Saturday, December 9, 2017

The Trophy, Segment Six


“Would you please, Maria? Upstairs and caged, Mrs. Grayson and I will be having an aperitif on the porch. It’s a delightful evening,” the Master of the house speaks.

Maid Maria smiles, enthused that she is to be empowered. As Mrs. Grayson returns the well bound Mrs. Casperson to sightlessness, the young Hispanic girl knows to go to the armoire where there rests the leash.

Hood in place, a mocha hand clips on the leash and jostles, pulling as Nurse Grayson helps with the chair. As Mrs. Casperson knows to carefully rise, Arlen Jacobs Casperson smiles, the sound of the rattling hobbling chain bringing glee.

“Is this necessary, Arlen? I can find my way to the bedroom.”

“Yes, I’m sure you can. But moving about on your own would tend to empower. Your role is to be seen... not to think... not even to act unless it is under the tutelage of another. And young Maria is happy to assist.”

Clumsily, Mrs. Casperson turns, obediently subordinating herself to the lowest member of the household. A foot carefully shuffles forth on the carpeting, the hobbling chain restrictive as always.

“And it’s Sir... or Master. You must learn to be respectful, dear.”

Out the dining room to the stairs, maid Maria feels twinges within her loins, sensing great thrill. She leads, taking two steps up, knowing to both shorten and tighten her grip to preclude mishap.

Step, step, step, finally the second floor of the sizable mansion is reached. Down the hallway, to the bedroom, the sleeping quarters massive.

Though Maria is a neophyte to bondage, Mrs. Grayson has taught her how to cage the lady of the house, assuring safety, a degree of physical comfort... yet endless mental and emotional stress.

‘It’s important to her... something you’ll understand in time. Girls of Mrs. Casperson’s ilk have needs... and we are here to assure such are addressed. Any begging and pleading must be ignored. When given the leash you are in charge... complete charge.’

Such a thrill in first hearing the words, the role of a maid normally reporting to and being inferior to all. And the thrill returns each time she is assigned the chore.

To the cage. It is low, waist height. The bars are many, spaced such that a hand can easily be slipped within, the nakedness of Mrs. Casperson to be kneaded, caressed, palpated by anyone at anytime. Ingeniously designed, expensively crafted, the opening at the front locks at the top and for entry lowers to the floor. Hinged, when folded down, a section of the top bars folds away with it. To the carpet it can be propped up on folding legs, forming a convenient seat. Within the cage are stanchions similar to those on the basement cleansing platform with brackets to hold in place the ends of the Martin Rigid Stock.

Yes, Mrs. Casperson spends the night with wrists and neck remaining encumbered. The height to be held is adjustable, the ends of the Rigid Stock to be slid up or down depending on the desired comfort level to be afforded.

Mrs. Casperson has spent many sleepless nights in punishment, lying prone, head, arms and wrists suspended some six to eighteen inches above the cage floor.

Maria releases the lever, the front opening folding down to the carpet.

”Kneel,” commands, pulling downward on the leash.

Mrs. Casperson complies... must comply... and the hobbling chain is removed, the hood slipped away.

“On your back,” smiling in noting the instant obedience.

Ah, to finally lie supine. It’s like a reward, Mrs. Casperson not to resist or complain.

 “And slide...  in you go Mrs. Casperson. Beddy bye time. You know how you are to be positioned for the night.”

She does. Though well rehearsed, being caged is awkward. She lies in the cage supine and to enter Mrs. Casperson must extend her legs inward then slide herself, with Maria’s assistance, feet first. It’s time consuming, the effort slow and ungainly. 

Supine form in place, the Rigid stock is secured right and left. Then for good measure the ankle shackles are secured to the bars, the width of the cage forcing apart the thighs.

Maria folds up and locks the cage opening. Stepping to the bedroom door, she then recalls the final binding, Mrs. Grayson quite specific in explaining its need.

‘She is not to frottage. You can only imagine the nastiness to come about in being able to move  her hips,’ the vaginal and anal inserts disclosed to a tittering young maid.

Thus Maria returns. Short cables hanging in wait at the middle bars are pushed inward and clipped to eyelets on the chastity belt, right hip then left. This brings complete immobility, Mrs. Casperson not to wriggle about her hips and thighs to more fully enjoy the penile replicas of Master Arlen Jacobs Casperson. 
      
It’s a final cruelty, Maria thinks to herself. But it is as Mrs. Grayson explained... women of a certain ilk have needs...
 
“Do you really enjoy this, Mrs. Casperson?” an intrigued maid Maria cannot help asking.

“Would it matter if I did not, Maria?”

“That’s Miss Maria please,” a hand reaching within the bars to firmly pinch the rubber casing of the right nipple.

With a moan and a spasmodic shudder of pain, Maria smiles, noting her message is well received. Dousing the lights, in departing, within her loins she senses moisture.

Saturday, December 2, 2017

The Trophy, Segment Five


“Did you nap well my dear? Posing for Hanson tired you I’m sure.”

“Arlen, I can’t sleep like that... not very well.”

“A little too stressful? And do mind your manners.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry Sir.”

It’s dinner time. Arlen Jacobs Casperson sits enjoying a sumptuous meal with his wife and an elegantly dressed Mrs. Grayson, uniform dispensed for the remainder of the evening. It is an otherwise charming family scene... but for the fact that Mrs. Casperson remains totally nude, wrists and neck encapsulated in the Martin Rigid Stock, gleaming belt of steel assuring chastity and that the replicas of Mr. Casperson’s manhood remain nesting deeply.

Afternoon naps are mandatory, a hooded and leashed Mrs. Casperson returned to the office of her husband. Hood remaining in place, there she sits on the floor upright, the ceiling cables attached to the Rigid Stock to assure she cannot lie down. Hobbling chain removed, her ankle shackles remain in place, secured such that her legs are spread left and right as far as the demanding Mrs. Grayson can part them.

And further to Mrs. Casperson’s chagrin, that is quite far.

“Well, you were breathing quite slowly and deeply for a time. I’m sure you got some rest,” husband Arlen once again glancing throughout the afternoon to adore the breasts of perfection while following the market.

“More like I passed out, Sir.”

Master Arlen takes another spoonful of rich lobster bisque. Mrs. Grayson spoons from a bowl of white thickness and offers the sustenance to the waiting lips of her helpless charge. It’s bland tasteless fare, but Mrs. Casperson knows it is all she will be given and thus to partake, despite the insalubrious nature of the offering.  

She is to be fattened... it has been decreed.

“Why is it again we spread her like that Mrs. Grayson?” the inquiry ostensibly naive.

“It’s the inserts, Mr. Casperson. To otherwise allow the pelvis to move about, your wife could oscillate the vaginal and anal implants, possibly achieving an orgasm. She needs to be well supervised when in the sitting position... just as she is now,” Mrs. Grayson’s proximity at the dinner table not solely for feeding

“An orgasm! Well... we’ll not have that. Not without my consent.”

The command brings a wry smile, reminding the highly trained nurse of the afternoon bath, enemas, massage, and feathering.

A maid pops from the kitchen, serving platters of prime rib. Acclimated to the deviant scene, she notes Mrs. Casperson’s half empty bowl of whatever, steps to an armoire and returns to ladle more of the thick white for consumption. Her presence brings distress, Mrs. Casperson not only placed on display but essentially deemed to be inferior to a servant.

“Thank you, Maria,” Arlen Jacobs Casperson so much enjoying his wife’s discomfort.

The maid returns to the kitchen. The prime rib is attacked, the fragrance compelling.

“Maria does such a wonderful job, keeping the house neat and tidy and us well fed. You have an idyllic life my dear. Not a care in the world. Don’t have to lift a finger. Just to be adored. Can you please, Mrs. Grayson...” Master Arlen nodding to the rubber encased nipples.

Mrs. Grayson is well aware of the gesture. Though protruding, pointing like pencils, the desired firmness, the exhibition which is so much coveted, has somewhat waned. The soup spoon is placed aside. Mrs. Casperson blushes as nimble fingers ever so gently flick and diddle the pink, purplish tips. Within moments they return to standing at attention.

“Really Sir,” Mrs. Casperson’s protest meekly postulated. “Please...”

“You know how I prefer you, dear. It’s mandatory. You’re to be presented. Posing... exhibited... displayed.... in the manner I desire.”

“What about these rubber things, Sir? They’re quite... ah... constricting.”

“You’ll become accustomed. Mrs. Grayson is going to... well... let’s say improve your presentation. Plus they’ll be more... term it... functional.” 

A smiling Arlen Jacobs Casperson swigs a fine Merlot then returns his attention to the succulent beef. He is sanguine, the power to transform quietly exhilarating. Plus in having spent the afternoon observing his cherished Mrs. Casperson, listening to her pleas as the knowing nurse brought her to the very brink of orgasm, there is warmth within his loins.

Tonight, it will be early to bed, Mrs. Grayson’s final deed to bring forth for him the ecstatic release so long denied to his ravishing wife. 
 

Saturday, November 25, 2017

The Trophy, Segment Four

Glancing downward to see his trousers tented, Arlen Jacobs Casperson feels like a horny pubescent school boy. Such delightful viewing. The frustration of his naked wife both amuses and excites.

For now, remaining secured to the granite platform, the dark brown expert hand of Nurse Grayson applies a feather, ever so evanescently grazing the inner labia, the color of the bright red flushed flesh deepening. There is moisture, further evidencing the arousal... and the need. The right hand and fingers work to stroke, stroke, stroke. Slowly... endlessly.

Master Arlen presses the remote to turn up the volume, the pleaful moans enhancing his enjoyment. He presses again, splitting the screen. To the left side, camera number one focuses on the bald head and face.... camera number three continuing to light up the screen with an exhibition of intimate feminine anatomy. 

He notes the clitoris has grown to enormity. Vaginal essence flows in abundance. When the feather moves downward, now plying the teasing pleasure to the engorged pearl, a dark brown middle finger of the left hand slips inward. Arlen Jacob Casperson knows it assesses... feeling the pounding circulation of the aroused Mrs. Casperson by way of her vaginal walls. The nurse knows that with the slightest sense of oscillation.... signaling pending climax... the feather and finger will be abruptly withdrawn.

No full orgasms! Ever! It is a dictate of the master of the house. His trophy wife to always be kept on the edge, her only full pleasure to exhibit herself... and to view his pleasure.

His view changes to the face. It contorts. Eyes clenched, mouth open. An unwitting viewer would assume the woman is being spanked, perhaps whipped... not enduring the faint unending pleasure of a feather.

