Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Ingrid Bellemare
Just read on the blog associated with the book 'Owning and Training a Male Slave', (http://www.male-slavery.com) that the author, Ingrid Bellemare, died of a stroke a few weeks ago.
I read the book and found it to be a plausible real life account of owning a subordinate male.
But then when I sent emails, asking a question or two, and making a suggestion for a possible sequel, I never received a word in response.
So, a degree of skepticism always prompted me to ask myself if she was a real person.
As one blogger cleverly quipped, yes she probably died of a stroke of the pen, the real author tiring of the subterfuge.
Any way, no need for skepticism with my stuff, the stories are all fiction.
New book completed, I will post some snippets. But overall I am underwhelmed by the responses and feedback I receive.
I read the book and found it to be a plausible real life account of owning a subordinate male.
But then when I sent emails, asking a question or two, and making a suggestion for a possible sequel, I never received a word in response.
So, a degree of skepticism always prompted me to ask myself if she was a real person.
As one blogger cleverly quipped, yes she probably died of a stroke of the pen, the real author tiring of the subterfuge.
Any way, no need for skepticism with my stuff, the stories are all fiction.
New book completed, I will post some snippets. But overall I am underwhelmed by the responses and feedback I receive.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
An experiment
I have not before written erotica utilizing complex, cumulative sentences. I have felt that in intending to excite and arouse, simple and direct more quickly and easily brings the desired stimulation.
So this short story of 1,800 words is an experiment. Sentence length averaging 17 words versus most of my stuff averaging 11.
Let me know what you think. Effective or too many verbal speed bumps?
chris_bellows@hotmail.com
***************************************************************************************
Wrists and biceps held behind, encircled in broad strands of tight leather, the lad meekly stands motionless, ankles likewise encumbered, the cool morning air wafting over nakedness smoothed in youthful perfection, the short single chain which renders his upturned hands useless tensioning the back of his collar. There was a time when the musky animal scent of his bonds brought a continuous reminder of his bondage, a state of which his consciousness no longer needs to be reminded, his obedience well ingrained, his physicality well tamed, his memories of freedom well faded.
"Arch your back, be a good boy for me," the voice emanating from behind.
The words, though kindly uttered each and every morning, are known to be a command. And so each and every morning the lad responds, knowing to bring the demanded curvature to his spine, pushing his head back against the stiffness of his high, thick neck collar, endeavoring to 'point' with the elbows of his folded arms, as he recalls the stern instructions when first so evilly trussed... 'touch your buttocks with your elbows'.
So posing, he feels the cool slipperiness of a well lubricated finger, gloved in clinical indifference, part his cheeks, the forced opening of his gluteal cleft quick, mechanical, well practiced. The digit impales. It swirls about. The unguent lubricates. There is repeated the curious twinge of arousal which strict chastity fosters within the psyche of the virile young male.
His penis seems to lurch, a slumbering beast stirred to wakefulness.
Whereas there is celebration, the display of sexual puissance normally festive... for the male... it comes instead in the form of a knowing snicker from she who freely penetrates. The woman understands the male anatomy, well aware that the virile body is no longer to be availed for self amusement, onanistic pursuits. Instead all celebration is amongst his governing women. Thus the lad lets his mind wander as the finger withdraws and his sphincter is made to again yield, the familiar insertion, though sizeable, slipping with ease past a purse string muscle no longer able to defend.
The penis lurches again, a definite reaction. The beast is awake.
"Good boy," the intonation that of proud mother to compliant child.
Months before, when initially stuffed, the implement was first dangled before him. A warning? A tease?
‘It is a fish hook’, the initial thoughts coming in shock, the curvature of the formidable strip of smooth stainless steel so shaped. ‘I am to be dangled like a prized catch.’
Yet there was no sharp piercing point at the terminus. Instead he noted the bulbous shape of an egg, its utility to become apparent. Yes, he was not to be dangled but instead anally impaled and thereafter made to manipulate his own gland.
There is felt more tension on the neck collar, more tugging, now from the added tether vertically strung from just above his bent elbows to the exposed end of the invading insertion below. He feels the impaling hook shift about as the familiar length of leather first parts his cleft then is brought to tightness before final attachment above. The woman pulls... tight... tighter... taut. She ties and steps back, admiring the awkwardness of the forced posture, a partial hogtie. The suppleness of youth quite useful, ligaments and tendons strain deliciously, the woman knowing that the slowly building torment, the suffering, will augment the desired display of male sexuality... captured, tamed and brought to submission... enduring under the hands of a woman to bring a singular form of arousal.
"There. You're almost ready for the Princess."
Hands held high, wrist restraints well secured to his neck collar, elbow tethers now tightly attached to the impaling hook, the configuration mandates that the lad remain with back arched, his chest thrust forward.
The woman moves to the front, her form large, her manner matronly, composed in the maturity of her years, a handler well accomplished. She smirks. Exposed young flesh attracts, male bondage enthuses, capitulation excites. The result of the added binding is as expected... well known. The cleverly crafted impaling implement of metal pressures the prostate gland. In being connected to his elbow bindings the slightest motion is viscerally felt. Full tumescence slowly but steadily unfolds ... as stated, normally in celebration of virility... the penis now rising as a symbol of feminine dominion.
