'Retribution', Segment XII

This is the last segment to be posted. The full story has been published on Lulu.

Enjoy,

CB 

*****

Guangdong Penitentiary (two years past)

“You’ll need to acclimate. Just sit up. Let your circulation settle.”

The kuxing zhe releases the thumb rings. Other than brief interludes to cleanse and massage, inhibiting bedsores, qiufan Marcia Clark has not been released from the death bed in three weeks. She requires help. A few moments to stabilize, circulation pulsating, next the toe rings are released, the kuxing zhe pushing and prodding the qiufan’s nakedness such that she turns, remaining sitting upright, bare feet to the concrete floor of the cell.  

“To the torture chamber... the xingxun shi... shou ren zunjing kuxing zhe?” Marcia humbly inquires.

“If you’d like. I must walk you, hands to your head... unless a guard wants to see you smile.”

Yes the qiufan has broken... bonding with her torturer. She is somewhat in a quandary, not outright requesting a visit. But she certainly is not refusing. Pain... she must have it... it is her narcotic.

The qiufan feebly rises to her feet. Unsteady, she needs more moments to find her balance. Her kuxing zhe waits. There is no rush. She is not to stumble. A healthy qiufan is needed in order to maximum the torture.

Finally her hands obediently go to the back of her head. The kuxing zhe grasps her right breast, firmly but gently, a symbol of her control.

“Come. There is much to show you... so many ways to torture you. And you’ll please me. You want to please me. The torture chamber is private.”   

The qiufan is not to know that there are cameras, her benefactor to be apprized of the daily torment... that her screams, shrieks and howls will be for more than the kuxing zhe’s ears.

Out the cell door. Ironically it is not locked. The qiufan is always under supervision... and well restrained. As trusty, the kuxing zhe not deemed in need of close confinement.

To the hall. The kuxing is pleased that her qiufan can walk, her bandaged toes not impeding movement. Her fingers have healed, no bandages, no infection, the daily agony behind her. Until of course the nails grow back. Then the torture of removal will begin again.

A male guard approaches. The kuxing zhe stops. Hand remaining at the qiufan’s breast she stops as well. The male guards in particular like to see a prisoner smile... the naked Caucasian prisoners. The humiliation entertains as much as the display of feminine flesh. This guard is no different. He nods. The kuxing zhe respectfully greets. The hand slips from the breast. The qiufan lowers her arms, hands to her mons, pinching the lips, tugging aside, to display her most intimate pink flesh.

The kuxing zhe smiles inwardly. The qiufan so obedient, so eager to please. Broken. Her will... her pride extinguished.

The male guard laughs, heightening the embarrassment, offers a compliment on the skills of the kuxing zhe then finally moves onward. 

The duo resume, grasping the breast, hands of the qiufan to her head. It is a short walk to the torture chamber but daunting. The qiufan is apprehensive. The kuxing zhe can feel her quivering as they come to a door of solid steel. A code is punched into an electric key pad. With the sound of a click the door is pushed open. They enter.

“There is a death bed in here as well, qiufan... specially shaped. But I think you’d like the laohudeng... tiger bench. If you’re confined in a Chinese prison you must experience the tiger bench. It’s like visiting the Great Wall,” the humor not appreciated.

There is also a fubu muban... belly board... a tiger chair... and an entire wall arrayed with rope and other items needed for bondage and restraint. As stated, no whips, canes, tawses and other items of corporal punishment. Painful yes, but so quick. It is not the Chinese way. But curiously there is one wall of shelves which are stacked with bottles... varying shapes and sizes.

The door shuts behind, only to reopen with the code entered into the keypad. The qiufan looks about. There are no windows. Does that bring some comfort? That the qiufan’s torture will be private? No viewers. Her hairless, naked and most vulnerable form only for the eyes of her kuxing zhe? Her agony to be shared intimately.

The breast is released. The kuxing zhe lowers her hands and grips the bottom hem of her one piece gray uniform. She pulls it up, over her head, denuding herself. There are no undergarments permitted in a Chinese women’s prison.

“It can be warm in the torture chamber,” she explains to the surprised qiufan.

She gazes at nakedness. The kuxing zhe is trim, well muscled though shapely. Though exposed, the power exchange is not interrupted. The qiufan is hairless, bald, with no eyebrows appearing freakish. The kuxing zhe is attractive. It is apparent from the look of envy that the qiufan is most aware. In fact she lowers, going to her knees to supplicate.

“Are you going to torture me,  shou ren zunjing kuxing zhe?”

“Yes. That is what I do. And in the torture chamber you can properly thank me for my attention and your care. Some time on the tiger bench. Then the death bed. Come.”      

'Retribution', Segment XI

The New Jersey mansion of David Clark (the present)

A satiated chauffeur Gentry turns into the long drive leading to the vast mansion of David Clark. He looks in the rear view mirror to see his naked passenger kneeling between the opposing rear seats of the limo, hands as always obediently folded to the back of her head. He smiles, thinking of the training, to be able to facilely take his entire length, no annoying choking. He can’t help thinking, wife Trudy is not the only member of the family hesitant to offer head. He as well finds reluctance in oral sex. Marcia Clark is like a marital aid, he laughs to himself.

Pulling to the porte cochere, he stops the car, exiting to open and hold the door for the shamed faux chatelaine of the Clark mansion. A totally naked Marcia Clark steps from the back. With the sun setting, the evening air is cool. Gentry notes the crinkled nipples.

“Thank you for letting me suck your penis, Sir,” the voice docile and sincere.

“You’re welcome. Are you going to smile for me?” Gentry made aware of the libidinous protocol of her imprisonment. “Thought it would be untoward on Fifth Avenue. But David likes to you offer an appropriate greeting.”

The hands lower, the feet part, the thighs open. Fingers go to the smooth hairless pubes, pinching the outer labia and tugging left and right. In the gloaming of dusk, Marcia exposes her most intimate anatomy, flashing the pink of her inner labia and vagina.

“Good girl. Go to the kitchen. Trudy will feed you. Your Master David is entertaining. She may  stay for dinner.”

Indeed, Marcia looks to see a familiar Mercedes parked in the near distance. It rankles, her one time best friend regularly visiting. It further disturbs that before the evening is out she will probably be requested to pose for the woman... though ‘requested’ may not be the appropriate term.

Gentry grabs the shoes, coat and wig. Marcia knows to return her hands to her head, enter and proceed to the kitchen. She is indeed hungry.    

“Welcome home, Marcia,” cook Trudy greets with enthusiasm as Marcia’s bare feet pad the tile floor of the kitchen. “You must be hungry. David said you’d be having a busy afternoon.”

Marcia nods, immediately knowing to go to her knees. As Trudy presents her food bowl Marcia further lowers and kisses her shoes.

“Good girl. I’ve got lots of scraps for you. A full bowl.” 

It’s telling that being fed like a dog is cook Trudy’s paradigm. Husband David simply laughed when first hearing of the deviant protocol his cook demands. He does not intercede. In his mind, wife Marcia must show respect for all.

Trudy withdraws her foot, bends and places the bowl on the floor. Marcia knows to partake, shifting and lowering her face to the bowl. Hands returned to the back of her bald head, using fingers to eat is not permitted. Trudy smiles in hearing the human canine take in the slop, water poured over the mess to make it appear insalubrious.

“I suppose you fellated, Gentry.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” mouth full, Marcia garbling the words.

“Yes, see cock... suck cock. Amazing what they did to you in that Chinese prison... that magical tongue... wrapping those lips around anything and everything. Showing your cunt. Tsk, tsk, tsk.”

'Retribution', Segment X

New York (the present)

Marcia Clark exits the penthouse of her kuxing zhe, stepping to the foyer to dress. She dons the long overcoat and flats, her only attire. Exhausted, she crudely covers her head with the wig of raven hair, too tired to prink and preen. She no longer gives consideration to her appearance, the wig simply to avoid attracting attention, conscious that her bald head combined with missing eyebrows brings an alien look. 

The limousine of husband David Clark is parked nearby. In approaching, the driver exits and  opens the rear door. As Marcia lowers herself to enter, the driver pushes the door partially closed, denying entry.

“Please no games, Gentry. It’s been a long afternoon.”

“Your Master’s orders, Marcia.”

“But we’re in the middle of Manhattan!” the protest coming as the enormous black hand of the driver reaches and grabs the wig. 

“Then you should make it quick. Coat and shoes... now.”

Marcia looks about. Though the sidewalks are busy, there is no one directly looking. She kicks off her flats. Then in a well coordinated move slips off the long coat, ungainly in that the weather is warm, tossing to driver Gentry and reaching for the partially opened rear door. A smiling Gentry yields not, still denying entry. Marcia Clark, having spent two years completely naked in Guangdong Penitentiary, is again exposed to all.

“You have something to ask me?” Gentry’s voice low and sultry.

“Here?”

“In the back. I’ve never had a blow job on Fifth Avenue. Ask and I’ll join you in the back.”     

Marcia looks down, by rote her hands going to the back of her bald head, caution abandoned.

“May I suck your penis, Sir?”

She consoles herself. If there is trouble, detained for indecent exposure, wealthy husband David will post bail... eventually.

Gentry responds... waiting a moment... a long moment in Marcia’s racing mind... silently opening the limousine door in full then stepping behind as Marcia scrambles from view.

In entering Marcia knows to kneel on the floor. Gentry joins her, casting aside the wig, coat and shoes then seating himself.

“When your husband made arrangements for your escape and return, he told me you like big black cock. Asked me to accommodate. ‘Consider it a perquisite of employment’ he said,” Gentry laughing as he unzips. “And I told him... I’m married. I lose my wife, David, and you lose the best cook you’ve had. And that’s when I learned how a rich man like David becomes rich. ‘You’re covered’, he said. ‘I already spoke to Trudy. Seems you’ve not been taking full care of her, Gentry.’ And he’s right. Trudy enjoys... and deserves... good head... something I’m not given to do. And now she’s taken care of as well. Marcia, you’ve got busy lips,” pulling an enormous penis from the confines of his uniform slacks.

Marcia knows to lean forth, obediently engulfing, tongue swishing and swirling.

“Take your time, Marcia. It’s rush hour. May as well let the traffic pass. You decide... in your mouth... or down your throat. Makes no matter to me.”  

'Retribution' published

 I have published the referenced story on Lulu.

36,700 words, $4.32.

December 16 will be the last posted segment here on the blog.