Alas it comes. With the spread thighs quivering, the feathering stops, the penetrating finger instantly withdraws. There comes a scream.

“No! Please! More! You can’t leave me like this.”

“Oh, but I can... and I will. Your master’s orders.”

Master Arlen presses the remote. The lens of camera three zooms outward, the right side of the screen displaying the full body from behind. As Mrs. Grayson steps to the sink, there is again an unimpeded view. A weak, further exhausted Mrs. Casperson struggles to remain kneeling in place, her hips bucking, mimicking copulation, trying desperately to complete the lustful deed.

It is for naught. And the futile efforts bring a devious smile.

Mrs. Grayson returns, cleaned dildos, cleaned chastity device, placing the instruments on the platform between the parted feet.

Knowing she must let the glow of unfinished masturbation fade, a finger first lubricates the anus, supple and remaining moist from the many enemas.

“Press yourself open for me. Be a good girl. Your husband returns,” she mocks, reminding that the phalli replicate the impressive organ of the Master of the house. 

Mrs. Casperson knows to obey, knows she is to be returned to unending chastity. In being so thoroughly bound, there can be no resistance. She is to bear whatever master husband Arlen demands. Thus she presses, knowing that in being so well cleansed, colon empty, her rose bud will accept the impaling cone of rubber without mishap. And indeed, it slips inward... with embarrassing ease.

Nurse Grayson knows to pause, letting the steamy loins further cool, the broiling hormone levels rebalance, the endocrine system settle in disappointment.  

Finally the second impalement is pressed to the mons, the tip rubbing up and down, the yawning opening welcoming the dildo’s return. It likewise glides inward with ease.

The foam lined belt of steel encircles the waist. The triangular cod piece is connected. Pressed to the gluteal cleft then locked in place at the small of the back, the stuffed portals, vagina and anus, will be forced to sense her Master’s faux penises.

“All secured... all locked up... you must feel nicely kept. Deep within, it warms does it not?” Nurse Grayson derides. “It is best for girls like you. You feel safe in being owned... made to perform,” a comforting hand smoothing over the buttocks.

The uniformed nurse steps to the front, smoothing her hand again, now over the bald head.

“You’re fortunate with your husband’s mastery. There are those who are caned and whipped. I’ve treated many welts over the years.

“Some food... oatmeal with butter and cream... and then a nice nap. But first, something your Master wishes you to endure for him.”

From a cabinet come a set of tongs and a pair of balloon-like cones, appearing to be of thin red rubber. The diameter the size of her pinky finger, Mrs. Casperson notes they are open on each end.

“We’re going to be stretching your nipples. Initially uncomfortable, in time you’ll adapt. Think of the sensation as your husband graciously suckling you.” 
  
Mrs. Casperson shudders as cone of rubber number one is slipped over the tongs. How can her perfectly shaped nicely rounded nipples fit into a strip of confining rubber shaped like that?

 She learns. The tongs are pried open, stretching the rubber. Next gripping her right aureola, the cone is rolled over the pink flesh. Then the tongs are slipped away leaving the rubber in place to squeeze firmly, reshaping the nipple into a dart, the very tip protruding past the open end.

Mrs. Casperson gasps. There is discomfort, yes. But the grotesque shape is of more consequence.

“Why?” comes the pitiful question as the left breast receives equal attention.

Nurse Grayson silently completes the deed, bringing a second gasp. She smiles in seeing tears form. 

“Because he can,” the reply coming as index fingers left and right ever so slightly diddle the exposed tips, empurpled and prominent.

The gentle toying counters the distress of the gripping sensation. Mrs. Casperson is chagrined to find the woman’s touch is welcomed... chagrined as well that Nurse Grayson is so well aware.

Friday, November 24, 2017

‘The Glass Oubliette’ - Reminder

Two readers have purchased the referenced story over the past month or two. (female submissive/Male/Female Dominant)

There is an epilogue which I did not include when I published the book on Lulu, their publishing criteria at the time unknown to me (an early work). The epilogue is available from me by emailing chris_bellows@hotmail.com and divulging the code.

I do not send junk emails in return and never use or disclose any one’s email. So if there is interest on the part of any reader please feel free to contact me for the epilogue.

Saturday, November 18, 2017

The Trophy, Segment Three

The physical stress of standing high on toes has ended. Yet Mrs. Casperson finds herself asking if the mental/emotional stress of enduring Mrs. Grayson’s recuperative care is more daunting.

Led to a large custom made platform of carved granite, the nurse gives the command to mount and kneel. In feeling the edge pressing against her knees, Mrs. Casperson clumsily complies, the leash guiding, a free hand pushing and prodding.  

Meanwhile on the floor above, Arlen Jacobs Casperson watches in both glee and arousal, possibly exceeding his state of quiet excitement in viewing his well bound wife slowly suffer in displaying her chastised nakedness to business associate Charles Hanson.

Such humbleness... such humiliation... such delight. And now comes more as Mrs. Grayson guides the Rigid Stock to dual vertical stanchions at the end of the platform. The ends align perfectly, the long length of steel, brackets await to hold the kneeling Mrs. Casperson in place. The leash is removed. The hobbling chain is removed. The ankle shackles are secured to brackets at the side of the platform widely forcing apart the thighs.

It’s an awkward pose, but relatively comfortable compared to the endless stress of standing on toes.   

Mrs. Grayson next moves to the front, slipping away the hood, returning it to her uniform pocket. She smiles, again... in politeness... or in glee... so much enjoying her dominion. Hands move to the dangling breasts, slick with the abundant mineral oil used to assure Mrs. Casperson properly presents herself... glowing in her nakedness... her submission... her complete capitulation to Master Casperson’s demanding care.  

As always, Mrs. Casperson cringes, the touch tender yet unwanted. Or is it?

“Why does he do this?” the voice meek, energy sapped.

“Why do you let him do this?” a knowing nurse rejoins. “Or perhaps a more provocative question... why do you want him to do this?” squeezing the massive globes more firmly to emphasize both her message and control.

Hands release. So long held in chastity, the touch has its effect, Mrs. Casperson feeling lustful twinges within her encapsulated loins. She wants more... she needs more... but why is it not the caring hands of husband Arlen... Master Arlen. Why must it always be that of a woman... and the woman who nightly attains satisfaction, fulfilling the sexual urges of her husband... fulfilling her own sexual urges as well.

She is made to watch! Such callousness!

“Bath and enema first, pretty girl,” a finger playfully tapping the nose. 

There should a sense of unbridled cheer as Mrs. Grayson reaches for the oh so meaningful key about her neck. But release is not for joy. There will be no orgasm.... not to completion. That Master Casperson forever denies.

But why can’t he be here? Why does he leave her care, the much desired release, to this cheerful yet imposing woman of color?

“Do you enjoy him... my husband?”

The question is spiteful but so docilely uttered.

Mrs. Grayson ignores, working to unlock the finely crafted belt of steel. Removed, the odor of feminine essence, sweat and urine is strong yet expected, many years of medical training bringing disregard for the stench.

“He fucks wonderfully,” Mrs. Grayson finally replies, her utterance boldly proclaimed. “ If that’s what you mean. His adoration for you, knowing that you’re helpless, bound, caged and watching brings great stimulation. You excite him.”

The belt is placed in a nearby dishwasher, to be cleaned and sanitized. Mrs. Grayson adds soap, turns a dial, presses a button to begin the cycle.

“Do you remember... how he makes love. It must have happened at some point. You’re married.”

“Yes,” the tone dreamy in remembrance. “Our honeymoon. But that’s when... well... he more clearly explained my vows... to love, honor and obey. And his... to cherish.”

“And he does,” Mrs. Grayson reminds.

“Like this?” the question posed as the nurse turns on a spray hose and patiently waits for a flow of warmth.

“We all have some form of paraphilia. You’re fortunate that yours so wondrously complements that of your husband. Round peg... round hole.”

The naked form, reveling with the removal of the horrid chastity belt, further rejoices in feeling a thorough dousing of water warmed to perfection, the mineral oil sent to a drain in the center of the platform.

“The insertions... please...” Mrs. Casperson cannot help begging.

“So you no longer want to feel your husband’s penis?” the nurse chides with a chuckle. “Okay, vagina first,” a hand reaching between the thighs. “Cough for me.”

Mrs. Casperson complies as thumb and index finger grasp the end of the specially crafted phallus. With the cough momentarily relaxing the muscles which constantly and involuntarily grip the devilish instrument, the knowing nurse glides it quickly from the neglected love nest.

“And the anal insertion. Press for me... like you’re having a bowel movement.”

A blushing Mrs. Casperson again complies. In expelling, there comes a sense of emptiness. After all, master Arlen spent much time and money assuring she constantly feel him deep inside her. Yet, she know the dildos will be returned.

“Good girl,” the nurse placing the rubber phalli in the nearby sink for cleansing.

Anus cleared, an enema big is filled. As Mrs. Casperson watches, she senses the thoughts of a condemned prisoner looking at the gallows. The enemas are seemingly unending, much water, many rinses. Master Casperson both demands neatness... and that there be no reason to ever release the chastity belt other than at bathing time.

Meanwhile in the den, a priapic Master Arlen watches. He vicariously feels the humiliation, a finger greasing the rectum, a large nozzle slipping inward, it inflates. Then comes the flow of warm soapy water, initially soothing. Slowly the sensation transitions to dull aching as the relentless Mrs. Grayson assures a complete filling of the colon.   

While the enema bag steadily empties, a soapy chamois offers a sponge bath. The right wrist is momentarily released from the Rigid stock, washed and returned to its binding. Then the left wrist. Then the neck. The freedom is relished yet so brief.

‘Why cannot I be longer freed?’ Mrs. Casperson thinks to herself but dares not question aloud.

Feeling the belly bloat, Mrs. Casperson moans, knowing to otherwise remain obediently quiet. The strict nurse does not brook complaint.

“Hold for me... be a good girl.”

She holds. She is a good girl. But then again she has no choice, the nozzle greatly expanded.

Nurse Grayson steps away. She returns with a tray. Shaving cream, a straight razor, its sharpness bringing alarm, a bottle, its contents known to depilate.

“Hold still.”

The head is coated. Mrs. Casperson’s heart sinks when the eyebrows are laved as well. And she does hold still, more motionless then her bindings demand. For Mrs. Grayson is quick, having shaved so often. What little stubble has grown is whisked away. Baldness. Why?

