A treat today. Two parts.
A Walk Home
Knowing of the potential for inordinate weight gain, for exercise I walked to Madam’s house of torment. So in returning to my apartment I have twenty minutes to think and revel in the renewed capacity of moving arms and legs.
Madam kept the pills. Her desire to have control impresses, equaling... exceeding... my quirky penchant for ceding it.
But in two or three days time, doctor’s paperwork completed, I shall have a fresh supply, I console myself. Yet meanwhile, I shall not only be physically leashed, but emotionally as well.
I try to assuage my concern, convincing myself that going one or two days without the medication cannot be too disastrous. But then the image of It comes to mind, and that tiny vestige of maleness so meekly dangling... useless other than to amuse and accept Madam’s catheter.
Degloving... how insidious! The organ modified to the point that it cannot even be touched!
Like the tide, Madam’s words, her monologue, ebb and flow about my cerebrum. My spirits rise in having this thing of mine satiated, my need for the tutelage of a commanding woman. But then my pluck subsides with the realization that what was formerly recreation is transforming to reality. It is a pet!
Is that what I want? To be kept... in a cage?
But do I have a choice? Dare I defy Madam, refuse to return to her and go days without hormones? And if so will any effects be reversed when I resume the medication?
I do not know... and cannot take the chance.
Then comes to mind Madam’s final directive... ‘I want to put you on display’. Will I indeed deep within enjoy that as well?
I make a note to call the doctor’s office, see if I can get word of the effect of skipping the dosage. But then I look at the time. Madam kept me caged for a good part of the day. It’s well after office hours and I shall not have opportunity to contact the doctor before the demanded appointment tomorrow morning.
So, I shall be obedient and inveigle one more pill, then make the determination as to whether I will need to grovel for more.
As I turn the last corner, I think of a toothless It. And I have no doubt that with a nod of my head Madam will indeed make him edentulous. Why stop with just castration, degloving, tattooing and branding?
A 9:00 a.m. Appointment
“Very prompt. Very obedient,” Madam compliments as she closes the door behind me.
To the dining room and I know to strip under her watchful gleeful eye.
“Cuffs, collar and leash today, Mr. Grieves. A little redundant but I think in time you’ll have your excitement.”
I am so adorned, expecting another dull stay caged on hands and knees. Instead the firm hand of Madam leads me back to the entry hall where a set of stair leads to the second floor.
“As you are now aware, I entertain a variety of clients... many tastes... many needs... many proclivities,” explaining as we ascend.
The old Victorian homestead is sizable, built in days when families of 6, 7, 8 were more prevalent than rare. I thus surmise many bedrooms... more likely bedrooms turned dungeons.
It was thoroughly caned somewhere in the house and I heard neither a thwack nor a whimper. The structure is vast, the walls thick.
“I term this the viewing and inspection room,” Madam leading past two closed doors to open a third.
We enter a room, probably at one time the master bedroom. The ceiling is high, the space considerable. Sparsely furnished, there is a knee high platform in the center, perhaps large enough to accommodate a vase of flowers... nothing more. To the right and left are comfortable couches. On the walls above are huge mirrors. The windows straight ahead are heavily draped, the material dark and thick. There is a horizontal wooden bar propped at waist height by posts left and right. Above the tiny platform there is a strong ominous steel hook attached to a heavy rope leading to a pulley at the ceiling.
Madam pulls me to the platform.
“Up,” she commands.
I so step, the surface just large enough for my feet. She loops the leash onto the steel hook. She then clips together my ankle cuffs, checks to assure my wrists cuffs are firmly secured behind my back and moves to the wall. There she tugs, the opposing end of the heavy rope moving downward. I feel my leash tighten, more, more and find I must rise to my toes.
“I’ll want you tired and nice and humble in greeting Miss Pletcher. So enjoy for now. And a good boy may get a nice pill later.”
May?
“You will be silent when displayed and inspected. A pill will be your reward for obedience.”
Madam departs, leaving me well bound and on toes. In shutting the door behind her I note the wall to the right of the doorway is littered with an array of implements, appearing to be medical. A dispensing box of latex gloves further evidences this assumption.
So once again I am to endure feminine caprice. I do not know when I will be lowered much less released. There is little mobility afforded to counter cramping muscles... and I know such will soon cramp.
But I can turn, carefully tapping my toes on the platform surface. Should I slip off the edge, I shall hang by my neck. When I face one of the large mirrors my nakedness seems to fill the room. I am disheartened to see that my scrotum remains discolored and Madam’s stretching, not noticeable when lying in the bathtub or doing my daily inspection, has resulted in my dormant testicles, once the envy of It, dangling at mid thigh.
But I am heartened to note that my form remains male. Though not athletic, I have monitored well my weight over the years, and I cannot help envisioning with concern the possible plumping effects of hormone deprivation... a la It.
And once again the dual torments of tedium and the unknown begin to wear... mentally and physically. How long? For what purpose? Will I indeed obtain the desperately needed medication?.. and who is Miss Pletcher?
Saturday, November 17, 2012
Saturday, November 10, 2012
'Madam Me and It' - Part XV - My Pill at Last
My Pill at Last
It gingerly crawls. He’s a mass of welts, though the tattooed flesh veils the many strokes of the cane. As Madam guides him back into his cage, the source of his awkward manner of conveyance becomes evident.
Bastinado. During the hours while my energy slowly ebbed, head drooping to stress the neck collar and leash, It has been the whipping boy for some sadistic woman who, as Madam suggested, relishes caning the subordinate male... or one time male. It appears the soles of the feet have received particular attention.
“Very good, It. Good boy,” Madam compliments as It humbly crawls within the confines of the steel bars and positions himself.
Within moments the wrists and ankles are tethered and the dangling chains are hooked to the intrusive ear loops. Despite the long painful beating he shall not lie in rest.
Having spent some two hours restrained in a similar position, the torment slow as muscles ache and cramp and the head begins to feel like a heavy block of granite, I begin to understand Its eagerness for release... even to greet a most sadistic woman.
The catheter tube is expertly slipped back into place, for Madam a daily task. And I note It lurches in pain with the handling of his penis, the acid baths making it constantly sore to the touch. Lastly It is intubated, which appears to offer the most discomfort, gagging as Madam heartlessly presses the large tube to the depths of his gullet.
“And how is Mr. Grieves?” finally turning her attention to me.
