I posted this story many years ago on the Eunuch Archive. The age interaction made it unpublishable.
I apologize to those who have before read it.
If acceptable I will post more. So let me know.
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The Anguished E
Copyright 2002
by Chris Bellows
Part One
Tony’s Story
Chapter One
As convenient as it was to have a doctor living next door before my father died, the presence of Dr. Stella Robertson later came as a great relief to Mom after Dad was gone. By necessity I spent endless hours at Dr. Stella’s house. For though Dad had left behind a beautiful house and some life insurance, Mom found she needed to work in order to pay the bills and ensure I could eventually go to college. In so doing I was not to be left on my own after school and thus returned each day to Dr. Stella’s house where along with her Nurse Annika there was more than adequate adult supervision.
And..., there was Brandy.
Dr. Stella’s daughter was three years older than I. Even at age 12 she was attractive in an adult sort of way and everyone seemed to recognize the potential of the budding beauty. Blonde with blue eyes, the attention she received from admiring adults became somewhat disconcerting to me over time. As much as I liked Brandy, loved her I suppose, standing to the side and listening to all the ingratiating comments and compliments while I was completely ignored gave rise to some degree of irritation, and I guess an odd level of envy.
Even boys need some form of attention.
Our initial introductions to Dr. Stella’s patients seemed to become repetitive over time. After minutes of exchanging hyperboles concerning Brandy’s pulchritude, Dr. Stella would nod and suggest that indeed Brandy had done some modeling and there was more to come.
“I am told the call backs are the important indicator, and Brandy always gets called back.”
Then as an aside, Dr. Stella would turn and introduce me. The dark skinned ‘boy next door’.
“This is Tony. We watch over him while his Mom works.”
She was gracious and as a proud mother did not realize the slight that I felt. And since I was shy I just smiled at the visitor and politely said hello.
Occasionally, there would be a tangential comment about my coloring.
“He’s nicely tanned,” a patient would aphoristically observe, sometimes with a sarcastic snicker.
Dad was from Morocco. Mom’s family emigrated years before from Mexico. So with much time spent frolicking about Dr. Stella’s pool, the sun triggered the genealogical pigmentation of my skin and turned it to a rich golden brown. And when standing near the alabaster Brandy, it was quite a contrast, spurring the comments, whether well intended or not.
Though I was only 9, I remember thinking to myself, ‘if the visitor only knew that the tan covered every inch of my young body’.
Yes, when lounging about the pool bathing attire was deemed superfluous by Nurse Annika. Completely surrounded by Dr. Stella’s sprawling ranch style house, the pool was secluded from the prying eyes of neighbors, and well away from the office area where patients came and went.
So the Swedish nurse, with a cynical attitude toward the puritanically American de rigeur for covering, directed that I would sun bathe completely nude.
But not Brandy, of course. She wore very fashionable bathing suits and was carefully coated with the strongest of sun screening.
“The modeling agency insists, Annika. Brandy’s coloring should not change between assignments,” directed Dr. Stella.
So every afternoon after school I reported to Dr. Stella’s home and office, where invariably the California sun afforded another opportunity to romp about the pool. Nurse Annika escorted me to an examination room. There she assisted me in undressing, clutched my clothing and after a firm but playful slap to my buttocks sent me scampering to the pool. Meanwhile, Dr. Stella put Brandy into her bathing suit and assured that the sun protection was adequately applied.
In the first few weeks of Dr. Stella’s ‘day care’ I learned there was an ulterior motive to Nurse Annika’s insistence that she take control of my clothing. One afternoon coming indoors for a drink I overheard a brief telephone conversation between Nurse Annika and my Mom.
“Don’t worry Mrs. Fatiqua, when you get home Tony will be here. He has every reason to stay near the pool and not wander off anywhere,” the nurse explained, stifling a laugh.
How true. Nurse Annika had my clothes! Lest I parade about the neighborhood naked, I was destined to play around the pool. But with Brandy as a companion, I was not wont to leave.
It is interesting to reflect back on how a twelve year old girl interacted with a naked nine year old boy. Initially, Brandy was oblivious to my body with its ‘strange’ dangling male part. I suppose she was beforehand counseled by her mother about proper deportment. But over time, realizing that we were left alone while Dr. Stella and Nurse Annika tended to patients, her curiosity overcame her and many times she stared and giggled.
I blushed. It was not fair to be so exposed to her but she not to me. But the ostensible unfairness was mitigated by the pleasing warmth of the California sun on my completely exposed flesh and the delight of being proximate to this budding young ‘starlet’ whose perfection I came to esteem more and more each day.
In hindsight, I believe a young Brandy had before been exposed to the adult male genitals, perhaps to Dr. Stella’s ex husband as he exited the shower or took a late night skinny deep in the pool. For many times as she stared below my waist she seemed to be comparing me to another of the male gender, asking why my uncircumcised penis pointed like a pencil and where my jewels were.
Yes, that’s how she referred to my undeveloped gonads, at that age still tightly encased in a puff of skin below my penis and practically invisible.
One day she became insistent and being naive, I lifted my sun darkened appendage to show her that the ‘jewels’ were indeed there, just hard to find.
This brought much giggling and a taunt that she still couldn’t see them.
“Let me feel,” she challenged.
Well, I had been exposed to her daily for many weeks. What harm could there be?
And I would postulate that even at age 9 the touch of soft feminine hands had a certain enchantment. And so before I could formulate an objection, I guess I let Brandy’s young hands reach out, her left lifting the thin and pencil pointed penis and the fingers of her right brushing the soft scrotal sac to feel the ‘two peas in their pod’, as she girlishly described my precious parts.
Her demeanor was that of a child petting a cat or dog. And in reflection, I suppose that had that in fact been the case, I would be purring or wagging my tail. Her fingers felt good, not only on my sensitive hidden scrotum but also on my prepuce which inadvertently slid about as she held it upwards.
I felt a certain twinge. I recall it as my first erotic sensation. And as opposed to most youths who discover such a feeling in early forms of masturbation, mine came at the hands of a beautiful yet prepubescent girl.
Brandy released my organs, but my penis began to engorge just as it sometimes did when I awoke in the morning. My dark brown foreskin began to draw back and the pink and moist head peeked out and shone shockingly in contrast to my sun baked shaft.
Brandy stepped back, in mock surprise.
“So that’s where it hides.”
Yes, the mature looking 12 year old blonde had definitely been exposed to other phalli, and years later in recollecting her initial ‘introduction’ to my little appendage, I realized that unlike mine those she had previously seen were circumcised.
Well reader, that started a game. For some reason, as young and naive as we were, we knew to conceal our interaction from nurse and doctor. So without their knowledge we played about on many afternoons. Brandy was constantly requesting, probably more demanding, to see if my ‘two peas’ were becoming easier to find. And that started my tumescence. My young shaft would begin to point with the pink tip exposing itself to the bright California sun.
Brandy was mesmerized by the process of male arousal and she developed a rather precocious sense of timing. She was able to bring me to erection when she knew her mom and Nurse Annika to be involved with a patient and somehow was able to anticipate the timing of the two or three daily trips the tall blonde nurse made to check on us or to bring lemonade or snacks.
That’s when she assertively suggested that I jump into the pool. I did not need to hear her command twice, wishing to avoid the ire of the demanding Swede.
We inherently understood that in the mind of the stern Scandinavian, nudity was one thing..., immodest youthful exploration something completely different.
Our surreptitious play continued for a few months with Brandy finding great joy in watching me walk about the pool with a tiny erection, though it certainly did not feel tiny to me. The brown shaft tipped in moist pink, sometimes turning purple if Brandy’s examination was extensive, was a source of wonderment for a girl rapidly approaching puberty. And her search for my ‘peas’ sometimes took several minutes if Brandy was in a devilish mood and her mom and Nurse Annika were known to be engaged in a complicated procedure.
My curiosity was not to be satisfied in reciprocation. We rode a one way street with Brandy in the driver’s seat. Every time I suggested looking at her hidden charms I was denied.
“No Tony. Good girls don’t do that,” she admonished.
Then I think Brandy attended some basic courses at school concerning male anatomy and reproduction. Those where girls are imparted at a young age with the concerns of pregnancy, for I became a walking specimen upon which she was learning. Meanwhile my requests to see what was under the skimpy triangle of cloth between her thighs, or peer at the perky bumps resting atop growing mounds on her chest, were turned down with growing annoyance.
“If you ask again, I’m going to tell Nurse Annika that you’re running about the pool with your thing sticking out.”
Well that was enough of a threat to temper any thoughts about seeing Brandy’s charms. Nurse Annika had special punishments for boys she deemed ‘naughty’. And over the months I experienced more than my share of incredibly filling enemas for minor infractions of the rules, such as splashing or being noisy. I could not imagine the giant nurse’s reaction and my punishment if she were made aware of our sordid game, though I was never the instigator.
Thus the unfairness mounted. Brandy became more aggressive with her examinations, her fingers massaging my testicles and pulling them downward in a futile attempt to make my manliness blossom quicker. She was more insistent concerning my constant state of turgidness, laughing as the organ stiffened under her touch. She became menacing and often, fully understanding my fear of Nurse Annika, used veiled threats to ensure my compliance, i.e. firm erection, with her whim to watch me shamefully walk about aroused.
And meanwhile, each day she seemed to become more beautiful, developing a radiance that was more that of a woman than a girl. Her breasts become larger and rounder and what she could not deny me was a view of buttocks that were exquisite, though frustratingly covered in bathing attire.
She was devious, astute, and stopped at nothing to develop a peculiar form control over me. She understood that threats would only be effective for so long. So she sagaciously decided to turn me over to Nurse Annika for no other reason than to demonstrate she could do it..., to have me punished at her caprice.
If I recall correctly it was some two years after our daily anatomical dalliances began. Brandy was exiting the pool and the cool water caused her nipples to crinkle underneath a thin and wet bikini top. I stared in wonderment. She was truly beautiful and though she commanded me to stay erect while she swam, I believe her order was not needed. The sight of her breasts, perfectly outlined by their tight confinement, would have had me standing. I did not realize it but I too was developing sexually.
She caught the direction of my intense gaze and smiled with a degree of evilness that made me cower.
“That will cost you.”
She reached down with her right hand and simply diddled the underside of my erect penis. She seemed to know that the small spot, the frenum, was the most sensitive of male erogenous zones and within a minute my penis tip turned purple. I had grown over the year and looked down in amazement to see that her manipulation caused it to rise straight upwards almost to my navel. She looked directly into my eyes while she worked and I just stood there in awe not only of her blossoming beauty, but her growing power and enjoyment thereof.
