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

A little short story to keep my fingers active.

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Power, Losing It

Copyright 2011

by Chris Bellows

Mia’s tiny hand scours the bottom of the bowl to gather the final spoonful of tasteless glop. There comes an ostensibly pleasant smile, which I interpret as wicked, as the cute face turns back to me, the left hand steadies my chin and the right approaches with the brown mush. Into the opening of my mouth bondage, the smooth sludge slithers to the back of my throat. As I struggle to swallow, mastication neither permitted nor required, the sound of desperate gulps fosters a broader smile as the combined sense of choking and drowning brings physical retching and mental panic. Somehow I once again ingest.

Such a subtle form of power exchange, being fed like a child. But in shackles, one cannot resist. And besides, sustenance is needed. I am fed in no other manner... and with no other form of food. I often imaginatively compare the process to the production of foie gras... that in which the gullet of a duck or goose is stuffed with an abundance of corn in order to both fatten and enlarge the liver for slaughter.

"You being a good boy?" Maria de Havillier inquires, passing by the table on her way to the toaster and tapping my nose as one would playfully cuddle a pet.

I murmur, discernible words long denied, as child-like Mia takes the empty bowl and slides from straddling my naked thigh, the smooth warmth of flesh on flesh bringing a brisance of joy... unwanted joy.

Meanwhile daughter Gigi enters the kitchen, flimsy robe covering little, the folds flapping to enticingly reveal intimate pinkness as she moves about. Age 18, no longer jail bait, Gigi is an accomplished tease... a vixen... well aware of her display of charms to this former man of the house.

Mother Maria encourages, often putting on a show of her own.

Gigi pours herself a glass of orange juice and strolls to the table where I sit. She reaches forth and tweaks my right nipple, smiles and sits. Her brief sensuous touch brings a shiver of delight, causing the many links of my chains to momentarily clatter, expanding her smile with the satisfying sense of dominion.

"Morning, Harold. Mia taking good care of you?"

Name mentioned, I look as the naked cherubic form beams with pride, prancing to the sink, the uncovered buttocks rolling so luridly.

Mia does not wear clothing. Yes, the expanse of golden brown skin is always on display, to bring visual delight to the unwary. Quite cute, quite effeminate, the nakedness initially conjures wicked sexual thoughts in first encountering the ingenue... until one spies the tiny vestige of maleness... the pinky sized penis which flutters as Mia skips about the house.

No one knows Mia’s age. Neutered in native Burma, sold as a slave, presumably for sex, Maria’s wealthy aunt rescued him... her?.. and somehow brought him/her into the country.

‘They make wonderful servants,’ I recall the dowager remarking during my only visit to her home. ‘Loyal and hard working, grateful to no longer have to endure the constant pegging demanded at Asian bordellos. Damned if I can get her to wear clothing...’

Whether the latter was true, I don’t know. I wager that with the aunt’s predilections... now known to run in the family... Mia has never been offered the benefits of clothing.

Maria, addressed by me as Miss Maria during the short intervals of permitted speech, returns to the table, coffee and toast in hand.

"Scoot. Go play," the words, all her words, known to be a command, sending the family pet away.

I hastily arise making room for her at the table. Gigi, Miss Gigi, smiles as the many links resound, her satiation apparent in knowing that I am cruelly bound at her behest.

Wrists cuffed and chained behind my back... not tight but certainly not loose. Ankle cuffs, thigh bands, an assortment of chains connecting all four circles of heavy steel, all make for very effective hobbling. But most wickedly, there is a fifth point of connection which drives home the sense of loss of all power. Between my thighs a set of links rises from the thigh chain to attach to the large ring of my chastity device, that which circles my penis and scrotum. Completely unnecessary from a mobility standpoint, it instead serves to remind of my servitude as with each step taken I can feel the effects of bondage on my male package. There is constant tugging on my balls.

Putting aside the limited mobility allowed, being kept in chastity is bad enough. The large steel ring is permanent, for the most part, embedded through openings made in my skin at the sides of my scrotum, atop the penis and at the perineum below. Locked to the ring, to be removed for cleansing... and when Miss Maria desires to gaze at my entrapped maleness... is a devilish cock cage... quite confining... internal spikes obviating erection... with a Prince’s Wand connection which inserts well into my urethra. Mia controls the key, releasing the cage portion for bathing and shaving. And I have come to the conclusion that being kept in chastity by the castrated male is the most drastic of dilemmas.

Mia has no compunction! Balls excised at a presumably early age.... he/she has no basis for understanding the constant need... the constant torment... the hormonal drive... only that it amuses to observe my penis become erect during the abbreviated period of shaving and cleansing.

Yes, Mia now controls the male organ which years ago brought her suffering as he/she knelt in a seedy bordello to be penetrated... offered to deviants for money.

My steps are many in exiting the kitchen, the metallic sounds known to bring both cheer and comfort to my superiors. I retire in thought to the livingroom ... for that is all I have... thought. I am not a servant... I am not used or forced to perform labor. Mia does all housework and cooking. I am a pet... just kept... to be displayed... petted... toyed with at the whim of another. And Miss Maria knows that the boredom... the intense unending tedium... is the cruelest manifestation of her governance.

I do nothing... day in and day out. And that is what she wants... and for Miss Maria... she always gets what she wants. She knows I relive the events of my downfall and her ascendency many times each and every day. And that pleases her.

And so the thoughts repeat...

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Ivy league educated, masters in business, by early thirties my W-2 was sizable. I met Maria de Havillier, my busy career keeping me single and traveling... and relocating, at the local diner where she worked. Handsome, some would say beauteous, knowledgeable, an unfortunate very early marriage produced a degree of disdain for the male and produced daughter Gigi. I later learned that Gigi nearly came first, the marriage finally agreed to, not while in labor, but as Maria suggested... close enough.

It did not last. And the baggage of having a child at age 18 brought a degree of ennui toward the whole process of refinding a lifelong mate. Gigi became everything and Maria lived in near poverty in attempting to both support her and find time for maternal bonding.

We hit it off. And in hindsight, I suspect I was the life preserver Maria was inwardly seeking. No more waitressing, forced to work the more parsimonious day shifts in order to be with Gigi at night.

Upon our betrothal Maria could become a stay at home mom. I had a ‘tiny mansion’ in the suburbs, in a town with a good school system, a lucrative job. What I did not have was capital... relatively speaking. Any wealth was in the form of stock options, to be harvested when the company stock rises, and when I chose to share my stipend with the government in the form of income taxes. Believing that to defer is best, the stock kept rising and I kept deferring.

Bad move.

One should always be aware, I learned, of the moral turpitude clause in almost all deferred compensation arrangements. Explained as being inserted only for tax purposes... making the arrangement subject to substantial risk of forfeiture to ensure deferral... it is always shrugged off upon entering. But in my case... not upon exiting.

How did Maria know? I keep asking myself... but only myself. For I am rarely not gagged and therefore cannot ask Miss Maria. The forced silence adds to the frustration... which pleases Miss Maria.

I shuffle through the livingroom to the enclosed sun porch where, like a lazy dog, I lie many hours per day in wonderment. There is a comfy shag rug. Other than sitting in the kitchen for feeding time, I am not permitted to use the furniture. Miss Maria says I drool to much. And she is correct, the prostatic fluid of the virile male does not yield to chastity, the male glands constantly prepped for ejaculation despite being long denied.

So I lie down, push about the many chains, find a comfortable position and reminisce the many steps...

First... marrying Maria. A simple ceremony. Her second time and therefore an overly festive celebration not desired as with young brides. Gigi served as a bridesmaid, quite the little jail bait at age 13. Pretty, I was to later learn her mischievousness was less than innocent.

Some work colleagues attended, a few friends... and the dowager aunt, explained as eccentric and Maria’s only living relative.

Not explained... perhaps unknown to Maria... was the woman’s vast wealth. Her home was sizeable, but I mistakenly attributed that to a husband long gone, the interior decorations ancient and in desperate need of refurbishment thus suggesting a degree of impoverishment. Visiting shortly after the honeymoon, Maria forewarned me about Mia... the naked servant who cleaned and cooked. Hairless... ball-less... long cranial hair cloaking the true gender... and the tiny appendage between the thighs evidencing birth gender... Mia offered quite the shock, despite being forewarned.

The aunt smiled warmly while supervising Mia’s servitude... and I suppose observing my reaction as well... deemed to be one of unwarranted prudishness.

Afterwards, during the drive home, Maria defended the arrangement, considering her aunt to be a savior, rescuing Mia from a life of sexual slavery. I tried to reserve judgement but avoided visiting again. I had a career to protect, always using the New York Times criteria when assessing certain possible acquaintances and relationships... i.e. how would such be viewed if divulged on the front page of the New York Times.

Maria’s own moral compass was less stringent, hugging the naked form upon departure, pressing the tiny penis into her thigh and clasping then affectionately patting those most effeminate well rounded cheeks. Her gesture of womanly authoritative brought a glowing smile from the little Asian girl/boy.

How often... how much interaction... had Mia and Maria undertaken over the years?

Since Mia does not talk, I presume the vocal cords altered along with the castration, his/her true reaction to relationships cannot be determined. No one ever taught Mia to read or write, so communication is limited to an occasional hand gesture in response to attentive and exacting listening on her part.

Other then the curious relative and the hint of attachment to Mia, we began to live as a conventional family... wife, stepdaughter, husband. Gone from the circle was Gigi’s biological father, a reprobate who years ago offered child support for all of two months then disappeared. Gigi was in the early stages of puberty. Hormones were beginning to flow... not noticeable from her disposition, which ostensibly remained somewhat mature, so I thought.

