'Retribution', Segment V

New York (the present)

“Shall we begin, qiufan? Perhaps the left leg.”

“If it pleases you, shou ren zunjing kuxing zhe.” 

The torture begins. I grab another length of bamboo, pushing such into the rope encircling the thigh and foot. I slowly twist... ever so slowly. In tightening the tether the ligaments at the knee stretch, the bamboo tucked behind the joint bringing leverage.

It is simple, there is little effort on my part. I can twist and tighten with one finger of my hand. But it brings such excruciating pain. My qiufan beings to sing. A howl.

Gone are the days when she would beg me to stop. My qiufan learned the futility of that. Instead she knows I want to hear her cries of agony. She accommodates.

I stop, letting the pain signals rush to the cerebral cortex. I look over to my client. Yes, there is misogyny. He squirms in his chair, his growing erection trapped by his slacks and underwear. In a way, he suffers as well.  

“I would not consider it indecorous if your girl chooses to please you,” I call out. “My qiufan and I will be moving to another place,” politely suggesting if my client wants to be sucked off while I work it is of little concern to me.

And yes, torturer and tortured do enter another world with the intensity of the exchange. While I work a girl there could be an earthquake and I would not notice... as with my qiufan. In countering the agony endorphins flow... and oxytocin... the body attempting to counter the pain signals. And that is why deliberation is needed. The hormones flow, masking the agony... therefore a good kuxing zhe patiently waits and then increases the level of pain.

It becomes a contest... assuring the suffering does not diminish... instead slowly growing.

I return my attention, ever so slightly twisting, tightening the encircling binding, stretching the ligaments at the knee. There comes more music... another howl.

Peripherally I note shifting in the dark corner where sits my client. The leash tightens, the boy... girl... shuffles about, head and shoulders pressed between my client’s knees.

I smile to myself, thinking of my qiufan introducing herself by humbly asking to suck my client’s penis. It appears his yinjing is well cared for and that my qiufan’s gender is not appropriate for the task.

Leaving in place the adjusting bamboo and the rope tightened I step to my qiufan’s front, tenderly grazing my hands over her bald head, wiping away tears. Then I go to the breasts, cupping glands of size then diddling the nipples to bring joy and more oxytocin. This is devious, my fingers cause the hormones to increase which temporarily counters the pain. Until of course I resume, with more twists and more tightness to in turn overcome the brief relief. This torturing becomes a contest... which I as kuxing zhe always win... the prize being her song.   

“Have you missed me? It’s been a few months. Does your benefactor torture you?”

“Yes, my shou ren zunjing kuxing zhe, I have missed your devotion... your attention to my needs. Dav... ah... my benefactor... torments me in different ways.”

“I see. That is why he sent you to me. You need to feel pain... physical pain... your masochism assuaged. He is a good benefactor. Do you take care of his yinjing?”

“He... well... not as I would like, kuxing zhe.”

“Of course not. You will please it as he wishes. And how is that?”

“I clean it for him. After...”

“After what?”

“He... has a girl... and... “

“So you clean him after sex. And the girl?”

“I clean her as well, kuxing zhe.”

“Yes, keeps you humble... no pride in that. So my training in Guangdong Penitentiary is put to good use.” 

“Yes, kuxing zhe. Thank you for training me.”

The sincere thanks brings me to smile. For two years this kuxing zhe and qiufan were inseparable, eating together, sleeping together, enjoying torture together. I am missed. And in a way I miss her.  

I glance to my client. During our exchange his companion has disrobed. The mystery of his/her gender to be solved. In seeing the head bobbing between my client’s thighs, such brings my thoughts back to the exposition of torture which my client has commissioned. I must resume.

“An arm next, qiufan? You need to suffer more.”

“If you would like shou ren zunjing kuxing zhe.”

“Yes I would. It is best for you. Left or right?”  

“I don’t know, kuxing zhe.”

“I suppose it matters not. Both will be stretched and tormented before day’s end. And my nose suggests your cunt ripens. Quite fragrant. Therefore you must be quite wet.”

With that I step back between the wide spread thighs, my hand going to her yawning vaginal opening. Two fingers slip within her portal with notable ease. Torture... my torture... has come to arouse. I am pleased.

