A Woman’s Revenge
Copyright 2010
by Chris Bellows
Available at http://www.lulu.com/content/8340830
To a girl of my age, things seemed so normal. I suppose it was because there was no basis for comparison. And, like many single parent homes in this country, the absence of father, the man regularly disdained about the breakfast table, did not compare unfavorably to the many, many other households in our swank Washington suburb. So many of my classmates disappeared every other weekend for visitations with a paternal guardian, sojourns my mother summarily nixed.
‘I’d prefer time with your father be minimized, Claudette. It is best you spend time here... with Mademoiselle,’ was her edict.
Yes, it was understood that time with mother would likewise be minimal. She was a woman of talent, knowledge and power, ranking high within the U.S. Attorney General’s office. Her time was precious and little was afforded... to me... and my older brother Jackson. Yes, we were placed in the care of Mademoiselle. And when not in school, most of our free time was under her tutelage. For mother’s work hours were many and her days ended late and in exhaustion. There were occasional Sunday dinners together... if the phone did not ring during the afternoon.
And so I grew up with this incredibly forceful mother figure, more devoted to her career of pursuing organized crime than nurturing a family... me, a brother some half generation older, and this amazingly doting governess, Mademoiselle... doting over me any way.
I would later learn that in addition to mother’s political and legal influence, there was wealth. She was an heiress. And so a mansion in an affluent suburb and the talents of Mademoiselle were easily affordable on the salary of a government employee. Thus mother’s financial status permitted her to pursue her passion... law enforcement. Later I would more aptly describe her fervor as an insatiable zeal to incarcerate men.
That is my summation now... well after the events of childhood. For as stated, when there is little basis for comparison, as a child, one assumes a degree of normality. How naive!
So when did normality cease? There was no sole discernible event. Things transcended. And I suppose as with everything in life, behavioral change is more Darwinian in nature than sudden dramatic shifts. But in telling this story, there are certain memorable events...
******************************************************************************
“You’re to be driven to school today, Claudette. Jackson will be staying here. And in fact, for the interim, you’ll be driven every day until you’re old enough to walk on your own.”
“Why is that, mama?”
“Today, Jackson is going on a trip to the doctor’s. Thereafter he is to be home schooled. There are things he is to learn they don’t teach in public school. Mademoiselle will instruct.”
As always, a proclamation, never a discussion. Such is mother’s authoritative style.
I look at brother Jackson and there is little reaction, certainly not glee. Instead he quietly finishes his oatmeal and stands. I am then surprised to see him begin to clear the table, a task normally performed by our part time cook. Mother notes my look.
“Jackson will be helping out more about the house, Claudette. It is best that a boy learn these things.”
Mother and Mademoiselle, always joining us at the only regular family gathering, breakfast, exchange looks. Such slowly morph to sly grins.
“More coffee, ma’am?” brother Jackson politely inquires.
Jackson has never before referenced mother as ‘ma’am’! She smiles smugly.
“No thank you, Jackson. I have some calls to make while the driver takes Claudette to school. But thank you for asking. You will certainly become a more useful man than your father ever was.”
Mother arises. The gesture always signals that family time is over and the business day has begun. For her, it is to the den for phone calls. I am ushered to the government automobile and school. Jackson begins to clean the dining room table with energy not before displayed.
He never again walked me to school. Having completed the seventh grade, the algebra afforded in the eighth was deemed by mother to be useless to his prospective role in life.
‘He can somewhat read, add and subtract. Anything more than that empowers. Jackson has achieved the age when a boy’s education needs to imbue more humility.’
Yes, mother reigned. And Jackson’s service... daily transforming to servility... thereafter progressed.
******************************************************************************
As stated, Mademoiselle doted. I was bathed, groomed and dressed like a little princess. At that age, nakedness never concerned... certainly not before the woman with whom I spent more time than my own mother. And so I was comfortable in complete deshabille with Mademoiselle. She always took her time selecting my clothes after my bath, letting me prance about without a stitch. I never wondered if Jackson was offered the equivalent level of care.
Mademoiselle was French, obviously. Charming in demeanor... at least with me. And she was radiant. Even with only a modicum of grooming for herself she seemed to light up a room when entering. I suppose I should have wondered why there were no gentlemen callers luring her away during her days off. Yet girlish thoughts like that come later in life. And I was quite young. Plus normal male/female interaction was not apparent to me... not within mother’s household.
Besides the unnecessarily long interlude of nakedness while being dressed, there were other signs. My baths, during which Mademoiselle knelt beside the tub and laved my entire form, chamois and sweet smelling soap offered everywhere, in hindsight were subtle interludes of Sapphic affection... for her. I was indeed naive, her touch merely appreciated. Then there came that one bath that made a difference... well after Jackson’s ‘home schooling’ had begun. And well into adolescence. For it occurred at a later time when... I was deemed old enough to walk to school...
******************************************************************************
“Hold up your hair.”
The command as always is graciously asserted. And as I comply, I never give a thought as to why I need to keep dry hair that will soon be shampooed. But that is how Mademoiselle insists she bathe me... standing in nakedness in the tub, warm bubbly water at my knees, my hands atop my head holding in place the long raven strands.
The soft chamois smooths everywhere. Then, as it glides up my inner thigh, Mademoiselle’s free left hand extends. Nipples beginning to puff in puberty seem to attract. The thumb and forefinger gently grasp my nascent left breast, kneading to coax and gather up an abundance of wet slippery flesh.
“You are becoming a woman, Claudette,” Mademoiselle offers, the French accent always suffusing a degree of savoire-faire to the most libidinous acts.
Her touch thrills... more than usual. I smile and giggle as the fingers slip outward toward my nipple. My response becomes an invitation for more. And she affords. The chamois finds its way to my pubes. I part my feet. I don’t fully understand my own actions, but desire smolders. The fingers move to the right nipple and Mademoiselle seems to know it is even more sensitive. The chamois parts my nether lips. As she kneads my breast her right hand works... ever so gently... ever so knowingly. Yes, she masturbates. She knows I enjoy. I cannot cloak the intensity of the pleasure. My feet further part.
“You have played here as well, little one. Your bed sheets, they have on too many mornings reeked with a fine scent.”
Yes, I had discovered myself. And Mademoiselle knew it.
“You need not do so alone, Claudette. I am here to take care of your needs. And girls like you, your mother’s daughter, have special needs.”
I climax. Mademoiselle smiles in feeling the spasms of my clenching thighs, peering at my flushed nakedness with curious pride and amusement. She is pleased by my indecent yet welcoming response to her fondling.
As my knees slowly give way, Mademoiselle’s hand retracts, sliding away the chamois in knowing that I have not the strength to remain standing. I lowered, more like slithered, into the waiting warmth of the tub.
“Yes, it is time to shampoo now.”
******************************************************************************
Yes, a Darwinian change. No longer was I to furtively masturbate alone. Thereafter, bath after bath, Mademoiselle taught me more than a girl usually learns about herself in early puberty. I became a model student and bath time became revered. The chamois was offered with every cleansing.
The reference to being my ‘mother’s daughter’ would have brought much thought to an older girl. Mademoiselle hinted that I was special... had ‘special needs’. Genetics are not understood at that age. But Mademoiselle knew being born of the federal government’s omnipotent prosecutor for organized crime would foster something.
Meanwhile brother Jackson, interaction mainly at breakfast, learned to serve with grace and alacrity. The cook was no longer to be seen. Jackson dashed with food and beverage from the kitchen to the more decorous dining room which mother preferred since formal dinners were so sparse. He became adept. And not only was mother forever addressed as ‘ma’am’, but Mademoiselle was bestowed with the reverent moniker ‘Madam Governess’. And he served indeed with humility. I observed daily as Jackson was transformed to a household servant... a butler. I noticed the occasional cloaked curtsy of a maid. I suppose such was a slip. For whenever such a reaction became obvious, Madam Governess offered a furtive look of reproach.
I, as little sister, at one time a person held low in the realm of Jackson’s esteem, was treated as a little princess, matching the comportment offered Mademoiselle but with more servility. I was served... and with odd reverence considering Jackson was eight years my senior.
Other then that, it seemed that Jackson’s ‘home schooling’ required inordinate time. When I arrived home from school on weekday afternoons, Mademoiselle announced Jackson was studying. A third floor attic, once a huge toddler’s play area, became his study hall. The door always closed, Mademoiselle spent much time within, and I was instructed never to disturb. I was left alone to either study on my own or assist in cleaning the mansion.
Dinner time, casual meals offered by the cook in the kitchen with Mother working late, became the rare opportunity when time with Jackson could be availed. But he spoke little if at all. Silence seemed to be the rule with Mademoiselle sitting with us in strange supervision. But then one evening it happened. There came the inadvertent verbal slip which piqued my curiosity. Jackson asked for something to be passed to him... I recall not what. But he referenced me as ‘Miss Claudette’!
His little sister!
I was stunned and Mademoiselle noticed. She interrupted my thoughts before I could formulate a response.
‘You are tired, Claudette. A nice hot bath for you after dinner and we will talk.’
A bribe. An offering to suppress my reaction. And yes, another event. The reference of ‘baths’ or ‘bath time’ had by then become coded words for the slow masturbation Mademoiselle so elegantly bestowed on my hormone laden, blossoming teenaged form. I adored the manner in which she palpated my burgeoning breasts, not to mention that exploring chamois!
Message received. I remained quiet, pretending to ignore the telling moniker Jackson mentally bestowed upon me.
And thereafter?..
******************************************************************************
“You are a woman now, Claudette. Would you not like to bathe yourself?”