But there was the mischievousness, first noted at the wedding. It continued. Little pranks. Harmless... at first.

Gigi began to ripen sexually, finding male attraction to the female form to be amusing. She still does. She began to flash, young breasts beginning to plumpen... the mounding of her pubes to be noted. She never missed an opportunity for her robe to momentarily part while exiting the bathroom. Tight slacks become the garment of choice, mother Maria never seeming to discourage. I pretended not to notice... but how could I not?

Gigi was blossoming before me. Was there sexual attraction? Libidinous thoughts?

Yes, I suppose. Would I act on such? No. Maria kept me satisfied. But there was curiosity... just how voluptuous would young Gigi become? The breasts seemed to grow each day. And the nipples seemed to sit up and beg for attention.

Then came a more outright mischievous tease. Gigi was in the bathroom to begin her shower. She called out that there was no paper. I assisted, retrieving a roll from the hall closet. I knocked, inquiring if entry was feasible. She responded, my ears suggesting an affirmative reply. Did I hear wrong? I opened, the completely naked ingenue seeming to at first regale me with youthful shapely curves, then feigning a scream of shock and offense. I tossed the roll to the sink basin and quickly exited.

Why do I suggest it was a tease? The belated timing of her response. Plus I later could not locate the cardboard spindle for the allegedly used up roll of toilet paper. Only partially used I am sure, it had been removed and hidden to provide a subterfuge for my entrance.

The next telling event... inordinate pressure for a smartphone and acceding thereto... camera option included. I was unaware of the phenomenon termed ‘sexting’, in which hormone laden teens were given to circulate licentious self pictures. Apparently Gigi joined the trend, learning to take lurid photos of herself. At least that is my assumption.

Shortly thereafter my relationship with spouse Maria began to deteriorate. She become aloof, rebuffing sexual advances... even on Friday evenings when we normally cracked open a bottle of wine, sending Gigi to a friends house or the movies. Something was wrong, the standoff going well beyond the monthly womanly inconvenience.

But that distraction soon faded when Maria’s aunt died. The denial remained but in being the only surviving relative, Maria’s time became occupied and coincidentally I had to travel on business.

It is probably then that the suspected conspiracy began to snowball. Mother and daughter alone for many days, exchanging thoughts, I am sure Gigi telling of the staged bathroom encounter. That incident on its own would be a situation of my word against hers... a harmless mistaken intrusion in its worst context, even if my suggestion of the staging was not to be believed.

What perplexed me... why would Gigi stage such a thing? At such an age is there thrill in exhibitionism?

Her prank should have put me on guard. It did not. I left myself open. Still, I do not fully understand the roles played... the prime instigator... who is ultimately responsible for my bondage and forced chastity.

As it turned out, the eccentric aunt, with naked effeminate houseboy, was incredibly wealthy. Within weeks, I returned from my business trip. Maria had finished much of the heavy estate work. A concupiscent Gigi was introduced to our new houseboy Mia... Maria either continuing to deny clothing or him/her refusing to wear such.

Where else would Mia go? No education... no ability to communicate. He/she was defacto property of the aunt’s estate.... in essence inherited by Maria.

Well I suppose there are times in life for anatomy lessons. One can always argue at what age. But Gigi was instructed by mother Maria that Mia’s missing testicles meant he/she was asexual... and thus to ignore his/her presence when in any state of deshabille... in the bathroom... in the bedroom. I felt a touch of envy when Maria suggested Mia was excellent at massage and that after a grueling cheerleading practice, Gigi should feel free to insist in utilizing his/her talents.

Gigi would not scream with Mia gazing at her rapidly developing charms. And in that bathroom incident I was only afforded a brief peek... no touching.

‘The neutering makes him/her harmless,’ I once heard Maria lecture. ‘Unlike...’ that observation truncated when it became apparent I was listening to the mother/daughter exchange concerning the bizarre but somewhat welcomed servant. It was apparent, to conclude her explanation, harmless unlike me... the ogre and intact lurking male.

Yes, my life preserver was not only no longer needed, I became treated as a leper in my own house. Sexual relations ended, resulting in more and more gazing, attraction with the forbidden charms of Gigi. Steam needed to be blown off. But what of Maria’s ‘steam’? I was to learn that Mia’s massage talents extended beyond the use of his/her hands... the deviant aunt apparently insisting on perfecting his/her cunnilingus.

Revolting? Yes. But Mia was looked upon as an object.

Meanwhile concern over employment became a factor. With my ‘New York Times’ standard of conduct, there would be no barbecues or cocktail parties at my suburban mansion. One can imagine the reaction in being served by a naked castrate, however cute and obeisant.

So with fewer and fewer reasons to socialize, spend quality time together, we drifted apart, Maria and me. My ingrained homophobia obviated developing acquaintance with a one time male. Other then Mia cooking and serving food that was it in terms of contact. In time Maria moved to an empty bedroom, her need to be massaged, coded words for having Mia’s face between her thighs, becoming stronger and stronger.

So our marriage didn’t so much end as our needs diverged. And with Maria’s financial independence I was considered completely superfluous... even seeming to be an annoyance in spotting Gigi whispering what I assume to be complaints about my gawking... or stalking... or whatever it was she imagined... or just made up.

Something had to change... and it did.

Some three years into living as a family, I am called into the office of the general counsel at work. Not an unusual request, particularly around contract time. And there is always the occasion when an employee has transgressed and as a supervisor I am apprized of the situation and counseled on how to handle such from a legal standpoint. Well I am shocked to learn which employee has transgressed... me!

Ed Duvall, general counsel, a guy I’ve had drinks with on many occasions, is disconcertingly formal.

"Please sit down, Mr. Townsend," gesturing to a chair before his massive oak desk. "This is Rand Collier, an investigator we engage from time to time on... let’s say touchy internal matters. All discussed here is to be held in the highest confidence."

I nod as Ed turns to this Rand Collier standing to the side, a dour looking character, probably early retired from the FBI, and signals that the meeting is his. Moving to stand behind Ed he steps to approach the desk, folder in hand.

"Mr. Townsend, is this the company laptop assigned to you?"

I had not noticed. They all look alike. It rests on Ed’s desk. As I peer following his pointing finger, I note familiar scratches and a sticker, the company logo. I adhered it to the cover so I could distinguish it if and when working in groups. So I nod. I had not used it in weeks leaving it in my den to work at home, something not of need of late. Somehow it got to Ed’s office.

"Your wife, Ms. Maria Havillier brought it to us. Seems she has concerns... and she is right to have such."

Rand Collier opens the folder with a flair for drama, withdrawing a photograph.

"Do you recognize this girl?" he cross examines.

I nod. It is a picture of Gigi, cropped at her shoulders. I am concerned. The shoulders are bare. I affirm that it is she, my stepdaughter.

"We located this photo... and many more... in your laptop. We found it necessary to edit the photo for printing, Mr. Townsend. I assume you know why?"

I do not, but can certainly guess. The expression on Gigi’s face is one I have seen before... that bathroom incident. Her look expresses surprise... distress... communicating the notion that she is being photographed unwillingly. Still I shake my head.

"Your laptop contains dozens of similar photographs. In all your stepdaughter is naked. Your wife suggests she is age sixteen, Mr. Townsend, appearing possibly younger in some shots."

I deny knowing of the photos. But the denial is obviously open to suspicion... my laptop... my den... my stepdaughter.

"Can I examine your phone, Mr. Townsend?"

Paid for by the company... the initial purchase... plus the monthly expense... I have no right to refuse the request. I slip it from my pocket. Like most smartphones it has a camera, a feature I would not begin to know how to use. The device really is a business tool and such a capability has no use in my line of work. I hand it to my inquisitor. He presses some buttons, shows the screen to Ed, then steps from behind the desk. With more flair and drama he holds it before me. On the screen comes Gigi... the tease... the vixen. She is naked. The look on her face is one of fear. Someone is photographing her and she does not appear to be totally compliant. Budding breasts, a modicum of pubic hair, her youthful age, well under that of consent, cannot be disputed.

I am screwed.

"No need to look any further," Collier continues with the drama. "These tend to disgust... most people."

In a scripted scene, Rand Collier hands me back my phone and departs, placing the file folder before me. Ed and I are alone.

"We’ll keep the laptop, Harry," he informs as I hear the door close. "It’s company property. We’ll seal it away so no one else will see your.... well whatever. But we must protect the company should you choose to litigate your termination."

Ed proceeds to read aloud the moral turpitude clause of my employment contract. I am fired. On the spot. No severance. But most hurtful... the stock options! Over a million dollars of gain to be garnered had I exercised, paid the tax and banked the difference. Now gone!

"Security will escort you to your office so you can retrieve any personal items. Keep the phone. But my god Harry, get rid of those pictures. It’s your stepdaughter!"

I take a cab home. My company car remains in the parking lot of course. And I carefully press buttons on the smartphone, finding an option termed ‘gallery’. There are indeed photos and as my finger works, my shaking hand assures that the cab driver and no one else for that matter, will see the evidence of my alleged moral turpitude.

When did Gigi get hold of my phone? And when did she perfect such looks of woe? If only she was smiling! But instead it appears she is being coerced, that under some threat she has been made to disrobe and pose.

I recall the whispering... mother and daughter... her looks of dread when the three of us have been together... but no such expression when alone with me... not that Maria has permitted much of that of late. Such acting!

