sun is strong. And your penis is so nicely exposed...”

Saturday, October 8, 2016

'A Curious Arrangement'

From my latest short story, available in its entirety from Lulu as noted on my September 26 post.  This will be the only snippet. Enjoy. Meanwhile, comments and feedback are welcomed.

Next week, another short story. 


A Curious Arrangement

Copyright 2016

By Chris Bellows

Pamela Owens pulls into the brick driveway 15 Rosedale Lane. She stops before the massive gate a finger pressing to roll down the window of her Mercedes. As she punches in the code for the ornate barrier, she notes a large envelope stuffed into the nearby mailbox. She lets the car roll forward, snatching the missive as the heavy ironwork swings open.

It cannot be mail, she tells herself. That is all forwarded to the attorneys. She notes the sender, MacAdam Dentler CPA’s. Yes, it’s the quarterly accounting report for Hanson Industries delivered by messenger. Tossing it to the passenger seat she guns the engine to proceed up the steep incline, entering the vast estate of Robert Hanson, wealthy entrepreneur, retired and now... well... how should one describe his preoccupation?

In slowing the car before the porte cochere, Pamela Owens recalls her first visit, the interview, the apprehension, the unknown, the Craig’s Listing vague, it’s wording cabalistic.

    Part time position for an experienced nurse offering treatment for a man with special needs. Must be physically capable, assertive, skilled in handling the incapacitated. Flexible hours, generous compensation for the applicant with an aptitude for exacting discipline.

Something intrigued. Something brought alarm. In the medical profession, one does not offer treatment or ‘handle’. One cares. And to have an aptitude for discipline? Exacting? How is one to interpret that?

Pam smiles to herself, now knowing the answers.

She grabs her bag and the envelope, steps from the car and enters another code for the front door. She must move quickly having forty seconds to enter and press a third code into the alarm system.

So many numbers!

Deed accomplished she pauses before a full length mirror in the foyer. Professionally attired in white, nurse’s cap included, she finds her reflection to be acceptable. At age thirty five, though no longer girlish, she considers herself remaining attractive. Running a hospital ward supervising a bevy of nurses has somewhat beleaguered but there is youthfulness. And regular gym workouts have forestalled the gradual plumping of approaching middle age.

She adjusts her cap, smooths her white skirt and reaches into her bag, grasping a ring of many keys. Looking at the envelope, she asks herself if she should bring it with her. Marked personal, confidential, for the eyes of Robert Hanson only, she shrugs and brusquely tears it open.

Robert Hanson won’t object.

Medical training extensive, business and numbers are not her thing. But she does know that nine figures... no decimals... is a large number. And she does understand cash... short term investments... and that Hanson Industries owns little else.

The assets of the active business sold months ago, Hanson Industries, now a holding company, is liquid... abundantly liquid. She can taste and smell the wealth. It brings giddiness, an odd rush in realizing that she is so close to financial liberation.

She tucks the report into her bag. She’ll bring it with her, perhaps Robert Hanson will have an opportunity to review it. But perhaps not. She’ll decide later.

Bag in left hand, keys in the right, Pam begins the journey, short but time consuming.

First comes the door yielding to the basement stairs. Two locks. Then a light switch, a single bulb illuminating below. Pam steps inward firmly closing the door to hear the latch and locks click, ensuring isolation. Down the many stairs, treading carefully in the dimness. The space is barren, some boxes, old tools. The emptiness, the bare concrete walls, bring a shudder. With the solid door above double locked, its thickness dampering any sounds, one could be trapped, die and not be found, strident pleas for help not to be heard. 

Pam Owens puts aside her bag. There’s a thin well worn rug to be rolled up. A trap door beneath. Three locks to be opened. The hatch is a heavy plate of steel, Pam’s physique is needed to lift... her physical capability.

Near six foot, her regular workouts challenging, still two hands are engaged and thigh and back muscles somewhat strain in raising. The door lifts. When arms offer a final pull and hands release, the plate of thick metal flips to the rolled up rug with a thud. Below is a sub basement, purportedly carved out of the rocky soil when the mansion was constructed during the prohibition era. It’s a secretive wine cellar, now otherwise utilized.  

