Saturday, August 19, 2017

Neuroplasticity, Segment Six

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



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


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.



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.

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...

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.


Saturday, April 22, 2017

Bejeweled II

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



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...

Thursday, April 20, 2017

New story published - 'My Servitude'

Back with you.

I have published on Lulu a short story, 'My Servitude', of some 11,600 words. $3.50.

Female dominant, male submissive involving chastity and humiliation.

Not to be read by the homophobic male.

Monday, February 20, 2017


A little pony play. I have not written in this genre in a while.

I will post when the story is completed and available on Lulu. It will be short.



Copyright 2017

by Chris Bellows

Madeleine Cartwright palms the warm soft globe, bringing a brisance of feminine delight. A thumb smooths over the thin flesh. Now the size of a peach, she recalls youthful days when the organ was modest but growing in promise... as her mother explained.

‘It will ripen, dear. With maturity... and some special treatment.’

Her hand moves to next palm the opposing testicle, equally impressive in size... her capricious handling bringing more headiness.

“Almost time for another pair of rings, Tommy. Gold is getting pricey but I’ll not deny you your anniversary gift.”

She feels her steed tremble in response... the words? Her tender touch?  His truckling reaction augments her sense of power and control.

“Please no, Miss Maddy. They’re... they’re... well... it’s difficult to run for you.”

“That’s why I strap them for you, silly boy.”

Madeleine withdraws her palpating hand and strolls about the mammoth hanging form, checking the tethers. Bound for a long evening of rest, comfort is important... as important as imparting the sense of helplessness and vulnerability. It is best... just as her mother lectured years before when Madeleine Cartwright was first introduced to the stable and the delight of owning, grooming, and exercising the male steed... the intact male steed.

Hanging from the beams of the aging wooden barn, three broad cloth straps hold in place the prostrate nakedness at waist height, encircling at the chest, right thigh and left. A foam lined prosthetic neck collar holds in place the head... firmly but again comfortably. The arms are drawn back to rest at the small of the back, wrists cuffed and secured together. The feet are drawn up to the wrists, ankles likewise tethered to restrain the nakedness in a moderate and thus easily endurable hogtie.

The steed is thus immobile and subject to examination... close and intimate... the thigh straps forcing apart the knees to reveal luridly the male package.

Stepping to the front, Madeleine smooths her right hand over the forehead then gently pats the right cheek in a maternal gesture of kindness.

“You’ve been running well for me Tommy. You deserve more diamonds... but there is no place left for them.”

A thick cloth hood is summarily slipped over the head and face. Deft hands work to align a large opening for the mouth and nose. Then comes the ritual that began so many years before. At the time Madeleine a slip of a girl, newly acquired steed Tommy hanging in his bonds for the first time... Marcy Griffen, a sizable woman of color, serving as trainer and groom, introduces the owner’s daughter to the world of the human equine.   


“Come Maddy,” the affable but stern trainer gestures. “He can’t hurt you.”

Pony boy Tommy hangs for the first time, well bound and hooded. A prepubescent Madeleine Cartwright, shy but curious, looks on from the corner of the stable. Meekly responding she approaches, apprehensive. Having been tended to by the ranch’s naked castrate servants... mother’s preference for household help... the naked intact male form has not before been viewed by young Madeleine. And though young, the male bits hang imposingly, the reason Tommy’s form demanded a goodly sum at auction.

Marcy takes the little girl’s hand, a firm grip transmitting a sense of feminine power and thus assuaging concerns. There follows a lecture, Marcy’s strong free hand brazenly grasping and pinching various parts of the male anatomy, explaining the muscles which she will endeavor to better develop. There also come descriptive words concerning the penis and its function, such a long strand of flesh not before seen. When Marcy palms the tip, her thumb nimbly kneading the underside of the hypersensitive tip, Madeleine is first surprised then amused when the organ begins to swell then firm. Such has never occurred with the neutered household help.

