Oral Skills
Copyright 2014
by Chris Bellows
A seated Nurse Benson takes the offered number ten ball, well moistened. Markie smiles in anticipation then shuffles on all fours, turns to present his backside, and obediently lowers face and forehead to the floor. It is with eagerness that the back arches, the knees further part and a sphincter brought to suppleness presents itself for impalement.
Yes, weeks of daily training have not only physically opened Markie, but mentally imparted the thrill of prostatic manipulation. Nurse Benson pauses, the joy of her authority bringing a frisson of delight to any woman of governance.
“You enjoy it when I open you, Markie. Why is that?” Nurse Benson letting the expectation linger.
“Yes, Ma’am. I don’t know why.”
“Could it be your remaining male gland enjoys a woman’s attention... enjoys submitting to a woman’s control,” the index finger of the left hand teasingly abrading the gluteal cleft.
A powerful right hand squeezes to compress the sizable sphere of foam rubber. There will be a moment of struggle, fingers of the left hand further parting the lovely cheeks, right hand stuffing. But then after insertion the ball will expand within the anal passage to announce its presence, greeting the unused prostate gland with constant pressure and bring a girlish squeal of delight.
“I’ll want you revering my fingers today, Markie... practice your oral skills. Do you feel a difference with the doctor’s little snip?”
With the query, index and middle finger give the compressed ball a final thrust, pressing it well within. A reply comes not, Markie instead uttering the initial squeal followed by an ‘ah’ of satisfaction as the hands retreat.
“It’s looser, I guess,” Markie’s focus returning.
“That’s because the doctor performed a frenectomy, incising a little flap of skin under your tongue called the frenum. Do you know why she took the time to do that Markie?”
“No Ma’am.”
“So you can better please with it... your tongue.”
As the nurse lectures, Markie knows to right himself to all fours and turn, facing the woman who can so knowingly bring faint pleasure to the castrated male.
“So let’s practice. I want you to lick and suck each of my fingers. Kneel upright for me. I’ll give you a nice nipple massage if you’re doing it right,” the right pinky finger presented for engulfment.
With that, Markie smiles. For reasons unclear to him, nipple play has become quite joyful of late. And Nurse Benson is well aware, the massive injections of estrogen overwhelming the once male libido, the absence of testosterone causing the endocrine system to succumb. Yes, there is new sensitivity... and an aware Nurse Benson knows well of the emotional lever such offers.
“May I rub your leg with... with my...”
“Your penis, Markie. Yes you still have a penis and I know it still gives you some pleasure. But no... not until you’ve sucked. Now begin. Follow my instructions. Be obedient. We like obedient girly boys here.”
The proffered digit is engulfed. Nurse Benson smiles, the degree of tenderness telling.
“Swish the underside, Markie. Pretend it’s your penis. You know where you’d most like to feel warm wetness there, don’t you?”
There comes a slight nod in reply and indeed a most sensuous swish. Nurse Benson’s left hand goes to the right nipple. She in fact knows of the faint pleasure to be imbued and in reward begins a most tantalizing massage, her index finger first diddling, then thumb and forefinger to squeeze, then the entire once male breast to be kneaded... should Markie’s efforts earn such reward.
“Good girl Markie. Now suck a little... just for a moment... then more swishing.”
Prostate pressed, nipples teased, Markie knows to return the joy, swishing...sucking... swishing... sucking.
There is no better oral pleasure a male can receive than from another male... or former male, Nurse Benson notes in silence. The tongue seems to dance with enthusiasm. And Nurse Benson knows that, upon having sucked each of her ten fingers, the slippery wet length not only celebrates its newly offered freedom, but strengthens itself as well.
“Good girl, Markie!” Nurse Benson feeling the tiny penis beginning to frottage her leg as Markie thrusts his hips, “ but no, no” the calve quickly withdrawn, “that comes later. First I’ll want to stretch you a little.”
With that, the right thumb is joined by her fingers, Nurse Benson somewhat cruelly grasping the warm wet appendage.
“Now just relax. We’re going to do this every day. For just a few moments. It is best for you,” pulling to spur slight choking. “And we’ll need to work on that gag reflex. Very impolite in offering fellatio, Markie. A good girl needs to learn to control that. And I have a box full of toys over there that will help. You’d like to orally please others, wouldn’t you Markie?”