Pam shudders anew peering down into the empty abyss.

“Close your eyes,” hearing her voice echoing below.

Her bag yields a flashlight. It beams permitting Pam to carefully negotiate the steep ladder like stairs. At the bottom she finds the light switch. With a click the surprisingly large chamber erupts, dozens of halogen fixtures turning the cave into a well lit Broadway stage.

Looking to the low steel barred cage, she sees the nearly naked form of her employer Robert Hanson. He moves. This always brings relief. He’s alive, eyes pressed closed, the extreme darkness ending in a painful burst of high wattage. Pam Owens takes a deep breath, fortifying herself, her ‘treatment for a man with special needs’ to begin.

“You need changing,” her admonishing tone both bold and commanding.
“I’m sorry Miss Pam. It’s been long since your last visit. It is morning?” the voice quivers in meekness.

“That does not matter,” the utterance stern.

Pam steps forth, selecting another key on the ring.

“Wrist first.”

Robert Hanson offers his right hand, the tethering chain clanking on the bars and concrete beneath. Pam once again unlocks. The manacle is superfluous, the formidable bars of the cage not to be breached. But in further restricting mobility, it is wonderfully symbolic. Even in the waist high cage, the movements of Robert Hanson... special needs Robert Hanson... are subject to another’s will.

“Ankle, “ Pam directs, moving to the opposite side of the cage.

Robert Hanson squirms, a second chain clanking as he offers his cuffed left foot. Though the chains are somewhat slack, the forced position is ungainly. Robert cannot turn in his enclosure, even rolling over a frustrating chore.

“You smell. You happy to see your nurse? Glad to finally be changed?” the shackle released.

“Yes, Nurse Pam. I’d like that,” the somber voice somewhat gladdening.

Robert Hanson thrills. Limbs finally unfettered, he moves about in the small cage like a released zoo animal.

“Calm yourself,” Pam commands moving to a nearby wall.

There she retrieves a pair of Posey cuffs, nylon, lined in foam. She returns to the cage and Robert Hanson knows to present his wrists.

“How do you feel? Your proclivity well addressed? It’s been awhile.”

“I feel... I’m...”

“Kept? That’s the word you used during the interview. You wanted to feel kept.”


“Yes what?” Pam reminds has she encircles right wrist then left.

“Yes, Ma’am. And owned.”

“Yes... owned. We’ll need to discuss that aspect. The sense of ownership... that’s somewhat incomplete, wouldn’t you say?”

Pam checks the securing Velcro straps, assuring tightness. She then twirls her index finger. Robert knows to shuffle about on his knees to turn. With a click, click, the Posey cuffs are secured together, rendering his hands useless behind his back.

“Bath first? Or feeding?” the tone turning maternal, as finally the cage door is unlocked.

“It’s not for me to...”

“I know, I know. I’m not ceding my authority, Robert, just curious as to what is your most urgent need. Ultimately I’ll decide.”

With Robert Hanson’s meek protest, Pam Owens’ thoughts return to the initial interview many months before...

Saturday, October 1, 2016

The Arrangement III

“Ms. Juliette wants you hooded again. More visitors.”

She announces the intended adornment as she rinses his body with a gentle spray. The soap from the shaving and cleansing drips to the metal table, collects in the middle then forms a vortex as the cloudy water feeds into a drain.

Sizable wads of cotton are inserted into Chris’s ears. The black latex hood is unfolded and as expected fits tightly. Nurse Ingrid displays her strength in tugging it over Chris’s head. Fingers work to align the single opening with his nostrils and mouth. Blinded and nearly deafened, with his hands immobilized in firm yet comfortable restraint, Chris Bellows’ psyche continues to plummet. But his penis hardens more.

His right hand again reactively tugs against its bond. He so much would like to stroke himself for her.

“There are some men born to be bound and to serve, Mr. Bellows. You’re the essence of

Her firmly enunciated words penetrate both cotton wads and hood, adding to his degradation. While speaking, she playfully taps his nose to illustrate her point. He can do no less then kneel and obediently listen. Does his penis stiffen further?

