Short Story XXV

Ok. So it's not so short. Happy New Year to all. Enjoy.

**********************************************************************************************

The Baron finds the term ‘drained’ to be most apropos. The counselor toyed, then stroked, then when she deemed it time to spend... certainly not at the interval of the Baron’s choosing... she pumped with vigor, the penetrating fingers of her left hand deftly manipulating the prostate. The resulting explosion was aimed into a waiting collection dish on the floor below. Seeping through the intense sense of pleasure was the wonderment that the woman could so ably control the entire process, offering words of counsel as she mechanically worked his penis and in the end, milking him of every drop... the spurts hitting dead center of the dish.

What resulted in an amazing moment of delight for the naked, suspended male, was just another afternoon of labor, however pleasant, for the professionally attired behavior specialist.

Nimble fingers work to slip the cock cage back in place.

“I will see you again in four weeks, Baron. Do try to avoid more turns of the emasculator.”

Then that a second key is produced and slipped into the left side of the Queen’s humbling device.

“The threading is incredibly well milled. A full turn moves the rollers only some four millimeters. But you will feel the increased tension.”

A hand begins to twist, slowly. Whereas the Baron has become accustomed to the device hanging from his sac, the tension awakens, bringing new awareness that his most precious organs are controlled by women.

“Let’s see. A quarter turn for refusing oral service.”

The hand completes its initial twist. The Baron grimaces.

“And I will add a half turn for refusing to offer foreplay during the breeder’s visit.”

The twisting renews. The Baron’s grimace turns to a yelp.

“Please no more.”

“Oh, Baron you’ll get used to it. Over time you will think of it as having your organs constantly nestled in the hands of a woman. Many of my men say that. They envision their balls at all times gripped by a woman of authority. It aids in behavior modification and you should probably imagine such as well. It is best for you.”

“It aches. Please loosen it.”

“No Baron. There is no way to loosen. It only tightens... and tightens... and tightens.”

“But your system... correction and award as you described it. How am I to be awarded?”

“Simple. The relief of finally earning castration. Until then, your balls will be quite the source of pain... that used to correct and modify your behavior. As I said, think of your testicles as being in the hands of a governing woman. The emasculator serves as a reminder... and as a implement of correction as well.”

The ankle cuffs are released. The legs slowly straighten as the wrist cuffs are likewise unclipped.

“You can remove the harness yourself. How do you feel?”

“Calm... less jittery, though I ache down there. Thank you for your time and attention, ma’am... for stroking me. I am deserving of the turns. I will try to be good.”

“Yes, your behavior and attitude are improving, Baron. In time I will have your daughters observe one of our counseling sessions. They will need to learn feminine empowerment in our newly decreed gynecocracy. And it will be quite humiliating for you. That is also a factor in modification... the sense of abject subservience to the dominant female.”

Daughters! The thought horrifies... but how else is the Baron to respond other than by humble concurrence.

“That would be very thoughtful of you ma’am.”

“Just think Baron, every subordinate male in the Kingdom is being slowly emasculated. You must understand how that gives rise to marvelously satisfying thoughts of empowerment for women such as me. But for the breeders, you’re all going to lose your balls.”

Short Story XXIV

Cleaned up. With some enhancement.

******************************************************************************************************


“Are you comfortable, Baron?”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good boy. You saw how my assistant strapped you into the masturbation harness. In future appointments you will don it yourself and report to her for inspection. Then politely knock on my door and we will begin your counseling.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“We like obedient men here, Baron. We have a system of correction and award... which I will explain as we proceed. Are you excited about your appointment? You have not ejaculated since the Queen’s decree. How long has it been?

“Four weeks, ma’am.”

“Yes. The Baroness has submitted a rather thorough report, as you are aware. Your first counseling session. Step over here and stand under the cable please.”

The Baron obeys, of course. In the Kingdom, now a gynecocracy, all women are to be obeyed.

“You should relax. There is no reason to panic. As a behavior specialist I have handled many men for many years.”

The woman is in her mid forties, nearly half a generation older than the Baron. Pleasant but firm, a streak of graying hair suggests a matronly maturity. And there is no doubt who is in charge. The Queen has hired dozens of counselors, behavioral specialists to assure male compliance with her decree.

“The harness you wear was originally designed for parachuting. Safety and comfort, two very important elements for masturbating a man in the manner I prefer. So just calm yourself and answer all my questions and I will have you drained and feeling very good. Then I will adjust your emasculator and have you back with the Baroness in time for you to prepare dinner.”