There comes a muffled verbal response, Nurse Benson’s grip continuing.... though slippery pulling, pushing, twisting with tender zeal. Words indiscernible, Nurse Benson pretends the reply is affirmative.
“Yes, my Markie is going to be quite the sucker of cocks.”
Wednesday, August 27, 2014
Saturday, August 23, 2014
A Woman in Control - Reaching my zenith - I
Reaching My Zenith I
Fridays are long days. Masturbating G. Douglas, riding the week’s top producing salesman on the ottoman in my office, watching amused while a naked Bob pays homage and cleanses the award winning salesman’s cock, then leisurely sitting at my desk, skirt hiked, thighs spread as Bob does the cream pie clean up.
With the antics going well past five p.m. I set the remote to allow Jack to depart his office and go to the clinic. There Nurse Benson strips him and utilizes the painful electroejaculation to drain him of whatever his chemically altered reproductive system is still able to produce. The effluent is collected, the Prince’s Wand making that facile, but it is no longer tested. It’s merely prostatic fluid and is demonstrably shown to Jack to emphasize his castration. Plus it is best to rid him of the goo lest he drip about the apartment.
Next the cock cage and waist belt are removed for cleansing and Jack in turn is cleaned and shaven. Upon leaving, Nurse Benson calls and I set the timer, offering just enough time to return home before the electrified door locks him out. There he will disrobe and clean the apartment while back in my office an orally accomplished Bob licks and licks and licks.
Sometimes I will call home and describe how Bob’s mammoth tongue is fluttering about between my thighs.
It’s year four of my ascendency and the steady string of pre planned promotions have brought the title of Chief Operating Officer, and a huge salary. G. Douglas’s title of CEO is more of a sinecure than ever. Essentially, I call all the shots. And whereas Jack’s salary was material to my means at the time of our marriage years ago, it’s now a pittance by comparison. I toss most of his pay into savings and a good long term care policy. Castrated men have particular health issues as they age. I just hope when needed I can find a place that will keep him suitably restrained... and find another servant for myself.
Presently my well stored photo collection of the boss performing for me is vast. If disclosure is ever deemed necessary, there will be no arguments of a photoshopped scene... something contrived... cut and pasted to embarrass G. Douglas. No, the huge collection will speak loudly, cleverly photoshopping hundreds and hundreds of snapshots deemed impractical.
And my collection continues to grow. I like having G. Douglas perform for me before the camera... another aspect of this power thing...
I have come to realize that though my power is almost absolute, there is one possible glitch... the termagant Mrs. G. Douglas Olivier. Their estranged marital relationship has become more distant. With me satiating the boss’s sexual urges, now only once per week as his senescence progresses, G. Douglas no longer even attempts to get any at home. Still he chooses to cowtow, there being nothing to gain in a divorce instead just a division of assets, mainly stock in Olivier Flavors and Fragrance. Such is deemed unthinkable.
So who is to ultimately rule over G. Douglas?
If there is one thing I have come to learn about the haughty Mrs. Olivier, social prestige is paramount. Yes, the sizable wealth and income bring comfort, but status... that is what ices the cake of the affluent.
Thus I ponder, realizing that as impactful as the disclosure of my many photos can be to G. Douglas Olivier, there would be equal impact to the social status of Mrs. G. Douglas should there be further disclosure outside the comfortable and opulent G. Douglas Olivier nest.
So perhaps I can attain a degree of power over the harridan wife of poor G. Douglas. But how to manifest?
If G. Douglas knows that the Mrs. is aware of the Friday dalliances... firm stroking hand, fingers penetrating, infirm pecker spurting into the ashtray at my behest... then my power will diminish. One less and very good reason to obey me. But if the Mrs. learns of my ability to extort and informs not G. Douglas, then my power does not diminish... it is enhanced. Power over G. Douglas by way of threat to disclose to Mrs. G. Douglas... power over Mrs. G. Douglas by way of threat to disclose the humiliating photos to the myriad of clubs and societies where she revels in supremacy.
I connive. Mrs. G. Douglas rarely comes to see G. Douglas. Places of labor are beneath her, the offices of Olivier Flavors and Fragrances thought of as the stable of a gentrified country house... a dwelling of necessity... but not to be visited.
I have only met Mrs. Olivier at the annual company Christmas affair. Terming it a party would be a stretch as no one dares celebrate in the overly stuffy atmosphere, the attendance of the board making all wary of ‘inappropriate behavior’. Still she knows of me... and my rapid rise and annual promotions... by way of sharing a glass of punch... and from the days when I formerly answered the phone... line 3.