The lad somewhat wriggles, the movement immediately transferring, tensioning the newly added tether, tightening and jostling the length of leather connected to his impalement, the slight motion spurring another inadvertent yet amusing waggle of his erection.
This brings another snicker, the woman reveling in the humiliation fostered by the ascending level of her control. Reaching forth to tweak an inviting nipple brought to intense sensitivity by burgeoning hormones never to be relieved, she smiles, the pink nub of flesh so well presented for a woman’s amusement.
Frustration spurs a meek whimper. Her touch thrills... but so incompletely.
He would like to beseech... beg... grovel... humbly request that the fondling fingers similarly knead and caress lower... the underside of his upturned manhood quivering in invitation of manipulation, craving the tender welcomed touch of she who so well knows of his need yet so masterfully denies. Perhaps instead she will cradle his scrotum, feel the weightiness of his neglected testicles, shaved to complete glaborousness, as is his entire pubes, his entire body. Yes, the woman sometimes fondles there as well, most deliberate in avoiding that which stands above, that which implores attention.
Disappointment prevails, the finger retracting, the woman pausing in observation, standing arms akimbo as the lad feels the tip of his penis rise to greet his lower belly, upright in utter firmness. Then she turns to retrieve a bottle. The lad knows of the contents, mineral oil, its pleasant effeminate fragrance bringing a contrasting homey comfort to the musky scent of his leather bindings.
“Make you pretty for the Princess."
Gloved hands, slathered with oil, anoint his entire nakedness. The lad closes his eyes with the simple distant joy of touch. She will coat his full form... yet that which most needs the attention of a woman will remain deprived.
Chastity... complete... thorough... forever to be denied normal male sexual exaltation... the penis waggles anew, seeming to beckon hands smooth and slippery, soft hands, knowing hands, hands he has so often felt but have never offered the ultimate joy. The lad imagines the delight to be sensed should the woman cede in deference. ‘Just a stroke’... ah, the thought so sublime. But she never does.
Instead his bronzed nakedness is brought to a glow, glimmering in the room light, the sheen seeming to frame and highlight the massive erection which once stood to emblemize male power.... now symbolizing the unfettered authority of his female captor.
He is owned. A toy. An object. To be displayed, to amuse, to entertain, yet there is enuring within an odd pride. Relegated to one goal, his simplified life... really mere existence... offers a singular challenge. That is to offer himself in full stand, swelled penis pointing skyward, the interminable interval of tumescence no longer daunting, as the Princess, bathes, reads, lunches... his organ performing for her during whatever portion of the day brings the most amusement.
"It is time," the hands retreating.
The lad would so much like to offer humble words, a thank you for the woman's attentive touch, however ephemeral. But he cannot. Gagged... always... constantly... relieved of the vocal constraint only to be fed, he is to be seen not heard, the marauding silencing lump of rubber cruelly filling the entire cavity of his mouth. He only spoke once, unwittingly breaking a well known and well explained rule.
His one time utterance earned the death sentence for his vocal cords. Serving as example to his cohorts, no one else breaks the rule. Now he has learned to not even murmur, all sound fruitless.
Reaching to his nose, the fingers of a controlling hand work to attach a leash, a clasp slipping within his nostrils, finding the painfully inserted grommet occupying the opening forced into the cartilage between his nostrils, clicking closed, the thin strand of connecting leather offering the holder thorough command of his naked form.
“Come,” the voice pleasant yet firm.
A mind dulled with the tedium of constant restraint is instantly drawn to attention. Yes, with the myriad of nerve endings subjected to the slightest tension, obedience is quick, the desire to follow governing tugs most elevated. When the woman turns, the lad knows to step in anticipation, tethered ankles and hobbling chain permitting a most modest and dainty tread. In being walked naked within the castle, his concentration will not be diverted by the gaze of tittering young maids. Instead, his obeisance becomes focused. Pain, he has learned through its constant and staunch application, is to be avoided. It is meted without compunction, cleverly dispensed to leave no marks, result in no permanent harm... physically... his body is prized. However the mental scars are many.
He most docilely follows, not having to look down, knowing that the rock hardness of his manhood points the way, feeling its ponderousness bob with every step. He feels his motion translate to jostling tension on his elbow tether. Deep within, the impaling hook kneads his uniquely male gland, summoning more engorgement. His own motion abets hardness, each step bringing visceral caress.
Such wickedness!
Concentration not to be diverted, his footfalls many, a prance, childlike steps, the ungainly motion causes his heavy testicles to slap his thighs. Yes, the neglected scrotal sac feels burdensome, filled with essence, never to be relieved. The woman turns, looking back, smiling, her delectation apparent. Leading a well bound naked male pleases. There is insouciance yet there is pleasure, pleasure in her control, pleasure in knowing it is by her hand that such a magnificent organ has been brought to full blossom, that what the male most covets, a woman can so facilely bring to feminine governance.
