'To Serve Intact' I

A degree of macabre. Must incite the fear factor, so bear with me.

OK, switching genres, this is a theme I have incorporated into past stories, don't remember which. It's been a while.

Male infibulation

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

To Serve Intact

Copyright 2012

by Chris Bellows

Erections hurt!

Still I labor to achieve. It will please. And I so much want to please.

Therefore I internally pull on my pubo coccygeus muscles and begin a nodding motion with my entrapped head. This serves to tension a cord strung vertically from the back of my yoke to my gluteal cleft. There the cord is attached to an anal hook. Curved and well shaped, it penetrates of course, the bulbous tip abrading my prostate and facilitating my need to harden.

As I kneel in wait, my eyes strain to peer downward. I can feel my bejeweled foreskin begin to retract as the glans penis engorges, the devious small but sharp shards of silver scraping, painfully abrading the most sensitive male anatomy. The sunlight brings a gleam to the moisture of pre ejaculatory fluid as such begins to ooze in abundance.

Still, with bladder brimming, with my Master signaling from afar to prepare myself, the deed is as desired.
Yes, I stiffen most firmly, the pain more than acceptable... it brings strange pride.

In constant bondage, I think very little. My servitude not requiring judgement or cogitation, I merely react... to stimulus... to prompts.

Yet in these intervals of respite, awaiting Master’s return, there comes reflection...

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

"You have rebelled against the Emperor. There is a price to be paid. For most of you... the ultimate price."

As a mercenary, a soldier of fortune, one lives in danger... perhaps lives for danger. But never are there thoughts of this... the ultimate sacrifice for a cause not engendered within the soul.

I just train and fight for money. And I have been well paid. But now the pecuniary rewards are of no matter. Captured with dozens of the Emperor’s rebellious subjects, I lie naked and shackled along with those I trained. Due to betrayal, the futility is now apparent. Bad ammunition. In every box purchased on the black market, the top few layers of bullets were functional. Beneath were hundreds of still shots... no powder charge. The only thing worse than running out of ammunition, is having unreliable ammunition. In addition, those who fought were miserably under equipped and misinformed as to the strength and numbers of the Emperor’s forces.

The skirmish was brief. In the end, the Emperor’s royal guard merely walked into our makeshift redoubt and, to the sound of clicking rifles failing to discharge, stripped us naked and put us in chains.

"Fentanyl with powerful muscle relaxers. The Emperor is merciful. For most, your death will be as painless as possible. You will merely stop breathing in numbness."

The woman is impressively insouciant. Tall, broad shouldered, powerfully built, even in her drab military uniform, quite the aura of authority, she has a certain allure. Her deep chocolate complexion serves to highlight the whites of her lively eyes as she holds up a hypodermic needle.

I am amazed that she, her epaulets suggesting the rank of colonel, will personally administer the coup d’ grace.

Behind the woman of power is a diminutive figure, the limited stature enhancing the Colonel’s imposing size. He/she holds a tray. It is stacked with the implements of death... and more.

The Colonel stoops at the nearest prisoner, pinches a large tuft of skin at the side of the left buttock and jabs. There comes a flinch, a meek word of protest and then... nothing. With the fentanyl, an incredibly powerful narcotic, instant nirvana ensues. Yet as a soldier I know death comes never quickly, the muscle relaxant, probably curare, will stop the lungs. A heart starved of oxygen will eventually cease as well.

"You should be enlightened to know most of you will be fed to the palace’s hogs. So in death your remains will loyally serve the Emperor... though you have not done so in life."

This brings a calloused smile as the woman retrieves another hypodermic needle and stoops again. Quick, mechanical, without an iota of reservation another shackled prisoner meets his end. A third injection and the dungeon begins to reek of death. With the involuntary muscles no longer held in contraction, sphincters open, bladders empty. I note that another diminutive soldier, gender again indeterminate, begins to unravel a water hose. There are floor drains. The room is a chamber for death, well designed for quick and easy slaughter, neatness leaving no evidence of the horror undertaken.

With the fourth prostrate form, the Colonel pauses. Unlike the trio of condemned, this prisoner is young... dreadfully pulled into the conflict by desperate zealots... and now made to sacrifice for another’s folly.

