“It’s like turning on a fountain.”
No words, Sunny’s reply comes in the form of blushing pink.
Eventually I will release her for a night of sleeping leashed and bound. But Louise and I will work to extend the intervals every time we hang her... trained to helplessly dangle in suspension... by her own flesh.
Nearing ten o’clock, I position that stool which Louise uses. Gazing at Sunny’s exposed and vulnerable nakedness has brought male needs. Something about the way those marvelous breasts are presented...
I am about to sit when there comes a knock on the door. A firm but pleasant female voice calls out. It is Mrs. Anderson... fellatio will have to wait.
***
‘Stop in some time. I think you will be amused,’ my words come back to mind as I move to the door.
Offered more in social grace than sincerity, most people nod and ignore. With Mrs. Anderson, a woman of purpose, I am to find she is naive of social graces.
“A wine drinker?” Mrs. Anderson inquires as I open the door and motion her entrance.
I nod.
“Thought so. A gift from a friend. I really don’t drink the stuff.”
Presenting a fine bottle of French red, her friend knows wine.
“Just sipping on some Chardonnay, Mrs. Anderson. I like it crackling cold... among oenophiles, considered as a shortcoming.”
She smiles, responding to my gesture to enter with bold unfeminine steps. I envision her strolling about that juvenile prison, jackbooted, her presence most authoritative.
“Well... if it’s cold I drink it.”
Just as well. Tonight’s selection is a particularly pretentious attempt by an Argentinean vineyard to replicate what the French have perfected. It will not be objectionable to she who apparently drinks anything cold.
“I’ll get a glass.”
With the loft one large open room, except for the partitioned bathroom area, Sunny’s hanging form, naked and cruelly bound, cannot be missed. Mrs. Anderson wordlessly peers. No shock... no look of concern. And Sunny? She stirs from the reverie of her false orgasm. She is alarmed. And such movement begins the cascade. She moans as muscles and tendons tighten and cramp.
“Visitors!” she meekly offers, her enunciation a form of protest.
“Oh, Sunny, it’s just your neighbor from downstairs.”
I chuckle in pouring a libation. Mrs. Anderson moves toward the steel pipe framework. Her look one of fascination, her legs propelling her more as a determined march than leisurely walk.
“You flashed me those tits before. Thought you would have them fully displayed. Oh you men!..”
Her admonishment is offered mostly in jest. For in facing Sunny, the naked collection of tensioned flesh just inches away, her hands reach out, palms up, and cup the freely hanging mammary glands. Despite her words, it is the reaction of a debaucherous man, not that of a sympathetic woman.
“Nice and firm. Surprised you don’t have them clamped and weighted.”
Mrs. Anderson kneads most sensually. Sunny moans, combined pleasure and embarrassment, the soothing caresses serve to spur the flow of needed endorphins. I approach with Mrs. Anderson’s wine. Her hands withdraw to accept my offering.
“The bondage is not an exercise in subjecting intense pain, Mrs. Anderson. In a way we’re seeking the opposite. Making Sunny comfortable so she can hang longer and longer... in slow anguish.”
“Really. I could only throw my girls into solitary... officially. Of course we had other punishments... off the books so to speak. But confining a girl naked for long periods of quiet darkness can have its effect. Cuffed of course, no masturbating under my tutelage.
“And what have you done to her hair? Functional I suppose, holding up her head... but deliciously demeaning.”
She sips and smoothes her free hand over the bald cranium, heightening Sunny’s ignominy.
“Well, we’re more into feeding Sunny’s curious proclivity than seeking behavior modification, Mrs. Anderson. Sunny is a masochist, oddly enjoying these moments, despite her squirming and her concerns. One must get to know the psyche of girls of her ilk, as I believe you have.”
Mrs. Anderson nods, smiling in thought.
“And boys as well, Winnie. I assume I can call you Winnie.”
I nod.
