'To Serve Intact' XIX

Master sent a message in having Brandi ice my penis and return the infibulating wire. That is... her steed is only permitted erection in her presence... and certainly only when she chooses.

So after enduring the jolt of coldness, my organ obediently shrinks and Brandi instantly returns me to forced flaccidity. Then my yoke is finally freed from the floor brackets and I hear the click of a leather leash attached to my nose ring. Hood remaining in place, I am dismayed to find that Miss Genevieve intends to walk me blinded.

“I’ll want a hobbling chain,” the authoritative directive obviously for Brandi.

To the sound of two more clicks a length of chain connects my ankle bands. Then I feel feminine fingers playfully pinch my right cheek.

“Bad boys sometimes kick... and though I very much enjoy punishing bad boys it’s too warm and sunny to work myself into a fury. Plus, when I flog a boy, I like to do so in the nude. It’s a rather singular scene of power exchange... but requires privacy.”

Such plants a curious thought, visions of the ravishing blonde meting excoriating strokes of leather as a priapic male endures both pain and lust. The woman, though hated, is alluring. That point I must concede. Yet further reflection is curtailed as the leash tensions and there comes a stab of pain, the myriad of nerve endings in my nose strongly suggesting instant obedience.

“Come... up,” her tone pleasant but firm.

Sightless, I must concentrate... and I must offer total trust to this woman of deceit, the catalyst of slaughter and castration.

I arise. Responding to slight tension, I step. Brandi has hobbled me well, my stride quite abbreviated.

“On your toes for me. Be a good boy,” feeling the tap of a riding crop on my buttocks.

My thoughts of vehement hate suggest resistance, yet I must obey, sensing more tension as Miss Genevieve apparently begins walking. Instinctively, on toes indeed, I follow recalling the lessons from the machine... the many, many weeks of standing, bending, sitting, lying in response to a mechanical device.  

My mind seethes, forced to so meekly follow the woman I loathe. Yet there is nothing, no resistance to be offered. She has handled men before, prescient in obviating my ability to kick. Plus yoked as always and blinded there is nothing to be done other than to minimize the painful tugs of the leash and avoid her crop bearing hand. And then come the twinges... down there.

What is it? Months of forced chastity. Yes. But my hatred for this woman, however beautiful, overwhelms. Yet my reaction is one of arousal. The firm voice. The directing hand. The ‘tap’ of leather... what brings forth this need to display myself?

The encased penis tip fights the tight wire and brings agony. Strangely it is welcomed, for that will encourage softness. Yet it comes not. Step after step, my addled mind tries to concentrate on flaccidity as I prance, the hobbling chain rattling notably.

Where she guides me I know not. But after many minutes the warming radiance of the sun terminates. Shade. I suspect she has strolled to a copse of trees, the uphill path hinting we are on a small hill overlooking Master’s abode.

“Sit.”

I do, the ground soft, covered in moss.

“So you only stand for the Colonel... your Master.”

“Yesh, Miss Genevieve. It is the rule. I am to be erect only in her presence and when she desires.”

“So your penis has capitulated... to a woman’s whim. It’s no longer yours, for the most part.”

I nod.

“Lie back.”

The leash slackens. I lie supine and hear the rustle of clothing.  

“Castrates have nimble tongues. Well trained, humble and eager to please. Still on occasion I enjoy oral servitude from the less eager... perhaps a male with reluctance... one in need of encouragement.”

I cannot imagine any level of reluctance until I sense Miss Genevieve straddling my face and lowering herself, pulling the leash over my head. I sense her feet at my ears. She sits facing my feet and the pungent aroma of her crevice fills my nostrils.

Her fingers begin to play about my entrapped penis, deliberately bringing more arousal. Such wickedness!

“Analingus, Captain. Knowing how much you despise me, there’s no reason for decorum. You’re going to service me where the castrated male finds reserve. And you’re going to learn to enjoy it.”        

Physical pain as Miss Genevieve encourages tumescence, mental trauma as her rectum greets my lips... such an urge for revenge... to bite! But with what?

The elastrator

Ok guys, be forewarned.


Let's say you have a late night out with the guys... the cover story, a poker game. Except there is a visit to the strip club.