“You’re sopping wet, qiufan. I think being watched while naked, bound and singing adds to your arousal.” 

Fingers toying, bringing more oxytocin, I glance behind, my client is being well serviced, the head of his companion bobbing briskly at the crotch. I note that just as my qiufan has been trained to always present herself with feet parted, thighs well spread, the naked companion so poses. A flaccid penis swings about between the thighs. Though long, it is boyishly thin. And there is nothing else to confirm his gender. The rumor concerning a transforming visit to Mexico is true. And such jives. As a misogynist my client would not deign to let a woman please him.  

I withdraw. The arms need attention. Another stick of bamboo, more slow twisting. I decide on the left first. I return to my contest. There are comforting hormones to be addressed, more music to be heard.

'Retribution', Segment IV

 Guangdong (two years past)

"You’re shivering. Are you cold?”

Inmate Marcia Clark, having been readily convicted and sentenced... fifteen years in Guangdong Penitentiary... stands in the office of the warden, hands folded to the back of her head, feet parted as directed.

“No Madame Warden. I’m not... well... clothing...”

“You have none... and you will go naked here at Guangdong Penitentiary. It is my rule for Caucasian inmates. I found foreign inmates... particularly American and British... to be haughty. You are not here to be haughty. You are here to be punished. Besides, there are the breasts. Chinese women are... shall we say more efficiently proportioned there. And the ripe well rounded breasts of the Caucasian inmates amuse. Plus without covering, silly notions of escape are put aside.”

“Yes, Madame Warden.”

“You’re to undergo special treatment here at Guangdong. It seems you have a benefactor. I don’t know who, but special arrangements have been made.”

“Arrangements Madame Warden?”

“You’re to be tortured... daily. We’re very good at that in China. Very careful... but very deliberate in applying pain and suffering. I have a kuxing zhe assigned to you... only you. Rather unusual... and expensive. She’ll always be with you. You will have awe and respect for her skills. She will do with you as she pleases.”

“Yes, Madame Warden,” the trembling most visible.

“But be heartened, your benefactor has arranged something even more unusual. Something called conjugal visits... unheard of in China. But the men’s prison is nearby and you’re to be transported there monthly. Although there is a proviso for weekly visits... at your choice. Your benefactor must have great influence in arranging for such.”

David... it can only be husband David, Marcia thinks to herself. Bribery is prevalent in China. And with his vast wealth he could probably pay off every government official in the province. 

“I have a prisoner pose for me from time to time,” the warden nodding to a girl standing in the corner of her large office. “Instills discipline and amuses me. And my girls very much want to keep me amused.”

Another source of fearful trembling. The referenced inmate is well trussed, naked as is Marcia, bent at the waist, propped on the toes for her left foot, right leg bent behind, ankle held high in being secured to a collar about her neck. Her arms are pulled back, wrists restrained high by a rope leading to a ceiling hook.

“I call her pose the swan... as in the bird... spreading its wings for me... appearing about to fly. Very artful don’t you think? The naked human form as sculpture.”

“Ya... ya... yes, Madame Warden,” stuttering in fear.

“She was disrespectful to one of the guards... failing to please her... withholding the pleasure of her tongue and lips. Another hour or two as a swan and I think she’ll be very eager to please. Do keep that in mind. We don’t need silly pride here at Guangdong Penitentiary. “

With that. the warden rises from her desk, strolling to the human statue, left hand cupping the girl’s hairless mons, the right tweaking left nipple then right.

“She’s nicely wet,” left hand retracting and presented, moisture gleaming in the light. “All my girls develop a taste for suffering here. Masochism... the affinity for pain... manifests over time. It abets acceptance of an inmate’s station... to serve... to please... to amuse in bearing pain”

With the words, a Chinese woman in a one piece gray pullover dress knocks on the open office door.

“Ah, your kuxing zhe is here.” 

'Retribution', Segment III

New York (the present)

“Enough. The fubu muban.”

I point. My qiufan’s fingers release her lips, hands returning to the back of her bald head. She turns and prances on toes. I have trained her to approach torture with eagerness, whether feigned or real. It pleases me. Indeed in moving to the horizontal board of smoothly polished oak, hanging waist high from cables, her motion appears to be that of a child frolicking in a school yard.  

