The Chris Bellows Bedtime Reader

The Clinic V

2012-01-28T03:15:00.000-08:00

The chief therapist returns to her desk, her smug look seeming to radiate. One girl caged, another bound, well stressed, cunny well displayed, another mentally stressed, sinfully spread to exhibit feminine charms.

She is in her element.

A matron returns to the office to release me from the straight backed chair. It is lunchtime and in leading me to join the group I spy a number of horizontal lengths of padded wood, stanchions holding such at waist height. Numerous, there are short cords with clips, similar to that on my cot, suggesting that a girl can be instantly secured.

I am to later learn the position is assumed upon the command ‘belly to the board’, uttered whenever a tending matron has the whim to inspect a girl’s cunny.

As described, with belly resting on the padding, the ankle and thigh loops are secured to the stanchions, offering a good spread. The girl is bent over, face towards the floor and the wrist loops are then tied off above.

The pose exposes all a girl normally seeks to cloak, cheeks parted, labia splayed. Is a girl so restrained for punishment... or amusement? I suppose it does not matter.

With elbows again connected behind me, the matron leads to the dining hall where my compatriots sit at a long table in wait. All naked, all with arms and hands fettered in some manner, the naked trusty offers lunch. Before each girl is a small bowl. The trusty steps from client to client, spooning a large glop of mush into each bowl. Two matrons stand in watch, the duty of serving beneath their status.

I am seated at an empty chair and in seeing no one move, assume a similar pose, just silently staring down and forward.

Finally, with all bowls filled, I experience another form of clinic discipline. A bell rings. All heads collectively lower, face to the bowl. We’re fed like dogs, no hands or fingers to be used. I quickly join, my head lowering in kind not to delay.

Lips and tongue work. I am surprised to find that the mush is not objectionable, seeming to be nutritious food ground to facilitate the unorthodox method of ingestion. However acceptable the offering is, however, I find my nose is soon coated and certain morsels stick to unreachable parts of my upper lips and chin.

Within moments the bell rings twice. All heads rise... I follow suit. It is amusing to see the soiled faces, no girl able to neatly partake, I must assume mine is similarly decorated with glop. Yet in noting that all girls freeze I dare not move my head to further survey.

Such obedience! Not a word spoken. Not the slightest attempt to move. The trusty returns, wet cloth in left hand. She one by one tends to the faces, the fingers of the right hand scooping visible remnants of the meal and pushing such into receptive mouths. Then the wet cloth of the left hand cleanses.

The trusty works quickly, stepping from girl to girl. I see that as she leans she lets her breasts freely brush, rub and abrade the backs and shoulders of the clients. It would seem to be a reward, the matrons permitting the limited teasing contact, smiling in seeing the nipples harden, the tits firm in pressing warm skin.

Being last, I feel her glands firmly greet my right shoulder. There comes a subtle shake of her upper torso, her left nipple grazing to bring herself a brisance of joy. Then an index fingers instantly smooths about, collects excess sustenance from nose and lips and introduces such to my mouth. I ingest. As the wet towel cleanses, the bell rings three times. The girls rise and I again mimic and stand.

Afternoons are therapy time. Our group parts, each girl to receive individual ‘counseling’. I am led to a small room. Within is a straight backed chair. A matron quickly secures me, spread widely open, just as in the office of the chief therapist. Before me is a small table with a simple chair, more comfortable than mine. I cannot help gaping at the collection of short cords and clips about the perimeter of the table. A ‘client’ can easily be restrained on the surface.

I wait, several moments. The door opens. It is the trusty. She carries a tray, an empty bowl, scissors.

In silence, she cuts my hair. I dare not protest. I cannot move.

Caring not to conform to any known style, the long locks surrender quickly and in large clumps, summarily tossed into the waiting bowl. It takes not more than two minutes for my remaining head of hair to resemble that of every other client. Short... horridly short. Does she cut evenly... with a hint of decorum?

It matters not. She finishes, momentarily plays with my nipples, and quickly departs, smiling smugly in having stolen an unauthorized copping of my glands.

More waiting. The door again opens. In walks the woman who will change my life.

******************************************************************************

I am to find at the clinic that the psychological stress to be endured can greatly exceed the physical.

My new girl friend of color, for instance. Which is to challenge the most, having to stand, presumably for hours, on the toes of one foot? Or posed to so salaciously exhibit a very ripe and wet quim, oozing with evidence of stimulation, the scent of feminine arousal filling the room?

So the cutting... chopping actually... of my long prideful hair... concurrent with the introduction of my therapist is no coincidence.

As I sit in self pity, sensing the conflicting need to assess my new look versus the horror of discovery, Dr. Ann Roberts... Miss Ann... introduces herself. I am in the depths of despair, the timing superb. I so need to talk to someone.

"Welcome to the Clinic."

Voice smooth, I look to appraise. Relatively young for having an advanced degree, I judge her to be early thirties. Professionally attired. No starched blue uniform. Long hair dark, similar to mine, that now residing in the trusty’s bowl. Handsome, even features, confident, knowledgeable, in my state of vulnerability her demeanor brings a degree of comfort.

"When in this room you may speak... in response to my observations and inquiries of course."

She carries an over the shoulder bag, extracting a note pad with a fountain pen. Long since practicable, it appears to be a treasured gift... perhaps an heirloom.

"Lana Morehouse aged 21," she reads from her pad, leaning back against the table. "Shoplifting, first offense.

High school graduate. Dropped out of college after three semesters."
She looks up, judging my reaction. But also glancing down to where my shaven mons is so thoroughly displayed.

"The matrons here do tend to enjoy themselves do they not?" in apparent reference to my naked vulnerability.

She steps around the table, grasps the empty chair and slides it before me, sitting such that her knees brush mine.

"You’ll find that they like observing the pink flesh of young girls. It is best for you to be obedient and let them feast their eyes. When it’s time to be masturbated... just relax and enjoy. Within, girls such as you enjoy the humiliation. There is no point to resisting."

Her right hand extends to gently smooth along my inner left thigh, slowly approaching my ‘cunny’. I shiver... in fear... in delight?

She withdraws as my nipples firm in response. She sits back, apparently learning what she needed to know.

"So let’s begin. Start with your childhood... speak chronologically."

I do.

'The Clinic IV'

2012-01-21T04:00:00.000-08:00

"Enema time girls," a matron calling out, standing at the only egress from the courtyard.

The girls obediently trot to reenter the building.

"Line up... tits to shoulder blades... cunny to buttocks... nice and tight for me."

Returning to the hallway, the naked girl, she who picked the bowls and smeared our labia and vaginas, beckons from a far door. She is unfettered, though with many loops in place, easily restrained should the need arise. I am to learn the girl is a trusty, offered relative freedom in order to perform tasks too lowly for a matron.

The lead girl knows to prance then humbly stand before her in wait. And sure enough the next girl presses against her...then the next and so on to form a chain. The girl of color, somewhat enthralled with my posterior, makes it a point to get behind me, now able to frottage against my globes without fear of discovery, pressing such that my mons in turn is thrust into the girl in front of me more then I’d like.

It feels good... and I am most chagrined. My heated ‘cunny’, as the matron terms my sex, attains a degree of satiation.

Yet I need more.

As we girls collectively squirm, absorbing the modest thrill, the matron smiles in squalid delight. I feel the rock hard breasts of my new friend, the nipples rubbing with enthusiasm against my back. The behavior is not only acceptable, but welcomed... the entertainment appears to be mandated... and no one disappoints.

Then the scent of women in need wafts through the hallway air. It is strong, so many wet love canals, and the matron begins to cackle depravedly.

Over the months of ‘therapy’ I am to find that douching is prohibited... totally denied. And whereas my relatively fresh, new arrived ‘cunny’ is not overly ripe, some of the girls are in need of hygiene... hygiene they shall not have.

"Enough," comes the matron’s command, the grinding hips and jiggling breasts instantly brought to stillness.

The naked trusty reaches to the neck loop of the first girl, slips her finger beneath and pulls, guiding her into the ‘enema palace’, the ironic name for the clinic’s chamber of concrete walls, well drained tile floor, plumbing and water... much water.

******************************************************************************

I sit in the office of the chief therapist. Elbows clipped together, a tending matron secured me to a straight back chair facing a large walnut desk. Restraining my thigh loops and ankle loops to the sides, she assured that I sit well spread, exposing the mass of feminine pink flesh between my thighs.

Despite the massive enema administered earlier, normally tending to induce torpor, I feel apprehension.

The chief therapist sits behind the desk doing paperwork. Being ignored, for now, I visually examine the large office. Most notably in one corner to my left sits a sizable steel cage. Within a naked girl rests on knees and elbows, her cable ties secured in such a manner that her legs and arms cannot straighten... ankles to the waist... wrists to the biceps. A slack leash is attached to her neck loop and is tied to the bars. Beneath her head is a bowl, presumably that intended for a dog, filled with water.

Opposite to the right, restrained to a vertical pole, is my new friend, the girl of color from the courtyard. She forcibly stands on the toes of her left foot. The right foot is raised, leg bent back, the ankle loop secured to her waist loop. Arms tethered behind her back, her neck loop is attached to the pole to assure she does not topple.

As with me, to assure she properly displays her feminine charms, the right thigh loop is tied from above in such a manner that she in turn much offer a spread shot. The pose is awkward and challenging. She perspires. I can see the glistening moist pink of her splayed inner labia, the slow torture seeming to bring arousal as vaginal juices slowly ooze to her left thigh. I am sure the matrons are to be greatly entertained.

"Your friend was talking this morning... in the courtyard. Against the rules. I trust you did not respond to
her?"

The therapist speaks for the first time, evidently noting the direction of my gaze.

I must assume my response to the girl was not noted on the camera. Otherwise I am sure I too would be placed in an unending stress position.

I prevaricate, shaking my head to deny.

"Good. You’ll note that we like to have naughty girls display themselves in such licentious ways. It’s good for the spirit, don’t you think? Makes a girl aware."

I nod. Whom am I to disagree. Yet... aware of what?

"And that one, over there. Therapy revealed a rather telling penchant. Makes for a cute little pup don’t you think?" the woman nodding to the cage.

I shrug my shoulders as best I can.

"She’ll forever either be caged or leashed. In time, I tire of my pets. So at some point she’s to be kenneled. But for now, leading a girl about on a leash can offer quite the thrill for a woman of my ilk. And it so placates her needs."

The woman stands. I begin to tremble, now more than ever understanding her power... and her enjoyment in exercising such.

"We all have fantasies... desires we prefer not to divulge. Held deep within, never to be shared... at least by the outer self."

She approaches as she speaks, something indiscernible held in her left hand.

"Here we delve into the inner self. And we discover such fascinatingly secret things. The curious desire to be leashed and fed from a bowl, for example... to be mated and forced to breed," gesturing to the cage.

She steps to my girl friend of color. The right hand extends and toys with a pinkish brown left nipple. Then her hand lowers and a finger dabs at the flowing vaginal juices.

"Well bound... yet aroused. Plus do you find anything distinctive about the muscling on this one? You may speak."

"She’s... she’s in good shape," my quaking voice stuttering, the extensive muscling indeed tending to ripple in the stress position.

"Oh, better than good. She runs and runs. Extremely strong legs, good endurance, the limited breasts those of an Olympic track star... or better perhaps, those of a girl who’d like to spend her life harnessed, bridled and responding to the crack of a riding crop."

The head of my new girl friend of color slumps to the degree the neck restraint permits. The downward cast of the eyes suggests the observation is appropriate.

"Yes, this one would like to serve me, the power of my psyche subduing hers, forcing her physical strength to yield to me. So physically potent, yet she so much desires to mentally capitulate, cede to a woman’s whip hand."

The woman approaches me to stand close, gazing downward at my pinkness, again offering the look of a fine chef planning a meal. She drys her wet finger on my upper lip, the scent of the juices quite strong.

"One cannot help comparing the glands," her right hand lowering.

She palms and cups my right breast. Soft yet firm, as stated I am well endowed there. Normally I ward off such advances, particularly from women. But I am helpless to resist and the woman plays without compunction, moving her hand to give equal credence to the left breast as well, smiling wickedly.

"Quite the set of mammary glands. Have you ever thought of lactating for us?"

"No, ma’am."

"Well we have our puppy girl... we have our pony girl. Why should we not have our cow girl? I think you would enjoy entertaining us."

I shake my head in denial.

Then comes, should our tete a tete be considered a duel, the coup de grace... finally presenting the contents of her left hand. My trembling transforms to outright shudders of concern.

"Caught shoplifting this. You had the money with you to pay for it, but you just did not want to be seen purchasing it."

It is the evidence of theft from my trial... a breast pump! And the chief therapist is correct. Before me is divulged the deep dark secret fantasy... my deep dark secret fantasy.

The woman leans. There comes again that look of Schadenfreude, her warm breath felt on my nakedness

"Your secret need to nurture. I think we know how to make your stay here... your therapy... very enjoyable."

Comment on Comments/Spam

2012-01-17T08:25:00.000-08:00

Just found some appropiate comments in the 'spam' box which I released to be posted.

It seems the 'spam' detector has been turned up a notch, so I will be more diligent in making sure stuff gets through. If you find that a comment is delayed that is the reason.

As stated, I do not block or edit anything unless a comment is nothing more than a commercial attempt to advertise a product, site or service.

CB

The Clinic III

2012-01-14T05:12:00.000-08:00

I awaken to commotion. A high barred window is faintly aglow, suggesting daylight. The firm voice of a matron can be heard in the hallway. Keys rattle in the door of my room... my cell.

"Wake up, new girl."

Matron four, starched blue uniform of course, enters, releasing the many clips with noted alacrity.

"I will verbally guide you through morning protocol once, thereafter you will follow the snaps of my fingers."

I look into the face of a dour middle aged woman, the tending personnel seemingly to have all gestated in the same womb.

"To the floor, all fours," barked with a single snap of her fingers.

I obey as she steps from the small room.

"Come, on hands and knees," another single snap of her fingers.

I crawl into the hallway, aghast to see a bevy of girls assuming the same position, every head touching a wall, naked bottoms well exhibited and thrust toward the center of the hall. Beneath each is a bowl, pressed between the knees.

"Over your bowl, quickly, press it between your knees," another single snap of her fingers.

A bowl awaits me and I comply as the matron departs, crossing the hall to unlock another door. I hear more snaps, no words, as a pretty young girl crawls out and positions herself over an identical bowl.

Meanwhile, a night’s build up of excretions provokes a need. In recalling the directing words of the chief therapist, not daring to soil the linoleum or the bowl, I squeeze, assuring no release of my bladder.

Two more doors, more snaps. I do not move my head to dare count the kneeling naked forms, but there are more than a dozen, each assuming a kneeling position over a bowl.

Then there comes silence. Moments go by. At last a door at the end of the hall opens. Boots tap a leisurely cadence on the linoleum.

Tap, tap, tap, there finally comes the sound of a stentorian voice. It is the chief therapist.

"Good morning girls. You will greet me like this every morning as the more experienced girls know. It is good to begin the day on all fours. It offers the proper mindset. Quite demeaning to have to crawl. Quite a struggle to hold what nature urges you to release. But you’re here to learn discipline, and I like to begin with the control of the most basic of functions. For the new girls, the demand is that you hold until you hear two snaps of the matron’s fingers. Then you will lower your head to the floor, further part your knees and mentally prepare. With the next snap you will release. The girl finishing last will be punished. Meanwhile those Kegel muscles will work and strain, but hopefully not let you down."

I glance to the side noting the look of Schadenfreude, the chief therapist slowly marching, boots authoritatively tapping, as she speaks, her eyes glowering as would a bird of prey, seeming to imaginatively devour well exposed feminine flesh.

Meanwhile listening to her words causes my mind to focus on the urge which I must not indulge.

The speech ends. The silence seems to make it more difficult. My muscles below indeed strain. I cannot imagine the punishment for early release, but in being naked, the many loops of vinyl offering the capability of instant restraint, I am vulnerable to anything the matrons desire to mete.

Finally, two snaps. Heads collectively lower to the floor, including mine. I further part. The shift renews the dire need. The pause further tormenting, yet I dare not release.

Finally comes the single snap. My heart leaps, but more importantly my muscles know to relax as I open myself. The hissing sound and the splatter join that of some dozen other girls in the collective demonstration of institutional authority.

I finish, thankfully not last. In noting that no one moves I remain kneeling, now realizing for the first time how obscenely spread open I am.

‘It’s just us girls’... I tell myself.

******************************************************************************

"Remember... silence. No touching unless instructed by a matron."

Spoken as yet another matron works and my elbow loops are closely clipped together behind my back, returning my arms and hands to uselessness.

Next I feel a brisk slap to my buttocks, somewhat playful, somewhat in an earnest expression of control, and I know to rise from the floor, emulating the other girls.

For the first time since my arrival I am not being handled and am free to gaze and survey.

Every girl is naked, limbs, torso and neck encircled with identical cable ties. One by one each is bound... some as am I, others with wrists to the waist loop, one girl more cruelly. Yes, she who finished splashing into the bowl last has her arms pulled behind and folded at the elbows, wrists brought up between the shoulder blades and tightly secured to the back of the neck loop. Then the elbows are pushed together and secured as well.

Bound in such a tormenting fashion... yet so quickly... so easily. I note tears forming as I tell myself never to be last in emptying myself.

Continuing to survey, I note all hair is short. With mine draping to my shoulders I am an outlier.

Curious we are all approximately the some age, post adolescent, judging none to be more than early twenties. And though not an afficionado of the female form, there is youthful attractiveness. All are shapely, non overweight, non to be considered overly lean. In observing the lustful looks of the matrons, the chief therapist appearing to mentally prepare a meal, there comes suspicion.

Then my thoughts are diverted as below, there comes tingling... a degree of warmth... and then a most acute need to disobediently touch and rub my love nest.

With hands secured I can do nothing, but the cause of the sensation is apparent.

In completing the morning task, we all remained kneeling as a naked girl pushed a cart down the hall. One by one the filled bowls were removed, placed on the cart, and a rather experienced, tissue laden hand wiped dry the many quims. But fingers then briefly returned and wiped to apply an unguent.

Having had my rectum set afire in the infirmary I am aware of the clinic’s penchant. And sure enough, though pleasant the warmth spreads. The need amplifies. I look to see other girls apparently experiencing the same.

Such wickedness!

A matron opens a door at the opposite end of the hall. The girls begin to filter out and I follow, my mind transforming to that of a sheep. We step outside. The sun is chasing away the morning chilliness. Still I note many pairs of nipples firm and crinkle in the cool air.

"Get some exercise girls. Enemas and breakfast soon."

With that, the door closes behind us, leaving the naked group milling about in a high walled courtyard.

Some girls, obviously feeling the effects of the unguent more than me, walk about briskly. I recall an occasion where I applied depilating cream to my mons and in direct contrast to the instructions, inadvertently smeared some on the tender pink inner labia. The burning, much more severe than this, would not diminish, no matter my attempts to relieve myself of the intensity... not water... not soap... not skin cream.

I had to wait out the effect, and judging from the manner in which the girls walk about, it appears their application of whatever exceeded that of mine.

Not knowing what the day will bring, but aware of the propensity for strict bondage, I decide to move about, my muscles welcoming the chance to limber after a long night and a challenging morning kneeling in wait for the whimsical snap of fingers.

As I circle about, I once again survey and note a video camera high above on a pole. What a libidinous scene to be recorded, I think to myself. Nothing but T and A... spiced with some bondage.
A girl of color seems to follow me. Reaching a certain point I hear her voice, in direct violation of the rules.

"New girl," she whispers. "Stop and turn to the wall."

Being new indeed, I comply, not daring verbal response.

"There are no microphones. They just look to see if your mouth and lips move," the girl explains, stepping closer but not too close.

"Don’t nod or do anything to indicate we’re speaking. And make sure you face away from the camera... and away from me."

Apparently the girl of color has been in ‘therapy’ for a while.

"Your cunny a little hot?"

I mumble soft words of affirmation.

"Nasty stuff. Drives a girl crazy. A special spice, some concoction which brings a need every morning, lasting most of the day. It’s part of the discipline. You’ll be able to handle it today. Maybe tomorrow. But then as the need grows you’ll be begging. I can help you."

I say nothing. Is this a plant? A set up?

"Move more to your left."

I step. The girl, tall lean and muscular moves with me. Then I am shocked to feel her warmth abrade mine.

"It’s a blind spot," she explains as I feel the heat of her well shaven mons press against my right cheek.

"You’ve got the perfect ass for this. Push back against me. I’ll do the same for you some time."

Though well aware of the my firm roundness there, I blush.

"I don’t go that way," I rather demurely protest.

I hear a slight chuckle, perhaps my words amusing but more likely my smooth cheek bringing a welcomed degree of satiation.

"You will girl. You’ll soon be going any way they want you to go."

The Clinic II

2012-01-07T04:35:00.000-08:00

No clothing... ever... after all it’s just us girls.

Clothing it seems, emboldens. I am to be kept humble.

No unauthorized touching... myself or any of the other clients.

Silence. When spoken to, the matrons are ‘ma’am’... as in ‘yes ma’am’, ‘no ma’am’, ‘if it pleases you ma’am’, and so on.

Obedience at all times. Instant obedience.

Overall, me and the other girls... clients... are here to learn discipline.

‘The fact that you are here means you are lacking self control. That will change.’

Listening to stuff like that... rules... commands... directives... is probably why I am so rebellious. One has a tendency to refute such diatribe.

‘Learn obedience and you’ll earn privileges.’

In completing the lengthy list, most not worth repeating... to be summed up as ‘don’t do anything without permission’, Matron Two reaches to the cloth belt about her waist. I had not before noticed, my eyes instead inquisitively following her busy binding hands, that dangling about are dozens of small clamps.

She releases one, steps forth, draws my arms behind my back and in a very disconcerting instant clips together my elbow ties. Quick and amazingly simple, my arms and hands are rendered useless.

But I must admit... standing naked before this imposing woman, donning the many tethers, simple yet not to be resisted... there may be lack of self control... but not the control afforded others. Humbled indeed.

"Time for your physical examination. Do be a good girl for me."

The chief therapist... chief inquisitor?.. departs. Matron Two grasps my left arm and brusquely draws me out a separate door.

Walking about naked, room air wafting over intimate pink parts, both dismays and oddly thrills. Bare feet on linoleum, I note the interior temperature is kept comfortably high. And as I am paraded under the auspices of Matron Two, the need for warmth becomes evident. Like me, girls are pacing about naked, all bearing the many encircling cable ties, most with limbs clipped in some manner. Few, I assume to be very, very good girls, are unfettered but with cable ties in place remaining vulnerable to the instant attachment of a double ‘D clamp.

One girl has her feet attached together, energetically shuffling and moving as would a penguin. I note a matching one foot length of vinyl connects the ankle loops. As she struggles, her boobies flop about, most comically... for me. But I note the lustful look in the eyes of Matron Two, as one of hunger would ravenously gaze at a feast.

"She’s being disciplined. In a few months perhaps she’ll again be permitted to walk normally," comes the succinct explanation.

All young, teenagers, possibly older, all well shaped. I am heartened that there are no bruises, scars, bandages. Whatever discipline is meted, it does not appear to involve harm... physical harm.

Led to a medical facility, there are the obligatory white metal cabinets, white uniformed nurses, tables, chairs, devices. There Matron Two departs and I am once again amazed with the alacrity with which I can be restrained. Two young nurses guide me to a gynecological chair. My elbows are released but just as quickly ankles, thighs, waist and wrists are connected to clamps embedded in the chair.

I cannot move.

They depart. Do I detect giggling?

An older nurse enters. Apparently in charge. She begins a standard physical examination. Questions about diet... last time I defecated...last period. I am chagrined when a gloved finger enters my rectum, wriggles about and obtains a stool sample. Then a jar is held and I am encouraged to produce a urine sample.

"Any shyness will soon dissipate," the nurse explains as I cannot summon the urge. "in time you’ll be begging to urinate for us. It’s the only permitted manner of emptying your bladder."

The thought brings consternation. The nurse’s free hand presses my belly. She makes sibilant sounds as if encouraging a child. Finally I manage a brief spurt. She captures it in the jar and is satisfied.

She steps away. I hear again snaps of latex, soiled gloved removed. A new rubber glove invaginates the right hand. A second glove is slipped onto the left. Curiously, it is soft, covered in fur... delicate and flowing, as of that comprising an expensive stole.

"A little treat for you. Our way of welcoming a new girl to the clinic."

The nurse stands between my well parted knees, most proximate to my closely shaven mons.

"You may feel a little uncomfortable being publically masturbated... at first. But in time you’ll be imploring for more."

In public indeed, the giggling young nurses return to the examination room to observe. I am then introduced to the masturbation gloves... so wickedly pleasurably... so exquisite.

I am to find that such will become the food of Pavlov’s dogs. I will drool at their sound and sight... and not from my mouth.

******************************************************************************

Embarrassing... outright humiliating, I lie well befuddled by the day’s events.

From the examination room, matron number three, another knock off in starched blue, led me to a small chamber... really a cell... and summarily secured me to a cot. Neck, waist, biceps, wrists, thighs, ankles... every encircling cable tie clipped to a waiting restraint, cords very short.

‘These people are bondage freaks,’ I think but dare not say.

Notwithstanding the bizarre events, I stare at the dark ceiling, reposed, the hormonal release of an intense climax bringing an ironically relaxing end to an otherwise stultifying evening.

The nurse proved to be an accomplished masturbatrix, seemingly sensing precisely what I could feel. Her actions where mechanical but effective. It began with a lotion smeared about my rectum. It first warmed then brought intense heat. Next the palm of the latex glove, the design leaving the middle and index fingers uncovered, pressed firmly to my clitoral hood. The applied pressure was perfect, not painful, but enough to suggest the woman was in control. The fur covered left hand slithered up my belly, spurring a rash of goose bumps, and ever so gently caressed my breasts, tickling to bring my nipples to pencil points.

This all began a flow of feminine essence of course, the nurse quick to point out to the young nurses the scent of my arousal. In so doing, the humiliation of hearing her words further intensified the stimulation which of course increased my wetness.

Vagina sopping, the uncovered digits glided facilely within my quim, the nurse snickering in sensing the ease of entry.

And then she began in earnest, the warm uncovered fingers finding the urethral sponge, there circling to knead, pressing, the nurse lecturing as the pleasure slowly heightened and I squirmed against my bonds.... rectum heated... love nest rapidly rising in temperature.

The young nurses were offered an anatomy lesson... at my expense?.. perhaps more aptly described as at my behest.

"Notice how complacent they become," more authoritative words as the fingers worked me. "In time she’ll be trained to more appropriately use the Kegel muscles... communicating her need for more... and she will always want more."

******************************************************************************

Staring at the dark ceiling, neck restraint making it almost impossible to look elsewhere, thinking of the intensity of the resulting orgasm brings a wry smile. Yes, I was publically masturbated, forced to come to a riveting climax, Kegel muscles indeed clenching, most embarrassed to observe a spray of feminine essence erupt.

This brought a knowing smile to the nurse and to me a degree of bewilderment. My own furtive attempts at self pleasure had never brought such a reaction. The nurse drew more delight from my loins than I ever had.

"She’s a squirter, ladies. They can be quite entertaining."

The words offered as if I had become a trained circus animal, no purpose in life other than to amuse.

Such would become a more apropos notion than initially thought.

A tag was attached to the loop about my waist at the left hip. Later I was to find it indicated my release date and menstrual cycle, no embarrassment in having that known to all, it’s just us girls.

As slumber beckons I think of the turn of events that brought me to this clinic... the foolish shoplifting, the frightful judge, the threat of five years of incarceration, concurring to accept two years of ‘therapy’. And now lying naked and in extreme bondage. No prison would dare offer a regimen of such degradation.

Yet here I am.

Comment on the Clinic/Happy New Year

2011-12-31T06:02:00.000-08:00

28 visits in the first hour of posting. Guess there is some interest in this theme.

Still, please comment.

And have a Happy New Year!

CB

The Clinic (Female dominant/female submissive)

2011-12-31T05:02:00.000-08:00

I will post a couple of segments of this book length story. Please keep in mind the book will be published so the 'meat' of the story will appear for sale on Lulu or the Erotic Book Network

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The Clinic

Copyright 2011

by Chris Bellows

The room is austere, the lighting bright, the matron firm... crisply commanding.

“Always look directly at the camera... stare at the lens.”

As the directive comes there quickly follows another flash and a click.

“Feet further apart, arms at your sides, palms toward me.”

Flash. Click.

Somehow I maintain my composure, stifling tears. The intensity of the humiliation is daunting. I am naked.

“Cup for your breasts for me. Present them. No smile. No frown.”

Flash. Click.

“Good girl. Now turn and face to the right, feet always parted. Arch your back for me. Very nice. You’re going to do just fine here.”

Flash. Click.

Words of support as the matron senses my deteriorating resolve. As I instantly respond, all sense of resistance dissolved, my mind finds the need to wander...

******************************************************************************

“Shoplifting. You know young lady, I used to give lenient sentences to first time offenders. But then I noticed so many faced me again. Too many reunions... and too soon.”

The judge is senescent... talking endlessly as I await her decision. Her words offer little hope for compassion.

“Now, under the law I can mandate five years...”

My heart sinks.

“You could appeal of course, but that would require a large bond while awaiting a decision and the engagement of very expensive lawyers.”

The woman takes off her glasses to glare at me from the bench. Hair gray, cut short, combed straight, Hollywood would have her cast as a boarding school headmistress... an authoritative and exacting headmistress.

“And then the state and the taxpayers would be equally burdened. Lots of money expended keeping naughty girls behind bars.”

‘Get on with it’, I am tempted to blurt.

“So, I am willing, with your concurrence, to recommend a new program... rather experimental... of rehabilitation. Shorter than five years... and in being sponsored by a psychiatric clinic, less costly to the state.”

A heart sinking begins to ascend.

“Should you concur, your sentence will be commuted to two years of therapy. If you change your mind, resist treatment, the sentence will be re-instituted to five years of incarceration.”

I repress a smile.

“If I fully understand the program, I think a girl like you will respond well to the therapy.”

A pause... a long pause... finally she inquires.

“Do you concur?”

I nod enthusiastically.

“The court stenographer will need a verbal reply.”

With my one word... my concurrence... here I am.

******************************************************************************

“Now turn and face to the left for another profile. Arch your back. There will be need to assess the buttocks.”

The thought is so salacious... yet the setting so clinical. I have not a stitch of covering. And the matron was pleased to note that I am shaven... down there. ‘Saves us time,’ she noted in positioning me for the first snapshot.

“Back towards me... mind the feet.”

I turn and by rote part my feet. Flash. Click.

“And now bend. Be a good girl.”

I obey. Having already been repeatedly photographed, I respond like a robot. I am surprised by my quickly attained level of compliance.

Flash. Click.

“Further.”

I lean and feel my boobs dangle. I am proudly well endowed there.

Flash. Click.

“Now feet as wide apart as possible.”

Flash. Click.

“Now hold just like that and reach back to part your cheeks.”

Salacious transcends to obscene. Why am I so meekly complying?

Flash. Click.

“Yes, very nice. Lot’s of pink for us. You’ll do just fine here. Feet just a little further apart.”

Flash. Click.

“Now stand and turn. Hands on head.”

For the first time the woman approaches. Quite the figure of authority. Middle aged, starched blue uniform. I am shocked when she reaches forth and diddles my nipples, chagrined to see my aureolas crinkle to pebbles. More chagrined that I neither move nor verbally protest as my breasts rise and firm, seemingly even more obedient and compliant than me.

She steps back.

Flash. Click.

“Yes, you will fit into our program very nicely.”

She returns. Hands remaining on head, for some reason I no longer move unless commanded. Her right hand lowers, palm upwards. She cups my mons!

I freeze in shock. The palm presses against my clitoral hood. Then two fingers brazenly part my labia and glide into my quim.

I am moist... no... I am wet... and for the first time the woman smiles.

Withdrawing, she raises her hand and I blush, her sopping digits glistening in the bright lights.

“Yes, you will fit quite nicely indeed.”

The intense humiliation has aroused... and she knew this... and I did not!

******************************************************************************

I inquire about clothing. Matron number two not so much giggles as she cackles.

“Not really necessary. It’s just us girls,” her response pleasant but nonchalant.

“Your restraints will suffice. In time you will acclimate.”

As I remain in wonderment about the need to take dozens of naked photos, there comes more to incite curiosity. I stand in complete deshabille in a small room, Matron number two, appearing to be stamped from the same mold as the first, steps forth holding some dozen lengths of thin plastic.

“Cable ties. Cheap. Easy to secure. Not to be removed ... other than by cutting. And should you somehow locate a sharp instrument... you’ll not cut,” she forewarns.

Spoken as wrists, arms above the elbows, ankles, thighs above the knees are encircled, the end of each tie pressed through a receptive eye and pulled taut to form a loop. I note the women tightens with one finger inside the circle which she subsequently slips out, offering precisely uniform rings of plastic about my limbs... not tight, circulation not impeded... but certainly not loose.

Then a longer somewhat thicker cable tie is looped about my neck. Lastly a more formidable length circles my waist.

The woman steps back and momentarily assesses. Then she returns with clippers and carefully snips away the ends, leaving absolutely no excess length of plastic beyond the receiving eye.

“You’ll tug at these for a few days. All the girls do. But I assure you the restraints are not to be snapped open or broken.”

She steps away and I quiver in fear as she lights a propane torch.

“Be careful not to move. This assures the locking clasp is secure and not to be further tightened. And all the sharp cut ends will be smoothed.”

It is apparent that I am not the first girl the matron has placed in such unique, fast and cheap fetters. For one by one, a protective pad is slipped under the connecting clasp and the blue flame is momentarily applied, melting the plastic to accomplish just as she suggested, smoothing the cut ends and distorting the receiving clasps to assure such neither further tighten nor somehow yield and allow the loops to slip open.

Task completed, the flame is extinguished. Fingers return to rub each connecting point. The matron expresses satisfaction.

“Well tethered... with $1.50 worth of vinyl,” laughing with the irony of inexpensive thoroughness.

With that the door opens. Another aging woman enters, civilian in dress. Judging from Matron number two’s instant obeisance, the woman is in charge.

“I am the chief therapist...”

I am then read the rules...

'Power Series' ends

2011-12-24T06:01:00.000-08:00

This concludes the 'Power' series.

Hope all have enjoyed. 28,000 words of free stuff, as qualitative as I can make it.

Comments are welcomed as always.

For ease of reading, the entire series is now available for free on Lulu.

Currently writing a Fem/fem story, book length, with a smattering of dominant male action. Forced lactation theme... my quill not tussling with such subject matter since 'Ship of Remorse'.

Anyone have interest?

Have a good Christmas.

Regards,

CB

'Power, Succumbing to It' (Part Two of Two)

2011-12-24T04:25:00.000-08:00

Naked on a train!

Madam sits proximate. In hindsight the lack of clothing adds to her ability to control and my inability to run off. And in the tropical heat and abject poverty of the region, the young are commonly afforded limited covering.

Still I am older than a toddler and am quite conscience of my nakedness.

We share a cabin with a Caucasian woman. Haughty, older, prim, proper, she visually inspects and I have no manner of hindering her gaze.

"You’ve had him fixed. I so often wished I had that option," the woman striking up a conversation with Madam Kaishek.

Madam Kaishek detects my discomfort and smiles.

"Sit back and show the woman," she commands.

I remain trembling with the trauma, the pain, the callous doctor’s incisions and snips. Mentally and emotionally I am overwhelmed. I meekly sit back and draw my knees to my chest. Madam Kaishek reaches, her hands parting my inner thighs and buttocks.

"I want her smooth" she explains. "In my work it is best."

Having popped the gonads from their nest, the doctor gathered the fleshy folds of my empty scrotum and pinched with a device appearing to be a set of pliers. She termed it an elastrator. And when she withdrew the device I felt tightness... down there. A taut rubber band enshrouds that which once held my testicles. I can still feel the tightness.

So the Caucasian woman is offered an unfettered view of my transformation, the reddened pouch of banded epidermis gathered into a withering soon to drop clump... appearing to be the waddle of a turkey.

"With the circulation cut off, in a few days this excess skin will topple off and she’ll be very smooth for me. The only hint of maleness remaining will be a cute little penis... rendered useless of course."

In hearing the pronoun ‘she’, the woman smiles in agreement.

"Ran a boy’s reform school for many years. I caned... I feminized often... but this ultimate modification for undesired behavior was not an option, unfortunately."

The woman proves to be bold in matters concerning boys. She leans forward and extends her hand. Fingers caress and knead the small gathering of banded flesh. I am shocked to feel almost nothing. She pinches and in noting there is little reaction, smiles in satisfaction.

"All gone. Her behavior will be quite acceptable now."

Her hand lowers and a finger smooths about my anus, circling to bring a brief brisance of delight to an otherwise mortifying encounter.

"I also figged. You may wish to consider should the behavior indeed not improve."

I would later learn... and feel the results... of the effective English custom... inserting ginger root into the rectum. It burns without producing a scintilla of physical harm and the insertion purportedly assures that buttocks awaiting a brisk caning are properly presented.

"I understand castrated boys make good servants... the removal of the testicles bringing focus to young minds that would otherwise be addled by the flow of hormones."

Madam Kaishek nods in agreement.

"She will serve, but not as a servant. I have clients with... shall we say exotic tastes. She will be trained to please... orally and anally. They tell me that the backside of the male... former male... is naturally tighter. And that fellatio is better learned... and more quickly."

The woman’s smile turns to a look of Schadenfreude, apparently visualizing the intensity of the degradation.

"And there’s the curious phenomenon of aging... snipped before any significant flow of hormones, she’ll always be young."

The train begins to slow. Madam withdraws her hands. The woman leans back to return to sitting upright.

"The border crossing. I hope you don’t mind... err... Miss..."

"Hartsdale... Miss Penelope Hartsdale."

"I am Madam Kaishek. I hope Miss Hartsdale that you don’t mind being present as we sort things out with the Thailand customs and immigration. My girl has no papers and there is a certain protocol to be followed."

As the train slows to a stop, I am given instructions... to be obedient... very obedient. In my nakedness, flushed with embarrassment as the two women talked about me, inspected my privates, my vulnerability has been made quite apparent. Have I a choice?

I nod concurrence, my altered vocal cords mandating silence.

There comes commotion as the many doors of the adjoining cabins open and the numerous passengers offer documents, agents shouting instructions. Miss Hartsdale reaches to her purse as does Madam Chang. Our cabin door opens and up steps a uniformed woman of authority. She is homely, somewhat past middle aged and evidently in charge. In her arms... shackles and a collection of chains.

She drops the bindings and checks the passports, oddly ignoring me. It becomes evident that she is familiar with Madam Kaishek as the passport is returned and the woman officer is offered a tube of unguent. She accepts and looks at this Miss Hartsdale with concern.

"It’s not a problem. Miss Hartsdale seems to be one of us and I think will be entertained," Madam Kaishek seeming to read the officer’s mind.

The uniformed woman nods then sits next to Miss Hartsdale. For the first time she looks at me and I shiver in fear. She is aloof, calloused and wickedly gazes at my nakedness as something to be savored... prey to be eaten. She opens the tube and lubricates her hands. Then she wriggles her finger, gesturing for me to come to her lap. My shiver transforms to outright trembling.

I look to Madam Kaishek and she nods. I meekly slide my nakedness from the seat and step towards her. The woman brusquely grabs my arm and rapidly positions me sitting on her lap.

"We all have our curious little penchants, Miss Hartsdale," the woman proclaims. "I trust you can be tolerant of mine. Castrated boys offer such a thrill... the loss of virility... potential virility... such brings stimulation. I so much revel in both the physical and emotional comeuppance."

As she speaks, her left hand works at my bottom. I am horrified to feel a greased finger penetrate my anus. It slips inward locating my opening with ease. Mine is not the first aperture she has impaled.

Then the fingers of the right hand smooth up my thigh to playfully toy with the gathering of banded flesh.

"Something’s missing here. You have a tiny penis but are closer to being a little girl," the voice sarcastic.

