Neuroplasticity, Segment Three

Doctor Becky presses a button. A young nurse, white uniform, white cap and those white rubber soled shoes never seen outside a medical facility... wherever do they get them?.. enters. She takes a note from the doctor reads and smiles.

“Come with me, Mr. Wells,” her stern tone contrasting her refreshing vibrance.  

“I’ll want to know all the details of your penectomy. Next visit, Mr. Wells,” the doctor demanding more than informing.    

Institute protocol, ridiculous but rigorously applied, is that patients are led about by the hand. Thus I know to offer my left and she takes it in her right.

“You look very pretty for us, Mr. Wells.”

I somewhat blush, in my nakedness assuming she is referencing the purple... violet... whatever... coloring of my truncated phallus. In our stroll, passing nurses and other staff look at me and smile, the younger repressing laughter. Then we pass a display case and I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the glass. I have not seen my face since I was sedated a day or so ago, time difficult to judge in the windowless institute. I am shocked. Something about my eyes... more coloring. And my lips! What have they done to my lips?

I blurt an expletive. I am rebuked.

“No, no, Mr. Wells. No talking unless spoken to, you know that.”

I do. And with the annoying advisement I am looking forward to being returned to my room. No more questions, no more exhibiting myself... and my now limited tattooed organ... no more being led about like a toddler. Though there is no television, no computer, no radio, there are books to read, the selection small and all pulp... romance novellas. Still, I can be left to my thoughts.

But the nurse takes a different turn... and another. She opens a door. It is not my room. In place of a comfortable bed in the corner, there is a padded platform in the center. Thick nylon straps lie in wait... at the pillow end, in the middle, at the feet end.

“Please lie down, Mr. Wells. And I’ll tuck you in nice a safe.”

“What is this?” my words sharp.

“No talking. You’ve been naughty,” the nurse, at least ten years my junior speaking to me as if a child. “You’ll find the Segufix restraints to be very comfortable... in time. Safe, confining yet comfortable. And no masturbation.”

Ah, such which gave rise to the doctor’s note... the naughtiness of so feebly attempting masturbation.

******************************************************************************   
So I am introduced to the Segufix restraint system. Ankles, thighs, wrists and biceps are encircled in nylon, each restraint in turn attached to the broad straps tightly crossing my body and secured beneath the platform. The locking system is clever, magnetic. I can be quickly freed by anyone with the demagnetizing key. Meanwhile, I cannot move, other then my head. And the nurse forewarned that more naughtiness, more unauthorized speech earns head restraint, gag included. She showed me the gear, resting nearby and in wait for my next transgression.

In capitulation, I will be good. I will be silent. I never thought the ability to turn one’s head would become a luxury.    

Before departing... euphemistically referenced as tucking me in... the nurse produced a hand mirror, apparently in response to catching my refection and the resulting expletive.

“You may as well learn to accept compliments, Mr. Wells,” positioning such that my reflection is more than a glance. “You really are pretty.”

Shocked again, my lips are colored... matching the stub of my penis. And there is something which replicates make up, about the eyes, the lids. Like mascara or shadow... violet... and I am distressed to assume that... like my penis... the coloring is permanent.

What are they doing to me!

I divert my thoughts, the doctor’s parting words. The details of my penectomy...

Unlike the application of justice in the United States, wheels turning slowly, under the Syariah system, sentences are carried out swiftly, almost with immediacy. There must be an appeal system, I think to myself. But to what end? Can a penectomy be reversed? And if so, can my vaunted organ be located for reunion?

Stupid thoughts, indicating the trouble one has... with... with acceptance as Dr. Rebecca Stackhouse has rejoined.

Hustled from the court room, into a van, to a small island hospital. I am amazed to be greeted by a female doctor donning a hijab. She is becoming yet dour, apparently, as with the judge, buying into the girl’s story, the Gerakan Pramuka, that I am a rapist.

I am strapped to a Gurney, wheeled to an operating room, the guards disappeared, relegating me to the medical staff. I mentally try to prepare for the end, if that’s possible for a guy. To be anesthetized, then returned to conscientiousness to view the horror of my sentence, to see a bandaged pubes, after healing wonder of my reaction. Will the revulsion be stifled or controlled?    

But I am not. The doctor explains in accented English.

“Only local anesthesia, American. It’s cheaper, you’ll recover quicker, and you’ll be able to leave the island before there is more trouble.”