The counselor references an elaborate collection of straps which enshroud the torso. Thick nylon, cleverly padded in areas of stress, two broad straps encircle the thighs. As the dangling cable is hooked to a large ring at the nape of the neck, the woman pulls upwards to test. The Baron feels the slight slack of the harness tighten and the thigh straps tension his inner thighs.

“Hands behind your back please.”

Wrist cuffs of similar nylon and padding are clipped together. Then the Baron feels tension on a matching ankle cuff. His right foot is raised and secured to the waist belt of the harness with a slim cord. When his left foot is raised, his entire weight shifts to the harness, his body hanging from the single cable above.

The Baron is quickly and comfortably suspended!

The counselor steps back, inspecting but also seeming to admire her work as the helpless Baron slowly swings about.

“I so much enjoy suspending a man. It sends the appropriate message, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I suppose so ma’am.”

“So how does it feel to be hanging completely naked before a woman, Baron? For a once haughty aristocrat there must be a sense of comeuppance.”

“Yes, ma’am. It is quite embarrassing.”

“And how is your penis doing... all locked up in the Queen’s cock cage.”

“It’s beginning to stiffen, ma’am.”

“Yes, suspension has that effect on the male anatomy. Something about the tension, or lack thereof, on the spinal cord. You’ve been locked up for weeks. Release requested?”

“Please yes. My penis. It’s fighting the steel mesh. And it hurts.”

“Good. Working as designed.”

The counselor steps forth and produces a key. Knowing fingers work about the chastity device.

“As you are aware, only counselors have a key. Not even the Baroness can release you, should she ever give in to a moment of weakness and seek to offer you relief.”

There comes the sound of a slight click. The Baron sighs in relief as the steel mesh, sharp points wickedly aligning the inner cylinder, is gently slipped away.

“Only the once mighty are caged with the points, Baron. The ordinary subjects are locked in less rigorous devices.”

The counselor smiles as the manhood of the Baron instantly completes its rise to full erection. She then steps to a wall switch and flicks. The naked hanging form lowers, bent knees almost touching the floor.

“So let’s talk, shall we.”

The Baron hears the snap of latex, the counselor dons gloves.

“How does it feel to now be in female dominant household?”

“It’s... well it’s different.”

“How?” the counselor inquires in pushing a chair most proximate to her dangling patient.

“There are demands. The female servants work me... cleaning... cooking. It does not end.”

“It is good for you... for your psyche... working for women that you once ordered about. The Baroness gives you a passing grade on the household duties. Seems you’ve adapted well in taking orders from the domestic help.”

“They all have whips and crops.”

“Yes, I suppose that tends to motivate,” the counselor chuckles.

“But you apparently have reservations concerning oral servitude.”

The Baron remains silent.

“Yes, Baron, according to the report it seems you were reluctant to gamahuche a couple of weeks ago.”

“The Baroness was... well it was her time of the month.”

“That makes no difference. Your reluctance, under our correction and award system, has earned you one quarter turn. You know what that means?”

Before his answer, a gloved hand reaches forth and palms the scrotum. The sac is tight and the testicles press against the thin pink flesh of the bottom. Above has been attached the adjustable device displayed in the Grand Counsel Chamber weeks before. The rollers serve to tension the scrotum and the balls. The counselor suppresses a smile of feminine control in sensing the high degree of vulnerability as the Baron shakes his head.

“It means that I will insert my special key and tighten the emasculator... one quarter turn. And you have realized, I am sure that, in time, with enough turns, your manly organs will pop. Your sac so well stressed that your balls surrender with no place to go except to yield to the Queens clever rollers. It’s a curious phenomenon, Baron, popping a man’s balls. They actually do make a sound, a meek noise. I think of it has a last cry for mercy before being permanently rendered useless.”

A smile escapes as the counselor notes that her patient shivers within his bonds.

“Yes. You’re to be castrated, Baron. Very, very slowly. The emasculator is never loosened... only tightened. In a number months... perhaps in a year... maybe more... you will find yourself neutered. Your task will be to delay the event as long as possible. And in doing so, you’re going to learn to be quite the servant to the Baroness. Yes, meek and docile... with or without your testicles.”

Sitting to the Baron’s right, the fingers of a gloved left hand work into the gluteal cleft. With the weeks of complete chastity the touch seems strangely good. The digits glide about and it is evident that lubrication is applied.