Then her sense of timing was once again demonstrated. She stepped back, pulled my erection downward then released it to thump up against abdomen...., just as Nurse Annika stepped out of the house with a tray of lemonade. She stepped further back and splashed noisily into the pool, the sound drawing the unwanted attention of the nurse.
The large blond, in her starched white uniform with the obligatory cap, looked up to see me standing with an ‘enormous’ erection looking down at the idol of the household, the ravishing ingenue Brandy, swimming with feigned innocence.
I thought the unexpected scene would bring forth a scream of shock. A verbal reproach of disgust. Perhaps even a firm cuffing.
Instead, Nurse Annika placed the tray on a nearby table and wriggled her finger, motioning for me to come to her.
My fear, my excitement, my embarrassment, would not allow my erection to subside! I had to cross the concrete decking, sheepishly feeling my erect manhood bob with each step, apparently putting on quite the show for the irrate Nurse Annika.
“You’re getting older, Tony. With age boys need to develop discipline and restraint.”
She was smiling. But it was the same smile of diabolism exhibited by the devious Brandy.
“I think I can help you. The Doctor’s last appointment cancelled.”
I shuddered. The nurse’s prior punishments were truncated by the need to tend to medical duties. Now it was the end of the day. The Nurse seemed amused by my realization that I was a very delicate fly that had firmly entangled itself in a spider’s web.
“If you like looking like that, showing yourself off to girls, we have ways of making it even more enjoyable...., come.”
I would not become flaccid. What was happening? The adrenaline? The fear? The embarrassment?
I stayed erect for the entire walk through the house to the wing containing Dr. Stella’s office facilities. She took me to an examining room and I found myself helpless to resist as she drew my hands behind my back and wrapped rubber tubing about my wrists, securing them togther. Then it was up onto a gynecological table where large, powerful but strangely sensuous hands examined my testicles and my still erect penis.
“Yes, Tony you’re becoming a man. Something normally to be celebrated, except we can’t have you bothering Brandy. She’s special you know.”
As Nurse Annika spoke I flushed with my tumefied state. Her hands were quite experienced and she herself was a handsome woman, though she made every attempt to hide her femininity under the plain uniform.
She placed my feet in stirrups and snapped on latex gloves. What followed was the most incredibly humiliating experience of my young life. Nurse Annika gave me a thorough prostate examination, probing with first one finger and then two well into my tight rectum.
She actual made my penis bob by pressuring areas she knew to effect my turgid manhood. This brought laughter from her, and a strange liquid from my urethral opening.
“Yes. You’re developing, Tony. We’ll have to keep an eye on you.”
She withdrew her fingers and stepped away. Returning, I felt her insert something into my anus. It was very tight and incredibly I heard the sound of air and felt the large object grow!
To my chagrin, I was to become all too familiar with the inflatable butt plug during my formative years. But the first time, the penetrating object felt both amazingly foreign and strangely arousing.
“Go back and join Brandy. No swimming.”
With plug in place, she released my feet from the stirrups. When I stood she slapped my buttocks with great force which seemed to harden my erection. I ran from the room to the pool area, penis wagging from side to side with each step.
A smiling Brandy was beside herself with not only my state of forced turgidness, but my complete helplessness with wrists secured.
The butt plug pressured my underutilized prostate gland and kept me not only erect, but leaking this stuff I had never before seen.
Brandy toyed with my testicles endlessly, fascinated by the slow stream of pre-ejaculatory fluid.
It was a long afternoon until Mom arrived home.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Sunday, September 5, 2010
The Zesty Girl Irrevocable Trust
New offering... The Zesty Girl Irrevocable Trust
Well, it's Sunday and another week without inspiration.
So I searched a back up hard drive and found something not read in a while (and never published).
At www.lulu.com/content/9326950 you can find the unfinished sequel to 'Pony Girl Zesty'. It's Female dominant with both female and male submission, so readers should be forewarned. At 46,000 words it is a good value. And as requested, please write with some suggested endings. I may get back into the story and complete it but that is difficult, probably more time consuming (with more chance of error) than beginning anew.
Enjoy.
Well, it's Sunday and another week without inspiration.
So I searched a back up hard drive and found something not read in a while (and never published).
At www.lulu.com/content/9326950 you can find the unfinished sequel to 'Pony Girl Zesty'. It's Female dominant with both female and male submission, so readers should be forewarned. At 46,000 words it is a good value. And as requested, please write with some suggested endings. I may get back into the story and complete it but that is difficult, probably more time consuming (with more chance of error) than beginning anew.
Enjoy.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Free Story on Lulu/The Masturbatrix
A slow Saturday morning and no ideas, limited inspiration for writing.
So I found an old story, posted years ago on some kinky sites, that may serve to amuse.
It's rather whimsical, a fantasy setting a little over the top compared to my recent stuff.
But I like it.
The Masturbatrix from 2002. The complete story of some 14,000 words is offered for free. See www.lulu.com/content/9290549
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Copyright 2002 by Chris Bellows
Part One
Even as a teenager, the male phallus had fascinated Ms. Lucinda Contrell, but not in the normal sense of youthful wonderment and curiosity. No, Lucinda Contrell’s interest was in control..., manipulation..., making the odd cylinder of flesh stand for her..., and after a suitable interval of play, suitable for her enjoyment of course, perhaps..., just perhaps..., permitting it to attain the strange spasmodic release which its custodian seemed to think was its paramount function.
And so Ms. Lucinda Contrell, respectfully called Miss Lucinda by her male underlings, considered her position of employment to be the pinnacle of her fulfilling career as the masturbator of boys.
Yes, years before at age 28 Miss Lucinda had quickly risen to the position of Chief Masturbatrix at the infamous Degradation Club, that secretive but notorious enclave where the wealthy Dominant women of the world vent their demented proclivities.
There were other employees of the club who achieved noteworthy status at a young age. The Whipmistress was 30. The Director of Bondage had been promoted to her exulted status at age 27. There were excellent nurses, fresh out of school, who could psychologically break the most belligerent of recruits within an hour of having him strapped to the examination table. But all admired Miss Lucinda’s skill, an unusual combination of both physical strength and knowledge of the male anatomy that proved to be so entertaining for the grateful members of the Club..., entertaining and rewarding.
Miss Lucinda learned early on that delighting the members of the Degradation Club could not only provide self satisfaction but could also be tremendously lucrative. Gratuities were generously offered for a pleasing exhibition of male humiliation, and so at age 32 Miss Lucinda’s bank account was continuing to grow along with her talent and her desire to provide the ultimate exhibition..., having a virile tumefied young male squirm for climactic release, but extending his torment until that most coveted moment..., when a subtle nod or perhaps a casual motion of the hand of a woman..., yes a Dominant woman..., signaled Lucinda to finally allow the slippery, turgid manhood to ignominiously empty itself, spewing male seed in the direction of her choosing.
Normally a young male would welcome the opportunity to ejaculate. But when restrained in Miss Lucinda’s masturbation harness, swinging helplessly at the end of a soft but taut nylon rope, with various Dominant females ogling well-exposed genitals, the ordeal proved to be mentally overwhelming, imparting upon the naked male an indescribable level of embarrassment, which of course added a welcomed dimension for the viewing members and guests.
Miss Lucinda’s day begins with the driver of the Club’s limousine patiently awaiting her descent from her lavish Fifth Avenue coop apartment. He cautiously reads the paper, frequently glancing out to ensure Miss Lucinda does not step out of the lobby elevator early. When the dashboard clock reads 6:59 a.m., he puts aside the paper and exits. Miss Lucinda may occasionally be early, but she is never late. Thus, even on a cold winter’s day he humbly stands outdoors knowing that if it is Miss Lucinda’s hand that reaches the door handle first, there will be a price to be paid.
The large windows of the lobby reveal the arrival of the elevator. Miss Lucinda exits. She is radiant in her simple attire and make up. Since her first endeavor of the day will be an extensive workout in the Club’s gymnasium, Miss Lucinda expends little effort in enhancing her natural beauty. Still, she draws attention. Standing at more than six feet and some 170 pounds, she is noticed. And as a woman of color traversing the lobby of one of new York’s most exclusive residential buildings, her focused march causes heads to turn. The doorman once commented that he didn’t need to look to know that Ms. Lucinda Contrell had entered the lobby, he could feel the concrete floor move and sense from the hushed reaction that the tall ebony goddess was distracting all present from both conversations and chores.
So on this cold morning the doorman once again senses her arrival, this time by just looking at the driver straighten up in a comical attempt to make himself appear more than the mere obsequious male that he is.
Before needing to turn his head, he swings open the large glass door, then pivots to greet the Coop’s most alluring resident.
“Good morning, Ms. Contrell.”
Miss Lucinda returns the greeting but without hesitation proceeds to the car where the driver’s quavering hand dutifully pulls open the rear door.
“Good morning Miss Lucinda,” the driver using the more familiar diminutive.
Little do the employees and residents of the Coop realize that in utilizing the moniker the driver acknowledges her status as Chief Masturbatrix within the Degradation Club hierarchy. It pleases her.
“You’ve spilled coffee, Albert,” Miss Lucinda comments with a smile.
A doe skinned gloved hand reaches out, ostensibly to highlight the offending spot. But with her back shielding Albert from the eyes of the curious doorman, a knowing hand does more than to point out a beige stain on Albert’s white shirt. It briefly traces over the cloth then moves downward to the front of the black slacks. A crooked index finger smooths over the zippered area where a man normally welcomes a woman’s touch. Albert’s shoulders straighten more, bringing himself to an ingrained and humbled posture of attention before the imposing black beauty.
“Things like this earn you a stint with the Miss Stenson.”
The mere mention of the name causes Albert’s knees to partially buckle. Miss Stenson is the Club’s Whipmistress, and the image of her perfectly proportioned, booted, gloved and leather- clad body invokes fear.
Still, even with the trepidation, the briefest of caresses from the most accomplished Masturbatrix has its effect. Albert feels himself stiffen. The fact that Miss Lucinda is also well aware of his subservient reaction causes to rapidly cascade the process of achieving erection. Albert can do nothing other than to feign pleasant conversation while Miss Lucinda expertly brings him to full tumescence with a simple digit of her right hand.
Age old memories of hanging in her harness accelerate the process. And Albert involuntarily closes his eyes as within seconds Miss Lucinda’s single finger causes his slacks to tent.
“I hope the steering wheel won’t cause discomfort,” Miss Lucinda laughingly observes as she mercifully terminates her guileless but effective efforts and enters the limousine.