The words seem genuine, but there’s a look on her handsome face. Vengeance... the satisfaction thereof bringing Schadenfreude. Will I be made to watch?

And so I depantsed. I am catheterized. The Gurney is adjusted. Cruelly I am forced to sit upright, yes watching as a nurse marks my appendage, ink circling just below the penis tip as the doctor prepares a hypodermic needle. 

Gloved hands lower, fondling in a mocking manner, the doctor seeming to know that normally such palpation gives rise to male gratification. And yes, normally I would enjoy. And indeed I find odd attraction. Why now, with the woman who is about to bring penile carnage? And she’s joyed by the irony, I have no doubt.

I am injected, I am numbed. But then comes spite. The doctor takes the marking pen from the nurse circling my penis again, on this occasion near the base. My eyes widen, there will be little remaining.

“No more sex for you... no more rape for you, American... not here... not anywhere.”

Scalpel in hand she begins, slowly, the deliberation notable, the nurse attentively swabbing the blood. Moments later, when I see the incised penis tip and shaft slip down the catheter tube, the doctor offered needle and sutures, I faint. There is no more to tell, the doctor augmenting Sharia law with a level of punishment of her own, forcing me to observe my alteration... my transformation to a being other than male.

As sleep overcomes, I fear I will dream. It’s always the same... the doctor, in her hijab... she beckons to a waiting Gurney... her words repeat... seemingly throughout every night... ‘no more sex for you, American.’

Neuroplasticity, Segment Two

“It was done quite professionally, Mr. Wells,” Dr. Becky interrupting my discourse. “If there is any consolation, years ago I read you would have been publicly mutilated, chopped by a sword in the town square... possibly bleeding to death.”

Perhaps a better fate, I think but dare not say. Thoughts of death dare not be communicated. I am sure the institute having harsh confinement for those considering self harm... a nicely padded room.

“Plus you were free to leave the country and fly home,” the words curiously suggesting I was offered leniency.

“And was dragged from U.S. Customs and Immigration at the airport and brought before a judge,” I blurt in frustration.

“You are a sex offender. And became the recipient of more leniency. Not yet listed,” the doctor smugly points out.

As long as I pass muster here at the institute, I think to myself. That was the deal, seek professional help or be so listed and placed on probation. Upon entering the institute, even a rudimentary physical revealed the consequences of my Sharia punishment. My penis, now a stub, can harden, but for what purpose? It has the sensitivity of the heel of my foot. And it’s useless for penetrative sex.

“Does your organ harden... during therapy? Any response yet? Neuroplasticity, Mr. Wells, we’re counting on it to bring you back a healthy sex life.”    

Is this therapy pseudo science? I have read that neuroplasticity is the ability of the brain to form and reorganize synaptic connections, especially in response to learning or experience or following injury.

Following injury, yes. To my manhood... to my male pride... to my libido.

Still, how does a guy get himself off with less than half a dick? To crassly state my dilemma!

So, without the frictioning and fondling of my penis tip, the removed underside being where the male receives most if his sensual pleasure, there is no release... no climax... no eruption... no ecstacy. And compounding the dilemma, the hormones build and build, the ostensible leniency in sparing full castration instead bringing a pinnacle of frustration.

“It seems to swell a bit, yes,” I offer, not wishing to seem fully skeptical.

“Good, it’s a start. You’ll find your tending nurses to be quite patient and understanding if you’ll work with them. We’ll soon have you secreting.”

Secreting? Yes, the institute’s euphemism for being depleted of male essence... that which formerly spurted with blissful zeal.

“Why cannot I ejaculate?” I bluntly inquire. “And why is my penis colored? Purple of all shades!”

I was sedated days ago. They did things. I need to understand.

“Calm yourself Mr. Wells, it’s for the best. And it’s really a pretty shade of violet, meant to be attractive.”

“Attractive? Why attractive... there!”

“You need to accept your state, Mr. Wells. The tattooing announces for all to see that you’ve been altered. You’ll not be denying it... not hiding it... and you shouldn’t. The coloring proclaims your alteration and that will mean you must accept it. The self denial ends. You’ve had a penectomy and will no longer function as a normal man.”

Tattooing! I am sickened with the words. My penis stub permanently colored... so gaily!

