Monday, December 31, 2018

'Diapered' published

Because the story became... is becoming... long, I have decided to publish it in parts.

Available now is 'Diapered', 40,000 words $6.55.

The sequel 'Adopted' is well under way and will most likely be released in January.




Saturday, December 29, 2018

'Diapered', Snippet Two

Happy New Year to All


It Begins With a Party - Nicole

For many weeks, a rather assertive friend has been telling me of these risque parties and munches she attends.

Naked males!

‘What of your husband?’, I inquire.

‘He can either attend and strip... or stay home. He declines public nudity... so I have him stay home. I can’t change the rules... nor do I want to,’ she flippantly responds.  

There’s attraction. As an independent minded woman, I always found the pressure and coercion in becoming objectified... when dating.... to be a put off.  This male thing about nudity as a precursor to even the most preliminary form of social intercourse... not so much disgusts but wounds the self esteem. I am a person, not a statue or piece of art to be ogled.

And here my friend Sarah describes scenes where there is no pressure... on the women. It is the men who become living objects ‘d art.

So there is consideration. But there is also my career. I’m in human resources for a sizable and prestigious engineering and construction firm. I have the title anointing me as second in command of the department. However, title aside, most times I feel like a glorified file clerk. Still, with my boss, Henry Peterson, close to retirement, I tolerate the daily drudgery. Ascension to the number one spot beckons, becoming closer each and every day. So despite being single and at an age when a woman’s need to mate and nest weighs heavily, I keep my affairs tidy. No pretentious dating. No wild parties. No office flings. Not even any flirting.

At Gordon Engineering and Design I am known as a prude... hopefully an attractive prude... but a prude. I keep quiet, am respectful, observe all office protocol. I want nothing to be in the way of my aspirations to become Director of Human Resources.

With that... well... I’ll have the power. The owner of the firm focuses on business development and sales, giving my department cart blanche over all matters of personnel... whom to hire... whom to fire... whom to demote... whom to promote... and of most importance... that which effects all... who gets a raise, how much and when. To assure appropriate expenditures, compliance with tax rules, our department reviews all expense reports... even those of owner Evan Gordon. Such has been delegated to me, and just this little slice of authority becomes an alluring precursor of what I as Director of Human Resources will ultimately wield.

So yes, whenever Sarah describes the depravity... the thrill of it being one sided... of a recent get together, there is consideration... followed by self denial. I can’t reconcile it with my aspirations.

Then comes an enticing phone call.

“Nicole, I know of the temptation... know how you have both attraction and disdain for men. But the group... the CFNM bunch... is having a Halloween party. So the men will still be made to strip... but be masked. They’ve bought a bunch of cheap, identical hoods so the only distinguishing features will be their cock and balls... ha, ha, ha. And the women will be costumed. You can wear a party mask. So do give it consideration... this time real consideration.”

Sarah is excited, selling me on the notion. Reiterating that with Hamilton an hour’s drive away, no one I know will be attending... an additional layer of anonymity, costume aside.

“You can help me shave them,” her sales pitch continuing. “Handling a man can be... I don’t know... guess it’s a lot different than at the hospital. There erections are discouraged,” the words coming with more mirth.   

Sarah, as a nurse, has been delegated the task of assuring that the sense of nakedness of all  attending males is accentuated by having their privates shorn, bathed and oiled at the beginning of each party. After every event, she has excitedly told the details of her role. Naked males lined up like cattle awaiting slaughter. I don’t tell her that, though her thrill likely surpasses mine, envisioning her brazen handling brings arousal all the same.     

“So rent a costume. We’ll drive together.”

“What about Ed?” once again inquiring of her husband’s participation.

“He’ll be... ah... indisposed. But I’m sure be eagerly greeting me when I return.”

So there it is. No excuses. All concerns over discovery and my budding career mitigated by both distance and disguise. And I further console myself that, putting Sarah’s offer of participation aside, rather than shaving the pubes’ of obedient men, I will simply observe.

Tuesday, December 25, 2018

'Diapered', Snippet One

Merry Christmas.



Copyright 2018

by Chris Bellows

It Begins With a Party - David

As a shy 30 year old bachelor, the internet has come to greatly bolster my social life... to be more aptly described as my sex life I suppose.

More and more often after a grueling high pressure day in business, I find my fingers typing, my mouse clicking, signing onto various dating and social websites. Curiously, the genre of the selected sites seems to get kinkier and more risque every week... particularly on Saturdays when there is time to explore for newer and different groups, blogs, and message boards.

So I read a lot, bashfully type a message here and there, learn of the many facets of interaction between men and women. But no real time contact... no dates... no informal rendevous. As stated I am shy, even in college limiting contact with the opposite sex... my engineering degree requiring much study when not working part time.

Guess one would say I am socially stunted. Thus in the privacy of my den study, the anonymity of the internet can embolden... even doing so to the point that I find myself diving into this site cultivating CFNM... the quirky world of gatherings for clothed females - naked males.

The more I read... the more I learn... the more something within becomes intrigued.      

What is it that attracts?

I am not an exhibitionist. I am physically in shape... a little running... visits to the gym when possible. But nothing to bring undue pride... no notions of ‘hey girls, look at this’. No, as I self analyze, it seems the subtle power exchange brings arousal. Everything to be bared, women to gaze at all without compunction. And yes, on some lonely nights, the hormonal relief of masturbation is abetted by fantasies... and such are visions of being commanded to disrobe and socialize in a room of fully clothed amused women.

Week after week, the internet interludes become longer... deeper in peeling the onion so to speak of this growing... seemingly growing... form of social interaction.

The pinnacle comes when I find and join a message board which is more than just an exchange of thoughts and messages. These people actually meet once or twice per month! And they’re based in Hamilton, a town some fifty miles away.

I become a moth about the candle, the location far enough away such that my real name will not be known... face not to be recognized... no one will know me... yet close enough to drive without burden. 

Yes, I become known as ‘Erecting Dave’, my online appellation alluding to my employment in designing and engineering industrial structures.

So I communicate, responding to posts, many of which include photos... faces blurred... from the latest munch or cocktail party... slowly mustering the fortitude to attend.

Yes, slowly, for as stated I am shy, and the rules of the gatherings are strict. The clothing of male attendees is collected and locked away upon entry to the home, club or catering hall of the party. Women are in charge, to be obeyed. Any touching is one dimensional... males to be freely examined... females discouraged from permitting reciprocation. And in reading of the various contests, my breathing becomes labored with an odd combination of disbelief, denial that such excites, and a yearning to attend and observe.

But to do so requires fortitude which I have not. Males are stripped! There are no casual male observers. At the Hamilton soirees, one is either humbly naked or a fully clothed empowered woman.   
Finally, just as this moth tires of winging about the candle, the Hamilton group organizes a Halloween gathering. Males will have covering! Masked in a hood. Such added anonymity further emboldens, any photos neglectfully posted without the photo shopped blur will remain innocuous.

Dare I attend?

Sunday, December 23, 2018

New Story Coming

As a Christmas gift, look Tuesday morning, eastern standard time, for a snippet from my latest effort, 'Diapered'... hopefully to be available by year end.

A good holiday to all.


Saturday, November 17, 2018

'Compassion' Snippet Three

This is the last snippet from 'Compassion'. The entire story is available from Lulu as noted in the November 11, 2018 post.


Glass empty, I find myself curtailing further thoughts. More Scotch is required if I am to mentally relive the ringing of my nose... the sizable oval of steel thrust through a deep opening made in my septum.

The agony was quick but convincingly effective. And thereafter whenever leashed I found myself having to agree with the doctor... no male brawn was required to assure further capitulation. Restrained in such a manner, one tends to go where the leash leads.

Thoughts put aside, I call information and get the phone number for ‘The Raven’s Nest’. A reservation for 7:00 p.m. is accepted. Just before hanging up I remember to mention ‘Dr. Winton’.

“Oh yes, she’ll want the back booth,” the girl confirming with a snicker.

In cradling the phone, a deep breath brings more thoughts of Dr. Winton. Though the ring has been removed there is scar tissue within my nostrils, impeding the flow of air with every inhalation. Ironic that it is not only the hormonal thing that forces memories... frightening memories. After jamming a needle deep into the cartilage of my septum... done so deftly and so callously... my belligerence began to crumble... not only in being leashed within my cell, but in learning of the background of my captor... she with apparent medical training. 

It seems Dr. Rebecca Winton had a distinguished medical career, graduating top in a top notch medical school, developing a lucrative practice. But then service to her country beckoned. The Central Intelligence Agency was in need of a physician to supervise the interrogation... i.e. torture... of numerous captured terrorist suspects. Pain... duress... emotional stress... but never was such to end in the macabre. Dr. Winton assured no suspect ever succumbed to the grim reaper... that such would live and live and live... enduring more pain... more duress... more emotional stress.

In learning this, I regretted terming her Highness a bitch. 

Yet, what earns rewards in government service, can however earn the derision of one’s colleagues on the various medical licensing boards. When a noted terrorist finally got his day in court, defense counsel managed to unveil his client’s treatment... many, many months of literally having his balls squeezed.

How much under the direct supervision of Dr. Winton? Not revealed. But there was enough disclosure of her participation to have her barred from practicing medicine.

Shortly thereafter, for the jobless Dr. Winton, the Queen became a much needed benefactor. It seems her small island monarchy had become, under the guise of tourism, an attractive haven for pedophilia... conduct to be discouraged. And as I found out... vehemently discouraged. Yes, Dr. Rebecca Winton found employment. And when I think of her jail turned medical chamber, I must always wonder whether she was compensated by the testicle.

I cringe with visions of my cohort prisoners enduring not so much pain and physical duress but the emotional stress and the slow physical and mental transformation which comes with orchidectomy. I think of Sammy... and Dr. Winton... the masterful Dr. Winton.