Enjoy,

CB

Be sure to give yourself access to explicit content.

https://www.lulu.com/shop/chris-bellows/retribution/ebook/product-844kr2n.html?q=retribution&page=1&pageSize=4

'Retribution' Segment IX

Guangdong (two years past)

“Your last nail, qiufan,” the kuxing zhe gripping the little right toe with the specially shaped pliers.

There comes the scream.... followed by beseeching sobs. Despite having endured equivalent pain for the past nineteen days, Marcia Clark cannot be stoic. She sings.

“And you are hairless. We’ll see if anything dares grow back. If more depilatory is required so be it.”

“Thank you, my shou ren zunjing kuxing zhe.”

“Thanking for what?”

“For taking care of me. All that you do.”

The kuxing zhe smiles. Most would say the woman is delusional. She instead knows her qiufan is broken, entering a masochistic state of delirium. She has learned to enjoy the agonizing attention.

Antiseptic is applied, the toe carefully bandaged. The kuxing zhe then moves to the top of the death bed, inspecting the fingers. Almost all have healed, ten days since the last removal. She then smooths her hands over the well bound naked form. She knows her masterful touch has come to bring a brisance of warped joy, smiling in seeing the nipples crinkle in delight. Though the touch is accepted as sensual, it is clinical, inspecting for stubborn follicles.

There are none.

“Smooth and vulnerable... and a nice, soft layer of Caucasian flesh. The warden will find attraction. You will please in being so exposed.”

“Thank you, shou ren zunjing kuxing zhe,” the tone genuinely grateful. “I want to please.”

“I can now torture you, qiufan. I’ll see if the death bed can be put aside. If truly broken we can spend more time together.”   

“Thank you shou ren zunjing kuxing zhe. You do so much for me.”

“And you will be doing things for me,” the smoothing hands stopping as the pubes. “The chemicals... very painful here.”

Indeed, applying so near the epidermis of the clitoral hood and labia brought notable screeching. ‘My qiufan shall not forget,’ the kuxing zhe thinks to herself, briskly rubbing about the outer labia to bring arousal. Fingers of the left hand go to her right nipple, gently pinching to enhance her excitement. The kuxing zhe smiles in smelling her feminine fragrance.

“Thank you, shou ren zunjing kuxing zhe, thank you.”

“You see, I do things for you that you want me to do. And you will do more for me than just sing.”

The fingers of the manipulating hand slip inward.

“I’m going to learn about you... your cunt. And you will learn of mine. But not with your fingers. You will explore me with your tongue and lips, qiufan. And you will thank me for letting you taste me.”

But... but... I don’t...”

“Yes you will. I am everything to you now, qiufan. Your torturer and the one who cares for you. And you will care for me.”

Marcia Clark senses pending climax, the haunting words adding to her dilemma. She does not want to be a woman’s toy, the fingers playing and playing. Feet attempt to kick, arms fight the tight bondage, hands and thumbs tugging, straining all the straps of the four point restraint.

Her kuxing zhe smiles, hands withdrawing, climax not to be achieved.

“You will climax for me... when I want you to climax. There’s more sacrifice to come, my qiufan. More of you to become a gift... to your kuxing zhe... your shou ren zunjing kuxing zhe.”

Three weeks of daily torment... toe nails and fingers nails extracted... skin chemically scorched... hair follicles decimated.... the kuxing zhe knows too well of the desperation. The ultimate ecstasy of orgasm a dire need.

“Tomorrow you will ask me to bring you to the xingxun shi. You want me to torture you. You want to please me. You will begin to learn how.” 

Sequel... 'Chained'... 'Chained & Protected'

I have outlined in my mind a sequel to the referenced stories and indicated such would be published in November. However, 'Chained & Protected' did not seem well received (not to mention lack of comments) and I have refrained from preceding with the endeavor.

Any readers have thoughts?

'Retribution', Segment VIII

 New York (the present)

“My client enjoyed your exhibition, qiufan. And your song,” the freezing cold sponge bath reviving. “Therefore you have once again pleased your kuxing zhe.”

“Thank you, shou ren zunjing kuxing zhe.”

“Perhaps some more twists. The legs. No client... you’ll just sing for me.”

“If you’d like, kuxing zhe. I want to please you. The chauffeur will wait.”

My suggestion was a test... of my qiufan’s masochism. Her need to offer herself to me remains ingrained. Mentally and emotionally I have tested her limits and there is more to be tolerated.  But she needs to be able to walk. I know the physical limits of stretching the ligaments. It is the experience and training of the kuxing zhe to understand when the application of intense pain turns to damage. It is essential to what I do. One cannot torture the debilitated.

Instead I move to stand between her upturned legs, thighs widely parted, her sex beckoning beneath her rose bud opening, her pink flesh welcoming. Once again I penetrate, two fingers gliding inward with ease. My qiufan remains lustfully wet. She sings for me again... a low moan of delight.

“Does your benefactor masturbate you... permit masturbation?”

“No, kuxing zhe. I am watched... and... well... my hands are tethered at night.”

“So no relief... and therefor the pain remains being welcomed... cathartic for you. You are tormented?” my fingers working within her vagina. 

I know her... know her most intimate feminine anatomy. She squirts, orgasm brings her to ejaculate. It amuses. One finger of my right hand pressing her ‘G’ spot, two fingers of my left massaging her clitoral hood, and I can make her erupt.

But I won’t. Just bring her close. Another form of torture.

“There is no fubu muban... no linzhong chuang... in my benefactor’s home.”

“And you have no marks... so there is no corporal punishment.”

“Correct, kuxing zhe.”

“I will again contact your benefactor. Remind him of your needs. That once broken a shou nue kuang (masochist) requires attention.” 

“Thank you, shou ren zunjing kuxing zhe. May squirt I for you?”     

“No,” cruelly withdrawing my hands and fingers. “Enough. Perhaps I will torture you again. I have a woman who may appreciate your skills... your level of tolerance. She pays well, in the past bringing a boy for her amusement. She may enjoy hearing a woman sing instead.”  

I move to the wall switch, flipping to lower the belly board. My qiufan knows the session of intense pain has ended. Is she disappointed? With her benefactor withholding all forms of physical torment, with my fingers bringing her close to orgasm... she most likely is.

Such is the world of the masochist. There is addiction... to the rush of hormones brought about by her torturer. And such hormones surge with pain, abetted by the intensity of the humiliation in giving herself to the sadistic whims of a superior. It’s not that she wants to surrender... to submit. She must. No pain... no rush.

I release the rope encircling arms and legs. I know too well the surging circulation will bring an initial stab of renewed pain followed by welcomed warmth, motion momentarily strained. Plus there has been the deluge of hormones... my torment spurring endorphins and oxytocin. She is drained. I have drained her.

“Dress yourself and leave,” I succinctly advise, stepping from my xingxun shi. 

'Retribution', Segment VII

Guangdong Penitentiary (two years past)

Marcia Clark learns of the resolve of a Chinese torturer. And yes, she uses the phrase shou ren zunjing kuxing zhe in addressing the woman who daily rips away a fingernail. The process is done slowly, her Kuxing zhe explaining torture is never to be rushed... not in China... and particularly not at Guangdong Penitentiary.

In trying to appease the woman, Marcia divulges the presumed anger of her husband David... her benefactor... able to recite his last communication to her, the note in the hotel room, verbatim. Revenge. But her explanation stops not the agony, every morning a nail surrendered, always before any food, vomiting to be avoided.

Immobilized in tight four point restraint, Marcia is able to thrash about her head... and move her vocal cords, bestowing the entire prison with begging words and her ‘song’ of suffering. 

With finger number six, Marcia realizes nothing... no words of entreaty... will save her nails... and avoid the pain. Instead she beseeches for more quickness.

“Please, shou ren zunjing kuxing zhe, faster. Just pull,” the appeal bringing a smile, and no change in pace.

Marcia cannot help noting the attentive after care. Each deformed finger is soaked in antiseptic solution and bandaged with the diligence of a hospital visit.

Within ten days comes time for the toe nails, there are no more words to be squealed, well worn vocal cords strained with unintelligible lung emptying cries of agony.

Marcia is fed daily, her kuxing zhe spoon feeding, mother to infant, mouth wiped for untoward neatness. There is bathing, a warm wet chamois smoothed over every inch of well exposed flesh, genitalia and anus attentively cleansed after urination and every bowel movement. Marcia initially protests, that given a free hand she can tend to herself.

“But you will not, qiufan, You are to lie on the linzhong chuang until deemed broken. You are to be tortured. To move is to bring relief.”    

That said there is one anomalous aspect of the daily care. The thumb restraints are released, her kuxing zhe cradles her head and lifts, sitting up the prisoner and then massaging and rubbing her back with the tenderness of a mother tending to an infant. The arms are worked as well. Thereafter the toe rings are released and the legs lifted and massaged with equal attention.

“No bedsores, qiufan. That would require release from the linzhong chuang,” her kuxing zhe explaining the momentary release.

Some half dozen fingernails torn away, there is to come more to the daily Guangdong prison protocol.   

“We need to tend to your hair, qiufan. The chemicals are strong. Your benefactor insists on the harshest of applications,” the words coming as the kuxing zhe crudely begins clipping away at the head and pubes. “It will be painful as well. Not as intense as ripping away your nails... but the coating of chemicals will remain in place for much time.”

The kuxing zhe smiles, hearing delusional laughter from her qiufan. She is beginning to break.          

Aside from the daily intervals of intense suffering, there also comes distress in that the large cell is open to viewing, three solid walls, the fourth of bars enabling guards and other passersby to pause and gaze at the well secured nakedness of the qiufan. Marcia notes the wicked smiles, the many bandaged digits, the intensity of the tightness, a body coated in foul smelling defoliating chemicals seeming to amuse.

“Must they watch? Must they see me?” Marcia finding words as her kuxing zhe chemically swabs her body once more.

“Yes, qiufan, you would prefer to be tortured privately. Grace only your kuxing zhe with your song. It’s what happens.”

Knowing that the chemicals will soon begin to burn, Marcia hastens the exchange.

“What happens? What is it that happens?”

“You find quiescence in my care... the things I do for you. You find dismay in sharing with others... those who enjoy your exhibition.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s like making love... what we do... what you give me... what I give you. You’re beginning to think it’s for us... not for the joy of others.”

“The bars, kuxing zhe... open to the hall. It cannot be helped."