Mrs. Olivier is prim and aloof. Discussing business, that which keeps her in diamonds, vintage wines and cut flowers, is beneath her. So conversations are brief and the only thing we share in common for sure, so to speak, is husband G. Douglas... which shall not be an item of conversation.
Yet perhaps I can entice her into some level of business discussion... woman to woman... research... her input needed on a potential product line... just out of R & D.
Yes, I connive. I write...
Mrs. Olivier,
Olivier Flavors and Fragrances is developing radical new air fresheners for the home. No longer the foreign scent of laboratory concoctions, we have the ‘baker’s delight’ series of fragrances, offering the homemaker the pleasant scent of home cooking. Planned are the scents of baking pies... bubbling soups... roasting meats. But first out for field testing... butter... pervading the kitchen and dining room with the ubiquitous fragrance of all fare that is savored.
(Not bad, perhaps we should in fact be working on just such a product line.)
Enclosed is a specimen for trial use in the Olivier household. It would be helpful to our research if you as matriarch of the Olivier family and organization first sample the product in your home. Mr. G. Douglas Olivier is unaware of the sampling. We would be interested to learn of his ‘blind’ reaction.
Sincerely,
Desiree Montrove
Chief Operating Officer
I am so mischievous!
I instruct Bob to print a formal letter on company stationery and have him retrieve a small box. G. Douglas, after some four years of being masturbated by a woman’s butter coated hand, becomes aroused with the scent of butter. So in mailing the fragrance to Mrs. Olivier, I am empowering her with the catalyst that has prompted the patriarch of Olivier Flavors and Fragrances to drop his drawers every Friday and stand before his desk, sometimes the long conference table, and spew his seed into an ashtray... at the behest of a woman.
Always butter, always the ash tray, I am fond of rituals, turning the debonair, epicure, wealthy, captain of industry into a Pavlovian dog. And G. Douglas indeed drools like the psychologist’s canines... though from his penis.
Packaged, appearing distinctly personal, the letter is mailed along with the R & D concoction, to arrive on a Thursday. I smile inwardly, envisioning G. Douglas’s priapic response to the scent of his kitchen.
Wednesday, August 20, 2014
The Sash - Balls
Balls
Copyright 2014
by Chris Bellows
“Bring me the ball marked number one, Markie. In your mouth... no hands.”
The so termed toy box is filled with a plethora of rubber objects, phallic implements of bizarre shape... some frighteningly large... and indeed foam rubber balls of varying size. The demanded ball, numbered as clearly as a billiard ball, is the smallest, some one inch in diameter.
Markie bends his neck, lowering his face to retrieve the number one ball. Though of foam rubber, he notes the firmness as his lips open and his teeth grasp.
“Bring it here, hurry. Crawl quickly... come, come.”
Markie obeys, Nurse Benson’s stentorian words backed by instant punishment for disobedience. He turns, knees parted as commanded, legs shuffling rapidly, He feels his tiny penis flop about, the folds of his empty sac rolling to abrade his inner thighs.
Markie notes the waiting hand, palm upwards.
“Lick it well, the more moist it is the easier it will be for you,” Nurse Benson’s fingers wriggling in welcome.
Markie quickly rolls about his tongue to apply more moisture then humbly plops it from his mouth into the waiting palm.
“Turn, forehead to the floor, back arched, buttocks high, spread for me like a good girl.”
There comes no doubt as to where Markie will bear the sphere, Nurse Benson’s left hand firmly gripping the empty scrotal sac for leverage as he complies with precision... indeed spreading like a good girl.
Yes, the wet foam is pressed to his anus, his sphincter easily yielding as the knowing nurse presses inward with steady force. How many has the woman so dextrously impaled?
“Now, twice about the room, crawl keeping your knees parted for me. Show off those girly cheeks. Then bring me ball number two.”
With the words Markie feels a brisance of delight, the foam sphere, compressed while stuffed past his purse string muscle, expanding to knead his neglected prostate. The nurse notes his reaction, his pause of faint pleasure. She laughs.
“Yes, we know all about the anal propensity of castrated boys, Markie... know very well how much you will come to crave attention there. And you shall have it.
“Now... crawl about... show off for me... then get ball two... quickly.”