“Boys like to play with this, Maddy. It feels good to them... making it harden. But here at the ranch it will no longer harden for him... only under the direction of a woman in charge.”

Young Maddy stares in silence as Marcy playfully encourages full tumescence then withdraws.

“It’s... it’s... so big, Marcy,” an astonished Madeleine exclaims.

“Yes, not like the girly boy maids in the house. He’s a good ten inches, Maddy. There are women such as your mother that enjoy working a boy of size. Brings a certain thrill.”

“And these,” the hand palming the male plums, “ these are called testicles. Very sensitive organs... we can use them to better control him.”

Marcy demonstrates, vigorously squeezing the right egg between thumb and forefinger to bring instant pain. Maddy steps back in surprise when there comes a gasp of male anguish and spasmodic lurching in the broad hanging straps. When Marcy merely laughs in response, Maddy feels comforted.... giggling girlishly to join in feminine delight.

“I’ll be working this one very hard over the next few weeks, Maddy. Get him broken into the harness and in shape. If he’s good, he’ll get a reward.” Marcy guiding young Madeleine to stand before the hooded head as she speaks.

Maddy’s hand is released as Marcy reaches to the hem of her short tight leather skirt, rolling upwards.

“Boy’s like to taste things... at least he’ll be trained to enjoy tasting things.”

With that, Marcy exposes her mons, never working the stables with undergarments. Maddy is further surprised when the woman of resolve steps forth to press her flesh to the exposed nose and mouth of pony boy Tommy.

“Lickie lickie,”she genially encourages with a smile, her hands enshrouding the hooded head to align moist chocolate flesh with pink lips.

Marcy hears the sounds of wetness, the male tongue obediently complying.

“Maddy, when you come to play in the stable, leave your panties behind. Mother does not need to know. It will just be between us girls. I’ll have a stool for you to stand on.” 

Monday, January 30, 2017


As most authors are aware, there is limited demand for stories in paperback format, particularly in the smut genre. Thus the time and effort required receives little revenue in return with most of the price going to Lulu. 

However, if any reader so desires and has interest, I will take the time to  format a story for paperback publication. Just drop me a note as to which.


Saturday, January 21, 2017

Serving the Queen VI

This will be the last snippet from 'Serving the Queen'. Not sure what is next.


The basement of the palace is a dungeon, belying the opulence of the living quarters above. Concrete, thick, offers pleasant coolness, contrasting the heat of equatorial Africa. But such drabness.

Nurse Audrey Timmons checks her calendar. Caring for seven well conditioned, well hung young blond males is time consuming. Every one is daily freed from his four walls of nothingness, exercised, fed and bathed. And then returned to the monotony of unending darkness, neck and wrists encapsulated by the rigid stock, nose leash tied off to remind of feminine control, placed in the humbler as assure limited mobility.

But one is prepared for caning, the Queen’s daily entertainment.

Today it is Richard, therefore he is to be freed first.

Strolling the hall, the silence always amazes. The detention chambers are soundproofed. No noise in... no noise out. At door number 4, Audrey grasps the heavy bolt, two hands and much effort required to slide the three inch thick rod to the left.

It’s not locked in place. Any one can enter a detention room. But no one can ever leave. There is no way to slide the bolt from the inside, and the interior is nothing more than four walls of more concrete, no windows, no light other than that beaming from the hall... and that only comes when the heavy steel door is swung open.

The manner of captivity is more symbolic than what is required for security. The Queen wants her subjugants to feel owned, to at all times sense the gloom of total capitulation. For as nurse Audrey pushes open door 4, leaning, pressing with two hands, leg muscles flexing mightily, the chamber alights to illuminate he to be caned. A hooded Richard lies on his right side, nose leash tied off to a sturdy bolt, neck and wrists secured in the Rigid stock, knees bent to relieve the tension on his scrotum. Yes, before bedding the subjugant, nurse Audrey has the joy of putting in place a humbler, the device’s appellation so apropos. For the bearer must at all times assume a position of supplication, lest his testicles be pulled away by his legs and thighs.