"This one will serve. Give me the elastrator and make sure he is yoked."

The Colonel is handed a device resembling a large set of pliers. Again she stoops. The youthful shackled form fruitlessly protests in the local dialect as a coal block hand rummages about the pubes. I know the elastrator. I know its purpose. A lad barely out of puberty will make a different sacrifice.

Though I cannot observe the entire process, I know that the well leveraged tongs of the elastrator force open an extremely strong but small band of rubber. The testicles will be encircled, the tongs pressed to the perineum. Then will come the sharp snap as the tongs are slipped away and the ring of rubber instantly contracts, ending the flow of blood, mercifully truncating pain, the nerves crushed.

Emasculation. Efficient, neat, bloodlessly terminating masculinity, but disconcertingly slow. The scrotal sac deprived of circulation, within days the puff of withered flesh, remnants of maleness within, will meekly fall to the soil or concrete of the dungeon floor.

"You too will feed the hogs," the Colonel quips, the fate of the lad’s soon to be departing testicles made apparent.

The snap, an instant of unfathomable male pain, a yelp, a paroxysmal yet futile lurch against the iron bonds, and the deed is done.

A smiling Colonel arises.

"You’ll look cute in a serving dress, should you be permitted any covering at all."

The executions continue. The woman is heartless. And realization begins to overwhelm. My fate is sealed. At six foot four, 270 pounds, I will not look good in a serving dress, should the loss of my gonads even be considered. Mentally I prepare to die. Then I note that another is spared, only to endure the ignominy of emasculation. Yes, another snap, another pitiful yelp.

Given the choice, which of course is not offered, how would the intact male decide?

It is silly to contemplate, the deliberation not mine to consider. But such are the thoughts of the desperate.

Then comes the bizarre. I cannot help but focus on the executioner, she who brings either death or the end of maleness. Something about the power, she having all, the band of once brave men having none. Something about her physical aura... she controls... she is to be obeyed... and she enjoys.

Handsome, not beauteous, the loose folds of her dappled brown uniform fail to cloak feminine shapeliness as she moves about. And I feel my manhood begin to firm. Why... and why now?

The androgynous form with the hose begins to wash away the last offerings of the condemned. The hiss of the spray masks what little sound emanates from prisoners in shock. I note that a third uniformed genderless soldier approaches with a broad length of steel. Holes suggest the device is the yoke the Colonel demanded for he who faces slow castration. One large opening in the middle, two smaller at the ends, the neck of the prostrate prisoner is encircled in the center and the wrists are encumbered at shoulder height far to the right and left. I am surprised when the naked rebel is released from the shackles which make him one with the wall and the floor.

The youth is succinctly freed!

The Colonel stands having brought death to one more. She looks at he undergoing emasculation. She smiles noting the small scrotal sac is deep purple, and turning deeper. She wriggles her finger, a come hither gesture. Has the prisoner a choice but to comply?

"You’re free for now. Prance about. Enjoy your last days as a male. But remember you’ll soon be feeding the hogs as well."

She pinches his cheek in a manner most matronly, the smile transforming to one of warmth. Then her hand lowers and gruffly pinches the purple scrotum, her smile broadening in noting no reaction to what would otherwise be a most painful grasp. Numb already. She next points to her boots, well polished, I am sure a bevy of servants tending to her every need.

"Thank me properly."

The lad falls to his knees and for some reason knows to kiss her boots. When she remains silent he begins to lick as well.

"Good girl."

Observing the expression of gratitude for castration... I stiffen more.

'The Clinic' in paperback

For those who prefer hard copies, I have also published 'The Clinic' in paperback, $13.00.

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'The Clinic' is published

The clinic has been published in ebook format. Available below from Lulu. $7.00, 138 pages, 57,000 words.

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Next week we'll begin a new series, more traditional Chris Bellows fare... 'To Serve Intact'... Female dominant, male submissive.

Hope you have enjoyed 'The Clinic' and will choose to complete your reading.

CB

"The Clinic' IX

Tabled in the counseling room, I kneel on all fours, presented as a work of art... a sculpture.