A maid, young pretty, she pauses to view the procession, master and leashed... leashed what? A performing creature, well tamed, well trained, brought forth to be displayed, to amuse, to be placed on stage, a show of virility yet virility so well bridled.
“You’re standing nicely. The Princess will be pleased.”
The lad blushes. The peering young maid? A sense of fulfillment of his singular role? He is kept, fed, exercised, massaged, prinked, preened and impaled, for one purpose. Yes, there is curious pride in achieving. His manhood waggles in response, the gesture of submission broadening the woman’s smile.
Cognizance. She has handled so many, brought so many to bondage, trained so carefully, nurtured so many erections, coaxed so many to so fully stand at a woman’s whim, so often transformed, modified, altered the male psyche.
He enjoys... and she knows it.
So this short story of 1,800 words is an experiment. Sentence length averaging 17 words versus most of my stuff averaging 11.
Let me know what you think. Effective or too many verbal speed bumps?
chris_bellows@hotmail.com
***************************************************************************************
Wrists and biceps held behind, encircled in broad strands of tight leather, the lad meekly stands motionless, ankles likewise encumbered, the cool morning air wafting over nakedness smoothed in youthful perfection, the short single chain which renders his upturned hands useless tensioning the back of his collar. There was a time when the musky animal scent of his bonds brought a continuous reminder of his bondage, a state of which his consciousness no longer needs to be reminded, his obedience well ingrained, his physicality well tamed, his memories of freedom well faded.
"Arch your back, be a good boy for me," the voice emanating from behind.
The words, though kindly uttered each and every morning, are known to be a command. And so each and every morning the lad responds, knowing to bring the demanded curvature to his spine, pushing his head back against the stiffness of his high, thick neck collar, endeavoring to 'point' with the elbows of his folded arms, as he recalls the stern instructions when first so evilly trussed... 'touch your buttocks with your elbows'.
So posing, he feels the cool slipperiness of a well lubricated finger, gloved in clinical indifference, part his cheeks, the forced opening of his gluteal cleft quick, mechanical, well practiced. The digit impales. It swirls about. The unguent lubricates. There is repeated the curious twinge of arousal which strict chastity fosters within the psyche of the virile young male.
His penis seems to lurch, a slumbering beast stirred to wakefulness.
Whereas there is celebration, the display of sexual puissance normally festive... for the male... it comes instead in the form of a knowing snicker from she who freely penetrates. The woman understands the male anatomy, well aware that the virile body is no longer to be availed for self amusement, onanistic pursuits. Instead all celebration is amongst his governing women. Thus the lad lets his mind wander as the finger withdraws and his sphincter is made to again yield, the familiar insertion, though sizeable, slipping with ease past a purse string muscle no longer able to defend.
The penis lurches again, a definite reaction. The beast is awake.
"Good boy," the intonation that of proud mother to compliant child.
Months before, when initially stuffed, the implement was first dangled before him. A warning? A tease?
‘It is a fish hook’, the initial thoughts coming in shock, the curvature of the formidable strip of smooth stainless steel so shaped. ‘I am to be dangled like a prized catch.’
Yet there was no sharp piercing point at the terminus. Instead he noted the bulbous shape of an egg, its utility to become apparent. Yes, he was not to be dangled but instead anally impaled and thereafter made to manipulate his own gland.
There is felt more tension on the neck collar, more tugging, now from the added tether vertically strung from just above his bent elbows to the exposed end of the invading insertion below. He feels the impaling hook shift about as the familiar length of leather first parts his cleft then is brought to tightness before final attachment above. The woman pulls... tight... tighter... taut. She ties and steps back, admiring the awkwardness of the forced posture, a partial hogtie. The suppleness of youth quite useful, ligaments and tendons strain deliciously, the woman knowing that the slowly building torment, the suffering, will augment the desired display of male sexuality... captured, tamed and brought to submission... enduring under the hands of a woman to bring a singular form of arousal.
"There. You're almost ready for the Princess."
Hands held high, wrist restraints well secured to his neck collar, elbow tethers now tightly attached to the impaling hook, the configuration mandates that the lad remain with back arched, his chest thrust forward.
The woman moves to the front, her form large, her manner matronly, composed in the maturity of her years, a handler well accomplished. She smirks. Exposed young flesh attracts, male bondage enthuses, capitulation excites. The result of the added binding is as expected... well known. The cleverly crafted impaling implement of metal pressures the prostate gland. In being connected to his elbow bindings the slightest motion is viscerally felt. Full tumescence slowly but steadily unfolds ... as stated, normally in celebration of virility... the penis now rising as a symbol of feminine dominion.
The lad somewhat wriggles, the movement immediately transferring, tensioning the newly added tether, tightening and jostling the length of leather connected to his impalement, the slight motion spurring another inadvertent yet amusing waggle of his erection.