“In time we will go to the xingxun shi... the torture chamber... after you’re broken. And there your masochism will reign. You will do things for me... you will want to do things for me... surrender yourself to me... your pride... your soul... your dignity. It’s an offering... your gift to me.”

“Why?”

“Because I am your kuxing zhe... your shou ren zunjing kuxing zhe. I do things for you that you want me to do.”

“You don’t.”

“I do. You’ll see,” smiling in seeing the strong chemicals begin to burn, conversation over. 

'Retribution', Segment VI

New York (the present)

As I work the right arm, the outbursts of shrieks become a continuous moan of agony, the bamboo turning ever so slightly. This evidences surrender... and exhaustion. No more energetic outbursts. Well experienced, I am careful to avoid an outright tear of the ligaments. Such would debilitate. Such would require medical attention. In Guangdong Penitentiary such would mean rest and recuperation. Yes, I avoid tearing.

In the midst of a very slow turn I hear a determinative gasp of joy and a gurgle. I look to see my client is grasping his companion’s head with zeal, his own head slumped back, eyes closed. The companion... termed a twink... has admirable oral skills, keeping my client at the brink throughout my qiufan’s ordeal. The twink gently rights the man’s privates, pushing through the zipper and closing. He then obediently stays in place as my client recovers.

With the release, his interest in my show, the ultimate in power exchange, fades. If I know men... and I do... he will need a drink. Perhaps whiskey at a nearby gay bar, his leashed twink kneeling at his side.

“I’ll be going. Will you finish her?” my client inquires, rising from the large well stuffed chair and pointing to the twink’s clothing for him to dress.

“You can let yourself out. There is more for my qiufan, yes,” maintaining the tormenting hold on the tightening stick of bamboo.  

“Maybe I should better ask... will your qiufan finish you?”  

“That need not be told... and is not part of the exhibition,” my voice stern.

I can be authoritative with my clients. There is no other place in New York to be so entertained. And besides, as a hater of women, the man would have no real interest in me ‘finishing’ my qiufan... or in she ‘finishing’ me.

“For her,” reaching to his wallet, extracting some bills.

“That is not necessary. My qiufan needs pain and humiliation... not money.” 

The man nods, takes up the leash and leads his twink to the door.

There is no clock, but I know I have worked my qiufan’s joints for hours. The bamboo sticks of the legs and left arm remain applying tension. I stabilize that of the right arm then step to my qiufan’s head. There are tears. She sobs. Such catharsis. My hands return to her breasts, soothing.

“It disturbs that I no longer torture you alone?”

“It’s... it’s... different, shou ren zunjing kuxing zhe,” the voice straining, the suffering diminished yet remaining.

“Different good? Adding to your shame and humiliation?”

“I miss you, kuxing zhe,” emphasis on ‘you’.

“I noticed your nails have not grown back. That is common. A third removal is rarely needed. The fingers... they too surrender. But I have a linzhong chuang,” (death bed). “I will contact your benefactor. You can lie on it.”

“Please, kuxing zhe!”

“Please yes... or please no? Not that it matters. Your benefactor will decide. But the linzhong chuang requires much time to be appreciated. Your benefactor may miss you.”

I step away. Being a well experienced kuxing zhe, I know my qiufan is entering a stupor. With the hours of excruciating suffering the body capitulates, telling the cerebral cortex to shut down. I go to the bucket of water, the ice not yet fully melting. A wet freezing cold cloth will revive.

In returning, about to cleanse her sweat covered nakedness, I hesitate. My qiufan is in a dream like state, talk of the death bed bringing memories. Pleasant? Only the masochist can explain.

Guangdong (two years past)    

“You’ve been assigned a private cell... large. Her benefactor has influence. You know of the standard indoctrination procedures... Guandong Penitentiary orientation,” the warden smiling wickedly.

“Yes, warden... hair and nails” the kuxing zhe replies.

“There is a linzhong chuang in the cell. Use it. Do not release her until broken... hairless... and declawed. And if teeth become a problem, let me know. She won’t be the first American girl needing to be defanged.”

“Yes, warden.” 

And so goes Marcia Clark’s introduction to her kuxing zhe... to be her shou ren zunjing kuxing zhe.

“Come,” a hand reaching, fingers grasping the left mammary gland.

The grip is firm and convincing. Marcia Clark, gasps but follows as her kuxing zhe leads from the warden’s office.

“You do not need to know my name. I know yours but will not use it. I know almost everything about you. And what I do not know you will tell me. We will be spending much time together. Everything you need... torture included... will come from me,” the woman in the drab gray pullover dress explains as the duo travel the concrete hallways of the prison.

Marcia Clark, in fear, keeps her hands to the back of her head. On a occasion they pass a guard, the male guards gazing lasciviously at her nakedness.

“They will not touch you,” the kuzing zhe advises to comfort. “But in deference I will teach you how to properly smile for them. It shows respect.”

Reaching a large enclosure, three walls of cement, no windows, the fourth a facade of steel bars, Marcia is led inside.

“In an American prison, I would be considered a trusty, an inmate given privileges for good behavior. My good behavior comes from utilizing my skill set... the application of pain... without compunction.”

With the frightening words, Marcia peers about. There is a comfortable bed and a curious horizontal board, wide and some eight feet in length. There is an opening of size in the middle. Ominously at the corners of the plank there are sizable eye bolts with attached straps.

“That is where you will sleep,” noting her qiufan’s gaze. “And eat... and pass away all your time... until you are broken... as the warden suggested.”

“But... but... there’s....”

“No padding, yes. This is Guangdong Penitentiary... not a hotel. No more speaking. It is termed the linzhong chuang... death bed. There have been prisoners shackled to it for the remainder of their lives. You will not be one of them. Perhaps though you will wish you were. The hole is for your buttocks. You will defecate and urinate into the bucket below. No need to be released for toilet... until you break. I will feed you and bathe you. As trusty, I do not handle your waste bucket.”

Marcia is guided to sit on the board, propped up on legs some two feet off the cell floor.

“After you are hairless and declawed... broken... the xingxun shi... torture chamber... is down the hall. There you will perform for me.”

The kuxing zhe smiles in seeing the look of horror. 

“Your hands, qiufan. We don’t use manacles here. Expensive... and when in long term bondage can chafe the skin. Such can bring infection.”

An overwhelmed Marcia Clark, in a trance of bewilderment, obediently offers her hands. Her kuxing zhe isolates the right thumb, pressing a solid steel ring to it then encircling both ring and appendage with a small hose clamp. She tightens the hose clamp with a special tool.

“So we use hose clamps, cost some thirty cents in American money. And very effective. When needing to bind thousands of prisoners there are savings... and no need for keys,” the explanation coming as the left thumb is similarly encircled.

“Lie down, buttocks over the opening, hands above your head.”

Obedience again, Marcia hears a click, click as the rings adhered to her thumbs are quickly clipped to the straps overhead.       

“You are a good qiufan. Very obedient. Now your toes.”

Working with alacrity Marcia’s big toes are clamped, rings attached. Two clicks come as such are restrained to straps at the button corners of the linzhong chuang. 

“Retribution... my qiufan. Your benefactor is very determined. You must tell me what you have done to earn such special... and expensive... treatment,” the words come as the kuxing zhe moves about the four corners of the board tightening each strap to leave Marcia in four point restraint.  

“I cannot move!”

“Yes, we make it nice and tight for our qiufans here at Guangdong Penitentiary. And you must address me as your kuxing zhe. Better shou ren zunjing kuxing zhe... revered torturer.”

“Yes Ma’am. But what if I need to... ah... use the toilet?”

“As I said, there is a bucket under the opening where you will move your bowels and urinate. There will be no need for you to move. And it is best that you be tightly bound. I am going to remove your nails... fingers and toes. You heard the warden. You are to be declawed. One per day. In three weeks you’ll be without nails... no scratching. And endure immense pain... and for sure addressing me as shou ren zunjing kuxing zhe.” 

Marcia begins to sob. Her kuxing zhe steps away and returns with a soft paper towel, gently brushing away the tears, her tender touch anomalous.

“Now tell me... explain the determination of your benefactor.”  

'Retribution', Segment V

New York (the present)

“Shall we begin, qiufan? Perhaps the left leg.”

“If it pleases you, shou ren zunjing kuxing zhe.” 

The torture begins. I grab another length of bamboo, pushing such into the rope encircling the thigh and foot. I slowly twist... ever so slowly. In tightening the tether the ligaments at the knee stretch, the bamboo tucked behind the joint bringing leverage.

It is simple, there is little effort on my part. I can twist and tighten with one finger of my hand. But it brings such excruciating pain. My qiufan beings to sing. A howl.

Gone are the days when she would beg me to stop. My qiufan learned the futility of that. Instead she knows I want to hear her cries of agony. She accommodates.

I stop, letting the pain signals rush to the cerebral cortex. I look over to my client. Yes, there is misogyny. He squirms in his chair, his growing erection trapped by his slacks and underwear. In a way, he suffers as well.  

“I would not consider it indecorous if your girl chooses to please you,” I call out. “My qiufan and I will be moving to another place,” politely suggesting if my client wants to be sucked off while I work it is of little concern to me.

And yes, torturer and tortured do enter another world with the intensity of the exchange. While I work a girl there could be an earthquake and I would not notice... as with my qiufan. In countering the agony endorphins flow... and oxytocin... the body attempting to counter the pain signals. And that is why deliberation is needed. The hormones flow, masking the agony... therefore a good kuxing zhe patiently waits and then increases the level of pain.

It becomes a contest... assuring the suffering does not diminish... instead slowly growing.

I return my attention, ever so slightly twisting, tightening the encircling binding, stretching the ligaments at the knee. There comes more music... another howl.

Peripherally I note shifting in the dark corner where sits my client. The leash tightens, the boy... girl... shuffles about, head and shoulders pressed between my client’s knees.

I smile to myself, thinking of my qiufan introducing herself by humbly asking to suck my client’s penis. It appears his yinjing is well cared for and that my qiufan’s gender is not appropriate for the task.

Leaving in place the adjusting bamboo and the rope tightened I step to my qiufan’s front, tenderly grazing my hands over her bald head, wiping away tears. Then I go to the breasts, cupping glands of size then diddling the nipples to bring joy and more oxytocin. This is devious, my fingers cause the hormones to increase which temporarily counters the pain. Until of course I resume, with more twists and more tightness to in turn overcome the brief relief. This torturing becomes a contest... which I as kuxing zhe always win... the prize being her song.   

