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.”
Saturday, November 17, 2018
Sunday, November 11, 2018
'Compassion' published
I have published my latest short story on Lulu.
10,600 words, $3.25
Available at...
Enjoy
10,600 words, $3.25
Available at...
http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/compassion/23713964
Enjoy
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...”
Castration!
“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.”
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...”
Castration!
“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.
Enjoy
CB
*****************************
Compassion
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...
*****
Enjoy
CB
*****************************
Compassion
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.
“No.”
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?”
“Nothing.”
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.”
“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.
“No.”
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?”
“Nothing.”
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...
https://www.pinkflamingo.com/Nusquam-Beckons-PF6279.htm
Enjoy.
For readers of this blog, use the promotion code 'BLOG' when checking out. There will be a 30% discount.
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.
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