Twice about the room, when Markie returns to the toy box, he again lowers his face, his nose rummaging through the many implements to find ball number two. It is larger... by some quarter of an inch. Then he notes balls three and four... each larger than the next... the diameter growing with the digits. And there are more! Ball ten is imposing!
He feels his emaciated penis begin to firm. The physical pressure of the inserted ball? Thoughts of being stuffed by a larger and larger ball?
“Bring it to me. Do not dawdle!”
Lips part, teeth grip, Markie’s tongue knows to moisten as parted knees rapidly shuffle across the room.
“Now, place ball number one into this bowl, Markie. No hands. Make like you’re having a bowel movement,” a white shoe sliding forth a large bowl.
“Forehead to the floor... be a good girl for me.”
The humiliation intensifies as Markie must perform what is otherwise a most intimate anatomical act. He positions himself then both presses with his stomach muscles and purses his anus, working to expel ball number one, tongue moistening ball number two.
“How do you feel performing for me like this Markie? The humiliation is sublime wouldn’t you agree? And I know we’re awakening that prostate gland... neglected and unused.”
With the stultifying words, the nurse lowers her hand and toys with right nipple then left, the estrogen bringing incredible sensitivity of late. Goose bumps of delight form as ball number one slowly slides forth and softly plunks into the waiting bowl.
“Good girl. Now you can have ball number two,” the right hand opening to accept the wet sphere.
Strangely, reluctance begins to dissipate. Markie further spreads not in capitulation... but in welcome. Nurse Benson laughs, recognizing the desperate need to sense the sole remaining male pleasure... prostate manipulation.
Yes, the penis firms more as the fingers of the right hand press to offer a final thrust, the inserted ball slowly expanding within to bring a sigh not to be hushed.
“Now twice about the room, naked girly boy. Then you can select any ball you want to replace ball number two,” Markie pausing, allowing his psyche to soak up the evanescent joy.
The well experienced nurse knows it will not be ball number three chosen next. No, they all go to the larger size... quickly... anal proclivity awakened... desperation for more apparent.
Yes, she silently wagers on ball five. Yet, if larger, the doctor will be most pleased.
This is day one. With the toy box well stuffed with anal insertions of every imaginable shape and size, the nurse knows well that Markie will soon be presenting her diligent hands with the nastiest of probes, the sizes most challenging. And he will be trained to take such....orally and anally.
Copyright 2014
by Chris Bellows
“Bring me the ball marked number one, Markie. In your mouth... no hands.”
The so termed toy box is filled with a plethora of rubber objects, phallic implements of bizarre shape... some frighteningly large... and indeed foam rubber balls of varying size. The demanded ball, numbered as clearly as a billiard ball, is the smallest, some one inch in diameter.
Markie bends his neck, lowering his face to retrieve the number one ball. Though of foam rubber, he notes the firmness as his lips open and his teeth grasp.
“Bring it here, hurry. Crawl quickly... come, come.”
Markie obeys, Nurse Benson’s stentorian words backed by instant punishment for disobedience. He turns, knees parted as commanded, legs shuffling rapidly, He feels his tiny penis flop about, the folds of his empty sac rolling to abrade his inner thighs.
Markie notes the waiting hand, palm upwards.
“Lick it well, the more moist it is the easier it will be for you,” Nurse Benson’s fingers wriggling in welcome.
Markie quickly rolls about his tongue to apply more moisture then humbly plops it from his mouth into the waiting palm.
“Turn, forehead to the floor, back arched, buttocks high, spread for me like a good girl.”
There comes no doubt as to where Markie will bear the sphere, Nurse Benson’s left hand firmly gripping the empty scrotal sac for leverage as he complies with precision... indeed spreading like a good girl.
Yes, the wet foam is pressed to his anus, his sphincter easily yielding as the knowing nurse presses inward with steady force. How many has the woman so dextrously impaled?
“Now, twice about the room, crawl keeping your knees parted for me. Show off those girly cheeks. Then bring me ball number two.”
With the words Markie feels a brisance of delight, the foam sphere, compressed while stuffed past his purse string muscle, expanding to knead his neglected prostate. The nurse notes his reaction, his pause of faint pleasure. She laughs.
“Yes, we know all about the anal propensity of castrated boys, Markie... know very well how much you will come to crave attention there. And you shall have it.
“Now... crawl about... show off for me... then get ball two... quickly.”