Albert closes the door and moves quickly to the driver’s door, hoping that his bulging pants are not noticed. In achieving his 21st birthday, his duties changed from that of naked and caged sycophant, humbly awaiting Miss Lucinda’s skilled hand, to that of staff servant. But still, the pay is good and Albert is sanguine knowing that if he begs enough, one of the Club’s nurses may take pity, strip him and let him lick her shoes during a lunch or coffee break. Otherwise, his advanced age of 23 obviates any further ejaculatory displays before a gathering of Degradation Club members.
And so, as an aroused Albert steers the lengthy black car into traffic, he calms his excitement by convincing himself that a certain blond German nurse will find his stiffness amusing enough to supervise the taking of a sperm sample, something normally done with only the newly arrived youthful applicants. But Albert soon finds that Miss Lucinda is correct, the zipper covering the bulbous tip of his maleness brushes the steering wheel and with each turn his arousal heightens.
With the early hour the car speeds through normally crowded Manhattan streets. Reaching 57th Street Albert hears the calm, authoritative voice of his passenger.
“You may unzip, Albert. You appear uncomfortable.”
There are only two blocks remaining in the journey. Albert hopes the sidewalk will be void of pedestrians, for when he complies with Miss Lucinda’s ‛suggestion’ his erection pops through the opening in his pants. The exposure and the fear of a passerby peering through the windshield spurs Albert to accelerate through a changing traffic light. He leans to activate the button for the overhead garage door and in so doing presses his penis against the steering wheel. It feels good. Albert begins to conspire for relief. The Club facilities are well monitored and it has been made very clear that unauthorized masturbation can subject a male to the nastiest of punishments.
Alas, a visit to the nurse will definitely be in order, he concludes.
The clandestine Degradation Club occupies three deep subterranean floors in a Midtown skyscraper. The garage door provides the only entrance and facilitates anonymous visits by the wealthy famous members. No one knows who rides in the back of the daily parade of arriving darkened limousines until the vehicles stop in the very bowels of the building. Thus once Albert enters, his exposed manhood, however embarrassing, will not subject him to the ridicule of the vanilla world or possible interdiction by law enforcement officers.
Albert notices an ambling pedestrian approaching the sidewalk near the garage. Again he accelerates and whips the large auto through the open door before he needs to pause to let the elderly prudish woman cross in front. After passing over the sidewalk, the rear view mirror shows that the overhead door immediately closes. A relieved Albert guides the limousine down a circular ramp.
The space occupied by the Club was originally intended for use as a vault for a large brokerage firm. Numerous mergers within the securities industry made the secured footage superfluous. A certain well known real estate magnate, a one time subservient to a prominent member of the Club, provides the vast space at a nominal rent. Rather graphic photos proved to out weight the economic remuneration the space would normally command. Thus somewhere in the Club’s archives is an unbreakable 99 year lease safely tucked away along with negatives that are said to be luridly revealing for the landlord..., a man whose extensive but leveraged holdings require that he have the respect of staid bankers.
Continued use of the basement floors at a less than reasonable monthly payment insures that his photographs remain secure and that he will continue to command such respect. It is wry that the amount of money involved is immaterial to the wealthy members of the club. It is the notion that their membership facility and the pleasure derived therefrom is at the expense of a lowly male that adds a mirthful degree of irony to their escapades.
The car is barely stopped as Albert leaps from the drivers seat to open the rear door for Miss Lucinda. His phallus points straight forward through his trousers and brings a smile from the accomplished Masturbatrix. For a woman who commands such obedience from the male organ, it is a wonderfully servile tribute. Soft gloved hands reach down. Albert remains at attention as a knowing left hand deftly slips into the unzipped opening to find a pair of male eggs. She firmly squeezes while the fingers of the right hand diddle the most sensitive underside of the prepuce. Miss Lucinda gently strokes and feels the penis twitch. Albert’s hips lurch forward, welcoming the amazingly sensuous touch.
“You have a nice day, Albert.”
Miss Lucinda pulls the stiff manhood downward then quickly withdraws her hands. The extreme stiffness causes the bulbous purple head to snap upwards and hit the belt buckle with a noticeable thud. Albert grimaces. An amused Miss Lucinda strides away with a wicked snicker. The gymnasium awaits.
Few males have ever had the pleasure of watching the Chief Masturbatrix of the Degradation Club as she immerses her muscular body in an exhaustive work out. Stripping down to ‛G’ string and sport bra, Miss Lucinda appears to be a well muscled show girl. And indeed, as she stands before the floor to ceiling mirrored wall, her reflection reveals an interesting contrast of soft, smooth, coffee-colored flesh covering well developed power. The results of daily workouts are beautifully shaped legs, buttocks which distract, rippled abdominal muscles and arms whose size resemble those of a wrestler, except the feminine covering adds a delightfully teasing degree of viewing intrigue, causing observers to question how a body so alluring could also lift and pump such incredible weightage.
But it is Miss Lucinda’s unseen muscle development which proves to be the feature most facilitating her role. Years of special exercise have imbued her with the grip of a blacksmith. In lighter moments she amuses Club members by cracking walnuts in the palms of her hand and on occasion removing the tops of soda bottles without benefit of a standard opener.
Yes, Club members find the demonstrations particularly amusing when their imaginations picture such puissant hands wrapped about the shaft of an engorged male organ, daring the hapless owner to ejaculate without the consent of the Chief Masturbatrix and the viewing audience.
And so the voyeuristic members find merriment in watching the ebony giantess apply her power, extracting the ultimate in humiliation for the entertainment of all, knowing that young males will cede total control to this amazing woman.
Every pore opens. Perspiration beads and drips to the gymnasium floor. The bright lights cause her wet skin to shine.
The morning session ends with twenty minutes of squeezing the grip developer. Even well conditioned males find it difficult to close the springed handles of the device. Miss Lucinda whips through dozens and dozens of repetitions, alternating from right hand to left. The resulting squeaking sound produces a cadence which brings satisfaction. The final part of the routine is to pose before the large mirror and flex. Miss Lucinda finds gratification in the glistening image shining back. Years before, some staff members suggested that she model for body building products. She smiles in recalling the idea as her frame expands and certain muscles spread like the neck of a cobra about to strike its prey. It is an intriguing thought for anyone to have their body highlighted and portrayed as superior. But alas, her bursting bank account suggests that her time is better spent within the walls of the Club.
Refreshing ablutions are well deserved and the day’s tasks require attention. Miss Lucinda showers then dons a large robe for the short walk to her office. By 9:00 a.m. the Chief Masturbatrix sits at her desk reviewing her calendar and the day’s work orders. There is a new arrival to be interviewed. The heiress of a Swedish auto manufacturer has a group of friends visiting the club for a lunch and requests the presence of a particularly well endowed young male. In the late afternoon some members have requested that their bridge game terminate with a suitable display of obeisant naked flesh. ‛Large low hanging testicles’ is written in bold letters at the bottom of the request form. All three encounters will involve Miss Lucinda’s skills of course. It is the job of the Chief Masturbatrix to evaluate each new arrival. And every Club member enjoys watching her ply her handiwork.
All in a day’s work.
Miss Lucinda presses an intercom button.
“Margie, I’ll need the standard black latex skirt and halter top. Bring a thigh strap also.”
The Club’s uniforms are cleaned nightly and centrally stored. Most employees retrieve their attire upon arriving for work. But Margie, the clothing clerk, insists on bringing the uniform to Miss Lucinda and for her efforts she is afforded the opportunity to assist. Margie prefers the company of women and Miss Lucinda has long ago put aside her superficial aversion to bisexual dalliances. Within a minute a knock announces Margie’s arrival and Miss Lucinda stands to remove her robe.
When the door swings open Margie is greeted by the vision of her six foot ebony goddess standing naked, the tautness of her frame evidencing the many morning workouts. Margie gawks. Her eyes cannot avoid breasts which defy gravity and a trimmed pudendum which seems to beg for the attention of her lips.
Margie herself is a pleasant eyeful. Having served for three years as one of the Club’s rutting girls, age required that the cute blond rotate into a more mundane role. But under her plain blue cloth pullover dress remains the body of a ‛go go’ dancer. Only her complete disdain for the male gender inhibited her early career of tucking dollar bills under the slimmest of ‛G’ strings. A Club member visiting her swanky but sordid place of employment caught not only her dance performance but also recognized her distaste for having sweaty, meaty hands sneak a feel with each proffer of cash.
There ensued a discussion concerning potential employment at the Club. It was short. Nudity was not a problem for a girl who spent many hours of each day strutting before fat oversexed males. The offer of money was more than adequate. But it was the Club’s raison d’etre which made the decision easy. As a rutting girl, Margie would remain nude, but no male hand would ever again touch her. And there would be a price to be paid by her new audience for gazing at her fine form, well beyond that of modest dollars..., that of complete subjugation.
“Good morning, Margie. You look good this morning.”
Margie suppresses a bashful smile and hands her idol the short skirt. With her envious gape comes an irrepressible silence as Miss Lucinda wraps the unusual garment about her waist.
“Can you help me with the halter.”
It is a ritualistic tease which Margie seems to enjoy. The latex halter is extremely thin and fits over Miss Lucinda’ s torso like a second layer of skin. It is sleeveless and zips closed in the back. Thus in providing assistance the pretty daughter of Sappho gains proximity and the opportunity to briefly caress the smooth chocolate skin as she pulls together the folds and forces the zipper into its track. Margie finds Miss Lucinda’s freshly showered body most exhilarating. She presses her hips against the amazingly powerful latex covered buttocks as she works. Miss Lucinda smiles.
Margie may enjoy a visit to her Fifth Avenue coop, Miss Lucinda thinks to herself. Meanwhile fraternizing on employer time means termination. So a new arrival must be interviewed and Margie must return to her duties. But lastly...,
“Can you attach the thigh strap, Margie. You know I like it in the exact middle.”
Margie kneels as Miss Lucinda lifts and opens the front of the short skirt. Since there are no undergarments, and the simple length of latex folds in the front, Miss Lucinda’s genitalia are once again exposed. When she parts her legs and moves her right foot forward, the musky scent of soap mixing with burgeoning feminine fragrance wafts through the room.
Margie’s hands quiver with the excitement of arousal as she encircles the huge thigh with the strap. It is important to apply the correct tension and Margie works to hitch and buckle at the point of proper tautness without impeding circulation.
“Align the base, please.”