The eyes are closed, knowing what follows. Quick strokes of the razor and a day’s eyebrow growth is whisked away. The spray hose rinses. Then comes more horror. The depilation cream is smoothed over her hairless head... eyebrows as well.  

There comes an emotional plunge, Mrs. Casperation realizing that over time the lotion will bring permanence, the razor unnecessary. Perhaps that should bring gladness... appearance to be forever transformed to Master Arlen’s demented desire.

The smoothing hands withdraw. Nurse Grayson steps away, washing her hands of the strong chemical. She returns with a mirror. In further decimating any feminine pride, she shows Mrs. Casperson her reflection. It’s bizarre...alien... complete baldness, the lotion burning to remind that though the transition is slow, it is steady, the destruction of the follicles ongoing... a daily ritual.

“All gone,” a smiling Mrs. Grayson iterates.

Satisfied with the duress, that her charge fully understands the power and the exchange thereof, Mrs. Grayson steps away, stowing the mirror.

“Release for me,” the enema nozzle deflated.

There need be no second command, the bowel contents gush... to the platform... to the drain... the spray hose bringing neatness. Then the head is sprayed, Mrs. Casperson sighing in relief, the burning defoliant sent to the drain as well.
 
Next, the body is shaved. Though superfluous, Mrs. Casperson by no means hirsute, Mrs. Grayson wants her to feel the scything of the razor, every inch subjected to her attention, more exchange of power and control.

Finally comes the pubes. Ah, here time and great care is warranted. The shaving cream is applied. A steady knowing hand works, slowly... carefully. Freed of the tight, confining chastity belt, the sensation thrills. Mrs. Casperson struggles to remain motionless, the cool room air wafting over hypersensitive moist pink flesh. She knows what will follow. Knows that with the heightened sensitivity brought by the razor’s edge, the teasing, tantalizing feathering will bring frustration... joy but frustration. More than when idyly suspended in Master Arlen's office.

Upstairs, Arlen Jacob Casperson grasps the remote control for the huge high definition television. Pressing to switch cameras... number three... there comes a libidinous closeup... the rosebud anal opening... meaty splayed outer labia... the inner lips flushed red. The pearl of an engorged clitoris is shown. Ankles secured, the widely spread thighs reveal all. And all is so vulnerable to the nimble fingers of the bisexual Nurse Grayson.

A wet cloth daintily smooths about, removing excess cream. When Mrs. Grayson steps aside, ridding of razor, cream and towel, Mr. Casperson’s viewing is unimpeded. With another press of a button, the camera lens zooms inward.      
    
Mrs. Grayson returns. She places a clipboard on the small of the nude back. Then, tape in hand, Mrs. Casperson is measured... everywhere... waist, thighs, calves, biceps, bust line. The kneeling naked woman is being assessed, her measurements recorded.

“You’re fattening nicely. Mr. Casperson will be pleased.”

“Why? Why is he doing this to me?”

Mrs. Grayson shrugs and jots down the final measurement.

“Because he can. You’re being objectified, it’s a common paraphilia. And he enjoys toying with his object. You’re going to look the way he wants you to look. There are plans.”

“What are the plans?”

“You will know in time. Now, a couple if rinsing enemas.... I want you to be running clear... then it will be  time for a nice massage.”

The dreaded cold water enemas! But then massage, yes. It is needed having spent hours bound upright on toes. But Mrs. Casperson is all too aware of how the devilish Mrs. Grayson concludes her efforts.

The feather!  

Saturday, November 11, 2017

The Trophy, Segment Two


Arlen Jacobs Casperson leads a departing Charles Hanson from his office. Seeing the businessmen bidding adieu in the foyer, Nurse Grayson knows that Mrs. Casperson’s morning ordeal is finally to end. She slips into the opulent den, steps to a cabinet and retrieves a length of leather and hobbling shackles.

Moving to the naked hanging form, she notes the woman’s eyes are closed. Exhaustion overwhelms and the sight of the helpless well shaped plaything brings a smile. There is gratification in her dominion.

Totally unnecessary, Mrs. Casperson nude and yoked in the rigid stock, husband Arlen still insists she will always yield to strict authority, never to sense freedom. Thus the ankles are shackled, the connecting chain short. Never again will Mrs. Casperson fully stride, always to endure the power of another. The length of leather, a leash, is clipped to an eyelet on the Rigid Stock, just under the chin. Moving to the nearby wall, one switch is flipped, extinguishing a set of bright overhead spotlights. Then another causing, the hoist to again whirr. Her charge slowly lowers, Mrs. Grayson quickly returning to assure the swooning play toy does not harm herself in collapsing to the floor.     

“You did well today. Get you bathed, examined, fed and a nice nap,” strong hands guiding the voluptuous Mrs. Casperson to kneel as the cables are unhooked.

“Thank you, thank you. I’m... I’m very tired.”

“Can you stand and walk... or do you want to crawl for me?” a hand smoothing over the bald oil coated cranium as one would offer affection to dog.

“Please walk me... in a moment.”

“Did Mr. Hanson appreciate your... ah... display? You’re quite alluring when oiled.”

“Judging from his stares, I believe I performed to Arlen’s... ah... Master’s satisfaction. I don’t know why I cannot be hooded for these exhibitions. It’s quite embarrassing... naked, bound and... you know... bald.”

“It’s the way Mr. Casperson wants you. He particularly likes to see your naked skin gleaming while you hang under the bright lights. Like viewing a priceless painting at a museum.”

With that, Mrs. Grayson reaches into the right pocket of her uniform, there to retrieve a thick black garment. Abetting the sense of powerlessness, Mrs. Casperson is led about sightless. The hood slips with ease over the hairless head, fingers aligning a large opening for nose and mouth.

“Come,” a strong arm utilizing the leash to lift.

It’s slow and laborious guiding the blinded woman. But Master Casperson insists it is the only manner in which she is to be conveyed about.

‘She’ll feel better. It assuages a certain need,’ Arlen Jacob Casperson explained when first initiating Mrs. Grayson to the desired level of his control.

Legs shaky, it’s out the den door. Business associate Charles Hanson and financier Arlen Jacob Casperson remain conversing at the front entrance.

“A nurse,” Hanson observes in seeing the white uniform. “You do take care of her, Arlen.”

“She’s more of a keeper. The medical training is just one aspect of Mrs. Grayson’s responsibilities.”

“The yoke... is it ever... ah... removed?”

“Daily for cleansing.... but only briefly. And she’s kept otherwise well bound while being bathed. It’s... well... you’d not want a wife like mine... ah... to think she is privileged. Still she’s comfortable... having no cares... no responsibilities. Everything is done for her. I ask nothing and she does nothing.”

“Nothing but stand in your den, I see.”

“It soothes, Charles. Makes a tedious business day go faster. And you certainly don’t mind looking at her.” 

The wicked chuckle of voyeur Charles Hanson is left behind as the slow procession finally comes to the door leading to the basement chamber.

“Here we go. Slow going down the stairs. One step at a time.”

The verbal guidance is moot, for the hobbling chain of some eighteen inches only permits one very cautious step at a time. Mrs. Grayson leads, gripping the leash close to the Rigid Stock for support. Her naked charge follows... must follow... right foot down one step then joined by the left. Right foot down another step then joined by the left. The pace is grueling, mentally wearing. But it is as intended.

Meanwhile husband Arlen closes the front door after Charles Hanson and scurries back to the den. Turning on a broad flat screen high definition television, ceiling mounted cameras in the basement apprize him of Mrs. Grayson’s progress.    

It’s a favorite part of the day, watching the nurse ply her skills.

Saturday, November 4, 2017

The Trophy, Segment One

Been a while. Male/Female Dominant female submissive short story. Not sure where it will go.

Enjoy.


********************************************************************************

The Trophy

Copyright 2017

by Chris Bellows

“You’re sick, Arlen. Really... is this how you prefer spending your money.”

“Careful with your words, dear. If I have to have you silenced, Mrs. Grayson will oblige. I do have work to do. And how am I to be called?”

“Sir,” the rebuke bringing contrition.

The threat is pleasantly conveyed, but Mrs. Casperson knows that husband Arlen Jacobs Casperson is a man of resolve and will indeed have her silenced. Such insouciance to her plight, not even looking up from his paper, engrossed in the Wall Street Journal.

Pausing, aware that with a simple press of his finger the dreaded Mrs. Grayson will be summoned, Mrs. Casperson momentarily quiets herself. She then finds the need to resume.

“How long this morning?... sir,” her tone softening, the question pleafully broached in chancing a visit from Mrs. Grayson.

“I’ll decide that. You are never to know. It’s... you know... the awareness and control thing. Your lack of it... and my thorough possession of it. You’re not tiring already, are you dear? It’s quite early.”

The wealthy and erudite Arlen Jacobs Casperson finally looks up, surveying his wife. Eyes feasting, as always he adores, her image bringing adulation. There is a sense of love and devotion. Yet it is not that of a husband for a beautiful and ravishing wife. It is that of an admirer of fine art viewing a classic sculpture.

“I’m just a little high, sir.”

“Mrs. Grayson does like to offer a challenge dear. You’ll acclimate over time. And it makes your legs shapely... more shapely”

“You if want me to be shapely, sir, you’d let me exercise... and the diet... all that fattening stuff.”

“You’ll be fine. I just want you a little... ah... plumper.”

The eyes continue to assess, noting that the calve muscles strain, the thighs flex. Mrs. Casperson is in her morning pose, held standing on her toes. The bondage is extreme, yet safe and in fact comfortable... when not so placed in a stress position.

A Martin Rigid Stock, some four feet in length, adorns the shoulders, openings encapsulating the wrists and neck. Custom made, the smooth interior circumference of stainless steel perfectly accommodates the limbs and neck. It can be worn for days without the need for release. Graciously, Mrs. Grayson daily offers a few moments of relief for ablutions.

Cables leading to a ceiling hoist are hooked to the stock at the shoulders left and right. Such can be adjusted, and Arlen Jacobs Casperson notes that on this morning, Mrs. Grayson has displayed a degree of spite, working the hoist such that only the toes lend support. There is an entertaining search for the floor in contending with gravity.

Moving upwards, the eyes focus on the chastity device of matching polished and gleaming stainless steel. Tightly encircling the waist, a triangular cod piece covers the pubes, denying access to the nether region and narrowing between the thighs to fill the gluteal cleft then rising to where it attaches to the rear of the belt. Locked in place, Mrs. Grayson holding the key, Arlen Jacobs Casperson smiles in recalling the initial protest of his wife.