“Now, I have much experience in encouraging a man to perform adequate oral service. I have him well tethered and lie him tummy down, his face over a large bowl of ice cold water. Then I press his face into it, cutting off air, just long enough to make a proper impression. Then I offer the quim of some wretched menstruating serving girl... the most loathsome love nest in the household. If the tongue is not humbly offered, the head goes back into the bowl. Then, with breath depleted, the quim is offered again. If again no compliance, it’s back into the bowl. I can have a man quickly servicing the most sloppy of vaginas.”

The fingers of the right hand oh so gently diddle the Baron’s standing penis. It waggles with fervor, seeming to wave in greeting her touch. In being thoroughly bound, strapped within the harness, it appears to be the only anatomical part able to move.

“Behavior modification. It’s what I do.”

An index finger curls, the tip caressing the underside of the penis tip. The woman knows the male organs, readily finding the most sensitive of erogenous zones. Meanwhile the digits of her left hand begin to penetrate the rectum. The counselor notes there is resistance and smiles, knowing that with frequent future visits the Baron will not only be opened, but welcome her expert prostatic massage.

“There’s another indiscretion listed in your report, Baron. To earn you a full half turn of the emasculator. It seems one of the Queen’s breeders visited your home. The Baroness was in need of real male companionship. It is a woman’s prerogative under the decree of gynecocracy.”

“He fucked my wife!” the Baron cries out in frustration.

“Yes, he and the other breeders of the Queen are so empowered... at the Baroness’s request and with her concurrence, or course. They are marvelously well equipped where a woman most enjoys size and are skilled lovers. The Baroness indicated she was quite satisfied with his performance. Oral satiation does not always suffice, Baron. A woman deserves penetration from a good sized, well trained cock from time to time. Yours is kept locked up by Royal mandate... besides being of questionable proficiency.”

“She made me watch!”

“Yes, you were cuckolded. And will be regularly. Many women enjoy the sense of empowerment such offers. And in a gynecocracy what a woman enjoys she shall have.”

Despite the rage, the Baron’s penis quivers with delight. The counselor is an expert masturbatrix, her touch most tantalizing to the otherwise chaste organ. And two fingers of the left hand have found the prostate. The Baron first lurches then softly moans with joy.

“You’ll become accustomed to having a breeder visit. But you must, and will, offer proper greeting. The protocol is that you orally prepare the Baroness for copulation and then offer fellatio to the breeder... if he so desires. Then you will observe the Baroness have her pleasure and afterwards offer cleansing.... with your tongue of course... for both the breeder and the Baroness. Your one time refusal will get you a half turn. In the future a full turn. Is that clear Baron?”

The Baron’s naked form is flushed with rage. Yes, he was forced to watch the antics, bound in a kneeling position at the foot of the Baroness’s bed. Just hearing her pangs of pleasure was traumatic. But most disconcerting was noting the breeder’s skill. His final thrusts were steady and deep, expertly timing his climax with that of the Baroness. The Baron cannot help wondering whether a bastard child will result... one to be raised by him!

“And you should be aware Baron, that many of the breeders are polyamorous. They can give you a good fucking as well. Matter of fact, I may just recommend that to the Baroness along with my water bowl therapy to counter oral reluctance. Watching a man being sodomized can be quite entertaining.

“Now let’s get you drained. While I stroke, talk to me about your daughters. It must be quite thrilling for them to have you romping about the house naked and under the direction of the housemaids. I suspect they are enthralled with the notion of gynecocracy... or soon will be...”

Short Story XXIII

Troubled by the sheer number of rascals occupying her dungeon, the Queen calls for a meeting of her advisors in the council chamber, Barons and Baronesses of wealth and power. There are to be royal decrees issued. For such, she requests concurrence and the cooperation of the influential.

The Grand Council Chamber is ancient, the Queen’s grandfather so often presiding within over Kingdom affairs as a young Princess playfully attended as a child. Thus it is a place of nostalgia. And where better to inaugurate her initial use of her power.

To add an aura of authority, her beast attends as well. Chained from above by the neck collar to dangle on his toes, his iron bound nakedness makes an impression indeed. The Barons appear somewhat disconcerted while the Baronesses seem to smirk in comfort. There is also the presence of the Queen’s naked castrate, prancing about, his duty to assure that the beast stays erect. In noting the missing testicles, the Baronesses thrill in playfully rubbing the empty scrotum for good luck. The Barons refrain and cannot bear to watch as once male lips are occasionally applied to a well displayed penis tip to ensure the beast continues to pay tribute with his stiffness.