A set up job. But what to do?

I have nothing. My tiny mansion. A large mortgage. A very modest bank account. Lots of bills. Maria’s new found wealth has not been used for upkeep, remaining invested, her contribution being that Gigi’s college education will be taken care of by her. That will have to change. I suspect I am unemployable, terminated with cause, no reference available from my employer of ten years.

Then I reflect on how this all unfolded. Maria took my laptop from the den and handed it over to the company! She knows of the photos... will be well aware of the true nature of my termination! The alleged misdeeds of my firing... however wrongfully perceived... cannot be denied.

But does she know how the photos were taken... how they got in my phone and computer? Is she aware of her daughter’s mischievousness? Now bordering on criminal vandalism.

For the past year my only raison d’etre, in the eyes of Maria, has been to keep a roof over the family. Now I cannot do that.

Whatever leverage... whatever power I had... is gone.

'Balls, They Have 'em, I Want 'em'

From a short story I have published on Lulu. More 'non-consenusl' D/s.
http://www.lulu.com/product/ebook/balls-they-have-em-i-want-em/17813936

A little repetitious in terms of setting.

The complete story runs 11,400 words

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Balls, They Have ‘em, I Want ‘em
Copyright 2011
by Chris Bellows

"All comfy?"

The question is somewhat sardonic, yet somewhat relevant. It becomes ironic that after a few weeks in my ‘care’, a boy indeed feels comfortable in good tight bondage. Not in a stress position. Nothing pinches or presses. Just tightness... offering the sense that all mobility is at the discretion of another. And the mind comes to accept it... the subconscious succumbing, sending the message that all significant motion, anything more than the wriggling of fingers and toes, perhaps a slight nod or shake of the head, is at the prerogative of another... me.

In response there comes the slight nod, discernible verbal response inhibited by the penis gag which constantly nags... deeply... forcefully triggering the gag reflex... offering constant aggravation.

"Have the nurses been good to you?"

Another slight nod as I release the right ankle cuff. The leg goes limp, so humbly offering me control. I guide it to the side, lifting it from the padded table top. The thigh muscles knowingly contract, the leg rising as I pull upward to reattach the padded nylon cuff to a cable hanging from the ceiling, just at the level of my boy’s waist. Simple ‘D’ clamps... instantly released... instantly resecured. With my boy’s wrists restrained to his sides, his hands are never in a position to offer himself the moments of liberation that me or the nurses extend during the sponge baths.

I move to the left side and unclip the opposing ‘D’ clamp. Both foot and ankle are equally compliant, thigh rising, another ‘D clamp clipped to a second cable to leave my boy lying well spread, the penis and testicles presented most vulnerably.

I note he begins to quiver and I don’t blame him for the apprehension. But that’s why I keep my boys so tightly bound. Whatever is to happen will happen, he has no choice but to lie and take it... all of it.

I lower the bottom half of the special table. It is hinged just below the buttocks. My boy’s male package now dangles over the newly formed edge. I move to stand between the raised thighs and knees and cannot help palming the massive plums I have been working on for over a week.

"An hour today, they’re responding beautifully," I note with a smile, the gonads having ungainly girth.

I knead the thin warm flesh of the sac with my thumbs, satisfied in feeling that the glands within remain firm. It is important they not become mushy. Too much of my special treatment will do that... either striking too firmly... or for too long an interval. Over the years... many boys... bringing many plums to ripeness... I have become accomplished. Within ten days to two weeks they will be ready for harvest.

"You going to get hard for me like a good boy?" my voice coos as if addressing a toddler, encouraging some otherwise mundane performance.

And sure enough, despite the fear... despite the concern... I note the sizable length begins to engorge. I always feel complimented when a boy I torture day after day greets me with a nice firm erection. The masochism becomes ingrained. Yes, deep within, there is strange stimulation in offering his male bits to a woman.

I smile warmly, my ‘Donna Reed’ matronly look of comfort, and step away to retrieve my special stick of torment. Short, less whippy then a cane, the bamboo is no less effective for the task at hand. I also lubricate my left hand... my boy may as well have some joy in the horror he is about to face.

"Here we go... do try to remain quiet."

I always encourage silence... but never get it. I suppose I am just too masterful... too sadistic.

My left hand wraps about the firming penis. I impart a moment of delight, helping it to a good stand. Yes, a twist then a modest stroke. And then I begin... just a tap with my right hand... but to the scrotum... and the first of dozens of muffled roars erupts into the penis gag as my slight blow causes the massive eggs to swing wildly, every limb spasmodically lurching, fighting in futility the tight straps, cuffs and cables.

The sound of the first splat always brings a smile... from me.

"Oh yes, you take it so well for me. And it’s good exercise for you, pulling so vigorously."

I leisurely let the message of pain subside, knowing that to strike again too soon diminishes the horror. I want the expectation to build. And while pausing I again stroke the penis, a most evanescent stroke, to spur endorphins. This will allow my boy to take so much more without passing out.

Calmness resumes, then I swing again... the splat... same rush of air, same wrenching of hands and feet.

With my torment stick not much longer than a ruler, swatting a boy’s balls requires close work, adequate aim. I do not want too much unsightliness... want to avoid deep hematomas. I just want to imbue trauma... causing the gonads to swell. With repeated treatment... day after day... after day... some degree of swelling will remain to become permanent. My boy is going to have one very large set of balls. And then... well then I am going to have one large set of balls.

Yes, they’ll be harvested. At times I feel like a patient gardener... each and every day weeding and hoeing... swinging away with just the right velocity... the perfect firmness... to bring the swelling I so much desire.

"And another," I advise, a third brisk tap, listening for the rush of air from the hollow penis gag, watching gleefully as the entire body attempts to bound from the table top. Yes such pain, such frustration, such futility.

Yet my left hand detects evidence of the intrepid male sex drive. Yes, the stiff penis thrusts into my grip, a fruitless attempt to frottage to ejaculation. That will not happen of course. I am much too experienced to permit the ultimate male pleasure. No, my boys are kept chaste. True or not, I like to think all that built up gism abets my efforts, accumulating to further swell that which I seek... large... bulbous testes.

My boy begins to sweat. It’s a normal reaction to the intensity of the trauma... physical... emotional. He has by now come to realize the inevitable... that while he so desperately wants the cessation of the daily torture... it will only come when he and his plums part ways. Yes, he knows he’ll be put to pasture... my term for wiling away the remainder of his life as a castrate. Meek, docile, harmless, the memories of me, my hand, my stick, shall never fade. Yes, he will try to recall his virility, the times when he was free to play with his penis, free to relish in the rush of spurting male essence. Yet as he lies and takes a fourth ‘tap’, he knows his organs are doomed.

Yes, I want them... and I shall have them... large, luscious, swelling with ripeness... symbolizing male power.... but when encased and bedecking my trophy room... more symbolizing my power... that of the governing female.

A fifth tap, the rush of air diminishes, but his firmness not. During the pause I tenderly brush my hand over the hairless sac, chemically depilated for many days in preparation. Yes the balls... my balls... are swelling. By hour’s end such will be pressing against his well spread thighs.

With the sixth tap, I sense the erection is wavering. The lurch becomes more of a slight tug. Though the cerebral cortex sends its message of flight, exhausted muscles fail to respond.

"I’ll soon have you yoked and you’ll be otherwise free to frolic," offering words of inspiration.

He knows an impressive shiny steel yoke for neck and wrists awaits the boys whom I have harvested. There will be those who will enjoy sodomizing him, the eventual soft flabby flesh of the neutered male found to be attractive. With hands and wrists restrained, he’ll not offer resistance... instead obsequiously bending and kneeling to accept the potent penetration... feeling the virility of the intact... sensing the intensity of the male thrust... that which I will forever deny to him.

It keeps the intact inmates calmed... easier to command. And the matrons enjoy watching.

Another tap and I am disappointed that most of my boy’s vigor seems to have waned. Yes, there comes eventual acceptance. Even that gush of air from the lungs abates. And I must smile in how facilely the male is tamed. My taps, applied to any other portion of the anatomy, would be felt as mosquito bites.

But not here... not where I choose to ready for collection... choose to evidence the dominion of femininity.

The scrotum turns to a bulbous mass of purple. I note the absence of deep crimson, my expert hand, the precision force, avoiding the discoloration which would require many, many days to heal. Such unsightliness is undesired. Meanwhile the gonads within blossom, my garden analogy seeming so apropos, expanding to press the thin flesh of the scrotal sac, bringing a fascinating sheen to skin stretched to noteworthy smoothness.

But I tap again. Pause. And again. No attempted resistance seen or felt. The penis goes limp, in my mind offering a sense of triumph. My boy now lies in a pool of perspiration, his psyche once again learning of the futility of fighting the tight bonds which serve to offer his nakedness to the whim of my hand and the torment stick.

One more tap and I inspect. The testicles have swollen to three times the size. Overnight, such will shrink... but not return to normal size... not even to the size at the start. No, each and every agonizing session brings a permanent expansion. It requires weeks, but they will soon be the size of grapefruit... and I will pick them.
Before ending there comes a series of brief quick taps, assuring that the entire circumference has endured my handiwork. It emphasizes the vulnerability. Nothing, not an inch of flesh, avoids my attention.

Ending the ordeal, I return the table to its original length then release, lower and resecure the feet. I reach to encourage, tenderly pinching my boy’s cheek.

"Just a few more days and you’ll be yoked and offering yourself to your fellow inmates. The nurses will keep you clean and well lubricated and you’ll learn the joys of prostate manipulation."