And I need that second Scotch.

Strolling to The Raven’s Nest the initial words of Dr. Winton come to mind, her voice, not heard in over a year, fomenting recollections, her choice of words provocative... revenge or compassion.

There was a preparation interval in my incarceration during which I was repeatedly secured on toes, wrist cuffs clipped high to the cells bars, my nose leash tied off to assure limited mobility.

I would watch when possible but most certainly listen as Dr. Winton interacted with the prisoners, all in different stages of punishment and forced rehabilitation.... in other words some had their balls... others were jailed in wait as was I.

She was both matronly but firm... tender yet calloused... understanding yet demanding. The prisoners arrived as men... deviant in their immoral desires of course... but left as boys. If not innocent and purged of depravity then at least harmless... and in dire need of what Dr. Winton suggested... compassion.

She lectured, she counseled and whereas I am sure the likes of her inmates had before undergone therapy... if not judicial warnings... when one’s testicles are to be sacrificed... have been sacrificed... there comes attentive listening... and begging.

‘I’ll never do this again’, was a typical entreaty. To which Dr. Winton would heartlessly reply... ‘I know’.

Moments later would come the ominous metallic ping of the steel basin followed by a second... neutering indeed as quick and simple as Dr. Winton suggested during the initial evaluation of my parts. 

I witnessed the emotional roller coaster that followed the orchidectomies, the tears, the despondency, the odd mania as an orally gifted Sammy would fellate to initially bring partial tumescence. Such was distressingly followed by anguishing limpness... demonstrating the onset of impotence... that normal male sexual function had been permanently plucked away... plundered by a woman of much resolve and moral righteousness. 

Standing arms akimbo, Dr. Winton would observe and supervise, her smug look of satisfaction not to be veiled. The effeminate Sammy filled the role of that sought by the visiting pedophiles. The irony was not lost on those sentenced... ‘be wary of that for which you wish’.

Days of softening me... my words not those of the doctor... hours of standing on toes... attention finally came to me.

“The frustrating life of perversion ends here for most, to be substituted by other needs and desires. But not for you, Mr. Henderson. The Queen, upon learning of your crass outburst, has approved my suggested transformation. Took a few days to have it crafted. Specially milled... and made of an expensive alloy... nickel cobalt... known to readily meld with human tissue.”

Dr. Winton held before me a hollow hemispherical lump of gray metal, appearing as a toadstool, the rounded surface notably craggy, a small rigid stem-like tube within leading to an opening at the apex. Slightly larger than my thumb, fingers of her left hand gripped the tube. There came a rare smile as the index finger of her right hand brushed over the surface and then quickly withdrew, feigning injury... as if pricked by a pin. 

“So scabrous, Mr. Henderson. You’re going to need to take care cleansing yourself.”

Sunday, November 11, 2018

'Compassion' published

I have published my latest short story on Lulu.

10,600 words, $3.25

Available at...


Saturday, November 10, 2018

'Compassion' Snippet Two

“I want clothing and I want out of here!”

With the turmoil of arrest and incarceration, standing naked in a jail cell, being gazed upon by a fully clothed handsome woman brings not the expected inkling of sexual expectations.

“I am Dr. Rebecca Winton, Mr. Henderson,” my demands ignored. “Mr. Thomas Henderson. And in this tropical climate, we’ve found that covering can be both stifling and septic. As to getting out of here, I remind you that you have been charged with crimes.”

“So get these cuffs off me, get me a lawyer... and let’s go before the judge and jury,” my tone contentious.

As an American on vacation, it has become evident that the likes of relatively wealthy visitors such as me to this economically deprived island nation, euphemistically called Euphorium, are the life bread of an impoverished population. I am thus impertinent, fully realizing that the local tourist board wants not to be harassing those who are essentially paying the bills.

“You’re in a sovereign country... with sovereign laws and a sovereign ruler, Mr. Henderson. The Queen... effectively she is the judge and jury. And you won’t be needing a lawyer. You’ve been sentenced.”

The words alarm.

“Tell the bitch this is a mistake. And as an American, the mistake will be costly!”

I cannot help pausing in what I plan to be a continuous diatribe to assess she who is assessing me. This Dr. Rebecca Winton, despite institutionally attired in the starched white cotton of the medical field, is attractive. There is something about her calm, assertive demeanor which enhances feminine shapeliness not entirely cloaked by prosaic folds of linen.

There come twinges, diverting thoughts of aggressive resistance... verbal resistance since my wrists are cuffed high to the front bars of my cell.

Then I realize how helpless and vulnerable is my presentation, standing on toes with my male package pressing forth. It’s as if my manliness is being offered. And sure enough, putting aside further verbal communication, the woman steps forth, arms extend, and right hand and left cup my dangling scrotum.

Such brazenness!   

In shock, I lose my next train of thought... a demand to contact the American consulate.

“These bring such strong words and get so many in trouble, Mr. Henderson. Tsk, tsk, such untoward behavior.”

“I thought she was a girl... and I thought she was of age!” I again protest, just as I explained to the arresting officers.

“He...” offered with emphasis... “was neither.”

Fingers move to my penis. More brazenness in pulling it straight out, the facial expression indicating clinical evaluation.

“In view of you referring to her Highness as a bitch I’m going to recommend to her that we dispense with the usual orchidectomy, Mr. Henderson...”


“It’s quick and simple... but does it really serve to modify behavior?.. or just mutilate and terminate such perverse desires. There’s a better way to send the Queen’s message... so to speak.”

With that my shock and anger turns to outright stupefaction. For in peering over the doctor’s shoulder there comes a slight form pushing a cart, draped in a white cloth and laden with medical instruments. Long blonde hair, otherwise hairless, the garb is brief and salacious... I suppose functional in addressing the concerns over stifling heat and hygiene.

Tightly circling the chest is a garment of white leather resembling a halter... strapless. Squeezing slits at the breasts reveal pink nubs of underdeveloped breasts, securely encasing the nipples and forcing such to protrude. Below there is more white leather at the waist... again tight... resembling the jock strap of an athlete. Yet again there are slits. One some three to four inches below the navel holds in place the very tip of a tiny pink and purple penis. And lower, pushed through a second slit, is a puff of loose pink flesh. Such resembles the extended labia of a pubescent girl... but the exposed penis tip suggests otherwise. And the testicles? Where?    

“Thank you, Sammy,” Dr. Winton smiling with my reaction.

In nearing there comes a sheepish smile. The girl... the boy... is young... dare I conclude pretty with the gender so obfuscated?

“I’ll ring him first, Sammy. Then you can shave, leash and release.”

With that, the arms rise, hands pressing forth, fingers examining my nose.

“Just a little pin prick and you’ll become much more compliant, Mr. Henderson. We don’t have brawny guards here in the Queen’s special jail... nor do we ever need any. And in view of your crass words... no anesthesia.”

Wednesday, November 7, 2018

New short story... 'Compassion' Snippet One

Will post a couple of snippets then offer on Lulu.





Copyright 2018

by Chris Bellows

“So you found me. Seeking revenge... or seeking compassion?”

The voice... it haunts... it rattles the mind... it frightens... but it also strangely soothes.

“If I wanted revenge I could shoot, stab or strangle you right here.”

Words of menace but offered calmly... as best I can. Despite the emotions, I veil my quaking voice, wondering if the trembling within is evident.

“Not likely on the streets of Manhattan, Thomas. There is violent crime in this city but not in midtown at lunch hour.”

She smiles. So self assured, such savior faire, crossing her arms, shifting her weight to her right side, shuffling forth her left foot in a silent gesture of ‘Well?’.

“So if it’s not revenge than it must be ‘compassion’,” enunciating the word with mocked ardor. “I’m on my way to an appointment, Thomas. And I have not time for that... that for which you’ve been trained to respond,” the suggestion coming with a smirk. “Nor is this the place,” her tone becoming flippant.

“I... I...” cursing myself with my stammering.

Months of research, following up many leads... and when I finally find her, the words flow not.

“You’re shaking, Thomas. Taking your Androcur? I cannot give you a prescription but I know medical types who can... if that will suffice in place of ‘compassion’,” her voice again transforming to staged sexiness.

“I... ah... would like to talk... about... ah... my condition...”

“Yes they all do. You’re not the first to track me down. The others seek the same. The compassion for them is a little different... as I’m sure you realize. For them there’s the need to bond. The need to serve... to adulate. It’s quite curious. Someone with a different skill set than mine should do a research paper. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had my apartment cleaned... laundry done... meals prepared. Little pixies prancing about. But I suspect... with the nature of your transformation... you have other... ah... desires.”  

I nod, shamed by my silence.

“There’s a restaurant... near my apartment... I’m sure you know my address if you’ve been tracking me. With your alteration, there’s probably little craving for domestic servitude. So why not buy me dinner instead? It’s called ‘The Raven’s Nest’. When you make a reservation, be sure to tell them it’s for Dr. Winton. I have a special table. Quiet.”

She turns, again shifting her weight, stepping away. I am wont to reach out and grab her. But as suggested, midday in mid Manhattan there are throngs of onlookers... not the place for violence.

I must see her again... next time find my voice. But I have not her phone number and slinking about her neighborhood, anticipating her travels and journeys is time consuming.

‘Wait’, I am given to call out just as she pauses from a distance and turns.

“Make it for tomorrow night, Thomas... 7:00 p.m.”


Returning to my hotel room, the tremors slowly dissipate, aided by two fingers of fine Scotch. The woman was prescient in quickly ascertaining that I have not been taking the Androcur... the anti androgen. The drug addresses my hormonal imbalance, serving to assuage the jitters, but over time shrinks the testicles... a horrid thought for the normal heterosexual male. So I have disdained and must endure the consequences of an endocrine system in constant need... that which seems to drive every thought and every action... right down to spending inordinate time and money locating she who best knows of my condition... and best knows how it is to be addressed.