“Have you missed me? It’s been a few months. Does your benefactor torture you?”

“Yes, my shou ren zunjing kuxing zhe, I have missed your devotion... your attention to my needs. Dav... ah... my benefactor... torments me in different ways.”

“I see. That is why he sent you to me. You need to feel pain... physical pain... your masochism assuaged. He is a good benefactor. Do you take care of his yinjing?”

“He... well... not as I would like, kuxing zhe.”

“Of course not. You will please it as he wishes. And how is that?”

“I clean it for him. After...”

“After what?”

“He... has a girl... and... “

“So you clean him after sex. And the girl?”

“I clean her as well, kuxing zhe.”

“Yes, keeps you humble... no pride in that. So my training in Guangdong Penitentiary is put to good use.” 

“Yes, kuxing zhe. Thank you for training me.”

The sincere thanks brings me to smile. For two years this kuxing zhe and qiufan were inseparable, eating together, sleeping together, enjoying torture together. I am missed. And in a way I miss her.  

I glance to my client. During our exchange his companion has disrobed. The mystery of his/her gender to be solved. In seeing the head bobbing between my client’s thighs, such brings my thoughts back to the exposition of torture which my client has commissioned. I must resume.

“An arm next, qiufan? You need to suffer more.”

“If you would like shou ren zunjing kuxing zhe.”

“Yes I would. It is best for you. Left or right?”  

“I don’t know, kuxing zhe.”

“I suppose it matters not. Both will be stretched and tormented before day’s end. And my nose suggests your cunt ripens. Quite fragrant. Therefore you must be quite wet.”

With that I step back between the wide spread thighs, my hand going to her yawning vaginal opening. Two fingers slip within her portal with notable ease. Torture... my torture... has come to arouse. I am pleased.

“You’re sopping wet, qiufan. I think being watched while naked, bound and singing adds to your arousal.” 

Fingers toying, bringing more oxytocin, I glance behind, my client is being well serviced, the head of his companion bobbing briskly at the crotch. I note that just as my qiufan has been trained to always present herself with feet parted, thighs well spread, the naked companion so poses. A flaccid penis swings about between the thighs. Though long, it is boyishly thin. And there is nothing else to confirm his gender. The rumor concerning a transforming visit to Mexico is true. And such jives. As a misogynist my client would not deign to let a woman please him.  

I withdraw. The arms need attention. Another stick of bamboo, more slow twisting. I decide on the left first. I return to my contest. There are comforting hormones to be addressed, more music to be heard.

'Retribution', Segment IV

 Guangdong (two years past)

"You’re shivering. Are you cold?”

Inmate Marcia Clark, having been readily convicted and sentenced... fifteen years in Guangdong Penitentiary... stands in the office of the warden, hands folded to the back of her head, feet parted as directed.

“No Madame Warden. I’m not... well... clothing...”

“You have none... and you will go naked here at Guangdong Penitentiary. It is my rule for Caucasian inmates. I found foreign inmates... particularly American and British... to be haughty. You are not here to be haughty. You are here to be punished. Besides, there are the breasts. Chinese women are... shall we say more efficiently proportioned there. And the ripe well rounded breasts of the Caucasian inmates amuse. Plus without covering, silly notions of escape are put aside.”

“Yes, Madame Warden.”

“You’re to undergo special treatment here at Guangdong. It seems you have a benefactor. I don’t know who, but special arrangements have been made.”

“Arrangements Madame Warden?”

“You’re to be tortured... daily. We’re very good at that in China. Very careful... but very deliberate in applying pain and suffering. I have a kuxing zhe assigned to you... only you. Rather unusual... and expensive. She’ll always be with you. You will have awe and respect for her skills. She will do with you as she pleases.”

“Yes, Madame Warden,” the trembling most visible.

“But be heartened, your benefactor has arranged something even more unusual. Something called conjugal visits... unheard of in China. But the men’s prison is nearby and you’re to be transported there monthly. Although there is a proviso for weekly visits... at your choice. Your benefactor must have great influence in arranging for such.”

David... it can only be husband David, Marcia thinks to herself. Bribery is prevalent in China. And with his vast wealth he could probably pay off every government official in the province. 

“I have a prisoner pose for me from time to time,” the warden nodding to a girl standing in the corner of her large office. “Instills discipline and amuses me. And my girls very much want to keep me amused.”

Another source of fearful trembling. The referenced inmate is well trussed, naked as is Marcia, bent at the waist, propped on the toes for her left foot, right leg bent behind, ankle held high in being secured to a collar about her neck. Her arms are pulled back, wrists restrained high by a rope leading to a ceiling hook.

“I call her pose the swan... as in the bird... spreading its wings for me... appearing about to fly. Very artful don’t you think? The naked human form as sculpture.”

“Ya... ya... yes, Madame Warden,” stuttering in fear.

“She was disrespectful to one of the guards... failing to please her... withholding the pleasure of her tongue and lips. Another hour or two as a swan and I think she’ll be very eager to please. Do keep that in mind. We don’t need silly pride here at Guangdong Penitentiary. “

With that. the warden rises from her desk, strolling to the human statue, left hand cupping the girl’s hairless mons, the right tweaking left nipple then right.

“She’s nicely wet,” left hand retracting and presented, moisture gleaming in the light. “All my girls develop a taste for suffering here. Masochism... the affinity for pain... manifests over time. It abets acceptance of an inmate’s station... to serve... to please... to amuse in bearing pain”

With the words, a Chinese woman in a one piece gray pullover dress knocks on the open office door.

“Ah, your kuxing zhe is here.” 

'Retribution', Segment III

New York (the present)

“Enough. The fubu muban.”

I point. My qiufan’s fingers release her lips, hands returning to the back of her bald head. She turns and prances on toes. I have trained her to approach torture with eagerness, whether feigned or real. It pleases me. Indeed in moving to the horizontal board of smoothly polished oak, hanging waist high from cables, her motion appears to be that of a child frolicking in a school yard.  

She kneels, bending over, her stomach resting on the oak... thus the implement of torture is named fubu muban... belly board. 

I work with deliberation, there is no rush to bring pain. It will be long, my agonizing efforts to occupy a good part of the afternoon. Thus the bucket of cold water waiting to revive a qiufan brought to delirium by the endless suffering.  

Rope and hollow lengths of bamboo to start. On the belly board I work the joints, stretching the ligaments. As I place an eight inch length of bamboo behind the left knee, my qiufan knows to cooperate. Resistance is futile. She bends her leg, lifting her foot, heel to her buttock, entrapping the bamboo. I tie rope about the leg, encircling the upper thigh and the foot. Not tight, not loose, the bamboo becomes entrapped behind the knee  Through the hollowness of the bamboo I thread a length of rope, pulling the two ends up and tying off above at a ceiling cable behind. As I work the right leg, I glance to my client, observing with fascination, intrigued that my qiufan would so facilely submit to my efforts.

It was not always so. The first time I tortured the woman required much effort.

Right leg bent, bamboo in place, leg and thigh encircled, rope threaded through and tied off behind. The ropes force my qiufan to widely part her thighs, opening her sex for visual examination... and more of course. And my client is correct, with my qiufan’s excitement and lacking hygiene, the odor of her opened vagina again fills the room air.

Such embarrassment. 

I move to the arms. A length of bamboo at the elbow of an offered left arm, rope secures such in place encircling the bent arm at the biceps and wrist. I thread again rope through the hollow bamboo, the two ends are pulled upwards tying off above at the left cable supporting the board. The right arm follows.

In completing, my qiufan kneels, arms and legs bent, bamboo at the joints, rope holding such in place. She is immobile but for her head.

I slowly circle about, building the apprehension, checking the many ties.

“Have you eaten recently, qiufan? Are you going to vomit for me? You know what happens if you do. You may speak.”

“Yes, I know, my shou ren zunjing kuxing zhe. I have not eaten.”

“Good. I think a nostril binding will help you in your surrender to me,” my hands tenderly rubbing her bald head, a finger tapping her nose. “Would like to be so bound? You may speak.”

There is silence. No reply. My qiufan trembles knowing of the intense pain and frustration of such a restraint. Finally there comes a reply.

“If it pleases you, kuxing zhe.”    

“It will. And you want to please.”

I step away, returning with a cord. On one end are attached curved metal implements, similar in shape to fish hooks but with bulbous lumps rather than sharp points. Such are inserted into the nostrils, the free end of the cord tied off above. The head shall not move. The discomfort brings tears which I gently brush away.

“You may sing for me, qiufan... for my client. Much time and money expended in sound proofing my xingxun shi.” (torture chamber).

I move to the door, closing, the interior surface covered with sound absorbing foam. Inside the room’s walls, beneath decorative paneling, is similar material. Such a difference from Guangdong prison where prisoner’s songs could be heard throughout the facility.

Next I step to a wall switch. Though not pertinent to the torture, suspension greatly enhances the sense of helplessness... and thus my power as kuxing zhe. I flip. The fubu muban rises, the cables lifting the board and my qiufan off the floor. Not by much, just a few inches. But as I said, the presentation is one of vulnerability. My qiufan’s gift of submission begins.

A glossary - Chinese terms

 If readers are confused or annoyed with my use of Chinese terms, here is a glossary.

qiufan - prisoner

kuxing zhe - torturer

shou ren zunjing kuxing zhe - revered torturer

linzhong chuang - death bed  

 xingxun shi -torture chamber

fubu muban -belly board

linzhong chuang - death bed

shou nue kuang - masochist

laohudeng - tiger bench

'Retribution', Segment II

Macau (two years past)

“David, there’s someone knocking on the door. David?”

There comes no reply. Marcia Clark rises from the stool of the small cosmetic table, putting aside her makeup. She strolls to the livingroom area of the vast luxury suite of the Macau hotel. No husband David. He must have gone to the lobby for newspapers. Marcia assures her robe is righted, nothing flashing, and goes to the hotel room door, the knocks turning to fervent pounding. She peers through the peephole. It is a uniformed policeman. Feeling safe, she opens.

“Ms. Marcia Clark?” an Asian man in plain clothes flashes a badge, the uniformed officer stepping aside.

“Yes.”

“Macau police. You need to come with us. We have questions.”

“Well... ah... you need to talk to my husband. He’s not here.”

“We need to talk to you. Come along.”

“But... but... I’m not dressed.”

“Get dressed. Be quick.”