This brings another snicker, the woman reveling in the humiliation fostered by the ascending level of her control. Reaching forth to tweak an inviting nipple brought to intense sensitivity by burgeoning hormones never to be relieved, she smiles, the pink nub of flesh so well presented for a woman’s amusement.
Frustration spurs a meek whimper. Her touch thrills... but so incompletely.
He would like to beseech... beg... grovel... humbly request that the fondling fingers similarly knead and caress lower... the underside of his upturned manhood quivering in invitation of manipulation, craving the tender welcomed touch of she who so well knows of his need yet so masterfully denies. Perhaps instead she will cradle his scrotum, feel the weightiness of his neglected testicles, shaved to complete glaborousness, as is his entire pubes, his entire body. Yes, the woman sometimes fondles there as well, most deliberate in avoiding that which stands above, that which implores attention.
Disappointment prevails, the finger retracting, the woman pausing in observation, standing arms akimbo as the lad feels the tip of his penis rise to greet his lower belly, upright in utter firmness. Then she turns to retrieve a bottle. The lad knows of the contents, mineral oil, its pleasant effeminate fragrance bringing a contrasting homey comfort to the musky scent of his leather bindings.
“Make you pretty for the Princess."
Gloved hands, slathered with oil, anoint his entire nakedness. The lad closes his eyes with the simple distant joy of touch. She will coat his full form... yet that which most needs the attention of a woman will remain deprived.
Chastity... complete... thorough... forever to be denied normal male sexual exaltation... the penis waggles anew, seeming to beckon hands smooth and slippery, soft hands, knowing hands, hands he has so often felt but have never offered the ultimate joy. The lad imagines the delight to be sensed should the woman cede in deference. ‘Just a stroke’... ah, the thought so sublime. But she never does.
Instead his bronzed nakedness is brought to a glow, glimmering in the room light, the sheen seeming to frame and highlight the massive erection which once stood to emblemize male power.... now symbolizing the unfettered authority of his female captor.
He is owned. A toy. An object. To be displayed, to amuse, to entertain, yet there is enuring within an odd pride. Relegated to one goal, his simplified life... really mere existence... offers a singular challenge. That is to offer himself in full stand, swelled penis pointing skyward, the interminable interval of tumescence no longer daunting, as the Princess, bathes, reads, lunches... his organ performing for her during whatever portion of the day brings the most amusement.
"It is time," the hands retreating.
The lad would so much like to offer humble words, a thank you for the woman's attentive touch, however ephemeral. But he cannot. Gagged... always... constantly... relieved of the vocal constraint only to be fed, he is to be seen not heard, the marauding silencing lump of rubber cruelly filling the entire cavity of his mouth. He only spoke once, unwittingly breaking a well known and well explained rule.
His one time utterance earned the death sentence for his vocal cords. Serving as example to his cohorts, no one else breaks the rule. Now he has learned to not even murmur, all sound fruitless.
Reaching to his nose, the fingers of a controlling hand work to attach a leash, a clasp slipping within his nostrils, finding the painfully inserted grommet occupying the opening forced into the cartilage between his nostrils, clicking closed, the thin strand of connecting leather offering the holder thorough command of his naked form.
“Come,” the voice pleasant yet firm.
A mind dulled with the tedium of constant restraint is instantly drawn to attention. Yes, with the myriad of nerve endings subjected to the slightest tension, obedience is quick, the desire to follow governing tugs most elevated. When the woman turns, the lad knows to step in anticipation, tethered ankles and hobbling chain permitting a most modest and dainty tread. In being walked naked within the castle, his concentration will not be diverted by the gaze of tittering young maids. Instead, his obeisance becomes focused. Pain, he has learned through its constant and staunch application, is to be avoided. It is meted without compunction, cleverly dispensed to leave no marks, result in no permanent harm... physically... his body is prized. However the mental scars are many.
He most docilely follows, not having to look down, knowing that the rock hardness of his manhood points the way, feeling its ponderousness bob with every step. He feels his motion translate to jostling tension on his elbow tether. Deep within, the impaling hook kneads his uniquely male gland, summoning more engorgement. His own motion abets hardness, each step bringing visceral caress.
Such wickedness!
Concentration not to be diverted, his footfalls many, a prance, childlike steps, the ungainly motion causes his heavy testicles to slap his thighs. Yes, the neglected scrotal sac feels burdensome, filled with essence, never to be relieved. The woman turns, looking back, smiling, her delectation apparent. Leading a well bound naked male pleases. There is insouciance yet there is pleasure, pleasure in her control, pleasure in knowing it is by her hand that such a magnificent organ has been brought to full blossom, that what the male most covets, a woman can so facilely bring to feminine governance.
A maid, young pretty, she pauses to view the procession, master and leashed... leashed what? A performing creature, well tamed, well trained, brought forth to be displayed, to amuse, to be placed on stage, a show of virility yet virility so well bridled.
“You’re standing nicely. The Princess will be pleased.”
The lad blushes. The peering young maid? A sense of fulfillment of his singular role? He is kept, fed, exercised, massaged, prinked, preened and impaled, for one purpose. Yes, there is curious pride in achieving. His manhood waggles in response, the gesture of submission broadening the woman’s smile.