Twice about the room, when Markie returns to the toy box, he again lowers his face, his nose rummaging through the many implements to find ball number two. It is larger... by some quarter of an inch. Then he notes balls three and four... each larger than the next... the diameter growing with the digits. And there are more! Ball ten is imposing!
He feels his emaciated penis begin to firm. The physical pressure of the inserted ball? Thoughts of being stuffed by a larger and larger ball?
“Bring it to me. Do not dawdle!”
Lips part, teeth grip, Markie’s tongue knows to moisten as parted knees rapidly shuffle across the room.
“Now, place ball number one into this bowl, Markie. No hands. Make like you’re having a bowel movement,” a white shoe sliding forth a large bowl.
“Forehead to the floor... be a good girl for me.”
The humiliation intensifies as Markie must perform what is otherwise a most intimate anatomical act. He positions himself then both presses with his stomach muscles and purses his anus, working to expel ball number one, tongue moistening ball number two.
“How do you feel performing for me like this Markie? The humiliation is sublime wouldn’t you agree? And I know we’re awakening that prostate gland... neglected and unused.”
With the stultifying words, the nurse lowers her hand and toys with right nipple then left, the estrogen bringing incredible sensitivity of late. Goose bumps of delight form as ball number one slowly slides forth and softly plunks into the waiting bowl.
“Good girl. Now you can have ball number two,” the right hand opening to accept the wet sphere.
Strangely, reluctance begins to dissipate. Markie further spreads not in capitulation... but in welcome. Nurse Benson laughs, recognizing the desperate need to sense the sole remaining male pleasure... prostate manipulation.
Yes, the penis firms more as the fingers of the right hand press to offer a final thrust, the inserted ball slowly expanding within to bring a sigh not to be hushed.
“Now twice about the room, naked girly boy. Then you can select any ball you want to replace ball number two,” Markie pausing, allowing his psyche to soak up the evanescent joy.
The well experienced nurse knows it will not be ball number three chosen next. No, they all go to the larger size... quickly... anal proclivity awakened... desperation for more apparent.
Yes, she silently wagers on ball five. Yet, if larger, the doctor will be most pleased.
This is day one. With the toy box well stuffed with anal insertions of every imaginable shape and size, the nurse knows well that Markie will soon be presenting her diligent hands with the nastiest of probes, the sizes most challenging. And he will be trained to take such....orally and anally.
Thoughts on Gunning
Would really like to get some thoughts and feedback on 'gunning', particularly from women of Dominance.
Power exchange yes, but in which direction? Humiliation yes, but for whom?
CB
Power exchange yes, but in which direction? Humiliation yes, but for whom?
CB
Sunday, August 17, 2014
Gunning
Came across accounts of this curious conduct on behalf of male inmates in the custody of female guards.
http://channel.nationalgeographic.com/channel/videos/the-war-on-gunning/
My reaction, assuming the role of the Dominant Female guard, would be more of amusement.
'Who's locked up and left with the only form of sexual release being your hand,' would be the attitude I would take. To me it's more demeaning for the perpetrator than for a governing woman.
'You'll need to stroke it harder for me. I can barely see it.'
So, of course this conduct spurred a story... nasty... deviant... demented.
Nothing like reality to encourage quality smut from Chris Bellows.
The Peg Board (ID #15110001): http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/the-peg-board/15110001
4,300 words. $ 2.00 (I get $.91, Lulu gets $1.09).
Enjoy
CB
http://channel.nationalgeographic.com/channel/videos/the-war-on-gunning/
My reaction, assuming the role of the Dominant Female guard, would be more of amusement.
'Who's locked up and left with the only form of sexual release being your hand,' would be the attitude I would take. To me it's more demeaning for the perpetrator than for a governing woman.
'You'll need to stroke it harder for me. I can barely see it.'
So, of course this conduct spurred a story... nasty... deviant... demented.
Nothing like reality to encourage quality smut from Chris Bellows.
The Peg Board (ID #15110001): http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/the-peg-board/15110001
4,300 words. $ 2.00 (I get $.91, Lulu gets $1.09).
Enjoy
CB
Saturday, August 16, 2014
A Woman in Control - A good life gets better VII
A good life gets better VII
I glow in satiation yet find the vigor to dismount. Jack remains standing at the doorway. I approach. He’s seen enough.
“Bed,” I command.