There is urgency. There is stress. The police! Bad enough back in the States. But while on vacation in a foreign country!

Marcia leaves the door upon and turns to the bedroom. More stress... the man follows.

“I’ll need privacy.”

“You’ll need to be escorted.”

“My husband is a very powerful man. He’ll not be taking this lightly.”

He is... powerful... and he’s not at all taking this or anything to do with his wife Marcia lightly.

“The impertinence!” Marcia huffs doffing her robe, incorrectly assuming the plain clothes policeman would look away. He does not. He ogles. Marcia dresses quickly.

Back to the livingroom for her purse, Marcia spies an envelope propped on top, addressed with her name. She grabs as the officer takes her by the elbow.

“What’s this about?” a demand more than a question.

“Passing counterfeit currency. A very serious charge in Macau. The casinos have very strongly lobbied the government.”

“But my husband gave me all the money!”

The officer smiles evilly.

“Perhaps he will appear on your behalf. Perhaps he will wait and later visit you in prison.”

David did neither.

*****

The note.

      Dear Marcia,

If you’re reading this, you’re most likely under arrest. Sorry I could not be there. Gloating is not my thing. But revenge is. Since the Portuguese ceded control of Macau a few years ago, the island is subject to Chinese law and jurisdiction. I suspect you’ll be relegated to the mainland... Guangdong Penitentiary. It’s a warm climate there. Enjoy your stay. Do hope you’ll be getting some sun. I’ll try to stay in contact by way of the American consulate. And will also arrange some BCC for you.

David

Marcia reads, tears flowing as she awaits in court for a hearing. The shock of the notation... BCC... diminishes the distress of being arrested. Despite her head spinning, mind addled, husband David’s note brings clarity to her plight. BCC... big black cock. She used the term in what she thought were private communications with an old college friend... close... so close that they frequently... and explicitly... exchanged stories of their sexual exploits. 

Marcia has been unfaithful. But it was discreet, she tells herself... both dalliances. With a surgeon... an erudite man of color... details of the relationship offered in confidence to her friend... her paramour whimsically described in the email as having ‘big black cock’. Her exuberant advisement... ‘try it’.

Obviously David learned and is not being whimsical about it, she realizes. A large wad of bills, apparently counterfeit, handed to her to splurge in the hotel casino. His absence at the time of her arrest... both telling.  

'Retribution', Segment I

A short story. Not sure where it will go.

Female Dominant/female submissive.

I hope the use of Chinese terms brings flavor more than distracts.

Enjoy

CB

*****

Retribution

Copyright 2023

by Chris Bellows

New York (the present)

I see on my camera the woman disrobing. I smile in noting the simplicity. Knowing to present herself completely naked, she wears only a lengthy coat and flats, quickly casting aside to denude herself. I’d like to delay and let her simmer in her nakedness, but there is a client waiting. He has arrived early.

So discourteous, yet such eagerness.

Thus I go to the inner front door of my penthouse, unlocking to greet the woman in the foyer. I stand in the doorway, arms akimbo in silence assuming the regal pose she expects. My drab gray pullover dress, my prison uniform, will project my authority.  

“Good afternoon, shou ren zunjking kuxing zhe,” her greeting most humble.

She is Caucasian, but has learned some Chinese after two years of incarceration. She addresses me as torturer... revered torturer.

“You are on time. That shows obedience, qiufan.”

Though I know her real name... know everything there is to know about her... I call her qiufan... prisoner.

I say no more, gazing at her body in silence, enhancing her sense of exposure. She blushes... delightfully... despite having spent two years under my tutelage without a shred of covering. Being revered has that effect.

“Thank you shou ren zunjking kuxing zhe.” 

“But you are to present yourself to me nude,” my hand going to my head to gesture.

The woman takes the hint, reaching and slipping away a wig of raven hair. She has been completely defoliated... bald... rules of incarceration in Chinese prisons. For most the hair grows back. Her benefactor decided otherwise. So there is nothing... head, face, under the arms, legs, pubes. The follicles have been chemically decimated... forever. Such wonderfully enhances the sense of vulnerability... as intended.

“Have you been in New York long, shou ren zunjking kuxing zhe?”

“No talk. My client is here. You are to present yourself to him.”

“He wants his yinjing sucked?”

“Of course. He is a man. But silence. You are to be tortured first. In New York a man can get a blow job anywhere.”

The reader will note, though of Chinese ancestry, my English is fluent. I spent many years teaching Chinese to the English speaking children of diplomats in Beijing. Such learning works both ways. 

“Come,” I gesture for her to step forth.

I suppress a smile seeing my qiufan lift her arms, hands going to the back of her head. Mentally she is immersing herself back into the penitentiary in Guangdong where she was incarcerated.

We enter my penthouse. She follows me to a large spare bedroom which I have converted. In entering I hear her gasp.

“Yes, brings back memories. You did not think you would totally escape your kuxing zhe, did you? Your benefactor arranged for me to contact you.”

Yes the room is well equipped. A torture chamber... a Chinese prison torture chamber. As opposed to what most would envision, there are no standard implements of pain... no whips, canes, paddles, metal shackles. Just rope, cords and innocuous appearing wooden objects... smooth and well polished. No splinters. And nothing that would leave marks or open the skin. The Chinese rely on time in bringing suffering. It is to be slow... with no damage... other than to the mind. Marks and bruises can foster infection... deterring more torture. And thus the reason for hair removal... anti septicism is important... and hair can be septic. We want healthy prisoners... able to withstand hour after hour of pain.  

Sitting in a large comfortable chair in a dark corner is my client. He shall go nameless, but a middle aged man presumably of great financial resources. I don’t torture cheaply. On the floor beside, sitting on haunches with head humbly bowed is the man’s companion. Collared, a leash hangs, the end loosely held in the man’s hand. Young, hair short for a girl, long for a boy, the gender is obfuscated. In my profession one questions not a client’s sexual preferences. But I have it on authority that the birth gender of the companion was male and during a trip to Mexico the testicles were surgically excised. Wealth has its privileges. 

Being a man, and most likely a misogynist, I know he wants to ogle the prospective victim. I thus lead to the chair and step aside. My qiufan knows to go to her toes, standing before him, feet apart, thighs well spread... in mandated silence.

“She has nice shape. Might be pretty given hair,” my client observes, bringing further embarrassment.

“Removed. In her case permanently.”

“Including the eyebrows?” noting the bizarre thin stripes of liner painted above the eyes. 

“Of course.”

While my client calmly gazes, I am sure his arousal slowly building despite my qiufan’s quirky appearance, I step away to where I have a bucket of cold water and rags in wait. I reach, return and hastily wipe away the make up.

“Naked means no covering. Nothing!” I admonish knowing the now more alien appearance brings distress.

“May I suck your penis sir?” my qiufan humbly inquires by rote.

“No,” I answer for him. “Not now. It is the fubu muban this afternoon. And silence... until you begin singing for the man.”

In the Guangdong prison to ‘sing’ is to emit vocal utterances in response to the continuous application of pain.         

My qiufan begins to tremble, I am sure thoughts of being tethered to the fubu muban... the belly board... stirring memories. Haunting? Horrid? No, not after we bonded. It then became her offering to me... something deep within that she wanted to do for me... sacrificing her soul, her pride, her dignity... for my pleasure. But in my penthouse the presence of an observer... a male observer... very much heightens the stress. In Guangdong Penitentiary our exchanges of power were private.

She is going to perform for me... as she has so often... but will now sing for another pair of ears... another pair of eyes watching her ignominious surrender.        

Putting aside the leash, the man unseats himself. What man can resist? Though my rules are that touching is only between the torturer and the prisoner, he cannot help himself, reaching to examine the breasts. I allow it. He has paid handsomely. And obedience ingrained, my qiufan remains in place, hands obsequiously to the back of her head, while the man palms the pendulous glands, thumbs working the nipples.

“What happened here? Marks.”

“The warden had certain exuberance concerning Caucasian breasts. Such were spiked. As you can see, the flesh heals... and in time the marks will fade.”

“Spiked?”

“Vertically pierced with shards of iron. Through the meatus of the gland. She was suspended.”

“By her tits?”

“Yes, though not fully. But bearing enough weight such that the warden became greatly respected,” a euphemism for thoroughly breaking a girl.

“She smells... like pussy,” so ungentlemanly to note.

“She’s aroused. Her masochism was awakened in Guangdong... and is now easily inflamed. Perhaps my qiufen would like to smile for the gentleman.”

My words are not suggestions, not after two years of close and strict supervision. My qiufan knows what a Guangdong prison ‘smile’ is. Her hands lower, fingers going to her pubes, pinching the outer labia and tugging firmly to part her nether lips and obscenely display the pink of her inner labia and vagina. It is a humiliating pose and my qiufan knows to hold it until permission is given the cease. She begins to further blush, the room air filling with her scent.   

I want to add that her benefactor most likely prohibits standard feminine hygiene, thus the strong odor. But such would lead to more unnecessary explanation. My client wants to see the woman tortured... and that’s what I do... and that’s what my qiufan needs. 

The man snickers and returns to his seat taking up the leash. No sign of sympathy, I must suppose trying to veil his arousal in imagining my qiufan ‘smiling’ for the warden or strung up for hours by her breasts in the warden’s office, struggling on her toes, nipples forced to point to the ceiling. 

“Marks are unusual in Chinese prisons,” I add. “This prisoner was deemed to be exceptional.”

And she was exceptional, her breasts spiked only with the consent of her benefactor.   

Yes, her benefactor... a husband cuckcolded by my qiufan. He remains extracting retribution.

'Chained & Protected,' Sole Segment published on the blog

This is a sequel to 'Chained'.

The Story

Josephine Collier finishes her breakfast, eggs benedict. The cooking skills of her house girl seem to improve with each meal. Hours of instructional videos and an ingrained desire to please have brought enthusiasm to the task. 

“Very good, Jamie.”

“Thank you, Ma’am.”

“You look pretty this morning... and you have not yet done your hair and makeup.”

Jamie blushes with the compliment. Not finding words, hands go the hem of his dress left and right, fanning out to the sides, legs bending. The head lowers and there comes a dip, a perfect curtsy in response. Josephine smiles in hearing his long chain rattle on the tiling of the kitchen floor. Her house girl with a penis is so nicely conditioned to serve and please.

“I’m taking Rex to the vet, this morning.”

“But it’s snowing, Miss Josie. There may be trouble,” Jamie genuinely worried about she who is adored... both providing and protecting.