Then the fingers move and begin to caress my penis. I am chagrined to find it feels good. I sense a certain throbbing. There come twinges. The woman is expert, smiling so evilly as she works to bring me to erection.

"You won’t have too many more of these... little girl," she taunts, as we both sense the organ begin to firm.

She knows the male anatomy... the former male anatomy. I feel the penetrating finger score a bull’s eye on the prostate gland. I lurch. The evil smile broadens. The humiliation is intense. I am to be masturbated before three women! And I am amazed when I am brought to full erection, something I have experimented in doing but mainly experienced only nocturnally, a full bladder abetting tumescence. Puberty just approaching... self pleasure limited.

Ejaculation is not possible. The woman seems to know and also seems to know how to prolong my odd state of arousal... arousal never ever to be satiated. And I sense the power exchange, feel the woman robbing me of what little virility and maleness that remains. She is draining me of male essence which can ever again be produced. Some fluid begins to ooze, the woman quick to mockingly point such out to Miss Hartsdale and Madam Kaishek. In having been neutered she knows she depletes the remnants of maleness... the last vestige... the final trace of virility. I can sense her feeling of empowerment.

"It’s your last... enjoy..." spoken as the penetrating finger wriggles about and the right hand oh so sensuously strokes.

Then I feel something... something joyous... but faint... distant. And the woman feels it too, the triggering of the ejaculatory muscles. But there is nothing to be expelled. It is a feeble orgasm... dry... incomplete... and it brings me both delight and frustration... and the woman knows it.

"I so much adore the forlorn look, don’t you ladies? It comes with the realization that hence... pleasure is solely for others..."

Yes, a curious penchant indeed... masturbating the castrated male. And what is most irksome... she is aware...she so much enjoys the transfer of power.... my loss... her gain.

With the incomplete orgasm past, the sensuous joy of her continuing strokes turns to irritation. I soften. Nothing manly has spurted, my penis tip merely drooling prostatic fluid. The women are greatly amused, my look of chagrin... of dread... serving to entertain.

"Be sure to let me know when you have another one snipped," the woman abruptly pushing me from her lap.

She picks up the shackles.

"Let’s get you properly dressed for entry into Thailand."

Wrists and ankles, I am tethered and hobbled, the woman gleefully snapping closed the locks and handing Madam Kaishek a key.

"Little girly boys always look so cute in irons."

The woman next hands Madam Kaishek some papers. I am to later learn such identify me as a criminal juvenile delinquent with Madam Kaishek serving as my guardian, a subterfuge for the remaining journey to Bangkok. Then as the woman arises, the train begins to move, the acceleration slow. She steps out.

I shall not forget her... nor the frustratingly muted feel of my last orgasm. The sound of her cackle shall forever remain...

'Power, Succumbing to It' (Part One of Two)

2011-12-17T02:11:00.000-08:00

Power, Succumbing to It

Copyright 2011

by Chris Bellows

Each Saturday evening, in bathing this Trevor, Ms. Maria’s bull stud, I am reminded of my duties while owned by Ms. Maria’s aunt... Miss Eve.

********************************************************************************
Only the rhythmic hiss of air through the breathing tube suggests life. Ed de Havillier, aka Miles Stapleton Campbell, lies entombed in a room of concrete walls and flooring. He is bound and shackled, lying supine, bearing the chains that I once wore. Yet, such bindings permit motion... and this Miss Eve will never allow. So in addition there are thick padded straps of nylon making Mr. de Havillier one with the table, and denying all movement... latex covered wrists, forearms, biceps, calves, thighs, chest, waist.

At one time, when initially entombed, he was given to wriggle fingers and toes from time to time. Now even this does not occur, mentally succumbing to being a captive... the futility of resisting the many restraints bringing capitulation. He is deprived of all... relying on the mercy of a governing woman for food, water and air... rarely sound... never sight.

Miss Eve regrets she cannot deny touch, once commenting...

‘I suppose he will need to be bathed from time to time. But do not over do it and spoil him, Mia. Once a week with a sponge should suffice. And never ever touch his penis... is that clear?’

I obediently nodded my head, fully aware of Miss Eve’s penchant, her insatiable appetite for full control... for ownership.

And so it has been, the organ goes untouched.

Bathing is a laborious process and is undertaken when niece Maria is in school, the presence of a prisoner/husband never to be disclosed. So every Wednesday, I prepare a simple lunch and serve my Master, then fill a bucket with soapy water and descend to the basement of the ancient mansion.

The door to Mr. de Havillier’s chamber is cleverly tucked away behind innocuous appearing storage boxes, easily pushed aside to permit entry every morning when I replenish the liquid food and water which slowly oozes through his gastric tube to siphon to his stomach. I also empty the collection bags of bowels and bladder, such modest ‘care’ requiring relative moments.

But on bathing day, my visit becomes a chore.

Remaining in the full body latex suit first slipped on by Nurse Beverly in Bangkok, I must temporarily release each limb, peel away the thick rubber, and wash. It is curious that with each Wednesday visit, my initial touch brings a spastic lurch, snapping Miss Eve’s captive from an unending stupor. There is no awareness of time. His firm tight incarceration is seemingly endless.

The right leg first, tearing away the velcro straps, instant release for she with usable hands, offering hopeless restraint for those without. Then the zipper is unzipped and the rubber is folded away to reveal the smooth hairless skin, Miss Eve insisting that irritating depilating lotion be applied before returning the captive to his status as living mummy.

At first, Mr. de Havallier was given to utilize the moments of relative freedom to offer comfort for constrained muscles, lifting the freed limb, restoring circulation, relieving cramps. But that is no more, his physicality deteriorating, Miss Eve adding something to the water to mandate relative ennui.

He moves not.

As I lave with a chamois over flesh now appearing effeminately smooth, muscling flabby with disuse, I hear murmurs. The gastric tube obviates discernible speech. But Mr. de Havillier, he remains attempting to communicate.

‘It’s the bank information, Mia. In his delusion he remains convinced that in offering it to me I will release him,’ my Master cackling in wickedness in having reneged on her promise... and continuing to renege.

‘As long as he remembers, I will need to keep him tucked away. Can’t have him revealing the information for someone to begin a search for the money.’

And so it is, poor Mr. de Havillier, having so fastidiously committed the complicated account numbers and codes to memory, must now forget. And it does not happen. So release does not happen.

Thus he remains a prisoner.

Right leg then left, next the arms are washed then the chest, rolling his supine form this way and that to cleanse the back. Never ever is there allowed complete freedom, only the straps needed to offer access to one portion of his body are released... and quickly returned to bind after the depilating lotion is applied and the latex zipped to cover.

But lastly, it is time for Mia’s recreation. I am permitted so little. I unzip at the crotch and the once virile male package pops into view, wizened in disuse. Mr. de Havillier, he remains catheterized, and as per Miss Eve’s orders, nothing ever, ever touches the penis. But the testicles... those organs determining maleness, mine surrendered to Madam Kaishek years ago... they so vulnerably dangle. And such need care and cleansing.

So I wash in envy. Held in chastity, the scrotum feels full... ripe. I have licked so many, tenderly caressed so many, I relish my closeness to male glands, mine summarily plucked away many years ago in Burma. So after cleansing, smiling as my tendance causes the emaciated penis to stir, I kneel on the table, stoop, cradle the plums and begin to lave the hairless sac with my tongue. I have been well trained to service the male organs. And despite the catheter, within moments the penis begins to firm. Knowing that it is as useless as mine brings a smile. The irony in knowing that Miles Stapleton Campbell formerly paid so handsomely to be bound and placed in sensory deprivation years ago in Bangkok intrigues.

At Miss Eve’s brothel there was always a discussion of limits, the client verbally outlining his scene... his proclivity... the lady associate mindful to observe the desired level of pain... the length of torment or bondage.

And now... for Mr. de Havillier... what limits are to be heeded?

The penis, untouched of course, becomes fully erect. A moan of frustration emanates from the intubated throat, yet not a limb attempts to move. Such total capitulation to a woman’s dominion...

Offering such joy brings vicarious delight... and brings poignant thoughts... to when I had balls...

******************************************************************************

Madam Kaishek and my mother converse warmly. Then cash is offered and my mother accepts. So many siblings, I see her smile in relief, knowing that the family will be relieved of one mouth with funds to feed the rest.

I am led to an ox drawn cart, the unpaved roads of rural Burma not receptive to an automobile. There is to be an afternoon’s ride to the village, there to visit a doctor then to board a train to Bangkok.

A hired plantation worker guides the ox, Madam Kaishek and I ride in the back of the cart, encased in a pen, the walls high for a lad of my age.

"Where are we going?" I inquire in the clipped local dialect.

Madam Kaishek smiles, her understanding of my tongue limited, but in visiting the region often to procure talent, her language skills are adequate.

She begins to remove my clothing, not much effort, poverty and the hot climate dictating limited covering.

"In time, to Bangkok. But first you are to be fixed."

My soiled well worn attire is summarily tossed to the roadside. I am naked.

"Fixed?"

"These. You’ll not need them. And I don’t want you to have them. I want you meek and docile."

Spoken as a practiced hand lowers to gently yet rather firmly cup then close over a very limited ball sac.

"You’re at the perfect age. Within a few months the hormones will begin to flow in abundance. That is not desired."

Having no idea of the repercussions, I look down in silence as her free hand joins in the palpation of my pubes, working to stimulate an equally limited penis. Other than being bathed as a toddler, no one has touched me there... and it feels good.

I stiffen. Madam Kaishek smiles knowingly. She has handled the male organ often.

Meanwhile I feel a strange thrill being naked in the presence of this commanding woman, her hands having their way with me. Mother instructed me to be obedient. And I am, her thrashings for recalcitrance well remembered.

"You’re a good boy to get hard for me. Does this grow stiff often?"

"Sometimes. When I wake up in the morning."

Not the complete truth. I have toyed there, on occasion bringing forth the dry orgasms of youth.

"And does anything come out... other than when you go to the bathroom?" obviously concerned about my state of pubescence.

"Just a little," shaking my head, just beginning to journey the road of youthful discovery and masturbation.

Madam Kaishek’s authoritative but pleasant look turns to a smile of satisfaction.

"Excellent. Stay hard for me. I like that. And you want to please me. It feels good does it not?"

I must agree... better than when I touch myself. And I do indeed stay hard for her, all the way to the village, the fingers returning whenever my erection wavered.

******************************************************************************

"I recommend two steps, Madam Kaishek. Excise the testicles then use an elastrator for the smooth look you desire."

I smell alcohol. The lady doctor frightens as her gloved hands explore where Madam Kaishek’s fingers graciously labored to keep me firm during the cart ride to the village.

In a gritty medical office, I sit strapped into a examination chair, my ankles secured high, my knees parted. I am frightened. I am under the tutelage of a woman unknown, and she in turn gives free reign to this aging woman who apparently has no compunction about imbibing during professional office hours.

Madam concurs with the assessment. Then the doctor explains the limited availability of anesthetics.

"It matters not, doctor. It is probably best. The intense pain will be remembered along with the momentous change in life. And I’ll want the usual oral modification. And this one’s rather chatty. We’ll not want her able to tell any stories."

Her?

The doctor nods, smiling in understanding. I will never speak out to denounce those who castrated me.

Power Series Continued

2011-12-11T04:57:00.000-08:00

Next week, 'Power, Succumbing to It'.

Hope all are enjoying this offering. And keep in mind.... a 'Kindle' stuffed with Chris Bellows stories would make a wonderful Christmas gift.

'Power, Craving It'

2011-12-10T02:40:00.000-08:00

Power, Craving It

Copyright 2011

by Chris Bellows

This cage thing is a bummer. Mom has the door secured with three padlocks! I have not a chance of ever opening it.

So stepfather Harold kneels within, hour after hour, with Mia on occasion knowing to reach through the bars, hold Harold’s caged cock and offer a bowl for urination.

I miss listening to him slink about the house, the clatter of the many chain links which serve to restrain drives home the intense humiliation of being under complete control.

Still, I can sit and view in Mom’s bedroom, teasing in complete nakedness as I have become notably comfortable exhibiting myself. For me it’s like disrobing in front of the family dog. So helpless... so vulnerable... he can watch, to a point indulge his sick fantasies... but never ever touch me... or bring self gratification.

I cannot help but cultivate this craving. I have Mia lick me to orgasm at least once per day... and always... well when Mom’s not present any way... almost always while sitting totally naked and spread, clutching the back of Mia’s head as Harold kneels in his cage and watches.

I fantasize of what I would do... hopefully what some day I will do... given a subservient male of my own. I have learned so much... and am so eager to implement my knowledge.

As Mia’s gifted tongue works, I gaze at Harold just as years ago he gazed at me... with a degree of want and lust. Shackled and hobbled... so physically unnecessary with the sturdy stainless steel bars of the cage. Plus three locks... not one... not two... but three. Then there is the leash, restricting much motion within the cage. And most importantly the penis is secured in Mom’s cock cage. Knowing that Harold suffers, bringing self inflicted pain, if he ever lets his thoughts become too impure, thrills for some reason. And so I am given, whenever Mom’s out of the house, to strip naked and offer Harold all the viewing of my eighteen year old charms that he can handle. He either learns to control that long neglected male organ or the many, many spikes in his cock cage do it for him.

In summary, the feminine dominion offers a great lesson from Mom...

‘He’ll feel much better being thoroughly restrained and totally controlled. Once there is the realization that he will never, ever have complete freedom of movement... the mind succumbs. He’ll become as gentle as a lamb... there will be acceptance... he will almost beseech for a woman’s touch and attention. Something as simple as caressing his ear will be a most welcomed highlight of his day.’

And so I note, while Mia’s tongue vigorously thrusts past my inner labia, that Mom has cruelly tied Harold’s leash high, to one of the top bars, forcing him to kneel upright... for hour after hour.

A stress position. Wherever did mother learn such a thing?

So in addition to being shackled and caged, the leash, attached to painful nipple clamps, prevents Harold from comfortably lying down.

I wonder what Harold would offer for a few moments of respite?

I shift, raising my thighs. Analingus has come to be the culmination of good oral service, and Mia knows to work her tongue and lips lower, lapping away at my rosebud, while my fingers go to my clitoral hood and began a brisk massage that triggers ultimate climax. I see Harold stir, careful not to tension his leash. I close my eyes in complete ecstasy, my loins oscillating in joy. Then presto! I once again soak the bangs of Mia’s forehead with a forceful spray of feminine essence.

I calm, lying back in bliss in the large easy chair. I look to Harold, his expression priceless... such need... such frustration...

"Mia so much cares, so desirous to bring pleasure to others, don’t you think Harold?"

Castration, every woman should consider it for the kept male... perhaps I will even teach myself to snip...

I push Mia’s head away, the hormonal release temporarily distracting from what is otherwise a constant need. I stand, Harold feasting his lusting eyes on my budding nubile form. My nose detects my fragrance and I smile knowing this so much adds to Harold’s stimulation.

"I can give you some slack, Harold... if you’re a good boy."

Yes, one need satiated... another arises... this craving.

He nods quite gingerly, careful not to stress his leash. I stroll to the cage and untie the simple knot which serves to hour after hour bring slow torment. I hear a rush of air from his lugs as for the first time in hours his back and stomach muscles are not straining to hold him upright and assure his nipple clamps do not painfully tear his overly sensitive pink nubs. I pass the leash from one hand to another guiding him to the locked door. Within there is a small hatch, offering an opening larger than the bars, ostensibly for the introduction of a feeding bowl.

"Come, be a good boy for Gigi."

I kneel and pull open the hatch, my leash hand guiding Harold’s face to the low opening. The molt gag, as always, holds open his mouth, the piercing of his tongue, Mom’s cavalier augmentation done for no other reason than she could do it, glittering in the room light.

"I think you’re a thirsty boy and need some drink," I coax in the voice of master to pet.

Harold likes looking at my pink parts. So I let him have a visual feast... in exchange for a simple kindliness.

"I’ll go real slow so you don’t miss a drop," pulling the leash outward such that his forehead presses the bar above the opening and his open mouth is partially thrust through the hatch.

I press forward with my hips, smiling as Harold’ eyes widen. My lower belly presses to the bars, sensing the warmth of his forehead. The fingers of my free right hand splay my lips. Well shorn, I offer an unfettered close up of what he would so much like to touch and taste... wet pink flesh, well reddened by Mia’s attentive tongue.

"Drinkie, drinkie," I encourage, the grip on the leash firming to send my message of earnest control, forcing him to crane his neck.

Yes, as Mom so humorously suggests, Harold’s molt gag has transformed mouth and throat to a sink and a drain. As I open my bladder, careful to first dribble and judge his ability to swallow, I blush in a different form of satiation... hearing the gulps, my excretions totally ingested... sensing that such streams directly into his gullet. He must ingest what I discard, take whatever I offer... and savor it. I am giddy with my own mastery.

Harold spills not a drop. He knows to please. And I smile in seeing him grimace. I know the look, know the suppressed sound of aggravation. Drinking from me, offering such proximity to that which he would so much like to savor, has brought those impure thoughts, his firming penis once again engaging in the losing battle with the spikes of Mom’s cock cage.

I frown lugubriously, feigning sympathy.

"I think it is best not to make me use the leash, Harold. Going forward when I release you from the bars, just crawl to the hatch on your own and I’ll quench your thirst for you."

He’ll do it. He does everything I want.

What is this craving? Having been orally brought to amazing gratification, I still need to govern... to humiliate... to continuously drive home my power... power that seems to be blossoming.

'Power, Admiring It'

2011-12-03T04:22:00.000-08:00

Power, Admiring It

Copyright 2011

by Chris Bellows

Some gig. And every Saturday evening!

Ms. Maria de Havillier offers more cash than I earn in a week at the pet store. And I only have to take off my clothes and follow directions.

Of course I only do it for the money... least I did at first. Then deep within I learn there is something about giving up one’s self... for pleasure. To start, I am bathed. This Mia servant, age absolutely indeterminate, is amazingly skillful, smiling so coyly as she shaves my balls. She has this strange thing about testicles...

Then I am pampered in being washed.

Yes, I am pampered indeed, and I guess there are times when even the most macho guy likes that, even though the sweet smelling bubble bath is a little over the top.

But then comes the scene that both appalls and oddly thrills... this guy Maria de Havillier terms her husband... gagged... shackled... caged.

Last semester in college, in my psychology course, I learned of a 1971 Stanford University experiment... involving 24 student volunteers, pre tested to be psychologically normal. The group was divided... half designated as prisoners... half anointed as their as jailers. The goal was to observe the change in behavior... the jailers becoming emboldened... the prisoners passively accepting capitulation. Famously, the experiment had to be truncated when the jailers became notably cruel and the prisoners entered a depression in which excessive authoritative behavior was strangely accepted.

And so here I am in Ms. de Havillier’s home and with each and every visit I seem to be drawn further into this web of power and control... participating in the amazing level of cruelty.

Something about knowing that the guy is kept... shackled and locked in a cage... and silenced. Yes, a prisoner... what he sees and hears never to be divulged...

It brings peculiar comfort, knowing that no matter my actions or level of participation, he can not ever reveal anything. Ms. de Havillier certainly can’t let him go, suddenly free him to tell the world of her cruel governance. And my role is so tame... so comparatively innocent. I just lie on the bed and let this becoming woman ride ‘little Trevor’ to multiple orgasms... the caged guy watching intently... moaning something as Ms. Havillier shrieks in climax.

She’s amazingly wet... and warm... and tight... and knowing. Yes, vanilla dates have come to be disappointing after lying beneath as Ms. de Havillier takes her pleasure. She squeezes, knowing to use her kegel muscles to heighten her joy... and mine, though that seems to be of little concern. And then she squirts, her ultimate climax strong, a small geyser coating my pubes in fragrant lubricity.

The sounds made by her whining husband have come to add a certain psychological dynamic to the seemingly endless copulation. Something about the abundant ecstasy being shared... with him watching in permanent and total denial... that adds quirkiness to the thrill... quirkiness I have come to accept.

‘He will never, ever again ejaculate,’ Ms. de Havillier profoundly emphasized after the conclusion of one lengthy night of fucking. ‘He hasn’t even been permitted to touch his in months,’ the observation coming in post coital bliss as her fingers drew a semi flaccid ‘little Trevor’ toward the ceiling, stretching fully to show the length off to her envious ‘pet’.

Then, awaiting for me to reload, she rummaged about her cunny and arose to stand naked at the cage. Tugging on her captive’s leash, her sopping fingers slowly dripped into his forcibly opened mouth the slime of our coupling.

Yes, of late she has taken great care to gather that which has bespattered her cunny and let it slowly drool into what she terms Harold’s ‘sink and drain’.

‘Yum, yum,’ she taunts knowing that the odoriferous goo must be ingested.

I find myself smiling with the facial expression of this Harold character... so vulnerable... so humble... so much in need... but so thoroughly denied... of everything.

Ms. de Havillier encourages me to actively participate in the torment. And though I don’t lock the cage... tug on the leash... apply any duress... direct duress... I surprise myself... the Stanford University experiment being replicated.

There has come this esteem for the power... the governance... the control... the abject capitulation she demands and has attained.

******************************************************************************

"You look divinely randy tonight, Trevor," spoken in the sultry voice which always kick starts my libido.

Mia has shaved me, after rinsing away the excess shaving lotion, her tongue generously lapping the smooth skin of my scrotum. It feels good. And with my level of comfort piquing after many Saturday trysts, I relax and let ‘little Trevor’ show off, the tip of my penis engorging, the shaft rising in stiffness to press against my belly.

Ms. de Havillier is correct. I am indeed horny. Mid week vanilla dates have been put aside, the sexual passion paling in comparison to my Saturday evening obligations. I thus feel well stocked with spunk.

Ms. de Havillier gains curious joy in watching her little serving girl tend to me. I initially rolled with this ritual for the money, she sitting covered only by her robe, the folds enticingly flipping open to flash her feminine charms as she observes Mia’s care. Now I kind of join her in the enjoyment...

I step into the hot bath and Mia works to soap me, scurrying about the perimeter to chamois my entire nakedness. She is tender and accomplished, a skill set I cannot imagine how acquired.

"You know I think Harold has come to enjoy your taste, Trevor. So much juice I’ve fed him over the many weeks. I am thinking maybe you’d like to share your generosity. With his pent up sexual desire, watching me ride my bull stud excites him. Instills certain envy... and I imagine a thirst."

Gagged, unable to even gesture with his hands, it is absolutely indeterminate what this Harold likes and dislikes. He moans and whines a lot. Otherwise, all I know is... I have nothing to do with his torment... directly.

Mia finishes. I stand and step from the tub, the little serving girl scrambling for a large towel. As part of the ritual, she dries me then knows to lick my balls and restore any degree of wavering stiffness. Ms. de Havillier insists. She likes having me hard. And whom am I to object? I am a guy after all...

Fully erect, Ms. de Havillier arises from the chair where she sits. As Mia continues to kneel and lick my balls, my benefactress parts her feet to stand over her servant then hugs me. The robe parting, she presses her nakedness against mine. Such a brisance of pleasure... being both licked and hugged, her substantial breasts abrading my nipples, my erection greeting the smooth flesh of her tummy.

"Mia is very good with her hands, too," the comment somewhat self evident after the gentle swathing of the chamois.

"An extra stipend tonight, Trevor. You just have to stand at the cage and let Mia be Mia. A little game we’ll play... keep your hands at the back of your head and there’s an extra two hundred for you."

Wow! The money certainly flows during these Saturday night visits. Ms. de Havillier’s wealth must be substantial... the offered pile of dollars growing each week... along with the depravity.

As always, a small parade departs the bathroom, Ms. de Havillier leading, a prancing Mia following, those cute little buttocks rolling in tight pink panties, then me, now with hands on head, guided by Mia’s right hand cupping my balls.

Such decadence! But for me such lucrative decadence. And the power... Ms. de Havillier revels in it and I marvel at her enjoyment as one would enviously view a gentleman savoring a glass of fine, expensive port.

Into the bedroom there kneels in the shining steel cage a shackled, leashed and hairless Harold, oiled skin glowing... placed on display as one would exhibit a treasured sculpture. There is such pride taken in his subjugation!

"Come my pretty pet," Ms. de Havillier reaching to take in the leash and draw the gagged face to the bars.

Harold has no choice but to respond, the leash attached to nasty nipple clamps, the slightest jostle bringing inordinate pain.

"You’ve so much enjoyed Trevor’s taste these past few weeks, Harold..." the voice mocking.

I am alarmed as Mia’s soft hand pulls to direct me to stand at the bars. The two women work in conjunction, my erection pressing through the bars to align with the molt gag which constantly forces open Harold’s mouth.

"Hands on head," Ms. de Havillier reminds as I feel Mia’s grip change.

It is rare that she touches my penis, ostensibly reserving that privilege for Ms. de Havillier, plus for some reason deriving inordinate delight in instead handling my testicles. But now Mia wraps her little hand about the shaft and strokes most sensuously.

"So Harold, Trevor has something he’d like to share with you... something you’ve been forcibly denied expelling for quite some time."

I am amazed to feel the hands and fingers of this Mia servant become even more tender and caring as one of the most exquisite hand jobs begins. It is as if she can vicariously feel exactly what I feel... stroking, twisting, gripping with expert pressure. She knows the male organ, precisely where the most sensation is felt.

Meanwhile Ms. de Havillier cackles wickedly, her leash hand assuring that Harold’s open mouth remains aligned with my penis tip.

"I think you’ve got enough sperm for both of us tonight, Trevor. Just let little Mia have her way. She’s quite accomplished as you can feel. And in shooting a load first for Harold, you’ll be beneath me even longer... not so quick to pull the trigger a second time. I’ll have a nice long ride on my bull stud."

The look on Harold’s face is one of horror. And I find myself smiling, akin to joining in the Stanford University experiment, conspiring with the cruelty of Harold’s jailer.

I close my eyes. The hands are exquisite. The pleasure mounts. The scene is as depraved as any Saturday night. I feel the twinge of the seminal vessels preparing. Incredibly, Mia knows too. I look down to see her nodding to Ms. de Havillier. The wicked woman reaches with her free hand, tweaking my right nipple as she is wont to do when I lie beneath her... when she cues me to ejaculate.

"Come for me a like good bull stud," the words, her touch, bringing forth the desired burst of essence.

The minx Mia assures that the splatter, a considerable explosion, erupts directly into the sink of Harold’s mouth... to flow to the drain of his throat.

"Yum, yum Harold," offered with such a savage and spiteful giggle... and such a pitiful moan of distress in return.

Then comes the gurgling sound of Harold’s ‘drain’. Swallow or choke, he cannot reject my sizable offering of slithering male ooze.

I have been masturbated... and made to discharge into the mouth of another male!

I once again convince myself... it is only for the money.

More of the 'Power' series

2011-11-26T06:06:00.000-08:00

Next week, 'Power, Admiring It".

Hope all are enjoying.

CB

'Power, Having It (Part Three of Three)

2011-11-26T03:53:00.000-08:00

Assuming Miles Stapleton Campbell can stay one step ahead of those seeking him, it would seem he has an idyllic life... for those desiring sexually exotic ‘interaction’. Yes, I have him work a bit, helping Mia clean, sharing the cooking duties. But otherwise he revels in the surroundings... women of authority, well equipped... more than able to extinguish his smoldering desires.

On occasion he will slip out, never announcing his departure, and return within an hour, small parcel in hand.

It does not require much thought to conclude he replenishes his cash. Owing me some 800 pounds per month, plus whatever he pays the lady associate du jour for the long term bondage, his funds temporarily deplete. But if my intelligence is correct, he has access to plenty more... some where. I have noticed the bills are similarly numbered. From whatever source he is drawing, the funds come from a batch printed and circulated at the same point in time.

Is it possible that he could have physically purloined and then transported that many greenbacks?

No. Even amounts as small has $10,000,000 will not fit in a regular sized suitcase. And Mr. Carlson, not his real name, hints that the missing funds are in the nine figure range.

So, he has traveling cash... physical hard currency... and the majority of the stolen funds some where, some how invested.

Quite cunning, quite the conniver, relieving that much from otherwise smart and well guarded institutions.

It is not difficult to have him followed. I just run down my list of clientele and offer a discount ‘school lesson’ to a retired police officer who once a month feels the need to sit naked at a small desk, read aloud from some primer and have his knuckles wrapped by one of our more pedagogical lady associates.

‘He visits a private bank... accesses a safe deposit box. Probably the most straight and narrow client they have. Mainly it’s a depot for the drug trade,’ comes the report.

I promise a long painful reading lesson with his next visit and hang up, the intelligence appreciated.

I now know where I can access his ‘petty cash’ fund. But the remaining surfeit? The huge amount too large to physically transport? That will require a degree of planning and connivance... equal to that of Miles Stapleton Campbell.

"Mia, next time Davis is restrained in his closet, search his possessions for a small key. It will look like this," holding up the key to my own well stuffed safe deposit box.

******************************************************************************

Step one, I visit the sleazy institution where Davis parks his greenbacks. I establish my own safe deposit box. It can’t hurt to have another. I also survey the staff. In my line of work, one can read the faces, who is straight... who isn’t... and who is somewhat in between. As one would expect at an establishment that caters to the drug trade, there are abundant opportunities, coming to doubt there is one staff member who would not pick the pocketbook of his own mother.

Step two, within days my naked hermaphrodite skips into my office with a key... that of Miles Stapleton Campbell. I let her feast beneath my desk, tongue dancing on scalding folds of pink, while I record the box number and make an impression for duplication. She has such a need to offer pleasure.

Step three, no questions to be asked as I have a duplicate key made from the impression. It’s Bangkok after all.

I am ready, just one variable to overcome. Failure will mean little downside... I’ll just try again. Success means I can begin squeezing the accomplished embezzler... Miles Stapleton Campbell.

I assemble a bundle of cash and stroll to the International Bank of Heroin, or whatever it is termed, assuring that I have a few extra bills at the ready. I request access to my new box. The clerk accompanies me, the bank’s master key in hand. We open my box. I request privacy. The clerk moves to the opposite end of the vault. I bribe... requesting total privacy and offering some bills... not too many... suspicion not to be raised. He violates regulations and temporarily departs. I use the bank master key and my newly made duplicate to open the box of Miles Stapleton Campbell. I empty the contents into my box. As expected, bundles and bundles of uncirculated bills. A goodly amount, but there is no time to count. It’s petty cash any way, and I do not want to use inordinate time.

Placing my own bundle into the box, I assure that of Miles Stapleton Campbell is secured, then call out for the clerk. We lock my box and I leave empty handed. How can anyone suspect I have stolen something? Plus, how can anyone, namely Miles Stapleton Campbell, claim he has been robbed? To what authority will he call to report his loss?

Then comes the wait as the funds deplete... my rent money... the sums expended on my lady associates with Davis reveling in his proclivity.

******************************************************************************

Days later, a letter from America. Tragedy, my oldest brother and his wife killed in an auto crash. This leaves my niece Maria cared for by mother and father, a situation at their advanced age which is not tenable.

This serves to bring focus to thoughts conjured with each trip to the bank and every review of my account balance. The sums of money pile up and whereas being a Madam brings certain gratification, it is probably time to move onward. Young niece Maria needs longer term stability and that won’t come in having her move to Bangkok and live in a brothel.

So my cat and mouse game with Davis becomes more earnest. If I am to retire, significant funds are only one part of the equation. I will miss the leisurely strolls in the narrow corridor where years ago Madam Chang offered such sage advice, the views through the one way mirror bringing my loins to percolate in heat. Power can be addictive... just as addictive as ceding to it.

Davis needs to pay my rent. After compensating the acute care nurse, Beverly, for a particularly long session in bondage and isolation, he quietly slips out, destination as with every brief departure, the International Bank of Heroin, no doubt.

I make a point of being present in the parlor when he returns. He has this alarmed look... and he should be alarmed... his safe deposit box found to be empty.

"Need the rent money, Mr. Davis."

It is the beginning of the squeeze, forcing him to in some manner draw funds from his main stash, the hundreds of millions that can not be held in the form of cash and be secreted away in cubby holes and bank vaults. Switzerland, Cayman Islands, Panama? It’s held somewhere in a coded account... possibly some in all three locations.

"You’ll have to bear with me, Madam de Havillier, I’ll need to do some banking."

I just stand arms akimbo, emulating the stern military stance of an irrate father I learned as a teen.

"Be in my office with money by noon today, Mr. Davis. We discussed my requirements months ago when you requested sanctuary."

Yes, the squeeze. He’ll not have it, the money. However it gets wired or sent and turned to green cash such will take days. And I have conspired with my lady associate Beverly. Just as the financially bereft were placed in debtors prison centuries ago, never to be released unless family or friends stepped forth, our Mr. Davis will find himself similarly detained.

Men look good in shackles.

******************************************************************************

But for Mia, I have continued to maintain Madam Chang’s decorum, nudity is only for the dungeons. This will need to be taken into account in instituting Mr. Davis’ new protocol.

Beverly the acute care nurse, British, tall, muscular... overall marvelously imposing... awaits with me in my office. At noon, a chagrined and temporarily impoverished Mr. Davis meekly knocks on my door. I have instructed my lady associates not to lend him a cent, prescient in knowing such is the only other source of immediate cash. And so he must bargain for time. And I know to drive a hard bargain.

"I will need a few days, Madam de Havillier. I have a little trouble at the bank."

I am well aware, repressing a smile as I imagine the look on his face in opening the empty box.

"Well, I can’t have you skipping out on the rent, Mr. Davis. We have a strict arrangement. But I can accommodate. What is your deal with Miss Beverly when she graciously binds you in the closet for an afternoon?" nodding to my associate at the far wall.

Mr. Davis gulps. Past sessions with the demanding Miss Beverly have been fun and games, knowing that at afternoon’s end freedom and daylight would be restored.

"Ahh... $300."

"A wholesale price, very generous of her. Beverly, how about $400 per day? I will advance the sums and be repaid when Mr. Davis’ funds arrive."

Beverly nods of course, the discussion prearranged. Without need for another word she turns, reaches to a credenza and unfurls a full body latex suit.

"This may be a little small. But I believe extreme tightness is preferred, is that not so Mr. Davis?"

Another gulp.

"Or I can call the authorities. We certainly have enough members of the local constabulary visit us for recreational purposes... I’ll have no trouble suggesting they stop in officially... to investigate a mysterious boarder who can’t pay the rent."

The threat of the police brings a notable shudder of fear and concern. Our Mr. Davis wants no attention. Has he a choice but to concede to my proposal?

He does not... plus the latex suit and the imposing Nurse Beverly do tend to entice.

"Do be a good boy and go with Nurse Beverly. You’ll need to strip naked for us so you can be properly dressed, Mr. Davis."

I step to the wall and unhook the collection of shackles which so thoroughly bound Mia at her arrival.

"And I hope you don’t mind wearing a few trinkets as security, Mr. Davis. Heavy, quite secure, it will make us both feel better."

"But I’ll need to get to the bank..."

"We can handle that. Just give us the instructions. I’ll pick up the money and Beverly will release you."

Squeezed indeed.

******************************************************************************

One can only imagine, with all the years of experience, the level of torment to be meted by a governing woman with means, resolve and without compunction.

For regular clients, some degree of care must be taken to assure that a lucrative ongoing relationship continues. Somewhat like caring for a horse or other draft animal. The beast is worked hard, but at day’s end watered, groomed and bedded so it can be worked another day.

But with poor Mr. Davis, that is no longer the case. With no funds, there is no gain in caring for the animal... another day of work not to be had.

So Beverly goes to work. Unfettered control, no limits. I need three things from our Mr. Davis... the name of the bank or banks.... the account numbers... the highly guarded access codes.

Taken to one of our medical dungeons, much time and money expended to replicate that found in any hospital, Beverly strips, catheterizes, intubates and anally plugs. His body is slathered with irritating depilation lotion, my touch, then completely enshrouded in black latex, head to toe. A luscious hood covers his entire head, single hole for the tubes invading mouth and nose.

Ears plugged with hearing aid like devices, Mr. Davis is deafened by static unless someone presses a button to speak to him. Obviously he is sightless and cannot speak. Wrists cuffed, ankles cuffed, thighs banded, an assortment of connecting chains, those once worn by Mia, frustratingly serve to hobble. Though somewhat overdone, Mr. Davis, he who relishes bondage and sensory deprivation, needs to feel owned and controlled... yet no longer in an enjoyable manner as with the frequent sessions with a professional woman who will mercifully release at appointment’s end.

Led on a leash, a sightless Mr. Davis lumbers about very slowly, very carefully, Beverly pressing the button to active the hearing pieces and bark orders.

Such a charming scene, Beverly slowly brings him back to my office. My new gimp slave.

"We have a special room for you, Miles Stapleton Campbell," noting that he is startled then quakes upon hearing his real name. "Your breathing is to be controlled. You are to be fed through a gastric tube, your bowels and bladder emptied only when your governing woman decides. You will be exercised by being placed in stress positions, never to know for how long. You will see nothing, hear only feminine commands, and feel only the burning itch of the depilation lotion.

"Once per week, the gastric tube will be removed and you will have an opportunity to speak."

I leave the hearing pieces on as I begin to snip with sears, the sound sharp and I know to be heard through his ear pieces.

"Your passports. Cut to ribbons. You’ll not need these. Miles Stapleton Campbell is no longer. Consider yourself kept," offered as I indeed turn his real identification into shreds.

"When you have the opportunity to speak, I heartily suggest you provide information concerning certain purloined funds and how such can be accessed. Otherwise you may be dressed in latex and fed through tubing for a long, long time."

I feel twinges. I feel wetness. I need Mia.

******************************************************************************

Amazingly obdurate, the many play sessions of Miles Stapleton Campbell prove to have imbued a layer of stoicism. Meanwhile as weeks go by, me and my lady associates have much fun knowing that it’s no game. As opposed to our clients, Miles Stapleton Campbell will not dress and go home to his wife in a sheepish glow of satiation. The torment... mental... physical... emotional... is real, constant and unending.

One would think it was actually his money he safeguards.

My associate Beverly so much enjoys having no limits... having no scripted scenario which is otherwise so prevalent amongst the clients.

So bladder irrigation is common, reversing the flow of the catheter to fill the viscera with incredible quantities of fluid... the need to relieve most dire... which ultimately comes only when Beverly decides. That draining the colon can likewise be reversed to offer massive high colonics... again to be held seemingly ad infinitum... until, at her whim, the bowels empty.

And without sight or sound, her tormenting offerings are seemingly random and totally unexpected... Miles Stapleton Campbell frequently awakening from a sensory deprived stupor to feel his belly and or backside filling to the point of near bursting.

Such a horrifying feeling, ceding to another the power to fill one’s body with whatever and whenever.

Air is deprived as well, of course. But with much more earnestness then the play session weeks before. Yes, the panic is palpable, Miles Stapleton Campbell truly not knowing whether we desire to end our game, and his conniving existence, taking the contents of his safe deposit box and leaving the remaining millions for the authorities to finally recover. He tugs and lurches wonderfully with Beverly squeezing closed his air tube.

Finally, four weeks of oblivion, he breaks. As always when I have Beverly gruffly pull his gastric tube, Mia services me under my skirt, the thrill of total control bringing incredible sexual heat, the tongue and lips of the altered male so soothing.

"Would you like to tell me anything," smiling in hearing him initially grovel, so humbly thanking us for the brief respite from day after day of deprivation.

On this occasion, finally the information flows. Bank names... account numbers... I am impressed with his ability to memorize lengthy access codes... the only security... and the only thing I need.

I write quickly but fastidiously. And then... such cruelty.... I have Beverly return him to silence and resume the static in his ears. He’s no longer needed for anything other than to amuse. I have broken him... completely. My entire body quivers as Mia laps away the abundant wetness of a gushing quim.

"Stress him... on his right foot first. Two hours... then rest him a bit for two hours on the left foot," my command comes as I feel myself gush into Mia’s eager mouth. Watching Miles Stapleton Campbell futilely attempt to avoid the return of the gagging silencing gastric tube brings such arousal.

******************************************************************************

Hundreds of millions... piled on top of my own seven figure savings. Retirement beckons though age 40 still not attained.