The strap will undergo much stress over the course of the day’s activities. The base holds the various implements which Miss Lucinda will attach and use to anally penetrate the rectums of her prey. The clever configuration leaves both her hands free, the utility of which every boy at the Club fully understands. Margie concludes her endeavors by quickly wrapping her hands about Miss Lucinda’s rounded cheeks and thrusting her head under the elevated skirt. A kiss is planted atop Miss Lucinda’s sex before an admonishment can be uttered. Margie sheepishly arises.
“You’re putting me in the right mood for an interview, Margie. But you know the rules.”
An enchanted Margie prances from the office. Miss Lucinda considers a Friday evening tryst, but her mind moves to thoughts about a newly arrived eighteen year old boy. The file indicates his name is Billy. Since the time is nearly 10:00 a.m. His nurse will have him stripped, shaven, internally cleansed and washed by now. Miss Lucinda picks up the file on her desk picturing as she reads the lad being strapped onto an examination table.
Billy is a troubled eighteen year old. For the past two months after high school graduation, he has had three simple jobs from which he has been invited not to return. His father died years ago. His mother has recently acquired an illness that rendered her unemployable. Billy’s inability to support himself means his mother has a double burden, feeding herself and her son. Upon surrendering the boy to the ‛shelter’ of the Club, she relieved herself of both.
The Club will gratefully wire transfer Billy’s earnings directly to her account. The money will be more than she could possibly earn when healthy and certainly more than an unskilled Billy could ever imagine. So at least for the period of his three year tour, Billy’s mother will be financially secure.
And as for Billy, the Club spares no expense in feeding and caring for the male subjugants. Food is important to the libido, which the Club members desire to maximize, and for every three boys there is a nurse in attendance. There is no healthcare facility in the country that can boast of such a ratio.
The file contains photographs of a naked Billy. Not graphic, the photos were surreptitiously taken during Billy’s initial physical exam. A local doctor serves as a front, and though Billy’s mother was fully aware of the circumstances of his appointment, an unaware Billy attended only after much maternal pleading.
Luckily for Mom, Billy’s appendage proved to be quite prodigious. A full frontal shot shows the head of the flaccid phallus dangling limply at mid thigh. Otherwise his body is unimpressive, in fact most boyish, which many of the Club’s members prefer. The contrast of large erect manhood thrusting forth from a seemingly prepubescent body provides a curious level of entertainment. Miss Lucinda always theorized that the Dominant women, many on the far side of middle age, recall their early sexual experiences with such display. Ones in which they had no control and were forced by the sexual urgings of adolescence to submit to the male beast. For a young girl with latent Dominant proclivities, the experience must have been most unsavory, and thus at the Club the reversal of roles is a welcomed mid-life catharsis.
Yes, at the Degradation Club it is the male who finds himself submitting. And the role reversal is played out countless times, the laughter and applause proving to be both endless and psychologically unbearable for the subjugant. So unbearable that it is the Club’s rule to rotate the submissive males out of servitude by age twenty one. Many times, such as in Albert’s case, continued employment is offered. But most often, private servitude follows. All the Club members require servants, and after some three years at the Club, quiet one on one submission can be a welcomed refuge.
Miss Lucinda smiles reading of Billy’s reaction to the prostate exam. If only the vanilla world of femininity understood the odd male erogenous area as well as her..., well time for a visit.
So I found an old story, posted years ago on some kinky sites, that may serve to amuse.
It's rather whimsical, a fantasy setting a little over the top compared to my recent stuff.
But I like it.
The Masturbatrix from 2002. The complete story of some 14,000 words is offered for free. See www.lulu.com/content/9290549
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Copyright 2002 by Chris Bellows
Part One
Even as a teenager, the male phallus had fascinated Ms. Lucinda Contrell, but not in the normal sense of youthful wonderment and curiosity. No, Lucinda Contrell’s interest was in control..., manipulation..., making the odd cylinder of flesh stand for her..., and after a suitable interval of play, suitable for her enjoyment of course, perhaps..., just perhaps..., permitting it to attain the strange spasmodic release which its custodian seemed to think was its paramount function.
And so Ms. Lucinda Contrell, respectfully called Miss Lucinda by her male underlings, considered her position of employment to be the pinnacle of her fulfilling career as the masturbator of boys.
Yes, years before at age 28 Miss Lucinda had quickly risen to the position of Chief Masturbatrix at the infamous Degradation Club, that secretive but notorious enclave where the wealthy Dominant women of the world vent their demented proclivities.
There were other employees of the club who achieved noteworthy status at a young age. The Whipmistress was 30. The Director of Bondage had been promoted to her exulted status at age 27. There were excellent nurses, fresh out of school, who could psychologically break the most belligerent of recruits within an hour of having him strapped to the examination table. But all admired Miss Lucinda’s skill, an unusual combination of both physical strength and knowledge of the male anatomy that proved to be so entertaining for the grateful members of the Club..., entertaining and rewarding.
Miss Lucinda learned early on that delighting the members of the Degradation Club could not only provide self satisfaction but could also be tremendously lucrative. Gratuities were generously offered for a pleasing exhibition of male humiliation, and so at age 32 Miss Lucinda’s bank account was continuing to grow along with her talent and her desire to provide the ultimate exhibition..., having a virile tumefied young male squirm for climactic release, but extending his torment until that most coveted moment..., when a subtle nod or perhaps a casual motion of the hand of a woman..., yes a Dominant woman..., signaled Lucinda to finally allow the slippery, turgid manhood to ignominiously empty itself, spewing male seed in the direction of her choosing.
Normally a young male would welcome the opportunity to ejaculate. But when restrained in Miss Lucinda’s masturbation harness, swinging helplessly at the end of a soft but taut nylon rope, with various Dominant females ogling well-exposed genitals, the ordeal proved to be mentally overwhelming, imparting upon the naked male an indescribable level of embarrassment, which of course added a welcomed dimension for the viewing members and guests.
Miss Lucinda’s day begins with the driver of the Club’s limousine patiently awaiting her descent from her lavish Fifth Avenue coop apartment. He cautiously reads the paper, frequently glancing out to ensure Miss Lucinda does not step out of the lobby elevator early. When the dashboard clock reads 6:59 a.m., he puts aside the paper and exits. Miss Lucinda may occasionally be early, but she is never late. Thus, even on a cold winter’s day he humbly stands outdoors knowing that if it is Miss Lucinda’s hand that reaches the door handle first, there will be a price to be paid.
The large windows of the lobby reveal the arrival of the elevator. Miss Lucinda exits. She is radiant in her simple attire and make up. Since her first endeavor of the day will be an extensive workout in the Club’s gymnasium, Miss Lucinda expends little effort in enhancing her natural beauty. Still, she draws attention. Standing at more than six feet and some 170 pounds, she is noticed. And as a woman of color traversing the lobby of one of new York’s most exclusive residential buildings, her focused march causes heads to turn. The doorman once commented that he didn’t need to look to know that Ms. Lucinda Contrell had entered the lobby, he could feel the concrete floor move and sense from the hushed reaction that the tall ebony goddess was distracting all present from both conversations and chores.
So on this cold morning the doorman once again senses her arrival, this time by just looking at the driver straighten up in a comical attempt to make himself appear more than the mere obsequious male that he is.
Before needing to turn his head, he swings open the large glass door, then pivots to greet the Coop’s most alluring resident.
“Good morning, Ms. Contrell.”
Miss Lucinda returns the greeting but without hesitation proceeds to the car where the driver’s quavering hand dutifully pulls open the rear door.
“Good morning Miss Lucinda,” the driver using the more familiar diminutive.
Little do the employees and residents of the Coop realize that in utilizing the moniker the driver acknowledges her status as Chief Masturbatrix within the Degradation Club hierarchy. It pleases her.
“You’ve spilled coffee, Albert,” Miss Lucinda comments with a smile.
A doe skinned gloved hand reaches out, ostensibly to highlight the offending spot. But with her back shielding Albert from the eyes of the curious doorman, a knowing hand does more than to point out a beige stain on Albert’s white shirt. It briefly traces over the cloth then moves downward to the front of the black slacks. A crooked index finger smooths over the zippered area where a man normally welcomes a woman’s touch. Albert’s shoulders straighten more, bringing himself to an ingrained and humbled posture of attention before the imposing black beauty.
“Things like this earn you a stint with the Miss Stenson.”
The mere mention of the name causes Albert’s knees to partially buckle. Miss Stenson is the Club’s Whipmistress, and the image of her perfectly proportioned, booted, gloved and leather- clad body invokes fear.
Still, even with the trepidation, the briefest of caresses from the most accomplished Masturbatrix has its effect. Albert feels himself stiffen. The fact that Miss Lucinda is also well aware of his subservient reaction causes to rapidly cascade the process of achieving erection. Albert can do nothing other than to feign pleasant conversation while Miss Lucinda expertly brings him to full tumescence with a simple digit of her right hand.
Age old memories of hanging in her harness accelerate the process. And Albert involuntarily closes his eyes as within seconds Miss Lucinda’s single finger causes his slacks to tent.
“I hope the steering wheel won’t cause discomfort,” Miss Lucinda laughingly observes as she mercifully terminates her guileless but effective efforts and enters the limousine.
Albert closes the door and moves quickly to the driver’s door, hoping that his bulging pants are not noticed. In achieving his 21st birthday, his duties changed from that of naked and caged sycophant, humbly awaiting Miss Lucinda’s skilled hand, to that of staff servant. But still, the pay is good and Albert is sanguine knowing that if he begs enough, one of the Club’s nurses may take pity, strip him and let him lick her shoes during a lunch or coffee break. Otherwise, his advanced age of 23 obviates any further ejaculatory displays before a gathering of Degradation Club members.
And so, as an aroused Albert steers the lengthy black car into traffic, he calms his excitement by convincing himself that a certain blond German nurse will find his stiffness amusing enough to supervise the taking of a sperm sample, something normally done with only the newly arrived youthful applicants. But Albert soon finds that Miss Lucinda is correct, the zipper covering the bulbous tip of his maleness brushes the steering wheel and with each turn his arousal heightens.
With the early hour the car speeds through normally crowded Manhattan streets. Reaching 57th Street Albert hears the calm, authoritative voice of his passenger.
“You may unzip, Albert. You appear uncomfortable.”
There are only two blocks remaining in the journey. Albert hopes the sidewalk will be void of pedestrians, for when he complies with Miss Lucinda’s ‛suggestion’ his erection pops through the opening in his pants. The exposure and the fear of a passerby peering through the windshield spurs Albert to accelerate through a changing traffic light. He leans to activate the button for the overhead garage door and in so doing presses his penis against the steering wheel. It feels good. Albert begins to conspire for relief. The Club facilities are well monitored and it has been made very clear that unauthorized masturbation can subject a male to the nastiest of punishments.