She kneels, bending over, her stomach resting on the oak... thus the implement of torture is named fubu muban... belly board. 

I work with deliberation, there is no rush to bring pain. It will be long, my agonizing efforts to occupy a good part of the afternoon. Thus the bucket of cold water waiting to revive a qiufan brought to delirium by the endless suffering.  

Rope and hollow lengths of bamboo to start. On the belly board I work the joints, stretching the ligaments. As I place an eight inch length of bamboo behind the left knee, my qiufan knows to cooperate. Resistance is futile. She bends her leg, lifting her foot, heel to her buttock, entrapping the bamboo. I tie rope about the leg, encircling the upper thigh and the foot. Not tight, not loose, the bamboo becomes entrapped behind the knee  Through the hollowness of the bamboo I thread a length of rope, pulling the two ends up and tying off above at a ceiling cable behind. As I work the right leg, I glance to my client, observing with fascination, intrigued that my qiufan would so facilely submit to my efforts.

It was not always so. The first time I tortured the woman required much effort.

Right leg bent, bamboo in place, leg and thigh encircled, rope threaded through and tied off behind. The ropes force my qiufan to widely part her thighs, opening her sex for visual examination... and more of course. And my client is correct, with my qiufan’s excitement and lacking hygiene, the odor of her opened vagina again fills the room air.

Such embarrassment. 

I move to the arms. A length of bamboo at the elbow of an offered left arm, rope secures such in place encircling the bent arm at the biceps and wrist. I thread again rope through the hollow bamboo, the two ends are pulled upwards tying off above at the left cable supporting the board. The right arm follows.

In completing, my qiufan kneels, arms and legs bent, bamboo at the joints, rope holding such in place. She is immobile but for her head.

I slowly circle about, building the apprehension, checking the many ties.

“Have you eaten recently, qiufan? Are you going to vomit for me? You know what happens if you do. You may speak.”

“Yes, I know, my shou ren zunjing kuxing zhe. I have not eaten.”

“Good. I think a nostril binding will help you in your surrender to me,” my hands tenderly rubbing her bald head, a finger tapping her nose. “Would like to be so bound? You may speak.”

There is silence. No reply. My qiufan trembles knowing of the intense pain and frustration of such a restraint. Finally there comes a reply.

“If it pleases you, kuxing zhe.”    

“It will. And you want to please.”

I step away, returning with a cord. On one end are attached curved metal implements, similar in shape to fish hooks but with bulbous lumps rather than sharp points. Such are inserted into the nostrils, the free end of the cord tied off above. The head shall not move. The discomfort brings tears which I gently brush away.

“You may sing for me, qiufan... for my client. Much time and money expended in sound proofing my xingxun shi.” (torture chamber).

I move to the door, closing, the interior surface covered with sound absorbing foam. Inside the room’s walls, beneath decorative paneling, is similar material. Such a difference from Guangdong prison where prisoner’s songs could be heard throughout the facility.

Next I step to a wall switch. Though not pertinent to the torture, suspension greatly enhances the sense of helplessness... and thus my power as kuxing zhe. I flip. The fubu muban rises, the cables lifting the board and my qiufan off the floor. Not by much, just a few inches. But as I said, the presentation is one of vulnerability. My qiufan’s gift of submission begins.

A glossary - Chinese terms

 If readers are confused or annoyed with my use of Chinese terms, here is a glossary.

qiufan - prisoner

kuxing zhe - torturer

shou ren zunjing kuxing zhe - revered torturer

linzhong chuang - death bed  

 xingxun shi -torture chamber

fubu muban -belly board

linzhong chuang - death bed

shou nue kuang - masochist

laohudeng - tiger bench

'Retribution', Segment II

Macau (two years past)

“David, there’s someone knocking on the door. David?”

There comes no reply. Marcia Clark rises from the stool of the small cosmetic table, putting aside her makeup. She strolls to the livingroom area of the vast luxury suite of the Macau hotel. No husband David. He must have gone to the lobby for newspapers. Marcia assures her robe is righted, nothing flashing, and goes to the hotel room door, the knocks turning to fervent pounding. She peers through the peephole. It is a uniformed policeman. Feeling safe, she opens.