“Good morning Richard, caning day,” nurse Audrey pleasantly calls out.

“Please no, Miss Audrey.”
“Come now, no begging. You want to please the Queen do you not?”

Nurse Audrey stoops, loosening the wing nuts that connect the two lengths of wood squeezing the male plums. She smiles, tenderly patting the male organs, the Queen’s subjugants all so well endowed. The simple but effective implement is hung on a wall hook, there to await Richard’s return at day’s end. As Richard gasps a breath of relief, finally able to straighten his legs, nurse Audrey releases the nose leash from the wall hook.

Richard has been obedient, the slim cord secured with slack. Bad boys spend the night with their nose and face pressed to the wall.

“Up. Slowly. No pleading. Offering that nice butt of yours to the Queen’s hand is why you’re here. Why we take such good care of you.”

Nurse Audrey jostles the leash. Richard knows to roll to his knees, then slowly rise to stand. She has yet to decide whether to remove the hood. Sometimes she walks the subjugant blinded, sometimes she permits sight. It is at her caprice, depriving her charge of vision, forcing him to concentrate on pulls of the leash. It empowers.

Still, on this morning, much needs to be done. Sighted, the journey to the preparation room is quicker. Thus she, quickly unhooks the leash from the nose grommet, pulls from the opening for nose and mouth, then whisks away the thick black cloth. Nimble fingers quickly return the leash. She has so many times offered such momentary freedom.

Richard blinks, eyes acclimating after many hours of total darkness.

“Come. Much to do.”

Nurse Audrey leads, Richard follows, must follow. Tension on the leash is to be minimized, that a subjugant learns within moments of being grommeted... that a slim delicate feminine hand can offer such instantaneous agony. 

Into the hall, nurse Audrey slowly steps, looks back and smiles. Richard is well over six foot, well muscled. But so tamed, so vulnerable in his complete nakedness, so obeisant to a woman’s controlling hand. Plus his long penis is beginning to swell. Homage to she in charge? Subservience to a woman brings sexual thrill? The hormonal imbalance of endless chastity announcing a need?

Nurse Audrey wonders... but will never know. Still she enjoys... as does the Queen.          

Into the preparation room, well supplied, well designed for the care of the helpless prey of the Queen’s wickedness.

“Down,” comes the command, superfluous as the taut nostril leash mandates that Richard drop to his knees.

Tummy on the narrow padded rubber preparation bench, the leash is tied off to a floor hook, the steel Rigid Stock pressed to the tile floor.

“Spread for me,” Richard humbly parting his knees.

Ankle cuffs await, within moments Richard is made one with the preparation bench, returned to complete immobility, head low, buttocks high. It is a palace dictate, the Queen’s young blond naked prey are either held in thorough bondage or led about naked and leashed. Her Royal Highness insists, the sense of vulnerability, helplessness and ownership be constant... feminine control relentless.

“Fill the bucket for me like a good boy,” the command coming as nurse Audrey directs the swelling penis to collection vessel.

Richard humbly opens his bladder, feeling the directing hand as he performs for the woman in charge.

For those to be caned, supervised bowel movements are forgone. Instead there comes preparation for an enema, the Queen’s flooring not to be soiled with bowels giving way under intense pain. Thus nurse Audrey prepares, beginning with two quarts of warm soapiness, two clear water rising enemas to follow.

She enjoys handling the male, grasping the freely hanging testicles in left hand for leverage, lubricating the anus with gloved fingers of the right.

“Please not too much, Miss Audrey.”

Nurse Audrey smiles. It is not the naked and bound prey who will decide.

“No begging, Richard. You know you must be cleansed, prepared and presented for the Queen’s amusement... which suggests you not embarrass yourself with loose bowels. So I’m going to add another quart. You need to learn obedience. I can be strict with boys who grovel.”