Alas, a visit to the nurse will definitely be in order, he concludes.
The clandestine Degradation Club occupies three deep subterranean floors in a Midtown skyscraper. The garage door provides the only entrance and facilitates anonymous visits by the wealthy famous members. No one knows who rides in the back of the daily parade of arriving darkened limousines until the vehicles stop in the very bowels of the building. Thus once Albert enters, his exposed manhood, however embarrassing, will not subject him to the ridicule of the vanilla world or possible interdiction by law enforcement officers.
Albert notices an ambling pedestrian approaching the sidewalk near the garage. Again he accelerates and whips the large auto through the open door before he needs to pause to let the elderly prudish woman cross in front. After passing over the sidewalk, the rear view mirror shows that the overhead door immediately closes. A relieved Albert guides the limousine down a circular ramp.
The space occupied by the Club was originally intended for use as a vault for a large brokerage firm. Numerous mergers within the securities industry made the secured footage superfluous. A certain well known real estate magnate, a one time subservient to a prominent member of the Club, provides the vast space at a nominal rent. Rather graphic photos proved to out weight the economic remuneration the space would normally command. Thus somewhere in the Club’s archives is an unbreakable 99 year lease safely tucked away along with negatives that are said to be luridly revealing for the landlord..., a man whose extensive but leveraged holdings require that he have the respect of staid bankers.
Continued use of the basement floors at a less than reasonable monthly payment insures that his photographs remain secure and that he will continue to command such respect. It is wry that the amount of money involved is immaterial to the wealthy members of the club. It is the notion that their membership facility and the pleasure derived therefrom is at the expense of a lowly male that adds a mirthful degree of irony to their escapades.
The car is barely stopped as Albert leaps from the drivers seat to open the rear door for Miss Lucinda. His phallus points straight forward through his trousers and brings a smile from the accomplished Masturbatrix. For a woman who commands such obedience from the male organ, it is a wonderfully servile tribute. Soft gloved hands reach down. Albert remains at attention as a knowing left hand deftly slips into the unzipped opening to find a pair of male eggs. She firmly squeezes while the fingers of the right hand diddle the most sensitive underside of the prepuce. Miss Lucinda gently strokes and feels the penis twitch. Albert’s hips lurch forward, welcoming the amazingly sensuous touch.
“You have a nice day, Albert.”
Miss Lucinda pulls the stiff manhood downward then quickly withdraws her hands. The extreme stiffness causes the bulbous purple head to snap upwards and hit the belt buckle with a noticeable thud. Albert grimaces. An amused Miss Lucinda strides away with a wicked snicker. The gymnasium awaits.
Few males have ever had the pleasure of watching the Chief Masturbatrix of the Degradation Club as she immerses her muscular body in an exhaustive work out. Stripping down to ‛G’ string and sport bra, Miss Lucinda appears to be a well muscled show girl. And indeed, as she stands before the floor to ceiling mirrored wall, her reflection reveals an interesting contrast of soft, smooth, coffee-colored flesh covering well developed power. The results of daily workouts are beautifully shaped legs, buttocks which distract, rippled abdominal muscles and arms whose size resemble those of a wrestler, except the feminine covering adds a delightfully teasing degree of viewing intrigue, causing observers to question how a body so alluring could also lift and pump such incredible weightage.
But it is Miss Lucinda’s unseen muscle development which proves to be the feature most facilitating her role. Years of special exercise have imbued her with the grip of a blacksmith. In lighter moments she amuses Club members by cracking walnuts in the palms of her hand and on occasion removing the tops of soda bottles without benefit of a standard opener.
Yes, Club members find the demonstrations particularly amusing when their imaginations picture such puissant hands wrapped about the shaft of an engorged male organ, daring the hapless owner to ejaculate without the consent of the Chief Masturbatrix and the viewing audience.
And so the voyeuristic members find merriment in watching the ebony giantess apply her power, extracting the ultimate in humiliation for the entertainment of all, knowing that young males will cede total control to this amazing woman.
Every pore opens. Perspiration beads and drips to the gymnasium floor. The bright lights cause her wet skin to shine.
The morning session ends with twenty minutes of squeezing the grip developer. Even well conditioned males find it difficult to close the springed handles of the device. Miss Lucinda whips through dozens and dozens of repetitions, alternating from right hand to left. The resulting squeaking sound produces a cadence which brings satisfaction. The final part of the routine is to pose before the large mirror and flex. Miss Lucinda finds gratification in the glistening image shining back. Years before, some staff members suggested that she model for body building products. She smiles in recalling the idea as her frame expands and certain muscles spread like the neck of a cobra about to strike its prey. It is an intriguing thought for anyone to have their body highlighted and portrayed as superior. But alas, her bursting bank account suggests that her time is better spent within the walls of the Club.
Refreshing ablutions are well deserved and the day’s tasks require attention. Miss Lucinda showers then dons a large robe for the short walk to her office. By 9:00 a.m. the Chief Masturbatrix sits at her desk reviewing her calendar and the day’s work orders. There is a new arrival to be interviewed. The heiress of a Swedish auto manufacturer has a group of friends visiting the club for a lunch and requests the presence of a particularly well endowed young male. In the late afternoon some members have requested that their bridge game terminate with a suitable display of obeisant naked flesh. ‛Large low hanging testicles’ is written in bold letters at the bottom of the request form. All three encounters will involve Miss Lucinda’s skills of course. It is the job of the Chief Masturbatrix to evaluate each new arrival. And every Club member enjoys watching her ply her handiwork.
All in a day’s work.
Miss Lucinda presses an intercom button.
“Margie, I’ll need the standard black latex skirt and halter top. Bring a thigh strap also.”
The Club’s uniforms are cleaned nightly and centrally stored. Most employees retrieve their attire upon arriving for work. But Margie, the clothing clerk, insists on bringing the uniform to Miss Lucinda and for her efforts she is afforded the opportunity to assist. Margie prefers the company of women and Miss Lucinda has long ago put aside her superficial aversion to bisexual dalliances. Within a minute a knock announces Margie’s arrival and Miss Lucinda stands to remove her robe.
When the door swings open Margie is greeted by the vision of her six foot ebony goddess standing naked, the tautness of her frame evidencing the many morning workouts. Margie gawks. Her eyes cannot avoid breasts which defy gravity and a trimmed pudendum which seems to beg for the attention of her lips.
Margie herself is a pleasant eyeful. Having served for three years as one of the Club’s rutting girls, age required that the cute blond rotate into a more mundane role. But under her plain blue cloth pullover dress remains the body of a ‛go go’ dancer. Only her complete disdain for the male gender inhibited her early career of tucking dollar bills under the slimmest of ‛G’ strings. A Club member visiting her swanky but sordid place of employment caught not only her dance performance but also recognized her distaste for having sweaty, meaty hands sneak a feel with each proffer of cash.
There ensued a discussion concerning potential employment at the Club. It was short. Nudity was not a problem for a girl who spent many hours of each day strutting before fat oversexed males. The offer of money was more than adequate. But it was the Club’s raison d’etre which made the decision easy. As a rutting girl, Margie would remain nude, but no male hand would ever again touch her. And there would be a price to be paid by her new audience for gazing at her fine form, well beyond that of modest dollars..., that of complete subjugation.
“Good morning, Margie. You look good this morning.”
Margie suppresses a bashful smile and hands her idol the short skirt. With her envious gape comes an irrepressible silence as Miss Lucinda wraps the unusual garment about her waist.
“Can you help me with the halter.”
It is a ritualistic tease which Margie seems to enjoy. The latex halter is extremely thin and fits over Miss Lucinda’ s torso like a second layer of skin. It is sleeveless and zips closed in the back. Thus in providing assistance the pretty daughter of Sappho gains proximity and the opportunity to briefly caress the smooth chocolate skin as she pulls together the folds and forces the zipper into its track. Margie finds Miss Lucinda’s freshly showered body most exhilarating. She presses her hips against the amazingly powerful latex covered buttocks as she works. Miss Lucinda smiles.
Margie may enjoy a visit to her Fifth Avenue coop, Miss Lucinda thinks to herself. Meanwhile fraternizing on employer time means termination. So a new arrival must be interviewed and Margie must return to her duties. But lastly...,
“Can you attach the thigh strap, Margie. You know I like it in the exact middle.”
Margie kneels as Miss Lucinda lifts and opens the front of the short skirt. Since there are no undergarments, and the simple length of latex folds in the front, Miss Lucinda’s genitalia are once again exposed. When she parts her legs and moves her right foot forward, the musky scent of soap mixing with burgeoning feminine fragrance wafts through the room.
Margie’s hands quiver with the excitement of arousal as she encircles the huge thigh with the strap. It is important to apply the correct tension and Margie works to hitch and buckle at the point of proper tautness without impeding circulation.
“Align the base, please.”
The strap will undergo much stress over the course of the day’s activities. The base holds the various implements which Miss Lucinda will attach and use to anally penetrate the rectums of her prey. The clever configuration leaves both her hands free, the utility of which every boy at the Club fully understands. Margie concludes her endeavors by quickly wrapping her hands about Miss Lucinda’s rounded cheeks and thrusting her head under the elevated skirt. A kiss is planted atop Miss Lucinda’s sex before an admonishment can be uttered. Margie sheepishly arises.
“You’re putting me in the right mood for an interview, Margie. But you know the rules.”
An enchanted Margie prances from the office. Miss Lucinda considers a Friday evening tryst, but her mind moves to thoughts about a newly arrived eighteen year old boy. The file indicates his name is Billy. Since the time is nearly 10:00 a.m. His nurse will have him stripped, shaven, internally cleansed and washed by now. Miss Lucinda picks up the file on her desk picturing as she reads the lad being strapped onto an examination table.
Billy is a troubled eighteen year old. For the past two months after high school graduation, he has had three simple jobs from which he has been invited not to return. His father died years ago. His mother has recently acquired an illness that rendered her unemployable. Billy’s inability to support himself means his mother has a double burden, feeding herself and her son. Upon surrendering the boy to the ‛shelter’ of the Club, she relieved herself of both.
The Club will gratefully wire transfer Billy’s earnings directly to her account. The money will be more than she could possibly earn when healthy and certainly more than an unskilled Billy could ever imagine. So at least for the period of his three year tour, Billy’s mother will be financially secure.
And as for Billy, the Club spares no expense in feeding and caring for the male subjugants. Food is important to the libido, which the Club members desire to maximize, and for every three boys there is a nurse in attendance. There is no healthcare facility in the country that can boast of such a ratio.