“Thank you all for attending. With my coronation two months past, I have spent considerable time in the Palace dungeon tending to the most horrid assortment of rapscallions imaginable. Over time I will have the cells emptied to a manageable number. You’ll soon be seeing many frilly pink skirts about the Kingdom as one prisoner per week meets his fate.

“But I am concerned about the masses. The gene pool which gives rise to such a legion of thieves, liars, con artists, sexual perverts, and thugs must be questioned. My present solution, emasculating and branding with the letter ‘C’ will not offer a long term solution. I fear that procreation will refill my cells. I will thus issue the following decree...

It shall be the policy of the Kingdom to establish and nurture female dominant households. As Queen, I therefore decree that;

- Each household within the Kingdom is to be led by an adult female.

- Each household shall have an adult male to become a husband/servant.

- Households which do not comply will be taxed100% of income. All livestock will be confiscated.

- Within the household, the supervising adult female will make all decisions, and serve to protect the members of the household.

- Other female house members will serve to rank next in hierarchy.

- Adult males will have no status.

- Younger males will be chattel, considered as livestock, but certainly not for breeding.

- Households will be subject to inspection to assure compliance. Those needing counseling will be offered such.

- Husband/servants shall be kept chaste and refrain from intercourse. Ejaculatory relief shall only be offered at Kingdom clinics.

- Adult females shall have vaginal intercourse at their choosing only with authorized males, those selected for appropriate genetic qualities by the Queen. Resulting offspring will be raised in the household under the supervision of the adult female and the care of the husband/servant.

- Adolescent males will be masturbated only under strict female supervision. Upon reaching adulthood, chastity will ensue.

- Clothing will be carefully rationed, husband/servants limited to brief panties, if any covering is at all deemed required. Younger males to be denied covering at all times.

As the Queen reads her decrees there come knowing smiles from the Baronesses. The Barons collectively gulp. There has been read no exception for the aristocratic class. The term ‘households’ is broad and would seem to cover the estates of the gentry. Eyes glance about, furtively counting. It is normal to vote approval of decrees. And alas, there are two widowed Baroness’s. Thus the Barons are outnumbered... and doomed.

In proclaiming the final decree concerning clothing, the Queen smooths over the parchment document and sits back.

“Discussion?”

The Barons are stunned. The Baronesses amused. A haughty Baroness of the north breaks the silence.

“The males will need training, your majesty.”

“We will supply canes and whips. There will also be counseling as suggested. The husband/servant must be placed in the correct frame of mind in order to serve. I have designed a certain device which will assist.”

The Queen snaps her fingers. Her castrate jumps forth to place on the table an implement of metal. All stare.

“A standard cockcage chastity device. But I have added a feature which will bring a degree of gravitas to the male’s training. As you are well aware, my prisoners are boarded before being snipped and released. That is when the balls are slowly crushed between two planks. It makes for wonderfully humbling final punishment. I invite any of you to observe sometime. The slowly applied pressure causes the testicles to ‘pop’, to be crushed and flattened, essentially rendering such useless and mandating that removal follow.

“Well, beneath this cock cage is a small set of parallel rollers as you can see. Similar ladies, to those used to squeeze dry washed clothing, only smaller. Somewhat like an adjustable clamp. When adhered to the base of the scrotum, one roller atop, the other below... just under the penis and above the testicles... the rollers can be adjusted, tightened so to speak. A special key is inserted here and twisted. The motion causes the rollers to gather in more of the scrotum, pulling in the sensitive pink scrotal flesh and pressuring the balls. Turn the key enough times and the testicles will pop, just as when I board a man.”

The Baronesses nod in understanding. The Barons cross their legs in a somatic defensive reaction to the casual words describing slow castration.

A Baron summons the fortitude to speak.

“And who will bear this device?”

“The husband/servant. The key to adjust the rollers will be held by counselors, females of noted dominion. We cannot expect every supervising adult female to properly train... at first.”

“Your decree references the masturbation of adolescent males. A rather generous allowance under the terms of an otherwise austere decree,” another Baroness offers.

The other Baronesses murmur agreement. The Barons are dismayed by the tone and direction of the discussion.

“Self manipulation will be dealt with harshly. Mothers, sisters, nannies shall stroke... but not our male youth. I want the younger males to feel the controlling hand of a woman... and sense feminine power when, after much pleasuring in youth, such is denied in adulthood. Denial is essential. I want our males to feel the frustration of sexual deprivation."