Yes, I am. But there has been a deleterious effect on my libido in enduring Mademoiselle’s skilled and frequently offered fingers. I have not the desire to even speak with boys much less go on a date. Thus her suggestion of a prandial dalliance is warmly accepted. Her knowing fingers and hands have become a narcotic... and me a groveling addict.
To the bathroom, I just meekly smile and wordlessly strip, knowing that there is quid quo pro to be presented. Mademoiselle enjoys the denuded female form... one still ripening to full womanhood. She peers for a time, smiles and begins filling the tub. Then a hand extends to my pubes. It tenderly gropes. I do not flinch one iota. Her touch is familiar.
“You need to be shaved again. It is the French way to be clean there.”
I nod my concurrence. Spreading for her has become foreplay for both of us. She prepares lotion and razor.
“You know Claudette, there are those born to govern... and those born to serve. As you are probably beginning to realize, your brother Jackson is among the latter.”
I move to the floor. In the abodes of the wealthy, bathrooms are akin to royal chambers. Mother has had the tiling beneath electrically heated. It is a joy just to walk about barefoot much less lie supine on a towel. The strong heat quickly radiates through the terrycloth. I assume a lithotomy position and part my knees. Mademoiselle kneels. She pauses. The otherwise obscene flash of pink brings a lascivious smile.
A hand extends to lather.
“The question is... are you among the former?”
I am not yet out of high school. Power, and the sexual exchange thereof, has not been a notion to be contemplated. For years, sexuality and the understanding thereof has been learned through frequent trysts with Mademoiselle... ostensibly under the guise of cleanliness. Though I have known no other touch, I know hers to be masterful!
The razor scythes.
“So in questioning Jackson... and his schooling... perhaps it should give rise to questions for yourself. There is a reason your mother engaged a person with my skills. And before you come to any conclusions, these interludes in the bathroom are recreational for me. My skills have been otherwise honed for the male gender. You have probably noted that Jackson and I spend countless hours togther. It is best for him... for those destined to serve. I make them better.”
Stubble removed, I thrill to the feel of a warm and wet towel. The woman knows the female anatomy. She pats my clitoral hood, jostling the fleshy mass with just the right tender pressure. I become wet within as well. And Mademoiselle knows it!
“Tonight I will once again offer you the benefits of my fingers, Claudette. But also tonight, as your thighs spasm in ecstasy, I want you to think of Jackson’s miscue... his words ‘Miss Claudette’. Should you be so referenced? And deep within, do you feel Jackson’s words were indeed a miscue? Or was he inviting something?”
The words bring thought as I arise and step to the tub, placing my hands on my head, eager for the chamois... the narcotic of Mademoiselle’s fingers.
“In time there will come schooling for you as well, Claudette. I suspect yours will not be as exacting and time consuming...”
******************************************************************************
I never shared the events, interactions with Mademoiselle, with any friends or classmates. Self masturbation was an embarrassing enough topic among teens. To describe my relationship with Mademoiselle? Being bathed like a toddler, the woman grooming me in the most intimate feminine place? To describe how those dextrous fingers brought waves of ecstasy... night... after night... after night?
I could not begin to explain that I still had a governess at an age when most teenagers thrive on independence.
Instead, silence instilled. And I generally withdrew from much social interaction, returning home from school... to study... to clean... but also to contemplate. For many days, Mademoiselle’s words brought reflection. When Jackson referred to me as ‘Miss Claudette’, was it an intended slip?
I could never find him to ask or discuss. His ‘schooling’ was long and I supposed arduous. Only near dinner time did he exit the third floor playroom turned study. And then it was to the kitchen to assist the cook. After dinner he disappeared back into the third floor room while I studied... and waited with giddy anticipation to be summoned for my ‘bath’.
I could only speak to Jackson at dinner, and he was then busy serving. During the daily family gatherings at breakfast, my imperious mother ruled, rendering unwarranted talk impossible.
Well, I suppose Mademoiselle’s prompt, posing the questions, did not work to fulfill her intentions. I did not broach the subject. So after a few days, late one night, there came another transforming event, well after the house quieted. Though mother had not yet arrived from a long day and evening of work, Mademoiselle sent me to bed. I was disappointed to bathe alone, no explanation offered for the abstention of her touch.
So I lied awake. Without my usual orgasm, slumber rebuffed. Then my bedroom door quietly opened. Mademoiselle was known to enter without knocking. On this occasion, the lights remained extinguished...
******************************************************************************
Half asleep, I roll within the sheets to ascertain who visits. But the door closes quickly, the soft lighting of the hallway eclipsed to return the room to complete darkness.
“Sush,” the accented voice of Mademoiselle directs sotto voce.
I feel the mattress yield. My eyes adjust to discern the form of my governess. She wears a negligee. It is brief and most diaphanous. I have never before seen her other than fully clothed. My heart leaps, yet my quim reacts more indecently.
“Your mother has arrived home. I want you to see something. But we must be very, very quiet. If you are good, you will feel my fingers.”
As she speaks, a hand slips under the sheets. I feel a tender caress on my left nipple, sensuous and knowing as always. I feel myself moisten more to her touch.
How can I not comply? After only one night of abstinence, my hormone laden body is lustfully overflowing with need. I nod and utter a soft ‘okay’.
“You are naked under the covers, Claudette. That is good. Now come with me to the door. I will carefully open it. Say nothing. Just watch. Later we will talk. And perhaps I will have your cunnie perform for me.”
Mademoiselle arises and moves to the door. Promised more narcotic, I eagerly toss aside the sheets and follow. At my bedroom door she slowly opens. Only a crack. The hall light again enters. I can see her hand and she gestures for me to peek into the hallway.
Internally the mansion is centered by a cavernous open space, the many bedroom doors surrounding a cathedral ceilinged area with a broad winding stairway leading downward to the main floor. A smaller second stairway leads upwards to the third floor playroom, now where Jackson is schooled. From my partially opened door I can see most of the bedroom entrances, the initial steps leading down and almost the entire stairway leading up to the third floor.
Within moments, Mademoiselle’s timing superb, my mother’s bedroom door opens. She has indeed arrived home, quietly as always. She noiselessly steps into the hall and I stifle a gasp. Mother wears a black leather bodice, tight. It perfectly outlines her ample mammary glands, hillocks normally veiled by the dour professional attire of her station. The garment leaves her midriff bare... a perfectly flat tummy. Below a pleated black leather skirt ends at mid thigh to display shapely legs.
I am pleasantly surprised to learn that my mother is a woman of attraction, her form fine and well tuned!
Mademoiselle’s hand rises. I feel a finger pressing my lips to remind of needed silence. For I also spy in mother’s right hand a thin length of rattan. I am shocked!
Walking with purpose, mother takes the stairs to the third floor. She is amazingly proficient, making barely a sound in opening the playroom door. Mademoiselle signals me to patiently wait. Then, within moments, again almost without sound, the third floor door reopens. Mother steps out. In her left hand is a thin leash, small metal links glinting in the dim hallway lights. She slowly moves toward the stairs. The leash directs something low to the floor which initially I cannot see. Then, as she descends the first few steps, behind follows a crawling form. I am stunned! The finger presses my lips more firmly as the crawling form follows, leashed at the face, taking the steps on hands and knees with surprising adroitness. The head is covered in black leather. Otherwise the form is naked!
Halfway down the stairs a crawling hand misses a step. Mother’s right arm rises. The rattan swings and taps the right buttock to bring the quick sound of a ‘splat’. With the diversion, Mademoiselle slowly closes the door. Continued viewing endangers as full descent will bring the bizarre duo very close to my bedroom.
Returned to the darkness, I feel the familiar touch of Mademoiselle’s hands. She embraces. On this occasion, she slips aside the thin folds of her negligee and presses her warm smooth flesh against my nakedness. Fingers tantalize my nipples. Another hand goes to my mons, pressing the clitoral hood in foreplay.
The physical arousal, mother’s attire, the sight of a leashed male, crawling about naked... I am overwhelmed.
Mademoiselle plays, apparently timing mother’s departure from the hallway, presumably returning to her bedroom. Assuming safeness, she finally whispers in my ear.
“Come to bed. We have things to discuss. Perhaps you have questions, no?”
I need no second invitation.
******************************************************************************
Yes, as stated, my perception of normality did not burst as would an overinflated balloon. It instead slowly deflated, the figurative air of propriety leaking away. That night the balloon became diminished to a crinkled mass of rubber.
Mademoiselle and I engaged in torrid Sapphic love making well into the night. Her fingers toyed. Her tongue and lips for the first time laved my nipples. Her hands and fingers danced about my love nest. I learned of the delights of penetration and this womanly erogenous zone termed the urethral sponge.
My addiction strengthened. The orgasms were many... and strong!
But there was little of the discussion Mademoiselle suggested. And no questions posed. Instead, as a deeply penetrating finger kneaded my newly discovered spot, Mademoiselle induced reminders of the bizarre scene I had just witnessed.
“Your brother Jackson has been well schooled, no?”
That notion brought the most thunderous climax of the long night. It was my only reply.
Yes, the thinning veneer of normality completely dissipated... at least within the mansion.
In place of the discussion, with dawn approaching, Mademoiselle arose and casually suggested.
“You may well benefit from some home schooling as well, Claudette. When you feel it is time, you will come and gently knock on the playroom door. And you will do so completely naked. In the afternoon, after you return from school is best.”
With that, the night ended and my beautiful governess strolled from my bedroom as if exiting a stylish shop on the Champs Elysees.
A torrid night of lovemaking was banal... for Mademoiselle.
******************************************************************************
The next morning, there came the daily interval of normality at breakfast. Jackson served with the usual aplomb as mother inquired about school and fulfilled other parental duties, including, so it seemed, the daily tirade berating her exhusband and our father. I did my best to put aside thoughts of the prior night’s antics. But there came a telling moment. Jackson inquired.