Miss Ann tends, first retrieving a water bottle from her bag, 20 more milligrams of Domperidone to be ingested. Having endured another grueling enema, the wicked trusty assuring bowels most receptive, something within welcomes Miss Ann’s expandable anal plug and plastic bag of whatever she deems good for me.

"Your titties are plumping. And those nipples, long and red."

She recites the obvious, having had so many lips suck, tongues swirl. By morning’s end my chest was coated with saliva, my thighs with remnants of heated sopping vaginas.

"The Chief had you suckled. How do you feel?"

The counseling begins as I hear the hiss of air and feel the anal plug expand. I sense this odd need for the doctor’s concoction, for some reason receptive of the notion that I will absorb... whatever it is she offers.

"A little sore."

She steps to my front. I feel the flow of the ooze begin... oddly comforting.

"I have some cream for you. But how do you feel within. What are your thoughts, nurturing so many?"

I search for words. The initial repulsion dissipated as described. Do I tell her? How do I explain that the last duo I attempted to kiss in gratitude?

Yet she must have watched, seeming to know that my reddened nipples did not result from one set of lips.

"I don’t know," my reply seeming to disappoint.

From her bag comes a tube of some unguent. She smears her gloved hands and stands before me smiling, rubbing to rid the coolness of the ointment. It is a pleasant smile, not a hint of demented joy. And within I feel warmth, that I am cared for.

Her hands reach forth and first palm my breasts. There is an initial sting, then the skin acclimates. She knows to pause then slowly close her hands to cup both glands entirely, pausing again.

I smile in return. She’s a handsome woman, Miss Ann... caring... knowing... perceptive. There comes a sense of envy in viewing her hair. I have none, the cranium of a beast... an ugly duckling.

The pause ends. Her fingers work in the cream. The soreness dispels. Then I am both chagrined yet strangely pleased when the fingers tighten about the nipples and draw downward in a milking motion.

"Like this? Is this how you milked during the summer on the farm?’

I nod but feel it necessary to clarify.

"Udders are longer, filling the entire hand," I naively explain.

Her hands shift, closing about the body of each breast. She squeezes, for some reason bringing no discomfort, then draws downward again, quite the earnest effort.

I do not understand my inner reaction. At another time, in another place I would object... to becoming an object... a beast... forced to cater to this woman’s desires.

But I have this need.

So when I close my eyes in silence, Miss Ann knows to continue, her grip tightening, her pulls strengthening.

She is stretching my glands... and internally I find no objection... not a word of remonstration to be offered.

A dozen tugs, perhaps more, I open to see her calm confident smile.

She knows. Knows me. Knows of my warped desire.

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

The days become repetitive, with some changes.

To my food bowl, noon and night, the trusty dutifully adds, enlarging and enhancing my ration with white goo similar to that which Miss Ann has seeping into my bowels during counseling.

Whereas the sustenance of all the other girls is monitored to inhibit weight gain, keeping me trim is no longer an objective. It seems quite the opposite.

I begin to plump... rapidly.

I am offered the pill, Domperidone... mornings, lunch time, evenings and of course during counseling.

Within a week I am led to my small cell-like room to find my cot has been modified. Two five inch diameter holes have been cut in the canvas, side by side. When I am bedded, for the first time lying prostrate, I find the openings accommodate my breasts. With my many loops clipped to hold me in place, I of course cannot rollover and therefore must sleep face down, my glands dangling below.

This facilitates two augmentations of my protocol. The trusty arrives nightly, impales my anus with an expandable plug and I feel the slow ooze of more concoction slithering inward throughout the night. I must assume it is that of Miss Ann’s formulation. Also with breasts so conveniently exposed, the gloved hands of a snickering matron grip and pull for up to an hour each evening, replicating the motion of Miss Ann.

The chief therapist’s permission to suckle in the courtyard continues. I cannot resist the confrontations with my cohorts. And in time, I no longer think of such interaction as confrontational. Almost every day I line up for my enema and cleansing smelling of overly ripe vaginas, my thighs coated with the juices of desperate girls in sexual denial.

I cannot decide which brings the greater thrill, having Miss Ann, my cherished mentor, mechanically tug on my glands, coming to revel in her touch, or having my breasts suctioned by the clear plastic cups. In one last modification to protocol, my mind determines...