My boy docilely murmurs into the penis gag. At some point, I will have to ascertain what it is they want to tell me. I like to think they are humbling offering thanks... the twisted communication of masochist to sadist.

Before departing, I cup the massive plums and lift, offering my boy a view of my efforts while I in turn imagine them adorning my trophy case.

Such a curiously woeful look in return... I do believe he’s offering them to me... so desirous to conclude the daily torment.

"Almost saline time," I proclaim with enthusiasm.

We must ensure that the flesh of the scrotum can accommodate the nice big set of balls I want to propagate. So to add to the physical trauma of my incessant tapping there will next come the mental trauma of a saline infusion of the scrotal sac. Yes, my boy will docilely lie and watch as a tending nurse slips an intravenous needle into the top of the ball sac and supervises as close to a liter of solution very slowly flows to infuse his scrotum, inflamed genitals within, expanding it to something the size of a party balloon.

We must make room for those nice plumped balls of mine.

As I step away, I note the photos and artifacts placed on the wall at easy gazing level above the feet of my supine donor. High above is the waiting shiny steel yoke, a four foot length of polished metal, recently fabricated openings measured to perfectly enshroud his neck and wrists. Below hangs the brief little pink skirt my boy will wear while ‘grazing’ in the prison yard. Really nothing more than the tutu of a lithe ballerina, offering covering for no significant part of the anatomy, instead worn as the symbol of his new status. It won’t impede anal sodomy for even a second... instead being suggestive and rather inviting.

To the right and left of the frilly pink, our dear psychologist has posted a bevy of photos... pairs of inmates... typically a large black inmate and his ‘girl’... a smaller naked and yoked Caucasian. Depicted in the photos are various poses and acts... some poignantly affectionate... others offering lustful scenes of anal coupling... fellatio as foreplay... later tongue and lips cleansing in obeisant aftercare.

There is no doubt that my boy knows what awaits after I have harvested my trophies.

In one of my favorite photos, a virile black inmate demonstrates his sexual prowess, shown deeply penetrating a humble neutered boy who bends with tutu pushed up to his waist. In the background, three smiling matrons can be seen enjoying the scene of sodomy as the inmate shows off.

Yes, they love to watch the daily homoerotic antics we so much encourage.

"You’re young... almost pretty," I suggest in offering words of consolation as I note that my boy also gazes most woefully at the wall which deliberately instills psychological duress.

"You’ll have no trouble being adopted."

Yes, once neutered, yoked, tutu adorning his waist, pierced, urethral valve inserted, my boy will be reintroduced to the general prison population. There will be some arguments... possibly a scuffle or two... but in the competitive jungle of prison life, my boy will end up in the care of some alpha male. The ‘bitch’ of some nicely muscled, well endowed inmate, my boy will soon be licking, sucking, bending then cleansing just as in the photos.

Yoked, someone will need to feed him, his wrists only to be freed for occasional medical care. Plus, there is the ingenious urethral valve, ensuring his capitulation to a man... a real man... intact... one I have not harvested.

Yes, our nurses are most adept. For inserted into the penis tip, cleverly designed with tiny sharp prongs, fashioned such that slipping inward is facile, slipping outward painfully impossible, will be a short metal tube with a valve. Opened only by inserting almost any slim length of metal... perhaps even a tooth pick... my boy cannot.... will not... empty his bladder without assistance. Someone will need to hold his penis and consistently press inward, ensuring that the valve remains open by utilizing a small rod, while my boy empties himself.

So in addition to needing feeding care, he’ll also be begging for assistance with the most basic of bodily functions.

Yes, any homophobia will very quickly be subdued. My boy will have his penis handled by another male several times per day. And I know how he will reciprocate for the tender care.

My thoughts are interrupted as a pretty young nurse enters pushing a wheeled stanchion, a sizable clear plastic bag of saline hanging from a hook, tubing dangling below. She nods at me, assesses my boy then smiles.

"What a nice big set of balls you have waiting for me," she gushes.

'Tagged' has been released

At long last 'Tagged' has been released on the Erotic Book Network.

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Enjoy.

'96 Months' XXV

The Countess must have loosened the ropes on my neck band for when the daylight returned I was leaning forward, still impaled, but my forehead rested on her shoulder. Her arms were wrapped around me in a mother’s embrace. For some reason tears of relief and pleasure were streaming from my blue eyes.

"Well, Little One, off hand I’d say you rather enjoyed that."

The Countess made light of my extreme physical reaction. I could only rest as she released my ankles from the waist band.

"You’ve made a terrible mess of my thigh. It’s all wet and scratched."
In my mad rush to orgasm I had completely forgotten about my diamonds. The Princess had deliberately implanted them to curtail vaginal sex, and this was exactly what the pony ride had achieved.

"Can you stand for me?"

I planted my feet. As I rose a distinctive "plop" was heard as the huge dildo was evacuated from my colon. The Countess smiled and released the ropes from my neck band.

"I think my leg needs your attention."

Covered with my orgasmic fluids, the Countess’s wet leg reflected in the late morning sunlight. The deep red abrasions from my diamonds were also apparent and I immediately knelt and cleaned the offended area with my tongue. I was amazed at how the Countess had sat and accepted the painful scratches while I availed myself of the pleasure of her warm, smooth flesh and touch. I didn’t fully understand it. Certainly the Princess would not have tolerated such torment while I wallowed in the ultimate climax. It was a gift from the Countess. Something a truly perceptive dominatrix occasionally affords an obedient and worthy submissive. A symbol that a true dominant is impervious to suffering... that which would cause a submissive to cower and whimper.

I finished attending to her thigh and noticed that under the short white cotton tennis skirt she was naked. Her pussy hair was well trimmed and her excited red lips seemed to invite my oral ministrations. Yet I received no command and therefore took no presumptions.

"You know the rules."

She pointed toward the dildo still attached to her leg. I dutifully licked it clean and she unstrapped and placed it in the cloth bag.

"You’re quite exciting to watch, Little One. Some of your body art accentuates that which makes a dominant enjoy a subjugated woman. But other parts make you appear as a wild bird, and your demeanor is that of an animal in heat. I’ll give my final evaluation to the Princess. But I will tell you right now, I cannot recommend with certainty what should be done with you."

I was most disappointed. Somehow, over the past few hours, I had envisioned myself as a pony at the Countess’s farm, working diligently under the crack of the whip to please my trainer.

"You’re too old to be a salable pony. My trainees are 19 at the most. And that’s after I’ve finished with them. You’re approaching 30. The most valuable girls are sold in teams. You can’t be trained as part of a team unless we remove the artwork or your partner is tattooed in exactly the same manner. Also you’re too short. I can barely see your genitalia when I stand in the cart. I like longer legs and higher pussy. Otherwise your strength is good, although difficult to judge since you’re wearing all that iron. No Little One. You won’t be a pony under my supervision. You’re not marketable."

Her words hurt me. I was hoping to leave the Princess behind after my sentence was completed. Although I certainly would have been subjected to endless humiliation and domination under the Countess, her style was much less painful. And, as I had just experienced, the rewards for good performance were most noteworthy.
What was to become of me? Tattooed and pierced like a pin cushion, I wondered what the scars would look like if I had the rings removed and let the my skin grow and close over the countless punctures. But what would it matter with the brightly colored tattoos covering my face and entire body?

The downward spiraling thought process was interrupted by the Countess. She had reached into her bag and retrieved a soft leather hood. It had a zipper in the back and a large sturdy ring was sewn into the top. The Countess had me kneel between her thighs to fit it on. There were holes for my mouth, nose and ears. But nothing for my eyes. The last thing I saw was her coifed pubic area and beautifully sculpted outer lips. I suddenly had an urge to kiss her there. I craned my neck forward as she pulled a zipper and the hood snugly conformed to the contours of my head. She placed a hand on my shoulder and stopped me. I felt the warmth of her breath as she knowingly whispered very close to my ear.

"No. Little One. You’re not ready to serve me there."

I was led back to the cart completely blinded. The Countess pulled me by the small clitoral leash and clumsily followed as best I could. This time I was harnessed nearest the driver for I could feel the Countess’s hand on my backside when she stepped into the cart.

"This will be a test of your obedience and courage, Little One. We’ll start slowly but by the time we take the last path back to the stable, you’ll be laboring to pull this cart at full speed, completely dependent on the tugs of the reins."

It was terrifying. I couldn’t see anything and had to concentrate on the tugs of the nose ring. I was most grateful for the Countess’s encouraging touch. When I failed to turn in time, or tripped I received a vicious slap on one of my breasts. It wasn’t her hand. She must have brought a rubber device of some kind with her. But after I righted myself and directed the cart in the proper direction, she would lovingly smooth her free hand over my derriere or even play very gently with my pussy. She was masterful. I really wanted to please her and I tried hard to do so. But I was blinded.

With amazing patience we spent the remainder of the morning slowly meandering through the paths. After an hour she finally seemed satisfied and I realized that we had successfully made many turns and were moving at a fairly brisk pace. (Keep in mind reader that the weight of the steel bands greatly inhibited any rapid movements.) The whip cracked without touching me and having been trained to react to the sound as well as the feel, I dug my feet into the sand, pumped vigorously with my legs and pulled with all my strength. The cadence of the bells sped up. I felt my perspiration running to down my legs and was most proud of my performance. Soon I heard applause and realized we were near the house. Young giggles indicated that Paul and Paula found my display most amusing.