I remain silent, in awe of the callousness. It is a defacto piece of beef, poked and prodded, orifices penetrated at a woman’s whim.
Madam steps to the front, genuinely enthused in seeing how much my muscles yearn for motion, my energy depleted. She stoops and peers, my low hanging purple sac quite prominent between forcibly parted thighs.
“My goodness, I think your penis has shrunk almost half an inch,” she mocks knowing full well of the many effects of hormone imbalance.
“May I have my pills, please Madam?”
“Of course. First tell me how you feel? It has been well punished today. Does that offer satisfaction? I told my client he has been naughty, no details about the fateful bite. But she responded with quite the caning. Bastinado cannot be endured. It squealed and squealed.”
I say nothing. I cannot possibly believe that It is totally responsible for my castration. He does nothing without the firm direction of Madam. Still there is something within, a little glow, seeing the creature so well tormented. The agony of bastinado... searing pain... and applied reputedly to the largest set of nerves in the body.
Madam steps away and returns, chair in one hand glass of water in the other. She sits. It is apparent my silence it not to be accepted.
“So, held in strict bondage by a woman. You must be happy but so tired. And I am the only person who can offer relief. Yet, you’re also naughty. Silence does not fare well, Mr. Grieves. You’re not too many steps from Its fate. I may just shave your head and begin tattooing you. But please rest assured, I am more accomplished than when I began on It. I can now do better.”
Once again I shudder in fear and concern. Madam notices and laughs. Then she reaches into her pocket and extracts the pill bottle, holding it before me suggestively. She waves it about, the message... I am close... yet far.
“You like it... suffering for me. You even enjoy the isolation, kneeling in my cage, helpless, not knowing when I will return... if I will return. And the whole time your system slowly transforms, crying for chemicals your body can no longer produce.”
She pauses, smiling. She knows she is right.
“You hope for just a little mercy. Something as simple as untying your leash. Just a moment of time permitting you to lower your head. A brief respite. But how brief? And I just may tighten, forcing your head higher, beginning again the slow cascade of cramping tiring muscles.”
She opens the pill bottle. I look upon the tablets as I would a feast of delicacies. Is my penis shrinking? Are my nipples puffing? I need my dosage.
“At some point you must sleep and to do that I must slacken the leash. But you’ll not know when. It’s my caprice. You control nothing... not even the fate of your genitals.”
She laughs, her hand pressing through the bars palm up, the blue dose of hormones offered at last. I lick it from her hand. Then the water glass is offered, holding it to my lips.
Medication at last! I drink and swallow like a hungry dog, Madam quite amused.
“Tomorrow morning. Be here at 9:00 a.m. At some point in the day you’ll have another pill. But you’ll do some things for me first. I want to put you on display. Deep within you’ll enjoy that.”
She makes a point of tucking my pill bottle back into her pocket. With that she unlocks the cage and releases my right wrist knowing that will allow me to release left wrist, neck collar and ankles.
“Your clothes are in the dungeon.”
She arises and moves to the stairs.
“And Mr. Grieves. If you favor some revenge, I’ll have Its teeth pulled.”
It gingerly crawls. He’s a mass of welts, though the tattooed flesh veils the many strokes of the cane. As Madam guides him back into his cage, the source of his awkward manner of conveyance becomes evident.
Bastinado. During the hours while my energy slowly ebbed, head drooping to stress the neck collar and leash, It has been the whipping boy for some sadistic woman who, as Madam suggested, relishes caning the subordinate male... or one time male. It appears the soles of the feet have received particular attention.
“Very good, It. Good boy,” Madam compliments as It humbly crawls within the confines of the steel bars and positions himself.
Within moments the wrists and ankles are tethered and the dangling chains are hooked to the intrusive ear loops. Despite the long painful beating he shall not lie in rest.
Having spent some two hours restrained in a similar position, the torment slow as muscles ache and cramp and the head begins to feel like a heavy block of granite, I begin to understand Its eagerness for release... even to greet a most sadistic woman.
The catheter tube is expertly slipped back into place, for Madam a daily task. And I note It lurches in pain with the handling of his penis, the acid baths making it constantly sore to the touch. Lastly It is intubated, which appears to offer the most discomfort, gagging as Madam heartlessly presses the large tube to the depths of his gullet.
“And how is Mr. Grieves?” finally turning her attention to me.
I remain silent, in awe of the callousness. It is a defacto piece of beef, poked and prodded, orifices penetrated at a woman’s whim.
Madam steps to the front, genuinely enthused in seeing how much my muscles yearn for motion, my energy depleted. She stoops and peers, my low hanging purple sac quite prominent between forcibly parted thighs.
“My goodness, I think your penis has shrunk almost half an inch,” she mocks knowing full well of the many effects of hormone imbalance.
“May I have my pills, please Madam?”
“Of course. First tell me how you feel? It has been well punished today. Does that offer satisfaction? I told my client he has been naughty, no details about the fateful bite. But she responded with quite the caning. Bastinado cannot be endured. It squealed and squealed.”
I say nothing. I cannot possibly believe that It is totally responsible for my castration. He does nothing without the firm direction of Madam. Still there is something within, a little glow, seeing the creature so well tormented. The agony of bastinado... searing pain... and applied reputedly to the largest set of nerves in the body.
Madam steps away and returns, chair in one hand glass of water in the other. She sits. It is apparent my silence it not to be accepted.
“So, held in strict bondage by a woman. You must be happy but so tired. And I am the only person who can offer relief. Yet, you’re also naughty. Silence does not fare well, Mr. Grieves. You’re not too many steps from Its fate. I may just shave your head and begin tattooing you. But please rest assured, I am more accomplished than when I began on It. I can now do better.”
Once again I shudder in fear and concern. Madam notices and laughs. Then she reaches into her pocket and extracts the pill bottle, holding it before me suggestively. She waves it about, the message... I am close... yet far.
“You like it... suffering for me. You even enjoy the isolation, kneeling in my cage, helpless, not knowing when I will return... if I will return. And the whole time your system slowly transforms, crying for chemicals your body can no longer produce.”
She pauses, smiling. She knows she is right.
“You hope for just a little mercy. Something as simple as untying your leash. Just a moment of time permitting you to lower your head. A brief respite. But how brief? And I just may tighten, forcing your head higher, beginning again the slow cascade of cramping tiring muscles.”