‘Arlen, if I’m to be kept in constant bondage, why the chastity belt?’
      
Mrs. Casperson later found the answer. The device not only doubly assures her chastity, but also holds in place anal and vaginal inserts, pliable but firm replicas of a penis... that of the master of the house. The symbolism both intrigues and titillates... Mrs. Casperson to always feel her husband’s presence... where a woman feels the most.

Thus the reference to money, Mrs. Casperson futilely chiding in knowing that wealth and the ongoing accumulation thereof interests husband Arlen as much as assuaging his paraphilias. The hoisting apparatus, the Martin Rigid Stock, the chastity device, the molds of his impressive penis, cost thousands. And then there’s the medical chamber, a large section of the basement expensively converted to what appears to be a combination of bathroom, salon and physical therapy ward.  

Moving higher, Arlen Jacobs Casperson next rivets his eyes on the breasts. Such perfection, large but nicely rounded, the perky nipples beckon and invite, constantly crinkled while Mrs. Casperson is placed on display. Yes, the somatic reaction evidences her own penchant. Exhibitionism, submission, being forced to succumb all bring arousal... augmented by the many, many weeks of denial... and what about the house is referenced as Mrs Grayson’s special treatment... both craved and despised. 

Yes, when released of the chastity device for shaving and cleansing, Mrs. Casperson is feathered to near orgasm... then returned to her state of denial... clitoral stimulation terminating just before ultimate climax.

Eyes to the face... there is no make up. The natural handsomeness, perfectly symmetrical features, eyes of blue, a nose to be envied by those seeking rhinoplasty, requires no enhancement.

Contrasting are the missing eyebrows. Shaven regularly, Mrs. Casperson detests this insistence. Husband Arlen finds that hair detracts. Therefore she has none... anywhere.

‘Arlen, how am I to go out looking like this?’ the finger of a well bound hand ruefully gesturing to her bald head when Mrs. Grayson first defoliated her entire body. 

‘It won’t be a problem dear,’ Arlen holding up a wig... which she has yet to wear, knowing that as his captive creature of pulchritude, she is never to leave the house.

The eyes return to the Wall Street Journal, taking in as much news as possible before the opening of the stock market, the desk computer indicating five minutes to the opening bell. Then trading begins. As Mr. Casperson looks to the screen he glances to note the pose of Mrs. Casperson has shifted, the toes no longer trying to relieve the leg muscles. Instead, there comes the crossing of the legs, a little girl in need of going potty. Knowing such means much weight is uncomfortably shifted to the Rigid Stock and thus the wrists and neck, Arlen Jacobs Casperson finds amusement, but also the need to summon Mrs. Grayson.

As a finger finds the button for the buzzer, Mrs. Casperson notes the chivalrous response but also finds need to again protest.

“Can’t you take care of me, please, sir. You know I just can’t.... you know... get comfortable with...”

“It’s her job... and she does it very well.”

No knock, the door to the spacious office den of the Casperson mansion opens. In steps the imposing Mrs. Grayson dressed as always in the starched white uniform of her trade.

“Our little girl needs to go potty, Mrs. Grayson.”

The woman smiles, the pearl white teeth impressive, contrasting the dark complexion of the woman of color.

If the wife gently admonishes for spending money on the bondage paraphernalia, she would find double concern if Mrs. Grayson’s remuneration was disclosed. Free room and board plus a salary into the six figures, keeping Mrs. Casperson naked, hairless, well bound yet clean and well cared for is expensive.       

“And the nipples please Mrs. Grayson... you know how I like them,” the master of the house adds.     

The nurse nods, moving to a cabinet. There a well trained hand finds a metal basin, specially shaped to be wedged between the thighs. She then strolls to the wall switch controlling the hoist, flicking the switch for an instant to lower the strained nakedness of the lady of the house. Stepping before her helpless charge she smiles. Veiling any of admission of gratitude, Mrs. Casperson looks straight into the becoming face. She has never determined whether the smile is one of politeness or wicked enjoyment. 

“Spread for me. Be a good girl.”

Feet now fully finding the floor, Mrs. Casperson knows to comply, the basin wedged high between shapely yet growing thighs. The curved concave sides fit perfectly, the collection vessel able to stay in place without support while Mrs. Casperson must so ignominiously relieve herself.

It’s embarrassing, yet there is need, and within moments her excretions begin to flow through a narrow slit in the cod piece.

“Good girl,” enunciated mother to child as freed hands rise to the breasts.

Then thumb and index finger of right hand and left gently tweak the nipples. Mrs. Casperson sighs with the delight, ashamed to find the touch is so knowing and, in her strict chastity, so welcomed. Combined with the bladder relief, there comes a joyous reaction, that desired by sir, Master Casperson. Yes, as requested... as demanded... the tender pink buds obediently harden, further crinkling, the base of the mammary glands seeming to tighten and sit up like an obeisant dog.

Arlen Jacobs Casper smiles in delight. He enjoys seeing the glands defy gravity.

Deed completed, Mrs. Grayson curtails her efforts, the hanging play toy stifling the perverse yearning to offer humble thanks. She knows to part her thighs and Mrs. Grayson takes charge of the filled basin.

“Some massage? You’ll be able to hang longer.”

Mrs. Casperson ever so slightly shakes her head, the Rigid Stock denying much motion. Of her expert talents, therapeutic massage is just one of many, the nurse most knowledgeable. Oddly, Mrs. Casperson both covets and disdains the woman’s touch, her homophobia contrasting the bisexuality of her keeper.

Still she knows, before being caged for the evening, Mrs. Grayson will have her way, kneading and caressing everywhere before joining the master of the house in bed.

As humiliating as it is to be kept in constant bondage and denial, it is that aspect of Mr. Casperson’s deviant protocol which most distresses. As Mrs. Casperson is relegated to a low cramping cage in the bedroom, she must watch, listen... even smell... the lustful love making each and every night.  

But worse is the taste, many nights orally cleansing the moist, worn penis of husband and master Arlen Jacobs Casper of the remnants of steamy, unending copulation.

‘Does it have to be with a black woman?’ Mrs. Casperson tearfully inquired with the initial tryst.

‘Skin color never came into the equation, my dear. My need was for a woman with nutritional training, medical skills, experienced in massage, not affronted by bondage, indifferent to slow mild suffering and of course bisexual... to assure she enjoys your daily plight. Not easy to find.’

‘She’s a dominatrix!’ a frustrated wife countered.

Her outburst brought a shrug and a flippant reply.

‘Just wanted the best for you.’

Basin in hand, Mrs. Grayson returns to the wall switch. The hoist whirs, lifting. Arlen Jacobs Casperson inwardly smiles in satisfaction as his naked and bound wife is returned to her toes. As Mrs. Grayson departs, he knows that the refusal of massage, the soothing hands of a woman found to be repugnant, to be a mistake which Mrs. Casperson will regret for many hours.

“I have an appointment at 11:00 a.m. my dear, Charles Hanson. Do muster the resolve to properly greet him.”

“Why sir? Why do you always meet him here?”

“Guess I like showing off my trophy. It’s a guy thing. I’ll have Mrs. Grayson diddle those pink titties again before he arrives. You’ll want to be presentable, I’m sure.” 

Saturday, August 19, 2017

Neuroplasticity, Segment Six

This will be the last posted segment. Hope you enjoy the full story.

CB

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Has it been a week?

I ponder as for exercise a nurse walks me about the institute. I receive many looks. Holding hands, led about like a child, I tend to amuse and for some reason it no longer disturbs, not as much when first led to the doctor’s office.

Over my bed, if the padded strap-laden platform can be so termed, a mirror has been mounted on the ceiling. Thus for many hours per day, before lights out, I lie immobile in my Segufix bonds peering at myself. This therapy, the need to acclimate to my forced transformation, includes not only changing my appearance, but ensuring that I am mentally, emotionally aware.

Augmenting the permanent make up... tattooed lips and eyes... the grooming of my hair has continued. Longer, it’s in the style of a page boy, squarely trimmed at the jaw line. Balls remaining harnessed there is only my colored stubby penis to be seen at my pubes. So small, so insensitive. It now merely serves to drain my bladder.

And my body hair... where is it? When bathed, whatever lotion is used to cleanse does smell harsh and gives rise to strong tingling. Is such a depilatory?

So I am aware, my appearance growing more effeminate daily.

There is concern. But ah, there’s the feather and the nurse’s unending short and teasing strokes. In the tedium, the interminable intervals of being in bondage, awaiting morning ablutions, I think of how good her attention feels. And it seems to feel better each day.

During this morning’s session... impelling neuroplasticity... a second nurse joined us. A woman of color, tall, shapely but more in an athletic sense than womanly, she stood before my nakedness as I knelt on all fours, the feather working scrotum and anus. She smiled with my initial moan of delight, seeming to take pride... like having accomplished something. Then her hands extended, lowering to my chest. Her fingers began toying with my nipples. For some reason such have grown puffy, somewhat protruding. Yes she fondled, and with the added delight I moaned anew. Then I felt some twinges, about my sphincter, that being so tantalizingly feathered. With that, the free hand of the feathering nurse went to the purple of my penis stub, quickly and most evanescently exploring.

I looked down, between the hands and tweaking black fingers at my chest. There was ooze, creamy white streaming from the purple tattooing.

‘How do you feel, Mr. Wells?’ the black nurse gently inquired with a beaming smile.

I just nodded, gasping for breath. Something was happening, my loins giving. Slowly I became tranquil, quiescent. Oddly, I began to feel like I had just run a fast mile, been well exercised. Exhaustion was looming.

For many moments the feathering continued, the fingers toying my nipples. Then all energy just drained away and I slumped to the stainless steel surface, unable to remain on all fours.

‘Your first anal orgasm, Mr. Wells.’

Did I hear properly when the black nurse added the exclamation ‘good girl’?

Friday, August 18, 2017

Neuroplasticity published

I have published the referenced story.

Female dominant, male submissive, what I believe is a unique story line.

46,900 words. $9.00

Enjoy

http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/neuroplasticity/21322152

Saturday, August 12, 2017

Neuroplasticity, Segment Five

“Do you like your new garment, Mr. Wells? Or do you prefer to be completely naked?”

I sit in the straight backed chair rather gingerly, enduring the endless questions of Dr. Rebecca Stackhouse.

“It’s... it’s okay. Difficult to sit,” for some reason my voice meek.