I am intrigued. Though Mrs. Anderson is a ‘Misses’, any attraction to the male form would seem to be something of minor interest. I have assumed that she is divorced... or a widow, having cooked and eaten her husband.
“I was under the impression you only handled girls.”
I gesture toward a close by couch with an unimpeded view of Sunny’s dangling nakedness. I move away the stool and resume sitting in my chair. Sunny’s bizarre bondage, my form of arroycoo, does not faze our giant neighbor. She beams and sits, very much enjoying the view.
“How long do you suspend her?”
“We’ve only begun and have squeezed two hours from her. Approaching three tonight. We’ll get more... in time. Just a matter of acclimation.”
She pauses in thought.
“Marvelous presentation of the female form...” Mrs. Anderson notes with a voice of rapture. “So helpless...”
I may as well be exhibiting a Dutch masterpiece... Rembrandt... Vermeer...
“A derivation of an old African torture. Somewhat similar to a technique used by American Indians as well. Modified by me to ensure longer term suffering.”
“Those buttock grommets are deep... and the ankles.”
I explain the penetration of the muscles and the tension on the Achilles tendon, forcing Sunny to concentrate and not move one iota as she hangs, the resulting cascade of cramping unendurable. I also suggest evasively that I have a medical background, not wishing to invoke concern for Sunny’s well-being. With Mrs. Anderson, such reassurance is unnecessary.
I look to Sunny and note a deepening crimson. She is wonderfully humiliated in being so exposed to a stranger, her very soul dissected and explained like a lab specimen. Yet she can do little... not even move... by now fully realizing the effects of the slightest attempt.
“Would you excuse me while I feed her? Never to be overly filled, we offer her many modest helpings per day in as a precaution to vomiturition.”
In the kitchen area, Louise has prepared and left a small bowl of oatmeal. I rise and retrieve it, stepping to Sunny with a spoon.
“You can imagine the effect of throwing up,” I suggest in spooning a glob to Sunny’s mouth.
Yes, in the event my modified arroycoo brings orthostatic syndrome and resulting nausea, Louise and I keep her intake to a minimum. Nothing of significance in, nothing of significance out. While Sunny slowly ingests, the forced angle of her head and throat impeding swallowing, I prompt the fascinating Mrs. Anderson.
“So you’ve had experience dealing with the psyche of masochistic boys...”
Chapter Three
Mrs. Henrietta Anderson
Winnie’s wine is good. I never developed a taste for expensive drink. Not practical in heading a juvenile facility where alcohol is strictly prohibited. But now, in retirement I am free to indulge.
In discovering my neighbor’s circumstances, technically it’s this Sunny Sudenskaya though Winnie is most in charge, I cannot help reveling in memories of over twenty years governing the likes of Sunny. A collection of ‘poor’ little waifs who have had limited adult supervision and have broken the law, their behavior inside my facility was easily corrected. The difficulty was in assuring society that such had a lasting effect.
As Winnie begins the weary task of feeding this Sunny, he encourages discourse. And his words are effective... the subject matter being the reason for my early retirement... masochistic boys.
So I sip and narrate, knowing that only the likes of Winnie, hand feeding a well bound, naked lass, would appreciate my story...
About a year ago, I noticed that a new arrival at my institution, Hartwood Reformatory for Girls, was receiving much atten
tion from the matrons. When one of my captains put in a request to transfer her to a special holding room, normally used for the long term incorrigible, my antenna went up.
How could a new arrival be so quickly deemed incorrigible?
I requested the girl’s file.
Detainee Kim Simpson was some 17 years of age, born in the Midwest, homeless, parentless, a petty thief. Her picture suggested she was boyishly cute... soft brown eyes, perfectly even features, hair of moderate length, cut at the neckline.
Caught shoplifting, a busy prosecutor agreed to a plea, a judge with a crammed calendar consented, in being Kim’s alleged first offense she received six months. Had parents appeared on her behalf there would have been no incarceration. But based on her date of birth, Kim would be with us until she attained her age of majority. Upon release, future transgressions would receive the full time and attention of the adult criminal system. And, should she not mend her ways, a life of recidivism.