I take care of Beverly, our nurse of torment, peeling off $1,000,000 in compensation for one lengthy four week session of impressive power and subjugation... Miles Stapleton Campbell so often sensing death... never knowing whether a bladder or colon would burst... his air supply, ever to be returned. Such skill... such feminine resolve.

It is an easy task to arrangement marriage, and obtain a new identity and passport for Mr. Evelyn de Havillier. Actually I used the name Ed. Our boot licking Mr. Carlson assisted, one of the easier tasks my threat of extortion cajoles.

The marriage is not consummated of course. But proves to be an easy way to obtain a new name, new identification papers and to transport my gimp slave back to the United States... a person with the name Miles Stapleton Campbell not ever to be seen or heard from again.

One cannot fly while well shackled. So I arrange to lease a yacht and travel the seas... my husband unfortunately not able to enjoy the many vistas as I keep him latexed, deafened, blinded and frustrated.

To avoid suspicion I slowly move the funds from his accounts to mine. And when I read of two major financial institutions finally owning up to huge ‘unexplained’ losses... something about poor internal controls... I know it is best that Miles Stapleton Campbell has disappeared from the face of the Earth. How he duped so much money from powerful sophisticated organizations I will never know. And in reading newspaper accounts it seems no one else has a grasp on all the details.

Thus one can conclude such embezzlements may occur again... but for the fact that the mastermind is slowly transforming to a state of blithering idiocy as the constant deprivation takes its toll.

Will I ever release him from the secret basement room of my mansion?

Why bother? Mia cares, making it so facile for me to never, ever offer mercy. In a peculiar way, he is happy... no longer having to pay for the long term bondage and sensory deprivation in which he formerly reveled... no longer living a subterfuge... no longer evading the authorities... not having a care in the world...

******************************************************************************

Fascinating reading. I never met Ed de Havillier... aka Miles Stapleton Campbell. Moving into Auntie’s mansion at age thirteen, being introduced to a naked and castrated Mia was quite an eye opener and my attention was diverted, never questioning both Auntie and Mia’s long visits to the basement.

In preparing the homestead for sale, basement storage boxes are moved and a covered up unknown door appears. Opening it reveals behind a drab windowless chamber of concrete walls. It is where I assume Auntie’s aforementioned gimp slave was kept well tethered in latex, fed and tormented... for how long?

What happened to him I do not know. I later came across the chains and shackles and playfully restrained a truckling Mia, so at some point Miles Stapleton Campbell was freed of the ‘family heirlooms’. If deceased, it would have been an easy matter to dispose of his remains while I attended school each day.

But I belatedly thank Miles Stapleton Campbell... Ed de Havillier... for the empowerment... for the vast inherited sums which so nicely serve the world of feminine dominion.

Maria de Havillier

'Power, Having It' (Part Two of Three)

2011-11-19T03:30:00.000-08:00

Years go by. Just as Madam Kaishek chose to retire, Madam Chang, certainly not old, more weary of the hurly burly, announces her intentions as well.

Not quite age thirty, I am left in command of the most notorious house of... house of what? In my many years, no sex was ever offered. So the term brothel seems inappropriate.

Handed a vast daily cash flow, I had the acumen not to change a thing. I banked many dollars, reveled in strolling the secretive corridor day after day, tucked Mia under my desk whenever the viewing of the subjugated male brought the need for feminine satiation, and shared my bed with her, the plumping soft flesh of the castrated male proving to be quite comforting.

For my security, I surreptitiously videotaped many sessions, particularly with clients of power. With the corruption of the local government one needs an insurance policy or two. And so threats of exposure, arrest, prosecution, confiscation, etc., were easily countered when copies of certain taped encounters were anonymously mailed to the threatening authority.

Most humorously, I even had the ‘American collection’, videotapes of various embassy personnel, some of the fetishes quite revealing, and kept on hand should there be attempted some ‘end run’ attack... the threat of deportation or the cancellation of my passport.

And so, with youth, power, money... and unending cunnilingus... life seemed replete. One may suggest that intimate male companionship was somewhat lacking. Yet in observing the many buffoons submitting daily to women of authority... and paying goodly sums for the privilege... my ingrained lack of respect did not foster much of an urge.

Then came, seemingly from no where, a client even more noteworthy than the many businessmen, bankers and politicians seeking the fetish du jour.

Miles Stapleton Campbell, I was later to learn his real name.

Bondage. That was his request, long term, with sensory deprivation. And whereas the neophyte may think it's easy in terms of effort and time, as a businesswoman I knew otherwise. Such requests tie up a room which I can use four to five times per day... and an associate... for no one is restrained and left isolated for hour after hour. There needs to be care and supervision... even if such is a smart crack of the crop to assure the subjugant remains breathing.

So this ‘gentleman’ initially introducing himself as ‘Davis’, forks over mountains of cash for one of my associates to bind impressively... and trust me, they know how to bind... and leave him deafened and hooded for hour upon hour.

After two visits, having been charged the hourly rate despite what he deemed should be the equivalent price of a hotel stay, he requested a visit with the ‘Madam’... me.

I found something dodgy about this Davis character, arriving in Bangkok from no where, slathering about many one hundred dollars bills, his English accent either faked or bastardized by considerable time living elsewhere. And he was unctuous, and seemed to backtrack somewhat in stepping into my office to find I was American, I suppose expecting the Madam to be some demure Asian woman.

For him an entire afternoon, beginning at midday, had been spent strapped down to a floor mat, not a limb permitted to move. On this occasion he was intubated, giving up the privilege of voluntary breathing to one of our medically astute associates, a trained acute care nurse.

For a time I had watched through the one way mirror as it required nothing more than the tip of a woman’s index finger to block the tube emanating from deep within his throat, deprive oxygen, and thus spur the most paroxysmal wrenching, an impressive exhibition of the body’s muscular quest for life sustaining air.

It mattered not of course, the fervent clenching and tugging most futile.

By afternoon’s end, Davis had been trained, to lie most docilely until, at the whim of my associate, her finger would retract and permit a most welcomed deep breath. Quite the display of womanly governance... and discipline... the male completely succumbing... trained to lie motionless until another decided the appropriate time for air.

Yes, the more Davis struggled the longer the interval that the finger remained in place, calm cool words offered to strongly suggest that he submit to a woman’s prerogative. Davis’ only response... to obey, lie still and hope his superior would not end his life.

"I’d like to discuss a long term arrangement," getting to business after a brief exchange concerning the weather.

As stated, in occupying a room, in requiring the constant attention of an associate, there really cannot be a ‘wholesale’ price offered. I explain this to ‘Davis’ and he seems somewhat annoyed... somewhat disappointed.

We talk more and I begin to detect a hint of desperation. There have been occasions when one of the younger soppier clientele will almost propose marriage to an associate who as been ironically cruel in a manner which sordidly appeals. But I cannot believe this of Davis. Trim and in his mid forties, with his age and proclivity if there are sentimental yearnings it would seem to be more for a good firm rope knot than the ‘knot’ of romance and affection.

"Well, Miss de Havillier, I am staying at the Rembrandt Hotel. 200 pounds per day... and I don’t get the service one obtains here," he offers stifling a sheepish smile. "Surely there is an alternative... a way of splitting the difference so to speak. I would not always need... special care..."

I smile with the trope, today’s ‘special care’ being to deprive of life sustaining oxygen for inordinate periods until the demanded proper discipline... complete motionlessness... is instilled.

I ruminate. The old Victorian home has a third floor, used when the associates of another era, then termed prostitutes, were paid most penuriously and could only afford the room and board of a more rigorous and selfish madam. When Madam Chang began appealing to more ‘exotic’ tastes, the required associates became educated, better paid and have alternatives... one of which is not to be so dismally bound to the employer.

There are empty rooms to be had.

Yet, I am suspicious. Appearing from no where, Davis has visited us three times in six days, symptoms of well entrenched sexual psychosis. Most clients need to ‘blow off’ the steam of perversion once or twice per month. Thus with his intense need for serial subjugation, I empathize with his request. He is either exceptionally wealthy or soon to be broke... at least that is my initial summation. But is that indeed the case?

Then I note, as I ponder his offer, that his eyes are transfixed on the chains and shackles, hanging on the wall to his left, once worn by Mia. Suitable artifacts for a woman of my occupation... and predilection... I have such displayed as one would offer nostalgic mementos.

"I’ll not want you lollygagging about here Mr. Davis. You’ll pay for a room... certainly less than that charged by the Rembrandt Hotel... but also perform chores. Time spent with the associates will be at regular rates... unless you can inveigle a personal discount from them. I do not run a flea market."

More suspicion... he neither inquires about the room rate nor the size and condition of the room. Yes, there is desperation.

******************************************************************************

Mr. Davis moves into the third floor. Two hundred pounds per week. The amount certainly pales in comparison to my weekly gross intake, but it is steady. Plus I put him to work... an intact male under my command. He helps Mia clean, and can cook, offering a welcomed diversity from Mia’s Burmese cuisine.

I am amused by his abhorrence of working too closely with my naked and neutered servant. The thought that Mia was once male... an intact male... seems to trigger deep trepidations. Our Mr. Davis seems to envision his own little organs snipped away, forcing him into the world of a Peter Pan like existence. It is amusing to observe and I make a mental note to pursue. After all, pressing limits is what we do here.

A couple of weeks go by. Davis indeed wheedles an arrangement, not to affect my take, with one of the lady associates who is willing to tightly bind and lock him a closet for many off duty hours, not tying up one of the lucrative dungeons. A fair deal.

Still, I have questions... so obeisant... so much access to cash... seemingly so happy to please and do house work... and with no place to go... no desire or need to step from the premises.

"Mia, when next you have access to Mr. Davis’ room, see if there is a passport. It will be tucked away, but accessible to him."

Yes, the suspicion continues. Assuming over time that I would learn more about this Mr. Davis and his penchants, instead I learn nothing.

Within days my naked castrate scampers into my office, tiny hand grasping several colorful passports. She places them on my desk and I merely point beneath. I will have her tongue while I study. Time is plentiful, our Mr. Davis known to be well bound and locked away in his closet.

Well part of the mystery begins to unfold. His real name is not Davis, of course, but Miles Stapleton Campbell. He carries a British passport, and a Swiss passport, and a Brazilian passport, and an American passport, each with slight variations of his name... M. Stapleton Campbell... Miles S. Campbell... which serves to heighten my suspicion. Just enough difference to bargain his way around a ‘no fly’ order... or to avoid being detained if one variation appears listed as a ‘person of interest’ when subjected to immigration review.

I contemplate, feeling Mia work her little head between my thighs, my hands lowering to accommodate by hiking up my skirt. As the marvelous tongue works my outer labia, I begin to prognosticate. This Miles Stapleton Campbell, or whatever he prefers to be called, is on the lam. And where better to conceal himself than a place where there is no registration, where it is impolitic to ask one’s real name, and no one ever expects to be offered a real name. Not to mention that many dollars are spent to assure that no government official... neither police... nor fire.... nor health... ever steps through our door... at least not in an official capacity.

Ideal sanctuary, particularly in conjunction with our Mr. Davis’ deep sexual pathos.

But from what is Miles Stapleton Campbell fleeing? Once registered at the Rembrandt Hotel utilizing one of his identity variations, he cannot be the most wanted man in the world. Yet he does realize that circumstances require him to move onward. I recall the annoyance and disappointment... leading to a look of desperation... when weeks ago I initially denied his request for room and board. Yes, he knew the clock was ticking, that at some point there would come a heavy knock on his hotel room door.

I squeeze off the first of several mild orgasms as Mia knows to move her tongue and lips to a clitoris now engorged and in need of direct satiation. Such a treasure... so meek... so docile... so eager to please... so trainable.

******************************************************************************

Having photocopied the many passports, I had Mia return such to their place of hiding. I need not confront Miles Stapleton Campbell... not at this time. Whatever ostensible explanation he offers, it would be more prevarication. Instead I await until one of the many American embassy staff makes an appointment. I am always amused to note that none know of the others attendance, the visits to my house of subjugation. And one of my tasks under Madam Chang, which continues, is to ensure paths do not cross.

So I juggle the appointment book a bit when the pressures of diplomacy bring a rash of phone calls, the need to blow off steam by subjecting oneself to the talents of my knowing associates.

With my father’s tour of duty there, I know the embassy players. Few know me as an adult. Should I offer my name I would be remembered, but that is neither desired not productive. So I review the appointment book on a given Monday and understand that mandatory weekend duty for embassy personnel has included nerve frazzling hours hosting some high ranking dignitaries. This always spurs the need for... well, for whatever bizarre penchant which serves to calm and satiate.

I select a middle ranking official, one with access to good information, but not enough rank to want to resist cooperating with me. Those an the rise are most desirous to placate and move onward. Still, I search my index cards, those cataloguing the videotaped visits, and assure that I have a very embarrassing and revealing recording of a recent visit... nicely edited to veil the tending lady associate.

Yes, I have the candidate, scheduled this afternoon and also have a nasty tape from a previous visit. A rubber stamper, my candidate approves visas and has this thing about masturbating on the shiny leather boots of one of my commanding, primly attired associates. My notes suggest that the girls have expanded the level of depravity, making him lick up his spurts of essence... something he initially resisted... and which of course in making him do became a fun challenge for the tending associates.

He now patiently kneels in wait for the snap of a woman’s fingers... then bows most humbly to thoroughly cleanse any and all mess.

I reach to my intercom and press the button for dungeon 5. Midori, a middle aged woman who teaches school when not bringing bizarre satiation to fetishists, responds.

"Midori, please direct your next appointment, Mr. Carlson, to my office after he has properly performed and cleaned your boots."

Having spent his seed so ignominiously and obeisantly licked, he’ll slink into my office like a naughty puppy. Understanding the male psyche is important in our business. Though glowing with a strange sense of satiation, the guilt of his performance will reek. But Mr. Carlson, not his real name of course, will return to us. We offer a sexual narcotic not readily available elsewhere.

******************************************************************************

Having delivered a copy of the Miles Stapleton Campbell American passport to ‘Mr. Carlson’, not his real name, he appeared to offer a degree of familiarity but said nothing. I then suggested, with a strong hint of authority, that all events and words are most confidential at my establishment, including having a copy of the passport, and that I would never ever divulge names and the nature of undertakings, even if certain videotapes were demanded by investigators.

Rising eyebrows indicated that my message was understood. And I will not lose Mr. Carlson as a client. If he fails to return and masturbate I will merely phone him at the embassy and snap my fingers, just as when a stern lady associate wants her boots licked clean, and he’ll know to make an appointment. What has been filmed is in the archives... not to be unnecessarily revealed... but certainly not to be discarded either. Future dalliances matter not, the damage done.

Within days, Mr. Carlson phones his voice muffled, apparently calling from his place of employment.

"Miles Stapleton Campbell is wanted for questioning by several jurisdictions in Europe. Lots of money missing. Big enough for the banks and investment firms to want to keep the matter hushed... for now... until either he is found... or the money. Lots of egg on lots of faces... deemed easier to bear when he is found."

"Thank you, Mr. _____," real name not to be disclosed. "Do drop by and clean some boots for me," I snicker in hanging up the phone.

So, a fugitive. No formal criminal charges... yet. The report explains much... the access to money... the behavior... the need for the isolation of being a lowly cook, butler and handyman in a brothel... though one of distinction, a brothel nonetheless.

Possessing sexual power over males like Davis, aka Miles Stapleton Campbell, is facile. He craves feminine attention in the form of bondage and being placed in sensory deprivation under the control of a woman, to bask in the narcotic we offer. But for a woman of my ilk it is incomplete... not enough.

With vast financial resources, Davis is able to pick and choose... the when, where, how... of his submission. Such self empowers and the notion irritates me for some reason. Because I have condescended and inadvertently become complicit in his ruse... harboring an embezzler... I feel the need to flex power of my own.

I conspire.

Kindle/Ebooks

2011-11-13T06:56:00.001-08:00

By the way, in reviewing my latest royalty statement, there seems to be an outbreak amongst Kindle users... many, many books sold through Amazon.

Either the readers of erotica have discovered ebooks... or the lovers of ebooks have discovered erotica.

Personally I find limited enjoyment in reading electronically... even printing out hard copies of my own stuff for proofreading. But the world is changing.

So if you are a Kindle user, lots of my stuff available from Amazon.

'Power, Having It' (Part One of Three)

2011-11-12T03:34:00.000-08:00

Power, Having It

Copyright 2011

by Chris Bellows

Cleaning out Auntie’s somewhat aging and decrepit mansion, I find a hand written manuscript. It is hers... was hers... perhaps intended for publication. And it tells her story... that of Evelyn de Havillier.
Maria de Havillier

******************************************************************************

When encountering a person of sizable wealth there is always an inclination to ask... how? The question suggesting that perhaps there is a lesson to be learned, that something or in some manner... experience... knowledge... acquaintances... relationships... there is an overlooked road to be taken that can lead to great fortune.

I doubt my story will show the way. But it does give rise to entertaining diversion.

Never to be considered a beauty queen, I was never considered unsightly either. Raised in a military family we moved around the world... base to base... never seeming to be settled before packing again. Military discipline instilled, acquiring a degree of self sufficiency at a very young age, exposure to a myriad of young males, learning both their strengths and weaknesses, by the time I turned 21 years of age, my father serving as military attache in the U.S. embassy in Bangkok, I was a woman of the world.

Something about observing men... boys really... being brought under command fostered a peculiar thrill. I recall watching a female drill instructor putting a platoon of men through rigorous exercise, calmly barking orders as they perspired profusely in the hot sun. With the hormonal flow of puberty I imagined bare chests... even nakedness as the authoritative woman put the men through endless paces... while she remained fully clothed and cooly confident.

Though my parents did their best to shelter me, of the male propensity to seek the company of and to adulate the female form, knowing of the weakness brought thoughts of empowerment... that I had something they wanted. Such very much served to mold a certain spirit.

Yes, I was most intrigued by male weakness, the need to be led... their desire to be fancied by women.

So, being of age, and Dad announcing another transfer, this final one back to the United States, I declined.

Yes, the male beast intrigued. I had for many years only watched... few dates with a stern high ranking father demanding to chaperon. So it became time to act... become involved. And where better to be involved with male/female relationships than the sexually open city of Bangkok.

Yes, I knew of male needs... the yearning for commanding leadership... the hormone driven strive for the female. I wanted to become immersed.

But I was not to take off my clothes and spread my legs. Too bright... too prideful... too much aware of the satisfaction of being in a leadership role. One is hardly in charge while lying naked under the salivating male beast.

I had once met a certain Madam Chang at one of the cocktail receptions at the embassy. A gracious woman of dignity and class, someone had slipped up in putting together the invitation list, for I later heard words of controversy as instructions came to permanently exclude her from future embassy events.

With Bangkok residents no where near as prudish as the Puritan American politicians, the madam of a highly successful brothel in Thailand is offered acclaim and social status. But not at the American embassy. When the source of Madam Chang’s wealth and relative ‘esteem’ became evident, she became persona non grata.

Still I had a pleasant conversation with the woman and after mother and father moved back to the states, I looked her up, knowing she had many connections and that the need for employment beckoned. Plus... she remembered me!

"You’re aware of the nature of my establishment?" asked after I disclosed the intent of my visit. She inquired over tea in her office, gracious indeed in extending an invitation after I petitioned for an audience.

Very classy, very upscale, her house of pleasure was not for the masses. The male guests, afforded brief glimpses upon entry, were well attired, older than one would suspect. I had imagined randy young males lined up with twenty dollar bills. Not the case.

I nod, heartened by the unexpected caliber and refinement of the enterprise.

"Just as much as employment, Madam, I’d like to learn... not only the business end... but to understand the demand for your... your services. What is it they seek?"

Madam Chang smiles warmly.

"Attention. Men are like puppies... always in need. But the diversity of such need can so greatly vary. No wife can offer it all."

I do not fully understand, but nod in agreement. Madam Chang seems to know I am somewhat bewildered by her vague response.

"Come."

She arises. I do likewise and follow as she strolls to a far wall. She twists a sconce and a segment of the wall pops out... a hidden door.

"Discretion, my girl. Your first lesson in this business. This observation corridor is for the protection of my lady associates... and is not to be disclosed to anyone."

I am enthused to be taken into her confidence and follow Madam Chang into an exceptionally narrow hallway. It is dark, no light fixtures, but with some illumination emanating through a window we approach some ten feet away.

"My lady associates are not of the character you would suspect. Youthful but not overly young. Pretty but not gorgeous. It is their mindset that attracts... allures the profligate male... it is their aura of authority."

We reach the window. It is in fact a one way mirror and Madam Chang becomes reticent, silently suggesting that I observe without distraction. I peer into a dimly lit room equipped with machinery and gadgets this young girl has not before seen. It is a dungeon, I am to later learn, and there is an Asian woman reigning, fully clothed, her attire attractive but surprisingly not sexily alluring. And of course there is the male... presumed profligate, kneeling and totally naked.

Madam Chang reaches to an electrical box on the wall and twists a knob. It is a speaker and I can both watch and listen.

‘So you’re back here again. Have you masturbated recently?’ the woman’s voice level but stern.

The man glumly nods.

‘When?’

‘Tuesday and Friday.’

‘Tsk, tsk. The sin of Onan. And thus you have returned.’

The man nods again.

‘So how should this be dealt with?’

‘I do not know, ma’am.’

‘Of course you don’t. That is why you need me. You cannot deal with it yourself. You need a woman to help. A superior woman.’

As the woman speaks she moves to a wall, draped with implements unknown to me. I feel a quiver of joy, my education advancing rapidly as a collection of leather straps is retrieved.

‘Let’s get you dressed and begin another lesson shall we.’

The woman tosses the garb to the floor. The man knows to unravel, the connections many, the buckles rattling. Meanwhile a black lump of rubber is also selected. It is lubricated then placed on the floor before the kneeling form.

‘You know where you need that the most,’ the tone of voice sardonic.

The man meekly picks up the gleaming lump, reaches behind and impales himself. The woman smiles wickedly, seeming to vicariously know of the odd male revelry felt with anal penetration.

The hands return to the leather. The many straps comprise a full body suspension harness and as the man enshrouds his torso, waist and thighs the woman buckles... tightly. It is a well practiced maneuver, the complicated mass taking form to completely envelop the nakedness. At the back, at the nape of the neck, there is a large steel ring. In finishing, the woman tugs at it with fervor and the harness tightens everywhere... chest, waist, wrists, thighs.

‘Comfortable?’

The man nods.

‘Stand,’ the command succinct yet crisp, the response instant.

The woman circles, inspecting and assuring the various buckles are secure, the straps tight.

‘To the stool.’

With humble alacrity, the man prances to a low stool and steps up. Hanging above is a cable. The woman facilely hooks the end to the large steel ring.

‘And we begin...’, the voice flat, the tone matter-of-fact.

A booted foot slowly pushes away the stool, the cable tightens, the feet dangle, placing the man in suspension, wrists tethered to the waist belt at the rear. I am amazed to see his penis begin to firm, slowly stiffening to become thoroughly erect. It is not small, but certainly not the object of a woman’s fantasy.

"Fascinating phenomenon, don’t you think, Eve?" a pedantic Madam Chang lectures. "The stress on the spinal cord, the manipulation of the prostate, various muscles and tendons stretched... all so steadily fostering erection. My associate will have him hang for hours. She is in total charge. Helpless and vulnerable, in time he will begin to beg. Yet as much attention as he is getting, he’ll want more. At her whim she will release his right wrist and have him masturbate for her while in suspension... while she mocks and gloats. The intensity of the humiliation will bring a massive eruption of seed. Then she will return the stool and succinctly leave the room. The look of guilt is precious as he releases himself to shuffle home to his wife."

"He is married?" in naively believing that brothels are for desperate single males.

"Oh yes. His wife arranges his appointments. You cannot see the hidden camera videotaping our noted politician. But rest assured there is quite the film library which the wife uses to keep him in line and working hard on her behalf. Here he is literally harnessed. With his wife he is figuratively harnessed just as one would harness an ox... forced to pull a heavy cart while she rides and guides with a correcting stick," Madam further lectures as we move onward.

I will not further elaborate on that afternoon of strolling down the narrow dark hall. Many one way mirrors, many rooms, much paraphernalia of unknown purpose... at the time. And of course stern women who I am surprised to find are for the most part clothed.

"This is not about sex, my dear... this is about power. Men come here and exchange it... for pleasure so deviantly derived."

******************************************************************************

Needless to say, a girl of my ilk was enthralled. Men paying to acquiesce to women! I would have worked for nothing, but for the need to eat. Yet Madam was generous... a place to live... a place to learn... a place to satiate this need... scratch the itch which so frustrated as a pubescent miliary brat.

Focused, self disciplined, I served as Madam’s major domo. Tracking appointments, keeping the books, assuring the maintenance of the historic Victorian mansion, one of the few remaining in Bangkok... but most importantly learning... and growing... psychologically... emotionally.

The mental image of the male became an object... to be deprived of cash...to be used, abused... to be stripped naked, tormented, humiliated, bound, thrashed, deprived of dignity... to be exploited for the betterment of women.

Sometime in my second year, many thrilling hours spent in the secretive corridor... my sole ‘employee benefit’... Madam approached for a trip to the bank. Normally such a request was to deposit the mountain of cash which our obeisant males bestowed without compunction. Not on this occasion.

"Eve, I’ll need $10,000... in cash. A very attractive opportunity has arisen. Madam Kaishek has decided to retire and is seeking to place a boy from Burma."

$10,000 was not a lot, but more than we took in during the early week days. So I dashed to the bank, Madam trusting me greatly, perplexed as to the procurement of a ‘boy’, and the role to be played at the most exclusive brothel in Bangkok. I had heard of male prostitutes in the lesser establishments... but at Madam Chang’s?

Mine was not to ask, instead promptly returning with the stack of bills to find an aging Madam Kaishek sharing tea with Madam Chang.

"She is yours to train, Madam. I had him cut months ago, the sac entirely removed for a nice smooth look. Quite the little cock sucker, but is quite malleable and can be otherwise trained. I’ve being stretching the tongue and had his frenum snipped, so he can orally pleasure all. Not much of an opportunity to offer him anally but there is no reason not to have his cheeks split from time to time."

Curious the mixing of gender references, apparently the boy from Burma no longer possessing sexual identity. This evidences the different nature of Madam Kaishek’s clientele, having recently observed a prominent lawyer visit us to have his backside pegged by one of our more gruff lady associates. Here, our clients bend and spread... not our girls.

Madam Chang sips and nods in understanding as I step forth with the stuffed envelope. I note that trembling in the corner, in contravention to house rules, is a naked form, Madam Chang’s decorum normally mandating covering outside the many dungeon rooms.

Quite well shackled, black hair covering the ears, bangs over the forehead, skin of golden bronze, of Asian culture, evidently from a sun beaten climate, the gender of the diminutive youth is indeed indeterminate. The cuffs and many lengths of chains seem humorously exaggerated... as would the need to cautiously cage a new born kitten.

Madam Chang turns to the trembling form.

"What’s your name?" her voice sharp and pointed.

"She can’t speak," Madam Kaishek intercedes. "When I ordered her tongue to be altered it seemed appropriate to silence her as well. Vocal cords sutured. Such offers the customers an added degree of anonymity."

Madam Chang nods in agreement.

"I’ll just call her Mia."

Having acquired a degree of boldness, I step to the sitting form, quivering in nakedness as Madam Chang and Madam Kaishek conclude their confabulation. Wrists cuffed and chained behind the back, thighs banded and connected with a hobbling chin, ankles cuffed and likewise connected. For good measure a vertical chain connects the wrist and thigh chains. As I conclude that such overbearing restraints serve no purpose other than to greatly frustrate the bound, I begin to moisten.

A male in thorough bondage. Up close, not viewed through a one way mirror. It excites!

Yes, the many months at Madam Chang’s have indeed emboldened for I find myself stooping to grasp the ankle chain. I pull upwards forcing the boy... the girl... to raise her legs, sitting back to lie supine, bending at the waist. I facilely loop the chain behind her neck, forcing the lithe form to lie in a ball and offer a full display of the nether region normally indicating gender.

Cut indeed, she is without pubic hair. There is a tiny penis. Below, to the rectum, the patch of flesh, the perineum, seems elongated. Recent scars, healing slowly, will eventually fade and leave little evidence of the alteration. This Mia has been castrated indeed, and quite professionally.

"It is common in Burma, Eve. Impoverished families, struggling to survive are given to sell one offspring in order to sustain the siblings," Madam Chang offers, noting my examining action and inquisitive gaze. "In a way, she may be better off. You’ve seen what testicles do to the male. I’ve built a lucrative business on the bizarre influence of testosterone."

Yes, she has.

"It is lawful?" my inquiring voice surprisingly smug.

"No. But since the neutered are quickly ushered out of the country, there is no evidence of a crime. And here in Thailand, the authorities choose not to pursue misdeeds undertaken in another country."

Madam Kaishek departs. Mia meekly remains rolled into a ball, fully displaying her remnant of maleness... either not able to free the chain from the back of her neck or obediently awaiting a command or hand signal.

And I continue to moisten. That a woman has such power...

"Of what use Madam Chang?" I must ask as my eyes remained riveted.

"They make wonderful servants. Docile, obedient, without the constant drive for male gratification, they are focused. Properly trained, that altered tongue can bring endless satiation, Eve... and do so with relish."

Yes, the tongue. I reach down, my left hand pressing open the lips. In a practiced response Mia knows to open and thrust forth the wet pink appendage of a barnyard animal. It has some how been surgically loosened and evidently someone has been taking the time to stretch it.

"The girls, our lady associates, will find great haven, don’t you think, Eve?"

I nod in agreement and wonderment. Such a generous accommodation.

******************************************************************************

As major domo, charged with the overall responsibility of maintenance, Mia is put in my charge. Never clothed, I quickly find the chains and cuffs to be rather superfluous. Though giving rise to arousal in watching her hobble about, such are a hindrance to Mia’s many duties of cleaning and serving. And in forced nakedness, she’s not going any where.

And to Madam’s credit, sure enough, the esprit de corp rises amongst the many lady associates, those who abuse and torment the male patrons, developing a concupiscence that can now be satiated.

Mia’s tongue and lips prove to be indefatigable. Cunnilingus on demand. A fruitful investment.

Plus, Madam Chang considers her acquisition to be an act of charity.

"Mia’s puckered little rectum would be stretched to the point of tearing in any other brothel," she explains, the services offered quite the contrast to those of her establishment.

The 'Power' Series

2011-11-05T06:34:00.000-07:00

In general, visit every Saturday morning, U. S. east coast time, for the continuation of this series.

Next week, "Power, Having It'.

And buy a book some time so I can afford to purchase paper and toner!

CB

'Power, Gaining It', (Part Two of Two)

2011-11-05T05:29:00.000-07:00

I love the look on Trevor’s face as, for the first time, I try out the leash and nipple clamps. It does not require much to control Harold, responding instantly to verbal commands. But that can make a woman seem cheeky, constantly uttering sharp pitched words of authority.

So I have each nipple clamped... very modestly... and connected by a slim chain. To that I attach the new dog leash and Harold most meekly follows the slightest motion of my hand. In this manner I can be a controlling bitch without sounding like a controlling bitch, no forceful utterances required for total obedience.

Thus I return to the bedroom, leash in hand, disregarding my open robe which flashes all womanly things pink. Trevor appears aghast, surveying a woman, one of supreme governance, leading about a naked well restrained male. And I must smile noting that his hormone laden male brain wants to visually ravage my display of feminine charms... but his curiosity demands a thorough inspection of Harold as well.

Yes, Harold is quite the sight... chains clattering... freshly shaven... well oiled... Mia coated him with fragrant lotion disturbingly effeminate. Yes, Harold glows, attracting the ears, eyes and nose.

I note Trevor is down to his boxer shorts... and that the front is strained by the erection I induced moments ago. I am heartened that the small parade has not brought flaccidity. So whatever his concerns, such do not temper his needs.

"See what I bought for you Harold," I coo gesturing to the steel cage as if offering a birthday gift to a child.

Curious that I can feel Harold trembling through the taut leash, another wonderful aspect of the controlling length of leather. Harold is not displayed often to others, and never before another male... intact male. So I am sure absent the nipple clamps and attached leash, he would turn and dash from the room as quickly as his hobbling chains permit.

"Come, don’t be afraid. This is Trevor, a nice boy who’s helped with your new cage. I’m going to fuck him,"
I proclaim as my leash hand lowers and Harold immediately knows to fall to his knees.

The cage is some three feet high. A large door offers entry, to be closed shut utilizing a latch... simple for a human to release, yet not to be opened by creatures with paws. I make a note to purchase a formidable padlock... maybe two or three just to make Harold feel extremely secure. I would not want him to ever think he can free himself. Psychologically that won’t do. He must constantly feel under the control of a woman. It is important for him.

"Well Trevor, without a lock, it appears I’ll have to improvise a little to ensure my husband feels properly secured in place. It is best for males like him."

With that, I draw a kneeling Harold, knees shuffling, into the cage, my hands exchanging the leash through the bars to guide him well away from the door. Though his wrists remain secured behind his back, I would not want to let him think he can some how work the latch.

So at the far end, of the eight foot by six foot enclosure. I tie the nipple leash to the bars, limited slack in ensuring that Harold stays well away from the latched opening.

"There, a perfect view of the bed," I cannot help noting as I spy tears of humiliation streaming down Harold’s cheek.

I turn to see that Trevor’s stunned look has transformed to one of observation, that of scientist in the laboratory.

"He... he can’t talk."

"Never. It does lead one to occasionally guess at what it is he would say... times like this when his wife is going to have a long night of deep penetrating sex. But then, it really would not matter, would it, Harold?"

"That thing... on his cock."

"Just a little chastity device. Hardened steel, the tube is filled with nasty little spikes to ensure his thoughts remain pure... which they don’t of course. He constantly hurts himself."

With that I toss off my bathrobe to exhibit myself in the buff to husband and Saturday night bull lover. Trevor ceases staring at Harold and I approach to assure he is in the proper frame of mind, once again caressing that massive appendage through the boxer shorts.

"It is best for inadequate boys like Harold," my voice resuming its sultry ‘lets fuck’ tone, my free hand pushing him backwards towards my bed.

I smile in hearing Harold whine, his only form of protest.

"Right here, in front of him?" finally dawning on Trevor my own frame of mind.

"It so nicely empowers a woman like me, Trevor. And overall it’s good for beta males like Harold," turning my head to see the eyes of my sullen husband riveted on my nakedness and Trevor’s bulging shorts.

"You can further inspect Harold later, Trevor. Even take him for a walk if you’d like."

I stoop, move my hands to his hips, the fingers right and left hooking the waist band of his shorts, his sole remaining garment. Such boldness, I pull downward quickly and with eagerness. Then I step back as Trevor instinctively kicks away the rumpled shorts to finally present himself to me.

I have chosen well.

******************************************************************************

The bedroom smells of sweat and the heated feminine essence which coats Trevor’s entire pubes. Being on top... I am always on top... my quim exuded copiously. Plus I ejaculate with orgasm, something that enthused my bull lover, so there’s been a notable exchange of bodily fluids.

Grunts, groans, moans... but hearing Harold’s mournful well muffled pleas brought the most enjoyable audio input. Leashed in the cage, his head and face are inches from where Trevor and I lie basking in the glow of carnal embrace.

Not having been penetrated in weeks, sexual release coming by way of the tongue and lips of my castrated servant, my vagina proved to be incredibly tight, making Trevor most appreciative and Harold doubly distraught as I announced that fact in first mounting him.

But a woman of my ilk, quite earnest in matters of copulation, slowly lowered herself, pausing to enhance Trevor’s thrill and allow the vaginal walls to stretch in accommodation and further moisten. Then I rode him like a cow girl, hips plunging, vigorously bringing forth the friction which a good fucking demands.

Trevor, I judge to be in his early twenties, proved to have good stamina... not the best... that will come with my training... but he certainly lasted long enough to bring forth two orgasms before he in turn exploded deeply, the splurge I am sure dousing my cervical opening.

So now in satiation, Trevor the bull returns his attention to Harold, glumly kneeling in his new cage, forced in chastity to view his wife eagerly copulate with a well hung man of color.

Such precious moments.

I roll to the far side, reach to Trevor’s semi flaccid organ and draw it upwards for Harold to better view. Even when not turgid it is impressive and I smile wickedly as I emulate a hand job for Harold to watch in both shame and envy.

"What’s with the mouth thing," Trevor needing to know more.

"It silences... it degrades... and orally keeps him well open for anything we want to induce."

With that my right hand retreats from Trevor’s impressiveness to reach to my wet and steamy love pouch, filled with Trevor’s spending. Fingers gingerly work, my reddened feminine flesh well worn, and find a goblet of spunk... thick... creamy... brimming with the seed of life. I scoop.

"Watch," feeling it necessary to offer ‘poor’ Harold some attention.

I arise from the bed. It is only one step to the cage. My dry hand takes the leash and draws in what little slack I permitted, forcing Harold to press his face to the bars. I then introduce the slime of my wet fingers, first letting the substance drip between the slim bars of the molt gag then carefully smearing tongue and lips with the combination of semen and vaginal fluid.

"In being forced open, his mouth is essentially transformed to a sink and a drain... whatever goes into the sink eventually finds its way down the drain. You’ll note he can’t eject or spit anything out."

I push back on Harold’s forehead letting gravity work, the slime leaching to the back of his throat.

"Yum, yum Harold, swallow for me."

He has no choice but to comply, his gag reflex not permitting him to choke. And sure enough with a notable gulp, the foul mass disappears. I laugh evilly, turning to see Trevor smiling.

Yes, I have found quite the bull.

"‘We’... you said ‘we’," Trevor inadvertently entangling himself further in my web.

"I have a maid. Keeping a male in constant restraint requires much attentive care... feeding... washing... shaving. As a matter of fact Trevor, for your next visit, I’ll want you trimmed... down there. Pubic hair can be quite distracting and my maid will accommodate."

I will have to remember to find some little pink panties for Mia.... to be worn only for Trevor’s introduction of course. That little penis of hers can turn off the homophobic male... and I certainly do not want my bull stud turned off.

******************************************************************************

Wealth, power, abundant sex... and only the way I like it.

Plus some subservient males... one a former male.

Yes, in addition to Harold, my bull stud Trevor is in fact subservient... to me. Psychologically I know he experiences odd empathy in viewing my shackled, caged and chastised Harold. Still he readily joins in the fun, literally rattling Harold’s cage after every Saturday night of torrid love making. No longer bashful about displaying his full standing member... and his sexual prowess... as I offer slow teasing hand jobs as a prelude to coupling... Trevor is given to tauntingly press his golden brown manhood through the bars before succumbing to my charms and rather docilely lying beneath me while I fuck him with fervor.

Knowing that Harold can neither bite nor touch, Trevor flauntingly displays himself and Harold’s combined look of envy and distress never ceases to amuse. And Trevor in turn shows this occasional look of relief... communicating the thought that but for Harold providing the drastic form of entertainment which a woman of my predilection demands, it would be he caged, shackled and chastised.

‘But for size, stamina and vigor, there go I’, I read his thoughts.

After a couple of Saturday evening rendevous, Gigi out of the house, I have a pantied Mia answer Trevor’s ring at the door. Having kept my neutered servant tucked away as Trevor acclimates to cuckolding Harold, part of the step by step plan is to include Mia in the cuckolding dalliances. For in time, I want Trevor to be comfortable in a bisexual environment. So tonight maid and bull stud will meet.

Since Gigi is given to prettify Mia... makeup and manicure... wearing panties brings gender confusion, the tiny remnant of one time maleness barely noticeable under shear panties, despite the tightness.

Thus, as Mia opens the door, I can’t help watching the reaction. With limited breasts Mia appears to be a prepubescent girl, despite her advanced years. And so Trevor is stunned to silence and immobility.

I step forth to intervene.

"My maid Mia, Trevor. I assure you she is of age."

This comforts and Trevor steps within, his eagerness apparent, as Mia knows to curtsy.