“And for now we don’t want you ejaculating. We’ve ended that... with Botox injections to your ejaculatory muscles. As I said, you will now secrete. There is no point in erupting. Normal penetrative sex is over. Curious that you’ve attempted masturbation. We have found that such leads to depression and is therefore against institute policy. We know of these things. Let us guide you, begin the process of neuroplasticity.”

Dr. Becky pauses to write on a pad. In exasperation I turn to silence, trying to convince myself that they know best. Besides, it’s my only chance to stay off the sex offenders list and maintain my living as a trustworthy financial consultant. The judge so specified. I am in the hands of Dr. Rebecca Stackhouse. Voluntarily?

Neuroplasticity, Segment One

New Story. Back to female dominant/ male submissive.

Not much feedback on the Nusquam story.

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

Neuroplasticity

Copyright 2017

by Chris Bellows

Part One - The Institute

“How do you feel Mr. Wells? Are you becoming comfortable with your therapy?”

A smiling and unctuous Dr. Rebecca Stackhouse inquires, sitting in her huge black leather desk chair. For some reason it seems she’s looking down at me, though I sit at eye level in a straight backed chair.

Ironically I don’t think anyone could feel comfortable being presented naked before a fully clothed woman, hard wooden seat notwithstanding. Feeling spiteful, I ignore the questions, despite knowing there will be consequences.

“Why the markings? I don’t understand.”

“Acceptance. It will help you mentally acclimate to your... ah... your change.”

“It’s humiliating. Will the stuff wash off?”

Dr. Stackhouse... it’s been suggested that I collegially call her Dr. Becky... just mouths the word ‘no’ and smirks. At least that is how I would interpret her condescending response.

“Let’s talk about the events which led to your... ah... transformation, Mr. Wells.”

Again? This so termed therapy seems more like brain washing. Still, though irritating, merely sitting and talking is more acceptable than the more invasive procedures at the institute. And there does come a catharsis, like reflecting on the deceased at a wake.
 
So I talk, on occasion looking to my pubes, which in reaction brings forth despondency followed by a pause. 

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

Vacation. I like warmth. I like sunshine. I like exotic. I like native girls. They always seem to like me, though a hundred dollar bill seems to most enhance my charm.

So my travel agent recommends this small island, one of hundreds comprising the country of Indonesia. A long airplane journey, then a boat ride of a few hours, and then I am in paradise... or so it seems.

Yes, I enjoy, initially. And it’s more than just beach and fishing. The native girls are many, young, friendly and conveniently impoverished. Dark hair and eyes, olive skin, the sun seems to make them glow. And once they learn a guy is staying at the only posh hotel within a hundred miles, there is attraction. Perhaps more for my wallet than me, but attraction. And besides, I’m not looking for marriage. It’s all about sex.

Being a thirty year old bachelor, making a good buck as a self employed financial consultant, I indulge. I’m not oversexed, but it’s vacation time, and the native girls seem to be fruit ripe for picking. 

So in the open aired outdoor hotel bar all it requires is one of those fruity rum drinks, a little whisper, the flash of a Benjamin Franklin and it’s to my room. Quick, neat, simple... no strings. After all I’m flying out within a week, and even if the girl could learn my real name and address, I will be thousands of miles from any possible repercussions.

We fuck. Young, tight but surprisingly knowledgeable, the girl certainly earns her portrait of Ben. But in the early morning, in attempting to surreptitiously exit my hotel room, there comes a problem. It seems that in being a significant portion of the small island’s economy, the hotel serves to attract more than well to do tourists. There are thieves, con artists, fake tour guides, hookers etc. And they in turn attract the authorities.

And that is what happens, my one night marriage comes to the attention of the police and the girl is arrested stepping from the elevator.

It is then that I receive an education in Sharia law. Indonesia is a Muslim country.

I am a protestant. The girl is of the Islamic faith. In having relations with a non Muslim under Sharia law she is to be lashed. Putting aside the horror and the agony of such barbaric corporal punishment, young and pretty, the girl knows that to earn more portraits of historical Americans that fine posterior needs not bear evidence of misdeeds, not to mention the grotesqueness of the scars.   

Solution... rape! she cries. I somehow envision her tearfulness while telling her contrived story, suggesting I spiked her fruit drink.

So they believe her, though I suspect the application of gifted tongue and lips to sensitive and welcoming male flesh gave her story more credence. It becomes me under arrest.

