Nusquam

by Chris Bellows

  The co pilot exits the cockpit, signaling Kelly to close the windows, the jet nearing land. He smiles in seeing the plight of flight attendant Judy... naked, bound and being fingered.

  “Sorry, Kelly, you know the rules.”

  Kelly nods and lowers the shades.

  “This is a boring segment of the flight... windows closed until landing. Judy will keep you amused, particularly if you have not before fisted a girl. She both squeals and squirts.”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Kelly notes that her old friend Linda Rankin acclimates quickly.

  Having suggested that no one other than herself and the Director are aware of her law enforcement background, also reminding her that Nusquam is well outside the jurisdiction of United States law, the duo stroll the grounds of the enclave, Linda mentally free of her obligation... to protect, defend and enforce the American justice system. Though hot, the weather is to be enjoyed. Also to be enjoyed, the libertine antics of members and subjugants.

  Very much aware of Linda’s secretive home life... her houseboy... a neutered male kept naked... caned and fanny fucked with a double dildo... Kelly’s intuition proves to be correct. That stepping from her role as a deputy U.S. Marshal, the aura of Nusquam would prove entertaining... if not outright enticing.

  Departing cabin 10 after changing to lighter clothing, the strolling friends come across one of the many sodomy stanchions, its smooth horizontal surface evidencing much wear. As Linda pauses to peer in curiosity, Kelly explains.

  “The subjugants... male, female, castrated... know to bend and spread with the snap of the fingers,” Kelly explains. “You noted the many steel bands on the flight attendant. Well the ankles are secured here and here at the base of the posts and the wrists and or elbows attached together behind the back. Ideally positioned for the humiliation and discomfort of anal penetration... though many of the subjugants come to enjoy. Vaginally, the female subjugants are untouched... kept chaste.”

  “No chastity belt?”

  “Correct. The hounds are trained and are everywhere. They can smell arousal from yards away... and their reaction is fierce. If you’re naked and wearing steel bands... do not touch yourself or the privates of another subjugant. The protocol relieves the members, nurses and trainers of much burden.”

  Resuming their journey to the pump house, there approaches a cart conveyed by one of Nusquam’s many human equines. It is Penny Osborne, reins in her left hand sjambok in her right. Harnessed, enormous testicles prominently strapped to his thigh bands, is Balls Martindale, sweat coated nakedness gleaming in the tropical sun.

  The imposing blonde tugs on the reins bringing the cart to a halt. Kelly notes the heavy breathing, the steed well worked in equatorial heat, buttocks aflame with encouraging strokes of the sjambok.

  “Kelly, you’re back... and out of uniform.”

  As Kelly returns the greeting Linda stares, the large black numerals 88 denoting ownership... a human totally under the directing hand of a woman of governance. With the glowing look on Linda’s face, Kelly understands her friend is becoming more and more enthralled.

  “No longer here as a nurse, Penny. I’ve joined. A short visit, showing my friend Linda about the facility.”

  With the exchange, Linda steps forth, finding attraction with the steel encased penis. She is emboldened, the steed so well tethered and totally under feminine control.

  “May I?” her hand lowering with the polite quest.

  “Of course. I prefer to run him erect, but the firmness wanes with the exertion,” Penny explains.

  The hand palpates, smoothing over ringed testicles the size of apples then palming the steel tube and lifting for closer examination. Comprehending the virility... such muscular brawn... Linda smiles. For it is totally under a woman’s authority. The sense of empowerment enraptures.

  “When I see something like this, I have second thoughts about having Chrissy boy neutered. You’ve run him hard. He performs well for you.”

  With her words, Linda’s finger finds the small patch of penile flesh exposed for frottaging. Her finger slowly circles. 88 fidgets in sensing the evanescent touch. The organ begins to engorge and Linda giggles like a school playing with a kitten.

  “He’s quite priapic.”

  “Kept totally chaste with daily testosterone injections. It offers women like us quite a thrill, wouldn’t you agree?” Penny informs with feigned haughtiness.

  Linda nods as the steel tube rises to point skyward. She instinctively knows to retract her finger. Mission accomplished.