“More orange juice, Claudette?”
And I spontaneously responded.
“Yes, and I prefer ‘Miss Claudette’” I sternly replied.
Mother and Mademoiselle once again shared a telling glance... both suppressing grins.
Thereafter, my meek and ‘well schooled’ brother addressed his sister, younger by some eight years, as ‘Miss Claudette’. And he did so with the same enfeebled voice utilized in the respectful and most fearful exchanges with mother. Yes, when brother Jackson spoke to mother it was as if summoning the courage to engage a ferocious lioness. With my firm rebuke, his voice became equally challenged.
******************************************************************************
With the suggestion to join in the schooling, Mademoiselle’s invitation again brought abstention. Intentional?
Yes, the communal bathing was withdrawn. Having been offered the delights of frottaging against her fine nakedness, sensing the mastery of her penetrating fingers, attempted self masturbation brought only frustration.
Yet, it required days of chastity to bring forth the needed resolve. Putting aside the many interludes with Mademoiselle, I otherwise remained shy about my nakedness, my nubile form still developing. But as I am sure Mademoiselle cogitated before offering the invitation to the playroom, the mansion was empty during the late afternoon. The cook left after breakfast and returned at 5:00 p.m. Only brother Jackson and Mademoiselle were present, the former never seen and Mademoiselle only exiting the playroom/study for occasional refreshment.
And so in my state of sexual agitation, the decision came. Two days... three days... I recall not. But I do know that besides my concupiscence spurring the need for hormonal relief, there was this overpowering curiosity.
My brother, naked and masked, was seen crawling at the end of a leash! Under the guiding hand of my mother!
That quick correcting stroke of the rattan could not be forgotten. Plus there were the mysterious ‘special needs’, a subject matter broached but never consummated.
I came home from school and disrobed. Bashfulness melted. It was a quick journey from my bedroom to the third floor. Though apprehensive about appearing naked before Jackson, having been addressed as ‘Miss Claudette’ for several days stoked my fortitude and abetted my resolve.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Friday, February 12, 2010
New Book Published
Just published a story on Lulu. 'A Woman's Revenge'.
www.lulu.com/content/8340830. $4.00. Female dominant/male submissive. Over 20,000 words.
Really nasty. Lots of taboo stuff. No mainstream publisher would touch it.
Enjoy.
www.lulu.com/content/8340830. $4.00. Female dominant/male submissive. Over 20,000 words.
Really nasty. Lots of taboo stuff. No mainstream publisher would touch it.
Enjoy.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Short Story XXXII
“Would you like to grow breasts?”
The Queen graciously inquires. Before final release she enjoys interviewing her castrates. The meekness, brought by her edict, brings elation.
“I have not thought about it, your majesty,” the words slurred.
Edwina stands before the Queen donning his pink skirt. Dangling at mid thigh is the bronze disk bearing his name, crime and date of castration. It tugs at the pink flesh, sensitivity slowly returning after bearing the weight of the Queen’s booted foot.
“Show me your empty sac.”
Edwina knows to instantly reach to the hem of the short skirt. He sheepishly lifts to display the mass of flesh which once held the symbols of his masculinity, now jarred and augmenting Kendra’s collection.
“The weight of the disk will assist in assuring that your scrotum does not entirely wither. But you are aware, Edwin, that your penis will atrophy. The hormonal imbalance has that effect. But then again, its size is no longer of significance for you.”
The Queen smiles in noting the mournful look.
“Your branding took well. A very nice shade of pink. But you seem to have trouble speaking.”
“Miss Kendra pierced my tongue, your majesty.”
“Well, I trust that you thanked her for that. Good cunnilingus will keep you fed. And you may learn to offer proper analingus as well. There will be no limits to the depths of your servitude, Edwin. That tongue will keep you alive.”
The castrate nods. There can be no disagreement.
“Stroke yourself for me, Edwin. Let me see it stand one last time. You certainly enjoyed showing off for me in my dungeon.”
The left hand continues to hold the skirt, the right hand grasps the limp appendage. Edwin knows of the futility. He lamely tried to masturbate after Kendra removed his shackles and with a playful but firm smack to his buttocks sent him from the castration chamber.
It was a curious reaction. Succumbing, offering all to the powerful torturess, brought this strange need. Had the bonding already begun? He stroked most energetically to the image of her smiling face, recalled as she pressed the searing hot branding iron to his forehead. The results were dismal. The once viral organ barely firmed.
“Look at your Queen while you stroke, Edwin.”
“Yes, your majesty.”
There comes again a most disconcerting result. The Queen’s smile broadens as the castrate fails to achieve erection.
“Enough. You’ll wear away the skin,” the Queen admonishes with a snicker.
With that, the Queen snaps her fingers. Her naked cherub prances forth with a package.
“A gift for you, Edwin. A blouse. The finest silk. Very shortly your nipples will enjoy the feel of such finery. And if you indeed choose to grow breasts, let us know. Some special hormones will assist, though that useless penis will shrink even more.”
“Thank you your majesty.”
“Now before you leave, I have a task for you. There is a certain maiden who pleases the royal hounds. I believe it would be apt for you to practice some analingus. The coupling with my dogs makes her rather sore there and she would be appreciative of your tongue, I am sure."
The Queen graciously inquires. Before final release she enjoys interviewing her castrates. The meekness, brought by her edict, brings elation.
“I have not thought about it, your majesty,” the words slurred.
Edwina stands before the Queen donning his pink skirt. Dangling at mid thigh is the bronze disk bearing his name, crime and date of castration. It tugs at the pink flesh, sensitivity slowly returning after bearing the weight of the Queen’s booted foot.
“Show me your empty sac.”
Edwina knows to instantly reach to the hem of the short skirt. He sheepishly lifts to display the mass of flesh which once held the symbols of his masculinity, now jarred and augmenting Kendra’s collection.
“The weight of the disk will assist in assuring that your scrotum does not entirely wither. But you are aware, Edwin, that your penis will atrophy. The hormonal imbalance has that effect. But then again, its size is no longer of significance for you.”
The Queen smiles in noting the mournful look.
“Your branding took well. A very nice shade of pink. But you seem to have trouble speaking.”
“Miss Kendra pierced my tongue, your majesty.”
“Well, I trust that you thanked her for that. Good cunnilingus will keep you fed. And you may learn to offer proper analingus as well. There will be no limits to the depths of your servitude, Edwin. That tongue will keep you alive.”
The castrate nods. There can be no disagreement.
“Stroke yourself for me, Edwin. Let me see it stand one last time. You certainly enjoyed showing off for me in my dungeon.”
The left hand continues to hold the skirt, the right hand grasps the limp appendage. Edwin knows of the futility. He lamely tried to masturbate after Kendra removed his shackles and with a playful but firm smack to his buttocks sent him from the castration chamber.
It was a curious reaction. Succumbing, offering all to the powerful torturess, brought this strange need. Had the bonding already begun? He stroked most energetically to the image of her smiling face, recalled as she pressed the searing hot branding iron to his forehead. The results were dismal. The once viral organ barely firmed.
“Look at your Queen while you stroke, Edwin.”
“Yes, your majesty.”
There comes again a most disconcerting result. The Queen’s smile broadens as the castrate fails to achieve erection.
“Enough. You’ll wear away the skin,” the Queen admonishes with a snicker.
With that, the Queen snaps her fingers. Her naked cherub prances forth with a package.
“A gift for you, Edwin. A blouse. The finest silk. Very shortly your nipples will enjoy the feel of such finery. And if you indeed choose to grow breasts, let us know. Some special hormones will assist, though that useless penis will shrink even more.”
“Thank you your majesty.”
“Now before you leave, I have a task for you. There is a certain maiden who pleases the royal hounds. I believe it would be apt for you to practice some analingus. The coupling with my dogs makes her rather sore there and she would be appreciative of your tongue, I am sure."
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Short Story XXXI
There is the psychological relief that prolonged pain and suffering will end. But in addition there is the amazement that Miss Kendra’s diligent efforts offer little discomfort. Yes, the Queen’s booted foot indeed crushed the nerves. For as the Kingdom’s master torturess palms the squashed gonads and twists the sac to expose the left side to the laser scalpel, there is little to be felt.
Once Miss Kendra has decided to end amusing herself, the cat tiring of the mouse, she works with alacrity. The inmate hears a hum. From his stooped over position, belly resting on the castration bench, wrists secured to an above ceiling chain, feet widely parted, he can look upwards to partially observe.
Should he watch?
There is a slight burning sensation. Then, just as intolerance comes, it stops.
“Just a small incision. With the testicles crushed to the consistency of gelatin, such are easily slipped away and removed. You’ll have a nice smooth empty sac when finished... to be displayed to all. And the women of the Kingdom will search in amazement trying to locate my openings. The sac will heal perfectly and within weeks my openings will be unnoticeable.”
He hears soft laughter. Kendra so much enjoys her task.
Fingers pinch and squeeze. The inmate is aghast as he looks up to see one of his most precious balls exiting, expert fingers slipping it through a modest opening. It is pinkish gray and, after nearly an hour of pressure and eventually bearing the Queen’s full weight, horrifyingly shapeless. He closes his eyes in disbelief. Then he hears the shears. Yes, the sounds are aptly described as snips. And such an ironically meek sound. Too have one’s masculinity so timidly brought to an end...
The snips are followed by a metallic plunk. One reproductive organ lost, summarily plopped into a dish resembling a dog’s feeding bowl. The left is forever gone. The inmate opens his eyes to note the fingers carefully suture, tying off vessels, the vas deferens, the nerves. Then the opening is likewise sutured closed.