To Syariah Court. I have no representation, no access to the American consulate which is on another island hundreds of miles away. Things get worse. Word spreads... forced carnal relations. Dare I say the judge came under pressure? I also learn the term Gerakan Pramuka.

My hooker is a former member of Gerakan Pramuka... the Indonesian girl scouts!      

Such outrage! An upstanding local girl taken advantage of by a hedonistic tourist!

I am prosecuted, I am sentenced... under Sharia law, the judge offering a bizarre form of clemency. No jail time, no castration, I keep my testicles. But I am to be shortened, surgically, my penis to never again penetrate the portals of innocent young women.

Nusquam, Letting Down, Segment Three

“How do you feel, 387? Tummy full?”

The African woman returns, hands lowering, fingers working to disconnect my feed bag.

“Yes, Ma’am. Thank you Ma’am,” I find myself humbly replying, the many weeks of sensory deprivation obliterating all resistance and latent disrespect.

“Remember to sit feet parted, 387. We have spreader bars for disobedient girls. You won't enjoy that. You’re to show yourself, open at all times. Now let’s get you prepared for presentation. Time for your benefactor to inspect and enjoy.”

As a free hand moves to disconnect my leash from the oversized ring of metal on the wall above, I note the other holds a sjambok... a simple implement of correction and encouragement. Made of cheap plastic, the end tapered for whippiness, I quickly learned to avoid its sting, the walk from the indoctrination building to the breeding chamber short but painful.

The handlers enjoy offering quick correcting taps. I also quickly learned to prance on my toes for them. The bouncing breasts both humiliate and bring amusement.

A strong hand tugs and I struggle to rise, my motion awkward with arms and hands useless and legs cramped. For my efforts, deemed untimely, the sjambok taps my left cheek. I lurch, the pain limited but unexpected.

“Come my igikeri. We have some special treatment for you.”

“My hands... my arms... it’s too tight... the rods... can they be loosened,” my voice quavering with my meek plea.

“Ah... of course they can. But for now it is best that you understand that mercy here at Nusquam is earned. And for now, with your arms so positioned, it presents nicely the breasts... for examination.”

With her words the handler slips the sjambok into her leash hand and demonstrates, palpating right mammary gland than left. And I must agree, with the pectoral muscles stretched, the breast flesh is soft and vulnerable to touch. They hang... my tits... invitingly.

Her fingers bring my nipples to crinkle. I blush. The handler has often fondled the breasts of  Nusquam subjugants, causing my prideful glands to rise and point.

“Your titties, we’ll have them producing for us. We know how to handle lactating girls. You’ll soon be letting down and dropping babies for us... just like 226. She’s quite fecund. Number six is baking in the oven for us.”

My handler turns and tugs. I rise to my toes and prance, my thoughts diverting to the fattened form of 226, the oversized belly not entirely resulting from the massive infusion of thick white sludge. She’s expecting... child number six... yet contrasting her gruesome physique, the face remains young. She looks not 30 years of age!

 My handler leads. An occasional firm tug establishes her control, sends her message of dominion. She looks back, smiling as my ample breasts jiggle libidinously in response.

Yes, I am well endowed there, proud of my glands, used judiciously to entice and attract men of culture and substance... i.e. money. My husband... exhusband... was entranced, marveling at the firm roundness... marveling all the way to the alter.

And now they serve to entertain.

Into a large room my handler leads. It appears to be a combination of medical facility and television studio, cameras mounted high in each corner. Yet there are mirrors... floor to ceiling on each of the four walls. I cannot help glancing at myself... limbs encircled with finely crafted steel bands at the wrists, elbows, knees and ankles, neck collar, forehead tattooed with the large numerals 387. There shows my brand... the letter ‘N’, the crimson keloided flesh prominently announcing my state of servitude.  

I am weighed. My 146 pounds recorded on a chart, the steel restraints adding some fifteen pounds to a body I have pridefully worked to keep shapely.

I am led to a table. Knee high, I am directed to mount and kneel. Stanchions accommodate my yoke. Cables with snaphooks bind me... unnecessarily with my yoke secured. Still my handler assures I am positioned with knees widely parted, the cables attached to my ankle and thigh bands forcing me to luridly display all a woman has been trained to modestly veil.