The enema bag further fills. Then a stout inflatable nozzle greets the greased rectum and slips inward with a vigorous thrust. A hand pumps to inflate. In turning on the valve, nurse Audrey notes the penis, the barometer of male arousal. It further swells, belying his pleading words. She smiles. He enjoys, deep within there is joy with her tendance.

While filling, the enema slowly administered, nurse Audrey douses the naked form with warm water. Next comes shaving lotion and a straight razor, the youthful body to be completely hairless. A sponge bath follows, fragrant soap.... effeminately fragrant soap... the Queen not to be offended with male scent. Left wrist then right are momentarily freed, the flesh beneath swabbed then returned to bondage.       

Ten minutes, fifteen? It matters not. Nurse Audrey is in charge, ignoring the squirming, moaning form as the bowels fill.

Finally relief is granted, the nozzle deflated, gruffly pulled away, bowels empty to the floor drain, nurse Audrey standing ready with the hose to bring instant cleanliness, ridding the preparation room of the foul contents.

Rinsing enemas follow, disappointingly limited, to be momentarily held. Then comes a final rinsing spray of the entire body.

Nurse Audrey glances at the clock, noting her timing is credible. Richard’s nakedness needs oiling, the Queen wanting him to glow under the bright lights, the albescent Scandinavian flesh to be well presented to those the Queen will this morning be entertaining. The soft white epidermis welts alarmingly, the raised crimson ridges from each stroke of the cane to be prominently displayed. Nurse Audrey thus massages attentively, excess oil dripping from buttock flesh about to be excoriated.

At 10:00 a.m. a matron arrives. Motiva, a women of size and much disdain for the Caucasian male, greets.

“Good morning, Audrey. The Queen will very much enjoy this one. Prepared like a beast ready for roasting at a banquet.”

“Good morning, Montiva. He’ll not need much hand work either. He’s been enjoying the anal penetration of the enema nozzle as you can see.”

The observation brings girlish laughter, both women peering at a semi hard penis, dangling between parted thighs.       

Richard blushes, aware of his condition, aware that he is to be erect, to enter the caning chamber with a standing penis. The Queen insists. She wants her blond boys paying tribute, firm erections bobbing about. Then she will bring flaccidity, the searing strokes of the cane diverting thoughts of arousal.

Thus Montiva stoops behind the kneeling nakedness. A coal black hand gathers some massage oil. Richard is to be masturbated... partially... never to expel his seed.

And so the black hand strokes, brusquely, wary of bestowing too much pleasure. As she brings Richard to full stand, nurse Audrey releases the ankle cuffs then the nostril leash. When deemed fully erect, Montiva steps back. Nurse Audrey jostles the leash then pulls upwards, forcing Richard to stand, his erection long and thick... bobbing comically.

As Montiva takes the leash, the knowing hands of nurse Audrey apply oil to the tummy, completing the gleaming presentation.

“No tears, Richard,” Nurse Audrey admonishes. “Try not to cry. I’ll be here to treat you when the Queen has finished with you.”

With that Montiva leads from the preparation room, her powerful hand bringing a spark of pain in tugging firmly. And Nurse Audrey? Well there are six other subjugants... these to be exercised, fed, bathed then returned to the dark nothingness where they will await their turn in the Queen’s caning chamber.

Wednesday, January 18, 2017

Serving the Queen V

Such a convenient way to counter the drudgery of commuting in New York City, Audrey Timmons muses, peering out the tinted window of the black Bentley as the chauffeur inches through a crowded intersection.

No subway train this evening. The apparently wealthy... extremely wealthy... Richard Lundquist insisted his driver take her to her home... a modest lower east side apartment.  

Spending a few hours in the special place, returning Richard Lundquist to the frustration of the heavy steel stock, brings a degree of exhilaration. It’s been ten years... ten years of hum drum nursing. And this evening she was once again elevated to a position of control. There’s certain headiness in sensing superiority.