“Yes, you do have to be careful. It’s a drawback. But the harness nicely tucks away your testicles... your remnants of maleness... don’t you think?”

It does. My sole garment can only be described as a jockstrap... but worn backwards, tightly cradling my scrotum and precious balls and pulling back such that they nest in the crevice of my buttocks. Thus I carefully sit upright, not wishing to crush what were given leniency by the Syariah Court.

But of more concern, the straps at the front, splitting to form a ‘V’, serve to highlight my purple... violet... appendage, forcing the tiny stub to thrust forward. As I am walked about the institute, hand in hand with a supervising nurse, onlookers cannot doubt that I have been altered. Balls not to be seen, only that left behind by the doctor’s scalpel.

“Why?” my meekness bringing distress.

“Once again, Mr. Wells. You need to accept your status... no longer an intact man. The ball harness... as the girls like to term it... veils your male bits. You’d not want anyone to think you’re potent would you? That would be deceptive.”

There’s a pause, the doctor letting that thought percolate. I choose not to reply.

“You’re beginning to look pretty for us, Mr. Wells. What do you think of your hair style?”

In completing the morning feathering, I was bathed and groomed as the nurse suggested. But the grooming included effeminate styling of my hair, approaching shoulder length in not having visited the barber since beginning my terrorizing vacation. Parted in the middle, my locks fall straight down, evenly trimmed over my ears. I also have bangs and upon being offered a quick glimpse in the mirror I was shocked to see the reflection of a boyish looking girl, the coloring of my lips and eyes highlighted by my jet black hair.    

“It’s... well... girlish.”

The doctor just nods, letting me stew on the words.

“Let’s talk about your penectomy. I think it would be cathartic for you. Every detail please, though I’m sure with the anesthesia you can’t recall everything.”

Can’t recall after I passed out, anesthesia not offered other then some novocaine.

There is reluctance, bad enough that the Muslim doctor beckons me every night in my dreams... Gurney... straps... catheter... scalpel. Her stern yet attractive image has become a succubus. I try to forget, yet I must recollect... accede to the therapy... must avoid being listed as a sex offender, the equivalent of economic death in terms of my career as a financial consultant.

So I tell of my penectomy. And it seems it requires more time to relate the story than it took to separate me from my penis. 

Saturday, August 5, 2017

Neuroplasticity, Segment Four

I awaken. Is it morning? The room is pitch black. Thus I don’t know but am relieved that I no longer see the Muslin doctor... the hijab... hear her words... see her gesturing for me to lie again on the Gurney.

But my relief lasts not. It suddenly occurs to me... therapy completed... sex offender’s list avoided... how is it I will be able to interact with my clients? Lips a lurid violet, eye make permanently projecting... projecting what?

The concern is joined by the need to urinate. I dare not wet my bed, if that is what the platform is termed. Fortunately the door opens, the room alights.

“Good morning, Mr. Wells. Time for a toilet visit, some bathing, some grooming, some therapy.”

The nurse is cheery. I am cheered as well in noting a degree of maturity. Tall, no doubt seasoned, hand and fingers work to quickly release the magnetic locking posts, the straps folded away, the many encircling bands of nylon slipped off.

I slide from the table and stand, knowing to let her take my hand. It’s protocol... to be walked about.

Out the door, down the hall, there is urgency... for the bathroom. Yet I know it will not come... not a normal visit. There seems to be another institute protocol... I am to be handled. So it’s into this curious medical room, well stock with implements, devices, towels, tubing, plumbing, where I know to mount a stainless steel table used for examination and bathing, as suggested.

This being some fourth or fifth visit, I know to patiently kneel on all fours, waiting for permission to urinate... always waiting for permission to do anything. The nurse prepares.

“You’re becoming, Mr. Wells. The coloring... very... well... pretty,” the compliment if indeed a compliment coming as she grasps a basin and approaches.

I further part my knees, oddly relieved in feeling my remaining male bits swing about between my thighs, castration avoided. Then I feel the hands as the woman in white positions herself behind me, left hand cupping my scrotal sac to gently pull back, thumb and index finger of the right finding the tiny stub of a once proud, now gaily colored penis.

“Psst, psst,” she encourages.

I need no further inspiration, despite the ignominy instantly opening myself, chagrined to note the flow no longer to be a stream but a sloppy spray in need of direction... a woman’s direction.

Emptied, I am dried like a infant. Then as expected, a suppository is slipped into a well exposed anus, a finger remaining impaling me to assure... well... to assure a maximize sense of vulnerability and embarrassment I suppose. 

Why can I not have covering?

“Get you emptied... number one and number two. Then we’ll stimulate some synaptic response... impel some neuroplasticity,” the nurse lectures.

The suppository works, I am sure of clinical strength, not of the home use variety. Plus the inserted finger wriggles about, further assuring the need to defecate. Within moments the nurse detects contractions. The basin is repositioned and I again relieve myself... number two... under close supervision. It’s daunting.

To a waiting toilet, the basin is emptied, excretions flushed, the nurse returning with a tray. A moist towelette cleanses me, its use normally for infants. Then comes the stimulation I both crave and detest.

The left hand palms the front of my scrotum drawing it back towards my nurse. The right hand, thumb and index finger grasping a feather, begins to work the sensitive thin pink flesh, ever so teasingly grazing, then smoothing upward to likewise graze my perineum then my sphincter, flesh there of equal sensitivity. The fingers work, mechanically, relentlessly, applying the feather, on occasion withdrawing as I take gulps of air then lowly moan with the comparative ecstasy. Many weeks of chastity, my altered sex thirsts for attention. The feather it’s... it’s so devilish yet so welcomed.

The joy is so distant yet feels so good. I am essentially being masturbated, yet there is no ultimate reaction... can be no ultimate reaction. The doctor explaining that the ejaculatory muscles have been squelched, Botox obviating contraction.  

Still there is neuroplasticity... at least it is assumed... it is hoped. Priming the brain to form and reorganize synaptic connections, in response to or following injury. And I have certainly been injured, my instrument of sexual prowess incised, last seen being slipped away, down a catheter tube.

I take deep breaths. I pull with my PC muscles, that which normally gives rise to many wads of thick white spunk.

Nothing happens... other than soft laughter emanating from she in control.

“Such effort... so little results, Mr. Wells. But give it time. Your brain will rewire. Anal stimulation will bring pleasure... ecstatic pleasure with enough daily therapy. Anal orgasms... you’ll come to so much enjoy and savor. And the pituitary injections will help.”

Pituitary injections?


Saturday, July 29, 2017

Neuroplasticity, Segment Three


Doctor Becky presses a button. A young nurse, white uniform, white cap and those white rubber soled shoes never seen outside a medical facility... wherever do they get them?.. enters. She takes a note from the doctor reads and smiles.

“Come with me, Mr. Wells,” her stern tone contrasting her refreshing vibrance.  

“I’ll want to know all the details of your penectomy. Next visit, Mr. Wells,” the doctor demanding more than informing.    

Institute protocol, ridiculous but rigorously applied, is that patients are led about by the hand. Thus I know to offer my left and she takes it in her right.

“You look very pretty for us, Mr. Wells.”

I somewhat blush, in my nakedness assuming she is referencing the purple... violet... whatever... coloring of my truncated phallus. In our stroll, passing nurses and other staff look at me and smile, the younger repressing laughter. Then we pass a display case and I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the glass. I have not seen my face since I was sedated a day or so ago, time difficult to judge in the windowless institute. I am shocked. Something about my eyes... more coloring. And my lips! What have they done to my lips?

I blurt an expletive. I am rebuked.

“No, no, Mr. Wells. No talking unless spoken to, you know that.”

I do. And with the annoying advisement I am looking forward to being returned to my room. No more questions, no more exhibiting myself... and my now limited tattooed organ... no more being led about like a toddler. Though there is no television, no computer, no radio, there are books to read, the selection small and all pulp... romance novellas. Still, I can be left to my thoughts.

But the nurse takes a different turn... and another. She opens a door. It is not my room. In place of a comfortable bed in the corner, there is a padded platform in the center. Thick nylon straps lie in wait... at the pillow end, in the middle, at the feet end.

“Please lie down, Mr. Wells. And I’ll tuck you in nice a safe.”

“What is this?” my words sharp.

“No talking. You’ve been naughty,” the nurse, at least ten years my junior speaking to me as if a child. “You’ll find the Segufix restraints to be very comfortable... in time. Safe, confining yet comfortable. And no masturbation.”

Ah, such which gave rise to the doctor’s note... the naughtiness of so feebly attempting masturbation.

******************************************************************************   
So I am introduced to the Segufix restraint system. Ankles, thighs, wrists and biceps are encircled in nylon, each restraint in turn attached to the broad straps tightly crossing my body and secured beneath the platform. The locking system is clever, magnetic. I can be quickly freed by anyone with the demagnetizing key. Meanwhile, I cannot move, other then my head. And the nurse forewarned that more naughtiness, more unauthorized speech earns head restraint, gag included. She showed me the gear, resting nearby and in wait for my next transgression.

In capitulation, I will be good. I will be silent. I never thought the ability to turn one’s head would become a luxury.    

Before departing... euphemistically referenced as tucking me in... the nurse produced a hand mirror, apparently in response to catching my refection and the resulting expletive.

“You may as well learn to accept compliments, Mr. Wells,” positioning such that my reflection is more than a glance. “You really are pretty.”

Shocked again, my lips are colored... matching the stub of my penis. And there is something which replicates make up, about the eyes, the lids. Like mascara or shadow... violet... and I am distressed to assume that... like my penis... the coloring is permanent.

What are they doing to me!

I divert my thoughts, the doctor’s parting words. The details of my penectomy...

Unlike the application of justice in the United States, wheels turning slowly, under the Syariah system, sentences are carried out swiftly, almost with immediacy. There must be an appeal system, I think to myself. But to what end? Can a penectomy be reversed? And if so, can my vaunted organ be located for reunion?

Stupid thoughts, indicating the trouble one has... with... with acceptance as Dr. Rebecca Stackhouse has rejoined.

Hustled from the court room, into a van, to a small island hospital. I am amazed to be greeted by a female doctor donning a hijab. She is becoming yet dour, apparently, as with the judge, buying into the girl’s story, the Gerakan Pramuka, that I am a rapist.

I am strapped to a Gurney, wheeled to an operating room, the guards disappeared, relegating me to the medical staff. I mentally try to prepare for the end, if that’s possible for a guy. To be anesthetized, then returned to conscientiousness to view the horror of my sentence, to see a bandaged pubes, after healing wonder of my reaction. Will the revulsion be stifled or controlled?    