“In time, feeling here will return... though it will offer you no benefit.”
Kendra laughs in explaining the slow recovery from the trauma of being boarded. Yes, sensitivity will return. But only to frustrate... never again to bring joy.
The laser scalpel returns. The eyes close again, not able to bear the sight. The sac is twisted to expose the right side. More burning, yet too quick.
“I think I will pierce your tongue as well. A nice smooth protuberance at the tip. The ability to offer adequate cunnilingus and fellatio will help you beg for food.”
The fingers again pressing to coax a shapeless lump of pinkish gray from its nest. Then snip, snip, snip. A plunk. Some sutures. Tears begin to flow. The procedure is disconcertingly simple... and with so little to be felt.
Yes, there should instead be a glorious battle in giving up all masculinity. The testicles should be afforded an honorable end. To struggle... to engage in a manly joust... a duel. Instead, they merely drop... and plunk like falling fruit... to becomes trophies... for a woman... of unending wickedness... yet one of insurmountable will... of such admirable power.
“So... your name is Edwin,” Kendra comments in finally reading the inscribed disk. “I shall call you Edwina.”
As there comes the distant feel of a pin prick, a scrotal piercing to bear the bronze identification disk of the castrate, remorse overwhelms. There should be more to the end of one’s masculinity.
******************************************************************************
Edwina swoons, remaining secured to the castration bench. Despite the numbed scrotum, the Queen’s foot crushing the nerves to end most feeling, there is an amusing male systemic reaction to losing the testicles. In a startled state of denial, shock is the apt term, the psyche is overcome. Thus the head slumps as intense mental trauma ends consciousness. A smiling Kendra heats the branding iron. She has seen the reaction so often.
She’ll not imbue pain to the unconscious. What is the point? But she will allow rest while the last preparations are made. By royal edict, Edwina will bear the letter ‘C’, a three inch mark. Special colored powder will be applied to the open wound. Upon healing, not only will there be permanently keloided flesh, but it will appear to be bright pink, matching the color of the frilly effeminate skirt. Edwina’s altered state is never to be denied.
And so Kendra stokes the blazing coals to assure that the branding iron radiates terrifying hotness. She knows that the psychological element of succumbing to its scarring glow is as important as the physical burning of the flesh.
“Branding time...” Kendra proclaims in a pleasant matronly voice, as if awakening a child from an afternoon nap.
Yes, she coos. She finds that marking a man is as elating as removing his testicles... the permanence bringing soothing thoughts of power. Thus her workings bring forth another level of giddiness.
A left hand grasps the hair. Fingers entwine to acquire a firm grip. It is important that the forehead be immobilized for a three second count... and Kendra is known to count slowly. Fingers of the right hand apply special grease, better to transfer and conduct the heat. Edwina returns to full cognizance. Eyes widen in trepidation. The preparation gel is cool, renewing cerebral activity and with it the irony of renewed awareness as unconsciousness is best. The eyes roll to look about. A sense of reality returns.
His balls rest nearby in a metal dish!
“Please no.”
“But you do want to be released, Edwina. Just think, no more shackles. And I believe a man of your ilk will come to very much enjoy offering oral delectation. Neutering has that effect... the vicarious sensing of pleasure. You will only experience climactic ecstasy by offering such to others, never again for yourself. Yet there will be felt a strange level of joy. In offering fellatio, you will come to sense the male vitality I plucked from your scrotum. I have seen it often. Yes, the Queen has forbidden vile acts of oral sex to be performed by the women of the Kingdom. So when her breeders seek the foreplay of tongue and lips, it will be the miscreant castrates who submit.”
Kendra smiles in noting the horrified reaction to her words. She then assures there is full alertness and reaches with her right, her left hand maintaining its grip. The branding iron is retrieved. She holds it before the alarmed, saucer sized eyes of her castrate. It glows ominously.
“You will never deny your alteration, Edwina. Should you defy the Queen’s mandate of wearing the skirt, your forehead will continue to divulge your status.”
With that, the right hand slowly approaches. Kendra smiles in hearing the pitiful cry even before application. When she presses the hot iron to the flesh, the cry turns to a girlish scream. Powerful arm muscles flex, the grip tightens, the right hand presses with zeal despite the heartfelt protestations. She counts... a most disconcertingly slow... ‘one... two... three’.
The flesh burns. The odor is sickening. The voice box strains, a most comical screech. The head first attempts defiance, the neck muscles straining for release. But Kendra’s grip is strong. Then there comes once again capitulation... more like another swoon... as Kendra’s hand senses that it bears the full weight of the cranium. All muscling slackens. Edwina’s form becomes limp.
“Such a trying day for you, Edwina,” a jovial Kendra notes in finally pulling away the cooled iron.
The left hand releases. The head slumps again.
“Now some special pink powder for the wound, a nice tongue piercing and twenty four more hours in bondage while you heal. Then you’re a free man... or rather a free castrate.”
Once Miss Kendra has decided to end amusing herself, the cat tiring of the mouse, she works with alacrity. The inmate hears a hum. From his stooped over position, belly resting on the castration bench, wrists secured to an above ceiling chain, feet widely parted, he can look upwards to partially observe.
Should he watch?
There is a slight burning sensation. Then, just as intolerance comes, it stops.
“Just a small incision. With the testicles crushed to the consistency of gelatin, such are easily slipped away and removed. You’ll have a nice smooth empty sac when finished... to be displayed to all. And the women of the Kingdom will search in amazement trying to locate my openings. The sac will heal perfectly and within weeks my openings will be unnoticeable.”
He hears soft laughter. Kendra so much enjoys her task.
Fingers pinch and squeeze. The inmate is aghast as he looks up to see one of his most precious balls exiting, expert fingers slipping it through a modest opening. It is pinkish gray and, after nearly an hour of pressure and eventually bearing the Queen’s full weight, horrifyingly shapeless. He closes his eyes in disbelief. Then he hears the shears. Yes, the sounds are aptly described as snips. And such an ironically meek sound. Too have one’s masculinity so timidly brought to an end...
The snips are followed by a metallic plunk. One reproductive organ lost, summarily plopped into a dish resembling a dog’s feeding bowl. The left is forever gone. The inmate opens his eyes to note the fingers carefully suture, tying off vessels, the vas deferens, the nerves. Then the opening is likewise sutured closed.
“In time, feeling here will return... though it will offer you no benefit.”
Kendra laughs in explaining the slow recovery from the trauma of being boarded. Yes, sensitivity will return. But only to frustrate... never again to bring joy.
The laser scalpel returns. The eyes close again, not able to bear the sight. The sac is twisted to expose the right side. More burning, yet too quick.
“I think I will pierce your tongue as well. A nice smooth protuberance at the tip. The ability to offer adequate cunnilingus and fellatio will help you beg for food.”
The fingers again pressing to coax a shapeless lump of pinkish gray from its nest. Then snip, snip, snip. A plunk. Some sutures. Tears begin to flow. The procedure is disconcertingly simple... and with so little to be felt.
Yes, there should instead be a glorious battle in giving up all masculinity. The testicles should be afforded an honorable end. To struggle... to engage in a manly joust... a duel. Instead, they merely drop... and plunk like falling fruit... to becomes trophies... for a woman... of unending wickedness... yet one of insurmountable will... of such admirable power.
“So... your name is Edwin,” Kendra comments in finally reading the inscribed disk. “I shall call you Edwina.”
As there comes the distant feel of a pin prick, a scrotal piercing to bear the bronze identification disk of the castrate, remorse overwhelms. There should be more to the end of one’s masculinity.
******************************************************************************
Edwina swoons, remaining secured to the castration bench. Despite the numbed scrotum, the Queen’s foot crushing the nerves to end most feeling, there is an amusing male systemic reaction to losing the testicles. In a startled state of denial, shock is the apt term, the psyche is overcome. Thus the head slumps as intense mental trauma ends consciousness. A smiling Kendra heats the branding iron. She has seen the reaction so often.
She’ll not imbue pain to the unconscious. What is the point? But she will allow rest while the last preparations are made. By royal edict, Edwina will bear the letter ‘C’, a three inch mark. Special colored powder will be applied to the open wound. Upon healing, not only will there be permanently keloided flesh, but it will appear to be bright pink, matching the color of the frilly effeminate skirt. Edwina’s altered state is never to be denied.
And so Kendra stokes the blazing coals to assure that the branding iron radiates terrifying hotness. She knows that the psychological element of succumbing to its scarring glow is as important as the physical burning of the flesh.
“Branding time...” Kendra proclaims in a pleasant matronly voice, as if awakening a child from an afternoon nap.
Yes, she coos. She finds that marking a man is as elating as removing his testicles... the permanence bringing soothing thoughts of power. Thus her workings bring forth another level of giddiness.
A left hand grasps the hair. Fingers entwine to acquire a firm grip. It is important that the forehead be immobilized for a three second count... and Kendra is known to count slowly. Fingers of the right hand apply special grease, better to transfer and conduct the heat. Edwina returns to full cognizance. Eyes widen in trepidation. The preparation gel is cool, renewing cerebral activity and with it the irony of renewed awareness as unconsciousness is best. The eyes roll to look about. A sense of reality returns.
His balls rest nearby in a metal dish!
“Please no.”
“But you do want to be released, Edwina. Just think, no more shackles. And I believe a man of your ilk will come to very much enjoy offering oral delectation. Neutering has that effect... the vicarious sensing of pleasure. You will only experience climactic ecstasy by offering such to others, never again for yourself. Yet there will be felt a strange level of joy. In offering fellatio, you will come to sense the male vitality I plucked from your scrotum. I have seen it often. Yes, the Queen has forbidden vile acts of oral sex to be performed by the women of the Kingdom. So when her breeders seek the foreplay of tongue and lips, it will be the miscreant castrates who submit.”