Dr. Winton referenced revenge. And I suppose such should be slaked. But then what? Life in prison? Life on the run?

No, I must concede, emotionally yield to this condition. Seek therapy. More therapy than I’ve had. And ironically it is best offered by she who has manifested the need for it.

The alcohol induces repose... a solitudinal stupor. My mind reflects... on times and events most meaningful...


Saturday, November 3, 2018

Snippet from 'The Glass Oubliette'

Part One - The Awakening

“You broke up with your boy friend. So many girls have. Yet they have not responded to my ad.”

I listen intently to the soothing voice. First impressions are amazing prognosticators of attitude and relationships. I am not through the first half of my latte and know that had this meeting been a first date when Conrad was younger, I’d be recklessly crawling into his bed before the promised expensive dinner. Still, though at an age approaching fifty, the menace of the years has been more than kind to him. Conrad is polished, athletically slim, distinguished with an occasional word hinting of his German accent, hair graying at the temples. At my age he is a father figure... and what naughty girl has not fantasized over some incestuous encounter with a paternal incubus.   

“I found it appealing,” I reply most evasively, fighting the urge to be more candid.

“There will be no opportunity to change your mind, Marissa. I must so emphasize. The ad specifies generous compensation and a girl of your intellect can readily surmise why. You will join me at my castle and castles were built to ward off invading gothic tribes. Remote and inaccessible in the French Alps, the location is difficult to reach even in an era of modern equipment. In winter, it is impossible to come or go on foot. We use treaded vehicles... snow cats... and dare to do so only in good weather. The snow is incessant with the mountains shifting the prevailing winds upwards where warm moist air instantly cools to bring a steady accumulation of freezing white.

“Do you ski, Marissa?” the question seemingly spurred by an impromptu thought.


My response brings a sly smile, evidencing his spontaneity was somewhat of a ruse.

“Such a shame. The skiing is superb... for the expert. Other than the snow cats, it’s the only form of transportation. So, you see, once in the castle, second thoughts will bring futility.”

Yes, there is a definite Teutonic inflection in enunciating ‘futility’. In pausing, Conrad strangely seems to relish using the word... or the fact that I cannot ski.

I sip in thought, reflecting on the advertisement in the Village Voice. Known for avant garde classifieds, it is a publication where many disgruntled working girls fantasize in seeking heartening words of solace... ‘handsome and rich bachelor desires ordinary working girl to shower with gifts, travel, money and affection’.     

Conrad’s ad did not say that of course. It was blunt... but in a way oddly subtle.

‘Man of means seeks girl with dreams for exotic travel. You provide youth and acquiescence... I provide cash and guidance. Expect a powerful exchange.’

Yes, subtle indeed. In our brief confabulation, Conrad has not hinted at any D/s activity... yet. But the words, cleverly camouflaged... acquiescence for submission... guidance for dominance... the hint of power exchange, suggest my German host has some curious agenda... exotic indeed.

Conrad Von Reinhardt is handsome, single and wealthy. He does not need to post classified ads to attract women... vanilla women. But in contemplating the few simple words, suppose a known socialite such as him does have certain proclivities... just how would such be furtively engaged?

And me? Well, many months of dating, post college graduation, have resulted in frustration. Men are so... well so one dimensional. Just because a girl in her twenties is Ivy League educated and aspires to a lofty career doesn’t mean her only interest in sex is to assume the missionary position, close her eyes and hope for a quick and benumbing coupling.

Girls have proclivities too... though mine are... guess I should describe such as undefined... or undeveloped... perhaps unbridled?

Conrad interrupts my reverie.

“You will quit your job?”

I nod.

“I have not been employed long enough to have significant vacation time accrued. And a long leave of absence will mean the magazine will have to hire someone for my position. Effectively I’d be fired. So your offer is real? The money portion? I will need it.”

“It is a  simple arrangement, Marissa. We meet at the airport. I will have the funds wired to your account before we embark. When we land in France, you contact your bank to assure the funds have been received. Then we proceed to the castle.”

“It seems like a lot of money for just a few months of... of what, Conrad?”

“‘Mr. Von Reinhardt’, please Marissa. I am many years your senior. Mr. Von would be an acceptable diminutive.”                   

“Sorry... Mr. Von. But what is it you expect of me?”

“Acquiescence... as specified. In offering such, there need to be no further questions. And once our arrangement is agreed upon, there will be no further answers.”

The inflection of his voice becomes firm. I suppose any other girl would feel concern. Me... well with this proclivity which I cannot fully delineate in my own mind, much less descriptively narrate, the stern words bring a brisance of... well I guess of arousal.             

The benumbing missionary position be damned.

I sip my latte in silence. Mr. Von seems sanguine that my questions are truncated by his authoritative tone. He actually smiles, smugly knowing that he has me.

“The snows begin in October, Marissa. I will book the jet for the end of next week.”

“What should I bring?”


His abbreviated response, rather suggestive for a girl of my ilk, brings more of that odd arousal.

“Would you mind providing some simple measurements, Marissa? I’ll need to have something made for you.”

Friday, November 2, 2018

Lastest Pink Flamingo effort released

'Nusquam Beckons'... available at...


For readers of this blog, use the promotion code 'BLOG' when checking out. There will be a 30% discount. 

The synopsis...

U.S. Deputy Marshal Linda Rankin, having visited Nasquam, finds the notion of membership attractive but as a government employee the initiation fee beyond her means. She also concludes that retribution for the many fugitives of justice she pursues is better meted in the secretive tropical enclave where sadists rule and masochists serve... obviating the time and cost of trial and incarceration.

She has learned that arranging such retribution can be lucrative, the members of Nusquam paying seven figure commissions when the illicit gains of thieves, con artists, embezzlers and criminal perverts are forfeited into the Nusquam coffers. Thus, there comes a solution to both her quest for membership and the desire to bring a different form of justice to those who have transgressed.  In conspiring with her boss, a list is assembled of fugitive men and women never to be missed once rendered into servitude. Such are to become Nusquam subjugants.

Read of the clever plots and intrigue utilized to rid the world of those deserving of vengeance and undeserving of wealth. The story entwines many facets of D/s... bondage, body modification, exhibitionism, objectification, humiliation, adult diapering, chastity, corporal punishment... all Female Dominant with both male and female submission.

Those readers who enjoyed ‘Nusquam’ will find particular delight in this well constructed Chris Bellows tale.      

Wednesday, October 31, 2018

Special for November...

A change of genre. For November 'The Glass Oubliette'... male and female dominant, female submissive.

Normally $6.25, for the month of November $2.10.

I like this story and the free epilogue remains available by email from me.


Tuesday, October 9, 2018

10 Years

It got by me. October 6 was the tenth anniversary of this blog... 775,000 page views, whatever such are.

Guess I should have have been more prevenient... had something special to post. But I don't... and I'm out of bullets. Over the past week or two when a story line has come to mind, it seems that in some fashion I have already written it... and I promised myself years ago I would never write formulaic or repetitive stuff.

So hopefully you all have enjoyed the past ten years. And hopefully this demented mind will come up with something before the twentieth anniversary.

Sunday, September 30, 2018

October special - Castration/Infibulation

For October, I have combined the stories 'To Serve Intact' and 'Miss Genevieve and the Captain's Capitulation'. Normally $2.10 and $3.50, now both at $2.10.... 24,000 words.

The stories will no longer be offered individually.

Saturday, September 29, 2018

'The Edwin Long Saga' published

I have published the trilogy of 'Visits', 'Dates' and 'Finally Kept' as one manuscript.

60,500 words, $13.50.

The sale of the short story 'Visits' will be discontinued. For those who have purchased 'Visits' and 'Dates', 'Finally Kept' is available as noted in the September 15 blog post. Other readers who have interest in the story should purchase 'The Edwin Long Saga' as referenced above.

Saturday, September 15, 2018

Snippet from 'Finally Kept', finishing the Edwin Long saga

From the finale 'Finally Kept'.

This ends the trilogy of the Edwin Long saga.

For those who have read 'Visits' and "Dates', this third and final segment is available at...

30,500 words, $6.55. 

On or about October 1st, I will post the trilogy on Lulu in a single package and suspend the sale of 'Visits' and 'Dates'.

My New Home

Leashed, naked and bound, Miss Rikka leads into the top floor penthouse apartment. It is huge. It is magnificently furnished. It has a breathtaking view of the city and beyond. And I am told it will be the last thing I see for quite some time.

“Ms. Hartley has a special place... for you to be kept.”

Heartened that the elevator ride was uneventful, no interloping tenants, there comes offsetting disappointment as I am led straight through the expansive livingroom, down a hall past several bedrooms and into a pitch black room of size. The walls are covered with curvy black foam like material. The ceiling is painted black. The carpeting is thick, also black. And if there were windows such have been covered with the same foam stuff. Centered is a bed... but really a wooden platform with a thin mattress. Around the perimeter are straps and cuffs, the restraints appearing to be quite convincingly severe.

“You will be kept here until you are broken, disavowed of any notion of having free will. Thereafter you will serve Miss Justine... in any manner demanded. Ms. Hartley wants her to be happy, liberated of all desire for male companionship and thus able to concentrate on her studies.”

As Miss Rikka speaks she leads me to a low stool. By now I know to step up. And sure enough the leash is replaced by a hook hanging from a cable emanating from the ceiling. To my right, almost unseen in the darkness, there is a low bench. I am mindful of that in the woman’s basement.

“You are obedient, Mr. Long,” noting the meekness by which I assist with her control. “But you’re still to be well restrained... while not being caned.”

My shibari rope configuration now secured to the hook and cable, a booted foot pushes away the stool and I once again hang. My feet are lifted and my ankle ropes are returned my wrists. I again helplessly dangle in a kneeling position.