There come more feminine murmurs of agreement. Aghast, the Barons glance at each other in stunned silence.

“No vaginal penetration? A woman does need attention from time to time,” a young Baroness from the south inquires, her relative concupiscence evident.

“The Kingdom clinics will train extensively in oral satiation. The male tongue can be taught to offer more than words of foolishness.”

“It would seem the husband/servant to is to be cuckolded,” a Baroness proclaims without cloaking her enthusiasm.

“Precisely,” the Queen offers to tittering laughter.

“Shall we vote? I want these decrees posted as soon as possible.”

Short Story XXII

A double post for an otherwise dull Sunday.

*******************************************************************************************************


Mustafo’s shackled ankles are raised, connected high on his cell bars, forcing him to lie supine, bent at the waist. As commanded, he has been ‘boarded’. Yes, his scrotum finds itself wedged between two narrow hinged planks, one atop the other, extending some three feet into the center of the dungeon. The device resembles a giant mousetrap and offers great leverage.

The naked, oddly bound form trembles, listening as his cohort, Virgillio undergoes a thorough anal fucking, sodomized by a relentless machine. He wonders what it feels like, undergoing such humiliation. But then the realization of his own degradation... the ultimate male sacrifice... returns his mind to his own plight.

To be relieved of his precious organs... at the whim of his ruler! She stands above with a confident smirk.

“Your sac will later be opened and your little peanuts snipped. Then you will be branded with the letter ‘C’ on your forehead. Castrates are forbidden to wear anything other than short skirts. I insist on the color pink. And when a woman sees your mark and demands that you lift your frilly garment, you will comply and show yourself.”

The Queen laughs in noting Mustafo’s distant look of panic.

“Think of how much good you will be doing... your life of crime ended. Instead spreading word of my strict rule... my gynecocracy.”

A booted right foot extends to tap the top board. The motion translates to instant pressure, the boards squeezing the testicles wedged between.

“I so much appreciate slow castrations... as I think will you. Having borne these little jewels for a lifetime, why rush to remove? If a man’s going to be emasculated, he may as well have it done in a memorable fashion... don’t you think Mustafo? The catharsis can be quite beneficial.”

“Please your majesty, no. I will get hard for you. And let me instead lick your boots for you. I so much want to please. To obey your every command.”

The boot glides along the upper board towards the area of the pubes, increasing the leverage and therefore the pressure. Mustafo huffs with the encroaching agony.

“Yes, Mustafo, others have described the pain as a dull ache which seems to spread to the entire lower body. Rather overwhelming is it not? Tends to focus the mind.”

The Queen is very much aware that, though Virgillio’s continuous fucking draws attention, Mustafo’s plight, the slow crushing of his balls, also brings heed. Amongst her cadre of miscreants, there will be no doubt as to who is in charge in the Queen’s dungeon. Comportment will change. There will be no dullards, languishing in their cells. All will be alert, eager to serve... eager to please. Penises will be most respectful... or be rendered dysfunctional.

“Please your majesty, I cannot take the pain.”

Mustafo’s plea earns a shift of the booted foot... for a moment. It glides back.

“It is good that you beg. I will therefore go more slowly. The more brave ask that I stand on the board, apply my full weight and end their maleness in mere moments. But for you, Mustafo I will let you revel in your maleness for many more minutes... perhaps an hour. There is no rush... the result will not change. Your final moments as a man will be your most memorable.”

The Queen notes that Mustafo’s composure has returned. So too her boot returns. The renewed pressure brings a grimace.

“At some point, as I slowly increase the weight on my boot, there will come the sound of a slight ‘pop’. Then will come a second. Such is akin to cries of final surrender... the ceasing of all normal testicular function... permanently. At about the same time that your balls concede to my foot, there will come the flow of pain dulling endorphins which will bring mercy, unfortunately. But then will come the mental anguish. Yes the realization of having been altered... by the foot of a governing woman.”

The Queen turns to her guards as a right foot continuously presses.

“Can you find something to prop up his head. I want him to better watch.”

Short Story XXI

“What is your name?”

“Virgillio, your majesty,” the voice firm but the element of fear is evident.

“Well Virgillio, you’re standing very nicely for your Queen.”

"Thank you, your majesty. I live for the day to perform for you. It is every day that I awake to please.”

The Queen smiles. Most would consider such to be a gracious smile. In the dungeon it is only seen when tormenting... or worse.

