So devilish of me, I think to myself as a tie off her nose leash for good measure.
***
Louise calls my office.
“Got to leave a little early today. Some errands before work. I’ll leave Sunny leashed and diapered in the kitchen.”
“Diapered?” I inquire with a quizzical smile.
“It’s the stool softeners I’ve been putting in her oatmeal. Despite being housebroken she can’t help herself.”
With the enemas no longer part of the daily routine, I know Louise has added such to Sunny’s food so she doesn’t have to overwork her bowels while hanging in suspension. Obviously she’s added too much if the girl is soiling the kitchen floor.
I laugh with the thought.
“Increase the dosage. Some prune juice, lots of fruit too. We’ll have fun potty training her as well.”
Louise laughs with me. We so much think alike.
I find that work seems to quickly pass in thinking of my naked and bound plaything. 4:00 p.m. arrives and knowing that Sunny has been alone for a couple of hours I slip out of the office. The Lex then the BMT, a walk and I’m on Ludlow Street. The early pending darkness of Autumn beckons a leashed and naked Sunny. The cool air, however, disappointingly mandates covering. As winter approaches, Sunny will be spending more and more time indoors... and I know how it will be expended.
The slowness of the elevator, that which so nicely torments when I have Sunny kneeling in nakedness, can also torment the anxious but fully clothed. But for the exertion required for five flights, the stairs would be faster. I am eager to play.
I arrive at Sunny’s door to find a note addressed to ‘Winnie’.
Enjoyed your wine last night and the entertainment, of course. I have Kim making hors d’ oeuvres. Why not stop in on the fourth floor. 6:00 p.m.? Expecting other friends as well.
Henrietta
p.s. Bring Sunny. I noticed the wheels.
How cordial, how perceptive and how wicked. The reference to the wheels suggests that Sunny’s naked form is not only welcomed but expected to be dangling within the frame.
But Kim? Could it be that the curious tale of the travails of a male serving in a woman’s reformatory continues on Ludlow Street? Mrs. Anderson did say his sentence for shoplifting was six months. And that she retired when? I cannot recall.
In entering Sunny’s abode, I note that Louise replicated the hogtie I used upon departing the night before. Though Sunny is diapered, Louise folded and pinned the cloth around the grommets penetrating the upper portion of her buttocks. Normally impractical, since Sunny cannot move the fluffy folds will not slip off. And as always, Louise has left little slack on the leash.
Sunny is quite eager to see me and my olfactory nerves suggest why.
“Please release me,” she wails so pitifully.
Years of potty training have a curious effect on the subconscious. Though diapered Sunny has struggled for hours not to soil herself and in the end, the struggle has been lost. And in using old fashioned cotton, none of that modern age super absorbent material, Sunny has lain in whatever excretions were released.
“You need to be changed, little girl?”
“It just flows. And Louise made me drink a lot before she left.”
“That is precautionary in countering possible shock. We’ll keep you well hydrated while bound. Standard procedure.”
I just let Sunny lie in her waste while I pour some wine.
“So I take it it’s both number one and number two... the mess?” I inquire with a knowing smile as I release the nose leash.
Full bladder, stool softeners, she is indeed a mess and the slack in the leash permits her to nod most bashfully.
“Well then, we’ll get you all cleaned up. Probably time to be shaved as well.”
Whereas Louise handles most ablutions, she lets me shave Sunny’s pubes knowing that the intensity of the humiliation rocks her warped psyche.
I take a moment to play with her breasts while I sip some wine. Embarrassing yet soothing, there comes no objection, just a pleading look, her own odorous scent suggesting great need. Yet in having her elbows drawn back, the glands are irresistible.
I release the short cords connecting elbow, buttock and ankle grommets. Her legs carefully straighten and her arms move to moderate her posture and ruin the enticing presentation of her breasts. There also comes a stronger waft from beneath the diaper. The wine needs to be put aside, the bouquet no longer discernible.
“Come.”
Taking the leash, I direct Sunny to the bathroom, crawling most warily. Movement seems to increase the discomfort of what load is beneath the cloth. I don rubber gloves.
“Get you nice and clean for Mrs. Anderson. She’s having some guests.”
I release the large safety pins at the hips.
“And you’re invited,” my words accompany the removal of the foul infantile garment.
Though Sunny is relieved to be rid of the wet sludge, the invitation brings concern, as intended.
“No. Please. Not like this.”
“Oh, not like this Sunny. It’s time to hang. Arroycoo. I came early so you can be in the frame for an extra hour or two before Louise returns from work.”
There is stunned silence as I prepare a soothing cloth doused in cleansing hot water. It is apparent that the stool softeners are effective. And in being combined with the excretions of her bladder, Sunny is most grateful as I tend to her like an infant. She seems to glow, reveling in the care, the kindness, returned to the solace of infancy, her nakedness both embarrassing and comforting.
“Head down. Spread for me like a good girl.”
Kneeling on all fours, Sunny assumes the lascivious pose, even arching her back to better present her gluteal cleft... and her charms of course, though such are laden with waste. Such an exhibitionist... yet she continues to protest public display.
“You’ve rolled about terribly, naughty girl. It’s everywhere. You enjoy wallowing in such filth.”
“I was cramping. I could not help it.”
The warm wetness soothes. The mess disappears. She begins to coo as a cat would purr. I decide to oil her entire nakedness and offer massage. Then I will have her lie supine and spread most obscenely for shaving. Sunny will have a long night.
***
“I don’t want to be seen like this. My hair.”
Once again Sunny meekly utters objections she knows to be futile.
I circle the frame to complete adjusting all the cords to assure her weight is evenly distributed amongst the many grommets. And yes, that bob of hair relieving some of the tension of the nose leash is ridiculous... functional but ridiculous.