Cognizance. She has handled so many, brought so many to bondage, trained so carefully, nurtured so many erections, coaxed so many to so fully stand at a woman’s whim, so often transformed, modified, altered the male psyche.
He enjoys... and she knows it.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
'Mademoiselle Rules' published
The sequel to 'A woman's Revenge' has been published.
'Mademoiselle Rules', 18,600 words.
http://www.lulu.com/content/8563008
Enjoy the fantasy.
'Mademoiselle Rules', 18,600 words.
http://www.lulu.com/content/8563008
Enjoy the fantasy.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
An interesting exchange
I just exchanged emails with a woman of Dominance and received an interesting reaction.
this is partially what she requested/suggested in her post...
I'm looking for a man who, in his vanilla life, is assertive and successful, smart and witty and interesting. But when you really look closely at yourself you know there is something more, something missing. Something that very likely took you a long time to acknowledge and accept but something you now know is extremely important.
I wrote referencing my early experiences at the pediatrician's office (see October 13, 2008 posting) which I suspect became the catalyst for my hyperactive kinky mind. This was a good faith response to her posting which suggested that replies to her explain the nature of one's submissiveness and attraction to a woman of authority.
In telling my background to the best of my recollection (I was 3-4 years of age), she termed it 'a creepy story' and I was succinctly dismissed.
Can one retell true events without becoming tainted?
If the woman thought it was a fictional account, she has not come close to experiencing the brunt of the Chris Bellows debaucherous mind when it comes to creating erotic D/s fiction!
Any way, my advice to people who post on the internet seeking non vanilla relationships... leave open your mind. There are many layers, many subsets. It is what makes exploring in this genre (I will think of a better term later) so wonderfully exciting.
Be aware of what it is you seek. You desire something different.. on the internet you shall receive such.
this is partially what she requested/suggested in her post...
I'm looking for a man who, in his vanilla life, is assertive and successful, smart and witty and interesting. But when you really look closely at yourself you know there is something more, something missing. Something that very likely took you a long time to acknowledge and accept but something you now know is extremely important.
I wrote referencing my early experiences at the pediatrician's office (see October 13, 2008 posting) which I suspect became the catalyst for my hyperactive kinky mind. This was a good faith response to her posting which suggested that replies to her explain the nature of one's submissiveness and attraction to a woman of authority.
In telling my background to the best of my recollection (I was 3-4 years of age), she termed it 'a creepy story' and I was succinctly dismissed.
Can one retell true events without becoming tainted?
If the woman thought it was a fictional account, she has not come close to experiencing the brunt of the Chris Bellows debaucherous mind when it comes to creating erotic D/s fiction!
Any way, my advice to people who post on the internet seeking non vanilla relationships... leave open your mind. There are many layers, many subsets. It is what makes exploring in this genre (I will think of a better term later) so wonderfully exciting.
Be aware of what it is you seek. You desire something different.. on the internet you shall receive such.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
From... "Mademoiselle Rules', sequel to 'A Woman's Revenge'
Mademoiselle Rules
Copyright 2010
by Chris Bellows
The characters...
Mrs. Anne Smithton, Deputy Attorney General, United States Justice Department.
Mademoiselle Marie Le Claire, governess.
Jackson Smithton, pubescent son of Anne.
{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}
“You are a woman of discipline... when it comes to children?”
“Oui, madam. I cared for my younger brothers, beginning when I was age fourteen. Later I attended the Institut de Gouvernante, graduating number one in my class.”
“Yes, I am aware of the famous school. Not much demand for governesses these days. Most parents are too lenient. Let their children become unruly. It is not my style... my sense of what is best for them.
“How do you discipline, Mademoiselle?”
“Firmly, of course. There are those children who are best kept under strict supervision.”
“Corporal?”
“That goes without saying, madam. Particularly the boys. Some seem to yearn for a good crisp stroke of the cane. I am quite willing and able to accommodate their innate desires.”
“The cane. Yes, very good. I have a son, Jackson that looks and I fear is beginning to act too much like his father, my good-for-nothing ex husband. In my position of responsibility here at the Justice Department, I cannot spend the time with my children that is required for proper upbringing. And obviously if any get into trouble it would be devastating for my career. The press is quick to publish the perceived hypocrisy of government officials.”
“You said children. More than one?”
“Yes, a daughter, Claudette. Quite young but I detect certain attributes. I believe she will blossom to become one of us.”
Mademoiselle smiles coyly. The reference need not be explained.
“Well, Mademoiselle Le Claire, you certainly have the qualifications and the temperament. The position is yours. But I should mention that Jackson is at the age when he is beginning to discover himself. His bed sheets are revealing of a certain nasty habit...”
“I encountered the same slovenliness with my younger brothers. Nothing with which I have not before dealt.”
It is Anne Smithton’s turn to smile. The tinge of slyness is telling.