“Yes, of course you do. Very obedient. And you certainly seem to enjoy degrading yourself before a woman... showing off your erection like that.”

“Yes, your majesty. I so very much enjoy being with a governing woman... to entertain.”

“And that you shall.”

The Queen nods to her guards.

"This one will ride today. Make it slow but very deep... to start.”

The two burly women instantly step forth. Their grins are more obvious in wickedness. As the leg irons are released, the Queen steps to the next cell, brushes a standing penis tip with her crop then in satisfaction with its firmness steps onward to another cell.

“And you. What is your name?”

“Mustafo, your majesty,” the voice quaking.

“Well Mustafo, your penis is of limited size. It should therefore be more able to stand in tribute.”

Mustafo squirms, turning his hips in an attempt to brazenly rub his organ against the smooth bars. Though it amuses, it is a futile gesture. The organ remains partially limp.

“I am trying to become hard for you, your majesty. Each day I worship your image... thinking of your beauty while stiffening... for you. I am so privileged to be ruled by such a gracious ruler.”

“But it is small and flaccid, Mustafo,” the Queen’s declamation intoned not to be disputed.

The voice begins to panic.

“I am sorry, your majesty. Perhaps if I could use my hands. I would masturbate for you. I would make it stand and please.”

The Queen looks to her guards. Virgillio, removed from his tiny cell, is placed kneeling on the special bench. Broad strap about the spine, thighs and calves strapped as well. His cuffed wrists are raised behind his back, one guard pulling on an overhead cable. The other guard, having greased the anus, aligns the fucking machine.

“You see how erections are rewarded, Mustafo. Would you not like to ride my machine sometime?”

“If it pleases you, your majesty. I exist to please."

“Well, a man of your ilk will please in a different manner.”

“Please your majesty. I can make it harder for you.”

“It is too late, Mustafo. I want spontaneous erections here. Look at the others. Except for my castrate, there are dozens of fully standing penises... then there is yours.”

Mustafo’s quaking turns to notable shuddering. The Queen’s free hand reaches and tussles the hair in an otherwise gesture of affection. Mustafo shivers in fear with her touch.

“It will earn you release. Then you can walk the Kingdom, show your alteration and explain to my subjects what a gracious ruler they have, deigning your release. By edict, every castrate will show himself to any woman upon her command... a plundered scrotum. With such a policy, I suspect my jails will soon be empty of miscreants such as you.”

The Queen’s eyes return to the center of the dungeon. A guard flips a switch and the piston of the fucking machine inexorably glides into Virgillio’s anus. The motion is mechanical, without pause... and obviously without concern for the soft tissue of the recipient. Virgillio yelps, spasmodically lurches, yet has no choice but to accept the marauding cylinder of rubber coated steel.

The reaction of the already stiff penis brings a broad smile to the Queen. With the strict chastity of her dungeon, the kneaded prostate gland celebrates the penetration by sending a message of further arousal. Virgillio’s manhood rises even further to press against his belly.

“I am afraid Virgillio has the advantage of youth... for now. Yet his time will come. You didn’t think you were going to keep your balls forever, did you Mustafo? In my dungeon such are the property of the Queen. Just as with the dates of my palm trees, there comes a time to harvest.”

The Queen’s crop hand lowers to jostle the scrotum as she turns her head to the guards.

“Have this one boarded. I will crush. Kendra will snip at a later time.”

The Queen laughs, noting that the penis now firms... but too late.

“Just think, Mustafo. You will finally be leaving here... but these won’t.”

Short Story XX

“You have all kept the Royal blacksmith quite busy. I hope you appreciate his efforts.”

The Queen visits her dungeon. Upon hearing her voice, the collective clatter of dozens of chains almost drown out her words.

Every prisoner bears wrist shackles connected behind his back. Ankle shackles are borne as well, connected by a hobbling chain. Haste has mandated that the many dozens of iron implements be simpler and lighter than that adorning the beast’s form. Still, access to the male appendage is denied, as demanded. Plus, the ankles are shackled together outside the perimeter of the cell making most movement impossible. As a result, the prisoners have found there are two feasible positions... lying supine... or sitting upright. In either, the hands remain behind the back... the feet extend outside the cell... the bars forcing a wide separation at the knees.

In a weekly protocol... or more aptly at her whim... the Queen leads an inspection procession. Neatly attired, riding crop in hand, she steps into the center area of the dungeon. Behind is her naked cherubic castrate. He/she/it leads her beast, leash at the neck collar, prostate stimulator gratefully left behind. Guards also enter... women of size, strength and disdain for the male. Such quietly step to the corners, ready to serve at the snap of the Queen’s fingers.