“Just a few hours,” Miss Rikka moving to a wall to grasp a dark cloth hood. “And you’ll be comfortable. I’ve had too much training and too much experience with shibari for you to be bound otherwise.”

The hood slips over my head. Once again Miss Rikka playfully pushes at my buttocks, the sight of my vulnerable nakedness bringing a low chuckle. I swing about like a puppet.

“And I think you’ll enjoy as well,” a finger going to my engorging penis, gently rubbing the swelling flesh to assure that both she and I are aware of my arousal.

Wriggling about, trying to frottage more against the warm teasing single digit, I curse myself, my weeks of denial showing.

 “Such deviance, Mr. Long... such warped needs.”

It is true. I would so much like more... to have my penis stand for her. Alas it cannot.

I hear the froufrou of boots on the carpeting and a click. What little light glowing from under the hood disappears. The darkness is thorough. I am hanging in a defacto cave.       

So here I remain under the tutelage of this woman... evidently from Japan... and more than evidently one of misandry. Humiliated... concerned... frightened of the unknown... yet I marvel at the long term comfort. Moving, squirming about produces nothing... other than to ironically enhance the sense of being under complete control... a woman’s complete control.

For how long?


I’d like to think it is a daily routine, yet I have no way to confirm. Time is not measurable without the setting and rising sun.

I find I am either hanging in darkness, being caned to the point that my vocal cords feel about to erupt, or strapped supine to the platform bed. I learn that the straps and cuffs are German, professionally designed and fabricated for institutions such as mental hospitals, penitentiaries for the criminally insane and I suppose for the likes of determined women. Miss Rikka suggested that if I were able to so much as loosen myself... not so much escape... I would be the first.

A special head restraint assures complete immobility and I am to learn of its utility quickly. Any woman who chooses to squat above my hooded head... or sit for that matter... can with complete insouciance relieve herself. Failure to fully imbibe... and do so neatly... earns bastinado... the application of rattan to the soles of my feet. Agonizing.

So I soon learn I partake... and to do so with feigned eagerness.   

Whom is it offering her golden elixir? I know not, the deed coming in complete silence and while hooded. But judging from the taste and with my tongue and lips occasionally savoring moist flesh during clean up, the many offerings are from at least a trio of supervising women. I must guess that it is Miss Rikka, Ms. Hartley... and in hoping... also Miss Justine... the youthfully divine Miss Justine.

Released from the platform bed, Miss Rikka returns me to rope bondage. I learn the tie she uses is termed ‘hishi karada’, translated as ‘rope dress’. And am always amazed at how quickly I am placed in the web of rope, moved to the low stool and suspended for more hours of humiliation. 

As I swing about, I am fed. Directed to relieve myself into a basin. Forced to perform well supervised bowel movements while in full body suspension... with a suppository assuring timeliness... my waste oozing past the rope wedged in my gluteal cleft.

I am caned.... slowly... methodically... my screams absorbed by the foam walls and deep carpeting. Much later to be returned to the platform bed, more elixir comes. Then some sleep, though passing out from the stress may be the more apropos description.

Well into the ordeal there also come visits from a woman who occasionally talks to me... with a degree of kindness. I lie supine, restrained of course... always restrained... and she applies a laser... the process of removing hair from my entire body lengthy and meticulous.

Yes, she speaks, instructing and cautioning for obedience when a given limb must be temporarily freed of its straps and cuffs.

Expensive, apparently multiple applications required to assure the follicles are well decimated, she works away, apparently with Miss Rikka or some other stern woman observing. For any attempt for me to speak earns a brisk ‘tap’ to my foot.

I howl. And though the woman is not one of them, her light chuckle suggests there is amusement in finding that something so quick and simple can bring such excruciating pain and instant compliance. I learn not to speak.    

In finishing each session, I feel like I am sunburned, though the discomfort is tolerable compared to the canings. Until I am given a sponge bath. Skin raw, the chamois is soft yet agonizing.
Over time my hair grows. And on occasion my hood is removed for grooming, I suppose to test its lengthiness. These are relished moments, and despite the endless bondage and daily application of bamboo, I look into the almond eyes of my tormentress with more than more respect. There is adoration... for her resolve... for her knowledge... for her sternness... her harshness... for the ease she finds in doing all this to me.

She returns my look with a knowing grin... so much aware that deep within me there is the quirky joy. She knows this... so cognizant of my depravity. Otherwise there are no words exchanged. Nothing needs to be said.

I am kept.

Saturday, September 8, 2018

Snippet from 'Kept Naked, Made Eager to Please'

More can be found on this blog... the July 28 and August 3, 2010 postings.



Keep Naked, Made Eager to Please

Copyright 2010

By Chris Bellows

“You’re sick!”

“No, I am wealthy. That means the more apt term is that I am eccentric,” the calm voice tending to soothe.

The pithy response is accompanied by a smile and the fondling hand does not pause. The boy attains more inkling as to his circumstances, derogatory words not staying the woman from her unbounded inspection. The cradling of his testicles prompted the expletive, fingers nestling beneath, her thumb smoothing over the top of the scrotum to judge the firmness and general wholesomeness of the male reproductive organs.

“Very nice. A good set of balls,” she casually proclaims, “though they seem to affect diction... and manners.”

The hand moves to the penis and slowly draws the organ straight out. It is a brazen gesture, nothing more than a blatant maneuver to determine length. The smile broadens as the shaft twitches and the hand withdraws. The woman steps back. Her smile fails to diminish in gazing at the well tethered youthful male figure... save for wrist and ankle cuffs his complete nakedness seeming to radiate under the bright lights.

“The charge?”

“Drunk, disorderly, indecent exposure,” the nearby officer solemnly replies as if to a presiding judge.

“Excellent... exposure. Very telling. Well you can take this one off your docket. We’ll once again save the county the cost of trial and incarceration. Do give my regards to her honor.”

The woman hands over an envelope. The officer accepts, no semblance of masking the outright bribe.

“You’ll have him brought to me in the morning, as usual? I’ll leave some restraints and a hood.”

The officer nods. The woman turns to step away.

“What’s this all about, bitch?”

“Well, well, indecent exposure... and an indecent mouth. Do restrain him standing for the night. Tomorrow he’ll be more receptive to lessons of etiquette,” the intonation most ominous.

The officer smiles. The woman notes that despite the rambunctious words her acquisition quakes, her firm instructions finally engendering the gravity of his situation... his vulnerability. The indication of fear brings laughter... demonic laughter.

The boy outright shudders... as he should.


Born into a middle class but well educated family, Audrey Meredith Darrows lived many years a normal life... school... boys... athletics... college. She excelled. Competitive, she thrived in the classroom, tried every sport, shrank from no challenge... including medical school.

A high paid vocation as an accomplished surgeon, events... accomplishments... even the loftiest goals brought attainment... every objective achieved with success... except one.

At what seemed to be the pinnacle of her life, Dr. Audrey Meredith Darrows failed to marry.

A joint announcement issued by a seemingly prototypical couple, ended the planned betrothal... graciously... but unexplainedly.

Thereafter life changed for Dr. Audrey Meredith Darrows. For the better?

Months after the wedding cancellation, a wealthy relative died, a great aunt. Skipping over, ignoring other estranged relatives, word of Dr. Audrey Meredith Darrows’ enviable success in life engendering appeal, there was fostered the gravitational pull of success and money, bestowing a massive inheritance on Dr. Darrows.

What to do?

Love life shattered, a singular failure with cause left to speculation, attention to the rigors of precision surgery waned. Uninspired, curing the ills of the world no longer brought satisfaction.

Dressing one morning, Dr. Audrey Meredith Darrows looked in the mirror. Noted were youth remaining, athletic shapeliness yielding to neither time nor gravity, and a nearby cell phone. The latter empowered, used to cancel first the morning appointments... then the day’s appointments... then life’s appointments. She quit. Self emancipation ensued.

Yes, it dawned... wealthy... knowledgeable... alluring... yet jaded and unhappy. She changed her existence.

Dr. Audrey Meredith Darrows retired from the medical profession, her life to become transformed, more deeds inexplicable.


“What are you doing to me, you bitch!” the voice loud, aggressive, boisterous.

“Tsk, tsk, Gregory. You’ll wear out your vocal cords, and with little result. Being hooded, you did not notice where you’ve been taken. And that you’ll not fully ascertain until I... until you’re made ready.

“But you’re in my barn... on a very secluded farm. It’s more than a mile over the hill to the main road. In the other direction there is another mile or two of my land, then a forest preserve owned by the State of West Virginia, with even fewer people, thicker trees and less accessible terrain. So it is unlikely any one but us will hear you... hear your protestations. And I think you’ll soon learn such have little effect.”

As Dr. Darrows speaks, she prepares various implements on a steel tray.

“I need to lie down!” come more words too loud, the well secured figure standing bent at the waist.

“And you shall... when I decide. It’s a paradigm to which you will need to become accustomed. It is best for you. Here I govern.”

“What is this, a dungeon?” young Gregory rolling about his eyes, his neck and wrists encased in thick wooden planks, holding his head immobile.

“You’re held in one of many stalls in my barn, converted... less now a shelter for equine and bovine creatures than for other... beasts.”

A left hand, gloved in the latex of the surgeon she once was, reaches forth to locks of hair long askew, the fingers entwining.

“Do try not to move. Overall, this can offer little aggravation if you don’t resist.”

“What is it? What are you doing?”

“So loud...” comes an unresponsive reply as the right hand approaches.

Into the right nostril there is introduced a soft flexible rubber tube. Fingers dextrously push, within seconds meeting the resistance of the sinus cavity.