A mortified and dejected Jack reluctantly tiptoes to the single mattress centered in his chamber. He lies, I quickly attach the straps to ankles and wrists, pulling to tighten with ease. Added to his bondage is a strap attached right and left to his waist belt, i. e. the receiving antenna and battery pack. This further immobilizes, driving home the message of complete feminine dominion. I slip on his hood, then plug in the waist belt to recharge the batteries.
As I check the straps to assure exacting tightness, Jack finds the temerity to speak.
“You look very pretty, Miss Desiree,” the tone so heartwarmingly timid.
I smooth a hand along a cheek then reach beneath the hood to remove the audacious cheap earrings.
“Thank you, Jack. And I feel great. Harry is a great lover, don’t you think? So nicely hung... and patient in letting me do my thing. Quite virile, as you will find. I think I’m filled.”
“I’d like to do that... make you feel great. Like Harry.”
I laugh.
“It will never ever happen, Jack. You’ve been castrated... and are locked in a steel cock cage. But I’ll be in later and you can lick me. For now, I think Harry’s good for one more ride... if not two. Now go to sleep, it’s late... almost nine p.m.”
Jack’s slumber time is that of a child. I deliberately bed him more than necessary, bringing endless tedium as he lies bound and helpless.
It’s good for him... for a psyche which capitulates more each day. He’s seen me fuck with purpose... aggressively taking not giving. Now I will leave the bedroom door open and he will listen in darkness... and in complete immobility. It will frustrate, his wife fucking another man... and with such fervor. Yes, he’ll pine for his own opportunity... and that will never ever come. He’ll just cook and clean... the latter task to include my pussy.
And indeed, I am going to ride Harry again. My attitude is... if there is an iota of spunk available... I want it. Harry is to be depleted. Drained, his penis will be milked and milked by my deft PC muscles. I’m not completely greedy... after all I share his spunk with Jack.
I glow in satiation yet find the vigor to dismount. Jack remains standing at the doorway. I approach. He’s seen enough.
“Bed,” I command.
A mortified and dejected Jack reluctantly tiptoes to the single mattress centered in his chamber. He lies, I quickly attach the straps to ankles and wrists, pulling to tighten with ease. Added to his bondage is a strap attached right and left to his waist belt, i. e. the receiving antenna and battery pack. This further immobilizes, driving home the message of complete feminine dominion. I slip on his hood, then plug in the waist belt to recharge the batteries.
As I check the straps to assure exacting tightness, Jack finds the temerity to speak.
“You look very pretty, Miss Desiree,” the tone so heartwarmingly timid.
I smooth a hand along a cheek then reach beneath the hood to remove the audacious cheap earrings.
“Thank you, Jack. And I feel great. Harry is a great lover, don’t you think? So nicely hung... and patient in letting me do my thing. Quite virile, as you will find. I think I’m filled.”
“I’d like to do that... make you feel great. Like Harry.”
I laugh.
“It will never ever happen, Jack. You’ve been castrated... and are locked in a steel cock cage. But I’ll be in later and you can lick me. For now, I think Harry’s good for one more ride... if not two. Now go to sleep, it’s late... almost nine p.m.”
Jack’s slumber time is that of a child. I deliberately bed him more than necessary, bringing endless tedium as he lies bound and helpless.
It’s good for him... for a psyche which capitulates more each day. He’s seen me fuck with purpose... aggressively taking not giving. Now I will leave the bedroom door open and he will listen in darkness... and in complete immobility. It will frustrate, his wife fucking another man... and with such fervor. Yes, he’ll pine for his own opportunity... and that will never ever come. He’ll just cook and clean... the latter task to include my pussy.
And indeed, I am going to ride Harry again. My attitude is... if there is an iota of spunk available... I want it. Harry is to be depleted. Drained, his penis will be milked and milked by my deft PC muscles. I’m not completely greedy... after all I share his spunk with Jack.
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
The Sash - Obedience Training
Obedience Training
Copyright 2014
by Chris Bellows
“You will listen to my every word... most attentively, Markie. And then you will obediently follow my instructions... instantly. You are not to speak unless I demand a reply.”
“Yes, Ma’am,”
The lithe form stands in nakedness, hands humbly folded atop long blonde curls. A tall and imposing Nurse Benson looks downward despite his high heels. Many weeks of hormone injections have abetted in developing a delightfully smooth layer of subcutaneous fat. The hairless once male figure appears pubescent, such girlishness brought to a once budding muscular frame.
