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.