The Martin Rigid Stock, hand crafted by a German bondage aficionado, proved to precisely fit. The opening of smooth steel enclosed gently but firmly around the neck. The wrists as well. What always impressed Audrey Timmons about the device is.... no locks. Once the wrists and hands are incapacitated, the openings are held closed by slipping simple vertical pins through aligning holes. Same with the neck opening.

Ah, the frustration for the bearer, for he cannot free himself... but any one else can. A mere child can slip out the pins... offer freedom... but not the bearer. Such irony. Such well muscled brawn... yet such docility... forced into capitulation by two inch shards of metal.

The Queen’s palace had security guards, yet in handling the royal subjugants, caring daily, preparing such for weekly canings, Audrey Timmons never experienced any resistance, any physical threat. She was omnipotent! And the feeling enthused... just as it did on this evening.    

Placing Richard into steel bondage, once again slipping in the securing pins, brought a thrill. And then just as Richard’s warped psyche so much desired, she once again put him through the daily regimen he forcibly endured during his three years of indenture.

Later she led him about the sizable penthouse by his nostril leash. Into the kitchen, remaining in the Rigid Stock, he knelt. There the naked neutered male was fed. Not the nutritious gruel of the palace but the sumptuous take out from the restaurant. Alas... that needs to change, Audrey thinks to herself

Yes, the evening brings to nurse Audrey Timmons her own memories... her many years also serving the Queen... but in a less lurid capacity...

Monday, January 16, 2017

'Serving the Queen' published

Available from Lulu is the complete story.

19,400 words. $5.50.

There will be two more snippets posted here on the blog


If you purchased the story before 11:00 a.m. (eastern time) on 1/16/17, please email me. I made slight modifications to the Epilogue which I will mail.

Saturday, January 14, 2017

Serving the Queen IV

Look for another short snippet, 'Serving the Queen V', on Wednesday January 18.


“I can see why you reached out to me, Richard,” the calm even voice veiling her surprise. “You’ve converted this room into a replica of my preparation room at the palace.”

Nurse Audrey Timmons pauses to surveil, holding firm the nostril leash. Walls and a floor of tiling, well drained. Plumbing fixtures. Cabinets stocked with... well... items Nurse Audrey no doubt used in caring for the Queen’s many subjugants... daily enemas, shaving, sponge bathing mandated. There are nylon cuffs. There is the low bench over which the well bound and naked subjugant knelt on all fours, head and neck low to the floor, hips and buttocks high, the high colonics slowly administered.

Richard has installed a treadmill similar to that on which nurse Audrey supervised daily exercise. Many miles, much exertion, the Queen insisting that the gluteus maximus muscles offer shape... roundness... inviting the splat and searing heat of rattan.  

Then the gaze goes to the left wall. Hanging is a length of gleaming stainless steel, hinged at the middle where a circular opening beckons the neck... similar smaller openings at the end for the wrists.

“And you even procured a Martin Rigid Stock. Very expensive, Richard. Do you restrain yourself or is it just for show... to titillate your mind... bring remembrances of your indenture at the palace.”

“I... I... cannot lock myself into it.”

“No, it requires the hands of a supervising woman. And at the palace it was never locked Richard. Simple pins were all that was required. There was no need for locks since the device renders the hands useless. How many years did you wear it?”

Audrey Timmons knows full well. The Queen procures her blond boys close to their eighteenth birthday and releases on their twenty first. Three years. But a most demanding and memorable three years. And with her question, forcing memories to burst from the hippocampus, Richard’s imagination percolates, brewing thoughts... that which she knows he relives with each visit to his curious ‘special place’.       

“Almost three years,” the voice quaking, Richard no doubt imagining himself again bearing the heavy length of steel over his shoulders.