Still blinded by the hood, the Countess released me from the cart and led me into the stable by the short strap. I walked with more confidence and kept my freed hands on the back of my head as instructed.

"How about a nice douse and rub down?"

I believe she directed me to the middle of the stable where I was displayed every day to the livestock. She connected a cable to my waist band then pushed my head down so that I bent at the waist. A cable was snapped onto the ring of my leather hood. Next, cables were connected to each wrist then she picked up my right foot and deftly hooked the ankle band to a cable. Lastly came my left ankle which brought my weight off the floor. I was suspended in a prone position, parallel to the floor at waist level. It was surprisingly comfortable, my weight was evenly distributed and the smooth broad bands had been designed to hold me in suspension for long periods.

As she gently sprayed me with warm water, the Countess again talked of her farm.

"After every training session the ponies are washed and massaged. I have assistants that do most of the work, but I make sure that I personally wash and rub down each pony at least twice a week. It’s important that I monitor the muscle development and the condition of their skin. Every pony is different in terms of reaction to the whip. One never wants to scar a pony. It detracts from the value."

She toweled me dry. She had an amazingly delicate touch, considering the whipping and the breast slaps she had doled out. She began to apply a warm oil. It felt wonderful. She worked my back and arms and the odd manner in which I was suspended provided her access to every part of my body, front side and back.
"This is how I get to know my ponies. Every nook and cranny. Every blemish. Where the whip has chastised the skin the most. You can imagine the reaction of sixteen and seventeen year old girls. Stripped naked and suspended. Sometimes I just stand back for a few minutes and watch the new girls flush with embarrassment. I inspect everything. It’s important not only to the physical process of development but to the mental process of breaking their will. Making them realize that they are property and that their owner has the rights of ownership, and responsibility of care of course."

She was kneading my breasts as she explained this and it occurred to me that coincidentally with the massage she was giving me a breast exam. Very carefully pulling and then squeezing a portion of each breast, evidently searching for lumps.

"It’s debasing, humiliating. Many girls just cry during the entire first inspection. But the process works. Within a few weeks they accept the fact that their body has a new owner and care and grooming is no longer their concern. Their appearance and care is completely under my control."

The Countess moved to my legs and buttocks. Here, she used her strong arms and hands to provide maximum pressure as each muscle in the legs and buttocks was pulled, squeezed, rolled by her palms and kneaded. She was an expert. But here again she was also examining my muscle development and occasionally pointed out little weaknesses or areas of good development.

I was becoming quite relaxed, almost groggy. (Remember, reader, I had not slept or been allowed to rest in a lying position in years.) I think I fell asleep as the Countess worked over my feet. She remarked that it was the most important part of a ponies anatomy and spent much time on them, even massaging each toe. I came about after she had moved to my front.

"Open your mouth Little One. Let’s do a complete inspection."

I complied and soon felt her fingers probing about, pushing back my lips to look at each tooth.

"The Princess really got into the tattooing," she laughed, "what a shockingly blue tongue!"

She had stretched it out of my mouth and seemed to enjoy toying with it. Lantita’s tongue training became evident to her. She knew enough to realize it was abnormally long and nimble. I could tell she was contemplating something as she paused, then firmly pulling the tip well beyond my lips she stuck two fingers far down my throat. She wriggled them about, poking and prodding and I finally began to gag.

"Very good. You’re orally well disciplined. It’s one of the hardest things for a young pony to learn. Many of their future owners or trainers will be using them here and those poor young throats are most sensitive to foreign objects."

She was still poking as she explained and I spasmodically swallowed again and again as she feverishly worked to thrust her fingers as deep as possible.

"Occasionally a new pony will bite. But she’ll only do it once."

Tears formed in my eyes and I began to cough and gag. I could only imagine how demeaning, mentally and physically, this type of examination would be to a teenaged girl.

Finally, she withdrew her fingers and released my tongue. Within moments I felt my ankles being separated by tugs on the cables. Wider and wider. The movement stopped after my feet and legs were grossly split. I could feel the room air on my vaginal lips. The small gold chains pulled the rings apart as my thighs separated. The Countess again was adoring my diamonds.

"So pretty, Little One. Your blue privates, gold and diamond jewelry are marvelously salacious. This is the type of viewing a pony owner puts his girls through. There’s no point in developing a girl’s backside if you can’t enjoy it. Of course pink is the preferred color, but blue is a nice change."

She was laughing as she spoke and toying with my pussy. I lurched in my bonds when she inserted one then two fingers into my vagina. She explored me there, testing one side of the vaginal wall then the other. Pushing in a little further, then retreating, then pushing.

"You’re very tight here. Such a firm little box. Hasn’t anyone used you here?"
I replied in the negative, surprised to hear my own voice.

"Well, with my girls I open them up and give them a good stretching at least once a week. But if the Princess has a policy, we’ll be less aggressive."

Her knowing fingers worked away. It felt wonderful. No person or object, not even a douche nozzle had penetrated me in years. I became very wet and began to push my hips back toward her in an effort to encourage greater penetration.

"Well, Little One, so eager."

The fingers of her free hand began circling my anus. She was adding more oil.

"At the farm we don’t have suspension cables like this. Since we work with so many ponies, the equipment has to be simple, quick and easy to use. The holding area of the stable has floor stocks. They are just two pieces of wood about four feet long hinged at one end and opened and closed at the other. We have about ten sets lining one wall, ten on the other. When not being trained or bathed or massaged, the pony steps into the stock, places her ankles into the two outside holes. Then she bends over a leather belt, sort of a swing, and places her wrists into the two inner holes. A trainer can then push closed the stock securing the pony for the remainder of the day or for the night. The pony is restrained in a sitting position supported by the swing holding at the tummy, offering access to her privates... and exposed... always well exposed.. It brings the mental capitulation I insist on.

"It’s simple. A single trainer can secure my entire herd in a minute. The outer stock latches itself to the other. In the morning all the stocks can be unlatched just as easily.

"And morning’s when it’s most fun to be in the stable. A trainer walks down each line kicking open the stock with her foot. Thus released the ponies line up to use the toilet. Teams most go together. All ponies go on the command of a supervisor. It’s very embarrassing for the new girls but they get used to it. And I observe at least twice a week, particularly when the ponies move their bowels. It’s important that their nutrition be properly monitored. I have a special toilet facility where the ponies straddle two long smooth brass pipes and relieve themselves into a large basin, it looks like a long, low bathtub with a large drain at one end. I watch and judge the size, color, and moisture of their movement. From this information I regulate the diet accordingly. Teams go together. Its interesting to watch them straddle the brass together and try to coordinate. For if they don’t they’re punished. For new teams its very difficult. Some times I have to use suppositories to help them get into sync.

"Then its on to a large open shower room for shaving if needed and a quick rinse. Lastly, their thumbs are hooked together behind their backs. All the ponies wear small but strong thumb rings.

It’s the only restraint device I allow other than a nose ring. As I’ve indicated I want the ponies absolutely stripped naked, too many cuffs and restraint devices provide covering.

"Well, as the morning ablutions finish the ponies gather in the yard and when they’re all together, Rex takes them for a run. You’ve seen his talent. Rex can handle many ponies, keeping them exercising at a brisk pace and also, most importantly preventing any mutual masturbation. The one problem with simple restraint devices is that, although they can’t touch themselves, the ponies can use their fingers to manipulate each other. Rex is well aware of this and won’t allow it."

As the Countess was talking, one, then two fingers worked themselves into my back passage. She was very gentle, and there was little resistance since I had been opened there by Abdul.

"Your sphincter is excellent. Strong but flexible. Give my fingers a good squeeze, Little One. Yes. That’s it. Abdul must find you very pleasurable."

She continued working me there and I soon felt a third finger enter.

"Just relax. We have much time. Help out a little. Try and push out my fingers."

I did and felt a fourth finger enter me.

"Good. Well after a good hour or so Rex herds the ponies back and they’re fed. After that training begins.

Each pony is in a different stage of development so some go through dressage, others are hitched to a cart. Some have remedial exercise, special workouts I put them through to strengthen certain muscles. You’d be surprised how many ponies I get where the buttocks are perfectly formed but there is very little muscle structure. A firm layer of fat can look good, but won’t help pull a cart. Under my strict training that changes to muscle.

"Push out again for me. Come on."

Her two fingers in my vagina wriggled about encouraging my anal response. I pushed as if to move my bowels and unbelievably I felt her thumb join her four fingers.

"Relax, Little One. Let me work you. I do this with each of my ponies once a week. We get to know each other very well and it establishes a gratifying level of control. Think about a sixteen, seventeen year old girl being fisted like this. They soon learn that I own their mind as well as their body and any and all resistance fades. Some arrive as virgins and I have to break the hymen. In some countries that diminishes the value of the girl, but not with ponies. Their function is to serve, work at the end of a tether and please a master or mistress. Sexual experience or inexperience is meaningless. But it is interesting to be the one to ravish the pony’s symbol of virtue. Most cry, others are just too scared. But its just another part of the program."

The Countess had her entire hand penetrating me. It was simultaneously uncomfortable and reassuring. Reassuring in that this large strong women, a masterful dominatrix, should be inside me, feeling my most private of functional areas.

"With some ponies I fist their vaginas at the same time. It’s quite debilitating. They dare not move and feel helplessly impaled. I control them completely. Let me work myself in, Little One. I can feel your heart beat, and my two fingers in your pussy can feel my right hand squirm and move up your back side. Soon I will demonstrate my control."