Kendra smiles in noting the horrified reaction to her words. She then assures there is full alertness and reaches with her right, her left hand maintaining its grip. The branding iron is retrieved. She holds it before the alarmed, saucer sized eyes of her castrate. It glows ominously.
“You will never deny your alteration, Edwina. Should you defy the Queen’s mandate of wearing the skirt, your forehead will continue to divulge your status.”
With that, the right hand slowly approaches. Kendra smiles in hearing the pitiful cry even before application. When she presses the hot iron to the flesh, the cry turns to a girlish scream. Powerful arm muscles flex, the grip tightens, the right hand presses with zeal despite the heartfelt protestations. She counts... a most disconcertingly slow... ‘one... two... three’.
The flesh burns. The odor is sickening. The voice box strains, a most comical screech. The head first attempts defiance, the neck muscles straining for release. But Kendra’s grip is strong. Then there comes once again capitulation... more like another swoon... as Kendra’s hand senses that it bears the full weight of the cranium. All muscling slackens. Edwina’s form becomes limp.
“Such a trying day for you, Edwina,” a jovial Kendra notes in finally pulling away the cooled iron.
The left hand releases. The head slumps again.
“Now some special pink powder for the wound, a nice tongue piercing and twenty four more hours in bondage while you heal. Then you’re a free man... or rather a free castrate.”
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Short story XXX
He to be emasculated rides the poles again. Despite Kendra’s words of counsel, the shackled feet squirm, flopping about in futile efforts to find the floor. Tears streams. Heartfelt pleas, muffled by a well stuffed throat, are greeted with a knowing smile. Kendra is in her element... supervising the slow torture of the once virile male.
“Quiet. Calm yourself and I will castrate you soon.”
The words are oddly welcomed as knowing fingers toy with male nipples which she expects will soon be puffing and gaining new found sensitivity. Her touch soothes. And yes, castration will be welcomed indeed. Two simple cuts, some snips, the intense but brief pain of the branding. The emasculated envisions such with great hope. His anus... his mouth no longer to bear his weight. The slow suffering of strappado to end.
The inmate finally manages to control his involuntary lurches. Realizing that his indiscernible entreaties bring more joy than sympathy, he quiets. Kendra’s hands move to the face, her thumbs brushing away an abundance of tears.
“We do it this way so you will remember. Complete capitulation to the superior female. It is the law of the Kingdom. And since you have had problems in the past obeying the law, this will greatly assist.”
Yes, Kendra has tortured so many for so long, she recognizes the non gesture of surrender... telltale quiet... symbolic of new found meekness... awe of her callousness. Yes, there always comes the docility of the subjugated. Physical resistance ends... it always does. There are no further pleas. Her soon to be castrated inmate is broken, accepting of her dominion and whatever fate she chooses to mete.
Kendra smiles then leans. She whispers into his right ear, the warmth of her breath feels oddly good.
“No more shackles. An instant of pain. A nice pink skirt. You’ll be free to roam the Kingdom. In your humility you will soon find a curious degree of hubris in displaying your alteration... an empty scrotum bearing the Royal seal... a symbol of the mastery of the Queen.”
Underscoring her power, Kendra steps back, smiling in admiration of her handiwork. The clear message well received... complete capitulation indeed. The timing is hers. There is no rush.
Broken, beleaguered, ironically eager to face her scalpel, a once petty thief is to become a beggar, to rely on the graciousness of women in the struggle for survival.
Finally Kendra moves to the side.
“Now let’s get those squashed little lumps out of the Queen’s scrotum.”
Gratefully the stool returns. The feet find the surface to relieve the burden, ease the slow suffering of the arms held in strappado, the stress on throat and rectum. Next the forward pole again retreats to slide away the oral dildo.
“Please! Castrate me!”
**********************************************************************************************
“Doggie style. I always insist. The results are the same, but it’s so nicely subjugating. Come crawl to me.”
The inmate no longer rides the poles. Though wrist restraints remain, his ankle shackles have been removed in the first step toward his ignominious emancipation. Fully clothed Kendra, donning a white uniform in deference to the medical procedure to be undertaken, sits and snaps her fingers. The inmate obediently responds, shuffling his knees to approach.
“Turn. Over the bowl. Knees wide apart. Forehead to the floor.”
He complies. Fingers of a gloved left hand slide into a lubricated and well opened rectum. The fingers of the right, ungloved, reach under and between the thighs to find the penis. Kendra smiles to herself in noting it is semi stiff... and rapidly firming.
Yes, the psychologically broken male so much enjoys showing off for the governing woman.
“Now, I’m going to masturbate you. One final ejaculation before life as a functioning male ends. I want you to perform for me. Put on a little show. It will be memorable for both of us.”
Kendra talks as she strokes. The inmate bristles with the pangs of pleasure. Goose bumps form. Her hand is most sensuous and knowing. It grips tightly, communicating a message of control, but also expertly rubs the most sensitive of erogenous zones with deft skill.
The penetrating fingers of the left hand find the prostate and knead. Within seconds there comes full erection and Kendra slowly pulls the organ downward and back toward her, knowing such an awkward angle will forestall the ultimate male pleasure. Meanwhile her hand continues to stroke and twist to bring ecstasy long denied in the Queen’s stark dungeon.
“I can keep a man on the edge until he exhausts himself, my emasculated friend. I usually stroke until I become bored, then I have him spend. Then comes the little cuts and the snips.”
The daunting words no longer stun. Pleasure is being had, and the inmate fully understands it is his last. He also understands the mental nature of the protocol... ‘we do it this way to make it memorable’.
He will remember indeed.
Hips begin to rock, accentuating the motion of Kendra’s hand, desperately trying to bring the ultimate. But the angle is Kendra’s to control. And she knows there will be no final release until she decides.
Meanwhile there is great amusement. Kendra revels in the moment. A male she will soon permanently alter is physically beseeching her for one last instant of male pleasure. And it is hers to bestow... not his to take.
The hand slows as the hips rock more exaggeratedly. Kendra softly laughs as the motion of copulation is emulated. Finally she stops stroking and merely grips, rolling her hand such that the underside of the penis tip is no longer frottaged. The inmate moans in disappointment, the joy quite diminished. Yet the hips work with renewed fervor.
“I think you’d like to fuck my hand. Yes, let’s have that as your final climax. Pretend my hand is like the aperture your anus will soon become... a nice warm and tight place to pleasure the intact male.”
With that, Kendra slightly shifts the angle of the penis and renews kneading the penis tip. The inmate thrusts forcefully with his hips. Kendra knows to twist. There comes a muffled groan. Another thrust. Kendra rights the penis. She twists with resolve. The organ explodes, spurting to hit the bowl as it is Kendra’s prerogative to direct.
More thrusts. The organ spurts again. Again. Again. She drains.
Finally the inmate labors with his bent knees, pulling himself from her hands. His legs collapse and he rolls in exhaustion to his side.
Kendra chortles with the demonstration of male drive... under thorough feminine control... soon to be forever curtailed. A foot pushes a fluid splattered bowl toward the inmate’s face.
“Note that your effluent is perfectly clear. There is no sperm, just prostatic fluid. Your balls no longer function.”
With that, Kendra arises to gather her castration implements... nothing more than a laser scalpel, a small set of shears and some sutures.
“It is time. Come... lean over my castration bench. And be sure to spread nice and wide for me.”
“Quiet. Calm yourself and I will castrate you soon.”
The words are oddly welcomed as knowing fingers toy with male nipples which she expects will soon be puffing and gaining new found sensitivity. Her touch soothes. And yes, castration will be welcomed indeed. Two simple cuts, some snips, the intense but brief pain of the branding. The emasculated envisions such with great hope. His anus... his mouth no longer to bear his weight. The slow suffering of strappado to end.
The inmate finally manages to control his involuntary lurches. Realizing that his indiscernible entreaties bring more joy than sympathy, he quiets. Kendra’s hands move to the face, her thumbs brushing away an abundance of tears.
“We do it this way so you will remember. Complete capitulation to the superior female. It is the law of the Kingdom. And since you have had problems in the past obeying the law, this will greatly assist.”
Yes, Kendra has tortured so many for so long, she recognizes the non gesture of surrender... telltale quiet... symbolic of new found meekness... awe of her callousness. Yes, there always comes the docility of the subjugated. Physical resistance ends... it always does. There are no further pleas. Her soon to be castrated inmate is broken, accepting of her dominion and whatever fate she chooses to mete.
Kendra smiles then leans. She whispers into his right ear, the warmth of her breath feels oddly good.
“No more shackles. An instant of pain. A nice pink skirt. You’ll be free to roam the Kingdom. In your humility you will soon find a curious degree of hubris in displaying your alteration... an empty scrotum bearing the Royal seal... a symbol of the mastery of the Queen.”
Underscoring her power, Kendra steps back, smiling in admiration of her handiwork. The clear message well received... complete capitulation indeed. The timing is hers. There is no rush.
Broken, beleaguered, ironically eager to face her scalpel, a once petty thief is to become a beggar, to rely on the graciousness of women in the struggle for survival.
Finally Kendra moves to the side.
“Now let’s get those squashed little lumps out of the Queen’s scrotum.”
Gratefully the stool returns. The feet find the surface to relieve the burden, ease the slow suffering of the arms held in strappado, the stress on throat and rectum. Next the forward pole again retreats to slide away the oral dildo.
“Please! Castrate me!”
**********************************************************************************************
“Doggie style. I always insist. The results are the same, but it’s so nicely subjugating. Come crawl to me.”