I know the money is only part of the equation, Harold looks so sullen when I peel off many hundreds in compensation, for Trevor arrives promptly and with a sheepish look of anticipation. Getting paid for sex... a male fantasy. And since it irritates Harold to no end, I pay handsomely.

"Mia does not speak. But I know she’s eager to get to know you. I know you’ve kept yourself trimmed below, but Mia, in taking care of Harold is quite adept. And I think you will enjoy her touch."

Spoken as I lead Trevor up the stairs to the communal bathroom where Mia has just finished shaving and bathing Harold so he can be properly displayed in his cage.

With bronzed skin and Asian features, I am sure Trevor thinks of Geisha girls and is warming to having his privates washed and shorn by my truckling servant. And guys are aware that keeping the undergrowth under control fosters the fellatio they crave.

"Strip and into the tub, Trevor. A nice warm bath first and Mia will soap you. Then I want you to join me in my bedroom. Be nice and erect for me. Mia will help there as well."

I am so devious!

******************************************************************************

Quite an effort to stifle girlish giggles as I observed Trevor sitting in bubble bath with Mia circling to chamois every inch of that marvelous youthful virility. Mia adroitly shaved, not a nick with the many Saturday nights denuding Harold. And Trevor displayed his manhood with relish, proudly letting himself become erect, not fully understanding the source of Mia’s smiling look of adoration.

So it’s to the bedroom where a caged Harold kneels in wait, smelling of fragrant soap, freshly shaven body glowing with a generous coating of lotion.

"How’s the family pet?" Trevor mockingly inquires, thrusting his hand through the bars to tousle Harold’s mane.

Standing proximate, Trevor’s organ, remaining somewhat engorged with Mia’s envious tendance, thrusts through the bars, bringing forth another comical whine from Harold. Trevor is nicely hung. And his joystick is free to stand... free to be handled... free to penetrate.

Trevor looks to see the many hundred dollar bills waiting for him on the dresser. His smile becomes one of giddiness. For some reason that really foments the male sex drive... a long night of nirvanic exchange of bodily fluids... culminating with a pocket stuffed with cash.

Whereas foreplay normally includes a slow and sordid hand job, just inches from Harold’s sullen face, I instead snap my fingers and point. Mia knows to fall to her knees, reach forth and cup the abundant balls.
She tenderly begins licking.

"Mia so much adores the male organs, Trevor. I do hope you don’t mind."

How could he object? It’s more fantasy. Homophobia not an issue with the brief pink panties cloaking what remains of Mia’s maleness, Trevor will have a mind blowing Saturday night... as will I.

The penis firms. A droplet of pre ejaculatory fluid oozes. Mia’s training in that Bangkok bordello becomes apparent. I do believe she could tease and taunt for hours, so very much aware of the male erogenous zones, vicariously knowing exactly what Trevor feels, and obediently forestalling ultimate climax.

Meanwhile Harold’s mournful look is precious... so angry... so envious... so frustrated.

I will have to unbuckle that gag at some point just to hear his fawning words.

Mia fondles and caresses, I must suppress more laughter as my sopping vagina quivers, so ready for the deep rhythmic penetration, the slow buildup of friction, the steady advance to a cascade of orgasms.

"You’re going to have quite the treat tonight, Harold," reaching forth to dab away the goo from the turgid penis tip, Mia sucking vigorously on the right gonad. "Trevor has quite the load of spunk."

I reach into the cage, my moist finger slipping past the molt gag to offer a taste of what Harold will later be feasting upon.

Yes, though spending deeply, in the glow of post coitus satiation I am given to patiently let the jism, Trevor’s seed and my essence, descend and be collected.

As I drip the fluid into Harold’s sink and listen for the gulp that sends it down the drain, Trevor so much enjoys watching Harold being fed the vestiges of our coupling.

Someday Harold will have a more direct feeding. But all in good time.

I snap my fingers again. Mia knows to withdraw and I am heartened as Trevor, like a trained dog, knows to wordlessly step to the bed and lie supine, his long thick phallus jutting straight to the ceiling like a telephone pole.

I shed my robe and join my chocolate bull stud in complete nakedness. The mattress dips as I kneel. I straddle. I grasp. I mount. Feeling the organ throb in anticipation brings exhilaration as I align and lower myself, my labia straining to part. Though tight, the mass of firm smooth warmth glides inward with ease, my quim a wellspring of welcoming juices. A long night’s ride begins, husband Harold whining in envy.

The power!

'Power, Gaining It', (Part One of Two)

2011-10-29T05:31:00.000-07:00

Power, Gaining It

Copyright 2011

by Chris Bellows

Though an accomplished business man, Harold Townsend is clueless concerning human relations, husband and wife, and still does not fully fathom the circumstances of his downfall.

Benefitting from my aunt’s early training and instruction, it required little effort to draw him into my web. And Gigi has such a natural attraction for making mischief. The little pranks I prompted... mother and daughter secrets the man of the house has no basis to gauge... were brought to a crescendo when we stuffed his lap top and phone with photos of my budding young actress Gigi.

My early life living with Auntie was a dream for a concupiscent teenaged girl. Mia was there whenever the hormonal needs of puberty arose, bringing intense satisfaction particularly when and if a weekend date went awry. Trained to offer sexual gratification in a Bangkok bordello... never to receive... his hands and tongue were... and remain... exquisite.

My marriage at age 18 became my own downfall, from which I have fully recovered, of course. Auntie did not approve of the boy. And being older and wiser, she proved correct. He was a deadbeat dad almost before Gigi was born. Auntie was angry, suggesting use of the chains and shackles which now fetter Harold. But at age 18, I had not the well developed propensity for the female led relationship that she had and which she tried to instill in me. Yet there was certainly a predisposition in me. And such came to fruition after years of slinging hash at the diner.

Auntie and I became somewhat estranged with that early marriage. I would visit from time to time. But she made it clear I was more guest than welcomed family member.

I had no idea of the size of her fortune and was equally surprised to inherit it all, I suppose her infuriation with my first marriage waning. Plus there appeared to be a degree of approval for my acquisition of Harold, my wimp second husband, he who found Mia, a woman’s fantasy servant, to be so abhorrent.

This amused Auntie.

‘I suppose Harold thinks we dowagers just sit around and deplete the batteries in our vibrators,’ Auntie humorously remarked of Harold’s prudishness, his gawking at Mia’s penis even more evident than his wanton glimpses of my blossoming Gigi.

Auntie realized the possibilities before I did, understanding both my dire need to get out of that diner... and my genetic proclivity. Observing my interaction with Mia in my teen years brought knowing smiles.

When Auntie returned home one day to see that I had Mia shackled, finding the cuffs and chains stowed in the basement, she mildly admonished yet was clearly amused.

‘She’ll not be doing much housework hobbled like that, Maria. Be sure to unlock her in time to make dinner,’ was her only rebuke.

I did, unlock, Auntie always referencing Mia utilizing the feminine pronoun. But I could never forget the thrill of having another so thoroughly restrained. When I later came across the bondage gear while tidying up her house for estate sale, how could I possibly part with such quaint family heirlooms?

Today I shop and my excursion includes a stop at the pet store. Gigi continues to thrive on being empowered and I think it is time that Harold be leashed. Some nice harsh nipple clamps connected to a standard length of leather should offer the sense of control which serves to keep my Gigi away from the types of relationships... with boys... which brought my downfall and early failed marriage. Psychologically satiated by Harold, physically satiated by Mia, she’ll not stray as did I. At some point in her life, feeling fully tutored by me and empowered by Harold’s well restrained nakedness, she’ll come across some subordinate male and move on with her life. But for now, I want her to avoid the type of mistake I made.

Strolling through the store, the privileges of wealth offer the impulse to consume... anything and everything. I thus become infatuated while assessing leashes with a display of assorted cages. Mostly small, I spy one of size, sturdiness, with notably thick bars, high enough for the tallest of canines.

This brings the twinge I sense whenever I gaze at my chastised well restrained husband Harold. I moisten. Not even the immense price tag can bring a chill to my heating loins.

Saturday afternoon, sales representatives are busy. I finally draw the attention of a pleasant looking adolescent, I apprize to be early twenties, a lad of color... and bulging slacks.

More twinges as the privileges of wealth can also foster boldness.

"This cage, it is only for dogs? It appears large enough to constrain other pets... but strong enough?" giving the term ‘pets’ special emphasis.

The lad smiles.

"It’s for dogs as large as Great Danes, ma’am... the most powerful of breeds... and high enough so they can stand within."

"Expensive. Does the price come with delivery?"

"Ahh... I am afraid delivery is extra."

As I reach into my pocket book, I smile most provocatively, offering that come hither, ‘Mrs. Robinson’ look of seduction, the older woman enticing the younger male.

"Well, if I’m going to pay someone, it may as well be someone who has been helpful," withdrawing my wallet.

I peel off two crisp one hundred dollar bills, then glare with deliberation at the bulge, his zipper straining.

"Why not bring it to my home yourself?" I pleasantly suggest, approximating that my offer is well more than a day’s wages.

Yes, boldness, stuffing the bills under the front of his belt as I coax, my fingertips briefly brushing that bulge as my hand withdraws.

"What’s your name?" I whisper in a most sultry voice.

He smiles as he reaches to withdraw the bills. I’ve got him.

"Trevor, ma’am."

"Well Trevor, you’ve probably heard about women such as me... frustrated housewives. Think there’s a television show..."

There is no actual sexual frustration of course, Mia offers cunnilingus nonpareil. But a girl needs penetration from time to time... deep... strong... steady. Harold is not to be released from chastity... ever. Such would empower and those days for him are over. And when a woman of my ilk accepts penetration, it must be under my terms.

Trevor will do nicely.

"I get off at 6:00 p.m., ma’am."

I smile warmly.

"I’ll pay for the cage and leave my address with the cashier," brazenly stepping close enough to press myself against his redoubled bulge, reaching up to pat the back of his head in a gesture of affection... that of owner to pet.

With that, I grab a leash and head for the cashier.

It is for events such as I have planned that I keep Harold so cruelly gagged. Daughter Gigi, a Saturday evening planned with the girls, is not to know of mother Maria’s penchant for cuckolding... not yet any way.

******************************************************************************

I arrive home mid afternoon to find that Gigi is napping. Don’t know precisely what makes the girl so tired, but I have a good inkling. Just as Mia so enthusiastically serviced me as a teenager, I am sure Gigi also avails of his/her talents. I will never discourage such harmless interaction. It’s healthier than masturbation, offers a young girl sexual empowerment during the formative years of discovery, and as Auntie suggested, does not deplete batteries.

Mia greets me with that special hug we’ve conspired upon years ago. He/she enjoys frottaging that tiny penis against my leg. So I accommodate by hiking my skirt to offer a patch of warm smoothness.

I feel the limp worm of one time masculinity on my right thigh. Knowing he can’t harden brings its own lofty sense of power. But I allow the ephemeral pleasure, just as when I occasionally bed him with Harold... Mia’s joy and my husband’s homophobic dread bring a certain psychic exhilaration to this woman of governance.

"Visitor tonight, Mia. Gigi is not to know and you must stay out of sight until I summon you. I want Harold shaved, bathed and lotioned for me."

Mia obediently nods and turns, my open right hand playfully smacking those alluring buttocks.

Yes, I keep Harold completely hairless below the neck, matching Mia’s glabrousness. It adds to his sense of capitulation, being presented as I see fit. The lotion is effeminately scented and keeps him nice and soft... for Mia.

Stepping to the sun porch I spy my well bound husband doing what he does day after day... nothing. I deny him reading material and access to television and radio as well, dulling his mind. That serves to highlight any interaction with me or Mia or Gigi, and as he stirs, one can surely interpret his greeting as a dog wagging its tail.

"Go upstairs with Mia, Harold. Saturday bath time. A little early but I’m having a visitor."

He struggles to rise from his shag rug, wrists bound behind his back as always. The many chains clink, always bringing a smile, and he grimaces as his own motion yanks the chain to the chastity ring encircling balls and penis. He murmurs something, I never understand a word, the molt mouth gag assuring his inability to communicate.

Such frustration... each and every day. But he agreed to it, avoiding a police investigation and possible jail time... along with financial ruin... the photos of Gigi held as leverage.

Many short steps, the hobbling thigh and ankle chains straining with each step, stairs can be both challenging and amusing... challenging for him... amusing for me. The slack is just enough for one foot to lift and reach the ascending step... but only if he keeps his ankles close together... which of course deprives him of stability.

The result is a laborious ascent, each step requiring nearly half a minute, and then a pause to regain balance. I moisten just watching, his near immobility mandated by cuffs and chains locked in place by me.

The display of submission ends as Harold reaches the top step where an eager Mia reaches to grasp his steel cock cage and guide him to the bathroom where an oversized tub will be filled. Mia so much enjoys bath time, each and every Saturday unlocking the cock cage for more thorough cleaning and shaving of the pubes. The intimate proximity and handling is warming, Harold never becoming accustomed to Mia’s unfettered manipulation of his penis and scrotum.

I retire to my bedroom, needing to make myself presentable for Trevor, my bulging ‘bull’, as those practicing cuckoldry term the fornicating male.

******************************************************************************

Exiting the shower I find a paucity of large fluffy towels into which I so much enjoy enshrouding myself. Mia will need to be more attentive.

I step into the hall and stroll to the communal bathroom, that shared by Gigi, Mia, and Harold. Opening the door I note that Mia is just finishing with the straight edged razor which scythes every inch of Harold’s nakedness. Harold lies supine on a bathroom rug, Mia straddling to sit on his chest facing his feet. I chuckle with the scene, Mia’s well rounded globes inches from Harold face as she works about his pubes. Cock cage removed only on Saturdays, Harold’s neglected manhood is celebrating its release from constant torment... stiff, purple and bulbous... but as always, remaining untouched.

Harold turns his head to gawk at my own nakedness. With Mia being castrated, Harold being so tightly chained with cock caged, there is no need for girlish modesty. Both can look... but only pine for the unattainable... fantasize over the inachievable.

"Need a towel," my words known to be an admonishment.

I pause to both watch and enhance Harold’s sense of helplessness, lying with penis finally freed, admiring the beauty of his nude wife... but unable to perform any husbandly duties.

Harold is not too badly built in the manhood department. His problem is that it no longer matters... big... average... small... it is to be kept under lock and key.

Mia carefully whisks about with the razor, such tender adoring fingers and hands... which in being male... or former male... give rise to much chagrin on Harold’s part.

"Do you want Mia to give you a nice lick, Harold? She was so well trained on Bangkok. She really misses fellatio. I am told the castrated male can really come to revere propagating a nice firm erection on the intact."

Harold’s murmuring becomes spirited, apparently turning down my offer.

"Well, how about you give Mia’s little thing some attention?" a notion giving rise to even more homophobia, and more energetic murmuring.

I laugh. I know too well, some of Auntie’s tales coming to mind, that held chained and chaste long enough, Harold’s gender problem will eventually dissipate.

‘They all have needs... the hormones control. Reasoning distorts for the better over time,’ Auntie suggested, never being overly explicit about her experiences in keeping the male equally bound and deprived. Did Mia and my long departed uncle, her husband, share a bed?

Mia finishes and I find I must stay a bit to view Harold’s bath. In being chained, Mia must assist, those tiny well manicured hands pressing and guiding.

Harold is pulled to his feet, erect penis bobbing about, the shortness of the wrist chain making it impossible to reach forth and touch. He knows to move to the edge of the tub. The hobbling chains make it impossible to step over the edge. Instead he sits, facing away and Mia assists in gently lowering him backwards into a tub the size of a child’s swimming pool. Her hands grasping here and there, it is charming how attentive she can be in assuring Harold does not drown, pulling up the fettered legs and pushing into the suds while Harold twists to immerse himself.

Then the cherubic Mia steps over the edge to join, frolicking with the delight of a child, which with balls excised in youth, she essentially is.

She giggles, splashing suds at a glum Harold, his boring day ending with such homophobic consternation.

"Make sure you scrub him everywhere Mia," my words offered as Mia sits facing Harold and reaches to begin lathering shoulders and arms.

It’s coded phrase, offering Mia reign to freely soap all the erogenous zones, Mia’s tiny fingers known to assure the rectum receives well deserved attention. I note that Harold shudders in disgust, also aware of the coded phrase.

"And remember to lotion him... the nice smelling stuff."

I take a large towel and step to the bathroom door, well aware that as Harold’s ravaged mind distorts, the hormonal build up taking its toll, there will come a time when he will accept as a treat having his wrists temporarily freed so he in turn can bathe Mia.

Such a notion currently sickens. But that will change. Hormones will pervert the reasoning of the male in intense need. And the timing is of no concern. Harold will remain thoroughly bound until he agrees to more politely return Mia’s caring tendance.

I turn at the door, one last glimpse of the charming scene which serves to empower. As Mia smooths her soapy hands over shorn flesh, Harold looks at my nakedness with such intense desire. I think he will really enjoy Trevor’s visit, vicariously sensing pleasure as my tight love nest offers the snug warm wetness the deserving male appendage so much craves.

Some day Harold will worship the virility of the unchaste male... of that I am certain.

******************************************************************************

I doll up to the hilt. I’ve still got it at age 36. And I can still flaunt it.

The doorbell rings. I call out to Mia to stay away, reminding that she is not to be seen. Full makeup, flowing bathrobe, I negotiate the stairs and pull open the front door. My new friend Trevor has arrived, standing with a large but flat box. It surprises.

He notes my inquisitive look.

"Needs to be assembled, ma’am. Just a screw driver and a wrench."

"Well, I’ll want it in my bedroom, can you bring it in?"

He nods, the two hundred dollars buying much cooperation.

"Please take off your shoes. New carpet."

He unties the laces, casting away boots then lifting with zeal as the box of steel bars proves to be ponderous. I must admire the fine muscling, long lost on Harold with his sedentary life as house pet.

The stairs prove difficult. Trevor, my radiance somewhat distracting, props the box standing upright then moves up a few steps and pulls, his power and the carpet making the collection of steel glide upwards, one step at a time. Nearing the top, he begins to perspire, my bull working vigorously.

"Will I be okay with your dog, Ma’am?" apprehensively inquiring with my need for such an oversized cage.

"Oh, I don’t have a dog. It’s for another pet I keep," I reply with a coy smile.

I’ll not introduce Harold... not yet.

I follow up the steps as Trevor continues to pull. At the top the task eases on the level hallway floor and I step around box and bull to lead to my bedroom.

"There’s another $100 if you can assemble it for me," I wheedle,

"I have the tools with me," withdrawing such from his pocket.

"I’ll want it here... so my pet can see me in bed," pointing to a corner.

Trevor is quite sudoriferous. I love sweaty... it so nicely projects virility and it also advances my plans.

"Take off that shirt and cool a little, Trevor."

He feels the warmth of a thermostat deviously pushed high. I feel the warmth of catching glimpses of those bulging trousers, my loins becoming torrid as his shirt is cast aside and a finely chiseled chest, pectoral muscles rippling under moist mocha skin, gleams in the room light.

I sit, teasingly letting the folds of my robe part, some pink flashing to further distract. Trevor notices. He can have no doubt concerning my state of complete deshabille beneath. I can read his thoughts as he opens the box, draws out the prefabricated top, bottom and sides along with a plastic bag of nuts and bolts.
He begins to assemble.

"I think it is best to add glue to the nuts, wouldn’t you agree?" I suggest in hinting at my first offered clue.

"Well, I can tighten pretty firmly..." he counters as I arise.

"What one person can tighten another can loosen. I’ll be right back."

I dash to the kitchen and retrieve epoxy. I’d not want to tempt Harold by offering nuts he could furtively unscrew. As prison staff have learned over the many years, idle time gives rise to mischief... and Harold will be spending much idle time caged.

I return noting that Trevor has the bottom set and is propping up the four sides. I feel a tingle of feminine power knowing that he placed within will stay within. Henceforth, Harold’s time hobbling about the house will be most limited. I will have Mia cage him, making him earn release.

"It will be difficult to disassemble Ma’am, in gluing the bolts," offered as I hand Trevor the strong epoxy cement and resume sitting.

"And difficult for anyone within to loosen and escape as well," a more direct hint of the nature of my pet.

Trevor becomes demure in thought with that remark, shuffling about on his knees, applying glue then tightening, the arm muscles offering visual evidence of great power as each of the many nuts is turned.

Before he stands to position the bars of the top, it is time to make my move. I arise to stand behind him, the folds of my robe falling open, the scent of soap mingling with the feminine fragrance of my sopping love poach.

"There are men... boys really... who need the confinement... not able to properly deal with their inadequacies... who best empower others by being in bondage," my voice mature yet sultry, spoken as I lower my hands first to his shoulders, then tauntingly glide down his chest to his nipples.

I tweak. I feel him quiver, his thoughts concerning my near nakedness, the imagery of a male kept by a woman, such brings a brisance of... of what I will soon determine.

"Stay for a little longer, Trevor. For another $100 I’d like you to help me test the cage. Make sure you’ve tightened each and every nut and bolt."

Yes, he quivers more and I know I’ve got him. A twenty something year old lad of color alone with a torrid woman of the world, just a flip of my arms away from exposing myself completely to his wanton gaze. How can he refuse? The $100 is nothing more than to cover his conscience, always able to tell himself the subsequent events were only for the money.

I bend further at the waist, my hands further lowering to that bulge. My breasts escape the robe. He can feel my hardened nipples press against his bare back. In military terms, though it is only me, I have him surrounded and outnumbered.

"Not me. Not me in the cage," he sputters with concern.

"Tsk, tsk, of course not Trevor. Men like you have no problem with adequacy," my words bold, my hands bolder as I brazenly squeeze his massive manhood through his trousers, leaving no pretext concerning my intentions.

I can feel its semi firmness further engorge. I have him indeed.

"And if you like it here... you can visit often."

Trevor nods... reluctantly. He’s apprehensive... yet he’s a guy... with a penis... which thinks for him.

"Bolt the top on the cage and we’ll test the security. You may feel more comfortable without those pants compressing your thing. And you’re still sweating."

He is. Yet I doubt it’s the heat.

Short story series? Need thoughts.

2011-10-22T07:36:00.000-07:00

If 'Power' is enjoyable, we (the royal we) can endeavor to turn it into a series.

Next... perhaps 'Power, Gaining It'.

Your thoughts?

'Power, Losing It' (Part Two of Two)

2011-10-22T04:37:00.000-07:00

Mia interrupts my thoughts, prancing into the sun porch, bowl in his/her tiny manicured hands. Miss Maria insists on good presentation and unlike her aunt, keeps Mia very neat.... pretty really. Also the mischievous Gigi has taken to apply makeup, bringing further gender obfuscation.

Since I am not permitted to use the bathroom, every door locked, Mia graciously presents a bowl for me to use. I sit up, stretch out my legs, parting my feet as far as the many chains permit. Mia stoops, aligning my caged penis, impaled by the Prince’s Wand, so I can empty myself into the bowl. There is not enough slack in my shackling wrist chain to touch my entrapped organ. For neatness, Mia must assist.

Neither of us can speak. Communication is through hand gestures and touch... that which still makes me quake in homophobic repugnance. And that is why on so many nights, Miss Maria has him/her sleep with me. The warm smoothness brings stirring to a penis long denied. A long night of constantly abrading his/her soft flesh brings the curse of nocturnal penile tumescence. Miss Maria knows this. It amuses.

As I relieve myself, the fingers of Mia’s free hand plays with my right nipple, brought to incredible sensitivity by the unending chastity. It feels both good and repulsive. Mia has no true empathy as to what his/her touch does. She thinks it soothes. Instead my penis is given to stir and fight the many tiny sharp spikes in the cock cage.

Still, I indeed need to go, and the bowl fills.

At the front door, I hear Maria departing and know that means being left alone with 18 year old Miss Gigi. She offers a sense that she feels more secure now that I am shackled and in forced chastity. Yes, she now feels very comfortable with me, the perverted stepfather who allegedly forced her to disrobe and be photographed.

Being the minx she is and knowing that in being silenced, neither Mia nor I can convey any deeds of naughtiness to Miss Maria, her mother’s absence gives her free reign. As a result, I conclusively know the damning photos were not taken under coercion or duress. The mischievous Gigi is just a fine actress.

Words of adieu exchanged, the front door closes as I finish. Mia arises to dutifully dispose of my excretions. Gigi enters wearing the flimsy robe which so teasingly flipped open at breakfast.

"How’s our little pet?" the voice transforming to sultry temptress.

Sitting up right, my face at the level of her waist, she parts the robe and fully exhibits her charms. Gigi now shaves down there... or rather she has Mia shave her. Thus the many fleshy folds of complicated and divine female genitalia are fully displayed. Now I indeed gawk... just as she likely accused years before the brash plot first became evident.

She is more then aware that I am helpless, barely able to move, speechless, effectively as neutered as Mia. I am thus very obedient... very docile... completely harmless. Even more of an object than Mia.

I inadvertently whine into my mouth bondage, the dental gag... termed a molt mouth gag... modified to buckle behind my head and constantly hold open my incisors and lips. In addition, Miss Maria has had my tongue pierced... for no other reason than she could do it... making even more remote the possibility of ever forming discernible words.

The sense of vulnerability cannot be described.... anyone... at any time... able to insert something into my orifice.

My behavior is thus quite temperate. A bar of soap has become a simple and common tool of discipline... so easily introduced... impossible for my altered tongue to eject. And when it triggers the gag reflex, there comes panic which in turn serves to entertain.

Miss Gigi steps closer, her wondrous young mons inches from the face of he long denied. My penis, partially aroused by Mia’s touch, firms even more. I would so much like to taste her!

My whine turns to a grimace, the cruel cock cage offering disciplinary pain. Full erections are not permitted.

"Would you like me to have Mia tongue you," the voice pleasantly turning to that of mother to child as her fingers lower and begin playing with the meatiness of her outer labia.

I shake my head, most obsequiously, expressing a pleadful look. Miss Gigi is most amused when she has Mia lick my scrotum, that portion of thin pink flesh exposed between the cock cage and the steel ring. It is torture... both physical and mental... orally serviced by a male... one time male. Arousal hurts. The homophobia brings troubling thoughts.

Meanwhile I detect the musky scent of the steamy female portal. My bound nakedness... her empowerment... brings arousal.. And unlike my condition, does not bring her anguish... only a look of Schadenfreude. To her, the naked male in bondage stimulates.

"Well, how about if I have you plugged. I’ve read that it is good for the chaste male... to manipulate the prostate from time to time."

I know this means Miss Gigi has spent more time on the internet... reading... scheming... devising... and purchasing.

"Mia... come... I want you."

Into the sun porch the feet prance in return... the bronzed buttocks roll.

"Bring the inflatable anal plug and some lubricant."

It is apparent that the Miss Gigi and my Hermaphroditic care taker have conspired. For Mia scampers away without another word of direction required and returns, jar of hand cream in hand and pulling from a box what appears to be a soft rubber dildo with a tube attached. It ends with a hand sized bulb of rubber, a puffolator to be squeezed.

As Mia’s soft little hands roll me to the side, I watch in apprehension as Miss Gigi squeezes the puffolator and to the sound of rushing air the dildo shaped opposite end expands.

Mia’s touch is familiar, showering with me daily, he/she bathes with me on Saturday evenings, the sight of two males frolicking in sudsy water quite the amusement for both mother and daughter. Thus Mia quickly splays my gluteal cleft and finds my rectum with aplomb. The hand cream is slathered about and Miss Gigi deflates then gives up the sordid device. Mia inserts and presses inward with equal deftness.

It is large, giving rise to much concern in realizing that it is designed to become even larger.

Miss Gigi seats herself, throwing her legs right and left over the arms of an easy chair. The robe gives way to fully part as she most obscenely spreads.

"Let him lie for a while, Mia, and acclimate."

She then wriggles her finger and points, knees further parting to open herself completely to my gaze and Mia’s face. I am to become the catalyst for multiple orgasms as Mia knows to approach, kneel, extend his/her enormous tongue and engulf the young girl’s entire sex with lips trained to perfection.

I whine again and lay back, somewhat disappointed with Mia’s head blocking the exquisite exhibition, knowing that Miss Gigi wants me to attentively watch her enjoyment.

To divert thoughts of painful stimulation, my mind returns to the day of my downfall...

******************************************************************************

Arriving home, no job, no car, relieved of much potential wealth, I have no choice but to counsel with Maria. With the aunt’s untold millions invested somewhere, her resources make my six figure mortgage pale. And there are other bills. Without the sizeable paycheck, the squeeze of insolvency will be quickly felt.

Since Maria turned over the computer, she is well aware of the circumstance of my termination. There is no point in trying to cloak anything... just to deny... deny... deny.

"Gigi has been advising me for sometime, Harold. Shocking. She is 16! And you’ve been visually and covertly molesting her for years. I know of the bathroom incident."

I deny deliberate intent.

"What of all the pics! Gigi told me exactly where they’d be found."

I deny knowledge.

"You’re always looking at her."

That I cannot deny. Gigi is a head turner. I have indeed been intrigued with the process of metamorphosis... pupa to caterpillar to butterfly. I was unaware Gigi was given to molt... shedding her clothing for the camera.

I bring up the sexting thing, subsequently reading of the teenaged trend, unfortunately after Gigi acquired her smartphone.

"Is it possible Gigi took the pics herself, Maria? The kids are doing that these days."

The notion irritates Maria... Miss Maria... that her cherished daughter could engage in such lascivious conduct.

"I downloaded copies, Harold. I studied the look on her face. She is being coerced... by you!"

Or is simply being a fine actress, I think to myself, but dare not fuel the fire.

The heated discussion continues, the main thrust not addressed... that I am no longer in financial control of the household. It is then that Maria... Miss Maria... steps into the breach.

"There is plenty of my aunt’s money to care of us... us being Gigi and me. But we can’t be together, Harold. Not as before. You can’t be near Gigi. I should be calling the police!"

The threat frightens. Maria’s downloaded copies are not sufficient evidence, but the originals in my computer certainly are. My former employer would give up the laptop in a heartbeat should a subpoena be issued. Would a full police investigation reveal Gigi’s duplicity?

I cannot take the chance. Possible jail time. A lifetime on the sex offenders list.

"Maria, I’m broke. There must be a way of working this out."

She pauses... a most frighteningly wicked look of empowerment comes over her face.

It seems there is.

******************************************************************************

I know the molt gag and chastity device are recently acquired... little custom items either Miss Maria or Miss Gigi come across on the internet. I suspect it has been a conniving Gigi... Maria empowering her to choose that form of bondage which would bring her the most comfort in remaining alone with me in the house.

Yes, Gigi needs to assure my continuing silence.

But the shackles? Part of the aunt’s estate... family heirlooms. Yes, there is a predilection that seems to run in the family... disdain for the male... the aunt apparently preferring burdensome restraints... or castration. Who wore these cuffs and chains and when? I will never know.

I had no choice but to agree to the process... the fitting... the piercing of my pubes for the steel support ring for the chastity cock cage. Where else was I to live? If Maria moved out, the mortgage would not be paid. Unless I capitulated, I was doomed.

But there is a glimmer of joy to be had. For some two years now I have been unencumbered in observing the caterpillar Miss Gigi continue to morph... to the beautiful butterfly she has become. And now there is more proximity offered... in being restrained and forcibly kept chaste... more opportunity to gaze at her charms... now unabashedly exhibited in that she knows that there is nothing that I can physically do... nothing I can report to mother Maria... nothing to happen unless she condescends. And Miss Gigi does, quite teasingly... so often offering a glimpse as my devious butterfly molts, shedding clothing to expose herself as she does now, sitting well spread with Mia performing deep, thorough oral satiation.

I am envious. Her odoriferous scent fills the room, bringing me to whine again.

The minx slides in the chair, further raising her thighs to present the rosebud of her anus. Mia knows to shift his/her face lower and service her there. Miss Gigi’s fingers then gather about the clitoral hood to knead and caress. I visually partake with lust, my cock cage strained, my firming penis wounded with many self inflicted stabs. Finally there comes a shriek of delight, a jet of female essence soaks Mia’s face and hair. Yes, Miss Gigi is a squirter, ejaculating copiously.

She pauses, becoming somewhat torpid in the glow of an thunderous climax, then recovers to beckon. I crawl forth as best I can, my many chains clattering, my motion joggling the anal impalement. I kneel in proximity and stare in wonderment at the hairless, newly ripened love nest. Such perfection! Mia’s assiduous oral attention has brought a wet gleam to soft fleshiness licked and sucked to torrid crimson. The fingers of Miss Gigi’s right hand dance to gather up as much of her feminine essence as can be seen, Mia’s forehead, face and hair, my attentive gaze riveted without disruption. The wet fingers then move to my face, dabbing to offer to my forcibly opened mouth the tasty juices of a most concupiscent teen. In welcome, I extend my tongue as best I can... the house pet begging for a treat. My truckling greeting brings a prideful, confident smile.

Mia wordlessly slips to my rear and grasps the puffolator. The connecting tube unravels as he/she knows to hand it to Miss Gigi.

There comes another whine of frustration and desire. Miss Gigi just laughs, her fingers ever so slowly squeezing. Deep within I feel the controlling hand of my temptress. My penis renews its futile effort to harden, the spikes of the cock cage again announcing themselves, the discomfort/pleasure of prostate manipulation jumbling the sensors of my cerebral cortex.

Evidencing the long morning to come, the fingers squeeze just a little more. I gasp feeling my insertion further balloon. Yes, the aura of her sense of power pervades. A droplet of fluid exudes to bead at the tip of my Prince’s Wand. An attentive Mia rushes to capture it with a tissue. Meanwhile, I glare with intense need and desire... feminine perfection unveiled, my gaze unfettered.

"So much more enjoyable than my pictures, don’t you think, Harold?"

'Power, Losing It' (Part One of Two)

2011-10-15T04:02:00.000-07:00

A little short story to keep my fingers active.

*************************************************************************************

Power, Losing It

Copyright 2011

by Chris Bellows

Mia’s tiny hand scours the bottom of the bowl to gather the final spoonful of tasteless glop. There comes an ostensibly pleasant smile, which I interpret as wicked, as the cute face turns back to me, the left hand steadies my chin and the right approaches with the brown mush. Into the opening of my mouth bondage, the smooth sludge slithers to the back of my throat. As I struggle to swallow, mastication neither permitted nor required, the sound of desperate gulps fosters a broader smile as the combined sense of choking and drowning brings physical retching and mental panic. Somehow I once again ingest.

Such a subtle form of power exchange, being fed like a child. But in shackles, one cannot resist. And besides, sustenance is needed. I am fed in no other manner... and with no other form of food. I often imaginatively compare the process to the production of foie gras... that in which the gullet of a duck or goose is stuffed with an abundance of corn in order to both fatten and enlarge the liver for slaughter.

"You being a good boy?" Maria de Havillier inquires, passing by the table on her way to the toaster and tapping my nose as one would playfully cuddle a pet.

I murmur, discernible words long denied, as child-like Mia takes the empty bowl and slides from straddling my naked thigh, the smooth warmth of flesh on flesh bringing a brisance of joy... unwanted joy.

Meanwhile daughter Gigi enters the kitchen, flimsy robe covering little, the folds flapping to enticingly reveal intimate pinkness as she moves about. Age 18, no longer jail bait, Gigi is an accomplished tease... a vixen... well aware of her display of charms to this former man of the house.

Mother Maria encourages, often putting on a show of her own.

Gigi pours herself a glass of orange juice and strolls to the table where I sit. She reaches forth and tweaks my right nipple, smiles and sits. Her brief sensuous touch brings a shiver of delight, causing the many links of my chains to momentarily clatter, expanding her smile with the satisfying sense of dominion.

"Morning, Harold. Mia taking good care of you?"

Name mentioned, I look as the naked cherubic form beams with pride, prancing to the sink, the uncovered buttocks rolling so luridly.

Mia does not wear clothing. Yes, the expanse of golden brown skin is always on display, to bring visual delight to the unwary. Quite cute, quite effeminate, the nakedness initially conjures wicked sexual thoughts in first encountering the ingenue... until one spies the tiny vestige of maleness... the pinky sized penis which flutters as Mia skips about the house.

No one knows Mia’s age. Neutered in native Burma, sold as a slave, presumably for sex, Maria’s wealthy aunt rescued him... her?.. and somehow brought him/her into the country.

‘They make wonderful servants,’ I recall the dowager remarking during my only visit to her home. ‘Loyal and hard working, grateful to no longer have to endure the constant pegging demanded at Asian bordellos. Damned if I can get her to wear clothing...’

Whether the latter was true, I don’t know. I wager that with the aunt’s predilections... now known to run in the family... Mia has never been offered the benefits of clothing.

Maria, addressed by me as Miss Maria during the short intervals of permitted speech, returns to the table, coffee and toast in hand.

"Scoot. Go play," the words, all her words, known to be a command, sending the family pet away.

I hastily arise making room for her at the table. Gigi, Miss Gigi, smiles as the many links resound, her satiation apparent in knowing that I am cruelly bound at her behest.

Wrists cuffed and chained behind my back... not tight but certainly not loose. Ankle cuffs, thigh bands, an assortment of chains connecting all four circles of heavy steel, all make for very effective hobbling. But most wickedly, there is a fifth point of connection which drives home the sense of loss of all power. Between my thighs a set of links rises from the thigh chain to attach to the large ring of my chastity device, that which circles my penis and scrotum. Completely unnecessary from a mobility standpoint, it instead serves to remind of my servitude as with each step taken I can feel the effects of bondage on my male package. There is constant tugging on my balls.

Putting aside the limited mobility allowed, being kept in chastity is bad enough. The large steel ring is permanent, for the most part, embedded through openings made in my skin at the sides of my scrotum, atop the penis and at the perineum below. Locked to the ring, to be removed for cleansing... and when Miss Maria desires to gaze at my entrapped maleness... is a devilish cock cage... quite confining... internal spikes obviating erection... with a Prince’s Wand connection which inserts well into my urethra. Mia controls the key, releasing the cage portion for bathing and shaving. And I have come to the conclusion that being kept in chastity by the castrated male is the most drastic of dilemmas.

Mia has no compunction! Balls excised at a presumably early age.... he/she has no basis for understanding the constant need... the constant torment... the hormonal drive... only that it amuses to observe my penis become erect during the abbreviated period of shaving and cleansing.

Yes, Mia now controls the male organ which years ago brought her suffering as he/she knelt in a seedy bordello to be penetrated... offered to deviants for money.

My steps are many in exiting the kitchen, the metallic sounds known to bring both cheer and comfort to my superiors. I retire in thought to the livingroom ... for that is all I have... thought. I am not a servant... I am not used or forced to perform labor. Mia does all housework and cooking. I am a pet... just kept... to be displayed... petted... toyed with at the whim of another. And Miss Maria knows that the boredom... the intense unending tedium... is the cruelest manifestation of her governance.

I do nothing... day in and day out. And that is what she wants... and for Miss Maria... she always gets what she wants. She knows I relive the events of my downfall and her ascendency many times each and every day. And that pleases her.

And so the thoughts repeat...

******************************************************************************

Ivy league educated, masters in business, by early thirties my W-2 was sizable. I met Maria de Havillier, my busy career keeping me single and traveling... and relocating, at the local diner where she worked. Handsome, some would say beauteous, knowledgeable, an unfortunate very early marriage produced a degree of disdain for the male and produced daughter Gigi. I later learned that Gigi nearly came first, the marriage finally agreed to, not while in labor, but as Maria suggested... close enough.

It did not last. And the baggage of having a child at age 18 brought a degree of ennui toward the whole process of refinding a lifelong mate. Gigi became everything and Maria lived in near poverty in attempting to both support her and find time for maternal bonding.

We hit it off. And in hindsight, I suspect I was the life preserver Maria was inwardly seeking. No more waitressing, forced to work the more parsimonious day shifts in order to be with Gigi at night.

Upon our betrothal Maria could become a stay at home mom. I had a ‘tiny mansion’ in the suburbs, in a town with a good school system, a lucrative job. What I did not have was capital... relatively speaking. Any wealth was in the form of stock options, to be harvested when the company stock rises, and when I chose to share my stipend with the government in the form of income taxes. Believing that to defer is best, the stock kept rising and I kept deferring.

Bad move.