Helplessly suspended by the cables I could do nothing as her hand slithered into me. Occasionally she balled it into a fist, other times wriggled her fingers. With each of these subtle movements I writhed with the odd sensation of pain and pleasure. I felt like a stuffed bird. Every time I pushed against her hand to evacuate it, the muscle contraction allowed her to slide her hand in further. She would then ball her hand to encourage me to contract again.

"If your diamonds weren’t so sharp, Little One, my left hand would be in your womb right now."

I had little doubt that this powerful and implacable woman would not in fact impale me there also.

"If you were mine I’d eliminate most of this metal. The bands, most of the rings, they’re not necessary to control a pony and it affords too much covering. My ponies are totally naked. A nose ring, yes. Thumb rings, yes. A clitoral ring, maybe. But not all these. Within days of arrival, even the most recalcitrant pony will stand as instructed for hours with their hands behind their head, behind their back, wherever. And in any pose I command. It’s part of the training that they learn to pose. Every pony is auctioned at some point. Even the ones I don’t own and train for others. Therefore it is important that they learn to exhibit themselves and show off for a potential bidder.

"My auction and exhibition room is one of the largest in the business. Twenty to thirty interested buyers surround a circular stage about two feet high. In the middle of the stage is an opening to the floor below. That’s where I stand so I have the same view as my customers. I bring the Pony out completely naked. They hold their hands behind their heads as commanded and I lead them by a long pole attached to the nose ring, just as I used this morning on you for dressage. I carry a small riding crop for effect, but it is never used. At that point in their training the ponies are quite docile and eager to please.

"The pony follows me up onto the stage and I lead her with the tether, head up, knees pumping high with every step. They’re trained to land softly on their toes when on display, and with their shoulders held back, their small firm breasts point straight ahead. It’s a very titillating scene for the connoisseur. After once or twice around the stage, I bow to the applause then step down into the middle. This allows everyone to focus attention on the pony and I can walk her with the tether and have the same view as the audience.

"Buyers with serious interest come closer, needing to observe every minute detail of the pony’s muscle and flesh. The casual viewer and connoisseur knows that the more pleasurable view is at a distance.

"By that stage of a pony’s training, they are well aware of the salacious exhibitions a trainer or owner requires and all modesty has been, not so much removed, as taken from them. It is amazing how they become almost eager to pose in the most debasing positions. Even ponies who maybe a little reluctant know that by the end of the auction every part of their most intimate anatomy will be exposed and inspected. Therefore, in order to proceed with the bidding and end the exhibition they are compliant.

"I usually open the auction and receive six or seven the bids. Then, the top three bidders are allowed five minutes of hands on inspection. Not as thorough as yours was this morning, but a good buyer knows where potential weaknesses can be and immediately subjects that area to close inspection. This system also encourages casual bids, some people attend just to become one of the top three so they can have the enjoyment of giving a pony a good close examination. I have one woman who buys very rarely but almost always obtains inspection rights. She has become one of the finest judges of pony flesh that I know of and I welcome her as long as she occasionally bids aggressively.

"This woman can humiliate a pony faster than any owner or trainer I know. Her favorite inspection is to have the pony stand with feet wide apart, touching her toes. That’s when she splays the outer lips with her own hands and has the pony do a slow turn to reveal her most intimate parts to the crowd. Some ponies break down. Others flush. I think it helps bring in more bidders.

"After inspection, the bidding is reopened. If someone other than the top three wants to bid that is fine. But they bid without right of inspection."

The Countess’s hand was well inside me at that point of her story. I didn’t think she could go much further but she did begin to move her fingers about, then began to laugh.

"Do you have to go, Little One? I haven’t been very attentive. Why don’t you go for me?"

I had certainly learned over the years to respond to such requests. But restrained as I was, hanging face down at the end of cables was unusual, and with the Countess’s hand well inside me it became impossible for me to concentrate.

"Oh. Let me help you."

Again her fingers moved inside me. Her left hand exited my vaginal passage and rubbed my lower belly. She began pushing against my abdomen. Then the fingers of her penetrating hand moved inside me and I felt my liquid flow and heard a splatter on the tile floor. Was I doing this?

"Oh. Good girl. Let’s stop for a second."

Her fingers changed position and the flow curtailed. I was mortified. The Countess was in control of my most basic of functions. With her knowing fingers, she simultaneously pressured my bladder to start the flow, but then squeezed off my tubing with her penetrating hand. Over the next few minutes she turned the flow on and off at her whim, laughing and mocking me. I can only imagine what to be the reaction from the livestock. And the new blonde must have been agog.

The demonstration of the Countess’s complete control finally ended as my bladder emptied to the floor, although I would not have doubted she could have pressured me for more drops if challenged. I was grateful to be blindfolded for this most humiliating of displays.

"Now let’s see if you can bring yourself off, Little One. My hand is certainly bigger than Abdul’s manhood, I can manipulate you with my fingers better than any man can with his penis."

The Countess again played with my pussy with her free hand. The strange sensation of being stretched and penetrated seemed to promote some latent feeling of sensuality, for despite the enormous orgasms I had experienced at the oasis, she soon brought my vaginal passage to a slippery wetness. I struggled to close my thighs and grip the playful digits. She immediately recognized the reaction as the first step toward bringing me to another torturous climax, and the fingers began to withdraw. I pushed back with my hips and lower body to engulf them and this caused me to impale myself even further on the hand within my rectum. Soon I felt myself swinging on the cables. The combined discomfort of further anal penetration with the delicate, sensuous fingers in my pussy were maddening. The Countess laughed at my struggles and moved her fingers very little as I worked myself into a frenzy. The suspension cables allowed me some movement and I used it as best I could to friction my pussy on the Countess’s fingers. With each motion, a wave of sensation from my impaled backside flooded my brain’s pleasure center. I was shamelessly fucking the Countess’s hand as she laughed and on occasion twisted her hand in my backside. She let the frenzy continue, thoroughly enjoying my lewd antics, knowing full well how close I was to smashing through the invisible wall which kept me from jumping into the pit of orgasm.

Finally tiring of the game, she thrust her fingers well into my vagina, clenched her right hand into a fist, and when she hooked the fingers penetrating my pussy so they almost touched the fist in my colon, the resulting climax was as intense as I had ever felt. Bright lights seemed to shine right through the leather hood. Every muscle in my body went limp. I could feel my juices gush, then splatter onto the tiled stable floor.

Did she withdraw her hands? I must have swooned, for my feet touched the floor and I could hear the naked blond teenagers talking and laughing. Someone was releasing me from the torture of utmost pleasure.

'96 Months' XXIV

The Countess took me into the stable and hitched me to the cart. She connected me to the front of the long pole which left an open space of about three feet between my backside and where she stood in the cart. She removed the thin gold chains which ran from my nose ring through my ear rings to the neck band. In their place were two long strands of leather, one connected to the nose ring, through, the ear ring on the right side, through a ring on the neck band and back to the cart. The other leather strand went through similar rings on my left.

"I won’t make you wear a bit today. It takes several sessions to become accustomed to the breathing when wearing one. Your nose ring will suffice. When I pull left you go left. Right when I pull right. Pulling both means slower. A sharp pull means stop. The whip will indicate when to start and speed up."

She left the stable and returned minutes later carrying a cloth bag. She had changed clothes from her tight soft leather skirt and halter and was now wearing what appeared to be a short white tennis outfit. Rex followed her from the house.

From her bag she retrieved a simple short length of soft leather, about five inches long. She knelt down and tied one end to my clitoral ring, letting the remaining four inches dangle between my legs.

I soon learned that the open space behind me on the pole (where Twelve had been tethered when Lantita took us out) worked to the Countess’s advantage. She was afforded full use of the long whip, where Lantita could only use a short one on the second pony. Again, the Countess’s strokes were crisp, well aimed and effective. There was no doubt that she was in control and it soon became second nature for me to respond to the tugs of the reins and crack of the whip. The cart was very heavy and the Countess was a large, well developed women, but after countless snaps, mainly on my breasts we attained a satisfactory speed. Rex scampered along beside me.

"Keep your knees apart, Little One, show me your diamonds. I want to see them sparkle in the sun."

It was an awkward way to run. Bent at the waist with legs apart, I learned that the Countess was right about the required use of different muscles. My bells were ringing in step with my feet as we found a good challenging pace. The devilish leather cord hanging from my clitoris swung in cadence with the bells and the small gold chains pulled at my labia rings. I found that I was slowly masturbating myself with each step, and the occasional sting of the whip spurred me on to keep the cord swinging. The Countess was a wizard at pony training. I was truly working very hard to please her and maintain the pleasurable sensation in my clitoris My breathing was heavy, sweat pored down my legs and my wet feet picked up dry particles of sand. The Countess had expertly brought me to a demanding but sustainable rhythm and she indeed was working me into a lather. My trainer seemed gratified and I, in turn felt a glow in performing for her.

After an hour of weaving through the paths of the farm, the Countess directed me toward the oasis and picnic area. There she stopped the cart and inspected me, smoothing her hands over my stomach and legs. She slipped her hand between my thighs and felt for my the labia rings. Inserting two fingers into my pussy she wriggled them about and laughed.

"Goodness, Little One. You’re gushing. Doesn’t the Princess masturbate you?"

It had been three weeks since my last visit to Abdul and I was indeed in need of relief. I indicated as such to the Countess.