“Remove your shoes.”
“But Nurse Benson, that means I will have to crawl.”
“Silence! Obey!”
The Nurse reaches forth, thumb and index finger most cruelly capturing a right nipple, puffy with the hormonal reaction to the flood of estrogen. Yes, the depleted testosterone of the castrated male offers timely and notable transformation to femininity. She pinches. Her charge gasps, his knees buckling with the sharp pain.
Bending to follow the supplicating girly boy to the floor, the nurse maintains her grip until hands rapidly move to the straps of the right shoe and begin to remove. Without the footwear Markie’s altered feet do not... will not... function to permit him to stand upright... and certainly not offer normal motion.
Right shoe removed, left shoe follows to leave Markie in complete deshabille. Stripped!
“Good girl. You will save yourself some suffering by listening and obeying. You must feel good without your diaper. You like to show yourself to women... don’t you Markie?”
The question brings remorseful thought. The constant nakedness is most humiliating. As is being in make up, styled long hair and polished nails... fingers and toes. Yet there is indeed a strange inner joy.
‘What is it they are doing to me?’ Markie asks himself in silence again and again.
“I... I... guess so, Nurse Benson.”
“Yes, girly boys like you find joy in the humiliation... the exposure. Now roll to your back spread your legs and show your Nurse Benson the doctor’s latest modification. Quickly now. Well spread... put your feet up to your shoulders. Show off for me... be a good girl.”
Avoiding another assault, the nurse knowing precisely where to apply the most modest pressure of thumb and forefinger to the most sensitive of pink flesh, Markie scrambles to comply. Within seconds he lies supine, legs parted, thighs raised, obscenely showing himself... herself... to the white uniformed woman of governance.
“Very nice. Very obedient. Markie I do think your penis has shrunk even more,” the nurse lowering herself to inspect. “And this little sac of yours is withering. At bath time I’ll massage it for you. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Markie?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” the notion bringing a modest yet joyous smile.
“Yes, you castrated boys all like having a woman toy here. It brings memories doesn’t it Markie?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” the implied loss brings a mournful tone in contrast to the faint joy.
“Now what is this here, Markie?” the fingers slipping lower toward the anus.
The question brings disconcertion. Markie remains silent.
“Tell me what this is Markie!”
“It’s... it’s my new pee hole.”
“New. Yes, the doctor has graciously helped you again. You’re becoming more and more like the little girl we want you to be. You now must squat to pee. And you’ve so nicely learned how.... haven’t you Markie. Squatting like a girl now...”
A finger abrades the new opening, at the perineum between the plundered scrotal sac and the anus. Markie’s mien further plunges in thinking of the process. The operation was quick and simple, but learning how to control the flow of excretions time consuming. Many weeks in diapers. Many fanny spankings for soiling himself.
Finally, muscling which normally permits ejaculation more or less came to Markie’s rescue. No more diapers... no more fanny spankings. He pees now... upon command... but only upon command... and only as would a girl.
“And now your penis is useless... except to amuse. Do you like amusing us, Markie? Like it when you wear the sash and you get hard for us?”
“If it pleases, Nurse Benson.”
“Yes, it does. And you’re learning to please... and you enjoy learning to please.”
The nurse rights herself, picking up the special shoes which empower Markie with normal movement. Without he must crawl, both feet curled almost to the shape of a fist.
Strolling to nearby shelving, Markie is disheartened when the nurse reaches above, stowing his footwear high. No longer able to stand, the footwear is beyond his reach, not to be retrieved without assistance.
“Now, I want you to crawl for me, following my commands. Left, right.... fast, slow... forwards, backwards. We like it when meek little girly boys crawl... all pink and naked. And keep your knees parted, Show off that empty scrotum. Make that little penis flop about,” the demanding words offered as the nurse returns.
A firm hand swings. Markie’s well rounded right cheek resounds with a splat, painful but no where near the level of anguish received with the discovery of a soiled diaper or failure to empty his bladder upon command. Thus he knows to instantly comply, hands and knees shuffling.
“To the toy box. We’re going to begin anal training. Girly boys like anal training.”
Copyright 2014
by Chris Bellows
“You will listen to my every word... most attentively, Markie. And then you will obediently follow my instructions... instantly. You are not to speak unless I demand a reply.”