She opens the pill bottle. I look upon the tablets as I would a feast of delicacies. Is my penis shrinking? Are my nipples puffing? I need my dosage.
“At some point you must sleep and to do that I must slacken the leash. But you’ll not know when. It’s my caprice. You control nothing... not even the fate of your genitals.”
She laughs, her hand pressing through the bars palm up, the blue dose of hormones offered at last. I lick it from her hand. Then the water glass is offered, holding it to my lips.
Medication at last! I drink and swallow like a hungry dog, Madam quite amused.
“Tomorrow morning. Be here at 9:00 a.m. At some point in the day you’ll have another pill. But you’ll do some things for me first. I want to put you on display. Deep within you’ll enjoy that.”
She makes a point of tucking my pill bottle back into her pocket. With that she unlocks the cage and releases my right wrist knowing that will allow me to release left wrist, neck collar and ankles.
“Your clothes are in the dungeon.”
She arises and moves to the stairs.
“And Mr. Grieves. If you favor some revenge, I’ll have Its teeth pulled.”
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Reader’s expectations, meeting such, attaining goals
Reader’s expectations, meeting such, attaining goals
As written, I have found the world of Smashwords to be curious. I have posted much free stuff there, achieved a degree of notoriety judging from the many downloads, and continue to be perplexed.
‘The Power Series’, a near full length story which I posted here and then made available on both Lulu and Smashwords for free, has been panned for the second time.
I cannot fathom what the expectations are of the Smashwords readers. More importantly I have no idea of their literary tastes, knowledge of writing and their ability to distinguish style from the quality they expect to encounter.
Here are some of my unwritten warranties in offering stories...
1. Typos painstakingly minimized to the best of my ability.
By the time a story is posted or published I have read and honed probably a dozen times. Nothing is 'slapdashed’ from my wordprocessor, ever. On occasion there may be translation errors in copying text from Wordperfect to Blogspot, but even those errors I work to go back and correct.
2. Proper grammar, again to the best of my ability.
3. Minimization of profane words.
When such do appear it will be mainly in dialogue, the utterances of a character.
Why?
I have read and, to a certain extent, still read lots of smut. It has been a lifetime habit. I have learned what stimulates, which is a paramount goal, and what distracts. Typos, bad punctuation (no punctuation?), misuse of words (smut writers need to focus on the difference between ‘your’ and ‘you’re’), revolting profanity, all distract. In encountering such I sometimes go into ‘edit’ mode, desiring to mark up the pages instead of relaxing and letting my eidetic mind become immersed in the storyline.
So, here is what I have encountered on Smashwords.
There seems to be a propensity to critique rather than enjoy. And a certain huffiness... ‘how dare you try to entertain me with a free story I may not like.’
The latest ‘Power Series’ review...
Overactive verbage (sic)...not impressive. Must be some ego! Did not finish.
Okay. Let’s address ‘verbage’. In proper English the word is ‘verbiage’. But the misspelling, when deliberate, is known to be used critically as in rhyming with ‘garbage’. Is the misspelling deliberate? I will not know.
So in donating a story of some 28,000 words, one which seemed to receive a good reception here on the blog, I am awarded with one succinct line.
I donate, post and offer free stuff, to make people comfortable when it comes time to purchasing a Chris Bellows story... to imply that the aforementioned warranty applies to all my stuff... to offer assurance that the base writing meets expectations which the reader acquires from the many samples... that there is value received in the exchange.
This does not work when a reader, despite all warnings, is aghast with the storyline and subject matter, or is seeking for free the next literary masterpiece from J. D. Salinger or Margaret Mitchell.
So, I am unpublishing ‘The Power Series’ on Smashwords, downloaded 911 times after being posted there for 133 days.
It remains free on Lulu. Feel free to review it. But please take the time to give your critique substance.
As written, I have found the world of Smashwords to be curious. I have posted much free stuff there, achieved a degree of notoriety judging from the many downloads, and continue to be perplexed.
‘The Power Series’, a near full length story which I posted here and then made available on both Lulu and Smashwords for free, has been panned for the second time.
I cannot fathom what the expectations are of the Smashwords readers. More importantly I have no idea of their literary tastes, knowledge of writing and their ability to distinguish style from the quality they expect to encounter.
Here are some of my unwritten warranties in offering stories...
1. Typos painstakingly minimized to the best of my ability.
By the time a story is posted or published I have read and honed probably a dozen times. Nothing is 'slapdashed’ from my wordprocessor, ever. On occasion there may be translation errors in copying text from Wordperfect to Blogspot, but even those errors I work to go back and correct.
2. Proper grammar, again to the best of my ability.
3. Minimization of profane words.
When such do appear it will be mainly in dialogue, the utterances of a character.
Why?
I have read and, to a certain extent, still read lots of smut. It has been a lifetime habit. I have learned what stimulates, which is a paramount goal, and what distracts. Typos, bad punctuation (no punctuation?), misuse of words (smut writers need to focus on the difference between ‘your’ and ‘you’re’), revolting profanity, all distract. In encountering such I sometimes go into ‘edit’ mode, desiring to mark up the pages instead of relaxing and letting my eidetic mind become immersed in the storyline.
So, here is what I have encountered on Smashwords.
There seems to be a propensity to critique rather than enjoy. And a certain huffiness... ‘how dare you try to entertain me with a free story I may not like.’
The latest ‘Power Series’ review...
Overactive verbage (sic)...not impressive. Must be some ego! Did not finish.
Okay. Let’s address ‘verbage’. In proper English the word is ‘verbiage’. But the misspelling, when deliberate, is known to be used critically as in rhyming with ‘garbage’. Is the misspelling deliberate? I will not know.
So in donating a story of some 28,000 words, one which seemed to receive a good reception here on the blog, I am awarded with one succinct line.
I donate, post and offer free stuff, to make people comfortable when it comes time to purchasing a Chris Bellows story... to imply that the aforementioned warranty applies to all my stuff... to offer assurance that the base writing meets expectations which the reader acquires from the many samples... that there is value received in the exchange.
This does not work when a reader, despite all warnings, is aghast with the storyline and subject matter, or is seeking for free the next literary masterpiece from J. D. Salinger or Margaret Mitchell.
So, I am unpublishing ‘The Power Series’ on Smashwords, downloaded 911 times after being posted there for 133 days.