To assure the sense of thorough bondage, cables emanating from the table below are also hooked to my neck collar, elbow bands and wrist bands. The leash is removed and I find myself restrained absolutely motionless. The sense of helplessness and vulnerability cannot be described. And with arms already stretched to the limit by the adjustable rods, the added stress brings an irrepressible groan of anguish and frustration.

My handler smiles. Hands reach to my breasts, fingers gently tweaking my nipples. She enjoys. I am shamed to find her touch is welcomed.

“Suck some cock, 387, and the rods will be shortened,” aware of the source of my suffering. “One centimeter for each satiated penis. We have lots of big black cock for you. Your file suggests you like that.”

During indoctrination, the deluge of psychological blather, references to my dalliances with Dr. Grayson Hubbard were constant, my exhusband... for some reason referred to as my benefactor here at Nusquam... apparently detailing the many secret rendevous which led to divorce... the detective agency quite meticulous in documenting our many afternoon trysts. 

“And these will soon be put to work. You’ll express for us nicely 387. I don’t doubt it,” the words of my handler I am sure intended as a compliment.

My temperature is taken, anally as one must expect at Nusquam. Heart rate checked, blood pressure taken. All recorded along with my weight. Distantly comforting to know my medical condition is well monitored.

I am strangely disappointed when she steps away. Long held in chastity, her fingers have excited, despite the gender of the source. Yes, I feel myself moisten. And in realizing my bound nakedness is subject to recording, the cameras many, I blush. Yet there is arousal.

“Some gukuna imishino,” my handler proclaims, returning with a jar of oddly colored ointment.

Stepping behind me, fingers work, lubricating my vulva with the strange ointment. It warms. There is unwanted thrill. Then such press inward, finding the pink of my inner labia.

“A very old salve... from Africa... Rwanda. You’ll feel some tingling. It forces your labia to swell for me. Then I can work you... stretch your lips. In time you’ll have nice long strips of pink flesh... make your benefactor happy.”

As the fingers work, firmly pinching and pulling, it comes to mind that in time I will have the genitalia of 226. I envision her lips, resting languorously on the concrete floor of our detention room. I shudder in concern, my entire body fighting the many binding cables.

“Please no,” breaking my silence.

“Oh but yes. And not to worry, you’ll have matching nipples. All to please your benefactor.”

‘Damn you Roger Pearson’, I think but do not dare say aloud with all the recording devices.

'Nusquam, Letting Down' published

I have published on Lulu the full short story.

Female Dominant/female submissive, forced lactation, bondage, humiliation.

21,000 words, $5.50.

http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/nusquam-letting-down/21042477

One more segment will be posted on Saturday June 17.

Nusquam, Letting Down, Segment Two

Warned, 226 turns to silence as a white uniformed sizable women of color steps to the right of where I sit, grasps the end of the feeding tube emanating from my right nostril and connects to the feeding bag. When she lifts high and hooks it to a wall hook, I instantly feel the flow, involuntarily gushing to my stomach. When number 226 is similarly hooked up, I am shocked to see her long right nipple begin to secrete lactate.

She’s letting down!

“Machine milking later, 226,” the handler advises in the staccato of accented English. “You’ll give up much for us... no?”

With the mocking query, a dark hand lowers to the length of pink nipple flesh. Thumb and index finger pinch at the base then slip down the five or six inches to bring forth a burst of lactate that jets across the room, some droplets astonishingly landing near my feet. 226 emits a sigh of delight... not to be suppressed. The handler laughs, amused by her dominion.   

“And later some stretching... for your benefactor.”

The handler turns her attention to me.

“Part your feet further, 387. Lots of pink for the camera... always,” the words coming as a white rubber soled shoe pushes at right foot then left.

Obscenely spread, I look to where wall meets ceiling. Sure enough an unnoticed camera. red light blinking, presumably records. One of the five ‘P’s’, it seems I am presenting myself... my most intimate anatomy...  mons, shorn of all hair, chemically defoliated during indoctrination.

The handler departs and I sit watching the white sludge flow to 226's stomach, knowing that my feeding bag is similarly emptying.

“I trust your self esteem has been effectively diminished during indoctrination, 387. It makes the rest easier... having no pride. The degradation is unending here. And they’re good at dispensing it... very good. Your tits will soon be gushing like mine. And you’ll be sucking cock... and taking black cock where it will most humiliate. And all for your benefactor... whomever that may be.”   