  “If you’re staying for a few days, the day after tomorrow he’ll be ready for another jaunt. If you have not before whipped the bare buttocks of a well worked pony boy, you’ll find it to be quite addictive,” Penny offers.

  “Back to Teterboro tomorrow evening. Just a short stay,” Kelly explains.

  Linda steps to the side, appearing disappointed as, with a stroke of the sjambok and a throaty ‘haw’, Penny Osborne resumes her afternoon ride.

  “I’d like to do that, Kelly. But you know I have to keep my penchant under wraps.”

  “No need to worry here, Linda. This is Nusquam. You’d be surprised with the status of some of the members. Penny runs a sizable hedge fund. There are members in politics... high level politics. Executives, judges, celebrities. Plan to spend more time here. A girl tends to leave a lot of stress behind while stressing a subjugant. It can be quite cathartic.”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  “Keep in mind that the subjugants are mostly masochists. They are tormented here... it’s their desire... a narcotic they both hate and crave. We accommodate, keeping them well bound when mobility is not required for servitude. Chaste always. Well fed, medical care unmatched. They live long healthy lives in constant pain... humiliation... degradation. We satiate their need.”

  Kelly lectures as the duo approach the pump house door.

  “It is best for them. There are exceptions. Miscreants, sociopaths deserving of special treatment. Michael Mansfield is one.”

  With that, Kelly pulls open the pump house door, leading her friend Deputy United States Marshal Linda Rankin to the balcony overlooking the inferno of the Nusquam pump house... the subjugants’ final place of servitude. Linda is both amazed and concerned, the many large, muscular women of color stroking away... the rhythmical thwacks of the sjambok on buttocks well exposed.

  Again, the scene not only impresses but the sounds and smells as well.

  Just as with 128, Kelly verbally takes Linda through the pump house protocol. She notes that within moments the look of concern dissipates. Instead there comes a smile, a look of Schadenfreude. The forced labor... unending in the stifling heat of the windowless chamber... feeds her proclivity... oddly soothes.

  After minutes of observation, Kelly leads to the stairs. As they descend Mondiva spies the visitors and moves to greet them.

  “Good afternoon Kelly. Back again. You enjoy the pump house now that you don’t need to bandage and offer care.”

  Linda looks in awe, the woman brazenly exposing her sex, the long labial lips flopping about with each step.

  “We’re interested in number 147, Mondiva.”

  “Oh yes. The Director gave orders... special treatment for that one. Lots of cock sucking for him. And when we bend and spread him, he gets very frisky. I keep telling him to relax and take it... that the more he fights the more the boys enjoy fucking him. But he still resists. And the more he insults our gay members, the more they come back to fuck him. He not sleep much... either worked on a capstan or tummy down and spread, having his asshole stretched and his throat stuffed... ha, ha, ha.”

  Mondiva gestures as she speaks, leading to an adjoining room.

  “He’s already had his morning fucking. Resting with a well worn rectum and a butt full of sperm. We’ll put him back to work in an hour.”

  Stepping through a door, Linda notes a set of sodomy frames, six... lined up like the hurdles of a track and field event. One
is occupied. Linda barely recognizes the naked hairless form from file photos and mug shots. The large, black the tattooed numerals 147 distract. Ankle bands secured to the base of the posts, elbow and wrist bands holding the arms tightly behind his back, the body trembles, the ordeal of being sodomized apparently recent.

  “Michael Mansfield?” Deputy Marshal Linda Rankin inquires with her official stentorian voice.

  “I am 147, here to serve and please,” 147 having undergone weeks of brainwashing.

  “It’s his indoctrination,” Kelly explains.

  Linda steps more proximate, noting indeed that a wad of thick spunk rolls down the inner thighs. She also notes the hands and fingers... nails missing... declawed in Nusquam parlance. Plus the fingers are sutured together... the thumbs grotesquely attached almost to the top of his hands.

  “I’ll need fingerprints,” Linda proclaims, taking a small kit from her pocket. “If it really is Michael Mansfield in captivity here, I must file a report with the Marshal’s Service. Sorry, it’s my duty.”