“This is Maine, Jamie. You can expect snow weekly. And flurries come and come. I cannot wait until Springtime. Rex needs to be checked over... and at a minimum have his teeth cleaned.” 

Miss Josie rises from the table.

“Eat your breakfast. Lots of butter. You know I want you soft and plump. I’m going to shower. And you’re to look pretty, Jamie... even though I’ll be gone for most of the day. It’s important.”

“Yes, Ma’am. I must act like a girl... think like a girl... look like a girl.”

Miss Josie nods and smiles... wonting to add to the mantra... ‘be fucked like a girl’. But that’s no longer a matter for discussion. Jamie will bend and spread for her anywhere, any time. That aspect of the months of brainwashing no longer need to be edified. Penetration is not only acceptable but desired.

Arms extend, left hand and right go to the bare chest, fingers tweaking the nipples. Jamie girlishly giggles, finding sensitivity normally deprived the male gender. He has come to covet his Master’s touch.   

“Hair and makeup,” releasing her sensuous grasp and turning away. “And there’s much laundry to keep you busy.”

There is. Snow storm expected, the previous day the owner of the Collier Preserve spent many hours in work clothes, assuring the supply of firewood was adequate and accessible, moving much to the back porch where even a blizzard would not inhibit access to a supply of heat. As always, Jamie slight of physique, denied any exercise, fattened over the many weeks of captivity, looked on in envy as owner Josephine Collier labored as would a brawny lumberjack, her strength and stamina imposing.

Later, baring herself of her sweat laden clothes, Jamie went to his knees. Ostensibly to gather the soiled garb he bowed his head and licked her perspiration. Ankles, calves, thighs... hands denied further oral worship. 

Such devotion... such adoration.

As a good maid, Jamie cleans the table and does the dishes. Then comes his own breakfast, quick and insalubrious. Pancakes... slathered with butter... seemingly floating in syrup.

Miss Josie wants him fattened. He so much wants to oblige. 

Meal completed, Jamie gathers up some slack in his long chain, knowing to guide the links, moving as gracefully as possible in the tight corset and long dress. In walking he feels the sizable anal insertion, his buttocks squishing with abundant lubrication.

Miss Josie wants him to always feel prepared for spontaneous penetration. It humbles. The constant sense of vulnerability tames any remaining male bravado.

Up the stairs, to his bedroom, the makeup table and mirror beckon. After months of training and indoctrination, Miss Josie no longer has to advise him concerning his presentation... he wants to look pretty... wants to be effeminate... wants to please.

A charming lavender dress today, Jamie does his nails to match, pleased to find a shade of lipstick as well. He styles his hair. Long and getting longer, Master Josephine Collier keeps hers short, readily slicked back when doing the rugged work of maintaining a house of size in the seclusion of the Maine forest. Jamie marvels at her many skills, plumbing, carpentry, even rewiring the old house before his capture. 

As he gives his hair a final prink, Miss Josie enters, clothed to venture into a Maine winter, jeans and work boots.

“I’ll be many hours, Jamie. To clean Rex’s teeth he will require anesthesia which means waiting for it to wear before returning. Meanwhile, I’ll do some shopping... pick up the mail. But the snow will make for a slow drive, so I may be most of the day,” Miss Josie strolling to stand behind, hands smoothing over Jamie’s bare shoulders. “Remember, the cell phone is only for contacting the Forest Service... in an emergency. You recall the futility of using it for escape.”

“Yes, Ma’am. I’m sorry Ma’am.”

“And don’t get any ideas about using the computer. If you were to hack into it... getting by the password... there will be no internet service. The satellite dish is covered in snow. I’ll need to go up on the roof and clear it off after the storm passes. And that’s if I have a need... which I don’t.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“And I’ll be checking on your penis when I return,” hand going to her pocket to retrieve a small ultraviolet light. “You don’t want those little titties clamped,” flashing the light to make her point. 

“Oh, no Ma’am.” 

Detection paste applied as always during morning toilet, disobedient fingers will glow, instantly betraying any furtive attempt at masturbation... self pleasure. House girl and sex slave Jamie Hoffstadt is to expunge his male essence... balance his raging hormones... in only one manner... a ruined orgasm while enduring a deep pegging.    

Miss Josie steps to the door, turning with one last advisement.

“There’s plenty of food for your lunch. Do not prepare dinner for me. I don’t know how late I will be. Treat yourself to lots of ice cream. You know how much I like to see your buttocks grow. And leave in place your anal plug... unless of course you want to go to a bigger size... a number eight. I think you’d like that,” Miss Josie chuckling.

Jamie sheepishly smiles with the taunt. He has come to crave the curious sensation of prostate manipulation. And Miss Josie has convinced him it is best for his health.

For the first time since entering captivity in September, Jamie will be left alone, not even loyal dog Rex for company and protection while Miss Josie shopped. He reflects. Three months ago the threat of flight was mitigated by the lack of appropriate clothing, practical footwear for traversing the harsh gravel of the road, and Rex, trained to herd barnyard animals... and wayward captives.

Now there are winter garments waiting to be laundered and available to be commandeered ... along with work boots drying at the fireplace... and no Rex. Should Jamie somehow free himself of the long corset chain making him one with the house, he could reasonably flee. 

Then he glances at himself in the mirror. He is now a girl... acting like a girl... thinking like a girl... looking like a girl. Being pegged like a girl, he ruefully adds... envisioning those in the lesbian instruction video.     

No, putting aside the weather, the risks of flight, including falling into the clutches of Deputy Sheriff Brenda, are too great... his mind concluding the benefits minimal.

Such a charming smile, Jamie beams, peering into the mirror.

Time for this pretty house girl to do laundry.  

'Chained & Protected', New Story

I have published a sequel to 'Chained'.          

'Chained & Protected'.

38,000+ words. $5.43

https://www.lulu.com/shop/chris-bellows/chained-protected/ebook/product-m2dq64k.html?q=chained&page=1&pageSize=4

Obviously 'Chained' is best read first.

Look for a snippet next week. There will be only one.

Enjoy,

CB

Chained & Protected

Prologue

Escaped patient/inmate John Luther Bates trundles in the deepening snow. He knows not precisely where he is going, his ultimate destination Canada. Yet, with the road sign suggesting the direction is north, in time he will get to the border. The way is secluded, the tire marks few, indicating so far his choice of thoroughfare wise.

Still, it’s cold and the many miles have brought exhaustion. Is the border near?

Absconding the Maine Institute for the Criminally Insane, he is attired in the stolen clothing of the building’s janitor. Dashing nearly two miles, an empty state maintenance truck, parked at a diner, yielded a thick winter jacket and mittens. From there he guessed his way in the direction least likely to be searched... north into the isolation of Maine’s heavy forests... eschewing the more logical southerly direction leading to cities, suburbs and eventually warmer weather.         

It dawns that he has miscalculated. Food will be needed to sustain his escape... and warmth... the cold slowly permeating the insulation of his purloined winter gear.

He hears a motor. A car approaches, slowly, the road slippery. John Luther Bates, slips into the woods, not to be seen. Within minutes an SUV passes, the woman driver focused on the snowy passage, a dog of size perched in the passenger seat.

Good news, he has not been spotted. Better news, a home or place of lodging is likely nearby. 

Back to the road, he continues. The going is slow. For sure he will need to rest... the snow seeming to be getting heavier. Another half mile... maybe more... the recent tire tracks of the passing SUV veer into a narrow side road, passing through a gate. An aging sign reads ‘Collier Preserve’.

It is a gambit. Certainly the woman must have come from a place of shelter and warmth... women don’t camp in the winter... and the hunting season has passed. Has she left her house empty? For sure it will be warm... certain to have some supply of food.

Wherever the woman is heading it will be a long drive.... slowed by the weather. He will have at least an hour... maybe more.

John Luther Bates convinces himself it is the worth risk. A charge of burglary is meaningless with his multiple convictions of sexual assault. The only drawback... is the house otherwise occupied? He will approach with caution. If there is a husband... a brother, he will need to reconsider. If a child... John Luther Bates will do what his criminal mind commands him to do. Better though... a sister. Yes, his libido is surging, the regimen of medication at the Maine Institute for the Criminally Insane cleverly bypassed.    

'Chained', Segment VI

This is the last posted segment.

See the July 26 post for information concerning purchase.

*****

Shuffle indeed, the chain strung from right ankle to left does not permit a full stride. Hobbled, Jamie departs the kitchen in thought, heart pounding, feeling his face flushed in embarrassment. Out of sight he tugs at his restraints, hands fighting against the short chain connecting his wrists to the waist chain. Instructed not to touch himself, he must try, his erect penis seeking attention, a puppy sitting up and begging for a treat. Jamie thinks of the many times he furtively addressed this condition, sneaking off to his bedroom... perhaps the bathroom... stroking away. What was Aunt Josie’s question in the car... does his penis spit? 

Yes, it spits... and it so much needs to do so now.

What is this all about? This Josephine Collier women describes herself as eccentric. More disparaging terms come to mind. And she and his mother were lovers! Such a shock, learning that upon her demise.

To the livingroom, Jamie is stirred from his thoughts. Told to think about something attached to the banister, for the first time he notes the otherwise unnoteworthy wooden rail leading up the stairs is anchored by a steel post at bottom. And such is set in cement! Jamie ponders. It appears that the entire house structure could burn down and the thick post of some four feet would endure the flames.

But of more significance, attached at the base is a thick chain leading to a neatly curled pile of links. It’s of heavy gauge, the loops much thicker than those constricting his arms and legs. Visually examining, the sight brings a frisson of fear. To whatever the chain is secured... and Jamie has an inkling... there cannot be any resistance... to fight such a binding would be futile. The mass of metal... appearing to be tempered steel... seems to be sending a message... yield... comply... succumb.

Still, Jamie cannot help further examining. He cautiously lowers himself, awkwardly managing to kneel. He is supplicating, he thinks to himself as he shuffles closer, bending at the waist to place his fettered hands on top of the pile, fingers brushing about, rubbing a few of the heavy links.    

“It excites you doesn’t it Jamie?” Josie having quietly followed him from the kitchen. “What do you think I will do with that?”

“I... I... don’t know... Ma’am.”