The coterie of misery... naked...bound... chaste... brings a wry smile. Particularly as all sit up and squirm, shuffling forth on their haunches, knowing to press their pubic regions through the bars in a required exhibition of their organs. Dozens of legs, feet and hobbling chains extend into the center area.

The inspection is of the male organ. The Queen expects tribute.

“Some of you are not firming fast enough,” the Queen proclaims.

The prisoners know what is expected of them... yet, can everyone adequately perform? The chastity assists. For some, being completely naked and bound before a regal woman of great beauty brings curious arousal. Yes, Royal pulchritude... the Queen is radiant, divine in her autocracy. Thus the younger, more virile slowly tumefy. Those of age wriggle about to frottage their penis against the smooth metal bars, daring not to offend with flaccidity.

Yet all endeavor to amuse, for the flaccid receive special attention.

“Every one nice and hard for me. My machine beckons.”

In the center where days before the beast was chained high by his neck collar, there has been placed an odd bench. Upon it, a male prisoner can be strapped in a kneeling position... chest resting on a padded cross piece, knees and calves comfortably secured to vertical planks. The device holds the prisoner well off the floor, the better to view, the Princess announced in first explaining its function.

Behind, there is mounted on a pedestal a clever piece of machinery... a fucking machine. Yes, a piston, mercifully covered with a cylinder of smooth but firm rubber, is driven by an electric motor. When activated, the piston emulates the action of copulation... except it does not tire... and it drives home deeply... again... and again... and again.

“So who’s going to mate with my machine today. Hmm? Let’s see who can best get it up for me. I like erect men... particularly when naked and well bound.”

The Queen laughs most wickedly as she steps from cell to cell. Yes, the prisoners know to offer tumescence, hoping for selection, for in being held in strict chastity, the machine will offer relative relief. Sodomized, the prostate gland will welcome the intense ignominy of anal penetration. Some are grateful to feel the tease of her riding crop... an occasional tender caress with the floppy tip most welcomed.

“And today... someone will get trimmed. There’s too many of you. I will offer the clemency of castration to the one who does not firm for me.”

No one doubts her word. Thus there is collective concentration, arousing fantasies conjured, smooth bars frottaged... all not only wishing to ride the machine... but to save the balls... for another day.

And so the Queen amuses herself. Dozens of hapless males... all paying the tribute of erection... all to eventually suffer the fate of her loving oral servant. Under her rule, no one has left the dungeon intact.

Short Story XIX

Over the crest ambles the handsome canine, King. The beast blinks in dread, the huge hound’s far off silhouette bringing trepidation. Upon the quickest and easiest of commands from the Princess, the beast was forced to take the knot. Yes, the animal mounted him, slowly penetrated then sodomized with abandon, the display proving to be most entertaining... and most degrading.

The capstan rotates away as the hound nears. Gratefully it moves to the shack where Kendra presumably naps after a long morning of strict tendance and multiple orgasms. With a single bark... not threatening... not playful... he announces his presence. Kendra stirs and exits into the late morning sun.

King has brought a message. She reads.

“The Queen is dead. You are being summoned by the newly reining Queen, the former Princess.”

The beast’s heart leaps. Summoned!

Guiding hands direct. For the first time since his clumsy escape months before, the prong slides away, the beast stepping sideways as the length of wood moves from under the right elbow then the left. Remaining otherwise well bound, the relative freedom feels divine.

“Kneel.”

Without a moment of hesitation, the beast falls to the soil. Kendra approaches and a mammoth stretched tongue extends to greedily gather nominal droplets of sweat from her thighs and lower belly. She smiles with the abject humility. Then her right hand lowers to splay then lift, offering the entrance to her love nest. The beast cranes his head as best he can. He knows exactly where to align his lips. He craves fluid. Though morning, he has labored for hours.

“Yes, drink. It will be a long journey in chains.”

Kendra opens herself, amused that no matter the torrent, the beast captures and instantly imbibes all the flow she can produce... and he does so with such tender appreciation.

Finally, her bladder empties and the tongue works to assure her neatness... and gather every drop.

“Stand. The Princess wants you impaled. You’ll not kneel in rest during your journey. And it is best that you be fully erect when you reach the Palace.”