The inmate no longer rides the poles. Though wrist restraints remain, his ankle shackles have been removed in the first step toward his ignominious emancipation. Fully clothed Kendra, donning a white uniform in deference to the medical procedure to be undertaken, sits and snaps her fingers. The inmate obediently responds, shuffling his knees to approach.
“Turn. Over the bowl. Knees wide apart. Forehead to the floor.”
He complies. Fingers of a gloved left hand slide into a lubricated and well opened rectum. The fingers of the right, ungloved, reach under and between the thighs to find the penis. Kendra smiles to herself in noting it is semi stiff... and rapidly firming.
Yes, the psychologically broken male so much enjoys showing off for the governing woman.
“Now, I’m going to masturbate you. One final ejaculation before life as a functioning male ends. I want you to perform for me. Put on a little show. It will be memorable for both of us.”
Kendra talks as she strokes. The inmate bristles with the pangs of pleasure. Goose bumps form. Her hand is most sensuous and knowing. It grips tightly, communicating a message of control, but also expertly rubs the most sensitive of erogenous zones with deft skill.
The penetrating fingers of the left hand find the prostate and knead. Within seconds there comes full erection and Kendra slowly pulls the organ downward and back toward her, knowing such an awkward angle will forestall the ultimate male pleasure. Meanwhile her hand continues to stroke and twist to bring ecstasy long denied in the Queen’s stark dungeon.
“I can keep a man on the edge until he exhausts himself, my emasculated friend. I usually stroke until I become bored, then I have him spend. Then comes the little cuts and the snips.”
The daunting words no longer stun. Pleasure is being had, and the inmate fully understands it is his last. He also understands the mental nature of the protocol... ‘we do it this way to make it memorable’.
He will remember indeed.
Hips begin to rock, accentuating the motion of Kendra’s hand, desperately trying to bring the ultimate. But the angle is Kendra’s to control. And she knows there will be no final release until she decides.
Meanwhile there is great amusement. Kendra revels in the moment. A male she will soon permanently alter is physically beseeching her for one last instant of male pleasure. And it is hers to bestow... not his to take.
The hand slows as the hips rock more exaggeratedly. Kendra softly laughs as the motion of copulation is emulated. Finally she stops stroking and merely grips, rolling her hand such that the underside of the penis tip is no longer frottaged. The inmate moans in disappointment, the joy quite diminished. Yet the hips work with renewed fervor.
“I think you’d like to fuck my hand. Yes, let’s have that as your final climax. Pretend my hand is like the aperture your anus will soon become... a nice warm and tight place to pleasure the intact male.”
With that, Kendra slightly shifts the angle of the penis and renews kneading the penis tip. The inmate thrusts forcefully with his hips. Kendra knows to twist. There comes a muffled groan. Another thrust. Kendra rights the penis. She twists with resolve. The organ explodes, spurting to hit the bowl as it is Kendra’s prerogative to direct.
More thrusts. The organ spurts again. Again. Again. She drains.
Finally the inmate labors with his bent knees, pulling himself from her hands. His legs collapse and he rolls in exhaustion to his side.
Kendra chortles with the demonstration of male drive... under thorough feminine control... soon to be forever curtailed. A foot pushes a fluid splattered bowl toward the inmate’s face.
“Note that your effluent is perfectly clear. There is no sperm, just prostatic fluid. Your balls no longer function.”
With that, Kendra arises to gather her castration implements... nothing more than a laser scalpel, a small set of shears and some sutures.
“It is time. Come... lean over my castration bench. And be sure to spread nice and wide for me.”
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Short story XXIX
Been having internet problems. But the writing continues.
***********************************************************************************************
“It’s a fiendishly clever torture, is it not? There is not only the physical pain and duress, but the psychological side. Men are not accustomed to being impaled, for the most part. But then again, it is probably best that you no longer consider yourself male.”
The inmate stands on a small stool. His wrists, shackled as always behind his back, are secured above, hooked to a cable emanating from a ceiling hook. He is thus stooped at the waist. Strappado is the common term for the age old torture.
Yet it is not strappado that most aggravates. Before the inmate and behind are vertical poles. Attached are dildos, able to be raised or lowered according to height, accommodating inmates both tall and short.
Kendra has casually placed her prospective ‘patient’ between the poles, and in standard procedure, penetrated both the oral and anal openings with the stout, firm lengths of rubber.
“When I perform a final alteration, I prefer a man request the attention of my castrating hands. It comforts to hear a man beg to lose his precious testicles. Matter of fact, it more than comforts, it makes me giddy with happiness. And you’re to have a new role in life... making women happy.”
The inmate cannot respond, mouth filled with rubber... throat stuffed to the point that the he must suppress the gag reflex. And of course there is equal aggravation felt between his cheeks. Though Kendra graciously lubricated, the sizable dildo is intended to bring both pain and a sense of vulnerability... and it is effective.
“So when you’re ready to beg, you will blink twice. After that I will release you and we’ll have a little talk. I like to hear the humble request, your final words as an intact male. Then I will snip away, brand you and have you in a nice pink skirt ready to face your new life. Think of the freedom you’ll have. No more shackles.”
Kendra reaches beneath. The fingers of right hand and left gently knead and diddle the nipples. The touch of her fingers is amazing sensuous considering... considering the procedure such will soon perform.
“Until then you’ll ride for me. The record interval is nearly an hour. I suggest you not try to break it.”
Kendra laughs sensing the nipples harden in response. The inmate curses his involuntary reaction.
“These little nubs will become quite the erogenous zone for you, my soon to be neutered friend.”
The eyes water. Tears begin to form as the inmate mentally confronts his fate.
“Oh, now don’t cry. Your balls are useless to you and must be removed. It must be quite humiliating to have lost them to a woman’s foot. Yet, there should be a degree of pride. After all, it was the foot of the monarchy. If one must be emasculated, it may as well be done by a royal boot.”
Kendra laughs with the maudlin look.
“And you’ll have some special jewelry to wear.”
Kendra turns. From the nearby tray, the tools of castration awaiting, she retrieves a circular disk of bronze.
“Etched with the Royal seal to obviate tampering. On the other side your name, your crime, the date of your castration... to be displayed to all. A bell will be attached to announce your presence. And it will hang from where those crushed testicles now hang. It is the Queen’s mandate. Evidence of your neutering will forever dangle between your thighs, attached to your empty scrotum.”
Kendra steps to the rear. Her free hand palms where she will soon incise. Where once indeed dangled manly plums, there is now found a mass of jello, incarnadine with the trauma of a royal boot. Yes, the inmate was boarded, his testicles slowly squeezed until they popped, bringing much mirth to the Queen and cries of intense agony from the emasculated. As required, the useless organs must be removed... but not until there is final concession, words comprising the most ignominious request.
Kendra’s thumb and forefinger squeeze, normally inducing a reaction of pain. Instead there is not even a quiver, the boarding having crushed the nerves along with vessels and semen ducts. The inmate is no longer a functioning male. But under the Queen’s mandate, he must present himself as such as well, the scrotal sac emptied. Yes, the branding iron heats. Keloided flesh of the forehead forming the letter ‘C’ will announce his status... the pink skirt to be raised at the simple request of any female... the belled disk to hang within view of all... its chiming to proclaim the status of the bearer... his crime never to be denied... his obvious punishment a deterrent for all.
The hand glides forward. Kendra smiles in noting that the penis is somewhat firm, the dildo spurring the curious reaction despite the trauma of emasculation and the stress of strappado and impalement.
“You’re becoming stiff for me. How considerate of you to display your last erection. I like castrating erect men. Blink for me and I’ll have it standing like never before... and never again.”
Kendra laughs and returns to the tray.
“Remember, blink twice and then I will snip.”
With that, the inmate, having somewhat acclimated to the dual penetration, is appalled when Kendra steps to his side and her foot slowly pushes the stool out from under the shackled ankles. The feet begin to frantically search for the floor, yet the surface is not to be found. The inmate’s form shifts, to be born orally and anally, the impaling dildos bearing his entire weight. As the strappadoed arms labor to relieve the stress, there comes a throaty, indiscernible wail of distress as Kendra laughs.
“I believe you will find it is best to remain perfectly still. And even better still if you blink.”
******************************************************************************
“Fifteen minutes is not too bad, my emasculated friend. But you could have gone longer if you had not so frantically kept searching for the floor with your feet.”
A smiling Kendra, having noted the exaggerated double blink, graciously works a lever to slide away the front pole. The mouth dildo slips away. The inmate, feet returned to the small stool, senses the relative relief. There are stifled sighs of gratitude, tears now of joy streaming down his cheeks.
Yes, he is to endure castration. But there will come the end of the inexorable pain. Only a life of humiliation will follow.
The dildo exits, glinting in the room light with a coating of saliva.
“Now you will offer the words. But first let me give you some of my experience in castrating men.”
Kendra steps most proximate and gently brushes the inmate’s hair then kneads the right ear. It brings strange comfort.
“You will never forget this. And never forget me. And I like that. It empowers... and exhilarates. And I want to be sure you understand that. Those useless little nuts will join my collection. And you will feel great relief.”
The head nods, words not easily found.
“After I empty your sac, you will find yourself lethargic. There will come mental changes... confusion. You will develop a need for guidance... like a kitten in need of a protective mother cat. You will constantly seek... but you will know not for what. And there will come a curious need to talk to me, your castratrix. I have so many that approach me like abandoned puppies. And there will be times when you will desire the pain you have so diligently tried to avoid. In lacking the ability to climax, forever robbed of the ultimate male pleasure... pillaged by a woman’s hand... you will seek catharsis. Most favor a good caning... to the buttocks... to the feet. And if you choose to visit... and you will... I will accommodate.”