"I brought a little suction cup for you, my plump little cow."

I take no offense in her words, offered with that smile that has come to charm. I am indeed with girth, and with my head weekly shaved, it is difficult to consider my look as human. The trusty, in a moment of jest, shaved my eye brows as well. She continues, seeming to enjoy the resulting tears. My waist loop, thigh loops and arm loops have been replaced, larger circumferences mandated.

There is no longer feminine pride in my appearance.

Miss Ann holds up a small cup indeed. It is the size of my pinky finger.

"I will save this for a special occasion. When you let down for me... untouched."

She steps behind my tabled kneeling form. A gloved hand works below the nourishing anal plug, first splaying my labia then gliding lower to my clitoral hood. Her touch is delightful, rarely palpating there. And then I feel her work the cup to encircle my little man, so long denied attention.

Goose bumps form... the physical touch... the thought of having my little nubbin suctioned as are daily my nipples.

And the deed to be performed by my idol... Miss Ann! My heart leaps in anticipation, despite the sinking feeling as her fingers and hand withdraw and she returns to face me.

She smiles, knowing my thoughts. Then as in every counseling session, having finished drawing strongly on my breasts, she glides a breast cup in place and begins to squeeze the pump to remove air and suction. It feels so good. Any comparable delight promised my clitoris cannot be imagined

I will perform. I will let down for her with zeal.

'The Clinic' VIII

The rattle of keys, the dull gray of the high window, it is morning.

A matron enters and unclips my loops. With a snap of her fingers I know to roll to the floor. She exits. Another quick snap of her fingers and I crawl to the hallway to join the naked clients of the clinic. A third snap and I position, my backside toward the center, head to the wall, bowl between my knees.

More doors are unlocked, more naked clients join, then another snap and we collectively lower our heads and further spread. Then comes the wait. A night’s excretions have built. Much to be expelled from brimming bladders. But clinic discipline mandates the timing is not ours.

Finally a far off door opens and we are heartened to hear the tap, tap, tap of boots.

"Good morning girls. I trust all slept well, so nicely bound and helpless."

I turn my head ever so slightly. In the corner of my eye the chief therapist struts as every morning, her authoritative words augmenting the sense of frustration of the dire need to urinate. But we must await those two snaps of the matron’s fingers.

On this morning she holds a leash. Obediently heeling as she marches down the center of the hall, those lustful eyes visually feasting on well parted cheeks, there crawls her pet, the girl caged and leashed in her office.

"I have a treat for you all this morning. A little pet puppy dog. She’s a licker. So when you’re finished with your morning business over the bowl, you’ll no longer need to be wiped. My little puppy in training is so eager to see what you all smell and taste like."

Such ignominy! One must wonder if the deep dark fantasy of being kept as a canine included orally tending to so many cunnies.

Reaching the end of the dual line of kneeling clients, the chief therapist turns to look back. She nods to the matron. There come the two snaps. Heads lower, knees and thighs further part. Another snap and some dozen bladders open, spurts and splatters, the initial sound of pinging metal quite strident.

Completing the task, the trusty rolls the cart and removes the filled bowls. And then begins the puppy training. Satiation not to be offered, each kneeling client is offered gentle but teasing laps of a generous tongue, all remnants of the morning need removed.

It feels good, warm wetness where so little is offered. Yet such is evanescent, more teasing than satisfying... and in a way I am dismayed in sensing delight from another woman.

Our cunnies are not to be denied the quick smears of warming lotion, the clinic’s spice. So as the leashed puppy girl works her way down the line, right quim then left, the trusty follows. I note on this morning, my love nest is offered inordinate time, my inner labia coated as always but the fingers briefly probe deeply inward, the walls of my vagina well smeared.

"Another treat, girls. The little bald one here needs to be suckled. So limited touching is permitted during your courtyard recreation. No punishment if you’d like to taste these nice plumping titties," bending, hand lowering to cup my left breast. "Orgasms denied as always, girls. Be careful."