So you get home and the wife... girl friend... significant other... greets you with the above.


That is an elastrator and the real bad news... such sells on the internet for as low as $10. Worse...the constricting rubber bands are only 20 cents... and she will only need one.


I have published the completed novella, 'To Serve Intact', on Smashword (www.smashword.com) for free. Segments 19, 20, 21 & 22 will be posted here over the next two weeks to complete the story on the blog.


Also on Smashword is the epilogue available for $4.00


Enjoy


CB

To experiment?

I have learned about another self publishing venue, 'Smashword'.

Anyone have any thoughts or experience?

In general, better royalty cuts for authors plus they convert manuscripts more facilely than Lulu and into a variety of formats.

One drawback, they insist on cover art before placing anything in their 'Premium Catalogue' (which essentially promotes books to the likes of Amazon, Apple, Barnes etc... where the money is).

I have never placed much credence on cover art. In erotica such is ususally a 'come on' and nine times out of ten the sketches, photos, etc. have no relevance to the story inside the covers. Also it takes time and effort which I feel is better spent writing. For example the cover for 'Billie and Mary (available on Lulu) was graciously donoted by YPVS who conformed some existing Poser artwork to fit my needs. Then I had to trim and conform to Lulu specs.

Thereafter, as I have noted, I sold something like two hard cover copies in the ensuing twelve months. Not much reward for the effort.

With regard to erotica, one of the reasons I believe such is becoming very popular in Ebook format is the very fact that the reader is not displaying a racy, sordid cover while perusing on a train, subway or airplane... i.e, as opposed to a paperback, there is no display of the cover and that is preferred (akin to selling porn in the old brown paper bag).

Anyway, I will experiment, for now ignoring the entreaties to have cover art, and publish 'To Serve Intact' there for free as promised. The epilogue, to be sold at a nominal price, I will give some thought to.

Anyone who has thoughts or experience with Smashword please drop a note, here or chris_bellows @hotmail.com.

CB 
   

'To Serve Intact' XVIII

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'To Serve Intact' XVII

I kneel on the low wash table. My yoke is secured as always to brackets left and right, my ankle bands to rings forcing apart my knees and thighs. Sweat and caked mud vanish as Brandi douses with a warm comforting spray. This begins the ending part of the day which I both love and hate... placed in soothing, kneading, massaging hands... but those of an effeminate castrate.

I have apparently piqued the curiosity of this ‘Genevieve’ woman. As I am lathered, closing my eyes, pretending I am under the auspices of a pretty girl and not a male, the tall blonde returns to the stable building. She is radiant. Having changed she is casually attired in a silk blouse which does little to cloak abundant breasts, glass of wine in hand. But for the ghastly memory of useless clicking rifles and later the executions and neuterings, she is a woman I would attempt to seduce... in another life. Yes, I would conquer her, despite her size, apparent strength and brusk demeanor.

And now I kneel in thorough bondage, my well muscled 270 pounds instantly responding to the whim of a hermaphrodite, a directing finger curled into my nostril ring all that is required to demand instant obedience.      

As Brandi soaps my shoulders, fingers slipping beneath to toy with nipples she some how knows are hypersensitive in strict chastity, Genevieve steps to my rear. A free hand cups my swinging scrotum. A thumb abrades, feeling the testicles within. There comes a squeeze... not painful... but sending a message of authority... of control.

It is well received.

“I watched the Emperor’s hogs being fed, Captain. Most of your brigand cohorts ended life loyally serving by fattening swine for a palace feast... others ended life as a male, loyally serving by sacrificing their masculinity.”

Her tone is matter-of-fact, such chilling sang froid in describing the humble demise of so many.

She releases my sac, offering a chuckle in seeing my pardoned masculinity swing about between well parted thighs. Next she reaches to inspect my penis, now infibulated of course, quite the contrast from the upstanding pole which greeted her at the dock. She snickers and casually handles my organ as if inspecting fruit for purchase, apparently fascinated that something which stood so proudly can succumb so forthrightly to Brandi’s fingers and a thin strip of wire. Then as Brandi dutifully continues to clean, the woman steps to my front, left arm across her midsection, left hand casually grasping her right elbow as she raises the wine glass in her right.