“Well if you’re going to serve me... and you will serve... you’ll need some degree of movement. More than you have now. Cooking, cleaning, doing my laundry will require using your hands... and less restriction of your feet. The chain is long enough so that you’ll be able to access every room in the house. Even go out to the back porch to feed Rex. But I’d not want you to go further... be tempted to depart. You have until the end of the day to decide whether to accept my governance... and the chain... or head back to Brookline. Here to be indentured... receiving food, shelter and care... or there to be free yet homeless, begging for food and a place to sleep.”

The words bring Jamie to tremble. Yet he cannot bring himself to stop rubbing the thick chain.

Josie steps behind, arm extending, fingers of her right hand toying with his long blond hair.  

“Yes, it’s tempting, Jamie. There’s a bit of your mother in you. And in many ways you will serve me as did she.”

Jamie turns his head, looking into the eyes of... of... his governess?

“I’ve always had fantasies of owning... a person... a slave... a sex slave. I think you’re that person Jamie. But as I’ve suggested... the sex slave in my fantasy is a woman... a girl. You’ll need to make that transition... stay and you will make that transition.”

Josie speaks in a low steady voice. Jamie finds it to be hypnotic, no words of protest or refusal to be found.

“I have ordered... let’s term it jewelry... for you. Be coming in two weeks... maybe less. And something for you to wear. Though it appears exhibiting yourself to me completely naked is less than objectionable,” Josie leaning, a finger grazing over an erection that has not wavered. “In the meantime, you will study... learn to cook... to clean... the way I want it done. And you must learn to look pretty for me. Coif your hair... shape your eye brows... apply makeup.”

Josie shifts, hands slipping under Jamie’s arms. She lifts, demonstrating amazing strength, Jamie finding himself returned to standing with little need for using his leg muscles.

Why does the demonstration of power bring a sense of comfort, being handled like a doll?

Then the hands lower, smoothing over his buttocks then playfully squeezing. Jamie is further embarrassed by the somatic reaction of his penis. His erection waggles, seemingly in gratitude. 

“Cute. Let’s visit the basement. You’ll need help with the stairs. I want to show you where your transition will begin... your physical transition. I’m sure your mother told you I was a surgical nurse.” 

*****

To the basement, Josie leads opening a heavy wooden door. In steeping down she turns, right arm reaching.

“Careful, Jamie. I’d not want you to fall.”

Knowing the hobbling chain allows one cautious step at a time, Josie lends a hand.

“You need to stay balanced.”

There comes another symbol of the woman’s prospective governance. The hand palms Jamie’s newly shorn scrotal sac, then slowly and gently curls in closing about his plums.

Words of protest begin to sputter. Then realization truncates true objection. First the woman is in total control of his well trussed nakedness, physical resistance futile. Second, Jamie is chagrined to find the tender grip of her warm hand mollifies.

Left foot down, followed by the right, the duo slowly lower into a surprisingly well lit chamber.

“The laundry room is over there. You’ll have no trouble using the machines. But of more interest to you, I’m sure, is my little operating area. Installed some expensive equipment. I can do minor surgery.”

Josie seems to enjoy leading a boy about by his balls, hand remaining in place even after the stairs have been negotiated. She leads to an area lit by intense mercury vapor lamps. The floor is tiled as are the walls. Various devices surround an operating table. Jamie is trembling again. She of course can feel it, finally releasing her grip. 

“No need for concern, Jamie. All that will happen to you here will be for the best. That quick body shave last night... well... having to regularly do that will toughen your skin. I want my girl smooth of course... but also soft. And in time you’ll also want to be smooth and soft for me.”

Jamie is horrified to find himself nodding in agreement.

“There will be a minor oral procedure... to excise the frenulum. A quick incision to that useless flap of skin under your tongue will improve your oral capabilities... allowing your tongue to become longer... and stronger.

“Then there’s that annoying foreskin of yours,” Josie going to a cabinet to extract a device of stainless steel. “A Gomco clamp. Adult size. They’re using lasers for circumcision now. Less painful... faster healing. But I think it’s best this way. The message... my message... of power and control will be better received. As I said, some local anesthetic so you don’t pass out... but not so much that you won’t feel a woman’s hand modifying you.”

Jamie begins to visibly shake. Josie smiles. Such frail masculinity, the prospect of losing a little flap of skin bringing convulsions.

“And then there are the locking rings for your corset.”

Josie puts aside the Gomco clamp, picking up and displaying two heavily gauged steel rings, some one inch in diameter.

“Corset?”

“Oh yes. I want you looking girlish for me, Jamie. It’s a stiff garment which will encase your tummy and back. Give you a nice shape... more or less train your torso and shape such that your buttocks protrude for me. You’ll need to move about arching your lower back. The rings will be implanted here... and here,” Josie’s index finger pressing to Jamie’s rib cage left and right. “Locks will assure the corset stays in place. It will become a part of you... except when I bathe you.”       

Wide eyed, Jamie stares as a smiling Josie pinches, gathering a thick tuft of skin some eight inches below his armpit and pressing to it one of the rings.

“Won’t be too hideous. Though not feminine, we can’t have you taking off your corset for no reason, can we?”

Jamie is overwhelmed. The envisioned configuration horrifies. Yet his alternative?

“If you choose to go back to Boston... Brookline... you need to start by mid afternoon... during daylight,” Josie returning the rings to a cabinet. “A skirt, blouse, I’ll even offer a sweater. But the road will be tough on your bare feet. Need help getting back up the stairs?”

A part of Jamie says ‘run’! Get away! Another part oddly welcomes her guidance... beginning with the return of her warm knowing hand about his balls.

“I... ah... guess that would be best, yes.”

“Of course it would. Boys so much like a woman’s attention... there,” nodding to an erection that will not quit... despite the emotional trauma.

“Come,” her hand lowering to once again offer guidance by way of his scrotum.

'Chained', Segment V

Jamie sits in the refurbished kitchen of the surprisingly large house. Built for the manager of the logging company which owned the land some one hundred or more years ago, Josie explained that he had a number of children and since lumber was readily available, size was not a consideration.

“Spent a lot of time and money in refurbishing the place,” Josie explains offering another spoonful of Viagra laced pablum. “Everything modernized, plus added some features... for keeping a girl. You noticed the shower last night.”

“It’s large, Ma’am.”

“Yes, so I can step in and bathe a girl. Hygiene is important when kept.”

“I can feed myself, Ma’am... you know without...” rattling his wrist shackles.

“Yes, you can. But not right now. In good time. Need to get you in the right mind set,” offering another spoonful.

“After breakfast I need to feed Rex... soon to be one of your many tasks. And you can explore the house. Shuffle about as best you can. Then I have something for you to read and study. And then there will be some training.”   

“Will I... you know... have clothing, Ma’am?”

“In time. But for the training I need you nude. I’ll make sure the house is warm in the meantime,” Josie highlighting his nakedness in reaching reach to diddle a nipple.  

With that there comes the sound of barking.

“That’s Rex. He knows it’s feeding time and wants to remind me. A herding dog. Protective... and well trained. Keep in mind, Jamie, should you be naughty and decide to wander off, Rex will encourage you to return. I’ve got some things ordered for you that will preempt that. But Rex is good back up.” 

Josie rises from the table, going to prepare a bowl of dog food.

“Go... Jamie... enjoy your freedom. But don’t leave the house. Your sore feet won’t take you far... and Rex is very vigilant.”

Well bound, Jamie cannot push back his chair, instead turning in his seat and awkwardly managing to rise to his feet. He finds Josie to be correct, last night’s two hundred yard scamper to the house on gravel brought scrapes and much tenderness. He hobbles forth on the tiling, the soft comfort of the living room rug a much sought destination.

At the doorway he turns to gaze at his captor. Josephine Collier as a college cohort is obviously his mother’s age. Dark hair, short and cut to the jaw line, it is apparent in having for the most part rebuilt the house, that she is not only skilled but a woman of determination. And strength, manning hammer, saw, an assortment of other tools. It seems the stack of firewood in the livingroom plus the huge pile outside the front door resulted from hours of wielding an axe and felling trees of substance. In wearing slacks, such are tight, but not effeminately. Such are filled out with muscle, buttocks, thighs and calves well developed... in an athletic manner. 

Taller then him, shoulders broad, Jamie felt the strength of her hands and arms as the woman gruffly sponged down his nakedness, gratefully reigning in her power as she paid particular attention to his male package. Yes reigning such in to the point he again hardened for her.

Such embarrassment.

With the thoughts he looks down at his shorn pubes berating himself. He ceded to her, letting her have her way.

Yet, had he a choice in the matter? So many locks, cuffs and chains.

The woman is not gorgeous. But oddly Jamie senses odd attraction. Is it her strength? She has bested him. And oddly he begins to feel twinges, thinking of the soft soap, the warm chamois, skinning back his foreskin, the inspection and surprisingly gentle cleansing. Yes, thinking about it excites. He blushes anew. It was not wanted. Or was it?

Josie turns from the kitchen counter, bowl of dog food in hand. She notes Jamie’s look. Her eyes lower to his pubes. Well aware that, though it’s only been some two days since he probably last touched himself, the libido of a teenaged boy is rampaging. She smiles, knowing that he is slowly hardening, the Viagra breakfast taking effect.  

“Thinking about touching yourself?” Josie inquires, her comely smile broadening.

“I... I...” embarrassment glowing, Jamie turns to move onward.

“No, no. Let’s finish what’s started,” Josie pleasantly suggests.

Jamie ignores, chains rattling as he begins to step away.

“Stay!” the command forceful. “Turn back.”

Once again, Jamie realizes he has not much choice in the matter. He obeys, berating himself anew in feeling himself further hardening.

Why is this?

“You’re acclimating quite quickly, Jamie,” Josie coos. “Just let it happen. Penis in full blossom for me. It’s a phenomenon that’s becoming more and more understood... to bond with your captor. Now I’m going to feed Rex. Only takes a moment. I want you at full stand by the time I return. Last night I had to lend a finger. This morning? We’ll see.”    

Jamie is aghast. But deep within he knows his erection will soon be fully raging. Her words? Her presence? He is bonding with his captor in physically exhibiting strange attraction.

Why? 

Then he thinks of baring himself last night... to be shackled... sensing twinges. Later, after the ordeal of being run to the house, lying to shame and bewilderment he became fully erect, the trauma notwithstanding, the sole grazing finger bringing a brisance... and an erection of stone.

What is happening to him?

Jamie maintains his place as directed hearing Rex the dog bark in greeting his breakfast. Then with a short gust of cool morning air the door opens. Josie returns.

“Very obedient,” Josie notes.