The eyes scan further, lowering. Below the Rigid Stock is a humbler, a restraining device specifically designed for the male anatomy. Audrey smiles, stifling laughter. How many times did she bed her charges with an identical device? With it she assured immobility in placing the two conjoined strips of smooth wood at the back of the thighs, separating to enlarge the hole in the middle, capturing the testicles, then closing, forcing the male to either maintain the decubitus position, or suffer with constant tension on the scrotum.

“Whatever is a castrated boy like you going to do with that, Richard?” Audrey gushes, with a snort of mirth.  

“It’s... well... the sight of it has come to...”

“Bring comfort? Remind you of simpler times... when you had balls... and your only responsibility... only function... was to be obedient... and to present your nakedness as the Queen demanded. As much effort and money spent in finding me, you’ve also expended on this room. So this... this special place... brings you back to days halcyon. I can only imagine what my presence does for your fantasies, Richard... once again leashed by the woman who fed, bathed, assured punctual toilet and nurtured... tending to your welted buttocks.”

With that, nurse Audrey Timmons jostles the leash, a simple motion of her hand which she knows brings instant and inordinate pain compared to the slightness of her effort. She so many times utilized a similar message, communicating the thoroughness of her control to young males... muscular, well shaped, well exercised... and well bound.

Richard Lundquist gasps, the agony intense. Yet Audrey Timmons must ask herself. Is he happy?

The controlling hand draws downward, the slim nostril cord tightening to bring a slower, more moderate form of suffering. Richard knows to quickly respond.

“Why not kneel for me, Richard. You paid a lot of money for the Rigid Stock. Do you even know if it properly fits?”

Saturday, January 7, 2017

Serving the Queen III


Nurse Audrey Timmons twirls her finger in the air then stands arms akimbo, her look transforming to one of authority. She has tied the nostril leash to a sconce on the wall of the entrance hall. Though loose, Richard knows to be cautious, the slightest motion bringing agonizing tension, the many nerves of the nose sending an explosion of pain signals to the cerebral cortex.

“I barely recognized you with clothing Richard,” Audrey quips as Richard carefully disrobes. “And boys like you are more comfortable naked... when in the presence of a woman in charge.”

In silence, shoes, slacks, and shirt are tossed to a settee.

“Everything, Richard. I’ve not only seen everything you have, I’ve never before seen you covered.”

Bashfully, Richard slips down his undergarments then steps out, kicking to the settee, the woman in white uniform smiling as male hands go obeisantly to the top of the head.

“Oh so nice, Richard. Completely hairless. And without those unsightly male tidbits.”

Nurse Audrey steps forth hands lowering. The left palms the penis tip and lifts, the right slips between the thighs. She smiles anew in noting that the feet obediently part, allowing better access... seeming to invite inspection.

“So smooth. The elastrator does a fine job, does it not Richard?” the fingers caressing from the anus to the base of the male organ. “You’d never know proud male bits once hung here. You must shave diligently.”

“Laser removal, Miss Audrey.”

“Yes expensive but in the end saves time... and offers such a vulnerable look. No way to hide your humble state... leaves no doubt that you’ve been snipped.”

“Will you... will you bathe me... like... at the palace.”

“I was employed there Richard. Did that for a living... a good living. Tending to my naked blond haired boys. Did you have an arrangement in mind... or just a short visit?” 

Richard smiles wanly. Audrey quickly becomes aware, in searching her out, contacting her, meeting her, there is more needed than the ‘talk’ requested in the email. Yes there is a bond... more than maternal... more than that of child to a tending mother. The ball-less Richard Lundquist desires to dote over she who transformed his life... quickly but cruelly... the pain sharp but momentary... the results to be forever reflected... and displayed to lovers, if any, and to the woman in charge.

“You said you had a place for your memento... your leash,” Audrey stepping back and reaching to the sconce.

Years of experience, fully aware of the potential for intense pain, Nurse Audrey takes in the slack, bringing a wince... leaving no doubt of her authority.

“Which way, Richard... to your special place?”