“Yes, Ma’am,”
The lithe form stands in nakedness, hands humbly folded atop long blonde curls. A tall and imposing Nurse Benson looks downward despite his high heels. Many weeks of hormone injections have abetted in developing a delightfully smooth layer of subcutaneous fat. The hairless once male figure appears pubescent, such girlishness brought to a once budding muscular frame.
“Remove your shoes.”
“But Nurse Benson, that means I will have to crawl.”
“Silence! Obey!”
The Nurse reaches forth, thumb and index finger most cruelly capturing a right nipple, puffy with the hormonal reaction to the flood of estrogen. Yes, the depleted testosterone of the castrated male offers timely and notable transformation to femininity. She pinches. Her charge gasps, his knees buckling with the sharp pain.
Bending to follow the supplicating girly boy to the floor, the nurse maintains her grip until hands rapidly move to the straps of the right shoe and begin to remove. Without the footwear Markie’s altered feet do not... will not... function to permit him to stand upright... and certainly not offer normal motion.
Right shoe removed, left shoe follows to leave Markie in complete deshabille. Stripped!
“Good girl. You will save yourself some suffering by listening and obeying. You must feel good without your diaper. You like to show yourself to women... don’t you Markie?”
The question brings remorseful thought. The constant nakedness is most humiliating. As is being in make up, styled long hair and polished nails... fingers and toes. Yet there is indeed a strange inner joy.
‘What is it they are doing to me?’ Markie asks himself in silence again and again.
“I... I... guess so, Nurse Benson.”
“Yes, girly boys like you find joy in the humiliation... the exposure. Now roll to your back spread your legs and show your Nurse Benson the doctor’s latest modification. Quickly now. Well spread... put your feet up to your shoulders. Show off for me... be a good girl.”
Avoiding another assault, the nurse knowing precisely where to apply the most modest pressure of thumb and forefinger to the most sensitive of pink flesh, Markie scrambles to comply. Within seconds he lies supine, legs parted, thighs raised, obscenely showing himself... herself... to the white uniformed woman of governance.
“Very nice. Very obedient. Markie I do think your penis has shrunk even more,” the nurse lowering herself to inspect. “And this little sac of yours is withering. At bath time I’ll massage it for you. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Markie?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” the notion bringing a modest yet joyous smile.
“Yes, you castrated boys all like having a woman toy here. It brings memories doesn’t it Markie?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” the implied loss brings a mournful tone in contrast to the faint joy.
“Now what is this here, Markie?” the fingers slipping lower toward the anus.
The question brings disconcertion. Markie remains silent.
“Tell me what this is Markie!”
“It’s... it’s my new pee hole.”
“New. Yes, the doctor has graciously helped you again. You’re becoming more and more like the little girl we want you to be. You now must squat to pee. And you’ve so nicely learned how.... haven’t you Markie. Squatting like a girl now...”
A finger abrades the new opening, at the perineum between the plundered scrotal sac and the anus. Markie’s mien further plunges in thinking of the process. The operation was quick and simple, but learning how to control the flow of excretions time consuming. Many weeks in diapers. Many fanny spankings for soiling himself.
Finally, muscling which normally permits ejaculation more or less came to Markie’s rescue. No more diapers... no more fanny spankings. He pees now... upon command... but only upon command... and only as would a girl.
“And now your penis is useless... except to amuse. Do you like amusing us, Markie? Like it when you wear the sash and you get hard for us?”
“If it pleases, Nurse Benson.”
“Yes, it does. And you’re learning to please... and you enjoy learning to please.”
The nurse rights herself, picking up the special shoes which empower Markie with normal movement. Without he must crawl, both feet curled almost to the shape of a fist.
Strolling to nearby shelving, Markie is disheartened when the nurse reaches above, stowing his footwear high. No longer able to stand, the footwear is beyond his reach, not to be retrieved without assistance.
“Now, I want you to crawl for me, following my commands. Left, right.... fast, slow... forwards, backwards. We like it when meek little girly boys crawl... all pink and naked. And keep your knees parted, Show off that empty scrotum. Make that little penis flop about,” the demanding words offered as the nurse returns.
A firm hand swings. Markie’s well rounded right cheek resounds with a splat, painful but no where near the level of anguish received with the discovery of a soiled diaper or failure to empty his bladder upon command. Thus he knows to instantly comply, hands and knees shuffling.
“To the toy box. We’re going to begin anal training. Girly boys like anal training.”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