One should always be aware, I learned, of the moral turpitude clause in almost all deferred compensation arrangements. Explained as being inserted only for tax purposes... making the arrangement subject to substantial risk of forfeiture to ensure deferral... it is always shrugged off upon entering. But in my case... not upon exiting.

How did Maria know? I keep asking myself... but only myself. For I am rarely not gagged and therefore cannot ask Miss Maria. The forced silence adds to the frustration... which pleases Miss Maria.

I shuffle through the livingroom to the enclosed sun porch where, like a lazy dog, I lie many hours per day in wonderment. There is a comfy shag rug. Other than sitting in the kitchen for feeding time, I am not permitted to use the furniture. Miss Maria says I drool to much. And she is correct, the prostatic fluid of the virile male does not yield to chastity, the male glands constantly prepped for ejaculation despite being long denied.

So I lie down, push about the many chains, find a comfortable position and reminisce the many steps...

First... marrying Maria. A simple ceremony. Her second time and therefore an overly festive celebration not desired as with young brides. Gigi served as a bridesmaid, quite the little jail bait at age 13. Pretty, I was to later learn her mischievousness was less than innocent.

Some work colleagues attended, a few friends... and the dowager aunt, explained as eccentric and Maria’s only living relative.

Not explained... perhaps unknown to Maria... was the woman’s vast wealth. Her home was sizeable, but I mistakenly attributed that to a husband long gone, the interior decorations ancient and in desperate need of refurbishment thus suggesting a degree of impoverishment. Visiting shortly after the honeymoon, Maria forewarned me about Mia... the naked servant who cleaned and cooked. Hairless... ball-less... long cranial hair cloaking the true gender... and the tiny appendage between the thighs evidencing birth gender... Mia offered quite the shock, despite being forewarned.

The aunt smiled warmly while supervising Mia’s servitude... and I suppose observing my reaction as well... deemed to be one of unwarranted prudishness.

Afterwards, during the drive home, Maria defended the arrangement, considering her aunt to be a savior, rescuing Mia from a life of sexual slavery. I tried to reserve judgement but avoided visiting again. I had a career to protect, always using the New York Times criteria when assessing certain possible acquaintances and relationships... i.e. how would such be viewed if divulged on the front page of the New York Times.

Maria’s own moral compass was less stringent, hugging the naked form upon departure, pressing the tiny penis into her thigh and clasping then affectionately patting those most effeminate well rounded cheeks. Her gesture of womanly authoritative brought a glowing smile from the little Asian girl/boy.

How often... how much interaction... had Mia and Maria undertaken over the years?

Since Mia does not talk, I presume the vocal cords altered along with the castration, his/her true reaction to relationships cannot be determined. No one ever taught Mia to read or write, so communication is limited to an occasional hand gesture in response to attentive and exacting listening on her part.

Other then the curious relative and the hint of attachment to Mia, we began to live as a conventional family... wife, stepdaughter, husband. Gone from the circle was Gigi’s biological father, a reprobate who years ago offered child support for all of two months then disappeared. Gigi was in the early stages of puberty. Hormones were beginning to flow... not noticeable from her disposition, which ostensibly remained somewhat mature, so I thought.

But there was the mischievousness, first noted at the wedding. It continued. Little pranks. Harmless... at first.

Gigi began to ripen sexually, finding male attraction to the female form to be amusing. She still does. She began to flash, young breasts beginning to plumpen... the mounding of her pubes to be noted. She never missed an opportunity for her robe to momentarily part while exiting the bathroom. Tight slacks become the garment of choice, mother Maria never seeming to discourage. I pretended not to notice... but how could I not?

Gigi was blossoming before me. Was there sexual attraction? Libidinous thoughts?

Yes, I suppose. Would I act on such? No. Maria kept me satisfied. But there was curiosity... just how voluptuous would young Gigi become? The breasts seemed to grow each day. And the nipples seemed to sit up and beg for attention.

Then came a more outright mischievous tease. Gigi was in the bathroom to begin her shower. She called out that there was no paper. I assisted, retrieving a roll from the hall closet. I knocked, inquiring if entry was feasible. She responded, my ears suggesting an affirmative reply. Did I hear wrong? I opened, the completely naked ingenue seeming to at first regale me with youthful shapely curves, then feigning a scream of shock and offense. I tossed the roll to the sink basin and quickly exited.

Why do I suggest it was a tease? The belated timing of her response. Plus I later could not locate the cardboard spindle for the allegedly used up roll of toilet paper. Only partially used I am sure, it had been removed and hidden to provide a subterfuge for my entrance.

The next telling event... inordinate pressure for a smartphone and acceding thereto... camera option included. I was unaware of the phenomenon termed ‘sexting’, in which hormone laden teens were given to circulate licentious self pictures. Apparently Gigi joined the trend, learning to take lurid photos of herself. At least that is my assumption.

Shortly thereafter my relationship with spouse Maria began to deteriorate. She become aloof, rebuffing sexual advances... even on Friday evenings when we normally cracked open a bottle of wine, sending Gigi to a friends house or the movies. Something was wrong, the standoff going well beyond the monthly womanly inconvenience.

But that distraction soon faded when Maria’s aunt died. The denial remained but in being the only surviving relative, Maria’s time became occupied and coincidentally I had to travel on business.

It is probably then that the suspected conspiracy began to snowball. Mother and daughter alone for many days, exchanging thoughts, I am sure Gigi telling of the staged bathroom encounter. That incident on its own would be a situation of my word against hers... a harmless mistaken intrusion in its worst context, even if my suggestion of the staging was not to be believed.

What perplexed me... why would Gigi stage such a thing? At such an age is there thrill in exhibitionism?

Her prank should have put me on guard. It did not. I left myself open. Still, I do not fully understand the roles played... the prime instigator... who is ultimately responsible for my bondage and forced chastity.

As it turned out, the eccentric aunt, with naked effeminate houseboy, was incredibly wealthy. Within weeks, I returned from my business trip. Maria had finished much of the heavy estate work. A concupiscent Gigi was introduced to our new houseboy Mia... Maria either continuing to deny clothing or him/her refusing to wear such.

Where else would Mia go? No education... no ability to communicate. He/she was defacto property of the aunt’s estate.... in essence inherited by Maria.

Well I suppose there are times in life for anatomy lessons. One can always argue at what age. But Gigi was instructed by mother Maria that Mia’s missing testicles meant he/she was asexual... and thus to ignore his/her presence when in any state of deshabille... in the bathroom... in the bedroom. I felt a touch of envy when Maria suggested Mia was excellent at massage and that after a grueling cheerleading practice, Gigi should feel free to insist in utilizing his/her talents.

Gigi would not scream with Mia gazing at her rapidly developing charms. And in that bathroom incident I was only afforded a brief peek... no touching.

‘The neutering makes him/her harmless,’ I once heard Maria lecture. ‘Unlike...’ that observation truncated when it became apparent I was listening to the mother/daughter exchange concerning the bizarre but somewhat welcomed servant. It was apparent, to conclude her explanation, harmless unlike me... the ogre and intact lurking male.

Yes, my life preserver was not only no longer needed, I became treated as a leper in my own house. Sexual relations ended, resulting in more and more gazing, attraction with the forbidden charms of Gigi. Steam needed to be blown off. But what of Maria’s ‘steam’? I was to learn that Mia’s massage talents extended beyond the use of his/her hands... the deviant aunt apparently insisting on perfecting his/her cunnilingus.

Revolting? Yes. But Mia was looked upon as an object.

Meanwhile concern over employment became a factor. With my ‘New York Times’ standard of conduct, there would be no barbecues or cocktail parties at my suburban mansion. One can imagine the reaction in being served by a naked castrate, however cute and obeisant.

So with fewer and fewer reasons to socialize, spend quality time together, we drifted apart, Maria and me. My ingrained homophobia obviated developing acquaintance with a one time male. Other then Mia cooking and serving food that was it in terms of contact. In time Maria moved to an empty bedroom, her need to be massaged, coded words for having Mia’s face between her thighs, becoming stronger and stronger.

So our marriage didn’t so much end as our needs diverged. And with Maria’s financial independence I was considered completely superfluous... even seeming to be an annoyance in spotting Gigi whispering what I assume to be complaints about my gawking... or stalking... or whatever it was she imagined... or just made up.

Something had to change... and it did.

Some three years into living as a family, I am called into the office of the general counsel at work. Not an unusual request, particularly around contract time. And there is always the occasion when an employee has transgressed and as a supervisor I am apprized of the situation and counseled on how to handle such from a legal standpoint. Well I am shocked to learn which employee has transgressed... me!

Ed Duvall, general counsel, a guy I’ve had drinks with on many occasions, is disconcertingly formal.

"Please sit down, Mr. Townsend," gesturing to a chair before his massive oak desk. "This is Rand Collier, an investigator we engage from time to time on... let’s say touchy internal matters. All discussed here is to be held in the highest confidence."

I nod as Ed turns to this Rand Collier standing to the side, a dour looking character, probably early retired from the FBI, and signals that the meeting is his. Moving to stand behind Ed he steps to approach the desk, folder in hand.

"Mr. Townsend, is this the company laptop assigned to you?"

I had not noticed. They all look alike. It rests on Ed’s desk. As I peer following his pointing finger, I note familiar scratches and a sticker, the company logo. I adhered it to the cover so I could distinguish it if and when working in groups. So I nod. I had not used it in weeks leaving it in my den to work at home, something not of need of late. Somehow it got to Ed’s office.

"Your wife, Ms. Maria Havillier brought it to us. Seems she has concerns... and she is right to have such."

Rand Collier opens the folder with a flair for drama, withdrawing a photograph.

"Do you recognize this girl?" he cross examines.

I nod. It is a picture of Gigi, cropped at her shoulders. I am concerned. The shoulders are bare. I affirm that it is she, my stepdaughter.

"We located this photo... and many more... in your laptop. We found it necessary to edit the photo for printing, Mr. Townsend. I assume you know why?"

I do not, but can certainly guess. The expression on Gigi’s face is one I have seen before... that bathroom incident. Her look expresses surprise... distress... communicating the notion that she is being photographed unwillingly. Still I shake my head.

"Your laptop contains dozens of similar photographs. In all your stepdaughter is naked. Your wife suggests she is age sixteen, Mr. Townsend, appearing possibly younger in some shots."

I deny knowing of the photos. But the denial is obviously open to suspicion... my laptop... my den... my stepdaughter.

"Can I examine your phone, Mr. Townsend?"

Paid for by the company... the initial purchase... plus the monthly expense... I have no right to refuse the request. I slip it from my pocket. Like most smartphones it has a camera, a feature I would not begin to know how to use. The device really is a business tool and such a capability has no use in my line of work. I hand it to my inquisitor. He presses some buttons, shows the screen to Ed, then steps from behind the desk. With more flair and drama he holds it before me. On the screen comes Gigi... the tease... the vixen. She is naked. The look on her face is one of fear. Someone is photographing her and she does not appear to be totally compliant. Budding breasts, a modicum of pubic hair, her youthful age, well under that of consent, cannot be disputed.

I am screwed.

"No need to look any further," Collier continues with the drama. "These tend to disgust... most people."

In a scripted scene, Rand Collier hands me back my phone and departs, placing the file folder before me. Ed and I are alone.

"We’ll keep the laptop, Harry," he informs as I hear the door close. "It’s company property. We’ll seal it away so no one else will see your.... well whatever. But we must protect the company should you choose to litigate your termination."

Ed proceeds to read aloud the moral turpitude clause of my employment contract. I am fired. On the spot. No severance. But most hurtful... the stock options! Over a million dollars of gain to be garnered had I exercised, paid the tax and banked the difference. Now gone!

"Security will escort you to your office so you can retrieve any personal items. Keep the phone. But my god Harry, get rid of those pictures. It’s your stepdaughter!"

I take a cab home. My company car remains in the parking lot of course. And I carefully press buttons on the smartphone, finding an option termed ‘gallery’. There are indeed photos and as my finger works, my shaking hand assures that the cab driver and no one else for that matter, will see the evidence of my alleged moral turpitude.

When did Gigi get hold of my phone? And when did she perfect such looks of woe? If only she was smiling! But instead it appears she is being coerced, that under some threat she has been made to disrobe and pose.

I recall the whispering... mother and daughter... her looks of dread when the three of us have been together... but no such expression when alone with me... not that Maria has permitted much of that of late. Such acting!

A set up job. But what to do?

I have nothing. My tiny mansion. A large mortgage. A very modest bank account. Lots of bills. Maria’s new found wealth has not been used for upkeep, remaining invested, her contribution being that Gigi’s college education will be taken care of by her. That will have to change. I suspect I am unemployable, terminated with cause, no reference available from my employer of ten years.

Then I reflect on how this all unfolded. Maria took my laptop from the den and handed it over to the company! She knows of the photos... will be well aware of the true nature of my termination! The alleged misdeeds of my firing... however wrongfully perceived... cannot be denied.

But does she know how the photos were taken... how they got in my phone and computer? Is she aware of her daughter’s mischievousness? Now bordering on criminal vandalism.

For the past year my only raison d’etre, in the eyes of Maria, has been to keep a roof over the family. Now I cannot do that.

Whatever leverage... whatever power I had... is gone.

'Balls, They Have 'em, I Want 'em'

2011-10-08T06:51:00.000-07:00

From a short story I have published on Lulu. More 'non-consenusl' D/s.
http://www.lulu.com/product/ebook/balls-they-have-em-i-want-em/17813936

A little repetitious in terms of setting.

The complete story runs 11,400 words

*****************************************************************************

Balls, They Have ‘em, I Want ‘em
Copyright 2011
by Chris Bellows

"All comfy?"

The question is somewhat sardonic, yet somewhat relevant. It becomes ironic that after a few weeks in my ‘care’, a boy indeed feels comfortable in good tight bondage. Not in a stress position. Nothing pinches or presses. Just tightness... offering the sense that all mobility is at the discretion of another. And the mind comes to accept it... the subconscious succumbing, sending the message that all significant motion, anything more than the wriggling of fingers and toes, perhaps a slight nod or shake of the head, is at the prerogative of another... me.

In response there comes the slight nod, discernible verbal response inhibited by the penis gag which constantly nags... deeply... forcefully triggering the gag reflex... offering constant aggravation.

"Have the nurses been good to you?"

Another slight nod as I release the right ankle cuff. The leg goes limp, so humbly offering me control. I guide it to the side, lifting it from the padded table top. The thigh muscles knowingly contract, the leg rising as I pull upward to reattach the padded nylon cuff to a cable hanging from the ceiling, just at the level of my boy’s waist. Simple ‘D’ clamps... instantly released... instantly resecured. With my boy’s wrists restrained to his sides, his hands are never in a position to offer himself the moments of liberation that me or the nurses extend during the sponge baths.

I move to the left side and unclip the opposing ‘D’ clamp. Both foot and ankle are equally compliant, thigh rising, another ‘D clamp clipped to a second cable to leave my boy lying well spread, the penis and testicles presented most vulnerably.

I note he begins to quiver and I don’t blame him for the apprehension. But that’s why I keep my boys so tightly bound. Whatever is to happen will happen, he has no choice but to lie and take it... all of it.

I lower the bottom half of the special table. It is hinged just below the buttocks. My boy’s male package now dangles over the newly formed edge. I move to stand between the raised thighs and knees and cannot help palming the massive plums I have been working on for over a week.

"An hour today, they’re responding beautifully," I note with a smile, the gonads having ungainly girth.

I knead the thin warm flesh of the sac with my thumbs, satisfied in feeling that the glands within remain firm. It is important they not become mushy. Too much of my special treatment will do that... either striking too firmly... or for too long an interval. Over the years... many boys... bringing many plums to ripeness... I have become accomplished. Within ten days to two weeks they will be ready for harvest.

"You going to get hard for me like a good boy?" my voice coos as if addressing a toddler, encouraging some otherwise mundane performance.

And sure enough, despite the fear... despite the concern... I note the sizable length begins to engorge. I always feel complimented when a boy I torture day after day greets me with a nice firm erection. The masochism becomes ingrained. Yes, deep within, there is strange stimulation in offering his male bits to a woman.

I smile warmly, my ‘Donna Reed’ matronly look of comfort, and step away to retrieve my special stick of torment. Short, less whippy then a cane, the bamboo is no less effective for the task at hand. I also lubricate my left hand... my boy may as well have some joy in the horror he is about to face.

"Here we go... do try to remain quiet."

I always encourage silence... but never get it. I suppose I am just too masterful... too sadistic.

My left hand wraps about the firming penis. I impart a moment of delight, helping it to a good stand. Yes, a twist then a modest stroke. And then I begin... just a tap with my right hand... but to the scrotum... and the first of dozens of muffled roars erupts into the penis gag as my slight blow causes the massive eggs to swing wildly, every limb spasmodically lurching, fighting in futility the tight straps, cuffs and cables.

The sound of the first splat always brings a smile... from me.

"Oh yes, you take it so well for me. And it’s good exercise for you, pulling so vigorously."

I leisurely let the message of pain subside, knowing that to strike again too soon diminishes the horror. I want the expectation to build. And while pausing I again stroke the penis, a most evanescent stroke, to spur endorphins. This will allow my boy to take so much more without passing out.

Calmness resumes, then I swing again... the splat... same rush of air, same wrenching of hands and feet.

With my torment stick not much longer than a ruler, swatting a boy’s balls requires close work, adequate aim. I do not want too much unsightliness... want to avoid deep hematomas. I just want to imbue trauma... causing the gonads to swell. With repeated treatment... day after day... after day... some degree of swelling will remain to become permanent. My boy is going to have one very large set of balls. And then... well then I am going to have one large set of balls.

Yes, they’ll be harvested. At times I feel like a patient gardener... each and every day weeding and hoeing... swinging away with just the right velocity... the perfect firmness... to bring the swelling I so much desire.

"And another," I advise, a third brisk tap, listening for the rush of air from the hollow penis gag, watching gleefully as the entire body attempts to bound from the table top. Yes such pain, such frustration, such futility.

Yet my left hand detects evidence of the intrepid male sex drive. Yes, the stiff penis thrusts into my grip, a fruitless attempt to frottage to ejaculation. That will not happen of course. I am much too experienced to permit the ultimate male pleasure. No, my boys are kept chaste. True or not, I like to think all that built up gism abets my efforts, accumulating to further swell that which I seek... large... bulbous testes.

My boy begins to sweat. It’s a normal reaction to the intensity of the trauma... physical... emotional. He has by now come to realize the inevitable... that while he so desperately wants the cessation of the daily torture... it will only come when he and his plums part ways. Yes, he knows he’ll be put to pasture... my term for wiling away the remainder of his life as a castrate. Meek, docile, harmless, the memories of me, my hand, my stick, shall never fade. Yes, he will try to recall his virility, the times when he was free to play with his penis, free to relish in the rush of spurting male essence. Yet as he lies and takes a fourth ‘tap’, he knows his organs are doomed.

Yes, I want them... and I shall have them... large, luscious, swelling with ripeness... symbolizing male power.... but when encased and bedecking my trophy room... more symbolizing my power... that of the governing female.

A fifth tap, the rush of air diminishes, but his firmness not. During the pause I tenderly brush my hand over the hairless sac, chemically depilated for many days in preparation. Yes the balls... my balls... are swelling. By hour’s end such will be pressing against his well spread thighs.

With the sixth tap, I sense the erection is wavering. The lurch becomes more of a slight tug. Though the cerebral cortex sends its message of flight, exhausted muscles fail to respond.

"I’ll soon have you yoked and you’ll be otherwise free to frolic," offering words of inspiration.

He knows an impressive shiny steel yoke for neck and wrists awaits the boys whom I have harvested. There will be those who will enjoy sodomizing him, the eventual soft flabby flesh of the neutered male found to be attractive. With hands and wrists restrained, he’ll not offer resistance... instead obsequiously bending and kneeling to accept the potent penetration... feeling the virility of the intact... sensing the intensity of the male thrust... that which I will forever deny to him.

It keeps the intact inmates calmed... easier to command. And the matrons enjoy watching.

Another tap and I am disappointed that most of my boy’s vigor seems to have waned. Yes, there comes eventual acceptance. Even that gush of air from the lungs abates. And I must smile in how facilely the male is tamed. My taps, applied to any other portion of the anatomy, would be felt as mosquito bites.

But not here... not where I choose to ready for collection... choose to evidence the dominion of femininity.

The scrotum turns to a bulbous mass of purple. I note the absence of deep crimson, my expert hand, the precision force, avoiding the discoloration which would require many, many days to heal. Such unsightliness is undesired. Meanwhile the gonads within blossom, my garden analogy seeming so apropos, expanding to press the thin flesh of the scrotal sac, bringing a fascinating sheen to skin stretched to noteworthy smoothness.

But I tap again. Pause. And again. No attempted resistance seen or felt. The penis goes limp, in my mind offering a sense of triumph. My boy now lies in a pool of perspiration, his psyche once again learning of the futility of fighting the tight bonds which serve to offer his nakedness to the whim of my hand and the torment stick.

One more tap and I inspect. The testicles have swollen to three times the size. Overnight, such will shrink... but not return to normal size... not even to the size at the start. No, each and every agonizing session brings a permanent expansion. It requires weeks, but they will soon be the size of grapefruit... and I will pick them.
Before ending there comes a series of brief quick taps, assuring that the entire circumference has endured my handiwork. It emphasizes the vulnerability. Nothing, not an inch of flesh, avoids my attention.

Ending the ordeal, I return the table to its original length then release, lower and resecure the feet. I reach to encourage, tenderly pinching my boy’s cheek.

"Just a few more days and you’ll be yoked and offering yourself to your fellow inmates. The nurses will keep you clean and well lubricated and you’ll learn the joys of prostate manipulation."

My boy docilely murmurs into the penis gag. At some point, I will have to ascertain what it is they want to tell me. I like to think they are humbling offering thanks... the twisted communication of masochist to sadist.

Before departing, I cup the massive plums and lift, offering my boy a view of my efforts while I in turn imagine them adorning my trophy case.

Such a curiously woeful look in return... I do believe he’s offering them to me... so desirous to conclude the daily torment.

"Almost saline time," I proclaim with enthusiasm.

We must ensure that the flesh of the scrotum can accommodate the nice big set of balls I want to propagate. So to add to the physical trauma of my incessant tapping there will next come the mental trauma of a saline infusion of the scrotal sac. Yes, my boy will docilely lie and watch as a tending nurse slips an intravenous needle into the top of the ball sac and supervises as close to a liter of solution very slowly flows to infuse his scrotum, inflamed genitals within, expanding it to something the size of a party balloon.

We must make room for those nice plumped balls of mine.

As I step away, I note the photos and artifacts placed on the wall at easy gazing level above the feet of my supine donor. High above is the waiting shiny steel yoke, a four foot length of polished metal, recently fabricated openings measured to perfectly enshroud his neck and wrists. Below hangs the brief little pink skirt my boy will wear while ‘grazing’ in the prison yard. Really nothing more than the tutu of a lithe ballerina, offering covering for no significant part of the anatomy, instead worn as the symbol of his new status. It won’t impede anal sodomy for even a second... instead being suggestive and rather inviting.

To the right and left of the frilly pink, our dear psychologist has posted a bevy of photos... pairs of inmates... typically a large black inmate and his ‘girl’... a smaller naked and yoked Caucasian. Depicted in the photos are various poses and acts... some poignantly affectionate... others offering lustful scenes of anal coupling... fellatio as foreplay... later tongue and lips cleansing in obeisant aftercare.

There is no doubt that my boy knows what awaits after I have harvested my trophies.

In one of my favorite photos, a virile black inmate demonstrates his sexual prowess, shown deeply penetrating a humble neutered boy who bends with tutu pushed up to his waist. In the background, three smiling matrons can be seen enjoying the scene of sodomy as the inmate shows off.

Yes, they love to watch the daily homoerotic antics we so much encourage.

"You’re young... almost pretty," I suggest in offering words of consolation as I note that my boy also gazes most woefully at the wall which deliberately instills psychological duress.

"You’ll have no trouble being adopted."

Yes, once neutered, yoked, tutu adorning his waist, pierced, urethral valve inserted, my boy will be reintroduced to the general prison population. There will be some arguments... possibly a scuffle or two... but in the competitive jungle of prison life, my boy will end up in the care of some alpha male. The ‘bitch’ of some nicely muscled, well endowed inmate, my boy will soon be licking, sucking, bending then cleansing just as in the photos.

Yoked, someone will need to feed him, his wrists only to be freed for occasional medical care. Plus, there is the ingenious urethral valve, ensuring his capitulation to a man... a real man... intact... one I have not harvested.

Yes, our nurses are most adept. For inserted into the penis tip, cleverly designed with tiny sharp prongs, fashioned such that slipping inward is facile, slipping outward painfully impossible, will be a short metal tube with a valve. Opened only by inserting almost any slim length of metal... perhaps even a tooth pick... my boy cannot.... will not... empty his bladder without assistance. Someone will need to hold his penis and consistently press inward, ensuring that the valve remains open by utilizing a small rod, while my boy empties himself.

So in addition to needing feeding care, he’ll also be begging for assistance with the most basic of bodily functions.

Yes, any homophobia will very quickly be subdued. My boy will have his penis handled by another male several times per day. And I know how he will reciprocate for the tender care.

My thoughts are interrupted as a pretty young nurse enters pushing a wheeled stanchion, a sizable clear plastic bag of saline hanging from a hook, tubing dangling below. She nods at me, assesses my boy then smiles.

"What a nice big set of balls you have waiting for me," she gushes.

'Tagged' has been released

2011-09-23T08:54:00.001-07:00

At long last 'Tagged' has been released on the Erotic Book Network.

http://eroticbooknetwork.com/featured-products/tagged.html

Enjoy.

'96 Months' XXV

2011-09-22T05:08:00.000-07:00

The Countess must have loosened the ropes on my neck band for when the daylight returned I was leaning forward, still impaled, but my forehead rested on her shoulder. Her arms were wrapped around me in a mother’s embrace. For some reason tears of relief and pleasure were streaming from my blue eyes.

"Well, Little One, off hand I’d say you rather enjoyed that."

The Countess made light of my extreme physical reaction. I could only rest as she released my ankles from the waist band.

"You’ve made a terrible mess of my thigh. It’s all wet and scratched."
In my mad rush to orgasm I had completely forgotten about my diamonds. The Princess had deliberately implanted them to curtail vaginal sex, and this was exactly what the pony ride had achieved.

"Can you stand for me?"

I planted my feet. As I rose a distinctive "plop" was heard as the huge dildo was evacuated from my colon. The Countess smiled and released the ropes from my neck band.

"I think my leg needs your attention."

Covered with my orgasmic fluids, the Countess’s wet leg reflected in the late morning sunlight. The deep red abrasions from my diamonds were also apparent and I immediately knelt and cleaned the offended area with my tongue. I was amazed at how the Countess had sat and accepted the painful scratches while I availed myself of the pleasure of her warm, smooth flesh and touch. I didn’t fully understand it. Certainly the Princess would not have tolerated such torment while I wallowed in the ultimate climax. It was a gift from the Countess. Something a truly perceptive dominatrix occasionally affords an obedient and worthy submissive. A symbol that a true dominant is impervious to suffering... that which would cause a submissive to cower and whimper.

I finished attending to her thigh and noticed that under the short white cotton tennis skirt she was naked. Her pussy hair was well trimmed and her excited red lips seemed to invite my oral ministrations. Yet I received no command and therefore took no presumptions.

"You know the rules."

She pointed toward the dildo still attached to her leg. I dutifully licked it clean and she unstrapped and placed it in the cloth bag.

"You’re quite exciting to watch, Little One. Some of your body art accentuates that which makes a dominant enjoy a subjugated woman. But other parts make you appear as a wild bird, and your demeanor is that of an animal in heat. I’ll give my final evaluation to the Princess. But I will tell you right now, I cannot recommend with certainty what should be done with you."

I was most disappointed. Somehow, over the past few hours, I had envisioned myself as a pony at the Countess’s farm, working diligently under the crack of the whip to please my trainer.

"You’re too old to be a salable pony. My trainees are 19 at the most. And that’s after I’ve finished with them. You’re approaching 30. The most valuable girls are sold in teams. You can’t be trained as part of a team unless we remove the artwork or your partner is tattooed in exactly the same manner. Also you’re too short. I can barely see your genitalia when I stand in the cart. I like longer legs and higher pussy. Otherwise your strength is good, although difficult to judge since you’re wearing all that iron. No Little One. You won’t be a pony under my supervision. You’re not marketable."

Her words hurt me. I was hoping to leave the Princess behind after my sentence was completed. Although I certainly would have been subjected to endless humiliation and domination under the Countess, her style was much less painful. And, as I had just experienced, the rewards for good performance were most noteworthy.
What was to become of me? Tattooed and pierced like a pin cushion, I wondered what the scars would look like if I had the rings removed and let the my skin grow and close over the countless punctures. But what would it matter with the brightly colored tattoos covering my face and entire body?

The downward spiraling thought process was interrupted by the Countess. She had reached into her bag and retrieved a soft leather hood. It had a zipper in the back and a large sturdy ring was sewn into the top. The Countess had me kneel between her thighs to fit it on. There were holes for my mouth, nose and ears. But nothing for my eyes. The last thing I saw was her coifed pubic area and beautifully sculpted outer lips. I suddenly had an urge to kiss her there. I craned my neck forward as she pulled a zipper and the hood snugly conformed to the contours of my head. She placed a hand on my shoulder and stopped me. I felt the warmth of her breath as she knowingly whispered very close to my ear.

"No. Little One. You’re not ready to serve me there."

I was led back to the cart completely blinded. The Countess pulled me by the small clitoral leash and clumsily followed as best I could. This time I was harnessed nearest the driver for I could feel the Countess’s hand on my backside when she stepped into the cart.

"This will be a test of your obedience and courage, Little One. We’ll start slowly but by the time we take the last path back to the stable, you’ll be laboring to pull this cart at full speed, completely dependent on the tugs of the reins."

It was terrifying. I couldn’t see anything and had to concentrate on the tugs of the nose ring. I was most grateful for the Countess’s encouraging touch. When I failed to turn in time, or tripped I received a vicious slap on one of my breasts. It wasn’t her hand. She must have brought a rubber device of some kind with her. But after I righted myself and directed the cart in the proper direction, she would lovingly smooth her free hand over my derriere or even play very gently with my pussy. She was masterful. I really wanted to please her and I tried hard to do so. But I was blinded.

With amazing patience we spent the remainder of the morning slowly meandering through the paths. After an hour she finally seemed satisfied and I realized that we had successfully made many turns and were moving at a fairly brisk pace. (Keep in mind reader that the weight of the steel bands greatly inhibited any rapid movements.) The whip cracked without touching me and having been trained to react to the sound as well as the feel, I dug my feet into the sand, pumped vigorously with my legs and pulled with all my strength. The cadence of the bells sped up. I felt my perspiration running to down my legs and was most proud of my performance. Soon I heard applause and realized we were near the house. Young giggles indicated that Paul and Paula found my display most amusing.

Still blinded by the hood, the Countess released me from the cart and led me into the stable by the short strap. I walked with more confidence and kept my freed hands on the back of my head as instructed.

"How about a nice douse and rub down?"

I believe she directed me to the middle of the stable where I was displayed every day to the livestock. She connected a cable to my waist band then pushed my head down so that I bent at the waist. A cable was snapped onto the ring of my leather hood. Next, cables were connected to each wrist then she picked up my right foot and deftly hooked the ankle band to a cable. Lastly came my left ankle which brought my weight off the floor. I was suspended in a prone position, parallel to the floor at waist level. It was surprisingly comfortable, my weight was evenly distributed and the smooth broad bands had been designed to hold me in suspension for long periods.

As she gently sprayed me with warm water, the Countess again talked of her farm.

"After every training session the ponies are washed and massaged. I have assistants that do most of the work, but I make sure that I personally wash and rub down each pony at least twice a week. It’s important that I monitor the muscle development and the condition of their skin. Every pony is different in terms of reaction to the whip. One never wants to scar a pony. It detracts from the value."

She toweled me dry. She had an amazingly delicate touch, considering the whipping and the breast slaps she had doled out. She began to apply a warm oil. It felt wonderful. She worked my back and arms and the odd manner in which I was suspended provided her access to every part of my body, front side and back.
"This is how I get to know my ponies. Every nook and cranny. Every blemish. Where the whip has chastised the skin the most. You can imagine the reaction of sixteen and seventeen year old girls. Stripped naked and suspended. Sometimes I just stand back for a few minutes and watch the new girls flush with embarrassment. I inspect everything. It’s important not only to the physical process of development but to the mental process of breaking their will. Making them realize that they are property and that their owner has the rights of ownership, and responsibility of care of course."

She was kneading my breasts as she explained this and it occurred to me that coincidentally with the massage she was giving me a breast exam. Very carefully pulling and then squeezing a portion of each breast, evidently searching for lumps.

"It’s debasing, humiliating. Many girls just cry during the entire first inspection. But the process works. Within a few weeks they accept the fact that their body has a new owner and care and grooming is no longer their concern. Their appearance and care is completely under my control."

The Countess moved to my legs and buttocks. Here, she used her strong arms and hands to provide maximum pressure as each muscle in the legs and buttocks was pulled, squeezed, rolled by her palms and kneaded. She was an expert. But here again she was also examining my muscle development and occasionally pointed out little weaknesses or areas of good development.

I was becoming quite relaxed, almost groggy. (Remember, reader, I had not slept or been allowed to rest in a lying position in years.) I think I fell asleep as the Countess worked over my feet. She remarked that it was the most important part of a ponies anatomy and spent much time on them, even massaging each toe. I came about after she had moved to my front.

"Open your mouth Little One. Let’s do a complete inspection."

I complied and soon felt her fingers probing about, pushing back my lips to look at each tooth.

"The Princess really got into the tattooing," she laughed, "what a shockingly blue tongue!"

She had stretched it out of my mouth and seemed to enjoy toying with it. Lantita’s tongue training became evident to her. She knew enough to realize it was abnormally long and nimble. I could tell she was contemplating something as she paused, then firmly pulling the tip well beyond my lips she stuck two fingers far down my throat. She wriggled them about, poking and prodding and I finally began to gag.

"Very good. You’re orally well disciplined. It’s one of the hardest things for a young pony to learn. Many of their future owners or trainers will be using them here and those poor young throats are most sensitive to foreign objects."

She was still poking as she explained and I spasmodically swallowed again and again as she feverishly worked to thrust her fingers as deep as possible.

"Occasionally a new pony will bite. But she’ll only do it once."

Tears formed in my eyes and I began to cough and gag. I could only imagine how demeaning, mentally and physically, this type of examination would be to a teenaged girl.

Finally, she withdrew her fingers and released my tongue. Within moments I felt my ankles being separated by tugs on the cables. Wider and wider. The movement stopped after my feet and legs were grossly split. I could feel the room air on my vaginal lips. The small gold chains pulled the rings apart as my thighs separated. The Countess again was adoring my diamonds.

"So pretty, Little One. Your blue privates, gold and diamond jewelry are marvelously salacious. This is the type of viewing a pony owner puts his girls through. There’s no point in developing a girl’s backside if you can’t enjoy it. Of course pink is the preferred color, but blue is a nice change."

She was laughing as she spoke and toying with my pussy. I lurched in my bonds when she inserted one then two fingers into my vagina. She explored me there, testing one side of the vaginal wall then the other. Pushing in a little further, then retreating, then pushing.

"You’re very tight here. Such a firm little box. Hasn’t anyone used you here?"
I replied in the negative, surprised to hear my own voice.

"Well, with my girls I open them up and give them a good stretching at least once a week. But if the Princess has a policy, we’ll be less aggressive."

Her knowing fingers worked away. It felt wonderful. No person or object, not even a douche nozzle had penetrated me in years. I became very wet and began to push my hips back toward her in an effort to encourage greater penetration.

"Well, Little One, so eager."

The fingers of her free hand began circling my anus. She was adding more oil.

"At the farm we don’t have suspension cables like this. Since we work with so many ponies, the equipment has to be simple, quick and easy to use. The holding area of the stable has floor stocks. They are just two pieces of wood about four feet long hinged at one end and opened and closed at the other. We have about ten sets lining one wall, ten on the other. When not being trained or bathed or massaged, the pony steps into the stock, places her ankles into the two outside holes. Then she bends over a leather belt, sort of a swing, and places her wrists into the two inner holes. A trainer can then push closed the stock securing the pony for the remainder of the day or for the night. The pony is restrained in a sitting position supported by the swing holding at the tummy, offering access to her privates... and exposed... always well exposed.. It brings the mental capitulation I insist on.

"It’s simple. A single trainer can secure my entire herd in a minute. The outer stock latches itself to the other. In the morning all the stocks can be unlatched just as easily.

"And morning’s when it’s most fun to be in the stable. A trainer walks down each line kicking open the stock with her foot. Thus released the ponies line up to use the toilet. Teams most go together. All ponies go on the command of a supervisor. It’s very embarrassing for the new girls but they get used to it. And I observe at least twice a week, particularly when the ponies move their bowels. It’s important that their nutrition be properly monitored. I have a special toilet facility where the ponies straddle two long smooth brass pipes and relieve themselves into a large basin, it looks like a long, low bathtub with a large drain at one end. I watch and judge the size, color, and moisture of their movement. From this information I regulate the diet accordingly. Teams go together. Its interesting to watch them straddle the brass together and try to coordinate. For if they don’t they’re punished. For new teams its very difficult. Some times I have to use suppositories to help them get into sync.

"Then its on to a large open shower room for shaving if needed and a quick rinse. Lastly, their thumbs are hooked together behind their backs. All the ponies wear small but strong thumb rings.

It’s the only restraint device I allow other than a nose ring. As I’ve indicated I want the ponies absolutely stripped naked, too many cuffs and restraint devices provide covering.

"Well, as the morning ablutions finish the ponies gather in the yard and when they’re all together, Rex takes them for a run. You’ve seen his talent. Rex can handle many ponies, keeping them exercising at a brisk pace and also, most importantly preventing any mutual masturbation. The one problem with simple restraint devices is that, although they can’t touch themselves, the ponies can use their fingers to manipulate each other. Rex is well aware of this and won’t allow it."

As the Countess was talking, one, then two fingers worked themselves into my back passage. She was very gentle, and there was little resistance since I had been opened there by Abdul.

"Your sphincter is excellent. Strong but flexible. Give my fingers a good squeeze, Little One. Yes. That’s it. Abdul must find you very pleasurable."

She continued working me there and I soon felt a third finger enter.

"Just relax. We have much time. Help out a little. Try and push out my fingers."

I did and felt a fourth finger enter me.

"Good. Well after a good hour or so Rex herds the ponies back and they’re fed. After that training begins.

Each pony is in a different stage of development so some go through dressage, others are hitched to a cart. Some have remedial exercise, special workouts I put them through to strengthen certain muscles. You’d be surprised how many ponies I get where the buttocks are perfectly formed but there is very little muscle structure. A firm layer of fat can look good, but won’t help pull a cart. Under my strict training that changes to muscle.

"Push out again for me. Come on."

Her two fingers in my vagina wriggled about encouraging my anal response. I pushed as if to move my bowels and unbelievably I felt her thumb join her four fingers.

"Relax, Little One. Let me work you. I do this with each of my ponies once a week. We get to know each other very well and it establishes a gratifying level of control. Think about a sixteen, seventeen year old girl being fisted like this. They soon learn that I own their mind as well as their body and any and all resistance fades. Some arrive as virgins and I have to break the hymen. In some countries that diminishes the value of the girl, but not with ponies. Their function is to serve, work at the end of a tether and please a master or mistress. Sexual experience or inexperience is meaningless. But it is interesting to be the one to ravish the pony’s symbol of virtue. Most cry, others are just too scared. But its just another part of the program."

The Countess had her entire hand penetrating me. It was simultaneously uncomfortable and reassuring. Reassuring in that this large strong women, a masterful dominatrix, should be inside me, feeling my most private of functional areas.