Everyone seemed to concur it was a reasonable solution. Get a troubled and homeless minor off the streets, assure she receives counseling, ready her for an adult life of either reform or, if not, incarceration in the big time prisons.
But the groundwork was sloppy. Looking at Kim’s picture I knew there must be more. Street girls with those looks throw tricks. Certainly more lucrative than stuffing cheap goods under your clothing and attempting to sneak past increasingly sophisticated security systems. In being more lucrative, a charge of prostitution is more often the reason for institutionalizing a girl. Kim could certainly attract deviant males and earn more.
Even kids understand risk versus reward.
“I want to interview this Kim Simpson, Captain. Request for special holding denied for now.”
My captain, a woman with equal disdain for troublesome youths, quibbled. She understood the manner in which I insisted on interviewing ‘fresh meat’, the vernacular for new arrivals. I had them stripped naked and paraded before my office staff before being seated for an interview. In doing so, the power exchange becomes self evident and is instantly communicated. Quite the incentive to avoid my wrath and rebuke.
“Stripped?” she asks.
I nodded and smiled. Though standard operating procedure and normally enjoying the humiliating tete a’ tete, my captain appeared concerned for some reason.
“Of course, Captain. Her file seems vague. I have questions and such are best answered while humbled in complete nakedness.”
Within thirty minutes I heard a commotion, loud enough to penetrate the thick door leading to the reception area of my chambers. The Captain had presented little Miss Kim to my secretary. Though the procedure is to have the girl wait, naked and apprehensive, my secretary excitedly knocked on my door and hurriedly entered.
“You’re not going to believe this,” she forewarned.
She stepped aside and my captain entered with Kim Simpson in tow. Stripped as ordered, hands cuffed behind, the youthful form sheepishly stepped into my office. The cause for commotion became immediately evident. Kim had a penis!
“Sit him... her... it... there, Captain. You and I will speak later.”
A wooden straight backed chair was positioned directly in front of my desk. Not often I visually inspected male genitals. It was the Hartwood Reformatory for Girls, after all. The only phalli were possessed by guards patrolling the walls and outer perimeter. In holding dozens of literal ‘jail bait’ girls, we did not let males near the interior.
The captain and my secretary departed. I just sat back and surveyed. Dressed in loose clothing the slim form could pass for a girl, woefully underdeveloped about the breasts of course.
“Sit with your back straight. Part your thighs. Calves to the side. Feet back. Toes on the floor.”
Kim complied in assuming the pose I mandated during every naked interview. It so nicely flashed open those tight little quims. But obviously Kim’s gender denied me that normally amusing view.
I noted the diminutive organs and that beneath clothing such would offer no telltale bulges. The face was devoid of hair, not even fuzz. As noted, her/his photo suggested someone boyishly cute... more boyish than expected in Kim’s case.
“This file on you seems to be deficient, Kim. I assume you gave the matrons quite the surprise during the initial strip search. I’ll get into that conspiracy later. Seems a cabal has formed to keep you here.”
I suspected why. As stated, with not a penis in the place, what wonderful entertainment to have a male appendage under 24/7 control.
“This subterfuge will greatly add to your sentence. I assume gender is not the only misrepresentation.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The voice was effeminately soft and high pitched, offering not a clue as to the true gender.
“Tell the truth and we’ll get this straightened out as best we can.”
I began reciting Kim’s criminal curriculum vitae.
“Age 17?”
“No, 22 ma’am.”
“No prior arrests and convictions?”
“5 arrests, all pled out, served some time in Kansas.”
“No living relatives, not that such means anything if you are indeed an adult.”
“Correct.”
“Amazing, something truthful.”
“So what’s the story, Kim? You’ve endangered yourself greatly with this subterfuge, lied under oath before a judge who will be both enraged and embarrassed. Even as an adult with a record you would not have gotten enough time for shoplifting to justify risking a perjury conviction.”