Indeed, peering downward, Jamie is chagrined to see his penis is rock hard.

“And a nice tribute for me. Go. Shuffle about with that nice stiffie,” Josie repressing a chuckle. “And think about what you’ll find attached to the banister going up the stairs.”  

'Chained' Published

 I have published the referenced story on Lulu.

42,000 words. $5.43

https://www.lulu.com/shop/chris-bellows/chained/ebook/product-v657e5.html?q=chained&page=1&pageSize=4

Be sure to give yourself access to explicit material.

The last segment to be published here will be on August 5.

Enjoy.

CB

'Chained', Segment IV

Josephine Collier enters the many measurements into the website... a German engineering firm catering to the kink community. Not only are the circumferences of wrists, ankles and neck required, but the diameter of the outer most portions of the hands, feet, head and base of his scrotum. 

To be ordered will be bands of tungsten steel, anodized with decorous reflective material. The engineering such that the metal will be industrial in strength yet decorous in appearance.

Miss Josie’s slave girl will be both pretty and readily bound.

With the order, requiring weeks for fabrication, will come a special tool, well designed, more or less a giant set of pliers or vice grips which, with effort, will crimp closed the open loops when slipped over the hands, feet and neck. There will be no tool to reverse the process, opening the hardened steel for removal.

That notion brings wetness. The permanency of the bondage excites. Other than utilizing an acetylene torch, when pinched closed and bolted, thin and also decorative, the bands of one half inch in thickness are not to be removed. 

Jamie is never to deny his... soon to be her... station in life.

Entering credit card information and a box number at a post office miles down the state road, Josie next goes to the waist line measurement. She becomes giddy in her thoughts of corsetting her girl. In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, ladies sought the ideal of an eighteen inch waist. Such brought constant discomfort... even suffering... along with permanently shifting about some internal organs in order to achieve.

All to attain male attraction. Such savagery.

Well Jamie... to become Jami... will not have an eighteen inch corset. But with his current waist line of twenty four inches, forcing him/her to a twenty inch diameter will be achievable... painful yes... but achievable.

The garment is ordered. And such will bring attraction... to her owner.

Every desperate breath will garner thoughts of Jamie’s position... her servitude.    

Items of bondage and indenture ordered, Josie rises from her computer, best to check on her girl.

To the spare bedroom, she has left the shackles in place for the night. Jamie needs to acclimate. And he needs to understand control.... feminine control. Thus in bedding him Josie has decided that a degree of sleep deprivation will soften his mind... make her charge more malleable to her protocols.     

She quietly opens the door of the dim bedroom and peers within. Jamie sits upright on a comfortable mattress, wrists and ankles remaining fettered. But the addition of a thick foam lined prosthetic collar secured by tight cords to the posters right and left assures that he will neither lie down nor even lean to one side or the other.

Awkward, but one can slumber in such a position... eventually. 

“Having trouble sleeping, Sweetheart?” Josie inquires in a matronly tone, noting the eyes are open.

“Can I please lie down?”

“And how are you to address me?”

“Please lie down, Ma’am?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want you to lie down.”

Jamie will need to understand feminine caprice. He will do things and be positioned at his captor’s whim. She is not to explain... need not explain anything.

Josie steps forth to the side of the bed, Hands reach to the shackled wrists, grasping and testing to assure such are well secured and, most importantly, the limited length of the chain leading to the waist chain is such that Jamie cannot touch his penis. There will be no masturbation... no unsupervised masturbation.

“Do you want to fondle yourself?” the blunt question bringing Jamie to blush.

Words come not with the embarrassing question. Jamie struggles to shake his head.

“You became quite erect when I showered you.”

“You... you... you know... you touched me...”

“Yes, you need to be washed everywhere. Being uncircumcised, smegma can be unhygienic.”

Josie smiles inwardly. Cuffed wrists temporarily released from the waist chain, she bound Jamie’s arms high to a bar in the large stall shower, hosed him down then swabbed every inch of his nakedness, both cleansing and getting to better know her boy... soon to be girl. Every inch of his young flesh.    

Then came the razor. A facile task after many years of nursing, preparing patients for intricate surgery, all hair to be removed. The limited growth on his slender legs brought amusement.

“We’ll spend more time with hair removal, Jamie. Tonight was quick... to get you to bed.”

Yes quick, but also giving rise to both inspection and establishing that his body is no longer his.

“You don’t have to do that, Ma’am.”

“Hair is unsightly on a girl... and can be unsanitary. Now go to sleep. If you’re a good girl, in a couple days you can sleep lying down,” a hand reaching to the golden locks to tenderly tousle. 

"Chained', Segment III

Josie Collier sits before a roaring fire sipping a glass of Merlot. As she thinks of the day’s events, particularly the culmination, a booted foot slides forth, the toe gently prodding the left bare buttock of her captive.

Such amusement. With young Jamie finally ceding, he removed everything, completely baring himself to her. She took her time, more inspecting and examining his nakedness than locking him in restraints. Right ankle, left ankle, the connecting chain just long enough to allow him to shuffle and prance... but of course not fully run. That would auger thoughts of freedom... that he could move about without sensing a woman’s control.

Left wrist, than right wrist, that connecting chain is shorter. There will not be... cannot be... any ill considered arm motion... such as throwing a punch. Unnecessary... more for emotional bondage than physical... there is a chain encircling the waist. Attached at the front is a very short chain leading to the chain of the wrist restraints. At the back a slightly longer chain hangs vertically, attached to the ankle chain.

Jamie can move... slowly... cautiously... but feel a woman’s power with every step.  

Well chained, Josie released the cuff attaching him to the SUV. She then tweaked his nipples in a demonstration of his helplessness and gave the command to prance the final two hundred yards to the house. She followed driving the SUV, bare buttocks... so cute and girlish... rippling in the headlights.

Young Jamie entered his new world well bound and without a stitch.

More twinges come as Josie thinks about it.   

An arm lowers, a hand grasping the shunned shirt, tossing into the blaze. Jamie needs warmth. What could be more ironic than to be comforted by a bonfire of the last evidence of living as a male.

“Are you awake, Jamie?”

“Yes.”

“That’s ‘yes Ma’am’ in your new home. I’m no longer your Aunt Josie.”

“What... who are you?”

“That’s ‘who am I, Ma’am’. More or less your owner.”

“Owner?”

“Yes. I’ve always had this thing... slavery... having a girl serve me... sexually and otherwise.”    

“But I’m not a girl.”

“For now. But that will change. How you think... how you act. You no longer have to maintain pretenses, Jamie... of being a boy... being a man. It’s just the two of us. No one knows you’re here. No one will look for you. You’ll be trained... conditioned... to serve.”

“I don’t want to do that. I’m not a girl.”

“We’ll make some... let’s term them adjustments. Your hair is already long. Not much more needed there. There will be some modifications... nothing extreme. I won’t tattoo you... or brand you.”

Josie pauses to smile, seeing her charge shudder, the threat of permanent marks striking fear.

“But something to remind you... always... of your role. I see you’re not circumcised. We’ll need to change that.”

More quaking... more glee for the new owner.

“Don’t worry, I’ll use something to quell the pain. But not entirely. It’s best that you watch what a women of resolve and determination can do to a boy. And feel the loss of course.”

Some ten years as a surgical nurse, Josephine Collier is too well aware of the simplicity in trimming the male foreskin. 

“It will temper your masturbation habit... for a while. Thereafter you’ll learn to bring yourself off differently... while I watch... and supervise.”

Having learned that young Jamie is sexually retarded for a boy in his late teens... no girlfriends... instead finding the opposing gender to be ‘strange’... engendering a new and different method of achieving gratification will be an effort... but not impossible. It’s like rewiring the pleasure centers of the mind. After all, an astute Josie Collier single handedly rewired the house.

“But such will be a reward... for good behavior... for obedient behavior.”

“Why me?”

An appropriate question. Josie hesitates, sipping her wine while contemplating a reply.

“Your mother. She was more than my roommate in college. She served me... sexually and otherwise. And as I said, you look like your mother.”

“You’re sick!” captive Jamie becoming insolent.

“No, I’m wealthy. That makes me eccentric. And being otherwise homeless and impoverished, makes you in need... of a woman’s care and guidance.”  

Josie tosses underpants and socks into the fire.

“You can go back to Brookline, Jamie. Just not to your home. The rent was past due when your folks got into the accident. There’s no inheritance to be had. I had to contribute to the funeral expenses. Things weren’t too promising for you when your mother and father were alive. And now?”

Slacks join the blaze.

“And if you were to go back, you’d need clothes. What you were wearing is now keeping you warm. How are your feet by the way?”

“Sore.”

“Prancing barefoot on the dirt and gravel can hurt. Your choice to leave. I’d lend you a skirt and blouse. But I have no shoes that would fit.”

“What about my running shoes?”

“The first things thrown on top of the logs. Much too masculine for you. So you’d need to get to the main road barefoot... in a skirt and blouse... then find a ride and talk your way back toward Boston. But best spend the night and try in the morning when it’s warmer.”

Josie hears whimpering, reality setting in. Homeless and orphaned, young Jamie is coming to grips with his level of dependency on the woman who had him strip naked and then placed him in bondage. And that dependency is total. Everything he needs is now hers to bestow.

“Roll over on your back, Jamie. Show me your penis... what you think makes you a man.”

Jamie hesitates. He knows he is in no position to defy. But her words come not as a command... but more an invitation.

“May as well begin to acclimate to exhibiting yourself to your superior,” Josie prodding with her boot.

Reluctantly, Jamie rolls. Josie smiles in hearing the clatter of the many links... all locked in place by her hand. Then she finds shyness was not the entire source of the delay. The tip of Jamie’s uncircumcised penis glistens, the foreskin partially retracted, the shaft somewhat engorged.

His ignominious display of pending erection brings thought. Something has spurred sexual excitement!

She has the right boy... girl!

“My, my, Jamie. Good thing that waist chain is tight. Otherwise I’d need to take precautions. Furtive masturbation is prohibited in this house. I’m sure you’re too bashful to tell me what prompted this,” arm extending, fingers going to gently fondle the underside of the firming penis.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am.”

“Oh, don’t be sorry,” noting the oh so slight grazing of her finger brings full erection. “You’re showing respect for your captor. A good first step. Devotion will follow. And I don’t think I’ll be needing to lend you a skirt and blouse for any trip back.

“Let’s get you measured, fed and bedded.”