Another Story II

Comments please - I am beginning to like this story

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“It burns.”

“You’ll become accustomed to it. Twice a day until the follicles surrender. For some it requires a few days... for others weeks.”

“I need to lie down.”

“Of course you do. You’ll have many needs here. Some of which will be well addressed. Others... well overall you’ll be happy... in time. And you need to develop manners. My name is Vocinda... Miss Vocinda to my boys. But you may call me Miss V.”

Gregory listens, totally focused as he remains standing stooped at the waist in the stocks. Though exhausted, having spent most of the night indeed standing with wrists cuffed high to the cell bars, the searing pain of the depilation lotion impels the flow of adrenalin. The combined cerebral input... the need to rest... the need to address the slowly mounting pain... overwhelms. Normally feisty, somewhat truculent, the soothing voice, though quite firm, brings odd sanguineness. It is evident, in listening to her voice, sensing her palpating hands as every inch of his flesh is coated, that she has before handled boys... naked boys... well bound boys... boys enduring trauma.

“How do your balls feel? The reaction of skin there is the worst I am told.”

“They’re on fire!”

“Just a little pain to please us. It’s all in your mind, remember that. And the results are well worth it. A nice smooth and pink scrotum for the doctor. We like that here.”

“You’re bitches!”

Lotion fully applied, Miss V steps to the front, finally offering her huge form for full gaze.

“Tsk, tsk. Such manners.”

Gregory stares in astonishment. The woman of color is over six foot and broad... but only at the shoulders and hips. A tubular halter covers only the mammary glands, leaving arms and massive shoulders bare. With the slightest motion, uncovered abdominal muscles ripple as do thigh muscles. But what most attracts the young male eye is the very brief loosely hanging patch of cloth which most immodesty serves to veil her pubes... until she moves. Then a well trimmed mons flashes into view... tantalizing... forcing libidinous thoughts. Only a thin cord circling about the hips, seemingly a mere string, precludes complete nakedness from the waist downward.

“You’ll soon learn your place. The more obstreperous at the start, the more quickly they become obedient.”

A simple finger extends, curling to hook within the newly installed loop of hardened rubber, and pulling upward. Gregory senses instant agony, making the slow burn of the depilation lotion pale.

“You should begin to imagine yourself on the end of a leash... and what a firm correcting tug will feel like,” Miss V interjecting for the first time the practicality of the nasal modification. “So no more invectives.”

Gregory looks up into a most handsome face of deep mocha. It is a knowing face... exuding confidence... knowledge... though appearing youthful there is a comforting maturity.

“You’re here to perform for us. And you will soon learn to enjoy performing for us. This is not the place to make trouble. You should apologize.”

The finger slowly increases the tension on the loop until Gregory yelps with the intense pain. Miss V smiles and eases the tension... momentarily.

“Now what do you have to say?”

“I am sorry Miss V.”

“Good boy. How does it feel having a woman control you like that?”

“It feels as if something has entered my brain, like you’re tugging on my mind.”

“Yes, they all report about the same reaction. Rather effective form of bondage, wouldn’t you agree. As big as I am... as strong as I am... it was only my index finger that brought capitulation, Gregory.”

Miss V releases.

“Time for a rinse. When it stops burning, that means it’s done.”

Once again Miss V steps from sight and Gregory feels her hands, now known to be powerful and quite governing, as every inch of his flesh is laved with warm comforting rinsing water. It feels good, and despite the stress, the lack of sleep, he feels a twitch within his loins. He curses himself, but there is strange comfort as the woman tenderly assures the lotion is removed. Her divine near nakedness prompted a degree of stimulation. And now with his genitals left for last, Gregory convinces himself that he is firming... and it embarrasses. Sure enough, as the warm wet chamois caresses, Miss V takes note.

“Yes, a nice firm erection for me. You’ll be performing for sure.”

With the lotion gone, to emphasize her point, the same directing finger used to demonstrate the nasal loop presses downward on the engorged penis tip, then instantly slips away. Gregory learns just how tumescent has been his reaction. The organ snaps upwards to thump against his belly, bringing forth girlish laughter.

“You now see why we restrain your hands. I am sure a boy like you would like to play.”

An otherwise vociferous Gregory has no retort. As Miss V lowers the stocks, enabling him to lie somewhat prostrate in long over due rest, he utters a very meek and sheepish ‘thank you’.

“You’ll need to soften. I want you flat on your belly, penis pointing down, balls well exposed between your thighs.”