But I am not. The doctor explains in accented English.

“Only local anesthesia, American. It’s cheaper, you’ll recover quicker, and you’ll be able to leave the island before there is more trouble.”

The words seem genuine, but there’s a look on her handsome face. Vengeance... the satisfaction thereof bringing Schadenfreude. Will I be made to watch?

And so I depantsed. I am catheterized. The Gurney is adjusted. Cruelly I am forced to sit upright, yes watching as a nurse marks my appendage, ink circling just below the penis tip as the doctor prepares a hypodermic needle. 

Gloved hands lower, fondling in a mocking manner, the doctor seeming to know that normally such palpation gives rise to male gratification. And yes, normally I would enjoy. And indeed I find odd attraction. Why now, with the woman who is about to bring penile carnage? And she’s joyed by the irony, I have no doubt.

I am injected, I am numbed. But then comes spite. The doctor takes the marking pen from the nurse circling my penis again, on this occasion near the base. My eyes widen, there will be little remaining.

“No more sex for you... no more rape for you, American... not here... not anywhere.”

Scalpel in hand she begins, slowly, the deliberation notable, the nurse attentively swabbing the blood. Moments later, when I see the incised penis tip and shaft slip down the catheter tube, the doctor offered needle and sutures, I faint. There is no more to tell, the doctor augmenting Sharia law with a level of punishment of her own, forcing me to observe my alteration... my transformation to a being other than male.

As sleep overcomes, I fear I will dream. It’s always the same... the doctor, in her hijab... she beckons to a waiting Gurney... her words repeat... seemingly throughout every night... ‘no more sex for you, American.’

Saturday, July 22, 2017

Neuroplasticity, Segment Two


“It was done quite professionally, Mr. Wells,” Dr. Becky interrupting my discourse. “If there is any consolation, years ago I read you would have been publicly mutilated, chopped by a sword in the town square... possibly bleeding to death.”

Perhaps a better fate, I think but dare not say. Thoughts of death dare not be communicated. I am sure the institute having harsh confinement for those considering self harm... a nicely padded room.

“Plus you were free to leave the country and fly home,” the words curiously suggesting I was offered leniency.

“And was dragged from U.S. Customs and Immigration at the airport and brought before a judge,” I blurt in frustration.

“You are a sex offender. And became the recipient of more leniency. Not yet listed,” the doctor smugly points out.

As long as I pass muster here at the institute, I think to myself. That was the deal, seek professional help or be so listed and placed on probation. Upon entering the institute, even a rudimentary physical revealed the consequences of my Sharia punishment. My penis, now a stub, can harden, but for what purpose? It has the sensitivity of the heel of my foot. And it’s useless for penetrative sex.

“Does your organ harden... during therapy? Any response yet? Neuroplasticity, Mr. Wells, we’re counting on it to bring you back a healthy sex life.”    

Is this therapy pseudo science? I have read that neuroplasticity is the ability of the brain to form and reorganize synaptic connections, especially in response to learning or experience or following injury.

Following injury, yes. To my manhood... to my male pride... to my libido.

Still, how does a guy get himself off with less than half a dick? To crassly state my dilemma!

So, without the frictioning and fondling of my penis tip, the removed underside being where the male receives most if his sensual pleasure, there is no release... no climax... no eruption... no ecstacy. And compounding the dilemma, the hormones build and build, the ostensible leniency in sparing full castration instead bringing a pinnacle of frustration.

“It seems to swell a bit, yes,” I offer, not wishing to seem fully skeptical.

“Good, it’s a start. You’ll find your tending nurses to be quite patient and understanding if you’ll work with them. We’ll soon have you secreting.”

Secreting? Yes, the institute’s euphemism for being depleted of male essence... that which formerly spurted with blissful zeal.

“Why cannot I ejaculate?” I bluntly inquire. “And why is my penis colored? Purple of all shades!”

I was sedated days ago. They did things. I need to understand.

“Calm yourself Mr. Wells, it’s for the best. And it’s really a pretty shade of violet, meant to be attractive.”

“Attractive? Why attractive... there!”

“You need to accept your state, Mr. Wells. The tattooing announces for all to see that you’ve been altered. You’ll not be denying it... not hiding it... and you shouldn’t. The coloring proclaims your alteration and that will mean you must accept it. The self denial ends. You’ve had a penectomy and will no longer function as a normal man.”

Tattooing! I am sickened with the words. My penis stub permanently colored... so gaily!

“And for now we don’t want you ejaculating. We’ve ended that... with Botox injections to your ejaculatory muscles. As I said, you will now secrete. There is no point in erupting. Normal penetrative sex is over. Curious that you’ve attempted masturbation. We have found that such leads to depression and is therefore against institute policy. We know of these things. Let us guide you, begin the process of neuroplasticity.”

Dr. Becky pauses to write on a pad. In exasperation I turn to silence, trying to convince myself that they know best. Besides, it’s my only chance to stay off the sex offenders list and maintain my living as a trustworthy financial consultant. The judge so specified. I am in the hands of Dr. Rebecca Stackhouse. Voluntarily?


Saturday, July 15, 2017

Neuroplasticity, Segment One

New Story. Back to female dominant/ male submissive.

Not much feedback on the Nusquam story.

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Neuroplasticity

Copyright 2017

by Chris Bellows

Part One - The Institute

“How do you feel Mr. Wells? Are you becoming comfortable with your therapy?”

A smiling and unctuous Dr. Rebecca Stackhouse inquires, sitting in her huge black leather desk chair. For some reason it seems she’s looking down at me, though I sit at eye level in a straight backed chair.

Ironically I don’t think anyone could feel comfortable being presented naked before a fully clothed woman, hard wooden seat notwithstanding. Feeling spiteful, I ignore the questions, despite knowing there will be consequences.

“Why the markings? I don’t understand.”

“Acceptance. It will help you mentally acclimate to your... ah... your change.”

“It’s humiliating. Will the stuff wash off?”

Dr. Stackhouse... it’s been suggested that I collegially call her Dr. Becky... just mouths the word ‘no’ and smirks. At least that is how I would interpret her condescending response.

“Let’s talk about the events which led to your... ah... transformation, Mr. Wells.”

Again? This so termed therapy seems more like brain washing. Still, though irritating, merely sitting and talking is more acceptable than the more invasive procedures at the institute. And there does come a catharsis, like reflecting on the deceased at a wake.
 
So I talk, on occasion looking to my pubes, which in reaction brings forth despondency followed by a pause. 

*********************************************************************************

Vacation. I like warmth. I like sunshine. I like exotic. I like native girls. They always seem to like me, though a hundred dollar bill seems to most enhance my charm.

So my travel agent recommends this small island, one of hundreds comprising the country of Indonesia. A long airplane journey, then a boat ride of a few hours, and then I am in paradise... or so it seems.

Yes, I enjoy, initially. And it’s more than just beach and fishing. The native girls are many, young, friendly and conveniently impoverished. Dark hair and eyes, olive skin, the sun seems to make them glow. And once they learn a guy is staying at the only posh hotel within a hundred miles, there is attraction. Perhaps more for my wallet than me, but attraction. And besides, I’m not looking for marriage. It’s all about sex.

Being a thirty year old bachelor, making a good buck as a self employed financial consultant, I indulge. I’m not oversexed, but it’s vacation time, and the native girls seem to be fruit ripe for picking. 

So in the open aired outdoor hotel bar all it requires is one of those fruity rum drinks, a little whisper, the flash of a Benjamin Franklin and it’s to my room. Quick, neat, simple... no strings. After all I’m flying out within a week, and even if the girl could learn my real name and address, I will be thousands of miles from any possible repercussions.

We fuck. Young, tight but surprisingly knowledgeable, the girl certainly earns her portrait of Ben. But in the early morning, in attempting to surreptitiously exit my hotel room, there comes a problem. It seems that in being a significant portion of the small island’s economy, the hotel serves to attract more than well to do tourists. There are thieves, con artists, fake tour guides, hookers etc. And they in turn attract the authorities.

And that is what happens, my one night marriage comes to the attention of the police and the girl is arrested stepping from the elevator.

It is then that I receive an education in Sharia law. Indonesia is a Muslim country.

I am a protestant. The girl is of the Islamic faith. In having relations with a non Muslim under Sharia law she is to be lashed. Putting aside the horror and the agony of such barbaric corporal punishment, young and pretty, the girl knows that to earn more portraits of historical Americans that fine posterior needs not bear evidence of misdeeds, not to mention the grotesqueness of the scars.   

Solution... rape! she cries. I somehow envision her tearfulness while telling her contrived story, suggesting I spiked her fruit drink.

So they believe her, though I suspect the application of gifted tongue and lips to sensitive and welcoming male flesh gave her story more credence. It becomes me under arrest.

To Syariah Court. I have no representation, no access to the American consulate which is on another island hundreds of miles away. Things get worse. Word spreads... forced carnal relations. Dare I say the judge came under pressure? I also learn the term Gerakan Pramuka.

My hooker is a former member of Gerakan Pramuka... the Indonesian girl scouts!      

Such outrage! An upstanding local girl taken advantage of by a hedonistic tourist!

I am prosecuted, I am sentenced... under Sharia law, the judge offering a bizarre form of clemency. No jail time, no castration, I keep my testicles. But I am to be shortened, surgically, my penis to never again penetrate the portals of innocent young women.

Saturday, June 17, 2017

Nusquam, Letting Down, Segment Three


“How do you feel, 387? Tummy full?”

The African woman returns, hands lowering, fingers working to disconnect my feed bag.

“Yes, Ma’am. Thank you Ma’am,” I find myself humbly replying, the many weeks of sensory deprivation obliterating all resistance and latent disrespect.

“Remember to sit feet parted, 387. We have spreader bars for disobedient girls. You won't enjoy that. You’re to show yourself, open at all times. Now let’s get you prepared for presentation. Time for your benefactor to inspect and enjoy.”

As a free hand moves to disconnect my leash from the oversized ring of metal on the wall above, I note the other holds a sjambok... a simple implement of correction and encouragement. Made of cheap plastic, the end tapered for whippiness, I quickly learned to avoid its sting, the walk from the indoctrination building to the breeding chamber short but painful.

The handlers enjoy offering quick correcting taps. I also quickly learned to prance on my toes for them. The bouncing breasts both humiliate and bring amusement.

