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.
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.
60,500 words, $13.50.
http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/the-edwin-long-saga-visits-dates-and-finally-kept/23391878
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...
http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/finally-kept/23387451
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.
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...
http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/finally-kept/23387451
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.
Enjoy.
********************************************************************************
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.
“No!”
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.
Enjoy.
http://www.lulu.com/shop/chris-bellows/kept-naked-made-eager-to-please/ebook/product-18825631.html
Snippet from 'Dates'
A snippet from the sequel to 'Visits'.
This will be the only posting.
The entire story is available at...
Enjoy
****************************************************************************
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.”
This will be the only posting.
The entire story is available at...
http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/dates/23270675
Enjoy
****************************************************************************
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.”
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