  The term ‘Marshal’ brings Muskrat Mike into reality, the delirium of his trauma quickly fading.

  “I’ll serve my time... please... take me into custody... I’ll surrender to you,” the tone so pitiful.

  Linda smiles with the plea. Put under the penis and sjambok, the con artist prefers 15 years of hard labor to life in the pump house. It is ironically amusing.

  As Linda works, obtaining prints as best she can, Kelly steps to the rear. The buttocks, welted with frequent strokes of the sjambok, have been greased, the gluteal crevice gleaming with unguent. She reaches. Medical training, years of service at Nusquam, she handles the male genitals as one would inspect fruit at the produce market.

  “He’s not been degloved, Mondiva. A new regimen?”

  “He’s scheduled. New personnel in the infirmary. Seems they’re a little behind.”

  “Or they don’t know how. Well Muskrat, your organs are intact. Seems you’re fortunate... for now.”

  “You conned me, you bitch,” Mansfield’s grit reviving. “Gave up my life’s savings for this...”

  “Savings yes. But the savings of others... stolen from the old and unwitting. You deserve a life of sucking cock... and that’s what you’ll have.”

  Despite the trauma, the many weeks of chastity and denial, Kelly’s relatively soothing touch brings male reaction. Michael Mansfield slowly but steadily hardens. Kelly decides to amuse, her left hand pulling back on the firming cylinder of flesh as the right thumb rubs the super sensitive underside, circling methodically, encouraging a hard on as the organ fights the awkward angle. She is very much aware the that cumbersome bending, despite the joy of her manipulation, brings discomfort.

  “Ah, you’d so much like to come for me, wouldn’t you Muskrat. But you won’t... not unless I want you to.”

  Linda completes her task. Kelly abruptly releases the turgid penis and reaches lower, swiping the inner thigh with her index finger to gather a dollop of male essence. Stepping to the front she smears on the upper lip of the hardened thief and embezzler.

  “You’ll learn to enjoy the taste of sperm here, Muskrat. You’ll be partaking a lot. And while ingesting, think of all the widows you conned out of their life savings.”

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  “I’ve researched that federal pensions for law enforcement personnel can be lucrative... and earned in as little as 25 years, Ms. Rankin. You’ve put in a few years. Earning full pension... is that your goal?” the raspy, genderless voice of the Director inquires.

  “I have fifteen years in... need ten more... and yes it makes sense to stick it out.”

  Obligatory introduction and greetings fulfilled, Kelly Devers and Linda Rankin sit in the office of the Nusquam Director. The words are exchanged as the Director notes that newcomer Linda is distracted, gawking to her right where from ceiling cables there hangs the Director’s latest potted plant.

  “Power has always intrigued... enticed. And our subjugants are always so willing to cede it. Oddly they are intrigued as well... though conversely.”

  “You’ve had her spiked, Director,” the inflection of Kelly’s voice an inquiry.

  “Yes. Felt it’s for the best... until a decision is made. The breast spikes won’t impede her ability to lactate, should the milking parlor ultimately be found acceptable.”

  With the words of explanation the trio pause to gaze, conversation diverted by the demonstration of power indeed. The naked hairless form of 128 now hangs, 156 having been relegated to life in the pump house. Deeply implanted shards of stainless steel have cruelly been thrust vertically through the mammary glands, penetrating the pectoral muscles. Cables secured to eyelets at the top feed under the girl’s neck collar then above to ceiling hooks. Similar spikes penetrate the flesh of rounded meaty buttocks, thrust through the gluteus maximus muscles. Cables secured to eyelets likewise are fed under the neck collar and lead to ceiling hooks.

  Thus 128 hangs in complete suspension by her own flesh, some six inches above the office floor, silent in her slow interminable suffering. Just as with 156, she has quickly learned that movement... the slightest motion... begins a cascade of agonizing muscle cramps. She is the Director’s newest potted plant, and for Linda Rankin the silent exchange of power is eery, despite her own paraphilia.