The utterance, more of shock and denial than protest, brings a smile. Neck and wrists firmly encased between two thick, smooth well worn planks, the reference to a dungeon is appropriate, the good doctor having acquired ancient yet effective stocks.

There comes the dawning of reality... Dr. Audrey Meredith Darrows can do whatever she pleases... and the deafening shouts will not deafen the deaf... the aloof... the callous.

Both Gregory and the doctor sense the slight pop as the right nostril yields and the tube enters the sinus cavity. It brings a grimace from the bound, and realization for Dr. Darrows.

“Now it is best to hold still. I can be quick and relatively painless for good boys.”

The left hand releases and quickly moves to the tray. Forceps, rubber coated, glistening with lubricant, such are introduced to the left nostril, bringing forth a nasal groan. But also a notable display of skill, as the prongs also enter the sinus cavity and quickly snare the end of the tube within.

“Arrrrghhhh,” comes the expected reaction as the forceps retreat, drawing the tube down the left nostril.

“You’re a good boy. And good boys get to lie down. Just as soon as the polymers and adhesive cure and dry,” the words cooed... a mother reassuring a distraught child.

As she speaks the hands and fingers rapidly work, snipping the tube to shorten and form an upside down ‘U’, the ends dangling at the lips. The point of a large syringe invaginates one end, the plunger pressed to introduce the aforementioned polymers into the tube. Smoothly, with a surgeon’s speed and precision, the tube fills, within seconds a small dollop of the substance exiting the opposing end.

The syringe returns to the tray and a small perfectly sized cylinder of solid rubber is inserted to connect the loose ends. Then the fingers work with a powerful dental adhesive to assure the ends of the tube bond to form an ellipse which penetrates the sinuses.

The doctor smiles, her professional look of complacency bringing curious calm as her fingers hold together the tube ends. The formulation of the polymers will somewhat harden the loop, and make it quite durable to stress... a very important attribute. She finds that Gregory’s naivety amuses, for he will soon learn of the gravity of his nasal modification. When cured and dried, he will find that the amazing compound, filling the otherwise smooth and soft tube, transforms it to the equivalent of a ring of hardened steel, its tensile strength noteworthy.

“Why are you doing this?” the voice now more beseeching than provocative.

“Because I can.”

The fingers continue to hold together the tube ends as a large woman of color momentarily steps within view.

“This one likes to expose himself, Vocinda. Strip him down, begin the depilation. If he’s good, lower the stocks and let him lie down for a while. I suspect he spent the night cuffed to the bars of his cell in a standing position,” amused in knowing that he was made to do so under her orders.

Compounds dried, the gloved left hand tousles the hair then the doctor steps out of sight. Gregory’s peripheral vision, the large planks impeding, limits his view of the woman accepting the instructions. But he does feel her hands and hears the tearing of clothing.

Well tethered wrists, ankles cuffed as well, will not inhibit the removal of his clothing... all his clothing. Every garment is ripped, shredded actually, the large woman seeming to handle boys with energetic glee.

Yes, once again he is stripped naked... to be exposed.

For what purpose?

Saturday, September 1, 2018

September Special... Pony play

Special for the month of September, 'Kept Naked, Made Eager to Please'

Regular price $6.99. September price $2.10.

Female Dominant, male submissive pony play, some 37,000 words. Strong stuff, as best as I can remember.


Snippet from 'Dates'

A snippet from the sequel to 'Visits'.

This will be the only posting.

The entire story is available at...

My Second Date

‘Have you healed?’

The missive could be interpreted as caring. But I know the woman either taunts or needs to arrange another date. Welted stripes deemed unsightly, the many marks of my caning must fade in order for me to be deemed ‘presentable for entertainment’.

‘Mostly Ma’am,’ I reply. ‘I can sit normally,’ clicking send.

‘I watched the video. You cane nicely, Mr. Long... such amusing struggles. Such futility. You’re not the first subordinate male who thinks that brawn can overcome well designed bindings.’

‘It cannot be helped. The pain is excruciating,’ such a silly reply, I think moments after clicking send.

‘Yes, and you did not vomit as do most. She’s good, my client. Extreme pain, no broken skin. Hard to believe she’s the devoted mother of three. Every woman needs to vent frustrations, Mr. Long... and in what better manner than to light up the buttocks of a man in need. Diverts your concerns over your state of chastity does it not?’   

‘Yes,’ I reluctantly must agree.

‘It’s cathartic, a good brisk caning, and it is certainly within the spectrum of your paraphilia. I’m sure you have not been thinking about being drained of spunk for the past few days.’

It’s true. For two days, possibly three, the state of my locked penis has been furthest from my thoughts.    

‘In the video you focused again on my museum piece... my tribute to the antebellum south and the iniquity of slavery. Men in chains. You find interest, Mr. Long. But in what manner?’

‘Historical,’ my reply a prevarication... which I am sure the woman realizes.

She ignores. No response for several minutes.

‘Another date for you, Mr. Long. My whore needs the money... among other things. Report Wednesday at 11:00 a.m. Expect to spend most of the day. And you won’t need to sit.’

‘Yes Ma’am,’ ignoring her humor.


Collared, I kneel, tummy to the bench, knees parted, buttocks high, forehead to the platform.

Having been released from chastity, shaved, then returned to lock up, the assistant once again grazed the razor over my entire body then oiled.

Another date... what will this encounter bring? My heart beat races with trepidation. As I await I hear at the side door the sound of an engine, heavy, pulling up the driveway.

What is to happen? The readied collar has signified in the past that I am to be led about... on two occasions to the secluded and enclosed... hopefully enclosed... backyard of the woman. Plus there is another clue... I have not been restrained to the bench.

The kitchen door above opens. There come footsteps... not soft, not booted. There is no doubt it is my ‘date’.

The footsteps approach. Hands begin smoothing over my hairless oiled skin. Smooth yet firm, such pinch and prod. I am being inspected, a barnyard animal. Considered for slaughter?

The hands draw my wrists behind my back. I am cuffed, rapidly, the woman either in law enforcement or distressingly experienced in restraining a man. The footsteps move to the wall. I then feel fingers about my collar. With a click, I am leashed.

“Come. Up!"

Commands! It is rare. On past visits not a word has been exchanged. My first date, caned in complete silence other than my sobbing and girlish shrieks.

Responding to the tug on the leash, the voice is firm but feminine. I stand and if my sense of direction serves me, she leads to the stairs where I have entered, not those to the backyard.

Step up, step up, step up, she patiently pulls. To the side door I hear the electronic lock release. The door opens. I feel the outdoor air wafting. It reminds of the quick and furtive dashes up the driveway, quirkily thrilled and exposed in nakedness.

Hooded and leashed, there can be no dashes. Yet exposed, yes. But not for long. I am directed to a vehicle, my shin pressing against metal.

“Step up, follow the leash. Be a good boy for me,” the words calm and matronly.

How many... how often... has this woman led about?

I enter. The vehicle must be a van, hopefully without windows. I am pressed to lie down. I feel the leash being tied off. Then cuffs encircle my ankles and I am restrained, made one with whatever will transport me. I am being abducted. 


“Cute body, Nancy. Is he handsome?” the voice of a young woman gushes as a hand smooths along various limbs, then pauses to teasingly tweak my left nipple.

I am shamed to find it feels good.

“I saw a video of him. Yes, he’s more than acceptable, but you know we have to keep him sightless. Bridge club rules.”

I am harnessed, held in full body suspension. And the feel of deep carpeting brushing my toes before being hoisted into the air suggests I am not restrained in a dungeon but instead in this Nancy woman’s livingroom or diningroom.

Whatever is this harness I am strapped into, it is resourcefully comfortable... physically acceptable. But emotionally the notion quickly dawns that my nudity can be displayed for hours without need for respite. How wicked!

“What of the rest of him? His little thing is covered in steel,” the young woman’s voice turning rueful as a hand palms my scrotal sac. “And he’s secreting. Some goo dripping from his little pee pee,” the tone mocking.

“I have the key. And you can be the one to release him, Adrian. As soon as the other girls arrive.”

“Can we jerk him off... after the games?”

“That’s extra. But his file indicates he responds most obediently to...”

I am chagrined when in completing the thought my keeper’s voice turns to a whisper and girlish giggling follows.

“Really! Operant conditioning. Read about it. Did not think it would work other than on dogs and other pets.”

“It does for the likes of this one. You have to want to submit to it... cede to a woman’s authority and control. And trust me, this one is wallowing in perverse delight right now.”

There comes silence as I hear chairs moved and glass and dishware being placed about. Then the doorbell rings, more women enter and I feel my penis fighting its cage. Why?

Why does it so much want to show off?

More hands, more inspection, more female voices, fingers pinch my buttocks. A woman, timbre of voice suggesting maturity, a hand grazing about to bring goose bumps, finds particular interest.

“He’s nicely smooth and kept hairless, Nancy. I like that in a boy. What do you know of him?”

“Name is Edwin Long. Out of work design engineer... low on cash... but not low on depravity. Anything more, you can read his file online.”

The explanation shocks. First the mention of a file concerning me... then learning such can be accessed online!

“When you’re ready to shuffle and deal, I’ll plug him and Adrian will unlock him,” hostess Nancy explains. “He’ll put on quite the show for us, I’ve been assured. But do remember we’re here to play bridge.”

More girlish giggles. In playing bridge I know there are at least four women observing my helpless hanging nakedness.

“And later Adrian wants to jerk him off... which is extra. $50 per hand for anyone who wants to watch.”

Saturday, August 25, 2018

Visit Seven

This is the last snippet from 'Visits'

Do keep in mind the entire story is available at...

Visit Seven

‘You spent copiously, Mr. Long. Two weeks under a woman’s control and you performed nicely. I must wonder what you’d discharge for me after three weeks of denial. Shall we find out?’