Kendra smiles noting the slight nod of understanding.
“Yes, we will bond, you and me... castratrix and castrate. There will come this sense of loss... and a need for counsel... to converse... with the woman who forever altered you. Yes, psychologically you will convince yourself that I have the power to return your masculinity.”
Kendra gently laughs, her kindliness enjoyingly ironic, offered before the quick incisions and snips which will end all maleness. She is superior. And the inmate knows it. She has the power of great will, plundering the scrotal sac as one would harvest fruit. Mere moments of her time will forever bring change.
“Just think of your new existence, my emasculated friend. You’re going to become wonderfully plump. Without your balls soft layers of feminine fatness will develop. The silk skirt we’ll dress you in will begin to feel most welcomed. A desire for other fine garments will grow. Smooth, soft, gaily colored... you’ll learn to relish the feel.”
Kendra’s discourse is accompanied with soothing strokes of her hands. She playfully taps the nose.
“So let me hear the words now. With a courteous request we’ll have those nasty male organs gone forever.”
There comes a pause. Kendra again reaches beneath. Right nipple and left are once again caressed. The inmate relents. He has no control... no basis for further resistance.
“Please, Miss Kendra. I need to be released. Would you please take them?”
“Take what? Be very specific.”
“Would you please snip.”
“You mean you would like to be castrated. Be very, very clear. Say the words.”
“Miss Kendra, would you please castrate me?”
The hands retreat. The smile glows. There is a moment of quiet glee. Then the pole is slowly pushed back into position, the dildo again introduced to the lips and mouth.
“Yes. But I’d like to see you ride just a little longer...”
***********************************************************************************************
“It’s a fiendishly clever torture, is it not? There is not only the physical pain and duress, but the psychological side. Men are not accustomed to being impaled, for the most part. But then again, it is probably best that you no longer consider yourself male.”
The inmate stands on a small stool. His wrists, shackled as always behind his back, are secured above, hooked to a cable emanating from a ceiling hook. He is thus stooped at the waist. Strappado is the common term for the age old torture.
Yet it is not strappado that most aggravates. Before the inmate and behind are vertical poles. Attached are dildos, able to be raised or lowered according to height, accommodating inmates both tall and short.
Kendra has casually placed her prospective ‘patient’ between the poles, and in standard procedure, penetrated both the oral and anal openings with the stout, firm lengths of rubber.
“When I perform a final alteration, I prefer a man request the attention of my castrating hands. It comforts to hear a man beg to lose his precious testicles. Matter of fact, it more than comforts, it makes me giddy with happiness. And you’re to have a new role in life... making women happy.”
The inmate cannot respond, mouth filled with rubber... throat stuffed to the point that the he must suppress the gag reflex. And of course there is equal aggravation felt between his cheeks. Though Kendra graciously lubricated, the sizable dildo is intended to bring both pain and a sense of vulnerability... and it is effective.
“So when you’re ready to beg, you will blink twice. After that I will release you and we’ll have a little talk. I like to hear the humble request, your final words as an intact male. Then I will snip away, brand you and have you in a nice pink skirt ready to face your new life. Think of the freedom you’ll have. No more shackles.”
Kendra reaches beneath. The fingers of right hand and left gently knead and diddle the nipples. The touch of her fingers is amazing sensuous considering... considering the procedure such will soon perform.
“Until then you’ll ride for me. The record interval is nearly an hour. I suggest you not try to break it.”
Kendra laughs sensing the nipples harden in response. The inmate curses his involuntary reaction.
“These little nubs will become quite the erogenous zone for you, my soon to be neutered friend.”
The eyes water. Tears begin to form as the inmate mentally confronts his fate.
“Oh, now don’t cry. Your balls are useless to you and must be removed. It must be quite humiliating to have lost them to a woman’s foot. Yet, there should be a degree of pride. After all, it was the foot of the monarchy. If one must be emasculated, it may as well be done by a royal boot.”
Kendra laughs with the maudlin look.
“And you’ll have some special jewelry to wear.”
Kendra turns. From the nearby tray, the tools of castration awaiting, she retrieves a circular disk of bronze.
“Etched with the Royal seal to obviate tampering. On the other side your name, your crime, the date of your castration... to be displayed to all. A bell will be attached to announce your presence. And it will hang from where those crushed testicles now hang. It is the Queen’s mandate. Evidence of your neutering will forever dangle between your thighs, attached to your empty scrotum.”
Kendra steps to the rear. Her free hand palms where she will soon incise. Where once indeed dangled manly plums, there is now found a mass of jello, incarnadine with the trauma of a royal boot. Yes, the inmate was boarded, his testicles slowly squeezed until they popped, bringing much mirth to the Queen and cries of intense agony from the emasculated. As required, the useless organs must be removed... but not until there is final concession, words comprising the most ignominious request.
Kendra’s thumb and forefinger squeeze, normally inducing a reaction of pain. Instead there is not even a quiver, the boarding having crushed the nerves along with vessels and semen ducts. The inmate is no longer a functioning male. But under the Queen’s mandate, he must present himself as such as well, the scrotal sac emptied. Yes, the branding iron heats. Keloided flesh of the forehead forming the letter ‘C’ will announce his status... the pink skirt to be raised at the simple request of any female... the belled disk to hang within view of all... its chiming to proclaim the status of the bearer... his crime never to be denied... his obvious punishment a deterrent for all.
The hand glides forward. Kendra smiles in noting that the penis is somewhat firm, the dildo spurring the curious reaction despite the trauma of emasculation and the stress of strappado and impalement.
“You’re becoming stiff for me. How considerate of you to display your last erection. I like castrating erect men. Blink for me and I’ll have it standing like never before... and never again.”
Kendra laughs and returns to the tray.
“Remember, blink twice and then I will snip.”
With that, the inmate, having somewhat acclimated to the dual penetration, is appalled when Kendra steps to his side and her foot slowly pushes the stool out from under the shackled ankles. The feet begin to frantically search for the floor, yet the surface is not to be found. The inmate’s form shifts, to be born orally and anally, the impaling dildos bearing his entire weight. As the strappadoed arms labor to relieve the stress, there comes a throaty, indiscernible wail of distress as Kendra laughs.
“I believe you will find it is best to remain perfectly still. And even better still if you blink.”
******************************************************************************
“Fifteen minutes is not too bad, my emasculated friend. But you could have gone longer if you had not so frantically kept searching for the floor with your feet.”
A smiling Kendra, having noted the exaggerated double blink, graciously works a lever to slide away the front pole. The mouth dildo slips away. The inmate, feet returned to the small stool, senses the relative relief. There are stifled sighs of gratitude, tears now of joy streaming down his cheeks.
Yes, he is to endure castration. But there will come the end of the inexorable pain. Only a life of humiliation will follow.
The dildo exits, glinting in the room light with a coating of saliva.
“Now you will offer the words. But first let me give you some of my experience in castrating men.”
Kendra steps most proximate and gently brushes the inmate’s hair then kneads the right ear. It brings strange comfort.
“You will never forget this. And never forget me. And I like that. It empowers... and exhilarates. And I want to be sure you understand that. Those useless little nuts will join my collection. And you will feel great relief.”
The head nods, words not easily found.
“After I empty your sac, you will find yourself lethargic. There will come mental changes... confusion. You will develop a need for guidance... like a kitten in need of a protective mother cat. You will constantly seek... but you will know not for what. And there will come a curious need to talk to me, your castratrix. I have so many that approach me like abandoned puppies. And there will be times when you will desire the pain you have so diligently tried to avoid. In lacking the ability to climax, forever robbed of the ultimate male pleasure... pillaged by a woman’s hand... you will seek catharsis. Most favor a good caning... to the buttocks... to the feet. And if you choose to visit... and you will... I will accommodate.”
Kendra smiles noting the slight nod of understanding.
“Yes, we will bond, you and me... castratrix and castrate. There will come this sense of loss... and a need for counsel... to converse... with the woman who forever altered you. Yes, psychologically you will convince yourself that I have the power to return your masculinity.”
Kendra gently laughs, her kindliness enjoyingly ironic, offered before the quick incisions and snips which will end all maleness. She is superior. And the inmate knows it. She has the power of great will, plundering the scrotal sac as one would harvest fruit. Mere moments of her time will forever bring change.
“Just think of your new existence, my emasculated friend. You’re going to become wonderfully plump. Without your balls soft layers of feminine fatness will develop. The silk skirt we’ll dress you in will begin to feel most welcomed. A desire for other fine garments will grow. Smooth, soft, gaily colored... you’ll learn to relish the feel.”
Kendra’s discourse is accompanied with soothing strokes of her hands. She playfully taps the nose.
“So let me hear the words now. With a courteous request we’ll have those nasty male organs gone forever.”
There comes a pause. Kendra again reaches beneath. Right nipple and left are once again caressed. The inmate relents. He has no control... no basis for further resistance.
“Please, Miss Kendra. I need to be released. Would you please take them?”
“Take what? Be very specific.”
“Would you please snip.”
“You mean you would like to be castrated. Be very, very clear. Say the words.”
“Miss Kendra, would you please castrate me?”
The hands retreat. The smile glows. There is a moment of quiet glee. Then the pole is slowly pushed back into position, the dildo again introduced to the lips and mouth.
“Yes. But I’d like to see you ride just a little longer...”
Monday, January 4, 2010
Short Story XXVIII
You women are so cruel!
**************************************************************************************************
The maids are summoned. The Baroness offers her simple words, ones which Murtoff both welcomes and detests.
“Drain him please, ladies.”
“No. Please not in front of so many,” the young male protests.