The file contains photographs of a naked Billy. Not graphic, the photos were surreptitiously taken during Billy’s initial physical exam. A local doctor serves as a front, and though Billy’s mother was fully aware of the circumstances of his appointment, an unaware Billy attended only after much maternal pleading.
Luckily for Mom, Billy’s appendage proved to be quite prodigious. A full frontal shot shows the head of the flaccid phallus dangling limply at mid thigh. Otherwise his body is unimpressive, in fact most boyish, which many of the Club’s members prefer. The contrast of large erect manhood thrusting forth from a seemingly prepubescent body provides a curious level of entertainment. Miss Lucinda always theorized that the Dominant women, many on the far side of middle age, recall their early sexual experiences with such display. Ones in which they had no control and were forced by the sexual urgings of adolescence to submit to the male beast. For a young girl with latent Dominant proclivities, the experience must have been most unsavory, and thus at the Club the reversal of roles is a welcomed mid-life catharsis.
Yes, at the Degradation Club it is the male who finds himself submitting. And the role reversal is played out countless times, the laughter and applause proving to be both endless and psychologically unbearable for the subjugant. So unbearable that it is the Club’s rule to rotate the submissive males out of servitude by age twenty one. Many times, such as in Albert’s case, continued employment is offered. But most often, private servitude follows. All the Club members require servants, and after some three years at the Club, quiet one on one submission can be a welcomed refuge.
Miss Lucinda smiles reading of Billy’s reaction to the prostate exam. If only the vanilla world of femininity understood the odd male erogenous area as well as her..., well time for a visit.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Something a little different/Male Dom/Female bondage
OK. That did not go over, judging from the paucity of comments.
We'll stick to Femdom.
We'll stick to Femdom.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Something a little different
I note that some new followers also appreciate female bondage. Though I have written only a little, (my initial charge when writing some 10 years ago was to 'flesh out' the Femdom selections available from Pink Flamingo) there is some stuff I like.
This is from 'Suspension Bondage', available from Pink Flamingo.
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Suspension Bondage
Copyright 2008
by Chris Bellows
Author’s Note:
Do not Google the term arroycoo. It is fictionally contrived and has no known real meaning.
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Dr. Winthrop Samuels
-------------------------
“So are you familiar with the practice of arroycoo, Dr. Samuels?” the voice husky, the accent well disguised.
The girl is composed, comfortable in speaking to a full adult some fifteen years her senior. The uncharacteristic deep voice serves to remind me that Sunny Sudenskaya is not the child she appears to be. The woman has an effervescent disposition and short styled hair which enhances her youthful presentation... bringing one to think in terms of adolescence. If she were indeed under eighteen years of age many of my thoughts would border on criminal. I cannot, for example, help wondering whether I could grasp enough hair at the back of her head to properly direct her during doggie style sex. I am concluding that I would need to hold onto her ears...
Sunny turns and lifts her face to blow a puff of smoke into the upper reaches of the nearly empty restaurant. Though well before the dinner hour, the maitre d’ notably gasps and hustles toward us. Smoking is banned by law. Sunny’s naughty smile suggests she is well aware of her transgression and stubs out the cigarette on the bread dish before the animated form arrives. All ash trays have been relegated to a makeshift smoking area... a patch of sidewalk at the entrance of the upper east side bistro.
“I forgot,” Sunny’s words contrite but her look one of playful mischief.
The maitre d’ wordlessly removes the soiled dish and snaps his fingers to a busboy.
The momentary event is telling... Sunny having this inclination to challenge rules and authority and yet to so quickly and easily capitulate.
“I have read of arroycoo. Some tribal ritual involving the suspension of the body,” I cautiously reply as the busboy places a clean bread dish before her.
I demure in saying more. As a medical professional my penchants must be kept quiet lest I endanger my license to practice. Though I am in research and do not treat patients, conventional wisdom suggests I not imperil potential return on my investment, the many hours and tedious study, which anointed me with advanced degrees. Sunny Sudenskaya came to learn of my ‘hobby’ and enticed me into this off hours meeting. Just a little talk at a quiet restaurant long before the dinner crowd, so she said.
I could not resist her charms.
Sunny smiles. So cute, so disarming when juxtaposing the subject matter with a girl who could pass for being pre pubescent.
Sunny reaches into her purse and removes pictures torn from some magazine.
“Your reputation in the community precedes you doctor. I would think you’d have more interest in something like this.”
She pushes the packet my way. I glance through a couple and immediately push the remainder back toward her.
“Someone has been telling stories out of school,” my tone one of rebuke.
Though in being torn from some mainstream nature publication, possibly as mundane as National Geographic, the pictures bring concern. Even with the bistro being void of customers, I dare not broach more of the matter in which Sunny attempts to immerse me.
“I think you can do something like that. Tribes have been safely engaging in it for years. Certainly modern science and medicine can do the same... perhaps more easily and quickly,” her tone of voice shifting to alluringly beseech.
Yes, she verbally challenges then coquettishly concedes. She is a minx. And as much as she is aware of my ‘reputation’ in the community, her own precedes as well. In fact, as she entices, her posture shifts, her shoulders roll back in retreat to exhibit evidence of sizable mammary glands... exceeding expectations for a girl aptly described as svelte.
She performs a tease. When she licks her lips, I understand with clarity her intent. I am being seduced.
But in the ‘community’, as she references my occasional weekend recreation, seduction has twists.
Sunny Sudenskaya is a masochist. And sometimes, as the old adage goes, when a masochist begs to be flogged, the role of the true sadist is best fulfilled by saying ‘no’.
So I shake my head, acknowledging her message and communicating my reply. She sulks then leans forward, finally aware of my concern for discretion despite the limited presence of others.
“I will fellate you. Yours to command,” she whispers in a sultry voice.
I smile. Though a medical professional should be more insouciant, the thought of warm, smooth and wet feminine skin engulfing that which brings the ultimate masculine pleasure can bring enthusiastic visions. I begin to understand that Sunny Sudenskaya is in earnest. I sit back in contemplation, more fully focusing on the emptiness of the restaurant and becoming more comfortable.
“You have family, Sunny?”
She shakes her head.
“Distant cousins in Bulgaria. I would not recognize them if we shared a cab.”
My question spurs more discussion. This could work. I have an old friend who enjoys ‘adopting’ miscreant young girls.
“No one would know,” she emphasizes. “I could work during the day. Nights I would be yours.”
She has me thinking and she knows it, letting my imagination percolate. Many factors rush through my mind. Career, social life... both vanilla and in the community..., my ‘hobby’. Finally the time required, procuring supplies and the apparatus necessary for arroycoo.
Sunny seems to read my thoughts.
“I have a loft. Not quite Nolita. The building has not been fully gentrified. It’s quiet... but large.”
Sunny references the latest New York apartment phenomenon... the transition of what was once one of the seediest areas of Manhattan... north of little Italy (Nolita)... where only the specters of Bowery bums remain. Now quite the trendy area, she is merely nearby, I am sure the modesty of her digs mandated by limited income.
“It will be painful. I will not administer anesthetic,” I forewarn.
She nods, her ostensible reluctance mixed with that peculiar inward frisson when a masochist encounters the eventuality of pain... the body’s need to avoid... the mind challenging it to endure.
“And expensive, Sunny. You’ll offer more than fellatio. But you will enjoy it.”
She beams, but then feigns concern... playing the role of Scarlet O’Hara... imagining what a manly brute would force from her helpless form. I know that vulnerability excites... as does the unknown. Yes... a minx... and one whose proclivity so nicely complements mine.
“I will need some time... for equipment,” I conclude.
Sunny happily blushes as I reach forth and gather the packet of pictures.
“And you will need to practice... opening a zipper... with your lips and teeth.”
************************************************************************************
Medical research can sometimes be compared to flying a commercial aircraft... many hours of boredom punctuated by moments of frazzling activity... such as when the weather closes in... or in the lab when many weeks of testing conclude and there is hurried need to statistically analyze and evaluate. Most times I wait, reviewing interim reports which need to be monitored for gross malfunction, experiments going bad. But otherwise letting the passage of time bring results.
So the boredom often brings thoughts of Sunny Sudenskaya and her proposal. Short hair, boyish good looks, appropriately attired she could pass for an alter boy. Yet I recall the shoulder movement, intended to project those glands and attract, which they did. She is alluring, a temptress. And in knowing my ‘hobby’ she tempts most seductively. The deep guttural voice, accented, is provocative on a dark haired girl of some one hundred pounds. She is not to be forgotten.
In my field of medical devices, I have access to a sophisticated metal working shop. We make artificial joints... mainly knees and hips. We even do knuckles. Each of those is custom made... the high expense reserved for the occasional professional who too early in life has lost the use of a finger through arthritis or injury.
So making implements for Sunny’s desired arroycoo is easy. I am known to work late in the lab. And the scrap pile of nickel cobalt yields dozens of small bits which will not be missed. Shaping such to my needs and polishing to fine smoothness takes time, but as I picture such adorning the lithe form of Sunny, the time goes quickly. The alloy is readily accepted by the human body. And is strong.
Research on the internet brings some ideas. Gadgets for introducing grommets to clothing, leather and canvas attract my attention. With a masters degree in mechanical engineering, it appears to me that one such apparatus, used in sail making, can be purchased and modified. Sunny’s flesh will more easily yield than the coarse and rugged textiles used on large yachts. But I have plans for the temptress which will take her far beyond her current limits and what she envisions.
In nearing readiness, I call a plumbing supply store. Having sketched what I need, I list the number of feet of pipe along with numerous fittings. It is an easy matter to fax the order and have all delivered to Sunny’s loft.
************************************************************************************
Weeks later we meet again. Same restaurant near me. Same time, late afternoon. The maitre d’ glances at Sunny with concern. She offers no concession that she will not light up again. Always challenging.
“Some men arrived. Brought in lots of metal,” Sunny exclaims as we are shown to a table. “Am I expecting a plumbing problem?”
A girlish giggle disguises a tinge of concern. My planned frame is now just a pile of pipes which Sunny obviously cannot mentally transform to usefulness.
“You will see in time,” I vaguely reply.
We sit. She brazenly orders wine, knowing she is not old enough to drink. Knowing once again to challenge the rules. I am going to have fun taming her.
I come to the point as our drink order is completed and the waiter leaves us alone.
“Before we begin, taking you down a road from which you will not return, I want to show you this.”