“I can’t serve time. Not in a men’s prison. Kansas was... rough.”
“Lansing isn’t for wimps,” I concur. “Anal rape?”
Kim nodded.
How could he have avoided it? His appearance allowing him to successfully pass for a girl in the New York juvenile courts, he’d be quite the prize in any adult male facility.
I sat back in thought, glancing once again at the cause for the trouble, the small penis and limited ball sac. For some reason Kim was shaven, brazenly displaying his organs.
“You’re shaved,” I noted.
Kim’s head bowed in shame.
“At Lansing... they insisted... the other inmates.”
I noted that his little penis twitched. I smiled to myself. Kim was becoming aroused. In a career disciplining girls, how could I resist the refreshing change? I pressed onward.
“I assume they kept you well lubricated as well. Tearing that sphincter of yours would obviate the fun... lost time recovering in the infirmary.”
My words were effective. He began to noticeably stiffen.
“And you continue to shave?”
He nodded.
My eyes roved over his entire nakedness. Every inch of flesh was devoid of hair. Such curious perversity amongst an inmate population, keeping him hairless. Kim must have been quite the prized toy indeed.
“And you’ve kept your hair long?”
“A style they insisted on, guess I got used to it.”
I pause in thought. He expressed concern about returning to an adult male prison, yet forcing memories from him brought arousal. Seems the times were not all bad. And he continued to style his cranial hair and remove body hair to maintain his image... that of an effeminate fuck toy.
Kim presented quite the dilemma. There would be a full investigation of the prosecutor’s office, those recommending sentencing who supposedly reconstruct and present the background of the recently convicted. How did so many miss so much?
Then, within my own walls, there developed a conspiracy to continue Kim’s deception. All girls are strip searched upon arrival and the penis must have been self evident... the duel cavity search short one cavity. The careers of two matrons will end. Then there is the experienced captain who attempted to cloak Kim’s gender by having him transferred to special holding. An otherwise well earned pension will disappear.
I can only imagine what they all had planned for him.
“You seem to
have a number of allies in this brazen plot. Care to explain?”
The answer came quickly and forthrightly. Kim extended his tongue. It protruded well past his lips, obscenely fluttered about then curled upwards to just about cover his entire nose. No further words were necessary.
Though cunnilingus is common in a female institution, I regularly had some truculent morsel serve under my desk for many hours, rarely is such a prodigious appendage encountered. What Kim has been denied below the waist was well bestowed above.
“Licked and sucked your way through the court holding pens and almost pulled off the same ruse here. Tsk. Tsk, Kim.”
By then Kim was fully erect, adding to the amusing irony.
An interesting dichotomy. Concerned enough about adult prison time that he lied in pleading out a simple shoplifting charge... yet he continued to present himself ready to return to male prison and be someone’s bitch... though the gangs are given to pass the truly effeminate around. Styled hair, shaven body, quite the male harlot.
Did he also keep his anus lubricated? I was determined to inquire of the matrons who performed the strip search.
I pressed a buzzer. The captain knocked and returned.
“Take Miss Kim to the infirmary for now.”
***
Winnie interrupts my narration.
“More wine, Mrs. Anderson?”
In finishing the feeding, Winnie returns to the kitchen area, stows the bowl of oatmeal and steps forth with the bottle. He pours.
“An interesting dilemma,” he agrees.
“I had good people. Difficult to allow the antics of one rapscallion to destroy careers. Kim is quite the vamp.”
“Is?” Winnie inquires. “I would think he’s long gone and tucked away in the likes of Sing Sing by now.”
“Oh he’s tucked away. But not in Sing Sing,” I muse.
Winnie sits, joining me in another glass of wine.
“Amazing how she just hangs. Such discipline,” I note in gazing at Sunny’s provocative form.
“Forced upon her... but well learned and oddly welcomed.”
Dr. Winthrop Samuels Series Page 8