The teasing email comes on Tuesday. And though the words taunt and should bring irritation, there remains some degree of complacency. As a result of being drained, three days later my libido has not completely been restored. The glow remains. Though I remained hooded, I must assume the woman is correct, for I sensed the explosions, my rock hard penis firing like a cannon I am sure.

After standing upright, leash tight, neck strained, for what seemed like an hour, there came the sound of a door. And I was heartened to hear the boots thumping on whatever wooden stage I was posed upon, my nose detecting Jean Nate.

It seemed that my swelling penis pressed against its confinement even harder, though I am sure the sensation was psychosomatic. And when there came the click of the lock, the penis cage slipping away, my manly plums pressed through the control ring, I pleased her, throbbing appendage rising to stand at obedient attention.

The leash was tightened, almost to the point of being hung and this of course abetted the tumescence. Then one hand lifted my restrained hands and wrists, bending me over and further stressing my neck and spinal cord. A booted foot pushed apart my feet. A greased finger worked my gluteal cleft, finding my sphincter and lubricating with aplomb.

And then she entered me, one digit, then two, then three. Fingers rummaging about deep within, the woman deftly found my prostate, that normally kneaded with her Feeldoe.

It felt ecstatic... two weeks of neglect ending... my erection waggling about in celebration.

I have read about the so termed hangman’s dance, tension on the neck and spinal cord fostering the curious somatic reaction of erection. And the woman seemed to know this, holding up my cuffed wrists, bending me over to assure utmost tautness.

It felt so good... so welcomed. Yet there I was perched naked and bound on what seemed to be a stage, my untouched penis stabbing the summer air.

Who was watching? Who could see? Outdoors, breezes wafting over oiled defoliated skin... normally such would feel so good. There came stressful thoughts of concern. Yet my need trumped my mental distress.

Yes, such concerns seemed so distant with the amazing manipulation of my gland.

Nothing touched my erection... primed yet frustratingly left without friction... no fingers, no hand, no tongue or lips, and certainly no vaginal warmth and smoothness. I am learning such is the ritual. The prostate manipulation seemed unending. And finally the hand released my wrists and there came the slap to my buttocks.

Yes, fingers within began a more gentle circling motion and I exploded... again on cue... again at the behest of a controlling woman... to please her... to show off... to display myself... my vanquished maleness... my libido hers to govern... the joy welcomed but incomplete as the rush of hormones brought quick repose.

Why do I so much enjoy this? 

‘I have needs, Ma’am,’ my reply disgustingly humble.

‘And such are to be addressed, Mr. Long... at my whim. I needed my playroom for a quick session with an unruly husband. The wife believes in immediate discipline for transgressions, and I caned him prospectively. Thus the diversion and the need to have you wait for me... hooded and bound naked and outdoors. A little too thrilling for you, Mr. Long? Or are we to add exhibitionism to your sick fantasies?’

I read, not knowing how or what to reply.

‘No response? Silence means consent, Mr. Long. See you Saturday. 9:30. Consider leaving your car naked. Dashing across the street wearing nothing more than a steel cockcage will put you in the right frame of mind, I’m sure. And I’ll have a reward for you.’

Reward! Yes, the notion of a reward excites. For I remain locked up. After the boots and scent of Jean Nate departed, the woman’s assistant returned to the stage placed me back in chastity, releasing my leash and leading back into the basement, there to kneel and restore energy after a mental, emotional and physically exhausting ordeal. Wrists uncuffed, with his/her departure, I knew to remove my hood, dress and leave.

‘Yes Ma’am,’ my reply delayed, my mind distracted in envisioning the reward.


I am jittery but able to control the car. Is it the hormonal buildup? Or the prospect of trotting about the woman’s neighborhood wearing only a mass of steel at my pubes?

Will I do it?

Early again, instead or parking and waiting the few minutes until 9:30, I drive around the block, pondering the consequences of being caught. With my penis covered can I still be charged with indecent exposure? And the thought returns... how does the woman know whether I enter and descend the stairs dressed or naked?

There must be hidden cameras, I conclude. The woman is in earnest and would not tempt with a reward unless I have been truly deserving.

At 9:25, I turn again onto the street of my destination, roll to the front of the house and kill the engine.

Decision time!

I grudgingly kick off my shoes. I take a deep breath. I slip off my tee shirt. I check the mirror. No traffic. I check the phone. 9:28. I remove the woman’s fee from the pocket of my shorts, certainly not to leave that behind. Then 9:29 flashes. I am tempted to begin the short but emotionally long journey when it dawns that since I will be running, arriving at the door early will be counterproductive.

So I wait. It is a long minute. I use the time to shimmy about and push the gym shorts to my ankles, the leather seat cool despite the summer heat.

9:30. I push open the car door, stepping from my shorts. Presciently I pick up the garb before my
trek. ‘Dashing’, the woman suggested. And dash I do. In crossing the street, somewhat stumbling in bare feet, I both feel and hear my cockcage bouncing about. With a week’s stubble, the follicles bring annoying pinching. This fosters a contrasting need... to be shaven. Yet I know it will only happen under the humiliating auspices of another... gender of the hands and fingers unknown. 

I find that the morning air wafting over my nudity feels good, but I put aside the distraction focusing on the door. Thirty seconds until it relocks. I have my shorts as backup. I can leave if my timing is off. But what of my reward?.. the need for release... to be penetrated... to yield and be drained of this hormonal glut.

I grip, I turn, I pull. I open. Timing superb.


Hooded I kneel... thighs well parted, buttocks high, head down... and I feel sanguine, mouth gleefully cradling the woman’s end of her double dildo.

I am to be fucked! Anally sodomized. I sense the powerful thrusts, heart thumping in anticipation.

The kitchen door opens. Alas, soft footsteps! Such near. My wrists and ankles are secured.  Waters runs, drawers are opened and closed. I am heartened when fingers work about my steel enclosure. The lock clicks open, the mesh slid away. Fingers work my balls pressing through the tight circle of metal.

No ice! My penis celebrates. But should it? Man or woman? Girl or boy? For whom am I put on display?

Who is it that offers such divine emancipation?

Still, I harden as soft fingers apply lotion. Then the razor expertly whisks about, gently pulling my scrotal sac this way and that to assure every follicle greets the blade’s edge. Would a woman be so knowledgeable of the male anatomy?

I put aside the thought, trying to comfort myself. It is a woman, the hands dainty, the fingers soft.

Lotion coats my arms... then comes the razor... legs... the razor... back... the razor... chest... the razor deftly swirls about my nipples. It feels good, hairlessness becoming acceptable. And my homophobia will not allow me to envision a young male being so caring and attentive.

A warm moist towel cleanses. And then come liberal squirts of unguent followed by massage. Deep. The soft hands suddenly becoming gripping and firm. The kneading of my muscles and flesh is knowing, the technique coming with expertise. My mind no longer envisions a young girl, the training, the experience apparent.

It is a woman I convince myself. It must be.

The massage ends with gobs of unguent spread between my cheeks and a testicle rub, each sphere pressed between thumb and forefinger and pushed about within my sac. Divine. Knowing.

Would a man be so attentive there?

Then comes the clinking of metal. I silently curse, right testicle then left thrust through the confining ring. Then comes ice. My penis deflates, benumbed. The mesh cockcage returns. The lock clicks. I am again in chastity.

Saturday, August 18, 2018

'Dates' published

For those finding interest in 'Visit's and the Edwin Long saga, I have published a sequel.

23,200 words. $5.50



Visit Six

Visit Six

The week goes slowly. I find it difficult to concentrate on work matters. And I am jittery with need. For I have been returned to chastity... and with no relief afforded. Whomever shaved me neatly rinsed my pubes with a warm, wet cloth and then, as the numbness began to dissipate and I felt my penis begin to swell, worked to press the ring about my package, slipped my penis back into its cage and locked me back up.

Distraught, I obediently remained silent. In being well restrained I could not move, certainly not remove the hood. So I waited, the soft footsteps, scurrying about, the sound of running water returning, cabinet drawers opening and closing... all presumably to tidy things up.

Then my limbs were released, I received the pat to my head which has signified the end to every visit and the footsteps moved up the stairs.

Nothing more.

I waited and waited and finally arose, dressed... tee shirt, gym shorts, loafers... and departed.

Thus there will be a second week of denial, the cage ineluctable. A bowl of ice is kept at the ready next to my bed, the NPT thing coming nightly.

Tuesday I receive an email.

‘Hope you appreciate the shave. I am told that my assistant is quick and nimble with the straight edged razor.’

I find the tone of the message to be flippant concerning my condition and the lack of attention. But I dare not be rude or brusque. I have no key.
‘I miss your...’

I type but the words don’t flow. I miss her what? I erase and begin again.

‘Please thank her for the attention. Will I soon be having yours?’

Her attention?’comes a quick reply.

I pause. More flippance in suggesting I have the incorrect gender? Was I tenderly and neatly shaven by guy? The thought disgusts, but I have no way of confirming who shaved me... man or woman. And before I can ask for clarification there comes another email.

‘Saturday, 9:30 a.m. If you want another sordid thrill, remove again your clothing before opening the door.’

I pause in thought. How will the woman know whether I am naked or clothed upon entering? I had not before given that consideration. Yet, as the erudite woman explained in the initial interview, it’s about control, and having me strip naked, exposed to all outdoors, I must suppose is within the spectrum of my paraphilia.

Was it a thrill? 

I am given to inquire whether I will be offered relief... hormonal relief... but conclude the inquiry may be considered temeritous.

‘Yes Ma’am,’ I instead reply.

Such meekness.


Saturday comes. After many days of internal debate, thoughts rambling, I again dress simply, ready to bare myself in an instant.

But will I do it? Even on the drive to the woman’s house I am undecided. And I tell myself, if the woman did not insist... did not command me to disrobe at the side door... why is the matter under consideration?