“Ms. Marcia Clark?” an Asian man in plain clothes flashes a badge, the uniformed officer stepping aside.

“Yes.”

“Macau police. You need to come with us. We have questions.”

“Well... ah... you need to talk to my husband. He’s not here.”

“We need to talk to you. Come along.”

“But... but... I’m not dressed.”

“Get dressed. Be quick.”

There is urgency. There is stress. The police! Bad enough back in the States. But while on vacation in a foreign country!

Marcia leaves the door upon and turns to the bedroom. More stress... the man follows.

“I’ll need privacy.”

“You’ll need to be escorted.”

“My husband is a very powerful man. He’ll not be taking this lightly.”

He is... powerful... and he’s not at all taking this or anything to do with his wife Marcia lightly.

“The impertinence!” Marcia huffs doffing her robe, incorrectly assuming the plain clothes policeman would look away. He does not. He ogles. Marcia dresses quickly.

Back to the livingroom for her purse, Marcia spies an envelope propped on top, addressed with her name. She grabs as the officer takes her by the elbow.

“What’s this about?” a demand more than a question.

“Passing counterfeit currency. A very serious charge in Macau. The casinos have very strongly lobbied the government.”

“But my husband gave me all the money!”

The officer smiles evilly.

“Perhaps he will appear on your behalf. Perhaps he will wait and later visit you in prison.”

David did neither.

*****

The note.

      Dear Marcia,

If you’re reading this, you’re most likely under arrest. Sorry I could not be there. Gloating is not my thing. But revenge is. Since the Portuguese ceded control of Macau a few years ago, the island is subject to Chinese law and jurisdiction. I suspect you’ll be relegated to the mainland... Guangdong Penitentiary. It’s a warm climate there. Enjoy your stay. Do hope you’ll be getting some sun. I’ll try to stay in contact by way of the American consulate. And will also arrange some BCC for you.

David

Marcia reads, tears flowing as she awaits in court for a hearing. The shock of the notation... BCC... diminishes the distress of being arrested. Despite her head spinning, mind addled, husband David’s note brings clarity to her plight. BCC... big black cock. She used the term in what she thought were private communications with an old college friend... close... so close that they frequently... and explicitly... exchanged stories of their sexual exploits. 

Marcia has been unfaithful. But it was discreet, she tells herself... both dalliances. With a surgeon... an erudite man of color... details of the relationship offered in confidence to her friend... her paramour whimsically described in the email as having ‘big black cock’. Her exuberant advisement... ‘try it’.

Obviously David learned and is not being whimsical about it, she realizes. A large wad of bills, apparently counterfeit, handed to her to splurge in the hotel casino. His absence at the time of her arrest... both telling.  

'Retribution', Segment I

A short story. Not sure where it will go.

Female Dominant/female submissive.

I hope the use of Chinese terms brings flavor more than distracts.

Enjoy

CB

*****

Retribution

Copyright 2023

by Chris Bellows

New York (the present)

I see on my camera the woman disrobing. I smile in noting the simplicity. Knowing to present herself completely naked, she wears only a lengthy coat and flats, quickly casting aside to denude herself. I’d like to delay and let her simmer in her nakedness, but there is a client waiting. He has arrived early.

So discourteous, yet such eagerness.

Thus I go to the inner front door of my penthouse, unlocking to greet the woman in the foyer. I stand in the doorway, arms akimbo in silence assuming the regal pose she expects. My drab gray pullover dress, my prison uniform, will project my authority.  

“Good afternoon, shou ren zunjking kuxing zhe,” her greeting most humble.

She is Caucasian, but has learned some Chinese after two years of incarceration. She addresses me as torturer... revered torturer.

“You are on time. That shows obedience, qiufan.”

Though I know her real name... know everything there is to know about her... I call her qiufan... prisoner.

I say no more, gazing at her body in silence, enhancing her sense of exposure. She blushes... delightfully... despite having spent two years under my tutelage without a shred of covering. Being revered has that effect.

“Thank you shou ren zunjking kuxing zhe.” 

“But you are to present yourself to me nude,” my hand going to my head to gesture.