The prostate manipulator is retrieved. Slipped into the large link of the thigh chain, the protuberance now enters the rectum with ease. Kendra clips the free end to the hobbling chain below. Lastly, as the penetration and Kendra’s fingers bring sensuous delight and stiffness, the thin leather strap is tied about the scrotum to assure the rod cannot be expelled.

“Remember, be careful not to fall. You’ll not be able to right yourself. Stay erect for the Princess. And be grateful that you’re penetrated. King won’t have his way while you when you’re anally stuffed.”

Kendra laughs, picturing the canine coping a quick fuck as the duo crosses the desert to the Palace, the well restrained beast meekly yielding, forehead to the desert soil, fearing for his gonads as the Princess’s prized hound mounts and copulates... doggie style of course.

The leash chain returns. Just as the Princess’s castrate had done months before, she connects the beast’s neck collar to the spiked leather collar of King.

“Just keep your nipple bells ringing. Same as when you pump. King knows the way. Be obedient.”

“Will I see you again, Miss Kendra?”

“Yes. There will be festivities in the Palace dungeons. My skills are required.”

King knows to turn toward the kennels. The leash chain tightens and Kendra swats the buttocks to begin the arduous journey.

“Go. You are to be put on display.”

**************************************************************************************

The Queen rules!

“The official coronation ceremonies are over. Sorry you couldn’t attend.”

The Queen laughs most sardonically, viewing the many male forms encapsulated behind bars. She stands in the Palace dungeon for male prisoners, reviewing the sorry lot of miscreants. Surrounding a spacious center area are dozens of small cells, positioned as an audience would face a circular stage. The newly anointed Queen is most sanguine amongst the Kingdom’s ruffians. As a young girl she stood in almost the exact spot and witnessed the weekly punishments and tortures demanded by her grandfather, the King.

“My mother, the former Queen, was rather lenient concerning crime and punishment. Under my rule there will be no leniency... no mercy. The slightest infraction will be dealt with swiftly... the punishment meted to be long... slow... painful... and memorable... for those who are able to withstand.”

She laughs again. As Queen, she has become judge and jailer for all the low lifes of the Kingdom. She recalls her grandfather’s intolerance, observing as a young girl the many tortures, executions... and castrations. Her recently deceased mother proved to be more tolerant... perhaps more aloof... simply tossing the unruly behind bars to rot, her time not to be otherwise burdened with the seedy element amongst her subjects. As a result the dungeon is stuffed.

In the center, standing on a pedestal, bringing silent awe to those who would otherwise be begging for clemency, is the beast. His heavy neck collar is chained above. The prostate stimulator remains in place. He is dutifully erect, his penis standing in tribute to the new Queen... the many months of chastity... the wicked impalement... fostering the desired reaction.

The bizarre display, a sculpture... chained and weighted to near immobility... symbolizes the new regime... one of feminine power... of male capitulation.

“This beast once shared my bed. He was disloyal... he was deceitful. I have had him permanently shackled and chained and have had him laboring for countless months. As you can see, he has learned proper deportment. I like to see him stiff. It is appropriate tribute.”

There come murmurs as the Queen lifts her hand. She holds a riding crop and wedges the tip under the beast’s scrotum. He stirs as his balls are better presented, bringing forth a clatter from his many chains and the chiming of his nipple bells.

“Yes, he very much enjoys showing off for me,” the Queen laughing as the beast’s penis obediently waggles in response to her touch.

“So, there is to be a new protocol. Remove all clothing. Every one of you. Now! Toss all garments through the bars. Such will be collected and destroyed. It’s hot down here. You do not need covering... and shall no longer have it. And I can only imagine the level of lice infestation...”

There follows much wordless shuffling as the many dozen disrobe. Grimy, tattered, the resulting pile of cloth smells. But the Queen smiles most wickedly. As she surveys in the dankness, there comes into view the many forms of naked male subservience.

Yes, she rules!

“I suspect my blacksmiths are going to be quite busy assuring there is no more masturbation amongst this riotous bunch. Meanwhile, use your hands for one last time. Come and stand at the bars. I want those penises well displayed... right through the bars. Show off for me... like my well chained beast...”

Gawking at the Queen’s shackled beast, understanding the naked form, testicles jouncing about as her riding crop toys, exemplifies the toll for disobedience, the disrobed males approach the numerous cell bars. Hands collectively lower, the Queen smiles most wickedly as her captives begin to stroke.

“Consider this a gesture of royal grace... in celebration of my coronation. Hereafter, I will demand chastity.”