******************************************************************************
And so it is that I am hired. Age 28 and I am employed by this wonderfully imperious woman, the Deputy Attorney General.
The house proves to be enormous. A mansion in one of the wealthy suburbs of Washington. It seems Mrs. Smithton is an heiress with financial resources well beyond a government salary. But it is the type of environment that would otherwise give rise to too much leniency I suspect. The neighborhood is rife with high paid dual income families where the attention which should be afforded the children is instead bought... expensive video games... DVD’s... lavish parties.
There will be none of the that in the Smithton household. I will reign.
Mrs. Smithton works long hours, arriving home well after dinner. Family time comes over breakfast, prepared by a part time cook, Mrs. Dornbach, who later in the day returns to offer dinner.
So other than school time, Claudette and Jackson spend their time with me. I insist on immersion. Interaction with other children can take place at school where there is supervision. Otherwise I do not want there to be frill filled frolicking. Discipline... obedience... such do not maturate while playing with peers.
Claudette is quite young. Easy to care for, easy to mold. It is the interaction with Jackson which will fill my hands. His hormones are flowing. He can be bratty, moody. He is at the age in which he understands his mother’s wealth and power. As with most teens, he misconstrues that such automatically enures to him. Thus, the initial days, in which I introduce myself and the influence I will wield, are meaningful.
The very first evening proves eventful. I announce that it is bath time. Claudette is much younger and hers is always first, going to bed earlier. But when it is time for Jackson... he does not appear!
******************************************************************************
I depart the bathroom where I have awaited long enough. There is a quick trip to my room where I retrieve a whippy length of rattan. Then I search and of course find Jackson, feet up in the den, watching some socially unredeeming television show.
“Jackson, feet off the furniture.”
I tap the sole of his foot with my cane. I suppress a smile in watching him jump from the couch and dance, the fiery message bringing an explosion to the cerebral cortex.
“Mademoiselle, that hurts!”
“It will help you remember... no feet on the furniture. It’s bath time. You’re late.”
“I’ll shower later, I want to watch this show.”
I smirk and turn off the television.
“New paradigm, Jackson. No television on school nights. And you will have a bath not a shower. It is better hygiene.”
Actually better fun, I think to myself as I cock my wrist.
“To the bathroom, now!”
I stroke. More than the tap to the foot but still a modest swing, striking the covered buttocks. I am well experienced in disciplining youth. Pain is required, particularly for the likes of Jackson.
Yes, he shouts, he protests but he also begins his march to the bathroom.
I have learned by way of my younger brothers and through course work at the Institut de Gouvernante, much about the regimen by which one establishes control over the unruly young male. An exhibition of power, the application of pain, but also the teasing reward of something pleasurable. Not assuredly offered, but instead insinuated, sometimes provided... most times not.
Yet behavior will improve, the pleasurable offering as sought after as the threat of pain is to be avoided. For younger children it is the hint of candy or cookies or cake, obviously not to be overdone.
And for the likes of boys at Jackson’s age? Well he will soon learn that bath time is something to be craved, not avoided.
I follow closely, up the stairs to the second floor bathroom, my cane swishing through the air in warning. I smile in noting how in fear he stutter steps to the sound, expecting another good crisp stroke to his backside.
“Such concern about pain, Jackson. And yet you are clothed. I normally cane a boy on his bare buttocks.”
That, I know, plants a thought. He will mentally extrapolate, his mind confronting the searing agony as rattan greets bare flesh.
He enters the bath room and turns.
“Okay, I will take a bath.”
I nod. He nods. I do not move.
“I will draw the water. I am fine.”
I nod again in agreement. He moves to the huge tub and twists the faucet. When he turns back he apparently expects me to depart. I do not.
“I... I’m going to bathe.”
“Yes, and I suggest you begin by removing your clothes.”
“But... but you’re a woman.”
“I am your governess. Henceforth you will be supervised during your baths. Hygiene, Jackson. It is important.
“Strip!”
I swing. More than a modest blow, once again to the covered buttocks. It cracks. He yelps.
“You will be naked now! I want to see you. Then you will step into that bath. The only question is whether or not your buttocks will be well striped and welted.”
My tone is even but firm. After all it is his crisis not mine. If a caning is required, he shall have it.
Jackson reluctantly begins to remove his clothes. So wonderfully bashful, he has probably not before been naked in front of woman, not since infancy. And his shaking hands and awkward motion are priceless.
I stand arms akimbo, an important pose of authority. Before my eyes there comes into view the divine nakedness of youth... that which I so much enjoy bringing to yield... to capitulation. Finely developing buttocks that will indeed take nicely to corporal punishment. Ripening testicles, a touch of pubic hair. And of course that which overwhelms the behavior of the teenaged male... the penis. It is long for a lad of Jackson’s age. And it is uncircumcised. Perfect!
“Good boy, Jackson. You will learn to obey and save yourself much anguish. Step here, hands on your head.”
Yes, the exchange of power is palpable. He obeys. I smile in seeing the shaft of his penis slightly quiver. It is the reaction of a male who enjoys certain feminine deportment. I will nurture it.