I hear soft laughter. Then a matron steps behind and I feel her work my ankle loops, pulling my feet together. Just as I observed that girl hobbled on the day of my arrival, I too have my feet joined. Connecting the ankle loops is a one foot long length of rugged plastic. Next the matron guides my hands. Behind my back, elbows folded, wrists are attached to my neck loop. Then most aggravating, my elbow loops are secured tightly together and another length of plastic connects my bent arms to my waist loop. The procedure requires less time to institute than to describe.

I must be assisted to stand. And I find the forced posture to be quite awkward yet in a way inviting... for those indeed desiring to suckle. With arms and wrists so secured my shoulders are forced back and my chest juts forth. I appear to be all breasts.

As my naked compatriots stand and head for the door to the courtyard, I take my first step to follow. Quite limited, I feel the smack of the matron’s hand to my right cheek.

"Hurry along," my feet shuffling rapidly in compliance.

My boobies bounce with the cumbrous gait and I note the evil smile on the face of the chief therapist as I struggle to shuffle past.

I know she’ll be watching closely on the video camera.

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

As Miss Ann divulged, my girl friend of color is no longer. She has been stabled, I can only imagine the consequences.

Yet I have little opportunity to ruminate on the matter. The words of the chief therapist have authorized a game of hunt. And in being hobbled, I am not challenging prey.

As expected, a tall girl approaches, smiling lustfully with the opportunity. I recall that first visit to the courtyard with my friend of color frottaging against my buttocks, the incredible delight she experienced, her heated cunny finding some magnitude of satiation, however limited.

And now special permission has been granted. Suck on my nipples, frottage without circumspection.

I scramble. But my motion just jiggles the objects of their desires and invites oral attention. Meanwhile, with the abundance of spicy lotion, my own nest is in need.

I ungracefully prance about. The tall girl follows. Another girl joins. I am soon cornered, literally, angled concrete walls of the courtyard to my left and right, two naked clients before me. My homophobia brings a sense of repulsion. Yet, my heated cunny beckons, suggesting concession. The internal conflict is of no matter. In being so tightly bound, I do not so much surrender as am pinned to the adjoining walls and orally ravished.

Both girls bend at the knee to lower. Each orally captures a nipple. Under the brief rules proposed by the chief therapist, suckling suspends the edict against touching.

And touch they do, pressing as much of their bare flesh against mine as possible.

My disgust yields as my glands receive the soft wet swirl of tongues, the pressure of eager lips. My nipples harden in greeting, then soften. I feel them expand in welcome, seeming to fill the hungry mouths.

In feeling the brisance of ecstasy my knees buckle. I slowly lower, heedful of the somewhat rough concrete behind me, finally conceding so as not to scrape myself. To the ground, the two girls, lips never diverting from the task, reposition themselves, the shaven pubes of each pressing against a thigh right and left. Hips wriggle in earnest.

In my adolescent years, boys have likewise partaken, but obviously one mouth... one nipple... and clumsily. My cohorts, my repugnance quickly melting, are gifted, truly knowing of the feminine need.

I only wish some attention for my cunny. But alas I recall the words of Miss Ann...

‘You’ll need to be suckled as well.’

And I am suckled indeed. I feel what seems like a river flowing from my unsatiated loins, the heat turning to a comforting glow of intense warmth. I close my eyes. How long, I do not know, reveling in pleasure long denied.

When I open I look up to see a semi circle of naked clients looking on with envy, hands and arms bound, their feet gently kicking my oral assailants, wordlessly suggesting my breasts be shared. Well above their heads I note the video camera. Within my mind I can hear the snicker of the chief therapist.

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'The Clinic' VII

It’s Friday. Though there is no calendar to confirm and the days at the clinic tend to meld, there hangs in the courtyard the masturbation gloves. One of silky fur, the other of latex, two fingers missing.

A girl is masturbated on Friday... one girl.

So as we frolic naked there is sensed a degree of giddiness... yet with some apprehension. Only one of the dozen or so girls will be chosen, and in feeling the heat of our loins, the spicy lotion liberally applied, each must hope for selection. But in being publically masturbated, many observers in attendance, there comes reservation. Bad enough to have to prance about in the buff much less display one’s sex as it is manually penetrated and manipulated.