A strong hand tugs and I struggle to rise, my motion awkward with arms and hands useless and legs cramped. For my efforts, deemed untimely, the sjambok taps my left cheek. I lurch, the pain limited but unexpected.

“Come my igikeri. We have some special treatment for you.”

“My hands... my arms... it’s too tight... the rods... can they be loosened,” my voice quavering with my meek plea.

“Ah... of course they can. But for now it is best that you understand that mercy here at Nusquam is earned. And for now, with your arms so positioned, it presents nicely the breasts... for examination.”

With her words the handler slips the sjambok into her leash hand and demonstrates, palpating right mammary gland than left. And I must agree, with the pectoral muscles stretched, the breast flesh is soft and vulnerable to touch. They hang... my tits... invitingly.

Her fingers bring my nipples to crinkle. I blush. The handler has often fondled the breasts of  Nusquam subjugants, causing my prideful glands to rise and point.

“Your titties, we’ll have them producing for us. We know how to handle lactating girls. You’ll soon be letting down and dropping babies for us... just like 226. She’s quite fecund. Number six is baking in the oven for us.”

My handler turns and tugs. I rise to my toes and prance, my thoughts diverting to the fattened form of 226, the oversized belly not entirely resulting from the massive infusion of thick white sludge. She’s expecting... child number six... yet contrasting her gruesome physique, the face remains young. She looks not 30 years of age!

 My handler leads. An occasional firm tug establishes her control, sends her message of dominion. She looks back, smiling as my ample breasts jiggle libidinously in response.

Yes, I am well endowed there, proud of my glands, used judiciously to entice and attract men of culture and substance... i.e. money. My husband... exhusband... was entranced, marveling at the firm roundness... marveling all the way to the alter.

And now they serve to entertain.

Into a large room my handler leads. It appears to be a combination of medical facility and television studio, cameras mounted high in each corner. Yet there are mirrors... floor to ceiling on each of the four walls. I cannot help glancing at myself... limbs encircled with finely crafted steel bands at the wrists, elbows, knees and ankles, neck collar, forehead tattooed with the large numerals 387. There shows my brand... the letter ‘N’, the crimson keloided flesh prominently announcing my state of servitude.  

I am weighed. My 146 pounds recorded on a chart, the steel restraints adding some fifteen pounds to a body I have pridefully worked to keep shapely.

I am led to a table. Knee high, I am directed to mount and kneel. Stanchions accommodate my yoke. Cables with snaphooks bind me... unnecessarily with my yoke secured. Still my handler assures I am positioned with knees widely parted, the cables attached to my ankle and thigh bands forcing me to luridly display all a woman has been trained to modestly veil.

To assure the sense of thorough bondage, cables emanating from the table below are also hooked to my neck collar, elbow bands and wrist bands. The leash is removed and I find myself restrained absolutely motionless. The sense of helplessness and vulnerability cannot be described. And with arms already stretched to the limit by the adjustable rods, the added stress brings an irrepressible groan of anguish and frustration.

My handler smiles. Hands reach to my breasts, fingers gently tweaking my nipples. She enjoys. I am shamed to find her touch is welcomed.

“Suck some cock, 387, and the rods will be shortened,” aware of the source of my suffering. “One centimeter for each satiated penis. We have lots of big black cock for you. Your file suggests you like that.”

During indoctrination, the deluge of psychological blather, references to my dalliances with Dr. Grayson Hubbard were constant, my exhusband... for some reason referred to as my benefactor here at Nusquam... apparently detailing the many secret rendevous which led to divorce... the detective agency quite meticulous in documenting our many afternoon trysts. 

“And these will soon be put to work. You’ll express for us nicely 387. I don’t doubt it,” the words of my handler I am sure intended as a compliment.

My temperature is taken, anally as one must expect at Nusquam. Heart rate checked, blood pressure taken. All recorded along with my weight. Distantly comforting to know my medical condition is well monitored.

I am strangely disappointed when she steps away. Long held in chastity, her fingers have excited, despite the gender of the source. Yes, I feel myself moisten. And in realizing my bound nakedness is subject to recording, the cameras many, I blush. Yet there is arousal.

“Some gukuna imishino,” my handler proclaims, returning with a jar of oddly colored ointment.

Stepping behind me, fingers work, lubricating my vulva with the strange ointment. It warms. There is unwanted thrill. Then such press inward, finding the pink of my inner labia.

“A very old salve... from Africa... Rwanda. You’ll feel some tingling. It forces your labia to swell for me. Then I can work you... stretch your lips. In time you’ll have nice long strips of pink flesh... make your benefactor happy.”

As the fingers work, firmly pinching and pulling, it comes to mind that in time I will have the genitalia of 226. I envision her lips, resting languorously on the concrete floor of our detention room. I shudder in concern, my entire body fighting the many binding cables.

“Please no,” breaking my silence.

“Oh but yes. And not to worry, you’ll have matching nipples. All to please your benefactor.”

‘Damn you Roger Pearson’, I think but do not dare say aloud with all the recording devices.

Sunday, June 11, 2017

'Nusquam, Letting Down' published


I have published on Lulu the full short story.

Female Dominant/female submissive, forced lactation, bondage, humiliation.

21,000 words, $5.50.

http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/nusquam-letting-down/21042477


One more segment will be posted on Saturday June 17.


Saturday, June 10, 2017

Nusquam, Letting Down, Segment Two


Warned, 226 turns to silence as a white uniformed sizable women of color steps to the right of where I sit, grasps the end of the feeding tube emanating from my right nostril and connects to the feeding bag. When she lifts high and hooks it to a wall hook, I instantly feel the flow, involuntarily gushing to my stomach. When number 226 is similarly hooked up, I am shocked to see her long right nipple begin to secrete lactate.

She’s letting down!

“Machine milking later, 226,” the handler advises in the staccato of accented English. “You’ll give up much for us... no?”

With the mocking query, a dark hand lowers to the length of pink nipple flesh. Thumb and index finger pinch at the base then slip down the five or six inches to bring forth a burst of lactate that jets across the room, some droplets astonishingly landing near my feet. 226 emits a sigh of delight... not to be suppressed. The handler laughs, amused by her dominion.   

“And later some stretching... for your benefactor.”

The handler turns her attention to me.

“Part your feet further, 387. Lots of pink for the camera... always,” the words coming as a white rubber soled shoe pushes at right foot then left.

Obscenely spread, I look to where wall meets ceiling. Sure enough an unnoticed camera. red light blinking, presumably records. One of the five ‘P’s’, it seems I am presenting myself... my most intimate anatomy...  mons, shorn of all hair, chemically defoliated during indoctrination.

The handler departs and I sit watching the white sludge flow to 226's stomach, knowing that my feeding bag is similarly emptying.

“I trust your self esteem has been effectively diminished during indoctrination, 387. It makes the rest easier... having no pride. The degradation is unending here. And they’re good at dispensing it... very good. Your tits will soon be gushing like mine. And you’ll be sucking cock... and taking black cock where it will most humiliate. And all for your benefactor... whomever that may be.”   

******************************************************************************

Tummy full... yet continuing to fill... the mysterious concoction forced into me brings languor. Glad that my indoctrination has ended, I reflect on the words of 226, her chattiness ending in sleep. The tethered collar leash too short to permit motion, she somehow dozes sitting upright, slumbering no doubt in exhaustion, knees well parted, labia displayed.

My circumstances are different from 226. I was not abducted in the night. For me the ordeal began with a certified letter stating that I had won a sweepstakes... the prize being a trip to a tropical isle... to one of those exotic enclaves for singles where clothing is optional and sex abundant. After five years of sexless marriage, the finalized divorce coming after months of being estranged from both husband and lover, the perceived scene seemed attractive. Finally to be away from my prudish exhusband, Roger Pearson, a wealthy businessman for whom intercourse was solely for procreation... which ironically never happened with his extensive travel. And also away from my exlover, who, when our affair was disclosed, chose to reconcile with his wife... explaining our many clandestine meetings as a mere fling with a white trollop... a meaningless dalliance.

Yes, Dr. Grayson Hubbard, noted neurosurgeon, was black. And in being blonde and blued eyed, he found attraction. And in him being well proportioned, handsome, erudite, attentive and most virile, I found attraction as well. So many late afternoons... so many hotels... so many orgasms... such ecstasy.      

Alienated from both ex lover and exhusband, no interest in entering the hurly burly of the singles scene, the letter, the travel offered by private jet, enticed. I called the ‘800' number. A woman offered more details, and I naively reported to Teterboro Airport for transport.

Boarding the plane, should I have been alarmed in being greeted and later served by a naked young male... seeming androgynous?

Yes, the flight attendant... such an introduction to the hedonistic vacation I envisioned in seeing his nude form shuffling from the galley of the sleek Gulfstream jet.

‘Welcome Ma’am. I’m Timmy... here to assure your flight is enjoyable.’

Steel bands about the elbows, wrists, thighs and ankles, with matching neck collar gleaming in the cabin lights. Such sordid quirkiness... such bondage... yet so youthful! And a tiny penis that seemed to beckon both inspection and laughter.

The lad served me, the elbow bands loosely tethered behind his back to restrict much movement. There was also a slim chain secured to his right ankle band to make him one with the cabin. The scene seemed to empower. I felt oddly superior.

Then I took the offered Mimosa. In being seated his tiny penis was at eye level, and he paused to let me visually examine, seeming to revel in the humiliation. The organ useless, but amusing, I could not help thinking of my pending week of pure lust... pent up desire, sexual frustration to finally end. No strings sex... and offered so kinkily... introduced by a naked nymph in restraints! 

Alas, the Mimosa was spiked! I recall the cabin door shutting, the engines spooling, the gentle motion of taxiing. But with the roar of takeoff, the cabin lights seemed to dim. I passed out, awakening with my own form in bondage... tight, confining. The rigorous indoctrination of Nusquam to begin.

In finally completing the many weeks of isolation, I found my own limbs and neck to be ringed in steel. The configuration permits a handler... or whomever... to instantly bind me in any manner... my hands and arms rendered useless by the cruel adjustable yoke. I also found myself to be tattooed...  number 387... and made glabrous... not a follicle remaining... the chemical depilatory strong and thorough.

I note the clear feeding tube of 226 is emptied of the thick white glop. Hopefully the flow into my bloated belly has ended as well. I speculate that the feeding bag is well over a quart, possibly two, the caloric intake well in excess of what I burn in my sedentary existence.  

I will fatten. 226 suggested I am to be plumped.