I retrieve from my jacket pocket what appears to be a staple gun. Modified after many hours of toil I load it with a finely crafted lump of nickel cobalt and thread my napkin between two jutting prongs. With a forceful press there comes a click, a notable snap and the prongs pinch the cloth.
“Presto.”
I toss the napkin to Sunny. Embedded in the corner is a newly made small hole bordered by a circle of metal of one centimeter.
“In one motion it penetrates, pushes aside the cloth to widen the opening and rolls the bordering metal to seal with permanency. A grommet... but penetrating quite formidably.”
An amazed Sunny toys with her fingers. The dull metal is securely attached.
“I’d show you again but the nickel cobalt is rather expensive.”
“The metal is hard, yes?” her excitement exposing her normally cloaked accent.
“Extremely,” I advise as her fingers toy, amazed with the smoothness of the finished opening.
While she busies herself I find a clasp in my pocket, reach forth and clip it through the hole. With zeal, Sunny reaches to grasp the clasp and dangles the napkin over the table. She giggles.
“This can be... me?” she utters in a combination of apprehension and odd joy.
The waiter approaches and the napkin is lowered, even Sunny having some sense of decorum. We are silent as the drinks are poured. Chardonnay for her. A cold brew for me.
“Yes, it will be you. Consider carefully. I have made many grommets... and of various sizes.”
Sunny’s eyes glaze over, obviously fantasizing some sadomasochistic scene. Her hand goes to the napkin to inspect again, pulling the clasp to ensure permanency. She seems to shiver as the well embedded grommet withstands her testing stress. My hand goes to her wine.
“You’re not twenty one,” I admonish. “You’re going to learn to be a good girl.”
She lugubriously pouts as I slide away her glass.
******************************************************************************
By design, I have Sunny drink water and deny her substantial food... a light salad. She has consented to be modified. And in having spent many hours redesigning the grommet contraption and stealthily working in the lab’s metal shop, my enthusiasm grows. Plus there is Sunny, such ostensible innocence tinged with immoral thought. So girlishly innocent... yet so wicked.
“I want to see your loft,” I summarily announce in paying the check.
“We will need to the take the Lex to the BMT,” Sunny delighted to display her knowledge of New York’s subway system.
“A cab will do. I will pay.”
We depart. As I follow her to the exit, Sunny does not see me reload my grommet device. There will be no changing of minds. Not hers... and certainly not mine.
“How do you handle pain?” I casually inquire while awaiting a cab.
She smiles, looking away in shyness.
“Pain is something created by the mind... and therefore something the mind needs to overcome.”
Among my weekend adventurers, those trusted few with whom I share my hobby, Sunny has a reputation for endurance. I have not ‘scened’ with her, but she has been known to withstand lengthy floggings at the all too public S&M clubs, places which I avoid.
I contemplate her succinct reply... flippant reply?.. as a cab pulls up and a couple exits to enter the restaurant. We commandeer and Sunny slides in behind the driver. She offers the address, Ludlow Street, a part of Manhattan I have never before reconnoitered.
“I will go slowly with you Sunny. But I reiterate, there will be no going back. I’m not really sure how this can be reversed. You saw the napkin. My contraption is frightfully efficient. Rather reminds me of firing a gun, such devastating results from the simple pull of a trigger.”
Sunny nods in thought. There is no hint of reservation. It appears that she is indeed thinking of the napkin and the relative permanence of the embedded circle of nickel cobalt. To remove it one would need to shred the cloth.
“It is quick, this ‘gun’ of yours?”
“You saw how quick.”
“I prefer something slower. Something which challenges... suffering which one endures to overcome... if one can.”
“That will come as well. You shall endure both.”
In turning onto First Avenue, the cab picks up pace. I note that the driver cannot see Sunny in the rear view mirror. And in approaching wave after wave of traffic lights, he only has opportunity to glance back on occasion. I remove my contraption and again show it to Sunny.
“Quick. Painful. Permanent. And I shall enjoy using it on you Sunny. Probably as effective as a brand or tattoo.”
She shudders. Yes the brisance of the masochist. The delightful mental conflict which the curious proclivity brings.
“Will I bleed?”
“About as much as you would in receiving a hypodermic injection. The device creates an initial pinprick which I have designed to instantly widen to accommodate the circle of metal... which with equal quickness folds at the perimeter to form the smooth opening you examined... and make it unremovable.”
“Where?”
“Any place I decide. That is for me to control... not you.”
She nods. There is fear... but there is enjoyment. Her eyes glaze in thought.
“Ready to begin your journey, Sunny?”
She nods. There is reluctance but acceptance... the masochist long ago having surrendered herself to life as a pin cushion.
I lean. My left hand reaches to the back of her neck. I note that my curiosity is indulged in that I can indeed grasp enough hair to guide her head. In one smooth and continuous motion I tilt back her head, my right hand lifts the contraption.
“Steady now, Sunny. Bear a little pain for me. Be a good girl for Dr. Samuels.”
As I slip the prongs up her nostrils, I am reminded of my years as an intern, offering the myriad of injections to frightened children. I press, pulling the trigger on my peculiar gun. It clicks. It snaps. There comes the stifled shriek of a little girl. I quickly withdraw. A handkerchief is offered. There are more tears than blood. As described the opening is small. Plus I have pierced the cartilage of her septum well up her nostrils where there is limited circulation.
I have grommeted the interior of Sunny’s nose. Not detectable to the unwary. But I cannot dismiss Sunny with a mere puncture... a little hole between her nostrils. No I have in my pocket a little clasp with a slim connecting cord. And as she dabs away her tears... not a word of protest I note... my hand returns to thrust the open clasp up her left nostril, thread it through her new grommet and hook it down her right nostril where it clicks shut.
“Feel better Sunny? A girl like you pines for control. And you shall have it.”
A little tug on the cord demonstrates. The tension cannot be resisted. That pretty little head moves about in response as I toy. And Sunny stares into my eyes in wonderment. Yes, sometimes the role of the sadist is fulfilled by saying ‘no’. But other times it is more fun to offer an emphatic ‘Yes’.
This is from 'Suspension Bondage', available from Pink Flamingo.
****************************************************************************************************
Suspension Bondage
Copyright 2008
by Chris Bellows
Author’s Note:
Do not Google the term arroycoo. It is fictionally contrived and has no known real meaning.
*************************************************************************************
Dr. Winthrop Samuels
-------------------------
“So are you familiar with the practice of arroycoo, Dr. Samuels?” the voice husky, the accent well disguised.
The girl is composed, comfortable in speaking to a full adult some fifteen years her senior. The uncharacteristic deep voice serves to remind me that Sunny Sudenskaya is not the child she appears to be. The woman has an effervescent disposition and short styled hair which enhances her youthful presentation... bringing one to think in terms of adolescence. If she were indeed under eighteen years of age many of my thoughts would border on criminal. I cannot, for example, help wondering whether I could grasp enough hair at the back of her head to properly direct her during doggie style sex. I am concluding that I would need to hold onto her ears...
Sunny turns and lifts her face to blow a puff of smoke into the upper reaches of the nearly empty restaurant. Though well before the dinner hour, the maitre d’ notably gasps and hustles toward us. Smoking is banned by law. Sunny’s naughty smile suggests she is well aware of her transgression and stubs out the cigarette on the bread dish before the animated form arrives. All ash trays have been relegated to a makeshift smoking area... a patch of sidewalk at the entrance of the upper east side bistro.
“I forgot,” Sunny’s words contrite but her look one of playful mischief.
The maitre d’ wordlessly removes the soiled dish and snaps his fingers to a busboy.
The momentary event is telling... Sunny having this inclination to challenge rules and authority and yet to so quickly and easily capitulate.
“I have read of arroycoo. Some tribal ritual involving the suspension of the body,” I cautiously reply as the busboy places a clean bread dish before her.
I demure in saying more. As a medical professional my penchants must be kept quiet lest I endanger my license to practice. Though I am in research and do not treat patients, conventional wisdom suggests I not imperil potential return on my investment, the many hours and tedious study, which anointed me with advanced degrees. Sunny Sudenskaya came to learn of my ‘hobby’ and enticed me into this off hours meeting. Just a little talk at a quiet restaurant long before the dinner crowd, so she said.
I could not resist her charms.
Sunny smiles. So cute, so disarming when juxtaposing the subject matter with a girl who could pass for being pre pubescent.
Sunny reaches into her purse and removes pictures torn from some magazine.
“Your reputation in the community precedes you doctor. I would think you’d have more interest in something like this.”
She pushes the packet my way. I glance through a couple and immediately push the remainder back toward her.
“Someone has been telling stories out of school,” my tone one of rebuke.
Though in being torn from some mainstream nature publication, possibly as mundane as National Geographic, the pictures bring concern. Even with the bistro being void of customers, I dare not broach more of the matter in which Sunny attempts to immerse me.
“I think you can do something like that. Tribes have been safely engaging in it for years. Certainly modern science and medicine can do the same... perhaps more easily and quickly,” her tone of voice shifting to alluringly beseech.
Yes, she verbally challenges then coquettishly concedes. She is a minx. And as much as she is aware of my ‘reputation’ in the community, her own precedes as well. In fact, as she entices, her posture shifts, her shoulders roll back in retreat to exhibit evidence of sizable mammary glands... exceeding expectations for a girl aptly described as svelte.
She performs a tease. When she licks her lips, I understand with clarity her intent. I am being seduced.
But in the ‘community’, as she references my occasional weekend recreation, seduction has twists.
Sunny Sudenskaya is a masochist. And sometimes, as the old adage goes, when a masochist begs to be flogged, the role of the true sadist is best fulfilled by saying ‘no’.
So I shake my head, acknowledging her message and communicating my reply. She sulks then leans forward, finally aware of my concern for discretion despite the limited presence of others.
“I will fellate you. Yours to command,” she whispers in a sultry voice.
I smile. Though a medical professional should be more insouciant, the thought of warm, smooth and wet feminine skin engulfing that which brings the ultimate masculine pleasure can bring enthusiastic visions. I begin to understand that Sunny Sudenskaya is in earnest. I sit back in contemplation, more fully focusing on the emptiness of the restaurant and becoming more comfortable.
“You have family, Sunny?”
She shakes her head.
“Distant cousins in Bulgaria. I would not recognize them if we shared a cab.”
My question spurs more discussion. This could work. I have an old friend who enjoys ‘adopting’ miscreant young girls.
“No one would know,” she emphasizes. “I could work during the day. Nights I would be yours.”
She has me thinking and she knows it, letting my imagination percolate. Many factors rush through my mind. Career, social life... both vanilla and in the community..., my ‘hobby’. Finally the time required, procuring supplies and the apparatus necessary for arroycoo.
