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.