Yet, there is deep need. No one declines the opportunity to be placed on exhibit.

So in a weekly ritual the gloves hang in the courtyard and, as stated, such become the bell to which Pavlov’s dogs salivated in expecting a hearty meal. But with the girls of the clinic, there is no salivation, instead our cunnies begin to moisten, anticipating... strangely hoping... to be the one who will endure the intense pleasure.

Yes, though outdoors my nose detects the intense aroma, the excitement of genitalia ripened over time and strict denial. Assuming an organized masturbation schedule, a girl should not have to go longer then 12 weeks for the satiation of the gloves. But the longer I am at the clinic the more I realize some girls have been selected more than once while others remain in denial. I’d like to think my cunnie will at some point receive attention, but to date only the quick smearing fingers of the trusty have touched me there.

In time a matron comes to the door and the girls dash forth, hoping for selection. She reaches up and retrieves the gloves, snickering. It is apparent that her nose too detects the expectation, the fragrance of a herd of girls in heat.

The matron dons the gloves, fur on the left hand, latex on the right. The naked bevy gathers about and a ritual begins, the left hand reaching forth to ever so gently caress a nipple here... a nipple there.

There come shrieks of joy in believing a choice has been made. But it is a tease, the collective moisture turning to a deluge. Finally, the right hand lowers. The exposed index and middle fingers wriggle, gesturing to an exuberant little girl, breasts limited but firm, buttocks to be envied. She knows to instantly step forth and greet the upturned hand, the palm pressing against the clitoral hood.

"So eager," are the only words offered as I watch the uncovered fingers part the labia and slip inwards.

There comes a pause, a peculiar silent greeting... fingers and vaginal walls... the woman smiling wickedly, the girl sighing in delight.

"Are you going to put on a good show for us?"

Miss ‘cute buttocks’ nods with fervor, rocking her hips to enhance the penetration.

"Good. I’ll want my fingers to have a good fucking," the proclamation crass but apropos.

"Come girls, to the masturbation room," the hand withdrawing.

Only an institution such as the Clinic could conceive of such a depraved and demeaning chamber. For despite its moniker, the only purpose is to humiliate. After all, in our condition a girl can be brought to climax just about anywhere any time. Needed not is a special room for the ultimate gratification.

The matron leads, Miss Cute Buttocks follows as do the herd of bound and naked clients... into the hallway then to the end, opposite the door to the enema palace.

It is sparse but large, in the center a chair, really more of a school desk with a slim writing platform in place of the right arm. We gather about. Other matrons join, the weekly entertainment not to be missed.

The gloved matron sits. Her right arm extends and rests on the narrow platform, hand palm upwards, her moistened fingers inviting the return of the quim of Miss Cute Buttocks. With a sheepish smile the girl steps forth, parts her knees to straddle and mount the upturned hand and the platform.

As described she then begins to fuck the matron’s fingers, the fur covered gloved hand teasingly caressing the breasts, adding to the brisance of pleasure.

So degrading, yet so needed, the desire smoldering, the fire of spicy lotion finally to be extinguished after daily conflagration. In the closed room, the air fills with not only the scent of penetrated cunny, but with the moisture of some dozen others, pining to straddle and ride with equal fervor.

I know from my introduction in the infirmary, the unseen fingers hook, wriggle, knead and caress, the matrons all expert, all knowing to work the urethral sponge, the so termed female prostate.

"That little clit of yours is as hard as a pecker, I can feel it," comes one embarrassing observation after another.

Still the girl rides, the muscling of her buttocks rippling. She must work for her pleasure.

Then the fur glove withdraws. The matron commands cessation. In the height of arousal the girl knows to stop.

"Squeeze."

It’s Kegel time. In every Friday masturbation session there is a maddening pause, the rocking and thrusting of hips stilled, as the expectant girl must respond to commands.

"Good girl. Now two squeezes."

On the brink of ecstasy, the response to each directive is instant, hoping the fucking of the fingers will be permitted to resume.

"Now stay," the tone master to dog.

Miss Cute Buttocks closes her eyes... in expectation... in shame... in humility.

Finally the wicked matron offers the command.

"Finish yourself."

She does, the resulting squirt impressive.