“Whenever you are naked before me, your hands will be placed on your head, understand?”
“Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes Mademoiselle.”
“Good.”
My free hand lowers to his pubes. He lurches and I snicker.
“You will not only become accustomed to my touch Jackson, but your will come to crave it... when you’re a good boy.”
My fingers palpate... knowingly. Jackson is not the first boy I have inspected.
“You have some pubic hair. It is to be removed. Remember hygiene. Hair entraps filth.”
I happen to know that at Jackson’s age, boys on occasion furtively compare their hairiness... some strange aspect of maleness attributed to he with a hirsute pubes. Jackson will never display such attributes. He will thus avoid such male behavior and interaction.
My fingers work the prepuce. As I gently skin back the foreskin, his hands begin to lower from his head. I pinch in warning, the very, very sensitive outer fold of the prepuce.
“Hands,” I rejoin as he grimaces.
The hands return. I peer at the pink unsheathed penis tip. Some smegma glistens.
“Not bad Jackson. But I think it is best that I teach you how to clean here. Wouldn’t you agree?”
An appalled Jackson finds himself forced to nod as my fingers no longer pinch but instead offer some tender caress, sliding about the foreskin. He inadvertently sighs with delight. I am quite experienced in masturbating boys and at his age he is probably quite naive about the extent of pleasuring himself.
“You see why you will come to enjoy your governess, Jackson? My hands can offer more than a caning. Ultimately, you will decide which is most desirable for you.”
Copyright 2010
by Chris Bellows
The characters...
Mrs. Anne Smithton, Deputy Attorney General, United States Justice Department.
Mademoiselle Marie Le Claire, governess.
Jackson Smithton, pubescent son of Anne.
{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}
“You are a woman of discipline... when it comes to children?”
“Oui, madam. I cared for my younger brothers, beginning when I was age fourteen. Later I attended the Institut de Gouvernante, graduating number one in my class.”
“Yes, I am aware of the famous school. Not much demand for governesses these days. Most parents are too lenient. Let their children become unruly. It is not my style... my sense of what is best for them.
“How do you discipline, Mademoiselle?”
“Firmly, of course. There are those children who are best kept under strict supervision.”
“Corporal?”
“That goes without saying, madam. Particularly the boys. Some seem to yearn for a good crisp stroke of the cane. I am quite willing and able to accommodate their innate desires.”
“The cane. Yes, very good. I have a son, Jackson that looks and I fear is beginning to act too much like his father, my good-for-nothing ex husband. In my position of responsibility here at the Justice Department, I cannot spend the time with my children that is required for proper upbringing. And obviously if any get into trouble it would be devastating for my career. The press is quick to publish the perceived hypocrisy of government officials.”
“You said children. More than one?”
“Yes, a daughter, Claudette. Quite young but I detect certain attributes. I believe she will blossom to become one of us.”
Mademoiselle smiles coyly. The reference need not be explained.
“Well, Mademoiselle Le Claire, you certainly have the qualifications and the temperament. The position is yours. But I should mention that Jackson is at the age when he is beginning to discover himself. His bed sheets are revealing of a certain nasty habit...”
“I encountered the same slovenliness with my younger brothers. Nothing with which I have not before dealt.”
It is Anne Smithton’s turn to smile. The tinge of slyness is telling.
******************************************************************************
And so it is that I am hired. Age 28 and I am employed by this wonderfully imperious woman, the Deputy Attorney General.
The house proves to be enormous. A mansion in one of the wealthy suburbs of Washington. It seems Mrs. Smithton is an heiress with financial resources well beyond a government salary. But it is the type of environment that would otherwise give rise to too much leniency I suspect. The neighborhood is rife with high paid dual income families where the attention which should be afforded the children is instead bought... expensive video games... DVD’s... lavish parties.
There will be none of the that in the Smithton household. I will reign.
Mrs. Smithton works long hours, arriving home well after dinner. Family time comes over breakfast, prepared by a part time cook, Mrs. Dornbach, who later in the day returns to offer dinner.
So other than school time, Claudette and Jackson spend their time with me. I insist on immersion. Interaction with other children can take place at school where there is supervision. Otherwise I do not want there to be frill filled frolicking. Discipline... obedience... such do not maturate while playing with peers.
Claudette is quite young. Easy to care for, easy to mold. It is the interaction with Jackson which will fill my hands. His hormones are flowing. He can be bratty, moody. He is at the age in which he understands his mother’s wealth and power. As with most teens, he misconstrues that such automatically enures to him. Thus, the initial days, in which I introduce myself and the influence I will wield, are meaningful.
The very first evening proves eventful. I announce that it is bath time. Claudette is much younger and hers is always first, going to bed earlier. But when it is time for Jackson... he does not appear!
******************************************************************************
I depart the bathroom where I have awaited long enough. There is a quick trip to my room where I retrieve a whippy length of rattan. Then I search and of course find Jackson, feet up in the den, watching some socially unredeeming television show.
“Jackson, feet off the furniture.”