It remains free on Lulu. Feel free to review it. But please take the time to give your critique substance.
Saturday, November 3, 2012
'Madam, Me and It' - Part XIV - The Dining Room
The Dining Room-Dungeon Once Again
“I think you’ll feel better in restraints,” Madam knowingly suggests.
Yes, she graciously invited me to stop in, my pills indeed in her possession. But of course she cannot merely hand such to me. Madam favors rituals... and one of the most foremost is having a man strip naked for her.
So in the dining room-turned-dungeon I disrobe while she selects from her wall of implements. Her choice... neck collar and wrist cuffs again... joined by ankle cuffs.
For some reason such do imbue comfort. And I blush when she snaps on the leash, thinking of her remark about being walked naked and outdoors.
“I have the pills locked away downstairs. You can only imagine how much It would like to get his hands on them.”
I had not given the possibility much thought but note that Madam smiles knowing of the futility, It having been deprived of testosterone for so long.
“I will concede to you your dosage, Mr. Grieves, if you’ll grant me one favor,” her tone rather authoritative considering that she makes a request.
She tugs on my leash, turns and I must follow, my wrists once again secured behind me. Whatever are the ankle cuffs for?
We traverse the stairs, returning to the basement. I remain silent, knowing not to consent to anything until I am fully aware of the request.
The cages come into view along with the blue, red, yellow of Its ghastly fattened form. In nearing, the whites of the eyes once again glare, sending a silent message of unending tedium and torment.
I note in the empty cage there is a metal lockbox. The hinged opening in the front bears a formidable padlock.
“Your pills, safely secured from a much desiring eunuch.”
Madam points but makes no further move to unlock my much needed medication. Finally I must comment.
“I need to take one. It’s hours overdue.”
“Yes, of course. You would not want to endure further alteration... like It.”
Madam reads my mind... I suppose able to read the mind of any male undergoing my circumstances. But the pause continues. Then finally...
“So you will grant me a favor?”
“What is it?” I cautiously request to be informed.
“Try the cage. You’ve relished being strapped to my jerking table. The cage can bring equal if not enhanced thrill.”
“The jerking table excited because for all those sessions I envisioned you working... well... doing what was done.”
Spoken as Madam retrieves a key and unlocks the padlock.
“I’ll be firmer with my quest. You will not have the strong box opened until you enter the cage,” smirking as she swings open the heavy steel bars comprising the front access.
Besides the pills being locked away, I am cuffed, not able to grab and open.
“Go ahead. Get in. Be a good boy for me,” the matronly tone returning to that of the many sessions... when I was indeed a good boy for her.
She offers slack on the leash. Have I a choice? I kneel. As my knees shuffle forth, Madam reaches inward and snatches the strong box. In an instant the box is pulled without and the cage door closes. I am locked within.
Treachery? Not entirely. I could not open the box anyway with wrists cuffed.
“Face this way. Feet apart,” the commanding words come as the leash is tied to the top bars.
Madam deftly moves to the rear. Right ankle cuff then left are quickly secured to the straps in the rear corners.
“You’ll be more comfortable if I undo your wrist cuffs and connect then to the front corner straps. Long term bondage, comfort is important.”
She is correct of course. The limited height of the cage will not permit me to kneel upright. The leash will not permit me to lean totally forward and rest my head on the bottom bars. I quickly conclude any standoff in ignoring her suggestion will result in very slow wearing of my stomach and back muscles.
“You’re well secured. You may as well be cozy.”
She reaches within and attaches a long strap from the right corner to my right wrist.
“I can get the cattle prod... you may as well yield...”
I do. Within another minute, unhooking the connected cuffs and pulling in the corner straps, I am guided to all fours... hands and feet well apart... tethered to the bars of the cage just as is It.... except graciously, I do not have chains holding my head at the ears.
“How long?”
Madam laughs.
“It was caged for three months while I assured his transformation. First the elastrator. Then the tattooing was delightfully slow. And with the branding... he shrieked like a little girl. Only then did he realize there was no going back... his balls were gone... his money was gone... his life was gone. Long term bondage, physical alteration, emotional stress. He really no longer needs to be physically secured. He just feels better when I restrain him... the tighter the better.”
Madam reaches within and taps my nose.
“Let’s see how you feel knowing that you’re pleasing me,” the hand retreating as she turns toward Its cage.
“What about my pill?”
“Perhaps later. It has an appointment with a woman who relishes bamboo.”
“I think you’ll feel better in restraints,” Madam knowingly suggests.
Yes, she graciously invited me to stop in, my pills indeed in her possession. But of course she cannot merely hand such to me. Madam favors rituals... and one of the most foremost is having a man strip naked for her.
So in the dining room-turned-dungeon I disrobe while she selects from her wall of implements. Her choice... neck collar and wrist cuffs again... joined by ankle cuffs.
For some reason such do imbue comfort. And I blush when she snaps on the leash, thinking of her remark about being walked naked and outdoors.
“I have the pills locked away downstairs. You can only imagine how much It would like to get his hands on them.”
I had not given the possibility much thought but note that Madam smiles knowing of the futility, It having been deprived of testosterone for so long.
“I will concede to you your dosage, Mr. Grieves, if you’ll grant me one favor,” her tone rather authoritative considering that she makes a request.
She tugs on my leash, turns and I must follow, my wrists once again secured behind me. Whatever are the ankle cuffs for?
We traverse the stairs, returning to the basement. I remain silent, knowing not to consent to anything until I am fully aware of the request.
The cages come into view along with the blue, red, yellow of Its ghastly fattened form. In nearing, the whites of the eyes once again glare, sending a silent message of unending tedium and torment.
I note in the empty cage there is a metal lockbox. The hinged opening in the front bears a formidable padlock.
“Your pills, safely secured from a much desiring eunuch.”
Madam points but makes no further move to unlock my much needed medication. Finally I must comment.
“I need to take one. It’s hours overdue.”
“Yes, of course. You would not want to endure further alteration... like It.”
Madam reads my mind... I suppose able to read the mind of any male undergoing my circumstances. But the pause continues. Then finally...
“So you will grant me a favor?”
“What is it?” I cautiously request to be informed.
“Try the cage. You’ve relished being strapped to my jerking table. The cage can bring equal if not enhanced thrill.”
“The jerking table excited because for all those sessions I envisioned you working... well... doing what was done.”
Spoken as Madam retrieves a key and unlocks the padlock.