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

Tummy full... yet continuing to fill... the mysterious concoction forced into me brings languor. Glad that my indoctrination has ended, I reflect on the words of 226, her chattiness ending in sleep. The tethered collar leash too short to permit motion, she somehow dozes sitting upright, slumbering no doubt in exhaustion, knees well parted, labia displayed.

My circumstances are different from 226. I was not abducted in the night. For me the ordeal began with a certified letter stating that I had won a sweepstakes... the prize being a trip to a tropical isle... to one of those exotic enclaves for singles where clothing is optional and sex abundant. After five years of sexless marriage, the finalized divorce coming after months of being estranged from both husband and lover, the perceived scene seemed attractive. Finally to be away from my prudish exhusband, Roger Pearson, a wealthy businessman for whom intercourse was solely for procreation... which ironically never happened with his extensive travel. And also away from my exlover, who, when our affair was disclosed, chose to reconcile with his wife... explaining our many clandestine meetings as a mere fling with a white trollop... a meaningless dalliance.

Yes, Dr. Grayson Hubbard, noted neurosurgeon, was black. And in being blonde and blued eyed, he found attraction. And in him being well proportioned, handsome, erudite, attentive and most virile, I found attraction as well. So many late afternoons... so many hotels... so many orgasms... such ecstasy.      

Alienated from both ex lover and exhusband, no interest in entering the hurly burly of the singles scene, the letter, the travel offered by private jet, enticed. I called the ‘800' number. A woman offered more details, and I naively reported to Teterboro Airport for transport.

Boarding the plane, should I have been alarmed in being greeted and later served by a naked young male... seeming androgynous?

Yes, the flight attendant... such an introduction to the hedonistic vacation I envisioned in seeing his nude form shuffling from the galley of the sleek Gulfstream jet.

‘Welcome Ma’am. I’m Timmy... here to assure your flight is enjoyable.’

Steel bands about the elbows, wrists, thighs and ankles, with matching neck collar gleaming in the cabin lights. Such sordid quirkiness... such bondage... yet so youthful! And a tiny penis that seemed to beckon both inspection and laughter.

The lad served me, the elbow bands loosely tethered behind his back to restrict much movement. There was also a slim chain secured to his right ankle band to make him one with the cabin. The scene seemed to empower. I felt oddly superior.

Then I took the offered Mimosa. In being seated his tiny penis was at eye level, and he paused to let me visually examine, seeming to revel in the humiliation. The organ useless, but amusing, I could not help thinking of my pending week of pure lust... pent up desire, sexual frustration to finally end. No strings sex... and offered so kinkily... introduced by a naked nymph in restraints! 

Alas, the Mimosa was spiked! I recall the cabin door shutting, the engines spooling, the gentle motion of taxiing. But with the roar of takeoff, the cabin lights seemed to dim. I passed out, awakening with my own form in bondage... tight, confining. The rigorous indoctrination of Nusquam to begin.

In finally completing the many weeks of isolation, I found my own limbs and neck to be ringed in steel. The configuration permits a handler... or whomever... to instantly bind me in any manner... my hands and arms rendered useless by the cruel adjustable yoke. I also found myself to be tattooed...  number 387... and made glabrous... not a follicle remaining... the chemical depilatory strong and thorough.

I note the clear feeding tube of 226 is emptied of the thick white glop. Hopefully the flow into my bloated belly has ended as well. I speculate that the feeding bag is well over a quart, possibly two, the caloric intake well in excess of what I burn in my sedentary existence.  

I will fatten. 226 suggested I am to be plumped.

Nusquam, Letting Down, Segment One

Back with you with a change of genre. Female dominant/female submissive. Forced lactation.

This story is an offshoot of my book 'Nusquam' available from Pink Flamingo.

It stands on its own, but if the setting enthuses, the 'Nusquam' book is available...

http://www.pinkflamingo.com/Nusquam-ebook-PF6250e.htm?categoryId=-1

I have not yet decided how many segments I will post. But the full story will be available on Lulu soon.

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

Nusquam, Letting Down

Copyright 2017

by Chris Bellows

My grimace is followed by a low moan, not to be suppressed. My compatriot sitting before me smiles. She likewise sits in nakedness, apparently more acclimated to the slow unending suffering of the yoke.

“Yes, it’s sluggish, subtle torment. But the yoke is adjustable... fiendishly adjustable. And after you’ve sucked enough cock, they’ll shorten the rods.”