"With some ponies I fist their vaginas at the same time. It’s quite debilitating. They dare not move and feel helplessly impaled. I control them completely. Let me work myself in, Little One. I can feel your heart beat, and my two fingers in your pussy can feel my right hand squirm and move up your back side. Soon I will demonstrate my control."

Helplessly suspended by the cables I could do nothing as her hand slithered into me. Occasionally she balled it into a fist, other times wriggled her fingers. With each of these subtle movements I writhed with the odd sensation of pain and pleasure. I felt like a stuffed bird. Every time I pushed against her hand to evacuate it, the muscle contraction allowed her to slide her hand in further. She would then ball her hand to encourage me to contract again.

"If your diamonds weren’t so sharp, Little One, my left hand would be in your womb right now."

I had little doubt that this powerful and implacable woman would not in fact impale me there also.

"If you were mine I’d eliminate most of this metal. The bands, most of the rings, they’re not necessary to control a pony and it affords too much covering. My ponies are totally naked. A nose ring, yes. Thumb rings, yes. A clitoral ring, maybe. But not all these. Within days of arrival, even the most recalcitrant pony will stand as instructed for hours with their hands behind their head, behind their back, wherever. And in any pose I command. It’s part of the training that they learn to pose. Every pony is auctioned at some point. Even the ones I don’t own and train for others. Therefore it is important that they learn to exhibit themselves and show off for a potential bidder.

"My auction and exhibition room is one of the largest in the business. Twenty to thirty interested buyers surround a circular stage about two feet high. In the middle of the stage is an opening to the floor below. That’s where I stand so I have the same view as my customers. I bring the Pony out completely naked. They hold their hands behind their heads as commanded and I lead them by a long pole attached to the nose ring, just as I used this morning on you for dressage. I carry a small riding crop for effect, but it is never used. At that point in their training the ponies are quite docile and eager to please.

"The pony follows me up onto the stage and I lead her with the tether, head up, knees pumping high with every step. They’re trained to land softly on their toes when on display, and with their shoulders held back, their small firm breasts point straight ahead. It’s a very titillating scene for the connoisseur. After once or twice around the stage, I bow to the applause then step down into the middle. This allows everyone to focus attention on the pony and I can walk her with the tether and have the same view as the audience.

"Buyers with serious interest come closer, needing to observe every minute detail of the pony’s muscle and flesh. The casual viewer and connoisseur knows that the more pleasurable view is at a distance.

"By that stage of a pony’s training, they are well aware of the salacious exhibitions a trainer or owner requires and all modesty has been, not so much removed, as taken from them. It is amazing how they become almost eager to pose in the most debasing positions. Even ponies who maybe a little reluctant know that by the end of the auction every part of their most intimate anatomy will be exposed and inspected. Therefore, in order to proceed with the bidding and end the exhibition they are compliant.

"I usually open the auction and receive six or seven the bids. Then, the top three bidders are allowed five minutes of hands on inspection. Not as thorough as yours was this morning, but a good buyer knows where potential weaknesses can be and immediately subjects that area to close inspection. This system also encourages casual bids, some people attend just to become one of the top three so they can have the enjoyment of giving a pony a good close examination. I have one woman who buys very rarely but almost always obtains inspection rights. She has become one of the finest judges of pony flesh that I know of and I welcome her as long as she occasionally bids aggressively.

"This woman can humiliate a pony faster than any owner or trainer I know. Her favorite inspection is to have the pony stand with feet wide apart, touching her toes. That’s when she splays the outer lips with her own hands and has the pony do a slow turn to reveal her most intimate parts to the crowd. Some ponies break down. Others flush. I think it helps bring in more bidders.

"After inspection, the bidding is reopened. If someone other than the top three wants to bid that is fine. But they bid without right of inspection."

The Countess’s hand was well inside me at that point of her story. I didn’t think she could go much further but she did begin to move her fingers about, then began to laugh.

"Do you have to go, Little One? I haven’t been very attentive. Why don’t you go for me?"

I had certainly learned over the years to respond to such requests. But restrained as I was, hanging face down at the end of cables was unusual, and with the Countess’s hand well inside me it became impossible for me to concentrate.

"Oh. Let me help you."

Again her fingers moved inside me. Her left hand exited my vaginal passage and rubbed my lower belly. She began pushing against my abdomen. Then the fingers of her penetrating hand moved inside me and I felt my liquid flow and heard a splatter on the tile floor. Was I doing this?

"Oh. Good girl. Let’s stop for a second."

Her fingers changed position and the flow curtailed. I was mortified. The Countess was in control of my most basic of functions. With her knowing fingers, she simultaneously pressured my bladder to start the flow, but then squeezed off my tubing with her penetrating hand. Over the next few minutes she turned the flow on and off at her whim, laughing and mocking me. I can only imagine what to be the reaction from the livestock. And the new blonde must have been agog.

The demonstration of the Countess’s complete control finally ended as my bladder emptied to the floor, although I would not have doubted she could have pressured me for more drops if challenged. I was grateful to be blindfolded for this most humiliating of displays.

"Now let’s see if you can bring yourself off, Little One. My hand is certainly bigger than Abdul’s manhood, I can manipulate you with my fingers better than any man can with his penis."

The Countess again played with my pussy with her free hand. The strange sensation of being stretched and penetrated seemed to promote some latent feeling of sensuality, for despite the enormous orgasms I had experienced at the oasis, she soon brought my vaginal passage to a slippery wetness. I struggled to close my thighs and grip the playful digits. She immediately recognized the reaction as the first step toward bringing me to another torturous climax, and the fingers began to withdraw. I pushed back with my hips and lower body to engulf them and this caused me to impale myself even further on the hand within my rectum. Soon I felt myself swinging on the cables. The combined discomfort of further anal penetration with the delicate, sensuous fingers in my pussy were maddening. The Countess laughed at my struggles and moved her fingers very little as I worked myself into a frenzy. The suspension cables allowed me some movement and I used it as best I could to friction my pussy on the Countess’s fingers. With each motion, a wave of sensation from my impaled backside flooded my brain’s pleasure center. I was shamelessly fucking the Countess’s hand as she laughed and on occasion twisted her hand in my backside. She let the frenzy continue, thoroughly enjoying my lewd antics, knowing full well how close I was to smashing through the invisible wall which kept me from jumping into the pit of orgasm.

Finally tiring of the game, she thrust her fingers well into my vagina, clenched her right hand into a fist, and when she hooked the fingers penetrating my pussy so they almost touched the fist in my colon, the resulting climax was as intense as I had ever felt. Bright lights seemed to shine right through the leather hood. Every muscle in my body went limp. I could feel my juices gush, then splatter onto the tiled stable floor.

Did she withdraw her hands? I must have swooned, for my feet touched the floor and I could hear the naked blond teenagers talking and laughing. Someone was releasing me from the torture of utmost pleasure.

'96 Months' XXIV

2011-09-19T04:24:00.000-07:00

The Countess took me into the stable and hitched me to the cart. She connected me to the front of the long pole which left an open space of about three feet between my backside and where she stood in the cart. She removed the thin gold chains which ran from my nose ring through my ear rings to the neck band. In their place were two long strands of leather, one connected to the nose ring, through, the ear ring on the right side, through a ring on the neck band and back to the cart. The other leather strand went through similar rings on my left.

"I won’t make you wear a bit today. It takes several sessions to become accustomed to the breathing when wearing one. Your nose ring will suffice. When I pull left you go left. Right when I pull right. Pulling both means slower. A sharp pull means stop. The whip will indicate when to start and speed up."

She left the stable and returned minutes later carrying a cloth bag. She had changed clothes from her tight soft leather skirt and halter and was now wearing what appeared to be a short white tennis outfit. Rex followed her from the house.

From her bag she retrieved a simple short length of soft leather, about five inches long. She knelt down and tied one end to my clitoral ring, letting the remaining four inches dangle between my legs.

I soon learned that the open space behind me on the pole (where Twelve had been tethered when Lantita took us out) worked to the Countess’s advantage. She was afforded full use of the long whip, where Lantita could only use a short one on the second pony. Again, the Countess’s strokes were crisp, well aimed and effective. There was no doubt that she was in control and it soon became second nature for me to respond to the tugs of the reins and crack of the whip. The cart was very heavy and the Countess was a large, well developed women, but after countless snaps, mainly on my breasts we attained a satisfactory speed. Rex scampered along beside me.

"Keep your knees apart, Little One, show me your diamonds. I want to see them sparkle in the sun."

It was an awkward way to run. Bent at the waist with legs apart, I learned that the Countess was right about the required use of different muscles. My bells were ringing in step with my feet as we found a good challenging pace. The devilish leather cord hanging from my clitoris swung in cadence with the bells and the small gold chains pulled at my labia rings. I found that I was slowly masturbating myself with each step, and the occasional sting of the whip spurred me on to keep the cord swinging. The Countess was a wizard at pony training. I was truly working very hard to please her and maintain the pleasurable sensation in my clitoris My breathing was heavy, sweat pored down my legs and my wet feet picked up dry particles of sand. The Countess had expertly brought me to a demanding but sustainable rhythm and she indeed was working me into a lather. My trainer seemed gratified and I, in turn felt a glow in performing for her.

After an hour of weaving through the paths of the farm, the Countess directed me toward the oasis and picnic area. There she stopped the cart and inspected me, smoothing her hands over my stomach and legs. She slipped her hand between my thighs and felt for my the labia rings. Inserting two fingers into my pussy she wriggled them about and laughed.

"Goodness, Little One. You’re gushing. Doesn’t the Princess masturbate you?"

It had been three weeks since my last visit to Abdul and I was indeed in need of relief. I indicated as such to the Countess.

"Well. You’ve been good. Let’s take care of that. But first, empty your bladder for me like a good pony girl"

She was holding apart my lips as she spoke and her request came as a surprise. In the stable I just let myself go on the tiled floor as did the livestock and in the house Paul or Paula held the urn under me. Having her hold me there was strange but over the past few hours I had become accustomed to her control and somehow felt comforted as she toyed with a nipple with her free hand. I soon splattered the sandy soil with my fluid and she aimed the flow away from my feet.

"Very good."

Next she held a water jug for me to drink and spooned some of the farm’s special mush into my mouth. She was quite delicate and caring and she inspected my reddened breasts while I ate.

"Your skin takes nicely to the whip, Little One. The years of caning have produced a ruggedness and durability most pony girls don’t have."

Rex sat and watched attentively, ready to jump at any command. He seemed very interested in me and I could tell he was specially trained to attend to ponies.

"Why don’t you take a swim with Rex?"

She unhooked me from the cart.

"Rex. Swim!"

She pointed to the pond and Rex instantly began barking and growling. I began to walk toward the water and he nipped at my leg.

"When outdoors, Rex always keeps his ponies running, Little One. And don’t touch yourself."

The Countess read my mind as it was one of the few times my hands were free. I ran to the pond with Rex barking and he forced me straight into the water. It was cold! The oasis must feed from deep below the surface. But then, the desert temperature was well into the nineties therefore any liquid would feel cold by comparison. My nipples immediately hardened but the cold felt good on my excoriated skin. Rex swam also. I had to be very careful wearing the steel bands. The added weight made it difficult to stay afloat. The Countess sat on a rock with the cloth bag. I could see her retrieving things and hanging cords from the branch above her.

It was a very pleasant morning and the swim continued I contemplated the differing styles of control and domination between the Countess and the Princess. I feared the Princess and therefore obeyed. With the Countess I wanted to obey and she provided a girl with just the right incentives to want to obey. But with both women, obedience was attained.

Rex and I swam for about twenty minutes. The freedom of movement was a rare treat. The Princess was a firm believer in restraint and I hadn’t slept in a prone position much less been allowed to move about for years. Finally the Countess called to Rex and the canine in turn herded me back toward to cart. My freedom was short lived.

I trotted to the Countess. She was sitting on a rock with two strong ropes hanging from a tree limb above her. But I was shocked to see a large dildo strapped around her exposed right thigh just above the knee. It was big and thick pointing straight to the sky.

"Over here, Little One. I have a treat for you."

She beckoned to me as my trot slowed in confusion. Rex nipped me and I sped up.

"You’re going on a ride. Come on, you’ll enjoy it."

The Countess spread her legs and guided me to stand straddling her right thigh. She attached a rope to a ring on each side of my neck band. She had various "D" clamps ready and she very gently reached around and lubricated my rectum.

Satisfied with the condition of my back passage, she clamped my wrist cuffs behind my back and spoke.

"Abdul tells me you enjoy having your backside used. Well, I’m going to show you a special little amusement I reserve only for good pony girls."

She tightened and adjusted the ropes then slowly brought up her thigh until the tip of the thick rubber phalanx met my blue tattooed orifice.

"Be good and take it. You’ll enjoy it. I promise."

Over the years of programmed stretching my once tight grotto opened and the head slipped in with minimal discomfort. She pulled, tightening the ropes more with her strong arms and the tip of dildo slipped out a little as my body rose. She then raised her thigh a little, reinserting the rubber manhood. Next she pulled up my right ankle and clamped it back to my waist band. When she picked up the left ankle, my weight shifted so that I hung from the neck band, then forced to assume a kneeling position, I was slowly impaled as she raised her thigh and slid in more of the dildo. It was a strangely helpless, but somewhat pleasurable sensation. My labia pressed against the smooth flesh of her thigh. Feeling her warmth I couldn’t help rubbing my neglected pussy against her leg.

"Yes, Little One. Use the Countess’s leg. Go ahead enjoy."

Being so encouraged I bucked forward and back, frottaging on her leg. After a few seconds she lowered her thigh which simultaneously retracted the dildo and increased the tension on my neck. The pleasure was sensational and I looked straight into her smiling face and could tell she reveled in the control she had. Next she slowly raised her thigh, thus fucking my anus with the dildo attached to her leg. With just this double action I could have ridden all day and climaxed over and over. But then she reached down and grabbed the little leather strap attached to my clitoral ring. I thought I would faint as she held it and countered my forward and back frottaging motion with the slightest of yanks on the strap.

"Yes, Little One. We call this the pony ride back at the farm. A little pony gets to ride the trainers knee. My girls aren’t ringed like you but suitable stimulus to the clitoris is easily found."

Up. Down. Forward. Back. Visions of riding on my father’s knee when I was a child crossed my mind. I supposed the similar posture and position were intentionally conceived by the Countess. After all, the psychological side of dominance is as important as the physical.

I could feel my juices begin to run down my thighs and I could only imagine how wet the Countess’s thigh was. Rex was barking and becoming quite excited, with my scent I supposed.

The Countess began to exaggerate her leg motion and the full length of the dildo was sliding in and out of my once tight rectum. She felt my orgasm coming before I did. Her left hand began toying with my right nipple. Pinching. Twisting. Pulling. I opened my mouth and let out a loud groan. Then a cry. It was then that she leaned forward and took my left nipple in her mouth. I gasped for breath. She bit my left nipple, pinched my right and gave the clitoral strap a brisk pull. I clenched my thighs around hers and could feel a stream of fluid escape. I cried out again as the enormous orgasm cascaded through my entire nervous system.

"Oh. Yes Little One. Attack my leg. Crush the big penis between your buttocks. This is as good as it gets. Restrained and forced to make love to my thigh and a rubber phalanx. Come on give me more. You’re not done yet."

I wasn’t. Two more clenches, not as strong as the first, but seemingly as pleasurable. The flow gushed.

I think I swooned. All motion seemed to slow and then stop. My chin fell to the neck band . This was the position I assumed every night when sleep gratefully overcame my unending torment. But it had never happened during the day.

'96 Months' XXIII

2011-08-28T04:31:00.000-07:00

Hurricane here. Over reported with an over abundance of caution.
*******************************************************************************
I spent the night suspended in the guest bedroom as a party favor to the Countess. By the time the party broke up, it was fortunately very late and the Countess only played with me for a few minutes before retiring.

The morning was different. I woke early and helplessly watched the Countess sleep for another two hours. Usually Paul or Paula would wake and hold up a special urn for me to urinate. But in the guest bedroom I just waited, hanging with my steel bands hooked to cables at the foot of the Countess’s bed.

I held back forever until finally Lantita knocked on the door and announced it was time for exercise. The Countess awoke and smiled at me then instructed Lantita to enter.

“Time for her exercise and cleansing, Countess.”

“Oh. Take her. I’ll spend time with her later.”

Lantita noticed me squirming on the hooks.

“Goodness, Countess. Did you let her go this morning?”

Lantita went into the adjoining bathroom as she spoke and retrieved the urn. I had never felt such relief when she held it under my split legs. It is very difficult to control the relevant muscles in such a position and I amazed myself at how long I had remained in need and not soiled the rug. Lantita and the Countess laughed as my strong flow hit the urn.

“I’ll remember to take care of her in the future.”

The Countess’s remark seemed ominous.

Lantita took me to the exercise room where I was stretched and then placed on a stair machine. The Countess later came to watch and found the sweat glistening from my colored skin to be intriguing.

“Have you considered training her on a cart? She’s not big enough to be functional but she’d be an interesting lead in a tandem team, if you pair her with a big girl.”

“I’ve had her out once or twice, but pony training isn’t really what we do here.”

Listening to the conversation while gasping for breath, I shuddered at the thought of being trained by the Countess. She stepped closer and placed a hand on by right buttock. I could not stop working my legs. My nose ring and clitoral ring were attached to elastic cords emanating from the front of the stair machine. If I failed to keep up with the steps, tension on the cords resulted in enormous pain.

“Very nice muscle structure. You’ve worked her well.”

“It’s for the canings, Countess. She can take much more with a good thick layer of muscle.”

“Yes. Of course. And the art work highlights it so well! Why don’t I take her out on the paths. I saw a cart in the stable and I’ll work her into a good lather. There’s no sight like the flesh of a well trained pony sweating under the firm hand of a good trainer. She’ll look very interesting with her coloring proudly displayed. And those buttocks need attention. I have just the instrument.”

“I think the Princess will be receptive. We have to work on Ten, the Latino, for a while. You remember he was recalcitrant last night.”

My hour on the stair machine expired. Lantita let the Countess attach a special leash to my nose ring. It was only about eighteen inches long and she used it to guide me outside to the open area between the house and stable.

There she adjusted my arm bands so that my elbows were painfully secured together. Remember reader, much time had been expended in stretching and this was typical of the results. With elbows touching, although uncomfortable I could still function. And for the Countess, this posture accentuated my breasts. She playfully cupped them and kneaded my nipples.

“Yes. You have been well trained.”

The Countess cleared the yard area and oddly turned two outdoor patio chairs on their sides.

From the stable the Countess found an interesting ten foot long bamboo pole. I had seen it hanging on the stable wall but never knew what it was for. She also wielded a long whip. The Countess hooked the short leash on my nose to the end of the bamboo pole which she referred to as a training tether. She then stepped back and took the end of the pole in her left hand. In her right, of course was the whip.

“Now, Little One. A little dressage work.”

As she spoke she raised the pole over my head which pulled taught the leash on my nose ring. My nose followed of course and I was forced to hold my head up. With my elbows secured as they were, this put me in a most salacious posture. My breasts were prominently thrust forward and my buttocks were well displayed since I had to arch my back in order to relieve the pressure on the elbow restraints.

“Oh yes. Very pretty.”

The Countess moved to the middle of the yard area and cracked the whip. I jumped, first from the sound and second from the sharp sudden burn on my right buttock. Abdul had only caned me and I found the bite of the whip to be a completely different sensation. Its message of pain came quicker to the brain but also subsided quicker. But then again, I believe the Countess was playing with me. I’m sure the whip could be used more effectively on belligerent ponies.

With the crack, the Countess pulled forward on the pole and I stepped forward following it.

“That’s a good girl. We’re going to circle the yard a few times. I want to see your gait and how you use your muscles.”

Another crack. She was masterful with the wicked length of thin leather. Her arm barely moved but the whip snapped most effectively.

“Yes. A little faster. Let’s get you into a good lather. I want to see those tits bounce. Most ponies girls have small breasts. It’s just natural. So it’s fun watching yours bob.”

She directed me to jog in a large circle. She had to move a little, but only a step or two from the center.

“Now, let’s see you jump. Go over the chair.”

Crack!

“Yes. You take to it naturally. Lead with your right foot and follow with the left by drawing it up behind you.”

Crack!

She was outstandingly precise with the whip. Each crack just grazed my flesh providing a quick sting which would slowly turn to a somewhat glowing warmth. She never struck the same area twice. And the pain was just enough to hold my attention and encourage me to listen attentively to her commands, which I did.

“Very good. Little One. I wish you could see yourself. Your artwork accentuates your white breasts and buttocks making a very naughty scene... and a perfect target.”

Crack!

With her last comment the whip stung my right breast. She didn’t hit the nipple but I realized that she could if she wanted to. This thought clung to me and I redoubled my efforts at the end of the tether.

“Excellent. You’re beginning to perspire. The sun reflects nicely off your colors.”

Round and round we went, jumping over the chairs as directed. The bell attached to my clitoral ring had been removed for morning exercise on the stair machine. But the other bells remained attached to the rings on my arms, rib cage and legs. As I followed the Countess’s commands I realized that the bells began to ring in a pattern. As each of my steps touched the sandy soil the little chimes softly rung out and when I jumped over the chairs a vibrant chord was heard. The Countess worked me energetically to eliminate any motion that would cause the bells to ring in between steps. It was time consuming and I concentrated on keeping my arms and midsection free of unnecessary movement so that the bells rang in unison with the motion of my feet.

“You’d like it at my farm, Little One. I have anywhere from 10 to 20 ponies under training. Mostly young girls, some boys and an occasional gelding. Thorough training only takes a few months if the pony arrives submissive. If they have to be broken in from start it can take a year.”

Crack!

The Countess proceeded to tell me all about her farm as we continued the odd dance of trainer and pony. It was a fascinating story. And I realized it was part of the training. To be able to subconsciously react to the direction of the whip and tether while listening to her speak was a test of my concentration.

“Some ponies I purchase for my own account, train then sell. Others are sent by owners and are trained for a fee. There’s no feeling of control like taking an unbroken filly out for her first session. They’re frightened and eager to please but of course most are clumsy. Yet I will occasionally get a girl with some ballet training. That’s when perfection can be achieved very quickly. They understand the importance of posture, timing, and the use of strength with the appearance of elegance. The best female ponies aren’t built like you. They’re tall with modest breasts. Any weight above the waist, whether it be fat or muscle, is superfluous. Therefore I prefer to begin with a slim girl and build her calves, thighs and buttocks. And she must be high slitted. An owner likes to see a cute pouch as the pony bends over in the harness. Two pink lips peeking back at the top of the thighs is the preferred presentation.”

Crack!

“The toughest thing is training a team, particularly if they will be harnessed side by side. Most owners are perfectionists and insist that a team work in perfect unison. Each step exactly in time. It sounds easy, but when a team starts up, the first step must be simultaneous and then as they accelerate or slow down the feet must stay together.”

Crack!

“A team must think alike, be able to read each others mind. Most good teams are comprised of lesbians or bisexuals. If they aren’t when I start they usually are when I finish.”

Crack! The Countess was laughing.

“I start by binding a team together for a few days. I have special harnesses which secure the head of each girl to the waist of the other. Yes their faces are secured right into the crouch of the other. They eat and sleep lying on the stable floor. They’re free to lick, bite scratch, whatever they want to do to each other. It’s interesting to watch them roll on the floor and try to achieve dominance by being on top. Food is eaten from the privates of the other. And when it comes to relieving themselves the fun really gets going. But it achieves a purpose. Over the days they get to know each other and develop mutual respect, perhaps even adoration. The only way one gets her pussy serviced is if she services the other. When one has to urinate she must coordinate with the other to avoid wetting her face. In a few days they may not like each other but they learn to work together. After all, when harnessed to a cart, if one makes a mistake their owner is going to whip them both.”

Crack! This time to my breast. Her dexterity amazed me. The slightest error could cause the whip to tear out one of my many gold rings. Yet, she didn’t come close to them.

“After a few days they are ready for dressage, just as we’re doing now. They’re tethered together and every motion must be in tandem. The progress is gratifying to watch. Slim young girls learning to walk, prance, jump in step with each other. And of course there is heavy exercise. Rex takes all the ponies for a long morning run. Later we have special exercise classes conducted by therapists, highly paid I might add, to help sculpt the necessary muscles. You’re going to find that pulling a cart requires strength in areas not normally used. Particularly when bent at the waist and encouraged to pull with widely spread thighs and knees.”

She stopped pulling the pole with her left hand and I stopped to avoid stress on the nose ring.

“Let’s go the other way, Little One.”

The Countess changed hands. Pole in right, whip in left and I pranced clockwise. Amazingly, she could deliver the same sharp precise cracks left handed.

“It takes months to train a team in every detail. Some very demanding owners will insist that every function be performed in unison, right down to bodily functions. Yes, a good team will learn to toilet together so they don’t have to be untethered.”

Crack!

“Keep the knees up, Little One. That’s it.

“I don’t like a pony with a lot of paraphernalia. A simple leather neck collar is all I like to see. Fancy pony gear it becomes too distracting. At time of sale my ponies are exhibited naked, pubes shaven and hair cut short. They don’t need to be restrained. My training cures them of any bad habits and Rex can immediately determine if anyone has been playing with themselves. No. The pony stands on a small pedestal for viewing and follows any commands to display special areas of interest. Neat and simple. No jewelry, cuffs, straps, ropes, chains. If a potential owner saw that restraints were necessary he or she wouldn’t buy. Teams are tethered at the neck, of course. Teams are always tethered together. That’s the rule.”

Crack!

“You have good wind. Lantita has done a good job with you.

“My farm isn’t all discipline and training. Teams can frolic on occasion. After a good session I’ll secure them face to face and let them go at it. It also gives me some recreation, watching two nubile young pony girls rub themselves into a frenzy. It can become a very athletic performance with ponies who are near the end of training. Well muscled thighs and buttocks grinding away, tight little erect nipples. And all the pony girls have large outer lips. It’s a feature I insist on in all my ponies, kind of a trademark. Watching the lips hang and swing with each step is an important part of the viewing pleasure of riding in the cart. So when these girls go at it in a lesbian embrace it can be quite a sight.”

Crack!

The Countess’s lewd descriptions and sensual use of the whip was having its effect. I could feel my wetness and I’m sure she noticed.

“Stop! I think you’re ready.”

New Site for CB books

2011-08-24T02:38:00.000-07:00

Pink Flamingo has completed its site for 'non-consensual' D/s stuff where most of my former PF material will be offered.

See below.

And someone please explain this to me... are there sites for non-consenual crime and murder mysteries? vs. a site for consenual murder mysteries?

*************************************************************************

From Lizbeth Dusseau at PF...

Exciting News From Pink Flamingo! Our New BDSM website is on-line. We still have some images and ebooks to upload, but all paperbacks are ready for sale now and the rest should be ready by the end of next week.

Erotic Book Network, featuring Pink Flamingo Publications BDSM erotica…

http://www.eroticbooknetwork.com/

*********************************************************************

More in a note to authors (my emphasis added in color)...

We’re pleased and excited to announce the launch of our new BDSM website:

Erotic Book Network (EBN)

www.eroticbooknetwork.com is now online!

Featuring the entire Pink Flamingo Publications BDSM catalog.

On this site we’ll include all titles with BDSM content, including the nonconsensual titles that were removed due to bank/credit card restrictions. We’ll also include consensual BDSM titles that still appear on the main PF site.

If you access EBN now, you’ll note that we still have some work to do uploading images and ebooks. However, ALL paperbacks are available for ordering now. We expect most of the ebooks removed from the Pink Flamingo site to be up and ready for download by early next week. All books released in 2011 are ready for download now. It’s great to see these books online again!

And… We have secured a new credit card payment gateway for the EBN site so books can be purchased with credit card, paypal, check or money order.

If you have a website or blog we encourage you to post the new site information to your site. I know that many of our customers are as anxious as you are to see these books available again. If you would like banners to add, please send us an email.

New writer’s guidelines have been created for the EBN site and will be posted on the site shortly. We are continuing to accept new manuscripts for these titles.

There’s very little changed from our previous guidelines, but you might want to take a look.

Going forward…

The Pink Flamingo website will continue to include consensual BDSM titles, as well as spanking, general and other lighter erotica that will not appear on the EBN site.

We are currently prevented from adding live links from the PF site to EBN, but as we tweak the site there will be mention of EBN along other retailers of our products, like Kindle, Sony, Apple and Barnes & Noble and others.

Some stuff Available at Femdom Cave

2011-07-29T11:16:00.001-07:00

In view of the MC/Visa censorship debacle, Pink Flamingo has arranged for some of my stuff to be offered by FemDom Cave. See the link at the left.

'96 Months' XXII

2011-07-29T04:26:00.000-07:00

No posts over the weekend. I will be working to complete this story... the difficulty augmented by the fact that I am working on another book.

**********************************************************************************

"Ten, it’s your turn."

Here was trouble. The Latino never got synchronized with the Princess. She became visibly upset but said nothing. But as hard and erect as he was, he couldn’t pull the trigger. The Princess just glared down at him.

"Let’s go to Nine. And by the way if we get a good sample, it will be used right here."

She pointed to the blonde as she spoke.

The crowd cheered and all commented that the Nordic should be able to sire blonde offspring. And obviously if a girl were reproduced, she would be well endowed and if a boy, well hung.

The show ended with the Nordic coming on cue and the crowd toasted the Princess on her birthday.

Most of the crowd went back to the house. Some of the men stayed and, in being enthralled by the blonde’s large, well exposed vaginal passage fingered it with great enthusiasm.

As we left the stable the Princess took Lantita aside.

"Bring Ten to my office well chained. I’ll deal with him tomorrow. The Countess will be spending the night and I’ll have something to entertain her."

Lantita nodded and I shuddered to think of Ten’s fate in embarrassing the Princess before her friends.

I continued to serve drinks. All were getting tipsy and Rex again cornered me. I must profess some degree of pleasure from his hot, wet tongue but it was shameful to have everyone watching while he freely to had his way with me. The Princess again noticed and spoke loudly to the Countess.

"Shouldn’t we do something for poor Rex? He must have had a long day on your jet."

"Yes, Princess. He doesn’t travel well and there isn’t much for him to play with here. You know he has the run of my pony girls back home."

"Well of course. Little One, why don’t we go into my office?"

I placed the tray on a table and followed the Princess and Countess into the dreaded office where I spent every morning being tormented.

I can only attribute the next set of events to the large quantities of alcohol consumed. For Rex followed us into the office and the Princess closed the door.

"When you say he has the run of your pony girls, why don’t you show me what you mean?"

The smiling Countess nodded then gave a command and hand signal to Rex. Next she placed her hand on my buttocks and spoke a single word.

"Pony."

The Countess stepped back and suggested that the Princess move to the side of the room. It was shocking. Rex turned into a barking snarling beast and began nipping at the back of my knees. Not knowing what to do I finally understood that he wanted me to kneel. The Princess and Countess laughed as I complied.

"It’s a game he plays indoors. When outside he truly herds the girls for me. But be careful Little One. He really will give you a good nip if you disobey. Particularly with all those colors you’re wearing. He’s confused about what you are. To him you smell human but look like a huge bird."

Both women laughed at that comment then left the office, closing the door behind them. I was alone with Rex. He barked and growled and had me crawl all about the office. My arms remained secured at the elbows so my efforts to crawl were on two knees. After a time I learned his mannerisms and barked commands. He kept me moving about the office balanced on two knees until, apparently tiring of the game, he stood before me and growled. I stopped and he put his paws on my shoulders and pushed my face to the carpet. Through growls and nips at my legs, Rex indicated he wanted me to remain motionless. Just the nip of his sharp teeth was enough of a threat. I froze in the position desired, forehead on the carpet, kneeling, arms secured and my backside well above my head. Rex moved between my knees and began working his tongue between my cheeks. It was a grotesquely pleasant sensation. I could not help but spread my knees further and allow him full access and with long slow swipes of his tongue he attacked my pussy and anus. My juices began to flow. It was a sick feeling being turned on by a dog, but I had been denied vaginal intercourse for years and the physical relief was welcomed.

After several minutes of Rex’s oral ministrations, the office door opened and the Princess and Countess stepped in and watched. They laughed at my look of satisfaction.

"I think she and Rex are getting along just fine, Princess."

"Yes. But is that all Rex does? Paul and Paula can do that."

"Oh, no. Rex, take her!"

With the command from the Countess, Rex rose and placed his paws on my shoulders. I closed my eyes in disbelief that this could be happening. The two evil women laughed and shouted words of encouragement as the large Doberman struggled to find his mark.

"Help him, Little One, it will go faster for you."

What choice did I have? If I tried to crawl he would nip me. If I remained still the humiliation would continue. It was evident that the Princess and Countess were not going to call him off. Well, I arched my back, spread a little further and took him in my rectum.

Dogs work fast and fortunately he was no where near the size of Abdul, but the memory of the shame and humiliation would outlast the pain of penetration. The women had left the door open and as I felt Rex spending inside me, I looked up and saw Abdul. He was watching with an ironic smile that seemed to express both interest in the proceeding but sympathy for what was happening to me.
"Come Rex. Good boy."

The Countess called to the dog and gave him a pat and hug for his efforts. It was evident that he had been specially trained in such matters and I could only imagine what events took place at the Countess’s pony farm. She exited the room with Rex wagging his tail after his mistress.

Without a word Abdul left the room. The Princess left me to my thoughts.

"When you’re composed, there is much more to do. I want every guest to leave happy."

Paul and Paula were already working the guests when I finally got up from the floor and returned to the living room. Any guest desiring oral servitude was accommodated and I was assigned to a bedroom.

Mr. Hawkins was first and I knew exactly how to take care of his needs. The alcohol delayed his response but I soon enough had him gushing down my throat. He smiled and as he left indicated he had an idea for servitude after my sentence was completed.

I fellated two more men. No one demanded use of my backside. Word about my encounter with Rex had evidently spread among the guests. I had never felt so debased feeling Rex juices trail down my thighs as I sucked an on unknown cock. For the first time I looked forward to my morning enema.

'96 Months' XXI

2011-07-28T03:47:00.000-07:00

The guests sauntered to the stable. I retrieved another tray of Champagne glasses from the kitchen and followed to the stable. It was an amazing scene of decadence. All gathered around the blonde in stock six while the Princess lifted both breasts. Lantita had placed a bit in her mouth and tied it back against the stock so that she was forced to look up at her tormentor. This also caused to arch her back further and her privates were even more fully displayed.

"She’s not ready to be inseminated, yet. When ready we’ll probably use one of the sperm samples collected tonight."

Lantita was busy with the males. She worked down the row. First loosening the infibulating clasp, next ever so gently feathering the massive penis’s and then pulling them back and wedging the brass bar against the back of the thigh. She worked expertly and quickly and within five minutes all four males were erect with their phalanxes pointed toward the specimen jar on the floor. The humiliated males struggled in the stocks, not used to being viewed by so many. Yet, they were eager to be relieved of their spunk. None had given up a sample in over a month. Five was most rambunctious in his movements. Bending very low at the knee then rising in futile attempts to frottage himself against the brass bar.

"Now. Each of you is going to show off for my guests. I want nice full samples. Drain yourself completely or there will be consequences..."

The Princess spoke very firmly and I’m sure the livestock knew of the many consequences which could result in not pleasing her.

"Now let’s start with Five he looks ready."

Everyone moved to the back of the first stock where the Asian’s massive erection was purple and stiff as a board. Normally this was when Lantita would simply apply the vibrator for four or five seconds and the engorged organ would explode. But not tonight. The Princess wanted to show off. As the guests watched and the man worked himself in frustration, the Princess stood to the front and pushed the front of her sarong right up against Five’s face. With a slight movement of her hand, not noticed by most, she opened the sarong below her hips, exposing herself to Five.

"On three. . . One, Two, Three."

On three, she did something with her hand. But the crowd was watching the Asian’s manhood as it ejaculated a rivulet of sperm into the sample jar. Then another and another. Large globs of thick milky glue. The men were amused, but the women laughed and cheered. Making a man come on command was always a treat for a dominant woman and I noted many looks of envy.

Lantita squeezed out the last drops and removed the sample jar for storage. Party or not, the sample could be worth thousands.

"Well, who’s next?"

The three remaining males looked at the Princess in anticipation. Lantita gruffly squeezed the tip of Five’s penis and replaced the clasp.

"Let’s do Twelve."

It was the same action and reaction. The crowd was getting more excited and inebriated. I was amazed at the Princess’s control. Twelve worked just as hard as Five to ejaculate at the count of three and his viscous white paste filled the jar.

'96 Months' XX

2011-07-27T03:20:00.000-07:00

The party was small. Obviously with the Princess’s proclivities there were not a lot of people who would enjoy her type of amusements. Paul and Paula also served and Lantita had fun stroking Paul to erection for the guest’s amusement. Everyone knew of his diminished physical sexual capacity and were therefore amazed at Lantita’s ability to bring him to such a state. And Paul looked hopelessly confused striding about the living room and dining room with a tiny hard on that could not be put to use. The women present could not restrain themselves from stroking and playing with it as they reached for a drink, and it became a game among the female guests to keep him erect.

I posed for several of the men. Most were foreign to Saudi Arabia and found my artwork to be most curious and amusing. I don’t think they realized it was permanent. Abdul arrived late and seeing him, my heart jumped. Was I falling in love with my executioner? I deeply wanted him to take me, even if the guests were watching. Lantita’s earlier carnal handiwork had had its effect.

A rough looking woman from Holland kept beckoning me for more Champagne. She wore a tight leather dress and appeared to be very muscular. But it was her companion that was most notable. A dog she called Rex. He was a large, vicious looking Doberman and every time I served her, the Countess Van de Mere, the dog would sniff and lick between my legs. The Countess found this to be amusing and made me stand holding the full tray while the dog had his way.

"He’s an unaltered male, my dear. You’ve got him quite excited. And you don’t want to get him mad. He can be quite nasty. You should probably douche more often, don’t you think?"

I was flushed with embarrassment but my tattooed flesh didn’t expose may shamed reaction to her suggestion. I didn’t think my scent was so obvious, but of course once the dog started sniffing everyone noticed. On the third encounter with Rex, Princess Rosanna looked over and laughed. Later, I saw her whispering to the Countess.

After many cocktails and hors d’oeuvres, the Princess nodded to Lantita who left the room. She then announced it was time for a show.

"My livestock will be offering me gifts. Everyone to the stables."

Mr. Hawkins had just arrived and seemed pleased to see me. I served him a drink.

"Well Nurse Hopkins, only six more months."

I hadn’t thought about it. But there would only be another 31 strokes.

"I’d like to visit with you later, if I may?"

I nodded, fully knowing what that meant.

'96 Months' XIX

2011-07-25T03:38:00.000-07:00

From that day of the blonde’s arrival, the attention afforded to me by the Princess diminished. After morning exercise, Lantita would suspend me in the Princess’s office, but that was all. The Princess would work at her desk or gaze at me while talking on the phone. I became more like a house pet that was present for an occasional stroke or affectionate pat but which otherwise suffered from inattention through familiarity.

The Princess had mentioned her birthday and, being extremely extroverted, was planning her own party. In preparation, none of the livestock had given up sperm for the past month and Lantita was under special instructions to increase the food and hormone dosages. The Princess herself spent time in the stable each afternoon feathering the infibulated members, a process which was evidently quite painful as the clasp pinched the semi-swollen tip. She also feathered the blond and appeared very proud of her acquisition.

My afternoons were still spent restrained in full view of the livestock, but the Princess made a particular point of using her fingers to lather the essence of my feminine organ under the noses of the livestock. It is difficult for one to fully appreciate his or her own aroma, but I can only imagine, after all the months without douching, of how powerful my scent was. And my colorful flesh seemed to mesmerize the livestock. Whereas they used to occasionally dose off during my afternoon display, they now watched me with great curiosity and I suppose lust.

******************************************************************************

After many weeks the Princess’s birthday finally arrived. The house was spotless thanks to Paul, Paula, me and a vicious whip deftly handled by Lantita. Even the stable was well cleaned. To the chagrin of the males, Lantita clamped shut their urethras to keep the floors neat. This meant that every hour or so I had to provide them with relief by holding a bottle for them. It was a very rare occasion that I was allowed to hold a penis, other than in my mouth or backside, and it gave me an interesting feeling of control. During one round, while Lantita wasn’t watching, I pinched off number Five’s flow before he was finished. He bucked noticeably and Lantita looked over and smiled.