Gregory feels fingers poking and prodding to bring his organs into compliance. With his firmness there comes discomfort and that fosters the required flaccidity. Then he feels tension on his ankle cuffs. Such have been attached to something behind him, mandating the prostrate position and that he indeed lie flat, his manhood awkwardly forced in the desired direction his plump denuded testicles nestled between parted thighs.

“That’s good. We like it when a boy shows himself.”

Gregory feels teasing fingers augmenting the sense of exposure... the display of his organs.

“Do not soil the floor. We supervise all toilet functions here,” Miss V stepping forth and holding a metal bowl to make her point.

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Gregory awakens. How long he has slept he cannot know. He can hear the pleasant yet demanding voice of Miss V. She speaks, but there are heard not any discernible replies. Still, it is apparent there are others in the barn as daylight better illuminates.

The presence of the nasal loop stirs the memory of the daunting procedure, the seemingly combustible depilation cream... and lastly the humiliation of tumefying in response to his care giver’s touch. And whereas rest felt good, Gregory’s bounds have not permitted an iota of motion. Whereas sleep was paramount, his limbs now crave mobility.

“That’s a good boy. Spread nice and wide for me.”

Yes, the demanding controlling voice, offering encouraging words for someone whose behavior is deemed apropos.

Finally the mammoth figure steps around a wooden petition to Gregory’s front. She smiles most charmingly then disappears behind. A bare foot brushes the well exposed penis and scrotum, then teasingly caresses.

“Sleep well?”

“Yes, Miss V, but I need to be released.”

“Of course you do.”

There comes odd gratitude as the woman who so tightly bound now loosens the ankle tethers. Then she reappears to the front bends at the waist and meaty hands slip under the ponderous pair of planks which entrap hands and head.

“Up you go. Kneel for me.” Miss V sprightly offers in lifting.

The height of the planks, attached to posts right and left, is adjustable.

“Good boy.”

Gregory shifts his legs, changing from his forced prostrate position, his knees mercifully bending, his feet sliding beneath. Then as Miss V disappears to his rear he notes for the first time that her buttocks... large, well, rounded, muscular but still alluringly feminine... are completely uncovered. He is disappointed with only a glimpse. Then he feels fingers rummaging about his rectum.

“What!”

“Just a suppository. With so many boys, I have to keep all the bowels on schedule,” she casually coos despite the untidy stigma of the subject matter.

Miss V returns to sight. The metal bowl awaits on floor of the stall. She retrieves it and stands most proximate to Gregory’s encumbered head, the loose patch covering her pubes flopping about to flash the brownish pink of her sex beneath.

“Say when, no sloppiness,” she again advises as she tousles his hair.

“When will I get out of this thing? You cannot keep me like this forever!”

Miss V laughs... a knowing laugh... a wordless retort to apparent naivete. She pats his cheek.

“Oh, Gregory, you’d be surprised what we can do... and what you can... and will... endure. Release will be ours to offer... not yours to request. Miss V will give you a nice massage if you perform for me. Just part your knees and fill the basin.”

“Ok. It’s working,” the words are humble and difficult to offer, but Gregory finds the suppository to be effective.

“And I think you need a hair cut. It will make you feel better. Cooler for you when we work you,” Miss C advises as she once again steps out of sight to the rear.

Gregory spreads and feels the basin positioned between his knees. He is most chagrined to have to empty himself in such a manner. His words are not the only humble reaction. He feels himself blushing and quivers as the powerful knowing hands, those that palpated every inch of his flesh the night before, assist by splaying his cheeks.

“You don’t need...”

“Hush. Just perform. Learning to perform is important here. You’ll become very accustomed to my touch.”

In silence, Gregory’s bowels move to complete the ignoble deed, his excrement plunking to the waiting bowl.

“Your bladder,” no sooner said then Miss V grasps his penis and the plunking is followed by the hiss and pinging of his flow.

“Yes, such a good boy. I think you enjoy being handled by a woman, Gregory.”

The thought embarrasses. Still, nature’s call is answered, and in finishing, Gregory feels the controlling hand shake rather teasingly in assuring all droplets are captured. No sloppiness indeed.

“Would you like to harden again for me? Come, make yourself nice and stiff for Miss V. So many of my boys like to show off for me.”

Such a sultry tone of voice, such curiously encouraging words. As the hand releases and Miss V stows the bowl, Gregory indeed feels himself engorge.

What is happening?

Shears appear from somewhere as Miss V returns to his front. In nearness, Gregory cannot help wordlessly gazing at the partially covered pubes as his head is shorn of hair.