I nod, not ready to speak. Neck encircled in smooth stainless steel, rods of matching metal extend from the back of my collar well out over my shoulders where a loop of cable captures right thumb and left. As the woman suggested... number 226 accordingly to the bold numerals emblazoned on her forehead... the rods can be mercifully slid inward, relieving unending stress on my fully extended arms. Her rods comfortably... relatively comfortably... allow her hands and arms to hang below at her shoulders, elbows bent.

“So what brought you to Nusquam, 387? Jilted boyfriend? Jealous husband? Enraged exhusband? I’ve learned it’s expensive here... being indoctrinated. Someone has paid much money to assure you’re well tucked away and in constant torment.”

Having endured weeks of isolation and a barrage of psychological input, I find myself shy and not overly eager to freely speak. Finally offered relative emancipation from my tight plastic encasement, seemingly floating in my own excretions, I remain somewhat traumatized... enduring constant bondage, enduring the permanent tattooing of my forehead, enduring the excruciating branding of my right buttock. I now bear the letter ‘N’ quite prominently.       

Despite my silence, this number 226 proves to be loquacious, continuing her discourse, I suppose attempting to bring comfort.

“For me it was a boyfriend from whom I foolishly attempted to extort some dough for a trip. He quickly dumped me. Then I went nuclear, threatening to expose all his illicit dealings... close to the mob if not being an actual member. Gave him 30 days to come up with a six figure payment in cash... more than the vacation money I originally demanded. Bad move. In the middle of the night some very clever and sneaky folks broke into my apartment. I was drugged and ended up here... wherever here is. The constant heat suggests the tropics.”

As the woman speaks I visually assess. Leashed by her steel neck collar to a formidable ring on the wall above, she is bald and tattooed as am I, and no doubt branded. The naked form is hideous. There are rolls of fat, extensive and sadly drooping. Nipples extending from outsized glands are those of a bovine. Between the thighs lengthy strips of pink flesh drape to rest on the concrete floor, her labia stretched to disproportional limits. Feeding tube, projecting from her right nostril, it is difficult to imagine her as the girl friend... eye candy... of an influential mobster. She’s been gruesomely transformed.   

“You know, they like to send messages... the mafia guys... sort of like warnings... for the next girl who attempts blackmail... threatens to talk to the authorities. You know you’ll be filmed here... video taped... while and when enduring the five ‘P’s.”

Number 226 smiles at my inquisitive look.

“Plumped, pregnant, prepared for penetration... and presented... though some say paraded.”

“Pregnant?” I must inquire, finally finding my voice.  

My blurt brings outright laughter.

“You’ve apparently not been offered a full overview of Nusquam, 387. This is a special building, the breeding chamber, one segment of a large enclave for deviant libertines. You’re going to be impregnated. During your last period, did your handler not write something on your left cheek?”

I nod, indeed something was scribbled where I cannot see.

“Turn to your right.”

Sitting upright, leaning against the wall of the low cinder block building, I twist, exposing my left cheek.

“5/15. You’re to be inseminated on May 15, whenever that is. Presumably in two weeks time you’ll be ovulating. But don’t fret, during the procedure you’ll be masturbated... and other than those of the members, orgasms are rare here. And thereafter you’ll be well cared for as long as you suck cock, bend and spread. Just don’t come to enjoy it too much. When they determined the anal penetration became enjoyable for me, that’s when the bastinado began. Haven’t been able to walk normally since... without my special shoes,” her glance going to the adjacent wall wear there rests odd footwear. “Even modest applications of the sjambok can over time bring permanent irritation to the fibrous tissue of the soles. Do try to avoid it.”

Our interchange ends when a woman of color approaches our ascetic chamber bearing plastic feeding bags brimming with thick white liquid.

“Ah, feeding time. They want quiet so just relax and enjoy, 387. Within weeks you’ll begin to look like me. Many thousands of insalubrious calories... forcibly induced. These handlers... they’re strict. And though good, do not expect mercy. Tormenting white women seems to amuse. All are from Rwanda so you’re going to learn some of the Kinyarwanda language. Words like igikeri and gukuna imishino. And don’t fight or resist. Your days of glamour and beauty are over... just as are mine. You’re going to look just as they want you to look... like an igikeri. Whomever you’ve angered has paid much to assure it.”