Then he feels more than hears the click of a leash on an eyelet conveniently welded to the front of the stock. Nurse Ingrid’s muffled instructions can barely be heard. He knows to follow the pulls and to carefully step off the table. It is exercise time and he feels the strange combination of pride, with his Viagra induced erection bobbing about with each footfall, and humiliation, in being led about by a woman, bound and naked on the end of a leash. The tightness caused by the anal plug is both uncomfortable yet pleasant.

Still he reminds himself that the arrangement is his desire. To be kept chaste and controlled... to better structure his life in order to write volumes and volumes of female dominant erotica for the concupiscent women of the world. In pledging his libido as collateral he will produce the most lurid of sexually charged tales. The hormones make such a difference. In his ten weeks of mental servitude and complete chastity he has produced his best work.

Is there a Pulitzer prize for such sordid composition?

He laughs at himself as his feet find the floor and follow the direction of his controlling, white uniformed virago. He knows that the treadmill will test his endurance... along with Nurse Ingrid’s cane bearing hand. He will walk, jog and run at her command. For how long he never knows. But by afternoon’s end he will indeed be well worked. And then he will be counseled. Ms. Juliette insists that the mind is more receptive when the body’s needs have been quenched. But not with the climactic relief of an orgasm. No, Mr. Chris Bellows will merely run and run and run. The Martin Rigid Stock, held high by a pair of ceiling chains connected at his shoulders, will ensure he does not stray or deviate from the task at hand. And crisp applications of a thin length of rattan will ensure a maximum effort.

And his erection will remain.

Ms. Juliette deems the sight pleasing for her and her guests. And Chris Bellows has no idea who the visitors are, how many, of what gender, or what level of interest they find in observing a bound, naked and erect male work under the exacting supervision of a dominant female.

Though the thought intrigues and his imagination wishes to muse, he knows to instead concentrate on his foot work. Stumbling results in scuffed feet and well striped buttocks. Therefore, despite the immobilizing bonds and sensory deprivation, his mind must focus on obedience... on compliance with the whims of the strict woman bearing the agonizing instrument of correction.

After connecting the rigid stock to the chains dangling above the treadmill, Nurse Ingrid straps a heart monitoring device around his chest. Then a rubber bulb is pressed against his lips. A firm hand squeezes his testicles until he opens his mouth to accept the molded object. It completely fills his mouth. A connecting hose will supply air. Electronic equipment will serve to monitor his breathing. There is also a connection to supply water when desired. Chris can push with his tongue and cool liquid will release into his mouth. In his first encounter with the device, thoughts of the local pet store where gerbils drank from bottles came to mind. But he learned to water himself in a short time.

As stated, Nurse Ingrid is relentless. There would be no pause for refreshments. And she can also water him as she chooses. With a press of a button, Chris’s mouth will flood. The only alternative to choking is to obediently swallow. 

A soft rubber clamp forces closed his nostrils. All life sustaining oxygen will be convulsively sucked from Nurse Ingrid’s tube. More control. The nurse regulates the very air he breathes. 

When he feels the canvas of the treadmill move, he obediently steps... and steps and steps. He can feel his engorged penis bob and when he envisions his own humiliation, it further stiffens. He sucks on the tube. He feels oddly thankful for the air.

Is that the sound of laughter?             

It does not matter. His task is to work. Without sight and with limited hearing his thoughts drift. An understanding of his humbled status develops. He is immersed. His air supply is monitored and controlled. The heart monitor announces the level of stress. Nurse Ingrid knows he can be taken further. He knows her learned hand is slowly adjusting the speed... searching for his limits. She will take him there and beyond. Gratefully he is permitted water. But on occasion, without warning, the crisp sound of rattan penetrates the latex hood and the wads of cotton. Then comes the burning pain, searing his cortex like a hot ice pick. The pain spurs his efforts, as intended. New limits will be found. The experienced nurse, reveling in the ‘unusual treatment’, knows better than he does and will extract more than he thinks possible.