"Well. You’ve been good. Let’s take care of that. But first, empty your bladder for me like a good pony girl"

She was holding apart my lips as she spoke and her request came as a surprise. In the stable I just let myself go on the tiled floor as did the livestock and in the house Paul or Paula held the urn under me. Having her hold me there was strange but over the past few hours I had become accustomed to her control and somehow felt comforted as she toyed with a nipple with her free hand. I soon splattered the sandy soil with my fluid and she aimed the flow away from my feet.

"Very good."

Next she held a water jug for me to drink and spooned some of the farm’s special mush into my mouth. She was quite delicate and caring and she inspected my reddened breasts while I ate.

"Your skin takes nicely to the whip, Little One. The years of caning have produced a ruggedness and durability most pony girls don’t have."

Rex sat and watched attentively, ready to jump at any command. He seemed very interested in me and I could tell he was specially trained to attend to ponies.

"Why don’t you take a swim with Rex?"

She unhooked me from the cart.

"Rex. Swim!"

She pointed to the pond and Rex instantly began barking and growling. I began to walk toward the water and he nipped at my leg.

"When outdoors, Rex always keeps his ponies running, Little One. And don’t touch yourself."

The Countess read my mind as it was one of the few times my hands were free. I ran to the pond with Rex barking and he forced me straight into the water. It was cold! The oasis must feed from deep below the surface. But then, the desert temperature was well into the nineties therefore any liquid would feel cold by comparison. My nipples immediately hardened but the cold felt good on my excoriated skin. Rex swam also. I had to be very careful wearing the steel bands. The added weight made it difficult to stay afloat. The Countess sat on a rock with the cloth bag. I could see her retrieving things and hanging cords from the branch above her.

It was a very pleasant morning and the swim continued I contemplated the differing styles of control and domination between the Countess and the Princess. I feared the Princess and therefore obeyed. With the Countess I wanted to obey and she provided a girl with just the right incentives to want to obey. But with both women, obedience was attained.

Rex and I swam for about twenty minutes. The freedom of movement was a rare treat. The Princess was a firm believer in restraint and I hadn’t slept in a prone position much less been allowed to move about for years. Finally the Countess called to Rex and the canine in turn herded me back toward to cart. My freedom was short lived.

I trotted to the Countess. She was sitting on a rock with two strong ropes hanging from a tree limb above her. But I was shocked to see a large dildo strapped around her exposed right thigh just above the knee. It was big and thick pointing straight to the sky.

"Over here, Little One. I have a treat for you."

She beckoned to me as my trot slowed in confusion. Rex nipped me and I sped up.

"You’re going on a ride. Come on, you’ll enjoy it."

The Countess spread her legs and guided me to stand straddling her right thigh. She attached a rope to a ring on each side of my neck band. She had various "D" clamps ready and she very gently reached around and lubricated my rectum.

Satisfied with the condition of my back passage, she clamped my wrist cuffs behind my back and spoke.

"Abdul tells me you enjoy having your backside used. Well, I’m going to show you a special little amusement I reserve only for good pony girls."

She tightened and adjusted the ropes then slowly brought up her thigh until the tip of the thick rubber phalanx met my blue tattooed orifice.

"Be good and take it. You’ll enjoy it. I promise."

Over the years of programmed stretching my once tight grotto opened and the head slipped in with minimal discomfort. She pulled, tightening the ropes more with her strong arms and the tip of dildo slipped out a little as my body rose. She then raised her thigh a little, reinserting the rubber manhood. Next she pulled up my right ankle and clamped it back to my waist band. When she picked up the left ankle, my weight shifted so that I hung from the neck band, then forced to assume a kneeling position, I was slowly impaled as she raised her thigh and slid in more of the dildo. It was a strangely helpless, but somewhat pleasurable sensation. My labia pressed against the smooth flesh of her thigh. Feeling her warmth I couldn’t help rubbing my neglected pussy against her leg.

"Yes, Little One. Use the Countess’s leg. Go ahead enjoy."

Being so encouraged I bucked forward and back, frottaging on her leg. After a few seconds she lowered her thigh which simultaneously retracted the dildo and increased the tension on my neck. The pleasure was sensational and I looked straight into her smiling face and could tell she reveled in the control she had. Next she slowly raised her thigh, thus fucking my anus with the dildo attached to her leg. With just this double action I could have ridden all day and climaxed over and over. But then she reached down and grabbed the little leather strap attached to my clitoral ring. I thought I would faint as she held it and countered my forward and back frottaging motion with the slightest of yanks on the strap.

"Yes, Little One. We call this the pony ride back at the farm. A little pony gets to ride the trainers knee. My girls aren’t ringed like you but suitable stimulus to the clitoris is easily found."

Up. Down. Forward. Back. Visions of riding on my father’s knee when I was a child crossed my mind. I supposed the similar posture and position were intentionally conceived by the Countess. After all, the psychological side of dominance is as important as the physical.

I could feel my juices begin to run down my thighs and I could only imagine how wet the Countess’s thigh was. Rex was barking and becoming quite excited, with my scent I supposed.

The Countess began to exaggerate her leg motion and the full length of the dildo was sliding in and out of my once tight rectum. She felt my orgasm coming before I did. Her left hand began toying with my right nipple. Pinching. Twisting. Pulling. I opened my mouth and let out a loud groan. Then a cry. It was then that she leaned forward and took my left nipple in her mouth. I gasped for breath. She bit my left nipple, pinched my right and gave the clitoral strap a brisk pull. I clenched my thighs around hers and could feel a stream of fluid escape. I cried out again as the enormous orgasm cascaded through my entire nervous system.

"Oh. Yes Little One. Attack my leg. Crush the big penis between your buttocks. This is as good as it gets. Restrained and forced to make love to my thigh and a rubber phalanx. Come on give me more. You’re not done yet."

I wasn’t. Two more clenches, not as strong as the first, but seemingly as pleasurable. The flow gushed.

I think I swooned. All motion seemed to slow and then stop. My chin fell to the neck band . This was the position I assumed every night when sleep gratefully overcame my unending torment. But it had never happened during the day.

'96 Months' XXIII

Hurricane here. Over reported with an over abundance of caution.
*******************************************************************************
I spent the night suspended in the guest bedroom as a party favor to the Countess. By the time the party broke up, it was fortunately very late and the Countess only played with me for a few minutes before retiring.

The morning was different. I woke early and helplessly watched the Countess sleep for another two hours. Usually Paul or Paula would wake and hold up a special urn for me to urinate. But in the guest bedroom I just waited, hanging with my steel bands hooked to cables at the foot of the Countess’s bed.

I held back forever until finally Lantita knocked on the door and announced it was time for exercise. The Countess awoke and smiled at me then instructed Lantita to enter.

“Time for her exercise and cleansing, Countess.”

“Oh. Take her. I’ll spend time with her later.”

Lantita noticed me squirming on the hooks.

“Goodness, Countess. Did you let her go this morning?”

Lantita went into the adjoining bathroom as she spoke and retrieved the urn. I had never felt such relief when she held it under my split legs. It is very difficult to control the relevant muscles in such a position and I amazed myself at how long I had remained in need and not soiled the rug. Lantita and the Countess laughed as my strong flow hit the urn.

“I’ll remember to take care of her in the future.”

The Countess’s remark seemed ominous.

Lantita took me to the exercise room where I was stretched and then placed on a stair machine. The Countess later came to watch and found the sweat glistening from my colored skin to be intriguing.

“Have you considered training her on a cart? She’s not big enough to be functional but she’d be an interesting lead in a tandem team, if you pair her with a big girl.”

“I’ve had her out once or twice, but pony training isn’t really what we do here.”

Listening to the conversation while gasping for breath, I shuddered at the thought of being trained by the Countess. She stepped closer and placed a hand on by right buttock. I could not stop working my legs. My nose ring and clitoral ring were attached to elastic cords emanating from the front of the stair machine. If I failed to keep up with the steps, tension on the cords resulted in enormous pain.

“Very nice muscle structure. You’ve worked her well.”

“It’s for the canings, Countess. She can take much more with a good thick layer of muscle.”

“Yes. Of course. And the art work highlights it so well! Why don’t I take her out on the paths. I saw a cart in the stable and I’ll work her into a good lather. There’s no sight like the flesh of a well trained pony sweating under the firm hand of a good trainer. She’ll look very interesting with her coloring proudly displayed. And those buttocks need attention. I have just the instrument.”

“I think the Princess will be receptive. We have to work on Ten, the Latino, for a while. You remember he was recalcitrant last night.”

My hour on the stair machine expired. Lantita let the Countess attach a special leash to my nose ring. It was only about eighteen inches long and she used it to guide me outside to the open area between the house and stable.

There she adjusted my arm bands so that my elbows were painfully secured together. Remember reader, much time had been expended in stretching and this was typical of the results. With elbows touching, although uncomfortable I could still function. And for the Countess, this posture accentuated my breasts. She playfully cupped them and kneaded my nipples.

“Yes. You have been well trained.”

The Countess cleared the yard area and oddly turned two outdoor patio chairs on their sides.

From the stable the Countess found an interesting ten foot long bamboo pole. I had seen it hanging on the stable wall but never knew what it was for. She also wielded a long whip. The Countess hooked the short leash on my nose to the end of the bamboo pole which she referred to as a training tether. She then stepped back and took the end of the pole in her left hand. In her right, of course was the whip.

“Now, Little One. A little dressage work.”

As she spoke she raised the pole over my head which pulled taught the leash on my nose ring. My nose followed of course and I was forced to hold my head up. With my elbows secured as they were, this put me in a most salacious posture. My breasts were prominently thrust forward and my buttocks were well displayed since I had to arch my back in order to relieve the pressure on the elbow restraints.