I tap the sole of his foot with my cane. I suppress a smile in watching him jump from the couch and dance, the fiery message bringing an explosion to the cerebral cortex.
“Mademoiselle, that hurts!”
“It will help you remember... no feet on the furniture. It’s bath time. You’re late.”
“I’ll shower later, I want to watch this show.”
I smirk and turn off the television.
“New paradigm, Jackson. No television on school nights. And you will have a bath not a shower. It is better hygiene.”
Actually better fun, I think to myself as I cock my wrist.
“To the bathroom, now!”
I stroke. More than the tap to the foot but still a modest swing, striking the covered buttocks. I am well experienced in disciplining youth. Pain is required, particularly for the likes of Jackson.
Yes, he shouts, he protests but he also begins his march to the bathroom.
I have learned by way of my younger brothers and through course work at the Institut de Gouvernante, much about the regimen by which one establishes control over the unruly young male. An exhibition of power, the application of pain, but also the teasing reward of something pleasurable. Not assuredly offered, but instead insinuated, sometimes provided... most times not.
Yet behavior will improve, the pleasurable offering as sought after as the threat of pain is to be avoided. For younger children it is the hint of candy or cookies or cake, obviously not to be overdone.
And for the likes of boys at Jackson’s age? Well he will soon learn that bath time is something to be craved, not avoided.
I follow closely, up the stairs to the second floor bathroom, my cane swishing through the air in warning. I smile in noting how in fear he stutter steps to the sound, expecting another good crisp stroke to his backside.
“Such concern about pain, Jackson. And yet you are clothed. I normally cane a boy on his bare buttocks.”
That, I know, plants a thought. He will mentally extrapolate, his mind confronting the searing agony as rattan greets bare flesh.
He enters the bath room and turns.
“Okay, I will take a bath.”
I nod. He nods. I do not move.
“I will draw the water. I am fine.”
I nod again in agreement. He moves to the huge tub and twists the faucet. When he turns back he apparently expects me to depart. I do not.
“I... I’m going to bathe.”
“Yes, and I suggest you begin by removing your clothes.”
“But... but you’re a woman.”
“I am your governess. Henceforth you will be supervised during your baths. Hygiene, Jackson. It is important.
“Strip!”
I swing. More than a modest blow, once again to the covered buttocks. It cracks. He yelps.
“You will be naked now! I want to see you. Then you will step into that bath. The only question is whether or not your buttocks will be well striped and welted.”
My tone is even but firm. After all it is his crisis not mine. If a caning is required, he shall have it.
Jackson reluctantly begins to remove his clothes. So wonderfully bashful, he has probably not before been naked in front of woman, not since infancy. And his shaking hands and awkward motion are priceless.
I stand arms akimbo, an important pose of authority. Before my eyes there comes into view the divine nakedness of youth... that which I so much enjoy bringing to yield... to capitulation. Finely developing buttocks that will indeed take nicely to corporal punishment. Ripening testicles, a touch of pubic hair. And of course that which overwhelms the behavior of the teenaged male... the penis. It is long for a lad of Jackson’s age. And it is uncircumcised. Perfect!
“Good boy, Jackson. You will learn to obey and save yourself much anguish. Step here, hands on your head.”
Yes, the exchange of power is palpable. He obeys. I smile in seeing the shaft of his penis slightly quiver. It is the reaction of a male who enjoys certain feminine deportment. I will nurture it.
“Whenever you are naked before me, your hands will be placed on your head, understand?”
“Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes Mademoiselle.”
“Good.”
My free hand lowers to his pubes. He lurches and I snicker.
“You will not only become accustomed to my touch Jackson, but your will come to crave it... when you’re a good boy.”
My fingers palpate... knowingly. Jackson is not the first boy I have inspected.
“You have some pubic hair. It is to be removed. Remember hygiene. Hair entraps filth.”
I happen to know that at Jackson’s age, boys on occasion furtively compare their hairiness... some strange aspect of maleness attributed to he with a hirsute pubes. Jackson will never display such attributes. He will thus avoid such male behavior and interaction.
My fingers work the prepuce. As I gently skin back the foreskin, his hands begin to lower from his head. I pinch in warning, the very, very sensitive outer fold of the prepuce.
“Hands,” I rejoin as he grimaces.
The hands return. I peer at the pink unsheathed penis tip. Some smegma glistens.
“Not bad Jackson. But I think it is best that I teach you how to clean here. Wouldn’t you agree?”
An appalled Jackson finds himself forced to nod as my fingers no longer pinch but instead offer some tender caress, sliding about the foreskin. He inadvertently sighs with delight. I am quite experienced in masturbating boys and at his age he is probably quite naive about the extent of pleasuring himself.
“You see why you will come to enjoy your governess, Jackson? My hands can offer more than a caning. Ultimately, you will decide which is most desirable for you.”
Monday, March 1, 2010
Cuckolding Blog
Came across this fascinating blog. For those into cuckolding www.mrsemmakelly.com. The level of humiliation for the sub male I always find to be intriguing.
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