His concentration drifts again as perspiration slowly drips to his ankles and moistens the canvas tread. Though the burning sensation from the brisk cane stroke subsides, salt from his own sweat irritates the abrasion, serving as a reminder of the price of indolence. The afternoon will be long and arduous. His mind enters a fog of complete submission. He is a machine with a very strict woman at the controls. His erection stands firmly. Is it the drug...? the stimulation felt by way of the intense humiliation... the reaction to the cane which is so idiosyncratic to the masochist... some latent enjoyment of being naked and bound under the firm hand of a women? Chris Bellows ponders as his feet pound a steady but demanding cadence.

Then there is more laughter. Who? It is the high pitched expression of merriment of a young woman. He is being displayed... putting on a show. He’s a trained circus animal with Nurse Ingrid as the ring master.

Nurse Ingrid presses the button and his thoughts are diverted as cool water fills his mouth. Gratefully, he swallows but she presses again. It floods his mouth and he swallows more. He has no choice. She is in command. He will drink if she wants him to drink.

The afternoon wears on in silent, black solitude. He can feel the treadmill vibrating more than hear its hum and when his own perspiration drips into his eyes he closes them, completely shutting out the paucity of light that breeches the thick latex hood. His sense of touch peaks with the sensation of sweat irritating his welts. And when Nurse Ingrid again applies the cane, the jolt of pain strikes his cortex like a lightening bolt.

It’s an odd form of sensory deprivation. He can walk and ran in place for his demanding nurse and he can occasionally feel his erection touch an extended thigh or thwack his abdomen after a cane induced lurch. And he knows there are others present. Certain high pitched verbal sounds, though not discernible, reach his ears. Is it his paranoia that turns the sounds to feminine laughter?

Nurse Ingrid varies the speed from time to time. Her skills apparently eclipse that of a nurse... week after week building his endurance as would a track coach.

“Good circulation is important for maintaining an erection,” she once lectured him on the second or third visit. “Your’s will become superb.”

He later wondered whether it was the level of his blood pressure or the ability to remain tumefied which would attain such a lofty goal.    

‘Superb,’ he thinks to himself as his feet endlessly thump the continuous circle of canvas. ‘Ms. Juliette wants me to be superb.’

More water is forcibly imbibed, then a firm stroke jolts him from his thoughts. The demanding nurse had slowed him to a jog for a brief respite and now the speed increases. He has learned not to mentally question his handler. She is observing his heart rate and breathing and is more aware of his output and potential then himself. He reacts as his trainer desires. He runs... and with his knees forced higher feels the engorged tip of his penis brush against the shorn flesh of his inner thighs.

The machine’s rotation steadily increases to what he has by now learned is the maximum. Nurse Ingrid will encourage him to meet the challenge with steady, moderate stokes. Not as firm as the corrective strokes, but painful enough keep his attention on the task at hand.

The sound and feel of his breathing seems to override all his usable senses. There are no other noises and the anguish of the cane is partially blocked by his mental reaches for more air. Chris runs at full speed for several minutes. By his estimate one or two minutes longer than he could ever drive himself.

Finally, the treadmill slows. He is walking and can feel perspiration covering every inch of his exposed flash. Water flows and he dutifully gulps. Fingers gently caress the underside of his frenulum. He knows it to be a reward and it indeed feels good. He has not touched himself there in so many weeks and to have the soft fingers of a woman tantalize his overly sensitive organ is exquisite. The high pitched laughter returns. His imagination flashes back to the circus. Who’s finger caresses? It is as if the ring master is letting inquisitive children pet one of the animals.

He is on display.

The machine stops. Chris Bellows stands in a puddle of his own making. Nurse Ingrid releases the chains. The heart monitor is removed. The mouth piece slides out. The leash is once again clipped to the front of the stock. Firm tugs direct him back to the examination table. His feet touch the stool. He knows to step up and kneel.

A heavy spray of cold water causes him to spasm, but is welcome. There is more laughter as his lungs contract and an involuntary throaty gasp is forced from deep within. His ignominious display continues. He is rinsed and cooled before his audience, the servile beast humbly kneeling for his handler.