  “128 had reservations about how we want her to serve here at Nusquam,” the Director explains to a horrified yet amused Linda Rankin. “It seems that serving in the milking parlor, lactating upon demand, is too sedentary for her. The girl needs pain... needs to feel the power of a superior... needs to yield... capitulate by yielding to another’s sadism. And yet the pump house was found to be... too imposing. So she’ll hang for me a few hours per day. And you’ll note that the manner in which we spike here at Nusquam cleverly leaves the breasts and buttocks perfectly presented for the sjambok... and other instruments of pain and correction. Would not want to deny a girl a brisk flogging. That wouldn’t do...”

  “The breasts are amazing,” Linda finally finding her voice. “She should let down abundantly.”

  “Oh, she will... when the time comes. We’re very good at it. A diet rich in lactose, injections of prolactin, she’ll be inseminated, suckled twice per day. Within weeks she’ll be expressing at the sound of her superior’s voice... and be grateful to be milked. They develop a fascinating need to nurture. But there can’t be the pain and suffering she craves. It will diminish her flow.”

  The Director arises to better survey her hanging plant.

  “They’ll masturbate you for insemination, 128. Wouldn’t that be nice? Kelly reports that you’re a squirter. The members enjoy that. So give some thought to the milking parlor... to be publically masturbated, spraying for the delight of others, then inseminated. It’s one of the favorite Nusquam rituals... draws quite a crowd.”

  The Director’s left hand smoothes over a hairless quim. The fingers of the right tweak left nipple then right.

  “I know you need pain, but the humiliation may suffice. So degrading for you...”

  The Director returns to her desk, attention reverting to Deputy Marshal Linda Rankin.

  “As Kelly has made you aware... and I’m sure you agree having toured our enclave... Nusquam and our members desire anonymity... complete anonymity. Having the U. S. Marshals Service inquiring about one of our subjugants is... inconvenient. Yet you have a duty to perform. And I think there is one thing upon which we can agree... for the public good, the likes of Michael Mansfield... AKA Muskrat Mike... should be incarcerated... punished.”

  Linda Rankin nods.

  “So let’s compromise,” the Director continues. “When you near retirement... ten years hence... we’ll surrender Mansfield to your custody. It’s unusual for us, most subjugants live a long life of torment here, never again to face the boring travail of the vanilla world.. But it can be arranged. You’ll be awarded for apprehending a long sought fugitive, enjoy a well deserved retirement and all ends well.”r />
  “How is it we can be assured Mansfield won’t talk about Nusquam? Even Federal inmates can garner an audience,” Kelly postulates.

  “When it is time, we’ll move him from the pump house for a couple months of sensory deprivation... dark silence... fed through a tube. Thereafter he won’t have the cognitive ability to remember his own name much less the details of his servitude here. Is that agreeable to you, Ms. Rankin? To put the search for the culprit aside.”

  There comes a pause. Deputy Marshal Linda Rankin arises, her turn to better assess the naked helpless hanging nakedness. She approaches. A hand extends, smoothing over plumped flesh, envisioning the enormous glands being forced to let down... the productivity no doubt impressive.

  “I can report that Michael Mansfield is incarcerated in a foreign country. The search for him will be put on hold. Save the Marshals Service time and effort.”

  “Excellent.”

  “But the fingerprints... such may not be determinative. I’m not sure I got a conclusive set. Without proof that I know of his location, the Service may not suspend the hunt.”

  “A DNA sample, Linda? Some penis flesh should be more than enough. I’ll deglove him for you before we leave.”

  The Deputy Marshal smiles wickedly.

  “Yes, we have his DNA on file for comparison. That should do. But I’d like to visit from time to time. As a guest, to assure Mansfield is indeed incarcerated. And when it is time, I’d to milk this one. The thought fascinates.”

  “Agreed. Visit whenever. The plane leaves Teterboro every Friday afternoon.”

  Comments, criticisms and feedback are welcomed. Chris_Bellows@hotmail.com

  Many other stories of varying length are available at http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/chris_bellows

  Other books by Chris Bellows

  (available at Pink Flamingo’s new site (http://www.eroticbooknetwork.com)