“I’ll be firmer with my quest. You will not have the strong box opened until you enter the cage,” smirking as she swings open the heavy steel bars comprising the front access.
Besides the pills being locked away, I am cuffed, not able to grab and open.
“Go ahead. Get in. Be a good boy for me,” the matronly tone returning to that of the many sessions... when I was indeed a good boy for her.
She offers slack on the leash. Have I a choice? I kneel. As my knees shuffle forth, Madam reaches inward and snatches the strong box. In an instant the box is pulled without and the cage door closes. I am locked within.
Treachery? Not entirely. I could not open the box anyway with wrists cuffed.
“Face this way. Feet apart,” the commanding words come as the leash is tied to the top bars.
Madam deftly moves to the rear. Right ankle cuff then left are quickly secured to the straps in the rear corners.
“You’ll be more comfortable if I undo your wrist cuffs and connect then to the front corner straps. Long term bondage, comfort is important.”
She is correct of course. The limited height of the cage will not permit me to kneel upright. The leash will not permit me to lean totally forward and rest my head on the bottom bars. I quickly conclude any standoff in ignoring her suggestion will result in very slow wearing of my stomach and back muscles.
“You’re well secured. You may as well be cozy.”
She reaches within and attaches a long strap from the right corner to my right wrist.
“I can get the cattle prod... you may as well yield...”
I do. Within another minute, unhooking the connected cuffs and pulling in the corner straps, I am guided to all fours... hands and feet well apart... tethered to the bars of the cage just as is It.... except graciously, I do not have chains holding my head at the ears.
“How long?”
Madam laughs.
“It was caged for three months while I assured his transformation. First the elastrator. Then the tattooing was delightfully slow. And with the branding... he shrieked like a little girl. Only then did he realize there was no going back... his balls were gone... his money was gone... his life was gone. Long term bondage, physical alteration, emotional stress. He really no longer needs to be physically secured. He just feels better when I restrain him... the tighter the better.”
Madam reaches within and taps my nose.
“Let’s see how you feel knowing that you’re pleasing me,” the hand retreating as she turns toward Its cage.
“What about my pill?”
“Perhaps later. It has an appointment with a woman who relishes bamboo.”
Saturday, October 27, 2012
'Madam, Me and It' - Part XIII - A Dilemma
A Dilemma
Some how I sleep. Then in arising early, I reach for my pills. Gone.
Madam!
She went through my pockets, ostensibly to obtain new credit card information. For some reason the pills were not returned.
It is too early to make phone calls. I must wait in apprehension. Did Madam intentionally withhold the hormones? Getting them back on a timely basis means returning to her. For some reason the thought is bothersome.
There is traumatic catharsis in visiting the staid Victorian homestead... particularly now that I am aware of the details... a naked, marked and caged castrate in the basement.
By 9:00 a.m. I decide to call the doctor’s office.
“It’s Mr. Grieves. I’ve lost the pills the doctor prescribed for me and will need a replacement.”
The nurse receptionist puts me on hold, returning after several minutes.
“Oh, Mr. Grieves. That compound is now on the controlled substances list. A potential performance enhancing drug... you’ve probably read about the controversy. Legally the doctor cannot give you a refill until the original prescription expires in two weeks. The regulations obstruct possible blackmarket sale.”
“But I don’t have any to take or to sell. They’re lost.”
“Well, I will talk to the doctor and see what we can do. Lots of paperwork to explain what would appear like an over prescription. We must avoid fines and possible sanctions...”
“Please see what you can do.”
She’s young... either unaware of the dire need for hormones or aloof to my plight. I am not comfortable putting my fate in her hands. Then that unprofessional snicker comes to mind when the doctor described the slow transformation in absence of hormone treatment.
Will she go out on a limb for me and re prescribe?
I panic, envisioning myself visiting her office in two weeks for the permitted refill prescription... shrunken penis, puffy nipples, experiencing the mood swings of a pubescent girl.
By midmorning there is no call from the doctor’s office. I am jittery. Too much coffee? Too much concern? I begin to doubt my own judgement. How quickly does a diminished level of hormones affect the capacity to reason?
Finally the phone rings. It is the nurse receptionist.
“The doctor is preparing to leave for a conference. She’s taking the paperwork with her and will fax it here when completed. Then you can come in for a new prescription.”
“How long?”
“Well a couple days, Mr. Grieves. She’s traveling to the west coast, expected to speak at the conference and the required government forms are considerable. A very busy time.”
Too long. I can already feel changes. Psychosomatic?
“Please let me know as soon as possible.”
I hang up, my hand shaking. I cannot wait. Gaping at my discolored scrotum is distressing enough. Now I must live in wonder as to whether my penis is shrinking!
I conclude I have no choice but to phone Madam. Could it be she’s expecting my call?
Some how I sleep. Then in arising early, I reach for my pills. Gone.
Madam!
She went through my pockets, ostensibly to obtain new credit card information. For some reason the pills were not returned.
It is too early to make phone calls. I must wait in apprehension. Did Madam intentionally withhold the hormones? Getting them back on a timely basis means returning to her. For some reason the thought is bothersome.
There is traumatic catharsis in visiting the staid Victorian homestead... particularly now that I am aware of the details... a naked, marked and caged castrate in the basement.
By 9:00 a.m. I decide to call the doctor’s office.
“It’s Mr. Grieves. I’ve lost the pills the doctor prescribed for me and will need a replacement.”
The nurse receptionist puts me on hold, returning after several minutes.
“Oh, Mr. Grieves. That compound is now on the controlled substances list. A potential performance enhancing drug... you’ve probably read about the controversy. Legally the doctor cannot give you a refill until the original prescription expires in two weeks. The regulations obstruct possible blackmarket sale.”
“But I don’t have any to take or to sell. They’re lost.”
“Well, I will talk to the doctor and see what we can do. Lots of paperwork to explain what would appear like an over prescription. We must avoid fines and possible sanctions...”
“Please see what you can do.”
She’s young... either unaware of the dire need for hormones or aloof to my plight. I am not comfortable putting my fate in her hands. Then that unprofessional snicker comes to mind when the doctor described the slow transformation in absence of hormone treatment.
Will she go out on a limb for me and re prescribe?
I panic, envisioning myself visiting her office in two weeks for the permitted refill prescription... shrunken penis, puffy nipples, experiencing the mood swings of a pubescent girl.