He could never raise the fortitude to douse himself in such coldness. But bound and naked he has no choice. 

He feels the professionally tender touch of Nurse Ingrid as she pats dry his exposed body with a large fluffy towel. She places him in awkward positions, lifting one bent leg and then the other, ostensibly to dry between thighs, buttocks and around his groin. But he knows it is to more fully expose him to whomever Ms. Juliette has invited for an afternoon’s entertainment.

The nurse has been very discriminating with the application of freezing water. Despite the coldness, he has remained firm. And now in feeling her authoritative hands work with the soft warm towel where his own touch has been denied, the erection returns to full stand.

‘Control,’ he reminds himself. ‘The arrangement was to be controlled.’ 

The leash guides him off the table. He stumbles and earns a crisp stroke. He is indeed under control.

It is time for his ‘counseling’. With the show is over, Nurse Ingrid leads him to the formidable office domain of Ms. Juliette. He feels his erect penis bob in a demeaning farewell gesture to his unknown audience. He is tired. His mind is malleable but his penis remains standing in a lascivious tribute to feminine dominance. Ms. Juliette likes it that way.

Monday, September 26, 2016

New short story, 'A Curious Arrangement'

I have published a new short story, 'A Curious Arrangement' (not be confused with 'The Arrangement').

Female Dominant, bondage, chastity, humiliation. 13,000 + words. $ 4.00.


Saturday, September 24, 2016

The Arrangement II

“Well, back again so soon.”

The familiar voice of Ms. Juliette grasps his attention. She enters the training room. Professionally attired, her authoritative demeanor detracts from her otherwise radiant appearance, jet black hair, dark eyes, make up modest but precise. Her comportment is that of a businesswoman, certainly not a woman who earns her living shaping men of low self esteem.    

Chris Bellows humbly falls to his knees hoping that any conversation will be accompanied by the turn of the key in the formidable lock of the chastity belt. Fortunately, Ms. Juliette is as eager to free his penis as he is. She graciously stoops, key in hand. The lock springs open.

“The belt is working nicely Chris. Your hormones must be overflowing.”

She playfully caresses his right nipple as Nurse Ingrid removes the belt. The imposing nurse momentarily disappears. The well designed device will be cleansed, a procedure as simple as placing it in a dishwasher.

For the first time in seven days, Chris Bellows’ genitals are free. As Ms. Juliette watches his penis rise in salute, she smiles. Its firmness is for her and only for her. But for her key wielding hand, it would continue to be entrapped under steel. For her the psychological dominance is not only pleasing... it’s arousing.

So after ten weeks of complete chastity Chris Bellows’ organ is again free to show off... and it does. Rising to full erection before the two fully clothed women in a futile demonstration of male hubris, both nurse and Ms. Juliette smile. The organ stands for their amusement not his. And both chuckle as Chris’s right hand spasmodically tugs against its bond. It so much wants to stroke the tantalizingly hard shaft. The women find enjoyment in the feeble effort.

“Bad boy Chris. You wanted to be controlled and controlled you are.

“How is your writing? I wager it’s as deliciously kinky as always.”

Chris nods. In fact, it is. With his hormones surging the words cascade from the word processor. With his male machismo engaging in a raging battle with his need for submission... for the first time in his life the testosterone is losing. Ten weeks... not only deprived of the ability to ejaculate but also of the capacity to merely stroke his neglected penis.

So often he feels the urge, his manhood knocking on the steel barrier of his belt. And so often the only possible response is to concentrate, write, and fantasize about the upcoming weekly visit to Ms. Juliette’s lair. And now he is here and his male appendage shows its appreciation.

“We’ll talk later, Chris. Be a good boy for Nurse Ingrid now.”

The smiling dominatrix, a master at extracting psychological submission, bends and diddles the exposed underside of Chris Bellows’ standing phallus. It wriggles as if to thank the woman who has so graciously set it free. She chortles at the reaction.

‘Will she not just stroke it for me?’ Chris thinks to himself.

As she turns to step out, Nurse Ingrid establishes herself.