“I am Miss Genevieve... as you’ve most likely perceived. The Emperor has rewarded my loyalty by gifting me with a vacation home here on the island. In my business, it’s not easy to find a location safe from the cutthroats with whom I must deal. So though it’s rather quiet and secluded here, there are certain attributes in which a woman such as me can find attraction.”

She sips. Then the wine glass lowers and the left hand extends, the index finger hooking into my nose ring. She slowly pulls to the left... smirking as her digit mandates that my face must follow. Then she amuses herself directing my face back to the right... then again to the left. Noting my immediate compliance, her smirk broadens to a smile... the term Schadenfreude quite apropos with the likes of a ‘Miss Genevieve’.

Yes, avoidance of pain dictates that I instantly follow the directing finger. Such frustration, ceding to this woman of repugnance. My heart pounds. My circulation rushes, the loathing coming to a boil. Yet I have no choice but to react with complete obeisance.

“Why?” in tempering what I would like to say, forced to put aside what I would like to do, the question raspily passes through altered teeth. I rarely speak.

“Why what? Why spend my idle time on an tropical island where estrogen rules and testosterone merely serves to frustrate?”

“Why the bad ammunition?”

Miss Genevieve cackles, finally settling herself and sipping more wine. Then she snaps her fingers, pointing toward the exit to direct Brandi from the stable.

“Give us a few minutes,” her voice most stentorian.

I hear the patter of bare feet, a most truckling Brandi departing.

“Is that how you spend your time in unending bondage, wondering why a woman would so effectively emasculate with disarmament? Goodness Captain, putting myself into a position in which I could feed the hogs some boyish testicles certainly brought me a thrill, but the Emperor’s money offered much more stimulation. You overpaid for the ammo... but the Emperor paid me five times that to ensure most was without powder charge.”

She cackles again, straining to repress her annoying expression of mirth.

“You were had... you and your employers. A complete set up. Your rebellion never had a chance.”

She pauses, the index finger tapping my nose just as Master does in offering affection.

“And you are now the only person who knows the truth... other than me and a few of the Emperor’s subjects. And that, Captain, puts me in a precarious position. Even arms dealers have a reputation to protect. So you and I are going to become very close. I have to assure our secret stays a secret. You will never leave this island... of that I can assure you.”

A warm hand smooths along my cheek. I curse myself... not only having to accept her touch, however gracious... but finding that it feels good.

“I know your type, Captain... quite evident in seeing you so proudly standing erect, in harness, reveling in your capitulation to a superior woman. You’re quite responsive to a woman’s caprice. Quite easily directed.

“You see, I know these things. You need to be with women such as me and the Colonel. After a career of bravado you found it was all an act... contrived. It was a role you were playing, feigning the macho soldier of fortune. But the Colonel has offered a more attractive role... and one you have come to cherish.”

There is a pause in her soliloquy as she sips. 

“So for one simple act of kindness, sparing both your life and your balls, you have allowed yourself to succumb to a woman... mentally... physically... emotionally. I think the mental bondage exceeds the physical, Captain. Bringing such simplicity. Not a care in the world. Just obey... respond to the crop... and harden of course.”

Such wicked truths! The presence of Miss Genevieve, memories of her duplicity... costly duplicity... have burst the bubble of fantasy. That of being owned... cared for... leaving behind the contrived role of jousting with danger and displaying inordinate courage. Once dauntlessly fighting for the freedom of others... I am now kept. And it oddly appeals. 

A hand smooths over my head bringing more frustration as I cannot repudiate her touch... and it serves to sooth. Then her index finger plunges into my mouth, my filed incisors seeming to welcome penetration. She momentarily diddles about, demonstrating my oral helplessness, then with two fingers begins a fucking motion...in ... out... in... out.

“When your Master tires of you... you’re to become mine. Another aspect of the Emperor’s appreciation. As a gracious gift, I will own you.”

I shudder... quite noticeably... and in sensing my trepidation, Miss Genevieve laughs again.

“Yes, I’ll also raise some hogs... here on the island. Whatever shall I feed them?..”  