By midmorning there is no call from the doctor’s office. I am jittery. Too much coffee? Too much concern? I begin to doubt my own judgement. How quickly does a diminished level of hormones affect the capacity to reason?
Finally the phone rings. It is the nurse receptionist.
“The doctor is preparing to leave for a conference. She’s taking the paperwork with her and will fax it here when completed. Then you can come in for a new prescription.”
“How long?”
“Well a couple days, Mr. Grieves. She’s traveling to the west coast, expected to speak at the conference and the required government forms are considerable. A very busy time.”
Too long. I can already feel changes. Psychosomatic?
“Please let me know as soon as possible.”
I hang up, my hand shaking. I cannot wait. Gaping at my discolored scrotum is distressing enough. Now I must live in wonder as to whether my penis is shrinking!
I conclude I have no choice but to phone Madam. Could it be she’s expecting my call?
Saturday, October 20, 2012
'Madam, Me and It' - Part XII - Reflections
Reflections on the Caging of It
I return home and decide to soak, that dull ache returning. I run the bath water, strip and inspect below as the doctor recommended. No discernible change.
Is that good or bad?
The tub fills. I step within, the soothing heat calming to engender thoughts.
Before departing the basement, Madam poured from a large industrial looking metal can a most insalubrious sludge. Cloudy and thick the oozing mass proved to be the lard, Its mainstay nutrition. It slithered into the funnel, gravity to eventually forcefully introduce the mass to Its stomach. Just as with the touching of his altered penis, It lurched in his bonds, a silent and feeble protest, despite knowing that Madam’s plumping efforts are without end... and to be administered without compunction.
Daunting was her invitation, the hint of being likewise caged. The thought cannot be put aside.
‘I have clients, other than those in need of strict feminine guidance,’ Madam suggested. ‘It accommodates. But they would welcome fresh... opportunity...’ enunciating the term most ominously.
She noted my look of intrigue.
‘Yes, one is a policewoman. Ironically she knows all about It and his financial peccadilloes. It is not aware that when I tire of him, I’ll have him taken into custody in a whisker. Meanwhile the policewoman enjoys caning him. As stated, It still can squeal. And his plump softened flesh can be quite inviting for a woman of certain tastes.’
How can my anger with It possibly overcome my thoughts of pity? It will live a life of abject obedience, bonding with the woman who castrated, only in the end to serve the prison time he has so wantonly tried to avoid. And in the interim be regularly caned to boot.
‘How are you in taking a strap on, Mr. Grieves? You’d be surprised how prevalent is the craving of some women to vanquish anally...’
Teasing words... taunting words, Madam is so cognizant of the needs of males of my ilk. And in having castrated It, she is much attuned... actually more attuned... to what I am facing. The doctor’s advice... more akin to a lecture... most likely only scratches the surface of the life I face without functioning balls. Yet Madam knows.
In returning to Madam’s dining-room-turned-dungeon she cleverly stood most proximate, her leash hand lifting well over my head, tugging at the broad neck collar, forcing up my face. Looking straight up into my eyes as I had to rise to my toes, she inquired...
‘Do you feel anything, Mr. Grieves?’
I replied yes, the tension on my neck not to be ignored.
‘Anything else?’
I shook my head as best I could.
Her action with the leash was a diversion. With her free hand she was grasping my testicles, apparently gripping quite firmly... and I felt nothing!
Failing her test... perhaps in her mind passing her test... brought an outright cackle.
‘They’re dead... dead and useless. You’ll succumb. Perhaps in a month... if not less. You’re a man of special needs, Mr. Grieves. I know, I make a bountiful living catering to such. And trust me when I say... your needs will now become stronger... and more deviant.’
She lowered the leash allowing me to look downward at her clenched hand.
‘Curious what happens when a man loses these. Enlightening for a woman of my propensities... and entertaining...’
Despite the warmth of the bath water, I shudder again in recalling her... her threat?.. her prognostication?..
I return home and decide to soak, that dull ache returning. I run the bath water, strip and inspect below as the doctor recommended. No discernible change.
Is that good or bad?
The tub fills. I step within, the soothing heat calming to engender thoughts.
Before departing the basement, Madam poured from a large industrial looking metal can a most insalubrious sludge. Cloudy and thick the oozing mass proved to be the lard, Its mainstay nutrition. It slithered into the funnel, gravity to eventually forcefully introduce the mass to Its stomach. Just as with the touching of his altered penis, It lurched in his bonds, a silent and feeble protest, despite knowing that Madam’s plumping efforts are without end... and to be administered without compunction.
Daunting was her invitation, the hint of being likewise caged. The thought cannot be put aside.
‘I have clients, other than those in need of strict feminine guidance,’ Madam suggested. ‘It accommodates. But they would welcome fresh... opportunity...’ enunciating the term most ominously.
She noted my look of intrigue.
‘Yes, one is a policewoman. Ironically she knows all about It and his financial peccadilloes. It is not aware that when I tire of him, I’ll have him taken into custody in a whisker. Meanwhile the policewoman enjoys caning him. As stated, It still can squeal. And his plump softened flesh can be quite inviting for a woman of certain tastes.’
How can my anger with It possibly overcome my thoughts of pity? It will live a life of abject obedience, bonding with the woman who castrated, only in the end to serve the prison time he has so wantonly tried to avoid. And in the interim be regularly caned to boot.
‘How are you in taking a strap on, Mr. Grieves? You’d be surprised how prevalent is the craving of some women to vanquish anally...’
Teasing words... taunting words, Madam is so cognizant of the needs of males of my ilk. And in having castrated It, she is much attuned... actually more attuned... to what I am facing. The doctor’s advice... more akin to a lecture... most likely only scratches the surface of the life I face without functioning balls. Yet Madam knows.
In returning to Madam’s dining-room-turned-dungeon she cleverly stood most proximate, her leash hand lifting well over my head, tugging at the broad neck collar, forcing up my face. Looking straight up into my eyes as I had to rise to my toes, she inquired...
‘Do you feel anything, Mr. Grieves?’
I replied yes, the tension on my neck not to be ignored.
‘Anything else?’
I shook my head as best I could.
Her action with the leash was a diversion. With her free hand she was grasping my testicles, apparently gripping quite firmly... and I felt nothing!
Failing her test... perhaps in her mind passing her test... brought an outright cackle.