“Hush, Murtoff. The Queen is to be amused.”
The uniformed duo, one young, one of middle age, need not a second invitation. They smirk. The woman of middle age sits on the couch facing the glass table. She lifts the hem of her uniform, a flowing ankle length skirt, well up to her hip. Beneath is revealed a shapely gam, a thigh not overly plump but of abundant firm feminine flesh. The second maid, young, pretty grabs Murtoff by his ear. When he offers a modicum of resistant, he receives a resounding smack on his right buttock. This brings laughter from his sisters and a knowing smile from the Baroness.
“No matter the level of satisfaction offered, for some reason he resists,” the Baroness comments. “Godiva is from Scandinavia and has masturbated boys all her career. The hands of an angel. Yet there is so little appreciation for her talents.”
The pretty maid positions Murtoff facing the coffee table his back side to Godiva. The observing eyes of the women note that he stiffens more, the Queen’s crop serving as catalyst, the ignominy of appearing naked and being commanded by a maid seeming to complete the lad’s march to full tumescence.
Using the ear as leverage, Murtoff is bent at the waist. A knowing hand quickly offers lubrication to his anus. He is then positioned to straddle the sizable uncovered thigh. As he is directed to sit, the Queen notes that the fingers Godiva’s left hand slowly impale his rectum.
“You work his prostate... at such a young age?”
“They are all the same, your Majesty. They will moan, object, lurch about, wriggle in protest but in the end they enjoy... and it is best for them,” the matronly Godiva offers with confidence.
The Queen nods, noting that as the pretty maid releases the ear and moves to the side, Murtoff displays a raging erection. She also notes the hands obediently remain atop his head.
“He is of good size, Baroness. He will not enjoy being caged.”
The women collectively laugh. Murtoff has not yet realized that as intense as the humiliation is, adulthood will be worse. But at his age, one cannot sit back and docilely submit to a woman’s commanding touch. Yet he does. His antics are insignificant to the process. In the end he will most shamefully give up his seed.
The right arm of Godiva slides over the flesh of Murtoff’s right hip. A hand finds the standing manhood and ever so gently begins to toy. Godiva is indeed masterful, her fingers dance and bring mirth to the observing women as Murtoff finds that his organ inadvertently waggles in response. The Queen smiles knowingly. There is no doubt that the unseen fingers of the left hand furtively knead well within the lad’s anus. The Baroness has hired well.
Within moments Murtoff begs.
“Please, stroke and let me spend.”
“But you did not want to feel Miss Godiva’s touch a moment ago,” the Baroness chides.
All laugh. Godiva jostles her leg. Murtoff rides as if on a pony, helpless to resist, his penis bobbing about. The Queen imagines that the warm flesh of the thigh pressing against the youthful scrotal sac must augment the sensate input. Murtoff appears overwhelmed, yet Godiva’s hand has yet to fully stroke.
Meanwhile, the kitchen empties, more of the Baroness’s staff join the entourage, word out that the young ‘master’ of the house is being made to perform.
“You know you must ask for some clips, Murtoff. You know that pretty young Minerva so much enjoys decorating you. If you take a clip perhaps I will stroke,” Godiva lectures.
Godiva proves to be quite the tease, withholding what the turgid shaft most demands. The Queen notes that the young maid, Minerva, retracts trinkets from the pocket of her uniform.
“I don’t want him to ever feel pure pleasure, your Majesty. We’ve devised a little ritual which demonstrates feminine control, amuses my girls and in the end teaches Murtoff a lesson... that all pleasure comes at a price,” the Baroness explains.
The penis tip turns from deep crimson to purple. Despite the frequency of masturbatory displays the sisters gawk. A finger tip diddles the underside of the standing erection. Finally Murtoff pleads, the words expected.
“I will take a clip, please.”
Minerva smiles. For the first time Queen notes a tinge of sadism, her look transforming from pleasant amusement to libidinous joy.
“Where shall the first clamp go, girls?” the calm voice disguising her eagerness.
“A nipple,” the younger sister proclaims with glee.
Minerva steps forth, the fingers of her left hand gather some flesh of the right male mammary gland. The right succinctly applies a small but cruelly serrated clamp to the very tip. Murtoff howls in agony and the Queen notes that Godiva times her first fervent stroke of the penis to coincide. Yes her grip finally firms, slowly drawing down the entire length, instantly countering the pain of the nipple clamp.
The Queen notes Murtoff’s flesh, the many small bumps those of goose flesh. With the howl, there is intensity of pain... but also of pleasure. Yes, Murtoff will not take well to being caged. His forthcoming chastity will be most frustrating... the masturbation of the male in this household a most cathartic ritual... which though painful and humiliating will be missed.
“Another stroke, Murtoff? Minerva has many clamps.”
“His scrotum,” the older sister cries out before Murtoff can reply.
**************************************************************************************************
The maids are summoned. The Baroness offers her simple words, ones which Murtoff both welcomes and detests.
“Drain him please, ladies.”
“No. Please not in front of so many,” the young male protests.
“Hush, Murtoff. The Queen is to be amused.”
The uniformed duo, one young, one of middle age, need not a second invitation. They smirk. The woman of middle age sits on the couch facing the glass table. She lifts the hem of her uniform, a flowing ankle length skirt, well up to her hip. Beneath is revealed a shapely gam, a thigh not overly plump but of abundant firm feminine flesh. The second maid, young, pretty grabs Murtoff by his ear. When he offers a modicum of resistant, he receives a resounding smack on his right buttock. This brings laughter from his sisters and a knowing smile from the Baroness.
“No matter the level of satisfaction offered, for some reason he resists,” the Baroness comments. “Godiva is from Scandinavia and has masturbated boys all her career. The hands of an angel. Yet there is so little appreciation for her talents.”
The pretty maid positions Murtoff facing the coffee table his back side to Godiva. The observing eyes of the women note that he stiffens more, the Queen’s crop serving as catalyst, the ignominy of appearing naked and being commanded by a maid seeming to complete the lad’s march to full tumescence.
Using the ear as leverage, Murtoff is bent at the waist. A knowing hand quickly offers lubrication to his anus. He is then positioned to straddle the sizable uncovered thigh. As he is directed to sit, the Queen notes that the fingers Godiva’s left hand slowly impale his rectum.
“You work his prostate... at such a young age?”
“They are all the same, your Majesty. They will moan, object, lurch about, wriggle in protest but in the end they enjoy... and it is best for them,” the matronly Godiva offers with confidence.
The Queen nods, noting that as the pretty maid releases the ear and moves to the side, Murtoff displays a raging erection. She also notes the hands obediently remain atop his head.
“He is of good size, Baroness. He will not enjoy being caged.”
The women collectively laugh. Murtoff has not yet realized that as intense as the humiliation is, adulthood will be worse. But at his age, one cannot sit back and docilely submit to a woman’s commanding touch. Yet he does. His antics are insignificant to the process. In the end he will most shamefully give up his seed.
The right arm of Godiva slides over the flesh of Murtoff’s right hip. A hand finds the standing manhood and ever so gently begins to toy. Godiva is indeed masterful, her fingers dance and bring mirth to the observing women as Murtoff finds that his organ inadvertently waggles in response. The Queen smiles knowingly. There is no doubt that the unseen fingers of the left hand furtively knead well within the lad’s anus. The Baroness has hired well.
Within moments Murtoff begs.
“Please, stroke and let me spend.”
“But you did not want to feel Miss Godiva’s touch a moment ago,” the Baroness chides.
All laugh. Godiva jostles her leg. Murtoff rides as if on a pony, helpless to resist, his penis bobbing about. The Queen imagines that the warm flesh of the thigh pressing against the youthful scrotal sac must augment the sensate input. Murtoff appears overwhelmed, yet Godiva’s hand has yet to fully stroke.
Meanwhile, the kitchen empties, more of the Baroness’s staff join the entourage, word out that the young ‘master’ of the house is being made to perform.
“You know you must ask for some clips, Murtoff. You know that pretty young Minerva so much enjoys decorating you. If you take a clip perhaps I will stroke,” Godiva lectures.
Godiva proves to be quite the tease, withholding what the turgid shaft most demands. The Queen notes that the young maid, Minerva, retracts trinkets from the pocket of her uniform.
“I don’t want him to ever feel pure pleasure, your Majesty. We’ve devised a little ritual which demonstrates feminine control, amuses my girls and in the end teaches Murtoff a lesson... that all pleasure comes at a price,” the Baroness explains.
The penis tip turns from deep crimson to purple. Despite the frequency of masturbatory displays the sisters gawk. A finger tip diddles the underside of the standing erection. Finally Murtoff pleads, the words expected.
“I will take a clip, please.”
Minerva smiles. For the first time Queen notes a tinge of sadism, her look transforming from pleasant amusement to libidinous joy.
“Where shall the first clamp go, girls?” the calm voice disguising her eagerness.
“A nipple,” the younger sister proclaims with glee.
Minerva steps forth, the fingers of her left hand gather some flesh of the right male mammary gland. The right succinctly applies a small but cruelly serrated clamp to the very tip. Murtoff howls in agony and the Queen notes that Godiva times her first fervent stroke of the penis to coincide. Yes her grip finally firms, slowly drawing down the entire length, instantly countering the pain of the nipple clamp.
The Queen notes Murtoff’s flesh, the many small bumps those of goose flesh. With the howl, there is intensity of pain... but also of pleasure. Yes, Murtoff will not take well to being caged. His forthcoming chastity will be most frustrating... the masturbation of the male in this household a most cathartic ritual... which though painful and humiliating will be missed.
“Another stroke, Murtoff? Minerva has many clamps.”
“His scrotum,” the older sister cries out before Murtoff can reply.
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