“Yes, you all enjoy giving up control... and peeking... and some like to taste,” Miss V’s words tantalizing, as a hand lowers to briefly slip aside the limited covering of the small patch.

The expanse of pinkish brown entices... as does an coaxing whiff of her sex. Gregory’s eyes bulge...in desire... in need... in lust.

“Good boys get to enjoy. Very good boys get to feast.”

The offer distracts, clumps of Gregory’s hair summarily falling to the barn floor. Then the effort becomes more meticulous, Miss V careful to clip to the very scalp.

“The hood will fit better as well.”

There follows a massage. Gregory never thought the firm hands of a woman could feel so good. He stiffens again for her, on this occasion much less chagrined.

Another story

Despite the reluctance of many to comment, I will graciously continue to offer stuff.

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Copyright 2010

By Chris Bellows

“You’re sick!”

“No, I am wealthy. That means the more apt term is that I am eccentric,” the calm voice tending to soothe.

The pithy response is accompanied by a smile and the fondling hand does not pause. The boy attains more inkling as to his circumstances, derogatory words not staying the woman from her unbounded inspection. The cradling of his testicles prompted the expletive, fingers nestling beneath, her thumb smoothing over the top of the scrotum to judge the firmness and general wholesomeness of the male reproductive organs.

“Very nice. A good set of balls,” she casually proclaims, “though they seem to affect diction... and manners.”

The hand moves to the penis and slowly draws the organ straight out. It is a brazen gesture, nothing more than a blatant maneuver to determine length. The smile broadens as the shaft twitches and the hand withdraws. The woman steps back. Her smile fails to diminish in gazing at the well tethered youthful male figure... save for wrist and ankle cuffs his complete nakedness seeming to radiate under the bright lights.

“The charge?”

“Drunk, disorderly, indecent exposure,” the nearby officer solemnly replies as if to a presiding judge.

“Excellent... exposure. Very telling. Well you can take this one off your docket. We’ll once again save the county the cost of trial and incarceration. Do give my regards to her honor.”

The woman hands over an envelope. The officer accepts, no semblance of masking the outright bribe.

“You’ll have him brought to me in the morning, as usual? I’ll leave some restraints and a hood.”

The officer nods. The woman turns to step away.

“What’s this all about, bitch?”

“Well, well, indecent exposure... and an indecent mouth. Do restrain him standing for the night. Tomorrow he’ll be more receptive to lessons of etiquette,” the intonation most ominous.

The officer smiles. The woman notes that despite the rambunctious words her acquisition quakes, her firm instructions finally engendering the gravity of his situation... his vulnerability. The indication of fear brings laughter... demonic laughter.

The boy outright shudders... as he should.

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Born into a middle class but well educated family, Audrey Meredith Darrows lived many years a normal life... school... boys... athletics... college. She excelled. Competitive, she thrived in the classroom, tried every sport, shrank from no challenge... including medical school.

A high paid vocation as an accomplished surgeon, events... accomplishments... even the loftiest goals brought attainment... every objective achieved with success... except one.

At what seemed to be the pinnacle of her life, Dr. Audrey Meredith Darrows failed to marry.

A joint announcement issued by a seemingly prototypical couple, ended the planned betrothal... graciously... but unexplainedly.

Thereafter life changed for Dr. Audrey Meredith Darrows. For the better?

Months after the wedding cancellation, a wealthy relative died, a great aunt. Skipping over, ignoring other estranged relatives, word of Dr. Audrey Meredith Darrows’ enviable success in life engendering appeal, there was fostered the gravitational pull of success and money, bestowing a massive inheritance on Dr. Darrows.

What to do?

Love life shattered, a singular failure with cause left to speculation, attention to the rigors of precision surgery waned. Uninspired, curing the ills of the world no longer brought satisfaction.

Dressing one morning, Dr. Audrey Meredith Darrows looked in the mirror. Noted were youth remaining, athletic shapeliness yielding to neither time nor gravity, and a nearby cell phone. The latter empowered, used to cancel first the morning appointments... then the day’s appointments... then life’s appointments. She quit. Self emancipation ensued.

Yes, it dawned... wealthy... knowledgeable... alluring... yet jaded and unhappy. She changed her existence.

Dr. Audrey Meredith Darrows retired from the medical profession, her life to become transformed, more deeds inexplicable.

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“What are you doing to me, you bitch!” the voice loud, aggressive, boisterous.

“Tsk, tsk, Gregory. You’ll wear out your vocal cords, and with little result. Being hooded, you did not notice where you’ve been taken. And that you’ll not fully ascertain until I... until you’re made ready.