The woman takes the hint, reaching and slipping away a wig of raven hair. She has been completely defoliated... bald... rules of incarceration in Chinese prisons. For most the hair grows back. Her benefactor decided otherwise. So there is nothing... head, face, under the arms, legs, pubes. The follicles have been chemically decimated... forever. Such wonderfully enhances the sense of vulnerability... as intended.

“Have you been in New York long, shou ren zunjking kuxing zhe?”

“No talk. My client is here. You are to present yourself to him.”

“He wants his yinjing sucked?”

“Of course. He is a man. But silence. You are to be tortured first. In New York a man can get a blow job anywhere.”

The reader will note, though of Chinese ancestry, my English is fluent. I spent many years teaching Chinese to the English speaking children of diplomats in Beijing. Such learning works both ways. 

“Come,” I gesture for her to step forth.

I suppress a smile seeing my qiufan lift her arms, hands going to the back of her head. Mentally she is immersing herself back into the penitentiary in Guangdong where she was incarcerated.

We enter my penthouse. She follows me to a large spare bedroom which I have converted. In entering I hear her gasp.

“Yes, brings back memories. You did not think you would totally escape your kuxing zhe, did you? Your benefactor arranged for me to contact you.”

Yes the room is well equipped. A torture chamber... a Chinese prison torture chamber. As opposed to what most would envision, there are no standard implements of pain... no whips, canes, paddles, metal shackles. Just rope, cords and innocuous appearing wooden objects... smooth and well polished. No splinters. And nothing that would leave marks or open the skin. The Chinese rely on time in bringing suffering. It is to be slow... with no damage... other than to the mind. Marks and bruises can foster infection... deterring more torture. And thus the reason for hair removal... anti septicism is important... and hair can be septic. We want healthy prisoners... able to withstand hour after hour of pain.  

Sitting in a large comfortable chair in a dark corner is my client. He shall go nameless, but a middle aged man presumably of great financial resources. I don’t torture cheaply. On the floor beside, sitting on haunches with head humbly bowed is the man’s companion. Collared, a leash hangs, the end loosely held in the man’s hand. Young, hair short for a girl, long for a boy, the gender is obfuscated. In my profession one questions not a client’s sexual preferences. But I have it on authority that the birth gender of the companion was male and during a trip to Mexico the testicles were surgically excised. Wealth has its privileges. 

Being a man, and most likely a misogynist, I know he wants to ogle the prospective victim. I thus lead to the chair and step aside. My qiufan knows to go to her toes, standing before him, feet apart, thighs well spread... in mandated silence.

“She has nice shape. Might be pretty given hair,” my client observes, bringing further embarrassment.

“Removed. In her case permanently.”

“Including the eyebrows?” noting the bizarre thin stripes of liner painted above the eyes. 

“Of course.”

While my client calmly gazes, I am sure his arousal slowly building despite my qiufan’s quirky appearance, I step away to where I have a bucket of cold water and rags in wait. I reach, return and hastily wipe away the make up.

“Naked means no covering. Nothing!” I admonish knowing the now more alien appearance brings distress.

“May I suck your penis sir?” my qiufan humbly inquires by rote.

“No,” I answer for him. “Not now. It is the fubu muban this afternoon. And silence... until you begin singing for the man.”

In the Guangdong prison to ‘sing’ is to emit vocal utterances in response to the continuous application of pain.         

My qiufan begins to tremble, I am sure thoughts of being tethered to the fubu muban... the belly board... stirring memories. Haunting? Horrid? No, not after we bonded. It then became her offering to me... something deep within that she wanted to do for me... sacrificing her soul, her pride, her dignity... for my pleasure. But in my penthouse the presence of an observer... a male observer... very much heightens the stress. In Guangdong Penitentiary our exchanges of power were private.

She is going to perform for me... as she has so often... but will now sing for another pair of ears... another pair of eyes watching her ignominious surrender.        

Putting aside the leash, the man unseats himself. What man can resist? Though my rules are that touching is only between the torturer and the prisoner, he cannot help himself, reaching to examine the breasts. I allow it. He has paid handsomely. And obedience ingrained, my qiufan remains in place, hands obsequiously to the back of her head, while the man palms the pendulous glands, thumbs working the nipples.

“What happened here? Marks.”