Just enter. How will she know?

Further muddling my mind is the assistant... she... he... with the tender hands... nimble with the straight edged razor. The shave was quick and knowing... not a nick... and to cleanly scythe the many folds of the scrotal sac is an accomplishment.

Arriving, as always I park across street, better to observe the house and the neighbors. When the cell phone flashes 9:29 I exit, thankfully no Fedex van. It is then that I finally make a decision.

Yes, I seek the sordid thrill. Slipping off my loafers, my tee shirt is pulled over my head. When I hear the lock click, the shorts come down, I bend to gather all, pull open the door and prance within. 

Just seconds of exposure. Yet I feel my penis pressing the steel mesh of its cage. I tell myself it’s the pending attention which excites.

Clothing piled, fee remitted, next to the latex hood is another post it note, more calligraphy.

‘For your neck.’

It’s attached to a thick length of leather, a buckle at one end, holes in the other, a heavily gauged one inch ring embedded in the middle. It’s a collar, I’m sure intended for a large dog, but to be adorning my neck.

I collar myself, pick up the hood and turn to the low bench and platform.

No dildo!

I am given to protest, the fee substantial, my needs to be neglected again. But I remind myself... it’s about control... ceding it.

I thus kneel, pulling the hood over my head... knees well parted, back arched, buttocks high, head low. And once again the wait is short. And once again come the soft footsteps... no boots... no Jean Nate.

I am bound. My heart leaps as the chastity device is unlocked. I instantly harden. Despite not knowing the gender of she/he tending to me, my raging hormones overwhelm reservations... stow any homophobia... concerning the gender of the hands working to slip away the ring.

The scene repeats. Running water. Drawers opening and closing. Ice. I lurch with the chill and deflate I am sure, but in numbness have no basis for the conclusion. Then comes the razor whisking away the week’s stubble. But there is more. The lotion smooths everywhere And I am wont to protest as more than my pubes is defoliated. Arms, legs, buttocks are all denuded.

How am I to explain this? Long sleeve shorts will be needed at work.

The warm wet towel rinses and cleanses. It feels good. It must be a woman I keep telling myself as I enjoy the tenderness.

The touch further soothes as my entire body is coated with slickness, the hands smoothing everywhere.

But then comes more distress. Just as the penile numbness fades, the fingers work to return me to chastity... the ring... the mesh cage... the lock.

It clicks ominously. Another week? I will not be able to work, my attention to detail diverted.

My wrists are released then gently drawn behind me, there to be again secured behind my back. Next my ankles are released and I feel fingers jumbling about my collar and hear a click. There’s pulling on my neck. I am leashed. By whom? By what?

Upward, I know to stand. Then forward I step gingerly, the hood affording nothing but darkness. Slowly, carefully I follow stepping on the tile floor. Through a door, I obey the tugs... being led about in silence. We encounter stairs, not the entrance stairway. The tugs have me stepping up... again... again... again. We are leaving the basement. More steps and I hear a door open, feel the warm breeze of summer.

Outdoors! The leash pulls. I resist. It pulls again. I freeze. Then a hand goes to my right nipple. Fingers squeeze, then twist. It’s agonizing. With another tug I step out... into the sunlight... message received... leash hand to be obeyed.

Naked and bound I am mortified! What of the woman’s concern about the neighbors?

I tell myself I am in her backyard, attempting to bring calm by convincing myself the yard is well fenced.

More tugs my right shin greets wood. With a pull upwards, I know to lift my foot and mount. The leash jostles. No more tugs. But there is slight tension. When I hear the soft footsteps moving away, I realize my leash has been tied off above. I cannot sit or kneel.

The warm breezes bring a curious brisance, my denuded skin well oiled, the sensation welcomed but for being put on display naked, bound and outdoors. Then comes the demented thrill. My penis fights its cage, engorging to defy me.

Why? Why here? Why now?

Control... the woman is broadening the spectrum of my paraphilia. And the surrendering of control comes when not even in her presence.   

Saturday, August 11, 2018

Visit Five

Visit Five

Whereas normally the woman emails me first after a morning session, nothing arrives.... not Saturday, not Sunday, not Monday. Meanwhile, penis locked in a mesh cage, male package encircled in a formidable ring of steel, I find myself exploring and testing.

It’s a well made device, certainly not a toy. It fits snugly... firm yanks bringing pain and no freedom. I must squat to pee, the mesh allowing the passage of excretions. And thereafter the steel wipes cleanly. I can shower without impediment and though there is modest chafing, baby powder brings relief.  

So I can work... with loose slacks. Whereas I can hear the small padlock flipping about when I move, I learn my cohorts at work cannot. Such also brings relief.

On the negative side, the male phenomenon of unwanted erections... nocturnal penile tumescence... brings agonizing discomfort, and at all times of the night. The cage is unmerciful, unyielding and on two occasions I have had to ice myself down. 

Finally on Tuesday, still no communication, I furtively email her while at work.

‘I enjoyed my Saturday visit, Ma’am,’ choosing humble words. ‘Will this locking device be removed? Another Saturday visit?’

The 9:30 appointments are not prearranged. To date each visit has come by specific invitation. So though not in panic, there is additional need for engaging in the woman’s ritual... to time the locking door, descend the stairs, remove my clothing, don the hood, humbly kneel in wait... to get out of this nasty steel entrapment! 

Late Tuesday night, before bed, in desperation I check my email.

A reply!

‘I have not forgotten you, Mr. Long. Yes do visit on Saturday. 9:30. You’re to be shaved, the stubble can be uncomfortable. Meanwhile the device should be instilling discipline... no naughty fingers... no stroking hand. And over time you’ll be eager to perform for me.’

My thumping heart certainly suggests I am eager.

‘Yes Ma’am, 9:30 a.m.’ the medium of email concealing my enthusiasm.

As I step to the bathroom, one last visit before bed, there comes an unexpected response.

‘Take off your clothes in my driveway, Mr. Long. Let’s see how exacting you can be in timing your entry.’

My thumping heart now pounds in reading the missive. Concern over the neighbors seems to be situational... when the situation merits, the woman risks exposing the nature of her services. And the woman did say she prefers men who can be exact.

I console myself, Saturday mornings there is little activity in the residential neighborhood. In the past three visits there have been no interlopers, no one observing my arrival. Still it will be broad daylight and what if I mistime the entry? A little early will bring moments of concern in waiting for the click of the lock. But if I am late? I would need to hurriedly redress.

Then a telling thing happens. My penis swells and begins to fight its cage. Though fearful, the notion excites.

I type ‘Yes, Ma’am’ in reply then head to the kitchen.

I need ice.     


Saturday morning comes. In being held in chastity, I have just one cup of coffee. I will not need a piss proud penis to aid an erection. Unlocked, I suspect that my manhood will be springing from its cage like a Bengal Tiger.

I also dress thoughtfully, my nudity demanded before entering the side door. Therefore no undergarments are worn, no socks, my loose tee shirt can be quickly slipped over my head, and though gym shorts will appear out of place in wearing loafers, both can be doffed in seconds.

Still there is concern. For it’s one thing to be caught naked... it’s another to be so exposed while my privates are locked in steel. So on the drive I try to formulate some story should I encounter a neighbor... or worse a patrolling policeman.

Nothing comes to mind. 

I arrive, parking across the street, my cell phone suggesting I have ten minutes to spare. I surveil the neighborhood. Gratefully no activity. Still I begin to tremble and by 9:29 I am shaking like a leaf.

Exiting the car, a Federal Express delivery van arrives, pulling up behind. How long does a delivery require? The woman driver exits promptly. Package for the neighbor opposite, there is a clear line of vision to the driveway and the side door.

What to do?

The door unlocks for thirty seconds. I have no idea of the consequences should I miss the interval for entry. Hopefully reschedule another visit. But another week with penis in captivity? I cannot withstand. The appendage needs to breathe... better to stand... to spurt.

At the door, my cell phone reads 9:30 just as the door lock clicks. I kick off my loafers and slip my shirt over my head. I look to see that the action draws no notice from the driver, a man in gym shorts, ostensibly ending a workout, perhaps preparing to cut the lawn... nothing out of sorts.

Dare I pull open the door and use it as cover in removing my shorts? How would such action jive with the demand that I be naked upon entering?

Mentally I try to count the seconds as the woman glances my way before reentering the van. Finally the engine starts. As she pulls away I lower my shorts and hastily pull open the door, holding it open in bending to gather my shoes and limited covering.

Breathing heavily, it’s down the stairs, lights clicking on to illuminate. Then it’s clothing stowed, fee remitted, hood gathered. But when I step to the low bench and platform there is no dildo.

Odd. Still, it’s tummy to the bench, knees well parted, back arched, buttocks high, head low and I eagerly slip on the hood. I need attention!

I am heartened that the kitchen door opens. Limited wait. There come footsteps... soft, no boots.

Then more deviation. Soft hands grasp my right wrist. For the first time the cuffs are used, one by one each limb secured, assuring I am made one with the bench.

Strange. I have obediently remained in position for each visit, yet bindings are now deemed needed. Then I realize... no Jean Nate!

This cannot be the woman who masters me... uses me... demands that I spurt for her on cue!

Yet, as fingers rummage about between my thighs there comes the welcomed sound of a click. The penis cage slips away. The steel ring is worked, right testicle then left pushed through the tight loop. And yes, I obediently harden... but for whom?

The celebration is dampened by the unknown. And without being fanny fucked, how it is I am to ejaculate when the signaling slap comes to my buttocks?

The soft footsteps retreat. To the cabinets. There comes the sound of water. The footsteps return. Hands again rummage between my thighs and I suddenly lurch, wrist and ankles testing the bindings.