“Oh yes. Very pretty.”

The Countess moved to the middle of the yard area and cracked the whip. I jumped, first from the sound and second from the sharp sudden burn on my right buttock. Abdul had only caned me and I found the bite of the whip to be a completely different sensation. Its message of pain came quicker to the brain but also subsided quicker. But then again, I believe the Countess was playing with me. I’m sure the whip could be used more effectively on belligerent ponies.

With the crack, the Countess pulled forward on the pole and I stepped forward following it.

“That’s a good girl. We’re going to circle the yard a few times. I want to see your gait and how you use your muscles.”

Another crack. She was masterful with the wicked length of thin leather. Her arm barely moved but the whip snapped most effectively.

“Yes. A little faster. Let’s get you into a good lather. I want to see those tits bounce. Most ponies girls have small breasts. It’s just natural. So it’s fun watching yours bob.”

She directed me to jog in a large circle. She had to move a little, but only a step or two from the center.

“Now, let’s see you jump. Go over the chair.”

Crack!

“Yes. You take to it naturally. Lead with your right foot and follow with the left by drawing it up behind you.”

Crack!

She was outstandingly precise with the whip. Each crack just grazed my flesh providing a quick sting which would slowly turn to a somewhat glowing warmth. She never struck the same area twice. And the pain was just enough to hold my attention and encourage me to listen attentively to her commands, which I did.

“Very good. Little One. I wish you could see yourself. Your artwork accentuates your white breasts and buttocks making a very naughty scene... and a perfect target.”

Crack!

With her last comment the whip stung my right breast. She didn’t hit the nipple but I realized that she could if she wanted to. This thought clung to me and I redoubled my efforts at the end of the tether.

“Excellent. You’re beginning to perspire. The sun reflects nicely off your colors.”

Round and round we went, jumping over the chairs as directed. The bell attached to my clitoral ring had been removed for morning exercise on the stair machine. But the other bells remained attached to the rings on my arms, rib cage and legs. As I followed the Countess’s commands I realized that the bells began to ring in a pattern. As each of my steps touched the sandy soil the little chimes softly rung out and when I jumped over the chairs a vibrant chord was heard. The Countess worked me energetically to eliminate any motion that would cause the bells to ring in between steps. It was time consuming and I concentrated on keeping my arms and midsection free of unnecessary movement so that the bells rang in unison with the motion of my feet.

“You’d like it at my farm, Little One. I have anywhere from 10 to 20 ponies under training. Mostly young girls, some boys and an occasional gelding. Thorough training only takes a few months if the pony arrives submissive. If they have to be broken in from start it can take a year.”

Crack!

The Countess proceeded to tell me all about her farm as we continued the odd dance of trainer and pony. It was a fascinating story. And I realized it was part of the training. To be able to subconsciously react to the direction of the whip and tether while listening to her speak was a test of my concentration.

“Some ponies I purchase for my own account, train then sell. Others are sent by owners and are trained for a fee. There’s no feeling of control like taking an unbroken filly out for her first session. They’re frightened and eager to please but of course most are clumsy. Yet I will occasionally get a girl with some ballet training. That’s when perfection can be achieved very quickly. They understand the importance of posture, timing, and the use of strength with the appearance of elegance. The best female ponies aren’t built like you. They’re tall with modest breasts. Any weight above the waist, whether it be fat or muscle, is superfluous. Therefore I prefer to begin with a slim girl and build her calves, thighs and buttocks. And she must be high slitted. An owner likes to see a cute pouch as the pony bends over in the harness. Two pink lips peeking back at the top of the thighs is the preferred presentation.”

Crack!

“The toughest thing is training a team, particularly if they will be harnessed side by side. Most owners are perfectionists and insist that a team work in perfect unison. Each step exactly in time. It sounds easy, but when a team starts up, the first step must be simultaneous and then as they accelerate or slow down the feet must stay together.”

Crack!

“A team must think alike, be able to read each others mind. Most good teams are comprised of lesbians or bisexuals. If they aren’t when I start they usually are when I finish.”

Crack! The Countess was laughing.

“I start by binding a team together for a few days. I have special harnesses which secure the head of each girl to the waist of the other. Yes their faces are secured right into the crouch of the other. They eat and sleep lying on the stable floor. They’re free to lick, bite scratch, whatever they want to do to each other. It’s interesting to watch them roll on the floor and try to achieve dominance by being on top. Food is eaten from the privates of the other. And when it comes to relieving themselves the fun really gets going. But it achieves a purpose. Over the days they get to know each other and develop mutual respect, perhaps even adoration. The only way one gets her pussy serviced is if she services the other. When one has to urinate she must coordinate with the other to avoid wetting her face. In a few days they may not like each other but they learn to work together. After all, when harnessed to a cart, if one makes a mistake their owner is going to whip them both.”

Crack! This time to my breast. Her dexterity amazed me. The slightest error could cause the whip to tear out one of my many gold rings. Yet, she didn’t come close to them.

“After a few days they are ready for dressage, just as we’re doing now. They’re tethered together and every motion must be in tandem. The progress is gratifying to watch. Slim young girls learning to walk, prance, jump in step with each other. And of course there is heavy exercise. Rex takes all the ponies for a long morning run. Later we have special exercise classes conducted by therapists, highly paid I might add, to help sculpt the necessary muscles. You’re going to find that pulling a cart requires strength in areas not normally used. Particularly when bent at the waist and encouraged to pull with widely spread thighs and knees.”

She stopped pulling the pole with her left hand and I stopped to avoid stress on the nose ring.

“Let’s go the other way, Little One.”

The Countess changed hands. Pole in right, whip in left and I pranced clockwise. Amazingly, she could deliver the same sharp precise cracks left handed.

“It takes months to train a team in every detail. Some very demanding owners will insist that every function be performed in unison, right down to bodily functions. Yes, a good team will learn to toilet together so they don’t have to be untethered.”

Crack!

“Keep the knees up, Little One. That’s it.

“I don’t like a pony with a lot of paraphernalia. A simple leather neck collar is all I like to see. Fancy pony gear it becomes too distracting. At time of sale my ponies are exhibited naked, pubes shaven and hair cut short. They don’t need to be restrained. My training cures them of any bad habits and Rex can immediately determine if anyone has been playing with themselves. No. The pony stands on a small pedestal for viewing and follows any commands to display special areas of interest. Neat and simple. No jewelry, cuffs, straps, ropes, chains. If a potential owner saw that restraints were necessary he or she wouldn’t buy. Teams are tethered at the neck, of course. Teams are always tethered together. That’s the rule.”

Crack!

“You have good wind. Lantita has done a good job with you.

“My farm isn’t all discipline and training. Teams can frolic on occasion. After a good session I’ll secure them face to face and let them go at it. It also gives me some recreation, watching two nubile young pony girls rub themselves into a frenzy. It can become a very athletic performance with ponies who are near the end of training. Well muscled thighs and buttocks grinding away, tight little erect nipples. And all the pony girls have large outer lips. It’s a feature I insist on in all my ponies, kind of a trademark. Watching the lips hang and swing with each step is an important part of the viewing pleasure of riding in the cart. So when these girls go at it in a lesbian embrace it can be quite a sight.”

Crack!

The Countess’s lewd descriptions and sensual use of the whip was having its effect. I could feel my wetness and I’m sure she noticed.

“Stop! I think you’re ready.”

New Site for CB books

Pink Flamingo has completed its site for 'non-consensual' D/s stuff where most of my former PF material will be offered.

See below.

And someone please explain this to me... are there sites for non-consenual crime and murder mysteries? vs. a site for consenual murder mysteries?

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

From Lizbeth Dusseau at PF... 

Exciting News From Pink Flamingo! Our New BDSM website is on-line. We still have some images and ebooks to upload, but all paperbacks are ready for sale now and the rest should be ready by the end of next week.

Erotic Book Network, featuring Pink Flamingo Publications BDSM erotica…

http://www.eroticbooknetwork.com/

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

More in a note to authors (my emphasis added in color)...

We’re pleased and excited to announce the launch of our new BDSM website:

Erotic Book Network (EBN)

www.eroticbooknetwork.com is now online!

Featuring the entire Pink Flamingo Publications BDSM catalog.

On this site we’ll include all titles with BDSM content, including the nonconsensual titles that were removed due to bank/credit card restrictions. We’ll also include consensual BDSM titles that still appear on the main PF site.

If you access EBN now, you’ll note that we still have some work to do uploading images and ebooks. However, ALL paperbacks are available for ordering now. We expect most of the ebooks removed from the Pink Flamingo site to be up and ready for download by early next week. All books released in 2011 are ready for download now. It’s great to see these books online again!

And… We have secured a new credit card payment gateway for the EBN site so books can be purchased with credit card, paypal, check or money order.

If you have a website or blog we encourage you to post the new site information to your site. I know that many of our customers are as anxious as you are to see these books available again. If you would like banners to add, please send us an email.

New writer’s guidelines have been created for the EBN site and will be posted on the site shortly. We are continuing to accept new manuscripts for these titles.

There’s very little changed from our previous guidelines, but you might want to take a look.

Going forward…

The Pink Flamingo website will continue to include consensual BDSM titles, as well as spanking, general and other lighter erotica that will not appear on the EBN site.

We are currently prevented from adding live links from the PF site to EBN, but as we tweak the site there will be mention of EBN along other retailers of our products, like Kindle, Sony, Apple and Barnes & Noble and others.