“The warden had certain exuberance concerning Caucasian breasts. Such were spiked. As you can see, the flesh heals... and in time the marks will fade.”

“Spiked?”

“Vertically pierced with shards of iron. Through the meatus of the gland. She was suspended.”

“By her tits?”

“Yes, though not fully. But bearing enough weight such that the warden became greatly respected,” a euphemism for thoroughly breaking a girl.

“She smells... like pussy,” so ungentlemanly to note.

“She’s aroused. Her masochism was awakened in Guangdong... and is now easily inflamed. Perhaps my qiufen would like to smile for the gentleman.”

My words are not suggestions, not after two years of close and strict supervision. My qiufan knows what a Guangdong prison ‘smile’ is. Her hands lower, fingers going to her pubes, pinching the outer labia and tugging firmly to part her nether lips and obscenely display the pink of her inner labia and vagina. It is a humiliating pose and my qiufan knows to hold it until permission is given the cease. She begins to further blush, the room air filling with her scent.   

I want to add that her benefactor most likely prohibits standard feminine hygiene, thus the strong odor. But such would lead to more unnecessary explanation. My client wants to see the woman tortured... and that’s what I do... and that’s what my qiufan needs. 

The man snickers and returns to his seat taking up the leash. No sign of sympathy, I must suppose trying to veil his arousal in imagining my qiufan ‘smiling’ for the warden or strung up for hours by her breasts in the warden’s office, struggling on her toes, nipples forced to point to the ceiling. 

“Marks are unusual in Chinese prisons,” I add. “This prisoner was deemed to be exceptional.”

And she was exceptional, her breasts spiked only with the consent of her benefactor.   

Yes, her benefactor... a husband cuckcolded by my qiufan. He remains extracting retribution.

'Chained & Protected,' Sole Segment published on the blog

This is a sequel to 'Chained'.

The Story

Josephine Collier finishes her breakfast, eggs benedict. The cooking skills of her house girl seem to improve with each meal. Hours of instructional videos and an ingrained desire to please have brought enthusiasm to the task. 

“Very good, Jamie.”

“Thank you, Ma’am.”

“You look pretty this morning... and you have not yet done your hair and makeup.”

Jamie blushes with the compliment. Not finding words, hands go the hem of his dress left and right, fanning out to the sides, legs bending. The head lowers and there comes a dip, a perfect curtsy in response. Josephine smiles in hearing his long chain rattle on the tiling of the kitchen floor. Her house girl with a penis is so nicely conditioned to serve and please.

“I’m taking Rex to the vet, this morning.”

“But it’s snowing, Miss Josie. There may be trouble,” Jamie genuinely worried about she who is adored... both providing and protecting.

“This is Maine, Jamie. You can expect snow weekly. And flurries come and come. I cannot wait until Springtime. Rex needs to be checked over... and at a minimum have his teeth cleaned.” 

Miss Josie rises from the table.

“Eat your breakfast. Lots of butter. You know I want you soft and plump. I’m going to shower. And you’re to look pretty, Jamie... even though I’ll be gone for most of the day. It’s important.”

“Yes, Ma’am. I must act like a girl... think like a girl... look like a girl.”

Miss Josie nods and smiles... wonting to add to the mantra... ‘be fucked like a girl’. But that’s no longer a matter for discussion. Jamie will bend and spread for her anywhere, any time. That aspect of the months of brainwashing no longer need to be edified. Penetration is not only acceptable but desired.

Arms extend, left hand and right go to the bare chest, fingers tweaking the nipples. Jamie girlishly giggles, finding sensitivity normally deprived the male gender. He has come to covet his Master’s touch.   

“Hair and makeup,” releasing her sensuous grasp and turning away. “And there’s much laundry to keep you busy.”

There is. Snow storm expected, the previous day the owner of the Collier Preserve spent many hours in work clothes, assuring the supply of firewood was adequate and accessible, moving much to the back porch where even a blizzard would not inhibit access to a supply of heat. As always, Jamie slight of physique, denied any exercise, fattened over the many weeks of captivity, looked on in envy as owner Josephine Collier labored as would a brawny lumberjack, her strength and stamina imposing.

