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!  

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