‘They’re dead... dead and useless. You’ll succumb. Perhaps in a month... if not less. You’re a man of special needs, Mr. Grieves. I know, I make a bountiful living catering to such. And trust me when I say... your needs will now become stronger... and more deviant.’
She lowered the leash allowing me to look downward at her clenched hand.
‘Curious what happens when a man loses these. Enlightening for a woman of my propensities... and entertaining...’
Despite the warmth of the bath water, I shudder again in recalling her... her threat?.. her prognostication?..
Saturday, October 13, 2012
'Madam, Me and It' - Part XI - Visiting It
Visiting It
I remain silent in thought as Madam ends her monologue, watching her move to the wall of torment. She selects a thick leather collar and cuffs.
“I assume you’ll enjoy being walked on a leash,” lifting my head to buckle on the neck collar.
Next my wrists are released from the straps of the table and matching cuffs are buckled in place. Then the waist strap is released, the forearm straps and I am directed to sit up.
“Some day I will walk you... outside. Public nudity can offer quite the degrading thrill,” spoken as my wrists are drawn behind me and secured together.
Her words indeed thrill. But it is different, a peculiar emotional reaction not felt during the many visits... when intact. There is no sexual rush, so to speak. Instead more like that of a neglected child being returned to the comforting arms of his/her mother.
A leash is retrieved, quickly snapping onto my neck collar. Lastly the thigh and ankle straps are released, freeing me from the straps.
“Come,” the simple command offered with a brief controlling tug.
I step from the jerking table and follow, gazing at Madam with adulation. Curious that over the many months I have had rare opportunity to visually indulge. As stated, quite athletically shaped, Madam is a handsome woman. She forgoes glamor, but is professionally attired... white silk blouse, a dark blue skirt which suggests but does not overly reveal. Hair neatly coiffed, she wears limited jewelry, expensive but not ostentatious.
Led outdoors, she would appear to be a successful attorney walking her pet... with the sole element of kink being the latter is naked and human.
Down a set of stairs, as suggested It is kept caged in the basement.
“With It being wanted by the authorities, I am sure you understand the precautions. He is revealed to very few clients. And only to those with whom I have a long relationship.”
The basement is high ceilinged. We step past the pulley, that which I assume hoisted It by his nuts. In a distant alcove I spy the gleam of shining metal. Polished stainless steel, bars, vertical and thick. Such form cages, a little higher than the waist. In one kneels the shocking and hideous form of It.
Madam directs to the front, wordlessly permitting me to visually partake.
I feel a degree of anger, facing the cannibalistic beast that so direly altered. But then comes a sense pity.
On all fours, the first thing that impresses is the stout tube emanating from Its mouth. The thick rubber ends in the shape of an upturned funnel. It suggests caprice... wicked feminine caprice... in that anything introduced to the funnel immediately flows downward into the mouth and, if I properly surmise Madam’s resolve, further into the stomach.
“A gastric tube?” I must inquire.
“It sometimes has trouble with his diet. The tube facilitates his feeding. Early on he resisted... foolishly resisted... when I decided to fatten him. Now the lard just glides into his stomach. Lots of lard... and anything else I decide he is to ingest.”
It peers through the bars. The eyes beseech, the glow of the whites pierce the dimness as the face and bald head have been tattooed dark shades of red and blue. I note the ears are pierced, not only cheap little girl earrings dangle from the lobes, but the cartilage at the top, left and right, have thickly gauged loops. Slim chains are strung from the loops to the top bars constantly holding up Its head. The wrists are tethered to the side bars with nylon straps similar to those on the jerking table as are the ankles as well.
It is evident that though the restraints are simple, It and the cage are one, the ear chains mandating that he at all times kneel upright... never to rest prostrate or supine.
“He does not lie down... to sleep?”
“Sleep is a privilege to be meted by his owner. Makes him eager to see me. Isn’t that right It?” Madam extending a free hand through the bars.
She cups the right breast. The gland, as with the left, remains uncolored and diverts attention to a meaty globe topped by a puffy effeminate nipple. Madam playfully caresses, completing her manipulation with a gentle milking motion. A sigh of delight erupts from somewhere in Its altered and intubated throat.
“Amazing the hormonal transition. His mammary glands have the sensitivity of a young girl.”
I am chagrined to understand it is true, the doctor’s words concerning undesirable effects coming to mind.
Madam steps to the side pulling on my leash, permitting a profile view. The body art is crude and without form or substance. One may as well have painted the flesh with a broad brush to attain the results. There the buttocks are natural in color but with terrifying brands as noted... the letter ‘M’ emblazoned on keloided flesh at the apex of each hillock.
It is catheterized, the tube clamped shut. Madam heeds my stare.
“Yes, I control what goes into him... and when it comes out as well. It is best for him.”
My heart sinks with the full cognition of Its plight, of the unfathomable level of control and governance ceded to a woman who not only has such incredible power... but utilizes it with such glee.
Permanently colored, appearing like a jungle bird, Its fate is sealed. Continued existence is either under Madam’s exacting tutelage or in jail.
Madam again thrusts her free hand through the bars, palming the perineum where the intact male proudly exhibits his virility.
“All gone,” she mocks, the digits apparently freely tantalizing.
Then she grasps the catheter and draws into view as best she can the penis of a toddler.
“I had him partially degloved after I read somewhere that castrated males can still achieve an element of pleasure by way of the penis tip. Simple to remove that oversensitive patch of flesh. Not much larger than a thumb nail. A couple weeks of daily acid baths for the remaining shaft sealed the transition. He no longer has any desire to play here... instead he’d rather play with the likes of yours, Mr. Grieves,” Madam’s chuckle particularly venomous.
Yes, the penis tip is deformed indeed and I note that It stirs, tugging in anguish against his bonds. When Madam releases the tiny organ, It resumes his pose of obedient supplication. The shrunken strip of flesh is sore to the touch.
“So there you have it, Mr. Grieves. We bond... castrated and castratrix. Everything It has... everything It needs... comes from me,” explaining as she steps to the adjacent cage.
It is identical. Empty, nylon straps at the four corners await some miscreant occupant. Madam’s free hand pats the top bars as if to invite.
“A rather benumbing existence... for the intact. But as I alluded, think of the capon. The once virile creature merely sits about, abundantly fed, awaiting slaughter. For some it’s appropriate. For the emasculated male, life’s needs are quite diminished.”