'To Serve Intact' XVI

The chariot is burdensome indeed. There comes a tug on the reins, notably gruff, then a smack of the crop to right cheek then left. After months of laboring under Master’s tutelage, I note the crisp firmness. It is not the hand of Master... yet it is a hand that metes encouragement without compunction.

I seethe as I do whenever recalling the duplicity that brought death and castration to so many. There is hate and revulsion. Yet despite the proximity of the woman responsible I can do nothing. Yoked and harnessed, there is no vengeance to be slaked, instead I endure... her mocking words... her taunts... and now her crop bearing hand.

Trained, indoctrinated, strangely accepting of my bondage and servitude, there are no words of protest... can be no words of protest. The bit silences. Instead I humbly lean, dig in and pull. Well developed muscles, toned and worked daily for no other purpose, contract in earnest. The chariot instantly begins to roll despite the ponderous load. I suck air knowing oxygen will quickly be depleted.

And... I also feel familiar twinges in my loins... my penis further stirs. A commanding woman reigns supreme... this one not adulated... but hated. Still, my somatic reaction is the same. I further stiffen and labor to please.  

The path begins its rise to the plateau of the island. Feet and legs work fervently. There must be momentum built to ascend, this Genevieve instinctively knows and the stings of the crop continue. Over the slap of leather on perspiring flesh and the rumble of the chariot I hear pleasant conversation. Dispensing pain is by rote. The words are indiscernible but I know to include suggestions concerning the handling of the human equine.

‘Firmness,’ I imagine Master’s lecture ‘always direct with firmness. It is best for the kept male.’

The slope is slight but long, the strokes many, the sweat abundant. The limited velocity fails to offer the continuous self generated cooling breeze which serves to bring evaporation. Thus the sweat rolls to my ankles and feet causing dust to cling. The resulting mud begins to fling. Brandi will need to cleanse with diligence, her caring tending hands to be appreciated.

Nearing the apex the cart slows, the crop strokes increase. Mere paces from the luxury of a flat stretch of road, the hand begins to encourage with ardor, the crop slipping between my thighs and tapping upwards. I lurch... more in concern... more in fear than in pain. I have labored many months to assure I remain intact. Now the leather instrument of correction threatens.

My effort instantly renews and to the sound of girlish laughter, my zealous effort to save my precious gonads from the whim of feminine caprice fostering amusement, the chariot reaches the level plateau. Though there is well over a mile to the stable, I am much better able to adequately perform for Master and guest.

My feet pound. We accelerate. Despite my loathing of the woman who commands, I feel a degree of pride and accomplishment. When life is compacted to doing one thing, there is comfort in doing it well... no matter the circumstances.

The breezes cool. Perspiration evaporates. Caked mud remains. Threatening taps to my scrotum cease. Master’s abode comes into view. In imagining Brandi’s touch there comes renewed effort. Then I feel both reins tighten... the signal to slow. I obediently come to a walk then feel a hand about my cheeks, slipping into my cleft.

The plug of ginger root remains. Fingers grasp the flanged end. The bulbous insertion is jostled then twisted. It kneads the prostate. I am also surprised to feel the return of the burning sensation, remaining juice oozing to resume the searing encouragement of figging.

Master knows exertion has caused my penis to waver... knows that her steed needs to be erect... wants to be erect. I feel stirring. I need not look downward... cannot look downward... but know my penis tip engorges, my erection firms... my diamonds further rise and sparkle.

In reaching the stable entrance my manhood stands as desired. Brandi exits the wide door. Naked and neutered, a tiny flaccid appendage immediately proclaims her former gender despite the effeminate layers of gelatinous mocha flesh and the page boy coiffure.
  
The stress of the prongs eases as Master and guest step from the chariot.

“A castrate, how cute,” Genevieve gushes, seeing Brandi blush in response.

“Loyal and focused. They make excellent servants,” Master explains stepping to my front.

I am chagrined when she slips out the urethral agitator, normally a task for Brandi. I therefore know what is to come. Master wants me to show off, to exhibit the results of months of ingrained discipline, her thorough control.

But not before her!.. the woman I so much detest! 

I am stultified... yet I feel myself as stiff as ever.

“Psst, psst. Perform for me like a good boy. Show Genevieve how you so much enjoy pleasing and responding to women of authority.”