Sunny seems to read my thoughts.
“I have a loft. Not quite Nolita. The building has not been fully gentrified. It’s quiet... but large.”
Sunny references the latest New York apartment phenomenon... the transition of what was once one of the seediest areas of Manhattan... north of little Italy (Nolita)... where only the specters of Bowery bums remain. Now quite the trendy area, she is merely nearby, I am sure the modesty of her digs mandated by limited income.
“It will be painful. I will not administer anesthetic,” I forewarn.
She nods, her ostensible reluctance mixed with that peculiar inward frisson when a masochist encounters the eventuality of pain... the body’s need to avoid... the mind challenging it to endure.
“And expensive, Sunny. You’ll offer more than fellatio. But you will enjoy it.”
She beams, but then feigns concern... playing the role of Scarlet O’Hara... imagining what a manly brute would force from her helpless form. I know that vulnerability excites... as does the unknown. Yes... a minx... and one whose proclivity so nicely complements mine.
“I will need some time... for equipment,” I conclude.
Sunny happily blushes as I reach forth and gather the packet of pictures.
“And you will need to practice... opening a zipper... with your lips and teeth.”
************************************************************************************
Medical research can sometimes be compared to flying a commercial aircraft... many hours of boredom punctuated by moments of frazzling activity... such as when the weather closes in... or in the lab when many weeks of testing conclude and there is hurried need to statistically analyze and evaluate. Most times I wait, reviewing interim reports which need to be monitored for gross malfunction, experiments going bad. But otherwise letting the passage of time bring results.
So the boredom often brings thoughts of Sunny Sudenskaya and her proposal. Short hair, boyish good looks, appropriately attired she could pass for an alter boy. Yet I recall the shoulder movement, intended to project those glands and attract, which they did. She is alluring, a temptress. And in knowing my ‘hobby’ she tempts most seductively. The deep guttural voice, accented, is provocative on a dark haired girl of some one hundred pounds. She is not to be forgotten.
In my field of medical devices, I have access to a sophisticated metal working shop. We make artificial joints... mainly knees and hips. We even do knuckles. Each of those is custom made... the high expense reserved for the occasional professional who too early in life has lost the use of a finger through arthritis or injury.
So making implements for Sunny’s desired arroycoo is easy. I am known to work late in the lab. And the scrap pile of nickel cobalt yields dozens of small bits which will not be missed. Shaping such to my needs and polishing to fine smoothness takes time, but as I picture such adorning the lithe form of Sunny, the time goes quickly. The alloy is readily accepted by the human body. And is strong.
Research on the internet brings some ideas. Gadgets for introducing grommets to clothing, leather and canvas attract my attention. With a masters degree in mechanical engineering, it appears to me that one such apparatus, used in sail making, can be purchased and modified. Sunny’s flesh will more easily yield than the coarse and rugged textiles used on large yachts. But I have plans for the temptress which will take her far beyond her current limits and what she envisions.
In nearing readiness, I call a plumbing supply store. Having sketched what I need, I list the number of feet of pipe along with numerous fittings. It is an easy matter to fax the order and have all delivered to Sunny’s loft.
************************************************************************************
Weeks later we meet again. Same restaurant near me. Same time, late afternoon. The maitre d’ glances at Sunny with concern. She offers no concession that she will not light up again. Always challenging.
“Some men arrived. Brought in lots of metal,” Sunny exclaims as we are shown to a table. “Am I expecting a plumbing problem?”
A girlish giggle disguises a tinge of concern. My planned frame is now just a pile of pipes which Sunny obviously cannot mentally transform to usefulness.
“You will see in time,” I vaguely reply.
We sit. She brazenly orders wine, knowing she is not old enough to drink. Knowing once again to challenge the rules. I am going to have fun taming her.
I come to the point as our drink order is completed and the waiter leaves us alone.
“Before we begin, taking you down a road from which you will not return, I want to show you this.”
I retrieve from my jacket pocket what appears to be a staple gun. Modified after many hours of toil I load it with a finely crafted lump of nickel cobalt and thread my napkin between two jutting prongs. With a forceful press there comes a click, a notable snap and the prongs pinch the cloth.
“Presto.”
I toss the napkin to Sunny. Embedded in the corner is a newly made small hole bordered by a circle of metal of one centimeter.
“In one motion it penetrates, pushes aside the cloth to widen the opening and rolls the bordering metal to seal with permanency. A grommet... but penetrating quite formidably.”
An amazed Sunny toys with her fingers. The dull metal is securely attached.
“I’d show you again but the nickel cobalt is rather expensive.”
“The metal is hard, yes?” her excitement exposing her normally cloaked accent.
“Extremely,” I advise as her fingers toy, amazed with the smoothness of the finished opening.
While she busies herself I find a clasp in my pocket, reach forth and clip it through the hole. With zeal, Sunny reaches to grasp the clasp and dangles the napkin over the table. She giggles.
“This can be... me?” she utters in a combination of apprehension and odd joy.
The waiter approaches and the napkin is lowered, even Sunny having some sense of decorum. We are silent as the drinks are poured. Chardonnay for her. A cold brew for me.
“Yes, it will be you. Consider carefully. I have made many grommets... and of various sizes.”
Sunny’s eyes glaze over, obviously fantasizing some sadomasochistic scene. Her hand goes to the napkin to inspect again, pulling the clasp to ensure permanency. She seems to shiver as the well embedded grommet withstands her testing stress. My hand goes to her wine.
“You’re not twenty one,” I admonish. “You’re going to learn to be a good girl.”
She lugubriously pouts as I slide away her glass.
******************************************************************************
By design, I have Sunny drink water and deny her substantial food... a light salad. She has consented to be modified. And in having spent many hours redesigning the grommet contraption and stealthily working in the lab’s metal shop, my enthusiasm grows. Plus there is Sunny, such ostensible innocence tinged with immoral thought. So girlishly innocent... yet so wicked.
“I want to see your loft,” I summarily announce in paying the check.
“We will need to the take the Lex to the BMT,” Sunny delighted to display her knowledge of New York’s subway system.
“A cab will do. I will pay.”
We depart. As I follow her to the exit, Sunny does not see me reload my grommet device. There will be no changing of minds. Not hers... and certainly not mine.
“How do you handle pain?” I casually inquire while awaiting a cab.
She smiles, looking away in shyness.
“Pain is something created by the mind... and therefore something the mind needs to overcome.”
Among my weekend adventurers, those trusted few with whom I share my hobby, Sunny has a reputation for endurance. I have not ‘scened’ with her, but she has been known to withstand lengthy floggings at the all too public S&M clubs, places which I avoid.
I contemplate her succinct reply... flippant reply?.. as a cab pulls up and a couple exits to enter the restaurant. We commandeer and Sunny slides in behind the driver. She offers the address, Ludlow Street, a part of Manhattan I have never before reconnoitered.
“I will go slowly with you Sunny. But I reiterate, there will be no going back. I’m not really sure how this can be reversed. You saw the napkin. My contraption is frightfully efficient. Rather reminds me of firing a gun, such devastating results from the simple pull of a trigger.”
Sunny nods in thought. There is no hint of reservation. It appears that she is indeed thinking of the napkin and the relative permanence of the embedded circle of nickel cobalt. To remove it one would need to shred the cloth.
“It is quick, this ‘gun’ of yours?”
“You saw how quick.”
“I prefer something slower. Something which challenges... suffering which one endures to overcome... if one can.”
“That will come as well. You shall endure both.”
In turning onto First Avenue, the cab picks up pace. I note that the driver cannot see Sunny in the rear view mirror. And in approaching wave after wave of traffic lights, he only has opportunity to glance back on occasion. I remove my contraption and again show it to Sunny.
“Quick. Painful. Permanent. And I shall enjoy using it on you Sunny. Probably as effective as a brand or tattoo.”
She shudders. Yes the brisance of the masochist. The delightful mental conflict which the curious proclivity brings.
“Will I bleed?”
“About as much as you would in receiving a hypodermic injection. The device creates an initial pinprick which I have designed to instantly widen to accommodate the circle of metal... which with equal quickness folds at the perimeter to form the smooth opening you examined... and make it unremovable.”
“Where?”
“Any place I decide. That is for me to control... not you.”
She nods. There is fear... but there is enjoyment. Her eyes glaze in thought.
“Ready to begin your journey, Sunny?”
She nods. There is reluctance but acceptance... the masochist long ago having surrendered herself to life as a pin cushion.
I lean. My left hand reaches to the back of her neck. I note that my curiosity is indulged in that I can indeed grasp enough hair to guide her head. In one smooth and continuous motion I tilt back her head, my right hand lifts the contraption.
“Steady now, Sunny. Bear a little pain for me. Be a good girl for Dr. Samuels.”
As I slip the prongs up her nostrils, I am reminded of my years as an intern, offering the myriad of injections to frightened children. I press, pulling the trigger on my peculiar gun. It clicks. It snaps. There comes the stifled shriek of a little girl. I quickly withdraw. A handkerchief is offered. There are more tears than blood. As described the opening is small. Plus I have pierced the cartilage of her septum well up her nostrils where there is limited circulation.
I have grommeted the interior of Sunny’s nose. Not detectable to the unwary. But I cannot dismiss Sunny with a mere puncture... a little hole between her nostrils. No I have in my pocket a little clasp with a slim connecting cord. And as she dabs away her tears... not a word of protest I note... my hand returns to thrust the open clasp up her left nostril, thread it through her new grommet and hook it down her right nostril where it clicks shut.
“Feel better Sunny? A girl like you pines for control. And you shall have it.”
A little tug on the cord demonstrates. The tension cannot be resisted. That pretty little head moves about in response as I toy. And Sunny stares into my eyes in wonderment. Yes, sometimes the role of the sadist is fulfilled by saying ‘no’. But other times it is more fun to offer an emphatic ‘Yes’.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
New Followers
Lots of new followers of late. Not sure what has triggered the interest, but welcome and feel free to comment on any of the stories and snippets.
Started this blog as an exchange of ideas...
Started this blog as an exchange of ideas...
Monday, August 9, 2010
New Book Published on Lulu
'Kept Naked, Made Eager to Please' has been released on Lulu. 37,000 words. $ 6.50.
www.lulu.com Item number 9202497
http://www.lulu.com/product/ebook/kept-naked-made-eager-to-please/12183446
Enjoy... and as always please comment.
www.lulu.com Item number 9202497
http://www.lulu.com/product/ebook/kept-naked-made-eager-to-please/12183446
Enjoy... and as always please comment.
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