"Stop playing, Little One. They have to be settled to perform for the Princess tonight."

I released Five and allowed him to finish. But the thought of having control over the well hung asian stayed in the back of my mind.

Late in the afternoon, Lantita shaved my head, fully displaying the Princess’s artwork. I looked in the mirror and cried again. I could never become accustomed to my physical appearance, in spite of the exhibitionism that had permeated my psyche since my incarceration.

"The Princess wants your eyebrows done also."

Lantita sounded remorseful when she told me. It was almost comical to be concerned about the last small strands of material covering my body. But the Princess knew how to exercise her control and domination. For her party, I would be exhibited without a strand of hair or sliver of clothing, fully displaying her artistic skills. Sometimes I was grateful for the heavy metal bands. Such were the only covering I had.

Lantita lathered my eyebrows and rapidly worked the straightedge razor. The colored flesh underneath was where the blue around my eyes changed to the yellow of my forehead. At the top, where my hairline used to be, the yellow interlaced with greens which streaked across the top of my bald head.

As I stared at the mirror, the blue lines emanating upwards from the corners of my mouth gave me a permanent smile, like a clown. But another observer could conclude that I resembled a bird of prey preparing to engulf a hapless rodent. Whatever, my duties were to serve drinks and hors d’ oeuvres to the Princess’s guests. My arm bands were loosely attached behind me and it provided limited use of my hands.

"Stand up, Little One."

Lantita attached tiny bells to the numerous rings piercing my arms, rib cage and thighs. Every motion I made caused them to ring and draw attention. A larger bell, about an inch across, was attached to my clitoral ring and my sensitive little man could feel the little hammer sway.

Lantita opened a bottle of oil and massaged it into my skin. I was amazed out how it made my colors come to life and reflect the light. No one at the party would miss the display of body art. Lantita paid particular attention between my thighs and carefully inserted two fingers into my pussy.

"Princess Rosanna wants you ready to serve."

She deftly fingered me to arousal and withdrew when she sensed an imminent climax. The bell’s tintinnabulation sounded with the motion of her hand. Lastly, she liberally lubricated my anus to the point where the oil began dripping down my legs. Then she easily slid in four fingers and smiled at how receptive my backside had become. Abdul had stretched me widely over the years.

"Remember, pose for anyone who asks. No talking."

The desired pose was to bend forward with legs widely spread, arch my back, and crane my neck to keep my head up. This obscenely displayed the blue flesh between my legs and caused my diamonds to pop out from between my outer labia. The Princess seemed very proud of my jewelry and Mr. Hawkins had indicated the diamonds were valuable, not to mention the extensive number of gold rings I wore.

With that I retreated to the kitchen listening to my bells sound with each step. A tray of drinks awaited me and I ironically thought about how time most women spent attending to their hair and makeup for such an occasion. For me it was a quick shave and a layer of oil.

'96 Months' XVIII

2011-07-22T03:52:00.000-07:00

Will be traveling for the next two days. No postings.

************************************************************************

The following week the Princess returned from one of her trips bellowing for Lantita.

"Get stall number six ready. I’ve found one!"

The reader may recall that the unused stock in stall six at the end of the row was shaped differently. It was set back from the others and the hole in the middle was larger. Also the holes to the side were smaller than the other wrist holes and higher. In preparation I cleaned the heavy smooth wood as Lantita supervised me. In her rush, she freed both my wrists and arms. Such urgency to prepare the device added to the mystery of its purpose.

Within hours a truck arrived and two swarthy men lowered a large box. The Princess eagerly signed and as the men returned to the truck Lantita pried it open. Inside was an incredible sight. A large blonde woman lay naked but comfortably surrounded by foam cushions. Her face was covered with an oxygen mask. As Lantita removed the cushions, it was evident that the woman was well secured to the sides and ends of the box by thick leather cuffs.

Lantita unsnapped the cuffs and removed the mask. The woman was groggy but slowly sat up. It appeared that some type of sedating gas had been administered.

"She’s gorgeous, Princess, where did you find her?"

"I’ve been negotiating for weeks. An agent in New York sent me her photos. She’s been in captivity in South America for about a year. It seems the drug lords have found a new way to launder money. Their dirty drug money buys her from American kidnappers, my clean money buys her from the drug lords. Simple and neat."

Lantita helped the woman stand. She was unsteady but what a sight. She was close to six feet tall, about Lantita’s height. But it was her breasts, hips, legs, and buttocks that were most impressive. The large blonde had massive mammary glands, wide hips and buttocks and legs that seemed to be sculpted.

"The information I have indicates she was an aerobics instructor. Can you imagine these bouncing around in a gym?"

The Princess palmed both breasts when she posed the question.

"It is no wonder they targeted her. She may just as well hung out a sign that read, ‘take me’...

"I’ve examined her x-rays. Her birth canal is enormous. She’ll produce for us very nicely. Our own baby factory."

Lantita stood beside the woman and held her up with one arm over her shoulder. She motioned to me and I stood on the other side. Although my arms were immobilized, the woman instinctively placed her other arm over my shoulder to stabilize herself. The three of us walked slowly to the stable.

The reaction of the livestock was noticeable despite their restraints. The woman’s large breasts were impressive and the four men stirred in the stocks. Lantita motioned for me to open stock number six and she lowered the compliant woman into the large center hole. She pushed here and there and finally lowered the top of the stock. It did not entrap the neck. It was designed to encircled the torso just below the breasts. Lantita grasped the right wrist and pulled it up and back toward the woman’s waist to enter the smaller holes. She closed the stock and then did the same with the left wrist. When finished the woman stood bent at the waist with the main stock intersecting her across the lower part of her rib cage, below her breasts. Her head, shoulders and arms protruded from the front of the stocks, her stomach, hips and legs from the rear. Her wrists were awkwardly secured palms up and above the level of her head. This forced her to arch her back as a swimmer would from his starting position.

Lantita added the final touch. The spreader bar which was worn by all the livestock connected the woman’s ankles and forced her feet apart. Lantita adjusted it so that she was much more widely split than the men. When I moved to the rear I understood why. The posture forced by the stocks and the spreader bar caused an obscene view of the woman’s reproductive organs. Her outer lips were widely parted and her little man begged for attention. I could only imagine what enjoyment Paul and Paula would have. Lantita noticed my curiosity.

"We’ve haven’t done any breeding here for years. The Princess wasn’t satisfied with the last female so we’ve just milked the males. But this is a beautiful specimen. You’ll be amazed at what we can do. The Princess will probably start with Nine, the Nordic. Blondes are easily marketed, especially in the Arab countries. . .

"Look at this!"

Lantita had reached down and spread the woman’s lips even further and the pink, wet vagina shone under the stable lights. The woman was large and it was evident that with proper stretching she could easily take any of the livestock.

"It’s a shame the Princess only uses artificial insemination. Watching Nine work this would be amusing."
I tended to agree. I had watched the Nordic give up his sperm on many occasions and the mammoth pure white organ which slowly turned pink and purple was delightfully sensual to observe.

The Princess entered with Paul and Paula. They were overjoyed with the new addition and of course raced under her for their own examination. Their tongues soon roamed over the woman’s intimate parts and she became aroused.

"Good. The gas in wearing off."

The Princess was stroking the head and hair of her new possession.

"Lantita, cut off this hair. I can’t have it in the way. It hangs over her face and shoulders. Leave about two inches."

She reached down and played with the large breasts. Then pulled them up by the nipples almost to the woman’s chin.

"More than I expected. It’s always difficult to judge from photographs but I didn’t get short changed here. That’s enough! Paul! Paula! Get out from under there now!"

The teenagers had been licking and sucking with great vigor and the blond had moaned with the pleasurable attention.

"Lantita, keep them away from her. You know we have to establish her cycles and keep her randy. And with my birthday coming up, none of the males will be ready for her."

Lantita nodded and smacked both little rumps as they knelt under the blonde. They quickly scampered out of the stable fully aware of the potential of Lantita’s chastisements.

"Little One, you’re going to help with her care. As a nurse you have the training. We need all her bodily functions recorded and must particularly know when she ovulates."

From that day onward, my hands we free for about an hour every afternoon to bath and massage the blonde. Also recorded on a chart for the Princess’s review was the quantities of fluids and excrement the woman secreted, her temperature, pulse, menstrual cycle of course and any other observations considered pertinent. For this purpose the blonde urinated into a basin as opposed to the males who just passed their water unto the tiled but well drained floor. There was no talking allowed but the blond and I communicated through her eyes and my hands.

On occasion when Lantita was not watching carefully I was able to manipulate her between her thighs, but only for a few moments. She seemed grateful, but I’m not sure it didn’t add to her frustration.

'96 Months' XVII

2011-07-21T04:09:00.000-07:00

After the body art was completed, the Princess became more passive in her control. On many occasions she just suspended me by the steel bands, sipped a glass of wine and enjoyed the attentions of Paul or Paula while viewing her colorful handy work.

The livestock took new interest in me. Being on the bottom of the chain of submission, I suppose they felt some gratification that the Princess’s domination and cruelty were spread amongst all those at the farm. Lantita indicated that the sperm counts had risen slightly since the tattooing. I wondered what type of psychological/physiological message that indicated. Even Paul seemed to be more attentive to my backside with his long tongue.

******************************************************************************

Over the ensuing months the Princess occasionally perfected her work. One day while Lantita worked to stretch my tongue, the Princess smiled and retrieved the tattooing needle. Yes, although painful, it works on the tongue. She chose the same shade of blue as my eyes and lips. As she worked she realized there were other areas to be colored. On my next visit to the city, an appointment was made with a specialist. After placing protective coverings over my eyeballs, my eyelids and all surrounding areas were colored blue.

Weeks later, as a lark, the Princess shaved my head and completed the art work of rows of simulated green feathers coming up from my back combining with rows of yellow from my face. I had never felt so debased as when she restrained me in front of a full length mirror, shaven bald and tattooed like a jungle bird.

She let my hair grow back, but warned me that it would be shaved for special occasions and to entertain visitors.

******************************************************************************

Mr. Hawkins came by for his inspection about every other month. He too was enthralled with my exotic coloring. Princess Rosanna permitted him to take me for walks, using a leash or course, and I learned more about him. After the Princess’s artwork, I presume he came to the same conclusion that I had. Returning to England would be very difficult. Therefore, he became more open knowing that there was very little chance that I would ever meet his wife, family or friends.

On one walk when we were no longer in sight of the house, he slipped a small rubber device from his pocket and commanded me to spread my thighs. He inserted the object into my vagina and it vibrated. Oh. What a dear friend. It had been ages since I had been touched there and now this devious little egg!
He continued walking but I stopped, overcome by the waves of pleasure. He gave the leash attached to my clitoral ring a little tug. I moved. But it was most distressing trying to walk with the pleasantly evil sensation. Mr. Hawkins just laughed.

"I thought you’d enjoy it. It’s Japanese. Sort of an electronic Ben Wa ball. We’ll have to try other models. They’re made in all shapes and sizes."

I was a physical wreck when we reached the spring. Mr. Hawkins put me on all fours and removed the device. I did not climax but it brought me to the edge and held me there until it became torture.
He unzipped his trousers and I dutifully took him in my mouth. He held up the device and showed me several deep scratches in the wet rubber surface.

"Your diamonds are sharp. No vaginal penetration for you. Your trinkets would tear right through a prophylactic and cause injury."

Placing the device in his pocket, he grasped my red ears and thrust deeply into my throat. Afterwards on the walk back I described my frustration and asked to have my arm bands released so I could masturbate.

"I’m here to observe your safety not to interfere with your punishment. Such short term gratification is unimportant. I am more concerned about your future after the sentence is carried out. You have about 100 strokes remaining. The Princess typically doesn’t keep livestock forever, therefore I question what will happen to you. I don’t know what terms the Saudi government will accept under your commutation agreement of lifetime parole."

I had not thought about it. It was true the Princess bought and sold livestock and just as she was tiring of physically tormenting me, there was the question of the sperm counts. Should the counts diminish, of what use would I be at the farm?

'96 Months' XVI

2011-07-20T03:14:00.000-07:00

The Princess was persistent in her goal. Every morning she worked the needle up my legs, coloring more and more of my body. The steel bands were loose enough to be slid up or down my calves and thighs and therefore didn’t impede her progress. She replicated the art work she had performed with the body paint. When she finished my legs however she made changes. Using blue ink she drew a large circle around each of my buttocks. She would leave the object of Abdul’s cane its natural flesh color, since Abdul and the audience needed to view the welts.

But she became very diligent about the sensitive areas. Announcing that blue would highlight my genitalia and enhance the radiance of my diamonds, she proceeded to work the tattooing needle between my buttocks. It was agony and I dreaded the thought of the instrument buzzing between my thighs.

Tears again fell and I didn’t know why. The pain was substantial but nothing I hadn’t already endured. But when I looked at my orange feet and red legs and realized that I would forever be colored as some type of bird, it was difficult to maintain control.

The timing was frustrating. The Princess worked very deliberately for two to three hours a day. She was careful to make the markings on the two legs as symmetrical as possible. Get on with it!, I thought. But no. It had taken a full week to do the legs. And now the anus and genitalia would receive particular attention.

"It’s where everyone will be looking at you, Little One. You don’t want to disappoint anyone with a sloppy job."

The entire pubes area including my outer labia slowly turned blue under the tattoo needle. I begged but to no avail. She was intractable and my entreaties seemed to encourage her to go more slowly and deepen the coloring.

After another week my stomach turned yellow and shades of green covered my back. As with my buttocks, my breasts were encircled with a blue line and left natural for Abdul’s cane. After much thought the Princess decided to do my nipples the same blue as my pubes. My nipples are small but the pain was still great.
In the third week she had reached my neck and I began to relax with the belief she was finished. Mentally, I was adapting to my new body although Paul and Paula’s sarcastic laughter caused a degree of depression.

And then one morning after exercise, Lantita accompanied me to the Princess’s office. For the first time ever at the farm I was permitted to lie down. You recall, reader, that it was one of the Princess’s rules of restraint that I always be upright and over the years I had learned, with difficulty, to sleep suspended upright or kneeling or in whatever position the Princess fancied. But never lying down. And I confess it felt wonderful to lie supine on a table for the first time in so long a period. Wonderful, that is, until Lantita began securing the steel bands and using tight leather straps. I couldn’t move anything. She even rolled my hair into a braid, attached a strap and secured my head.

The Princess removed the small gold chains from my nose and I screamed in horror. I realized that my face was to receive the tattooist’s artwork. Lantita began swabbing away the tears and Princess Rosanna calmly applied the instrument.

She was precise with the tracings. My nose was colored with the same bright orange as my feet. Blue was applied around my eyes and a tapering blue line swept from the corner of each eye up my temples. My lips also received the blue and a similar tapering line swept from the corner of the mouth across my cheek almost to my ear. The remainder of my face, forehead and neck she filled with streaks of yellows and greens with thin lines of black to replicate the appearance of feathers. The final touch were my ears. A gaudy red was chosen.

******************************************************************************

In subsequent visits to the courthouse my audience, which had been waning over the past few months, began to increase substantially. Word of the Princess’s artwork passed quickly among the voyeuristic men, and women of the city flocked to my canings out of curiosity. Even Abdul found new interest in tormenting me. My pearl white buttocks presented quite a target, outlined in blue and surrounded by the reds and greens of my thighs and back. On the first two visits after the tattooing, Abdul kept me on the preparation table after caning for lengthy periods. This was normally when I received satisfaction in some form, but instead he just looked at me and played with various parts of my body. My blue nipples, centered on my naturally white breasts were quite distracting to him. He spent many minutes fondling, pinching and kneading them. Unfortunately, his preference for fellatio returned and I took him in my mouth while he played. It was disappointing to me since I did not receive the orgasm and strange satisfaction I had been obtaining from the anal penetration.

On the third visit, he took me from behind after carefully inspecting my crinkled blue rose bud. Later in the courtyard, his copious white spendings were quite visible dribbling down my red legs.

'96 Months' XV

2011-07-19T04:06:00.000-07:00

One morning after exercise, Princess Rosanna had me hanging from the pipe. On this occasion I was facing the wall with the front of my collar and waist band secured to the hooks on the pipe. My legs of course were stretched outward in an uncomfortable split. The Princess was applying the searing hot needles to my anus. She did this prior to my visits to Abdul, fully knowing that he would use me there and thus make the caning and his subsequent attentions even more painful. As I struggled with the numerous punctures, the Princess was reading a magazine concerning body art while Paul serviced her. It was her way of relaxing... reading, applying an occasional needle, receiving oral service then flipping more pages. It sometimes lasted for hours if she found the magazine to be interesting.

The body art magazine fascinated her. The next day she returned from the city with make up and the morning was spent painting my entire body. She wanted to see what I would look like as a bird. So, she worked from my feet upwards and coated me. When finished, some two hours later, she attached the small leash to my clitoral ring and led me about the house showing me off to Lantita, Paul, Paula and finally the livestock.

She had painted my feet orange. My calves and thighs red, except at the thighs she blended in various shades of green. My stomach was yellow. My back was of lighter greens with some yellow. All this was highlighted with thin white and black lines to simulate plumage. Blue was used around my eyes and lips.

The Princess was proud of her work. Lantita and the teenagers laughed and mocked me. I spent the remainder of the morning restrained in front of a mirror. Lantita remarked, as tears of humiliation ran to my cheeks, that it was a shame that the paint had to be removed. The Princess looked at me pensively and nodded.

The next day I was scheduled to visit the courthouse. Lantita washed off the body paint as I knelt for the enema. (I was always cleansed internally to show respect for Abdul). As Lantita led me to the limousine, the Princess stepped out of the front door. For the first time she accompanied us into the city and during the two hour ride she roughly played with my intimate parts. When we arrived I was very aroused and ready for Abdul. The Princess announced she would do some shopping and meet us later.

On this visit, Abdul hung me upside down, facing the raucous audience, and caned my breasts. In this position he always grabbed my hair and pulled back to force me to arch my back and thrust out my chest. This provided the best target, he explained, and ensured that the nipples would be stroked. He swung heavily considering the sensitivity of the area. I noticed that each session was becoming progressively more cruel as the final date approached.

After Abdul sodomized me and I was hung in the courtyard, the Princess came to view me. She seemed proud of the attention I drew and was very impressed with Abdul’s work. His spendings dribbled down my thighs and the Princess smiled knowingly.

That evening, on the car ride to the farm, the Princess announced that I would be the object of a new project.

"You’re going to look even more beautiful and submissive," she exclaimed. "The canings are only for a few more months and soon you’ll forget Abdul. But you’ll never forget me, Little One. No. Princess Rosanna will forever be in your memory."

******************************************************************************

The next day after exercise, Lantita took me to the office and attached me to the pipe. Princess Rosanna was toying with an odd electrical device which made a humming noise. When she wheeled the tray between my legs the alcohol lamp and needles had been replaced with bottles of colored liquid. She held up the device. It was a tattooing needle!

"You’ll find the physical pain to be minor compared to what you’ve endured. It’s the mental anguish of understanding the permanence that will torment you. Over the next few weeks I’m going to color your flesh as I see fit. You’re going to look very pretty for me, with your jewelry and all."

As she spoke she began to run the device over my foot. Just as with the body paint, she chose a bright orange. She was very thorough. Within hours both feet were tattooed orange from the ankles down. She even did the bottom of the feet and between my toes.

She was right about the torment. The pain was nothing compared to the canings and hot needles I had endured. But the thought of the permanence of the subjugation put me into a funk. Deep down, I had always believed there would be a time when my sentence would be completed and I would be allowed to return to England. And now the body art. How could I explain it? Particularly in my profession where nurses were expected to be appear neat, clean and orderly in appearance. The ‘girl next door’ type of aura.

'96 Months' XIV

2011-07-18T03:09:00.000-07:00

Under instructions from the Princess, Lantita began the process of lengthening and stretching my tongue. This involved clamping the tip of the tongue and securing it for hours to one of the many eye hooks in a stretched position. Also a new challenge was introduced at each evening meal. A majority of my food was neatly packed into a tennis ball. The ball had a slit cut into it and with arms restrained I could only work the mush out with my lips and tongue. Not wanting to go hungry I became quite adept at penetrating the slit, scooping out the nutritious mush and leaving the insides spotless. On subsequent visits to be caned, Abdul noticed the eagerness to demonstrate my new skills. I was able to take the tip of his penis in my mouth and slide my protruding tongue down the underside of his semi-hard erection. My goal was to be able to take most of the shaft and simultaneously lick his balls. I believed affording Abdul such pleasure would cause him to reciprocate and bring me to orgasm. But I soon realized after three visits to the court house that it would require many hours of stretching and training to condition my tongue. Fortunately, the Princess’s farm allowed me such time.

******************************************************************************

I was at the farm for about a year when the Princess received a visitor. A well dressed Englishman stepped out of a Land Rover. Lantita saw him from a window and voiced concern. I had just completed my morning exercise and was waiting to be taken to the Princess’s office for her daily recreation. Standing on my toes, my nose ring and clitoral ring were attached to hooks on the wall of the main room. As always, my arm bands were secured behind me just above the elbows.

Lantita responded to a firm knock on the door and the gentleman stepped into the vestibule. He announced he was from the British consulate and asked to see the Princess. As he spoke I could see out of the corner of my eye that he had noticed me, standing on toes, naked, and most uncomfortably restrained ( although dear reader I was able to stand in such positions for increasing long durations). Lantita took him to the office were the Princess had her way with me almost every morning. Paul and Paula were not to be seen. They were shy around strangers.

I waited on my toes much longer then usual and could hear laughing and giggling emanating from the Princess’s office. Finally, the door opened and the Princess called out to Lantita.

"Bring in the Little One. Mr. Hawkins is here to inspect her."

She mockingly vocalized the word ‘inspect’ and I could hear more laughter as Lantita freed my rings. Without need for instruction, I entered the office. Mr. Hawkins was sitting in the chair where Paul and Paula normally performed for the Princess. He was holding his wallet and stuffing it with currency.

"Well, Little One, it seems that under our treaty with Great Britain, prisoners of British citizenry must be made available for inspection by the consulate. Mr. Hawkins will inspect you.

"I assume Mr. Hawkins you will not want to be disturbed?"

He nodded. The Princess left the office and closed the door behind her. Hawkins returned the wallet to his pocket.

Mr. Hawkins was not old but he certainly was not young either. He appeared to be one of those career diplomats, intelligent, knowledgeable but without personality. He didn’t say a word to me. He simply unzipped his trousers and freed his penis. It was hardening from the salacious view of my pierced, naked, hairless body. He signaled me to come toward him and I stood between his knees. He spread my thighs and the golden chains pulled apart the rings on my lips. My feminine scent wafted to his nose and his penis stirred. He tweaked both of my nipples until they hardened then pulled downward, grasping my chains. I dropped to my knees. Over the years I had learned that when a man put a women on her knees he wanted one of two things. Since my mouth was now an inch from the purple head of his manhood, I took it.

He grunted with pleasure and I worked him for several minutes with all of the skills I had acquired in Saudi Arabia. He was not as large as Abdul and no where near the size of the livestock and therefore I easily took the entire shaft down my throat. When I finally closed then opened my gullet, he came hard and fast. I kept him in my mouth, as I had been trained, until he softened, then carefully and dutifully licked him clean. When I looked up he was smiling.

"My wife is back in England. She won’t visit Arab countries. It’s very difficult...

"I’m glad to see you’re being treated so well here. You only have 200 more strokes. I’ll see what we can do for your release afterwards. This lifetime parole agreement will be difficult to deal with, but we can try."

The man left very gratified and indicated to Lantita that he would return for regular ‘inspections’.

'96 Months' XIII

2011-07-17T03:50:00.000-07:00

When the Princess was not at the farm, Lantita provided me with much more freedom. Since the Princess’s absence gave me much of the morning free after exercise. Lantita would attach weights to my ankle, leg and waist bands, secure my wrists behind my back and send me off for a walk. It was a delightful respite from the restraint and I was able to the tour paths throughout the farm, walking as best I could among the palm and fruit trees. Each of the thin gold chains stretching from my waist band to my leg band remained threaded through the rings piercing my labia. Every step provided an odd erotic sensation, as if I were playing with myself. Lantita seemed to know this and watched with amusement as I strolled away.

I had to be careful to stay in the shade. The tungsten steel heated very quickly in the sun and burned my skin. I believe one purpose for the walks was to extinguish any hopes of escape across the desert. Knowing from the limousine rides that there was nothing but sand and sun for over a hundred miles, all thoughts of such adventure left me.

******************************************************************************

Lantita was also permitted a degree of latitude when the Princess was not at the farm. I’m sure the Princess was aware that her rules were not followed to the letter during her periods of absence. Apparently she realized that her insistence on strict restraint took its toll on all involved, including Lantita, and therefore a change in the environment was better for all. Not that the farm became a vacation spa. No, Lantita had her own proclivities and eccentricities.

On one occasion when the Princess was on a business trip, I observed the cruelty to which Lantita could force a man to submit when given a free hand.

I was in the stable, secured to my post in my daily function of being exposed to the livestock. My wrists bands held my arms straight over my head forcing me to my toes. Lantita had attached a spreader bar to my ankle bands and I was struggling to keep my weight on my toes, which just touched the floor, in order to relieve my arms of the great stress. Paul, as he was wont to do, was toying with my backside with his strong but nimble tongue, causing my juices to flow uncontrollably. The livestock were all stirring in the stocks, watching the viscous fluid dribble down my thighs and inhaling the aroma of my excitement.

Lantita entered with Paula and upon giving instructions, much activity began. Paul stopped performing the slow pleasantly torturous analingus and helped Paula remove a pony cart from a storage room. Lantita began preparing number Twelve for release. A very careful procedure which involved removing his spreader bar, replacing it with heavy chains, placing manacles on the wrists, then releasing the wrists from the stocks, securing them tightly behind the back and finally releasing the head. The stocks, I should mention, were hinged in three places, one for each wrist and one for the head. Therefore at no point was the giant black man completely unrestrained. Also, Lantita had a cattle prod handy in case of belligerence, and when he was free of the stocks she gave Twelve a mild shock as a forewarning.

The pony cart was an interesting device. It resembled a chariot but was intended to be pulled by subservient humans, not animals. Twelve was collared and attached to long pole extending in front of the body of the cart. As he bent at the waist, his neck collar was attached to the pole, then a waist belt was strapped around him and also secured to the pole. Lantita released one wrist, flipped the chain over the pole and reattached the manacle. Twelve was left bent at the waist, well fastened to the six inch thick pole which was used to pull the cart. His enormous scrotum swung between his legs and his infibulated penis appeared to be a partially inflated balloon.

The pole extended another four feet over Twelve’s head. and, as I began to ponder its function, Lantita released my wrist bands.

The cart was designed to be pulled by two. Lantita led me to the front of Twelve and clipped my neck band and waist band to the pole. As I bent over with the pole pressed against my back, I could feel Twelve’s nose and cheeks on my buttocks. After Lantita removed his gag I felt his lips and tongue.

"Enjoy it for now Twelve. You’ll soon have other things on your mind."

Lantita left the stable for a minute and returned with a picnic basket. She removed my spreader bar, removed the chain from Twelve ankles and then, as I looked back over my shoulder, removed the infibulating clasp. I couldn’t see Twelve’s reaction, but did feel his breathing become quite heavy.

"Let’s talk a little trip to the spring, Little One. You know how to get there."

I heard a snap of leather, a grunt, and felt the heavy breath of Twelve on my intimate parts. The pole moved forward and I stepped with it. Within moments, after several more snaps, we were trotting at a vigorous pace to one of the most beautiful settings at the farm. It was where the water emanated from the sand and flowed a short distance into a pond. This is where the house and stable drew water and therefore it was maintained in a pristine condition.

When we arrived I was drenched with perspiration and gasping for air. Lantita was demanding and any pace slower than a quick trot resulted in more snaps. I was grateful she could not reach me, for Twelve seemed to find the encouragement quite painful.

The sun was quickly heating my metal bands and Lantita released me from the pole so I could move to the shade. Twelve remained tethered and I was amazed at the size of him. When I had observed him giving up sperm, his erection was always forced into odd configurations as described and it was difficult to apprise his length. But secured to the cart bent over at the waist his free erection seemed to come to his chin. Lantita reached under and wrapped a hand around it. It was the first time I had ever seen someone touch the erect member of one of the livestock and Twelve stirred with the pleasurable sensation.

"Oh. Your going to be good to Lantita today. My little scrotum whip has you very excited."

Yes. As I looked closely I saw welts on the thighs and lower buttocks and, although not immediately discernible, the small single stranded whip which Lantita held, had obviously been used to excoriate the testicles. They were swollen and appeared even larger. Twelve had worked very hard to pull the cart and avoid the snap of the devilish leather instrument.

Lantita retrieved an elastic cord from the basket and dextrously wound it around the base of Twelve’s penis then the testicles then the penis again. In tying it off, she announced that Twelve’s manhood was rendered harmless. She released him from the cart.

When he stood up, I gawked at his restrained erection. It was as thick as my arm. The purple uncircumcised head glistened in the sun and it was at least fourteen inches. Lantita smiled with amusement, declaring the massive organ to be hers.

For the next hour, Lantita thoroughly subjugated the huge black man, using the cattle prod and whip. It was evident that my presence added to his humiliation. Lantita called him "King" and made him crawl and kiss her feet. She produced a large dildo from the basket and after slowly inserting it in his rectum, he grew harder. Finally after much use of the single stranded whip on the scrotum, she blindfolded Twelve and laid him on and ground. The stiff black organ pointed straight to the sky and Lantita motioned me to squat over the blindfold. I remind the reader that the Princess’s policy was that I was not to be douched and with the brisk run to the oasis my scent was strong. Lantita meanwhile removed her brightly colored sarong. She was naked underneath and this was the first time and had seen her. She was shapely but well muscled. Her pussy hair was closely cropped and it was evident that she was enjoying her use of Twelve, for I detected moisture.

"Don’t let him touch you, Little One. This whip works on bad girls too."

I remained squatting with my privates within an inch of his nose and mouth. Lantita held the little whip in her right hand and straddled Twelve at his waist. She grabbed his cock with her left and guided it into her as she lowered herself by bending at the knees. What followed was an amazing display of acrobatic sex as Lantita rode the huge erection and flagellated Twelve’s scrotum by applying short crisp strokes behind her back. Lantita referred to it as "riding the bull" for when the whip found the tender testicles, Twelve’s hips violently jumped up off the ground. He also screamed in pain, but Lantita ignored the entreaties in her frenzy. It was a fascinating scene and I became very excited watching Lantita physically abuse the giant man and turn him into a living dildo. The elastic cord held nicely and by preventing ejaculation, it appeared that Lantita could "ride the bull" all day. She worked her hips up and down frantically. I noticed that only the last eight of nine inches penetrated her. Twelve was too big to be taken without adequate lubrication and stretching. But the advantage to using his enormous length was that Lantita could remain on her feet and bend at the knees at achieve penetration. This allowed for great flexibility in applying the whip, since Lantita’s arm was well away from Twelve’s body.

The "ride" continued until Lantita began to grimace with pleasure. Finally, she stopped and squeezed her thighs with a moan. Rolling off she rested then put on her sarong. I remained squatting and was in dire need of relief. It had been three weeks since my last visit with Abdul and my frustration was building. Lantita seemed to sense this.

"I’ll let Twelve lead the cart on the return, Little One. You can be number two."

On the trip back I was tethered nearest the cart and it was my turn to feel the sting of the little whip. It ameliorated my frustration and I was grateful.

'96 Months' XII

2011-07-16T03:10:00.000-07:00

Lantita and I got to know each other better over the months. She did not tolerate any disobedience but was not capricious like the Princess. If I remained completely submissive, I avoided any additional punishment or restraint from her. Working in the stables became somewhat enjoyable. For some reason knowing that there were four males treated with lower esteem than me was comforting. And although I was denied any sexual relief at the farm, other than an occasional stroke or finger to arouse me, it was perversely pleasurable to excite the livestock.

Once, Lantita let me watch one of the males give up his sperm. It was number twelve, the African, for whom I would later learn, Lantita had some degree of affection.

On this particular occasion the Princess was busy on the telephone. Lantita and I were alone in the stable and the semen was needed shortly, since a delivery driver was expected to arrive. I stood before the black man’s head and Lantita fingered me to arousal. After coating his nose, lips and chin with my essence we stepped behind the stocks. His enormous penis was becoming excited. Lantita donned latex gloves and removed the basin of heated water. The man’s testicles were bigger than eggs and almost hung to his knees. Lantita removed the infibulating clasp and I marveled at the slow steady pace of the tumescence. No stimulation was required.

"It’s been four weeks and he’s full of hormones. If this order hadn’t come in I’d probably have had to masturbate him and freeze the sample. You can’t let them go too long, the prostate will atrophy."

The procedure was curious. As the member grew and grew Lantita lubricated the man’s rectum and worked in two fingers of her left hand. The erection began to turn purple and twitch. She withdrew her left hand long enough to very carefully pull back the erection, some fourteen inches long and amazing thick. It was quite stiff and the man grunted. Next she picked up a smooth brass rod about three feet long and wedged it against the back of the man’s thighs by pulling the erect penis back toward her. The penis head was pointing straight down to the floor. When she let go of the erection the head struggled to right itself and pressed against the rod. This held the rod in place against the back of the thighs. The taught manhood struggled to upright itself from the unnatural position of being forced backward. Lantita smiled.

"This properly positions the penis to ejaculate into the specimen jar. It also indicates a good strong erection. If his erection can’t hold the rod we know that either he’s not ready or he’s getting old and it’s time to consider a sale."

As she spoke she placed a clear glass jar on the floor between the man’s feet. She again worked two fingers into the rectum.

"He desperately wants to come. But the Princess insists that there be minimal contact. I usually let them struggle a bit then take pity."

The incredibly large black member twitched and the testicles swung as the man writhed in the stocks. He bent his knees then straightened them, seeming to receive some form of gratification from the motion.

"He’s from the some area in Africa as my ancestors. If the Princess had not bought him from his kidnappers, he would probably be a King by now."

Lantita spoke with a strange pride. Was it admiration for this "King" or self satisfaction in completely dominating and humiliating the man, forcing him to involuntarily provide sperm samples at the whim of a woman.

Lantita released my arm bands. It was a rare moment but I was free.

"Feel his balls. Go ahead. He’ll enjoy it."

I had to use two hands to cradle the massive testicles. Completely hairless, warm, smooth. I had an odd feeling of power over the "King". He stirred and groaned.

"If you enjoy this, I’ll take you with us on our next excursion through the grounds. The Princess affords me time alone with the livestock on occasion."

The black phalanx was stiff as steel and I thought the entrapping rod would bend. Lantita made small talk and worked her fingers every few seconds. She explained that it readied the prostate and also allowed her to feel the man’s progress. I wondered how long and how many times she has done this. She seemed to know exactly what number Twelve’s situation and progress was. Finally she smoothed her right handover his buttocks and down his thigh.

"Come for me, Twelve. You know you want to show off. And your little naked girl friend is back here waiting to see the exhibition. Be a good boy. You don’t want to earn a session with the pumice stone do you."

The threat seemed to invigorate him and he worked his knees up and down which caused the top of the penis to frottage against the rod.

"Yes. I know what you want. You want me to help, don’t you? Yes, you want Lantita to massage that big black stick. Yes... well OK. But you have to pay later... hold his balls up a little."

I did and Lantita picked up a simple small vibrator with her right hand, turned it on and placed it on the underside of the erection near the tip. With a small movement of her left hand inside Twelve’s rectum, the man exploded into the specimen jar. Lantita smiled and removed the vibrator. She had applied it for less then three seconds.

As the sperm continued to spurt Lantita dutifully worked her fingers and talked.

"He’s not used to having the two of us talking. I think his concentration is a little off. But it’s a good sample. Give it all to me Twelve. Be good a good boy for Lantita."

The amount of fluid was amazing and streamed and streamed as Lantita milked the prostate. She appeared to know the man better than he did himself.

"After three years you get to know their proclivities and habits. You have to make sure everything is cleaned out. A complete and thorough orgasm sets up the system to begin producing for the next one. The sperm count on this one should be excellent. I can tell."

Finally Lantita picked up the specimen jar and the remaining clear fluid dripped to the floor. When the erection began to subside, the rod fell to the floor.

"That means he’s done."

Lantita withdrew her fingers, gave the man a playful pat on his buttock and restrained my arm bands behind my back. She placed the jar in my right hand and told me to take it to the Princess. As I left the stable I could see her replacing the clasp and the water basin, beginning the process of preparing Twelve for the next milking.

'96 Months' XI

2011-07-15T03:25:00.000-07:00

After many months, I was completely depilated. The piercings were completed. Not only were the insides of my legs studded about every two inches, but when my wrists were secured over my head, two continuous lines of gold rings one on each side ran from my ankles, up the outside of my thighs, to the hips, rib cage and finally up my arm to my wrist. I counted over a hundred. And each one inserted into an aperture made by the Princess’s searing hot needles.

My body became quite shapely. The well balanced diet and the daily exercise provided great toning, particularly below the waist. Abdul commented that my buttocks were becoming better and better suited for the cane and his strokes reflected it.

But the Princess did not allow her needles to rest. Many long afternoons were spent hanging from the pipe where the Princess would slowly work her torment. Paula would be servicing her while the ominous alcohol lamp heated special needles. These were barbed and once the flesh was penetrated difficult to remove. The Princess knew exactly the right level of penetration. Intense pain but no scarring. The pipe was lowered until my breasts were at eye level and her games began. Her favorite was to lick and suck on one nipple sending waves of pleasure then slowly prick the other. Just the sound of the initial contact was frightening. A low hiss, barely discernible then the sharp signal of pain. Each needle remained and was slowly allowed to cool while the Princess held another over the flame. If I was good, the Princess would have Paul service my anus with his tongue. The young castrate only administered my back passage and the strong, well stretched tongue could actually penetrate my sphincter and provide amazing pleasure. But that was when another needle hissed, and I would scream.

Toward the end of the session the Princess would explore my vagina with her free hand and mock my excited state. The simultaneous pain and pleasure was unbearable and she knew I was very close to orgasm. But the question posed and not answered was whether it was the sensation of the needles or the oral service that brought me to such a state.

When Princess Rosanna tired of the game, or when my nipple was covered with the barbed needles, she would blow out the lamp and leave my breast looking like a pin cushion. Sometimes Lantita would come in and slowly remove the needles. She was careful. But the barbs made it difficult, and I would again suffer from the Princess’s handiwork. Other times I was taken, needles jutting and bobbing, to the Princess’s bedroom. There, after being secured for the night, the Princess would light the alcohol lamp, reheat the needles and watch me squirm and writhe. Then it was bed time with Paul and Paula and I slept donning the steel shards.

'96 Months' X

2011-07-14T05:40:00.000-07:00

The next morning, after a difficult night of half sleeping half daydreaming, the bedroom was awash in sunlight. The angle of the sun indicated a very early hour and the Princess, lying on her side, was still asleep. The teenagers were completely hidden under the covers. The bumps in the bed spread indicated one head was between her thighs in front and the other at her buttocks. The bumps began to move and bob. The Princess stirred and I watched what I would learn was a morning ritual, the gentle licking of the Princess until she awoke and climaxed.

After her eyes opened, her hands disappeared below the covers and drew the head between her thighs closer.

"Lick, you little bitch. Paul! Suck!"

Within minutes she shrieked and shuddered in ecstasy, then pushed the two out of bed. Paul went into the bathroom.

"Paula, help out our new pet while your brother takes care of me."

Paula retrieved a basin and held it between my thighs. I needed no encouragement. Any shyness I had at one time had disappeared in providing urine samples for the prison doctor, plus involuntarily opening myself to amuse the crowd at my monthly caning.

When the Princess got out of bed, I again had a glimpse of her large protruding clitoris. It was even larger and redder from the morning entertainment. She put on her robe and went into the bathroom.