“But you’re in my barn... on a very secluded farm. It’s more than a mile over the hill to the main road. In the other direction there is another mile or two of my land, then a forest preserve owned by the State of West Virginia, with even fewer people, thicker trees and less accessible terrain. So it is unlikely any one but us will hear you... hear your protestations. And I think you’ll soon learn such have little effect.”

As Dr. Darrows speaks, she prepares various implements on a steel tray.

“I need to lie down!” come more words too loud, the well secured figure standing bent at the waist.

“And you shall... when I decide. It’s a paradigm to which you will need to become accustomed. It is best for you. Here I govern.”

“What is this, a dungeon?” young Gregory rolling about his eyes, his neck and wrists encased in thick wooden planks, holding his head immobile.

“You’re held in one of many stalls in my barn, converted... less now a shelter for equine and bovine creatures than for other... beasts.”

A left hand, gloved in the latex of the surgeon she once was, reaches forth to locks of hair long askew, the fingers entwining.

“Do try not to move. Overall, this can offer little aggravation if you don’t resist.”

“What is it? What are you doing?”

“So loud...” comes an unresponsive reply as the right hand approaches.

Into the right nostril there is introduced a soft flexible rubber tube. Fingers dextrously push, within seconds meeting the resistance of the sinus cavity.

“No!”

The utterance, more of shock and denial than protest, brings a smile. Neck and wrists firmly encased between two thick, smooth well worn planks, the reference to a dungeon is appropriate, the good doctor having acquired ancient yet effective stocks.

There comes the dawning of reality... Dr. Audrey Meredith Darrows can do whatever she pleases... and the deafening shouts will not deafen the deaf... the aloof... the callous.

Both Gregory and the doctor sense the slight pop as the right nostril yields and the tube enters the sinus cavity. It brings a grimace from the bound, and realization for Dr. Darrows.

“Now it is best to hold still. I can be quick and relatively painless for good boys.”

The left hand releases and quickly moves to the tray. Forceps, rubber coated, glistening with lubricant, such are introduced to the left nostril, bringing forth a nasal groan. But also a notable display of skill, as the prongs also enter the sinus cavity and quickly snare the end of the tube within.

“Arrrrghhhh,” comes the expected reaction as the forceps retreat, drawing the tube down the left nostril.

“You’re a good boy. And good boys get to lie down. Just as soon as the polymers and adhesive cure and dry,” the words cooed... a mother reassuring a distraught child.

As she speaks the hands and fingers rapidly work, snipping the tube to shorten and form an upside down ‘U’, the ends dangling at the lips. The point of a large syringe invaginates one end, the plunger pressed to introduce the aforementioned polymers into the tube. Smoothly, with a surgeon’s speed and precision, the tube fills, within seconds a small dollop of the substance exiting the opposing end.

The syringe returns to the tray and a small perfectly sized cylinder of solid rubber is inserted to connect the loose ends. Then the fingers work with a powerful dental adhesive to assure the ends of the tube bond to form an ellipse which penetrates the sinuses.

The doctor smiles, her professional look of complacency bringing curious calm as her fingers hold together the tube ends. The formulation of the polymers will somewhat harden the loop, and make it quite durable to stress... a very important attribute. She finds that Gregory’s naivety amuses, for he will soon learn of the gravity of his nasal modification. When cured and dried, he will find that the amazing compound, filling the otherwise smooth and soft tube, transforms it to the equivalent of a ring of hardened steel, its tensile strength noteworthy.

“Why are you doing this?” the voice now more beseeching than provocative.

“Because I can.”

The fingers continue to hold together the tube ends as a large woman of color momentarily steps within view.

“This one likes to expose himself, Vocinda. Strip him down, begin the depilation. If he’s good, lower the stocks and let him lie down for a while. I suspect he spent the night cuffed to the bars of his cell in a standing position,” amused in knowing that he was made to do so under her orders.

Compounds dried, the gloved left hand tousles the hair then the doctor steps out of sight. Gregory’s peripheral vision, the large planks impeding, limits his view of the woman accepting the instructions. But he does feel her hands and hears the tearing of clothing.

Well tethered wrists, ankles cuffed as well, will not inhibit the removal of his clothing... all his clothing. Every garment is ripped, shredded actually, the large woman seeming to handle boys with energetic glee.

Yes, once again he is stripped naked... to be exposed.

For what purpose?

The Conquerable - II

The book has been published by Pink Flamingo.

Snippets removed.

The Conquerable

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

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.

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

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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.

'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.