Ice! Just as I have applied such to counter the nocturnal penile tumescence. The chill is relentlessly applied, numbing completely. I soften... I must so assume. Then my nose detects soap. The ice is removed. About my pubes there is felt foamy softness then the gentle scrap of a razor.

‘I am to be shaved’... the email coming to mind.

But by whom?  

Saturday, August 4, 2018

Visit Four

Visit Four

‘You did not present yourself fully erect for me, Mr. Long. Do you have a masturbation problem? I want to see a firm penis before tending to your needs. Such is a tribute to a woman of my ilk. And your effluent seemed limited for a man of 32.’

The chiding question comes two days after the latest visit. Emails, slaps to my buttocks and a patting hand to my head seem to be the only form of communication.

Ruefully I write back, admitting that with the loneliness and long hours of engineering work my hand does seem stray from time to time.

‘I will change that. You will produce only for me and when and if I want to have you emptied. Saturday 9:30 a.m. Be kneeling and erect for me. Meanwhile do not touch yourself.’

Such wondrous command, such in charge demeanor. What more I can say other than to type ‘Yes, Ma’am,’ and click send?

So Saturday comes after a long week of obediently denying myself... my stroking hand idle.

I arise early, nocturnal penile tumescence awakening me... the curious condition not to be addressed with the normal stroke or two. So I take the time to shave down below as demanded. Still, I find myself leaving my apartment early as for some reason I cannot calm myself. I stop at a convenience store and purchase a large coffee. In being my third cup for the morning with limited bathroom visits, a filled bladder should aid in the demand that I greet her in hardness.

So I sip and stare at my cell phone, guzzling the dregs as the numerals 9:29 alight. Then the weekly scene repeats, to the driveway, the door clicking, stairs negotiated, fee remitted, clothing removed, tummy down, knees parted, back arched, hood donned, dildo warmed and wetted.    

I wait. And I wait. And fortunately with a solid week of denial, thoughts of the woman’s governance and a piss proud penis, I slowly feel myself engorge.

What is this odd sense of pride?

Then comes the rattle of the kitchen door, the boots, the scent of Jean Nate, the rustle of clothing as she bares herself. The dildo is taken from my mouth, the sound of the ridged protuberance sliding into a moist love nest becoming a catalyst. I seem to harden more as the boots move behind me. Fingers gently graze my erection. It waggles... in celebration... but also in need... that which will not be addressed... not as I crave it.

The fingers withdraw. A hand pats my head. Reward... for greeting my superior in full tumescence... just as she demands. 

Then my heart leaps, my hormones primed, as fingers lubricate and a hand grips my plums.

My weekly fucking. The woman’s weekly ritual. I yield... I give... my pride vanquished... my needs subordinated.

With a week of self imposed chastity, I am wont to scream for attention... that of a stroking hand.

It comes not. Instead my anus is penetrated. It is the beginning... a persuading initial thrust... announcing who is in charge... and who will cede.

Balls as a lever, the woman’s strength seeming to grow weekly, plunge, plunge, plunge. And my legs quake, my back throbs, the pose ungainly... but demanded.

Then the finger hooks, drawing downward a rock hard penis which would so much like to perform for her... explode in manly virility.

Yet, it will not happen. Not until she decides... not until she is fully pleasured.

So in hooded darkness I once again take it... take all she wishes to offer. And finally comes her orgasm... the muffled gasp... along with the release of a penis most firm. Snapping upwards, there comes the signaling slap to my buttocks and I explode... again on cue... again obediently responding to her silent command. And there comes an odd sense of pride with the brief and unfulfilling spending... another ruined orgasm... but afforded under her total control.

Why is there satiation?

The dildo withdraws. There comes the expected plop, the wetness greeting my lips. But unexpectedly I hear the boots move to a cabinet and the opening of a drawer. There follows the sound of clinking metal as the boots return. Then fingers diddle about my spent organs, working about my scrotum. My flaccid penis is slipped into something. Then comes a click... for some reason seeming loud... convincing? 

Finally the rewarding pat to my head announces that our tete a tete is over, the rustle of clothing as she covers herself, the boots going to the stairs.

As instructed I wait for the closing of the kitchen door before arising. When my weary legs slide from the bench and the platform I remove the hood, sensing weightiness about my penis and testicles. When I look downward I see my male package has been ringed in steel, my penis caged, a small padlock assuring that my recent pledge of self induced chastity will be not so much abetted... but assured.

I have no key. 

Friday, August 3, 2018

'A Woman's Revenge' snippet

For those who are curious, there is a lengthy snippet from the story posted here on February 13, 2010.


Wednesday, August 1, 2018

Special for August

Special for August.

Both ‘A Woman’s Revenge’...

and the sequel ‘Mademoiselle Rules’...

will be on sale for the month of August. Extreme Female Dominance, bondage, corporal punishment, incestuous undertakings... if the interaction can be so defined.

Normally $4.00 each now $2.10

I blew the title when I posted ‘Mademoiselle Rules’ for publication... and it cannot be changed. Such frustration!

Saturday, July 28, 2018

Visit Three

Visit Three

For some reason I arrive well before 9:30 a.m. again, this time departing early in some orgastic anticipation of stepping down the half flight of stairs to the basement playroom.

Having to wait in my car for the electronic door, my mind mulls last week’s visit, the sole verbal communication being those three words... the only speech exchanged.

In the interim there have been email messages, the first brief in inquiring ‘did you like my taste?’.

Yes, in ending the session, the double dildo withdrew, the boots tapped to the front of the low platform and there came again the sound of slippery moist flesh, this time a plop. Then, while pinching closed my nose, as I drew a breath the bulbous lump of blue rubber was returned to my mouth.

Wet, warm, fragrant with feminine essence, I replied to the email, deciding on a simple ‘yes’ to veil my libidinous zeal.

As instructed in the many messages exchanged I thereafter patiently remained kneeling... buttocks high, knees parted to the extreme, head low... as I again heard the rustle of clothing, the boots going to the stairs. After the kitchen door closed I arose, removed the latex hood, tidied up, dressed and departed, knowing to press the red button for release.

A second email chided me, knees to be further parted, back further arched to better present my sphincter for anal penetration.

‘You will find the pose to not only be demeaning but to better open yourself to me, your balls hang so freely. Plus in stretching and straining the various muscles and ligaments your sense of acquiescence and submission will be enhanced.’   

Yes, the woman enjoys rituals, and as she stated, most importantly I will learn to enjoy yielding to her rituals.

A final email admonished me to tidy things up... rinsing the latex hood, and scrubbing the bench and platform of all bodily fluids. I had done so but apparently not with adequate attention.

‘Future sessions there will be no words, Mr. Long,’ the missive ended. ‘You will come for me with my hand signal, the slap to your buttocks.’

Why do such words bring excitement?

My cell phone indicates it is 9:29. I know to exit my car, forcing myself to take my time, that haste will result in unwanted delay, the electronic lock precisely set for 9:30.

So I look for traffic, saunter across the street, and leisurely traverse the driveway. I cannot help thinking how I am subordinating myself to a device.

Timing perfected, I hear the lock, pull open and descend, the lights clicking on in mid flight.

The room is the same, nothing moved, nothing changed. The bench on the low platform awaiting, the Feeldoe lies at the front end, no post it note, no instructions required.

So I disperse the fee, strip, grab the hood, position myself, slip the tight latex over my head... hands feeling about to take the dildo. In pressing to my mouth I lower my head, part my knees to the maximum. And indeed in sensing the self imposed strain and tension, there does come a curious sense of capitulation, augmented as I arch my back and feel my gluteal cleft yawn open to offer a demanding woman her pleasure.

I am to be taken.

Impossible to delineate time, it seems there is an eternity in wait. I assume it’s because of the stress. Yet I dare not move, dare not relax from the requisite pose. It is a ritual... her ritual... one which I must learn to enjoy in order to please.

Alas, the distant kitchen door opens. Boots tap. The scent of Jean Nate comes... strong... stronger. With the rustle of clothing, I feel my penis twitch. Then the boots tap to my front, the dildo is jostled and I know to release.

More taps, the slight sound of moist flesh yielding to wet rubber. Fingers again lubricate. This time one finger then two fully penetrate. It feels good, the touch welcomed, the twitches bringing firmness. 

The fingers withdraw. A hand cups my testicles, swaying about obscenely I am sure. The tip of the dildo slowly abrades a well greased crevice. Then the gripping hand simultaneously pulls as the dildo plunges... firmly... forcefully. She takes me. There is no hesitation. There is strength. There is determination as despite the tightness, the tip plunges deeply.

I gasp. More embarrassing, I squeal. This brings muffled laughter. Then the fucking begins and I am chagrined to find my penis is untouched... and remains untouched... thrust after thrust.

I need attention. Need to feel the woman’s controlling grip. Yet as the Feeldoe plunges away my erection merely bobs about untended.

Finally I learn of the woman’s intuition. She knows... is aware of the male psyche... the cycle. A single finger of her free hand finds the tip of my turgid erection, hooks at the top and slowly bends downward just as I begin to pull on my oscillating pubo coccygeus muscles, desperate for eruption.

Needing to ejaculate, I cannot. She knows. In place of ecstatic relief, she merely fucks onward... thrusting and thrusting, my sphincter set aflame.   

Drat! Yet this is what I’ve asked for... many weeks of exchanging thoughts. Such frustration... yet such demented thrill.

There comes a soft gasp. The thrusting slows. The hooking finger withdraws. My erection snaps upwards as there comes a slap to my buttocks. It signifies permission. Incredibly I spend, on cue, spurting onto the platform what I must assume to be gobs of white seed.

The dildo withdraws, the boots tap, my nose is pinched and the bulbous lump of blue returns to my mouth. It is hot with friction and I so much welcome the taste.

A tender pat to my hooded head... master to dog... is my reward.

I have pleased.