I close my eyes. I contract my muscles. There is a need. I am filled, over a quart ingested at the dock.

“No. Open your eyes. Look straight into Genevieve’s face.”

With total obedience, I do. Goose bumps form... the humiliation intense... yet a flow begins. A laughing Genevieve knows to quickly step to the side, peering intently. She so much enjoys my subjugation.

And I so much despise her... but I so much need to perform...

'To Serve Intact' XV

An oil platform, well anchored off the coast of Africa. A very clandestine assembly, my employer, a major integrated oil company is not to be involved, no one to know that there has been a decision. Yes, the Emperor is bad for business, demanding mammoth bribes... holding hostage one the largest oil finds of the past two decades.

There is an assessment. With just a modicum of funding, the promise of freedom plus arms for the beleaguered subjects of the African empire, the despotic Emperor can be overthrown.

I do not do politics... sociology... prognosticate the psychology of rebellion. As stated... I train... I fight... and I am hired to effectuate someone else’s flawed analysis.

Money is no object, the value of the sought after oil in the billions. I procure weapons. The logistics simple, all supplies move under the cover of oil equipment. Missing... ammunition. Live rounds are not to be transported with guns and weapons. Not only are explosive and incendiary implements dangerous in areas where natural gas is flared, there must be control established. Rebellions can work two ways, oil companies not having the admiration of missionaries. 

And so there is the one missing element... live rounds. Such are arranged but under tight secrecy and control. The final acquisition and payment to be cautiously arranged on the deck of a company owned oil platform, 20 miles into the Atlantic, just over the horizon from the main land.

I arrive by helicopter, a satchel stuffed with cash. In landing I note a boat one half mile to the north... a tramp freighter, Joseph Conrad perhaps serving as first mate. It is that dingy. Such is the murky world of arms dealers.

I have a powerful light. Though bright and sunny my two flashes are returned with three from the freighter. Within minutes, a launch is lowered. It approaches. In the stern I am surprised to see a woman. Not many females in the grimy world of oil exploration... fewer in the sordid world of arms dealing.

Blonde, though sitting seemingly tall, well shaped, well endowed... regal.... I am impressed.

Within minutes she ascends to the landing pad of the oil platform. Millions in cash, I am also armed, not to rely on roustabouts for support in the well armed world of dealing in arms.

The woman, now known to me as Genevieve, is surprisingly calm and cool, and attractive. But such thoughts have to be put aside.

She remains silent, then finally gestures with her hands prompting me to speak first. She feigns a degree of docility I know serves not in selling firearms... illegal weapons.

“You have the ammo?” I finally inquire.

She nods, crossing her arms... more expression of calm confidence.

“You have the money?”

I nod and she flips her hands palm upwards, a gesture of ‘well?’.

I open the satchel careful not to let wads of greenbacks flutter in the ocean breezes.

“So now you will have the ammo,” a firm proclamation.

She directs a compatriot standing at the top of the metal stairway. He steps forth, ostensibly to take the satchel. I quickly close it and retract it from his grasp.

“Come now, Captain, you are well armed... we are not. With the payment, Miguel will signal the ship and your ammo will be unloaded and ferried here. While being transhipped, you shall have me... as security.”

She appeals to the prurient male mind and I contemplate the outcome of a deal gone bad... the oil company out millions while I procure an alluring blonde.  

‘Sorry boss... it was a tough day,’ a sheepish imaginative explanation.

I hand over the cash. Little do I know the purchase is for rounds that are dead... the top layer of every crate live... those bullets beneath without powder charge.

Deceit, the consequences of which rooting deeper than the loss of cash, funds which a major oil company earns back in minutes of the day. My cursorily trained rebels, their aim open to question, found any shooting skills acquired and honed to be superfluous. So many bravely fired... pulled the trigger at least... defied the Emperor, only to meet his well disciplined troops... and later the Colonel with her hypodermic needle and elastrator.

Yes, we were taken... duped... the calm, cool confident blonde selling blanks. Lying bound and naked every night, I seethe... asking myself... to what end? There is little cost savings in forgoing the powder charge. Live rounds vs. dead rounds... little dollar difference.

Why the mendacity?