Madam looks me straight in the eye. Her stare disconcerts as much as her words.
“You will find the comfort of sleep to be greatly enhanced when it becomes a privilege... one granted by a superior woman. Yes, it will be one of life’s diminished needs which I will ration... closely.”
I shudder.
I remain silent in thought as Madam ends her monologue, watching her move to the wall of torment. She selects a thick leather collar and cuffs.
“I assume you’ll enjoy being walked on a leash,” lifting my head to buckle on the neck collar.
Next my wrists are released from the straps of the table and matching cuffs are buckled in place. Then the waist strap is released, the forearm straps and I am directed to sit up.
“Some day I will walk you... outside. Public nudity can offer quite the degrading thrill,” spoken as my wrists are drawn behind me and secured together.
Her words indeed thrill. But it is different, a peculiar emotional reaction not felt during the many visits... when intact. There is no sexual rush, so to speak. Instead more like that of a neglected child being returned to the comforting arms of his/her mother.
A leash is retrieved, quickly snapping onto my neck collar. Lastly the thigh and ankle straps are released, freeing me from the straps.
“Come,” the simple command offered with a brief controlling tug.
I step from the jerking table and follow, gazing at Madam with adulation. Curious that over the many months I have had rare opportunity to visually indulge. As stated, quite athletically shaped, Madam is a handsome woman. She forgoes glamor, but is professionally attired... white silk blouse, a dark blue skirt which suggests but does not overly reveal. Hair neatly coiffed, she wears limited jewelry, expensive but not ostentatious.
Led outdoors, she would appear to be a successful attorney walking her pet... with the sole element of kink being the latter is naked and human.
Down a set of stairs, as suggested It is kept caged in the basement.
“With It being wanted by the authorities, I am sure you understand the precautions. He is revealed to very few clients. And only to those with whom I have a long relationship.”
The basement is high ceilinged. We step past the pulley, that which I assume hoisted It by his nuts. In a distant alcove I spy the gleam of shining metal. Polished stainless steel, bars, vertical and thick. Such form cages, a little higher than the waist. In one kneels the shocking and hideous form of It.
Madam directs to the front, wordlessly permitting me to visually partake.
I feel a degree of anger, facing the cannibalistic beast that so direly altered. But then comes a sense pity.
On all fours, the first thing that impresses is the stout tube emanating from Its mouth. The thick rubber ends in the shape of an upturned funnel. It suggests caprice... wicked feminine caprice... in that anything introduced to the funnel immediately flows downward into the mouth and, if I properly surmise Madam’s resolve, further into the stomach.
“A gastric tube?” I must inquire.
“It sometimes has trouble with his diet. The tube facilitates his feeding. Early on he resisted... foolishly resisted... when I decided to fatten him. Now the lard just glides into his stomach. Lots of lard... and anything else I decide he is to ingest.”
It peers through the bars. The eyes beseech, the glow of the whites pierce the dimness as the face and bald head have been tattooed dark shades of red and blue. I note the ears are pierced, not only cheap little girl earrings dangle from the lobes, but the cartilage at the top, left and right, have thickly gauged loops. Slim chains are strung from the loops to the top bars constantly holding up Its head. The wrists are tethered to the side bars with nylon straps similar to those on the jerking table as are the ankles as well.
It is evident that though the restraints are simple, It and the cage are one, the ear chains mandating that he at all times kneel upright... never to rest prostrate or supine.
“He does not lie down... to sleep?”
“Sleep is a privilege to be meted by his owner. Makes him eager to see me. Isn’t that right It?” Madam extending a free hand through the bars.
She cups the right breast. The gland, as with the left, remains uncolored and diverts attention to a meaty globe topped by a puffy effeminate nipple. Madam playfully caresses, completing her manipulation with a gentle milking motion. A sigh of delight erupts from somewhere in Its altered and intubated throat.
“Amazing the hormonal transition. His mammary glands have the sensitivity of a young girl.”
I am chagrined to understand it is true, the doctor’s words concerning undesirable effects coming to mind.
Madam steps to the side pulling on my leash, permitting a profile view. The body art is crude and without form or substance. One may as well have painted the flesh with a broad brush to attain the results. There the buttocks are natural in color but with terrifying brands as noted... the letter ‘M’ emblazoned on keloided flesh at the apex of each hillock.
It is catheterized, the tube clamped shut. Madam heeds my stare.
“Yes, I control what goes into him... and when it comes out as well. It is best for him.”
My heart sinks with the full cognition of Its plight, of the unfathomable level of control and governance ceded to a woman who not only has such incredible power... but utilizes it with such glee.
Permanently colored, appearing like a jungle bird, Its fate is sealed. Continued existence is either under Madam’s exacting tutelage or in jail.
Madam again thrusts her free hand through the bars, palming the perineum where the intact male proudly exhibits his virility.
“All gone,” she mocks, the digits apparently freely tantalizing.
Then she grasps the catheter and draws into view as best she can the penis of a toddler.
“I had him partially degloved after I read somewhere that castrated males can still achieve an element of pleasure by way of the penis tip. Simple to remove that oversensitive patch of flesh. Not much larger than a thumb nail. A couple weeks of daily acid baths for the remaining shaft sealed the transition. He no longer has any desire to play here... instead he’d rather play with the likes of yours, Mr. Grieves,” Madam’s chuckle particularly venomous.
Yes, the penis tip is deformed indeed and I note that It stirs, tugging in anguish against his bonds. When Madam releases the tiny organ, It resumes his pose of obedient supplication. The shrunken strip of flesh is sore to the touch.
“So there you have it, Mr. Grieves. We bond... castrated and castratrix. Everything It has... everything It needs... comes from me,” explaining as she steps to the adjacent cage.
It is identical. Empty, nylon straps at the four corners await some miscreant occupant. Madam’s free hand pats the top bars as if to invite.
“A rather benumbing existence... for the intact. But as I alluded, think of the capon. The once virile creature merely sits about, abundantly fed, awaiting slaughter. For some it’s appropriate. For the emasculated male, life’s needs are quite diminished.”
Madam looks me straight in the eye. Her stare disconcerts as much as her words.
“You will find the comfort of sleep to be greatly enhanced when it becomes a privilege... one granted by a superior woman. Yes, it will be one of life’s diminished needs which I will ration... closely.”
I shudder.
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