“On the table please, Mr. Bellows. We have work to do.”  

Chris stands and feels the assuring comfort of his heavy scrotal sac swing between his thighs. At least it’s still there, he thinks with some satisfaction... though useless except for the amusement of Ms. Juliette.

The weighty stock makes all movement laborious. He carefully steps onto a small stool resting next to the shining metal table then places one calve and then the other on the smooth surface. He knows to kneel with his knees well parted. Nurse Ingrid insists on complete access to every inch of his flesh and every aperture. Resistance during his first visit resulted in convincing twists and pinches of his gonads. He learned to obey and extinguish all thoughts of resistance.
The tall and powerful nurse begins the day. For the next thirty minutes his entire body will be examined, shaven and cleansed. Nothing will escape her inquisitive hands and fingers and Chris has written enough D/s erotica to understand it is the ultimate in mental submission. Kneeling naked under bright lights and forced to display everything. To have all his anatomy offered to the knowing eyes and fingers. Just having to widely part his lips while Nurse Ingrid rummaged about within his mouth and throat could take a toll. The arrangement necessitated such payment and coinage came in the form of complete subservience.

He recalls his first visit where, after the huge nurse was through with him, he sat and was ‘counseled’ by Ms. Juliette. Chris was notably disquieted by the experience and even after ten weeks he finds the nurse’s brusque treatment of his uncovered body difficult to mentally accept. He had to pose the question. Ms. Juliette answered.

“Where did I find Nurse Ingrid? Why I simply ran an ad in the Nursing Journal, Chris. She’s actually quite an experienced nurse who finds her regular weekly job rather boring. The notion of having part time employment on Saturday afternoons was attractive only because the ad specified the need for a stern woman who would be furnished with unfettered access to a special male patient in providing unusual treatment.

“Yes, don’t look surprised. Though unfortunately suppressed by various standards of deportment, most nurses have latent desires to control... to be completely in charge. To entice them, one just has to use the right code words in the ad. The ethics of the profession are rather strict about the special care aspect. Except for here, of course, where there is no need for concern,” the words coming with a laugh.

“And I think I chose wisely... wouldn’t you agree?”

Chris had to admit the nurse made good use of her ‘unfettered access’. She had shaved is entire body with a straight razor. From the neck down all hair was removed. It proved to be a frightening experience... but not a nick resulted... not even around the nooks and crannies of his testicles, perineum and anus. And she repeats the removal every week.

So once again he kneels as the nurse’s soapy hands knead and caress his genitals. It feels
so good after seven days of entrapment. Yet, she is so careful not to cause ejaculation, keeping the trained fingers of her left hand on the tactile area between his rectum and his scrotal sac. She knows it to be a barometer of his level of arousal. When the nurse feels him quavering there, she immediately withdraws, admonishing him to control his neglected maleness.

He must obey. And he does.

“You’re becoming nicely toned, Mr. Bellows,” the nurse having massaged and felt every limb and muscle.

“Amazing what a little change in diet and some exercise can do.”

The nurse is correct. No stimulants. No alcohol. No red meat. Mountains of fruit and vegetables. But to what end? To keep his publisher happy? So he can better entertain Ms. Juliette? To satisfy some quest... that she has the power to mold the male body... to have a subjugated male amuse her for longer and longer periods with an erection that will not subside?

Gloved fingers probe his anus. He feels abundant lubricant and hears a soft laugh as one digit and then a second penetrate. The nurse is all too familiar with the male anatomy.

“Your prostate is swollen. We’ll take care of that on our next visit.”

The fingers withdraw but in their place is inserted a rubber plug. He has come to expect it. There is no probe or procedure to which he can object. His body is open, exposed and vulnerable to all the nurse wishes to impose. There are no limits.

With a hiss of air the diabolical implement expands, completely filling his backside. His penis waggles in response and, though there is minor discomfort, he knows he cannot expel the expanse of rubber. It will stay until the nurse releases the air and with mocked ceremony slides it out. It greatly adds to the humiliation of his ordeal, forcing his manhood to achieve previously unattainable levels of rigidness.