There, I could hear the Princess giving instructions to Paul.

"Swallow it all this time or you’ll be punished."

******************************************************************************

Mornings were for exercise and stretching. Lantita would attach my nose ring to a hook hanging over either a tread mill or stair climber and simply leave me for an hour. After working vigorously to ensure that the ring didn’t tear from my nose she returned and stretched me. She was a very powerful woman, and my leg and arm muscles were pulled and bent unmercifully. The purpose was to allow the Princess to place me in what she termed severe restraint, and it was indeed severe.

Each day after exercise and stretching I was fed then led to the office for piercing. Hanging from the pipe with legs straight out to my sides (toes pointed, of course), the Princess continued her work of piercing me with rings. Usually four or six piercings per day, the hot needles punctured my flesh on the inside of my thighs from my pussy to my ankles. Later it would be the outside of thighs and she continued the two symmetrical rows over my hips up the side of my rib cage to my arms. I gasped in pain with each prick. It was not the type of pain to which you could become accustomed. But the Princess, with either Paul or Paula servicing her between her legs, worked assiduously and she took pleasure in every searing stab.

Leaving me thus suspended, the Princess would exit and later Lantita would spend an hour depilating my pussy. The addition of the jewelry made shaving difficult and the Princess insisted that I remain hairless.

Afternoons I spent in the stable. Lantita paraded me before the livestock, giving each one a close up view of my privates and on occasion rubbing my breasts and nipples in their faces.

After this initial parade I would be secured on the post in the middle of the stable, salaciously displayed for all. A spreader bar between my ankle bands and a simple hook held my wrist bands high over my head.

However, when one of the stock was scheduled to give up his sperm, I was specially positioned before him for the entire afternoon of the day before the procedure. This entailed being bent over a bar placed in front of the stock with the man’s mouth and nose just barely touching my labia. Being gagged, he couldn’t pleasure me, but for him the view and feminine scent were overpowering. I should mention that the Princess never allowed me to be douched, and over time my vagina became quite ripe.

According to the Princess the ensuing sperm counts increased, which allowed for higher selling prices.

The livestock were treated quite harshly. While I was restrained on the post, Lantita would wash each one. The blonds would make mischief by kneeling under their stomachs and ever so gently licking the infibulated penis’s. Erection was painfully impossible, the stimulation causing great discomfort as the head swelled against the clasp.

Lantita had full authority over the care of the men. She was quite adept it releasing one limb at a time and massaging and exercising it. The head of livestock was rarely freed except when a potential buyer visited or Lantita was allowed special privileges. Lantita’s discipline was thorough. Minor punishment was meted by vigorously applying a pumice stone to the penis of the recalcitrant livestock, but only if he wasn’t scheduled to give up a specimen. More harsh was the simple insertion of a salt capsule. This ingenious but cruel procedure was usually done by the Princess herself, who would gleefully pull up a chair and await the results. Gelatin capsules, similar to pills, were filled with salt. Removing the infibulating clasp the male was allowed to tumefy then the lubricated capsule was inserted some three of four inches up the urethra. The infibulating clasp would then be replaced and as the gelatin melted from the body’s heat and the moisture of the urethra, the salt did its thing. It was a safe, non-toxic irritant but its effect was amazing. The Princess usually removed the offending males gag just so she could revel in the screams of agony. To my knowledge, behaviour modification never required a second capsule.

******************************************************************************

As required by law, Lantita took me back to the courthouse for my monthly encounter with Abdul. Abdul removed the thin gold chains before the canings. But the heavy steel bands and the gold rings remained and drew even more attention from the crowd. And when I bent over the brass bar and my diamonds popped out as my lips spread and glittered under the bright lights, the audience cheered raucously.

Afterward, on this first courthouse visit after my transfer to the farm, I waited for Abdul on the preparation table. The judge from my trial entered and examined me. He satisfied himself that I was being adequately punished and the randy old fellow seemed quite fascinated with my bejeweled genitalia. I gasped when he toyed with my clitoral ring. He became so interested that he stayed and watched while I fellated Abdul to bring him to erection. When Abdul penetrated my backside the judge smiled knowingly. I wondered how many young prisoners he had sodomized in his prime.

Abdul was as strong and patient as always. The short thin cane cracked on the front and sides of my thighs and my breasts. The judge watched with envy and, alas, the added pair of eyes viewing my intimate subjugation brought me to an exploding climax. I ejaculated on the table with Abdul’s final deep thrust, humiliated by my forced exhibition before the judge... chagrined to enlighten concerning the strange joy brought by the degradation... the pain... the abject display of my pierced charms.

After the required viewing in the courtyard Lantita put me into the limousine for the ride back. I had no idea how many strokes were left in my sentence. It no longer seemed important.

'96 Months' IX

2011-07-13T02:59:00.000-07:00

That night Lantita surprised me with an elaborate meal. At last there seemed to be a distinct advantage of serving my time at the farm as opposed to the prison. Lantita explained that the Princess wanted me well fed and there would be exercises to tone my body.

After finishing, Lantita led me by my nose ring to the Princess’s bedroom. There she placed me with my back against the wall standing on a small step stool. My wrist bands were hooked to the wall at waist height, then the neck collar and waist band. She instructed me to lift my right leg off the stool. When I did, she spread it outwards and attached the thigh and ankle bands to hooks on the wall. After likewise attaching the left leg, she removed the stool. I was suspended on the wall spread eagled. My weight was comfortably held by the strong smooth steel bands. Lantita played with my nipples until they hardened and I could feel a twinge between my legs. She then stepped back, reminded me to point my toes, turned off the lights and left me in darkness.

This became a very familiar position for me. During my entire stay at the farm I would never rest in a prone position. It was one of the elements of control the Princess demanded. She took pleasure in knowing that I would have to learn to sleep in an upright posture.

My head slumped somewhat. I moved it until I found a comfortable way of propping it against the neck collar. I believe I slept but it was very lightly. After what seemed like hours the lights came on and the Princess entered the room with the blond teenagers.

"Come look at your Mistress’s new toy."

All three approached. I noticed the girl was just beginning to develop breasts.
"See my handiwork? What do you think?"

Princess Rosanna was playing with the gold chains causing my labia to spread even further. Both children laughed when the diamonds popped into view.

"Go ahead. See what she tastes like, Paula. But be careful, no orgasms."

I was shocked when the little girl, whose head was just above my waist, bent slightly and stuck out her tongue. It was huge. She positioned her face about three or four inches from my pussy. From that position the girl could touch my genitalia with her tongue! She ran the tip up one lip and down the other. Princess Rosanna and Paul watched as I wriggled helplessly.

"Both Paul and Paula have had extensive tongue training. Hours and hours of stretching and exercise. And they love to use them. Yes. Its one of the few pleasures they have. Paul’s been fixed and Paula’s been trimmed. So this is what they are left with, giving oral pleasure."

I moaned and thrust out my pussy toward the invading lips. Paula quickly moved her head back and stopped.

"She’s very good at teasing. So is Paul. You’ll enjoy watching them work the livestock.

"Enough. Bedtime!"

The blonds jumped into bed and Princess Rosanna retreated to an adjoining bathroom. After a time she came out wearing a silk bathrobe. She approached me. Patted my cheeks and played with the gold chains attached to my nose ring.

"Point your toes!"

I complied. She then removed her robe, hung it on the bed poster and climbed in with Paul and Paula.

This glimpse of the naked Princess was shocking. She was very well formed. Shapely but somewhat muscular. Like a gymnast, except she was too tall. But what drew my attention was the protruding clitoris. The tip poked through her labia and was close to the size of a miniature penis.

She positioned herself between the blond teenagers and their heads disappeared below the covers. With the flip of a switch the lights went off. As I tried to resume sleeping in my state of arousal, I could hear the occasional rustling of sheets and moans of ecstasy.

'96 Months' VIII

2011-07-12T03:24:00.000-07:00

The Princess had said she had a propensity for restraint and I received my share that very first day. I remained connected to the chair for about an hour. I couldn’t move my head and the muscles in my neck strained to hold any weight off the nose ring. Finally, the Princess returned. She held a very thin leash in her hand.

"Let me look at you. Spread your cheeks so I can see your new jewelry."

I complied, of course, and could feel the small gold chains pull on the rings attached to my labia as I separated my knees.

"Oh, its beautiful! When your lips part the diamonds pop into view and sparkle in the light."

She released the nose ring.

"Up."

I stood. When my lips closed I could feel all the new paraphernalia rubbing my inside lips. Also the clitoral ring jutted out and caused strange sensations. Princess Rosanna laughed as I looked down at my pubes.

"I’m told one never gets used to it. You’ll always have the submissive feeling that your parts are enslaved. And, I suppose they are."

She reached down and hooked the fine leash to the clitoral ring. It was made of strands of woven silk and an animal of any size could break away from it. But when the Princess pulled very gently, the sharp pain was over bearing and I quickly stepped toward her to relieve the tension.

"Effective don’t you think? Don’t worry, it’s more something for you to think about and remind you of your status than for control and restraint. It makes me feel delightfully dominant. Just a little flick of my wrist can turn you into a begging groveling dog."

She demonstrated with the slightest tug and I gasped. She laughed.

"Let’s go for a walk. We’ll start slowly."

The Princess tied her end of the leash around her wrist and turned to the door. I followed, carefully timing my steps to coordinate with hers and keep the leash slack.

******************************************************************************

During our walk around the grounds the Princess talked about herself. Her need to dominate, to inflict pain, humiliation, suffering. She told of how these proclivities had more or less caused her exile her from the Royal family. She was very frank and I woefully realized the role I was to fulfill.

She had inherited money. But she also needed to cover the costs of operating the farm. Selling dates and coconuts wasn’t going to support her lifestyle, she realized. So, she had purchased livestock. I remembered she had described the facility as a breeding farm, but I was not sure what that entailed until we approached the stable, as she referred it.

It was an amazing scene! Stepping inside the tall white stucco building through wide double doors there Lantita stood before six wooden stocks. Two were empty but the other four entrapped the head and wrists of men. All were gagged except the one on the end which Lantita was feeding. The heavy wooden stocks were arranged in a quarter circle so that the men’s faces pointed toward a post in the middle of the large high ceilinged room. A partition between each set of stocks blocked the side view of the imprisoned men. They could not see each other.

The stock on the end was set back about two feet from the other five. The hole in the middle was larger and the two holes on each side a little smaller. If was designed to entrap a man’s neck, he would have to be a giant. But that wouldn’t explain the smaller apertures for the wrists.

Lantita was spooning a brown mush into the mouth of an oriental man. Hanging from his pierced ear was a leather tag with the number "5" burned into it. The Princess moved to the rear of the heavy wooden stocks and I followed.

"This is the essence of our business."

The oriental man was stripped naked. His feet were restrained in a spreader bar forcing his knees wide apart. Perched on a small table under his buttocks was a basin of water with tubes connected to it. The Princess reached into the water and pulled out a huge set of testicles. They were the size of small apples. The man stirred at her touch.

"These are the most well endowed men in the world. Have you ever seen bigger? I’ve searched the globe for this collection."

She was beaming with pride as she spoke. She released the scrotum and moved the table and water basin aside. The heavy sac fell to knee level and curiously swung as the Princess continued to speak. She then reached between the man’s thighs and pulled back an enormous penis. It was flaccid but was well over 12 inches. the prepuce of the uncircumcised organ was pierced by a gold clasp.

"I’ve infibulated every one. It’s a simple procedure first done by Roman women on their slaves. The prepuce is pierced on each side just under the tip. As you can see he can relieve himself but tumescence is impossible. Unless of course you remove the clasp, like this."

Princess Rosanna deftly pinched the clasp and freed the tip.

"If I allow it, he’ll slowly bring himself to erection. He’s full of hormones and a special diet. When was he last masturbated, Lantita?"

"Ten days, Princess."

"Well then, he’ll be ready if an order comes in. You see, we sell his semen. You’d be amazed at the number of wealthy women who enjoying breeding over sized men."
The huge penis was slowly engorging itself and the tip was turning purple.

"That’s enough."

The Princess pinched the prepuce. The man indiscernibly cried out into his gag. She lined up the openings and callously replaced the clasp, cruelly ignoring his muffled entreaty. Replacing the water basin she explained its function.

"The testicles should be kept below body temperature for best performance. For number Five here we’ve found that 94 degrees provides the highest sperm count. Every man is a little different but almost all produce best between 90 and 95 degrees. You can see that the water constantly circulates through a heater."

She led me from one man to another. An African, a blond who was presumably Nordic, a Latino, a Caucasian.

"We run this operation very scientifically. My livestock are in excellent physical condition, although over time their mental state deteriorates. But the reason I brought you to the farm, besides the pure enjoyment of tormenting you, is that we are finding that the testosterone levels are declining. So, just as a bull needs ovulating cows to become excited, I’m going to use you to rut my livestock. Yes, I can tell you’ve already got their attention."

She was patting the buttocks of the Nordic as she spoke. The man arched his back and thrust his buttocks higher as best he could. He was seemingly grateful for the soft touch, a rote reaction beseeching for more attention..

"The body will produce generous quantities of testosterone if the mind sends the right signals. Your role will be to focus their minds."

Reaching the end of the row we moved back to the front of the stocks. The Princess positioned me in front of the Latino. My pussy was inches from his nose and gagged mouth. He wriggled and craned his neck forward as best he could.

"Isn’t it exciting. One the largest, most viral men money can buy under my control. Lantita, what’s the situation on number ten?"

"We have an order in house, Princess. He’ll produce for us tomorrow. I think it’s best to give him another day. He knows the order is in. They produce best when the anticipation is allowed to build."

Princess Rosanna instructed me to spread my thighs. The gold chains instantly spread my lips and I could detect my own feminine odor caused by the exercise and the arousal of inspecting the naked livestock bringing stimulation. The Latino became noticeably excited. The Princess laughed.

"I think it’s working already."

She inserted two fingers into my well lubricated vagina and gently pinched my right nipple. This increased my arousal and after wriggling her fingers about and significantly increasing the flow of my juices she extracted the wet digits and held them under the Latino’s nose.

"Well, number ten, enjoy."

The Princess rubbed her fingers on the lips, nose and cheeks of the Latino and my feminine fragrance seemingly filled the room. She dipped her fingers again and proceeded to smear the Latino’s entire face with my essence. When she finished his face glistened and he struggled against the heavy stocks in frustration.

"He’ll be ready for you tomorrow, Lantita." Princess Rosanna was laughing

'96 Months' VII

2011-07-11T03:12:00.000-07:00

Over the next few days I quickly learned the rules of the house and much about Princess Rosanna’s odd propensities. I was to remain silent at all times in the presence of the Princess and could talk to Lantita when alone with her and only with her permission.

I was never allowed to lie down. It would take much time to become accustomed to sleeping in an upright position, but Lantita and the Princess provided much support in helping me learn.

The Princess enjoyed restraint as she had mentioned, but I was not prepared for the extent she demanded. I was therefore put on a program where Lantita stretched and vigorously massaged my ligaments and muscles until I was as supple as a ballet dancer. Some of the Princess’s favorite positions for me were impossibly painful for a normal person. But then the pain was what made the position of such interest to the Princess.

That first day Lantita took me to the Princess’s office. Against one wall was a strange metal pipe which came straight down from the ceiling. It ended at the height of my waist. But at the end two bars were attached which swiveled right and left, parallel to the floor at waist level. The pipe had various eye hooks welded to it and their use soon became evident. Lantita pushed my back to the pipe and hooked my neck collar to it. Then my arm bands, wrist bands and waist band. The bar to my right was swung out and Lantita politely asked me to lift my leg. She then attached the leg band and ankle band, causing my right leg to jut out in front of me. When she did the same to my left leg, I was completely suspended on the pipe, my weight being held by the bands. It was then that she began to separate my legs and the pain started. She laughed as I winced and groaned.

"You’ll soon be quite supple. We’ll work together."

We did, for hours. The goal was to have my legs straight out to my sides providing the Princess with maximum access to my genitalia. Always with toes pointed. It was another one of the rules. Toes always pointed.

That first day was painful. But no day when the Princess was at the farm was easy. She was demanding in her restraint and found it entertaining. I was the main show.

On that first day, after having secured the bars out to the side at an acceptable position, Lantita left me.

Stretching causes an interesting level of pain. It gnaws. It doesn’t overwhelm, but it doesn’t go away. After a number of hours, I thought about the sharp succinct canings of Abdul and found them preferable to the slow unending suspension on the pipe. Finally Princess Rosanna entered.

"Toes pointed," she reminded me.

The Princess wheeled a small cart in front of me. It was covered with a starched white cloth and contained various instruments.

"I like jewelry. Do you? Yes. Well, you’re going to wear some for me. You’re going to look very pretty for your next caning."

The Princess lit a small alcohol lamp. As a nurse I recognized the procedure. I was to be pierced.

"You may yell and scream if you wish. No one will hear you outside the farm. But please remain still. Hot needles in the wrong place can do damage."

As she spoke she pushed down on a lever on the wall. The pipe, with me attached, slowly descended until my spread legs almost touched the floor. My face was at the level of the cart. I stared into the flame of the lamp in fear.

She started with my nose. A quick jab below the septum. Tears ran uncontrollably. The pain seared through me. But the heat of the needle instantly cauterized the wound.

She stepped back and let the needle cool, then selected a golden ring from the table. The needle was removed and the ring inserted. It closed with a final click.

"Oh, yes. It’s quite becoming."

Next were my ears, which were comparatively pain free. Rings were inserted.

"I’m very fond of jewelry, fashion, beauty. You’re going to be my household pet. Yes, I’m going to decorate you."

The Princess strung a thin gold chain from the nose ring through my right ear ring then to an eye hook on my neck collar. A similar chain draped the left side of my face and through the left ear ring and to the collar.

"The chains have no function. They’re just baubles. But they’re indicative of your status."

The Princess pushed a lever on the wall and the pipe slowly moved up toward the ceiling with me attached of course. My well spread thighs and exposed vaginal lips were slightly higher then the original position. Princess Rosanna caressed my lips and inserted two fingers.

"My but you are the masochist. You’re aroused. Well, you’ll enjoy the rest of the day. We’re just getting started."

How right she was. Slowly and deliberately my outer labia were pierced countless times, each time I screamed in agony and fought against the heavy tungsten steel bands that held me in suspension. Princess Rosanna smiled with each of the screams and protestations, but did not falter in her endeavors. Each lip was pierced in four places with diamond studs. But the devilish Princess placed the sharply cut diamonds on the inside of my lips and the smooth gold backing of the stud on the outside. This would make vaginal intercourse almost impossible, as she explained it, since the sharp edges of the diamonds would serve to scratch and scrape any penetrating phalanx. In the middle of each lip, with two studs above and two below, the Princess inserted a golden ring. Again, just decorative, she explained.

I was soaking wet with sweat and my voice was hoarse from my screams. She rested and patted me with a towel. I thought about the quiet confinement of the prison and wished to return. Was it possible to violate parole? The Princess sensed my reservations.

"I’m almost done here. Just one more, today. But on another day there will be others. You’re going to be a very pretty girl. I’m going to do your arms and legs eventually. You will display my jewelry and be reminded of your servitude. But nothing on your buttocks and breasts. I don’t want to interfere with Abdul’s work.
The canings take precedent."

She let me rest more. One of the blond teenagers entered and strolled over to where the Princess sat.

"And how is my little Paul? Come sit with me."

The castrated boy sat on the Princess’s lap facing me with his back to her. He smiled at the salacious scene of my genitalia adorned with gold rings and diamonds.

"Our new pet, Paul."

The boy placed a leg on each side of the Princess’s thighs. His pink member was plainly visible. It was small but oddly prominent because of the empty scrotal sac below.

"He likes the feel of my silk skirt, don’t you Paul? Yes. And Nurse Hopkins excites you doesn’t she?"

Yes. I was amazed to see the boy’s tiny member slowly become engorged. The Princess moved her left hand under his bottom and brushed the underside of the small semi-erect penis.

"Has Lantita milked you this week? Hmm. No. Well let me help you."

Princess Rosanna began moving her left hand under the boy and grabbed a tissue from the tray. She looked up at me.

"Castrated boys have a problem with fluids. His prostate keeps producing pre-ejaculatory fluid with no where to go. It frustrates him. His system needs to release it but can’t. So once a week Lantita milks him. See. Look at yourself Paul. So much nasty stuff."

A clear sticky substance oozed from the boy and was captured by the tissue in the Princess’s hand. The boy was clearly experiencing pleasure under the humiliating ministrations of the Princess.

"Yes. Give it all to me. Be a good boy."

He did. Then the flow curtailed and the boy slid to the floor. Princess Rosanna went to a small connecting bathroom and washed her hands.

"Paul and Paula are from Sweden. They cost me a lot of money. Paternalistic societies do not give up their children cheaply."

She returned, snapped her fingers and pointed to a spot in front of the chair where she had sat. Paul immediately knelt facing the chair. The Princess lifted her skirt and slowly sat lowering the skirt over the boy’s head.

"He’s very well trained. He and his sister. I’ve had their tongues stretched and strengthened. Its usage is their sole function for being here."

A look of pleasure crossed her face and she smiled.

"Oh, Paul. That’s very good."

She patted the top of his head which was bobbing under her skirt.

"Now, Little One. Let’s finish."

Two more gold chains were used. She attached one end to the waist band, threaded it through my labia ring then to the band on my thigh. The other chain was likewise threaded through opposite labia ring. She tightened both chains, pulling my lips well apart. The room air passing over my well exposed clitoris felt strange. She laughed.

"Oh, yes. You’re going to look very servile with your new jewelry."

A small brush was retrieved from the tray and the Princess gently stroked, prodded and poked my little man. I squirmed with the pleasure and could feel the blood rush to my genitalia.

"Your little toy is becoming red and stiff, Little One. Normally I don’t like to use anesthetic. But for you, maybe just a touch of benzocaine."

I was dripping, but also apprehensive. Everything Princess Rosanna had done to me had resulted in great pain. What was next? She held up another gold ring for my inspection. It was larger than the others but made of a finer gauge.

"This is for your little thing. Yes, don’t look so alarmed. You didn’t think I’d allow your most important organ to escape my control? You’ll wear this with pride. And I think you’ll find it will increase your awareness of your sexual organs. It will cause your clitoris to swell and become more sensitive. All for my enjoyment of course, not yours."

I struggled against the bands holding me fast to the pipe. It was hopeless. She picked a needle heated it with the lamp and I vaguely remember the air rushing from my lungs and a loud scream that I guess came from me. I don’t know how long I was out. I awoke with the odor of ammonia under my nose.

"That wasn’t so bad was it Little One? I changed my mind about the benzocaine. I enjoy the procedure more without it and knew you wouldn’t need it."

The Princess released me from the pipe. My feet touched the floor then the collar, waist, wrist and arm bands were unhooked. The arm bands remained connected together. This left my hands mobile but unable to touch my privates which I was wont to do after the Princess’s attentions.

I could not stand and slowly my knees buckled. I lay on the floor momentarily and the Princess admonished me. I was never to be allowed to assume such a position, she sternly reminded me. For some reason I kissed her feet, I guess thinking it would mollify her and I could continue lying. But it was to no avail. She reached down and hooked her pinky finger into my new nose ring and pulled up. I winced with agony. My head rose quickly and I got up on my knees to follow the tugging finger.

"I’ll let you rest a little. Than I want to take you for a walk. There’s much to see and I want you to fully understand your new role of complete submission here at the farm."

The Princess led me to an easy chair and hooked the nose ring to an eye hook on the arm. I was to learn over the ensuing weeks that the house was covered with these small hooks. Walls, window sills, door frames, all types of furniture, etc. She could attach me anywhere, and with my hands restrained, I was helpless.

She left the room with Paul, playfully patting his naked posterior.

'96 Months' VI

2011-07-10T06:18:00.000-07:00

Days after returning to prison, I was taken to the doctor and given a full examination. He also carefully measured various areas of my body with a tape measure and recorded the circumference of my neck, wrists, biceps just above the elbow, ankles, thighs just above the knees and waist. He commented on how much he would miss me, as the trimmed Arab girls were no where near as much enjoyment as a full lipped European. I kept silent and made a note to thank the Princess for my deliverance from the cruel doctor.

That night Solana squatted over my face and I tasted her flesh for the last time. I would miss her.

The next morning I was taken from the prison and placed stripped naked into a limousine with my wrists tied in back of me. Princess Rosanna was in the back seat and guided me to the floor of the car.

"Kneel. We have an appointment and then we’ll go right to the farm. Your sentence has been commuted from eight years in prison to time served. However, you’re on lifetime parole in my custody. As discussed, the 500 lashes stand."

I kissed her feet in gratitude.

"Remember. If you violate parole, I will send you back to prison. None of the time spent at the farm will count toward your sentence."

It was an interesting situation. I would never see England again unless I went back and completed my sentence. Thoughts of escaping from the farm entered my mind. How secure could it be compared to the prison?

The limousine stopped on the outskirts of the city in an industrial area. The driver, a black woman, honked the horn in front of the overhead doors of a warehouse. The doors slowly opened and the car drove into a dank, hot, dust covered steel hut.

Princess Rosanna helped me from the car. A large, burly, Arab stood staring at me, then motioned me to a table. For whatever reason, I immediately got up on the table and knelt, fully displaying my genitalia. The Arab laughed. Princess Rosanna smiled and released my wrists.

"I’m having you shackled, Little One. The farm is 100 miles from the nearest city, so escape is difficult. But I have a certain proclivity for restraint. Severe and complete restraint."

She nodded to the Arab. The powerful black woman who was driving stood on the opposite side of the table. She also smiled.

"These trinkets cost a lot of money. Custom made of tungsten steel. You’ll find them quite heavy."

The Arab slipped a broad manacle over my right wrist, then closed it with a clasp.

"Almost impossible to cut without special tools."

The manacle was somewhat lose and could be slipped up and down my forearm about three or four inches. The Arab slid a protective piece of leather under the manacle and touched the clasp with a welding rod. The quick, bright spark frightened me.

"Mohammed has spent much time crafting these items. You’ll find the surface to be smooth and it won’t irritate your skin."

The left wrist was quickly encircled. Then my biceps, ankles, thighs, neck, and finally my waist. All were welded shut Each band of steel had several eye hooks attached to it. The number of different ropes, cords, thongs and chains etc. that could be used to secure the bands and therefore my body was countless. When finished, I stepped off the table as commanded, but fell to the floor. The added weight of the "trinkets", as the Princess referred to them, was enormous. All laughed at my struggles.

"You’re 110 pounds and are carrying about 30 pounds of steel. I can attach additional weights to the eye hooks, if necessary. So, any plans to escape across the desert will be very tiring. Also, you’ll find that the steel gets very hot in the sun. Don’t think about long walks in the desert."

We got back into the car for the two hour trip to the farm. Princess Rosanna clipped the steel arm bands together connecting my elbows behind me. This caused me to thrust out my breasts and the Princess toyed with them as I knelt. We watched miles of sand pass by the window and she talked about herself and the farm.

******************************************************************************

An oasis is a most unusual place. Water makes all the difference between sand and dust and lush green vegetation. Princess Rosanna had inherited the oasis/farm from her father. It was not the most valuable asset he had owned, but in the Islamic culture to bequeath anything to a daughter is very rare. It seems the Princess’s father knew of her odd propensities and felt it better that she be isolated. And, she had never married. This was odd for Saudi royalty. But as I learned more about the Princess I understood her celibacy.

The twenty acres were filled with palm trees and dense reeds and grass. Paths had been cut through but from where the large black woman parked the limousine, no buildings could be seen.

We stepped out. Princess Rosanna walked ahead. The black woman, I later learned her name was Lantita, snapped a leash on my collar.

The Princess paused and looked back.

"Just until you get used to being here we’ll keep you carefully restrained. After you have learned the rules you’ll have more freedom when I’m not present."

Lantita led me through the tall grasses. Within minutes a house appeared. It was white stucco. One story. A thatched roof, presumably made from the grasses grown at the oasis. Modest in design but large. Another building a short distance away was taller but not as spacious. Lantita referred to it as the stable.

As we approached the house two young teenagers ran toward us from the porch. They were naked with blond hair shaped in the style of a page boy. Similar in appearance from a distance, I was surprised to see that one was a girl and one was a boy. Except that as I looked closely, the boy had been gelded. Both smiled and ran to the Princess with open arms. They were short in stature and the top of their heads only reached to the Princess’s shoulder. They both hugged her.

"Well, children, we have someone to play with."

She introduced me as Nurse Hopkins. I hadn’t heard my name in a long while and it sounded foreign. She put her arms around the necks of the two and we all proceeded to the house.

'96 Months' V

2011-07-09T04:01:00.000-07:00

The entertainment factor was indeed an important element of the floggings. Abdul took to hanging me upside down with my ankles well spread by a steel bar. Facing the spectators I received five short but sharp strokes to my labia. Other times it was my breasts. He obviously restrained himself, but the pain was unbearable and the audience thoroughly enjoyed watching me lose control of my bladder in such a position. Abdul referred to the scene as turning on my fountain.

"Don’t turn on your fountain too soon," he would admonish.

After an upside down beating, I would be quickly dosed with water before being led back to the preparation room. Abdul had stopped fingering me and my frustration was building with the featherings at the prison. I begged for relief. But he reminded I was to be punished, not afforded pleasure.

Finally, on one occasion while he vigorously sodomized my back passage, I broke down and asked for more strokes of the cane.

"Yes, Little One. You may have more. But it will not count toward your sentence."

Abdul then produced a short thin cane and from that time on, he would stroke the front and sides of my thighs, breasts and stomach while I knelt on the table and he used me anally.

On the third occasion of these extra blows, I climaxed as his massive organ stretched my rear passage and he delivered a short crisp stroke to my right breast. It was a strong orgasm and I actually squirted some clear liquid on the table. The months of built up frustration and the constant torment had taken its toll. It seems that psychologically, for me pain had become some form of pleasure and I gratefully tightened my sphincter around Abdul’s thrusting manhood. He grunted with the new sensation and unloaded his semen while striking my left breast. I in turn climaxed again. When he withdrew, I collapsed on the table.

"So, Little One. It has finally happened. We have transformed you into a true masochist. From now on that is how you will have it. You will bring yourself to orgasm under the cane."

And so it was, until one month, I believe it was after some 180 strokes, a well dressed Arab woman was waiting in the preparation room after my punishment. This short time after the caning and before being put on display was special to me. A monthly private meeting with Abdul where, under his experienced hand, I would be allowed relief, however painful. I was therefore apprehensive about her presence.

"I have read about you in the newspaper and came to watch close up. You put on quite a show. I’m Princess Rosanna."

I climbed unto the table as she spoke. The guards no longer had to give me any instructions and I lowered my head and spread myself very wide to await Abdul.

The woman was strongly built. Handsome. About 35. A hint of gray hair glinted in front.

"My, you are subservient for a European girl. Leave us for a minute. Tell Abdul I’m with her."

She spoke sharply to the guards. The authority she commanded surprised me.

The guards left and the Princess moved closer to the front of the table. She wiped the remnants of tears from my cheeks. What followed was a thorough interview concerning me, my education, training, how I felt about my trial, sentence, punishment, etc. I surprised myself by answering even the most intimate questions honestly and completely. I didn’t know whether it was because of my new found subjugation, or her regal manner. As she asked questions, she circled the table, smoothing her hands over my naked flesh, squeezing, kneading, pinching. Abdul had caned my labia and she marveled at his skill and my ability to withstand the torment. She parted my buttocks and probed with two fingers.

"You have been well used here. I’ve felt Arab whores who are tighter. Is it Abdul who services you here? I don’t think you can receive such treatment in prison, unless the women guards are using a bottle on you."

I reluctantly told her of Abdul’s proclivities, hoping that my acknowledgment would not cause my only recreational activity to cease.

"It’s a common practice for Arab men to use a girl in such a manner. To use boys, too. So it is of no concern."

She returned to the front after washing her hands.

"I run a breeding farm about two hours from here. It’s in the desert at an oasis. Twenty acres of lush green palm trees in the middle of hot barren sand. It’s a lonely life style. I have servants, my livestock, an occasional visitor. But I need entertainment. I’m not a lesbian. But someone like you could be very amusing. I have influence. I am confident that I can have your prison time commuted. Your canings would continue. I don’t know if you realize it but you’ve become quite infamous. No connections that I have could curtail the monthly spectacle of you being caned naked before the public. The people have come to look forward to your monthly travails. But I can have you removed from prison. You’ll be driven here from my farm every month, caned and then returned."

She paused. I thought. The prison was unbearable. I was in solitary confinement most of the time except for showering and the examinations from the sadistic doctor.

"I need your permission. The British consulate is very interested in your welfare. Though due to the nature of your crime they have been publicly silent. But any change in your status is reported to them. They’ll be checking on both you and me if you’re moved."

I readily agreed to the arrangement. I could not face five more years of prison.

"Good. I’ll make the arrangements. In a few days you’ll be taken from the prison and specially prepared for the farm."

Abdul entered and bowed to the Princess. She must have been very influential. I couldn’t recall Abdul ever bowing to any one. They talked while Abdul lubricated me. I was afraid the Princess was going to watch Abdul take me. I was relieved when she left.

'96 Months' IV

2011-07-08T03:49:00.000-07:00

Abdul had a heavy hand on my next visit to the court house. The doctor must have briefed him about the condition of my backside. He was merciless and my audience applauded enthusiastically.

Afterward, on the inspection table I gently sucked his erection while he held my breasts.

"Are you ready for me, Little One?"

Without releasing his phalanx from my mouth, I nodded. It was not possible to refuse. I knew he could use me in any manner he wished.

He stepped back and withdrew his penis. He was amazingly large and I cringed with the thought of him impaling me.

"Put your head down on the table. Spread nice and wide. Yes. That’s it. You’re training is going very well."

Abdul smoothed the salve from my buttocks on his fingers and lubricated my rectum. His manhood pressured my backside and, as I had learned over the past few weeks with the anal insertion, I relaxed my opening and took him inside me. He was strong. He grabbed a hand full of hair with his left hand to steady himself and control our motions. His right reached around my thigh and played with my pussy.

"If you are good, Little One, I will bring you to climax. Your caned buttocks are hot and the reddened flesh gives me pleasure. Perhaps I will have a mirror put in here so you can see yourself, a totally subjugated, well caned European woman being rutted like an animal. You’ll come to like it and beg for it. But only after the canings and after you have pleased me. You must earn what little pleasure I will allow you."

His mammoth cock stretched me to the limits. But his right hand expertly worked my pussy. I groaned in pleasure and pain. It had been months since I had touched myself. It was a strangely pleasant sensation. He stroked and stroked. Withdrawing to the point where I could feel the head of his cock at my sphincter. Then he plunged in again. Then he completely withdrew.

"I always like to allow the rectum to relax and shrink a little. Then we start again. Such technique will make your backside very accommodating over time."

During the pause I was in a funk. So close to the orgasm I desperately needed but could not bring off.

Finally he plunged in again and my anus greeted his erection much more easily.

"Oh, yes. You’re going to be quite a toy. Soon you’ll look forward to these sessions and humbly squeeze your cheeks for my enjoyment."

His hand was again working my pussy. Two fingers were inserted. They rubbed, wriggled, frigged. Finally, I could feel his impending ejaculation.

"Squeeze, Little One, and Abdul will repay you."

I did and felt him release his load. Simultaneously, he hooked his fingers and found my spot. Abdul knew a woman’s anatomy better than most women. For the first time ever, I felt liquid squirt from my pussy and an overpowering rush of pleasure. I had read about the ability of some women to ejaculate but had never done it. Now, at the hands of my flagellator, I gushed in the most humiliating position. Abdul withdrew and laughed.

"Don’t think you’ll get that treatment every time, Little One. I save it for special occasions."

My strength gave out. I could not remain kneeling and slipped to my belly on the table. I was in a glow. Abdul picked up my head by the hair and I dutifully licked him clean. I was to learn he considered good it manners after anal penetration.

******************************************************************************

Abdul gave orders that I was to be constantly blind folded and either cuffed or pilloried. Also, he added to my frustration by having a guard feather fuck me every evening. Just the slightest touching of my lips and clitoris with a small feather. I mentally screamed for relief. Abdul was right. In spite of the brutal canings and the painful stretching of my backside, I looked forward to my future visits with him.

******************************************************************************

The sheet on the wall indicated that I had been caned 56 times. I dreaded that time passed so slowly, except for the first of the month. Then I wanted it to stop while I knelt on the table before Abdul, waiting to be caned. On that eleventh month, Abdul announced that the "A" frame would no longer be appropriate. As I was led down the aisle with the crowd gaping at my naked body I saw that a brass bar was placed on the stage. It was some three feet high and was positioned between two posts. The guards had me bend over it at the waist and when my ankles were secured to the posts they no longer touched the floor. My wrists were restrained behind my back and my head was pulled downward and the neck collar was secured to a ring on the floor.

Abdul had determined that my skin was toughening from the repeated canings. The new position of being bent over stretched the skin on my buttocks and would therefore provide for more pain. He was right of course. The padding on my cheeks stretched and each stroke seemed to explode with renewed vigor. This new position allowed me to view the audience for the first time. Although upside down, I was shocked to see my caning being videotaped. Abdul was particularly harsh on this occasion. I was humiliated when my bladder released for the camera.

Later, Abdul told me that a complete video archive of all my canings was kept and was a matter of public record.

******************************************************************************

Abdul did not always use me anally. He began to teach me how to take his entire erection in my mouth and throat. It took great patience and concentration. I was allowed to lie on my back and hang my head off the end of the table to afford the appropriate angle of penetration. But I learned. And Abdul played with my breasts during sessions as I tried very hard to please him.

******************************************************************************

With the sheet indicating some 113 strokes of the caning, I pondered my situation as I lay secured in the pillory waiting to be taken to the doctor. I was no longer anally impaled, having been opened to Abdul’s satisfaction. Abdul still had me kept blindfolded with hands restrained most of the time. And the nightly torment with the feather continued. About twice a week, Solana visited very late at night. I vicariously received some degree of pleasure by feasting between her thighs. I enjoyed serving her, although her preference for having me perform analingus was becoming stronger.

Abdul had my diet changed. My daily bread was now soaked in some type of oil. The doctor told me it would keep my skin soft and supple and permanent damage from the cane would be minimized.

Tomorrow would be another visit with Abdul. The fear, the humiliation, the pain. All these thoughts were diminished by the pleasurable hope that after the exhibition, Abdul would use my backside and bring me to orgasm with his fingers. It had been months.

******************************************************************************

The preparation room had been newly outfitted with mirrors. Kneeling on the table I could see my naked, hairless body from several angles. The spectacle of my canings must be quite salacious, I thought. No wonder the chamber was always filled. My flattened stomach accentuated the size of my breasts and kneeling with thighs widely spread and buttocks pointed, as Abdul insisted, caused my nipples to harden as I looked at my reflection from the side.

On this day, I would again be mounted on the brass bar. But first there was the ritual of filling my bladder. The guard held a fourth glass to my lips and I drank. Abdul had told me that the drama of watching my bladder release on stage provided the crowd with great entertainment, and was a good indicator of the severity of the caning. The thwack of the cane violating my flesh and sight of the welts was not enough.

With the local newspaper prominently announcing my scheduled executions, the crowds had become larger and larger. It was apparently part of Islamic law or tradition that citizens were permitted to satisfy themselves that convicts were indeed being punished. So, another step of the ritual was added so that any citizen who could not be seated in the chamber, could inspect me afterward.

After punishment and the meeting with Abdul, I was taken to a courtyard within the judicial building. There, for all to see I would stand on my toes with my wrists strung high over my head. It was a public area and those who could not witness my punishment could idle by and inspect me.

The humiliation was overwhelming, for on many occasions I could feel Abdul’s spendings dripping down the inside of my thigh. Most times the men did not notice these tracings, but the Arab women were quick to point out how I had been used with their laughter and comments in Arabic.

The rules did not allow anyone to touch me. But late in the day when few people were watching, money changed hands and the guards looked elsewhere as a curious hand probed my privates.