Later, baring herself of her sweat laden clothes, Jamie went to his knees. Ostensibly to gather the soiled garb he bowed his head and licked her perspiration. Ankles, calves, thighs... hands denied further oral worship. 

Such devotion... such adoration.

As a good maid, Jamie cleans the table and does the dishes. Then comes his own breakfast, quick and insalubrious. Pancakes... slathered with butter... seemingly floating in syrup.

Miss Josie wants him fattened. He so much wants to oblige. 

Meal completed, Jamie gathers up some slack in his long chain, knowing to guide the links, moving as gracefully as possible in the tight corset and long dress. In walking he feels the sizable anal insertion, his buttocks squishing with abundant lubrication.

Miss Josie wants him to always feel prepared for spontaneous penetration. It humbles. The constant sense of vulnerability tames any remaining male bravado.

Up the stairs, to his bedroom, the makeup table and mirror beckon. After months of training and indoctrination, Miss Josie no longer has to advise him concerning his presentation... he wants to look pretty... wants to be effeminate... wants to please.

A charming lavender dress today, Jamie does his nails to match, pleased to find a shade of lipstick as well. He styles his hair. Long and getting longer, Master Josephine Collier keeps hers short, readily slicked back when doing the rugged work of maintaining a house of size in the seclusion of the Maine forest. Jamie marvels at her many skills, plumbing, carpentry, even rewiring the old house before his capture. 

As he gives his hair a final prink, Miss Josie enters, clothed to venture into a Maine winter, jeans and work boots.

“I’ll be many hours, Jamie. To clean Rex’s teeth he will require anesthesia which means waiting for it to wear before returning. Meanwhile, I’ll do some shopping... pick up the mail. But the snow will make for a slow drive, so I may be most of the day,” Miss Josie strolling to stand behind, hands smoothing over Jamie’s bare shoulders. “Remember, the cell phone is only for contacting the Forest Service... in an emergency. You recall the futility of using it for escape.”

“Yes, Ma’am. I’m sorry Ma’am.”

“And don’t get any ideas about using the computer. If you were to hack into it... getting by the password... there will be no internet service. The satellite dish is covered in snow. I’ll need to go up on the roof and clear it off after the storm passes. And that’s if I have a need... which I don’t.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“And I’ll be checking on your penis when I return,” hand going to her pocket to retrieve a small ultraviolet light. “You don’t want those little titties clamped,” flashing the light to make her point. 

“Oh, no Ma’am.” 

Detection paste applied as always during morning toilet, disobedient fingers will glow, instantly betraying any furtive attempt at masturbation... self pleasure. House girl and sex slave Jamie Hoffstadt is to expunge his male essence... balance his raging hormones... in only one manner... a ruined orgasm while enduring a deep pegging.    

Miss Josie steps to the door, turning with one last advisement.

“There’s plenty of food for your lunch. Do not prepare dinner for me. I don’t know how late I will be. Treat yourself to lots of ice cream. You know how much I like to see your buttocks grow. And leave in place your anal plug... unless of course you want to go to a bigger size... a number eight. I think you’d like that,” Miss Josie chuckling.

Jamie sheepishly smiles with the taunt. He has come to crave the curious sensation of prostate manipulation. And Miss Josie has convinced him it is best for his health.

For the first time since entering captivity in September, Jamie will be left alone, not even loyal dog Rex for company and protection while Miss Josie shopped. He reflects. Three months ago the threat of flight was mitigated by the lack of appropriate clothing, practical footwear for traversing the harsh gravel of the road, and Rex, trained to herd barnyard animals... and wayward captives.

Now there are winter garments waiting to be laundered and available to be commandeered ... along with work boots drying at the fireplace... and no Rex. Should Jamie somehow free himself of the long corset chain making him one with the house, he could reasonably flee. 

Then he glances at himself in the mirror. He is now a girl... acting like a girl... thinking like a girl... looking like a girl. Being pegged like a girl, he ruefully adds... envisioning those in the lesbian instruction video.     

No, putting aside the weather, the risks of flight, including falling into the clutches of Deputy Sheriff Brenda, are too great... his mind concluding the benefits minimal.

Such a charming smile, Jamie beams, peering into the mirror.

Time for this pretty house girl to do laundry.