Saturday, June 3, 2017

Nusquam, Letting Down, Segment One

Back with you with a change of genre. Female dominant/female submissive. Forced lactation.

This story is an offshoot of my book 'Nusquam' available from Pink Flamingo.

It stands on its own, but if the setting enthuses, the 'Nusquam' book is available...

http://www.pinkflamingo.com/Nusquam-ebook-PF6250e.htm?categoryId=-1

I have not yet decided how many segments I will post. But the full story will be available on Lulu soon.

*******************************************************************************

Nusquam, Letting Down

Copyright 2017

by Chris Bellows

My grimace is followed by a low moan, not to be suppressed. My compatriot sitting before me smiles. She likewise sits in nakedness, apparently more acclimated to the slow unending suffering of the yoke.

“Yes, it’s sluggish, subtle torment. But the yoke is adjustable... fiendishly adjustable. And after you’ve sucked enough cock, they’ll shorten the rods.”

I nod, not ready to speak. Neck encircled in smooth stainless steel, rods of matching metal extend from the back of my collar well out over my shoulders where a loop of cable captures right thumb and left. As the woman suggested... number 226 accordingly to the bold numerals emblazoned on her forehead... the rods can be mercifully slid inward, relieving unending stress on my fully extended arms. Her rods comfortably... relatively comfortably... allow her hands and arms to hang below at her shoulders, elbows bent.

“So what brought you to Nusquam, 387? Jilted boyfriend? Jealous husband? Enraged exhusband? I’ve learned it’s expensive here... being indoctrinated. Someone has paid much money to assure you’re well tucked away and in constant torment.”

Having endured weeks of isolation and a barrage of psychological input, I find myself shy and not overly eager to freely speak. Finally offered relative emancipation from my tight plastic encasement, seemingly floating in my own excretions, I remain somewhat traumatized... enduring constant bondage, enduring the permanent tattooing of my forehead, enduring the excruciating branding of my right buttock. I now bear the letter ‘N’ quite prominently.       

Despite my silence, this number 226 proves to be loquacious, continuing her discourse, I suppose attempting to bring comfort.

“For me it was a boyfriend from whom I foolishly attempted to extort some dough for a trip. He quickly dumped me. Then I went nuclear, threatening to expose all his illicit dealings... close to the mob if not being an actual member. Gave him 30 days to come up with a six figure payment in cash... more than the vacation money I originally demanded. Bad move. In the middle of the night some very clever and sneaky folks broke into my apartment. I was drugged and ended up here... wherever here is. The constant heat suggests the tropics.”

As the woman speaks I visually assess. Leashed by her steel neck collar to a formidable ring on the wall above, she is bald and tattooed as am I, and no doubt branded. The naked form is hideous. There are rolls of fat, extensive and sadly drooping. Nipples extending from outsized glands are those of a bovine. Between the thighs lengthy strips of pink flesh drape to rest on the concrete floor, her labia stretched to disproportional limits. Feeding tube, projecting from her right nostril, it is difficult to imagine her as the girl friend... eye candy... of an influential mobster. She’s been gruesomely transformed.   

“You know, they like to send messages... the mafia guys... sort of like warnings... for the next girl who attempts blackmail... threatens to talk to the authorities. You know you’ll be filmed here... video taped... while and when enduring the five ‘P’s.”

Number 226 smiles at my inquisitive look.

“Plumped, pregnant, prepared for penetration... and presented... though some say paraded.”

“Pregnant?” I must inquire, finally finding my voice.  

My blurt brings outright laughter.

“You’ve apparently not been offered a full overview of Nusquam, 387. This is a special building, the breeding chamber, one segment of a large enclave for deviant libertines. You’re going to be impregnated. During your last period, did your handler not write something on your left cheek?”

I nod, indeed something was scribbled where I cannot see.

“Turn to your right.”

Sitting upright, leaning against the wall of the low cinder block building, I twist, exposing my left cheek.

“5/15. You’re to be inseminated on May 15, whenever that is. Presumably in two weeks time you’ll be ovulating. But don’t fret, during the procedure you’ll be masturbated... and other than those of the members, orgasms are rare here. And thereafter you’ll be well cared for as long as you suck cock, bend and spread. Just don’t come to enjoy it too much. When they determined the anal penetration became enjoyable for me, that’s when the bastinado began. Haven’t been able to walk normally since... without my special shoes,” her glance going to the adjacent wall wear there rests odd footwear. “Even modest applications of the sjambok can over time bring permanent irritation to the fibrous tissue of the soles. Do try to avoid it.”

Our interchange ends when a woman of color approaches our ascetic chamber bearing plastic feeding bags brimming with thick white liquid.

“Ah, feeding time. They want quiet so just relax and enjoy, 387. Within weeks you’ll begin to look like me. Many thousands of insalubrious calories... forcibly induced. These handlers... they’re strict. And though good, do not expect mercy. Tormenting white women seems to amuse. All are from Rwanda so you’re going to learn some of the Kinyarwanda language. Words like igikeri and gukuna imishino. And don’t fight or resist. Your days of glamour and beauty are over... just as are mine. You’re going to look just as they want you to look... like an igikeri. Whomever you’ve angered has paid much to assure it.”

Thursday, April 27, 2017

'Bejeweled' published

I have published 'Bejeweled'. a short story of some 7,700 words. $2.50

Female Dominant, male submissive, pony play.

Enjoy.

http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/bejeweled/20856325



Saturday, April 22, 2017

Bejeweled II


Will be working diligently to finish this story and get it published.

Enjoy.

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Stool no longer required, Madeleine Cartwright smiles with her reverie as, just as trainer Marcy stood before pony boy Tommy on that enlightening summer’s eve, hands go to her tight skirt to roll up the hem then likewise enshroud the head.

Yes, Tommy has indeed been trained to taste... and more than the essence of the feminine love nest. She feels the lips of her steed find her urethral opening, pursing in preparation. She opens herself, assured in knowing that not a drop is ever spilled... not after the numerous canings dispensed for sloppiness. Her excretions gush, smiling in not hearing the slightest gulp, sensing no swallowing. Yes, Tommy opens his gullet, her flow going to his stomach without impedance.

To so forthrightly take what her body casts away... and so eagerly... is gratifyingly symbolic. He savors her and all she offers.

“Get you some dinner, Tommy. If you remain thirsty I’ll water you as well. I know you miss Miss Marcy,” stepping back to lower her skirt. “I’m sure her offerings were substantial... and appreciated.”

“Yes Ma’am. I miss her.”     

Trainer Marcy has moved onward. Madeleine regrets the departure, but funds have depleted. The accumulated wealth of the late ranch patriarch Edger Cartwright remains substantial, Madeleine able to live comfortably. But the neutered servants had to be let go as well, ending the negative cash flow. 

In thinking of Pat and Matt, their lithe nakedness seeming ubiquitous about the vast ranch house, there comes a warm smile which turns deviant with the recollection of finally understanding their true role. Having been brought up with their presence, their only covering the straps of their ungainly high heeled shoes, Madeleine learned only after her father’s passing that such cute plumped forms were present not so much to tend to household chores as to offer oral gratification.

‘Women of our ilk don’t condescend to such sordidness,’ mother Cartwright explained with a contemptuous snort some weeks after the funereal. ‘I wanted your father pleased and satiated, though not by another woman. Pat and Matt were a compromise.’

The neutered duo were kind, obedient yet playful. And in being with little sexual drive, mother Cartwright assigned them the task of bathing and dressing the little girl Madelein. Pink ribboned emaciated penises flopping about beneath emptied puffs of male flesh, toddler Madeleine was given to giggle incessantly. Thus in being initially introduced to Tommy’s serpent of an organ, there came alarm.

Madeleine strolls to a waiting bowl of gruel, stirs with a wooden spoon then returns, offering a large dollop.

“I’m going to run you tomorrow, Tommy. It should be a nice day. Take you to the coop square. I have not put you on display for a while.”

“I’d rather not, Miss Maddy... go to the square.”

“Well you’re going... it’s good for you... for your self esteem... or lack thereof.”

The evening meal is large, the only sustenance offered for the day. Madeleine Cartwright patiently spoons dollop after dollop, the fare thick... fruits, vegetables, yogurt blended with raw egg... the formulation nutritious but otherwise unpalatable. It’s not to be enjoyed. Enjoyment for the pony boy is laboring in harness under whip and crop.

Meal concluded, the bowl is exchanged for a basin. The stable floor to be spared of sloppiness, Madeleine positions herself between the well parted thighs and carefully reaches for the long thick manhood. The ringed tip is released from its upright position, held at the navel by a gold piercing. A knowing hand carefully lowers, aligning with the basin.

“Psst, psst, Tommy. Empty yourself for me.”

Thumb and forefinger continue to hold the reverse Prince Albert piercing, the golden ring thrust through the urethral opening but exiting the top of the shaft rather than the bottom. The special configuration leaves the hypersensitive underside of the penis tip free for frottaging and feathering and also offers a convenient manner to control the ten each length. For otherwise the long thick shaft is untouchable. It’s been spiked. Row after row of tiny diamond studs have been meticulously implanted in the penis shaft, the sharp tips untouchable. Thus the male appendage is not strokeable, and normal copulation forever denied.

Tommy will not again achieve normal sexual release... vaginal or manual.

The process required many weeks, many dollars, much patience and the endurance of much pain. But mother Cartwright was most pleased, the many implants resulting not only in denial but an organ which scintillates proudly during sunny morning jaunts. And the irony of having to bestow pleasure so daintily... the male erogenous zone reduced to a patch of penile flesh no larger than a thumb print... offers such feminine empowerment.       

If and when Tommy is permitted to discharge, such is offered in a distressingly enfeebled manner... and brings both amusement and exhilaration to she in charge

Tommy obediently opens himself, the deed performed throughout the day. Never to urinate on his own, his ringed penis mandates release from his navel piercing and feminine supervision.

“Good boy,” Miss Maddy coos as the bladder so humbly performs.

“May I discharge for you Miss Maddy?”

Such a meek query for a normally virile deed. The words bring a smile, pony boy Tommy having no conception of the schedule for his next release nor the day of the month.

“No Tommy. Month end is next week. I’ll put you in your chair then.”

Equestrienne Madeleine Cartwright gently jostles the penis ring sending a last droplet of urine to the basin. She then lifts, rehooking the gold loop to the navel piercing, securing the lengthy strip of male flesh for the evening.

Stepping away she recalls first handling the male appendage, years ago mother Cartwright seeking to instill feminine empowerment in daughter Madeleine...