I step back to survey. Leaving her entire flesh coated with an abundance of mineral oil, Sunny’s nakedness seems to glow under the track lighting. Yes, I am indeed exhibiting a masterpiece... living and breathing... the ultimate in subjugation... transforming a young beauty into an object... to be adored... to be admired... to be tormented... slowly... without compunction.
I step to her front and cup her slippery breasts, then squeeze gently until right nipple and then left pop from between my thumb and forefinger. Such fun. She dares not even attempt to squirm.
“I don’t believe anyone will be looking at your hair, pumpkin,” giving those prominent glands a gentle pat.
The digital camera stands ready. She offers an exquisite portrait of capitulation, unable to move an inch without bringing herself intensified pain. Instead she merely languishes as the many cords hold her helpless.
“Arroycoo,” I proclaim in playfully tapping her nose. “Your desire fulfilled.”
“But this isn’t how...”
“How you envisioned topping from such a position of subservience?” I interrupt her plea. “You thought you could command while hanging in complete vulnerability? Choose where, when and how you were to be exhibited?” I snicker.
I step to her side. My hand smoothes between her thighs, well parted by the restrain
ed ankle grommets. Fingers slip between labia majora... labia minora... slithering within her portal.
“Shamefully wet again, Sunny. Not a stitch of clothing, helplessly bound, and you’re aroused.”
I withdraw and return to face her holding up my wet fingers. Then I remove my special probe from my pocket. The perfectly shaped bulbous tip gleams.
“And I’m going to make you wetter... turn on that fountain of yours... for Mrs. Anderson... for her guests.”
“No, please don’t.”
I just laugh and pick up the camera. Sunny closes her eyes in the shame which so excites her. Click , click, click. I am ready for hors d’ oeuvres.
“Try to relax. The motion of the frame will bring some gyrations.”
The large rubber wheels make it facile to push the frame and Sunny to the apartment door. Out into the small lobby I press the elevator call button. Though the frame is over six feet high on wheels and seven feet front to back, the huge industrial elevator will easily accommodate. And once again the thought of discovery us horrifying. There come tears. There comes quivering. Had she any hair, it would be standing in fear and concern.
The grinding stops. I labor to open the huge doors. Sunny’s eyes are closed in apprehension.
“No one here. Just two floors down,” I offer as I push the frame into the sizable car.
My words of consolation do not arrest the trembling. Yet, given the opportunity to once again explore between her thighs, I know I would find her essence to be gushing with the intensity of the odd arousal she experiences.
I close the doors, press the appropriate button. Symbolically, in Sunny’s mind, it is the longest ride of her life... and, as opposed to her truck rides, her tongue and lips are unencumbered.
***
Knocking on the appropriate door, there are two and I hope I have selected correctly, I hear motion in response. Sounds, the source not precisely discernible, suggest someone is responding. One moment, two, more time than expected. Finally the heavy barricade swings on its hinges. I stand next to the front segment of the frame, gently caressing Sunny’s right breast to console and enhance the flow of endorphins.
My hand freezes as I look down into the face of a nymph, completely naked. Short brown hair, soft eyes, eye makeup, gaudy red lipstick, earrings... from the neck upwards a prepubescent girl who has had the temerity to experiment with her mother’s cosmetics.
But below the attempt to appear cutely adolescent ends. A broad and thick band of black wrought iron encircles the neck. Large loops embedded in the circumference suggest the girl can be easily chained. A similar broad and thick band of iron encircles the waist. There are more loops there. Connected to two are links of incredibly heavy chains. Short, such lead to cuffs, again broad and thick and encircling the wrists. More bands at just above the elbows and knees remain unencumbered, but as with the neck collar and waist band there are loops which can be facilely secured to something in some manner.
Lastly there are matching ankle cuffs. An identical hobbling chain, long enough to permit short steps, all swift movement inhibited, completes the ensemble.
It is no wonder, the notable interval after knocking. The girl labors exhaustively just to move an inch. Collectively the restraints and chains weigh as much as she does.
Yet further visual examination defies my initial conclusion concerning gender. There are no breasts and below the waist belt there is the telltale evidence of the being’s gender and identity.
There dangles a penis. The tiny tip is exposed but just behind, a glimmering star shaped object encircles at the sensitive glans. Closer to the pubes is a second star surrounding the shaft. The sharp points divulge the identity of the bearer. It is Kim, still adorned with Mrs. Anderson’s makeshift chastity implements.
“Kim, I assume. I am Winnie. You may call me Mr. Winthrop,” my surname and medical training not to be divulged. “And this is Sunny.”
“Please come in, sir. Mrs. Anderson is expecting you and just finishing her shower.”
I grasp the vertical pipe next to me and pull. Kim reaches to the opposing pipe to assist. I note that the short wrist to waist belt chain greatly restricts his range of motion. Still we roll Sunny into the large loft, its floor plan almost identical to Sunny’s.
“You’ve been briefed. Not daunted by a dangling naked girl.”
Kim nods. “We all have our peccadilloes, sir.”
“Sunny is best positioned under the lights, Kim. I know Mrs. Anderson enjoys viewing... and I am sure her guests will as well.”
Sunny moans in protest. No tracking lighting as in Sunny’s abode. The high dark ceiling is instead littered with floodlights. We select a bright circle of light near the kitchen area.
Each of Kim’s steps offers a considerable rattle. The links must be those described as forged by this Maggie at the Hartwood facility. The gauge approaches some three quarters of an inch. I try to recall the timing of Mrs. Anderson’s story. I suspect Kim has been in chains for about a year.
As I assist to place the frame such that Sunny’s exposure in maximized, I cannot help further examining. The restraints are nothing more than flat strips of iron, each about a half inch thick and some three inches wide. Lengthwise, Maggie cut the strips according to the circumference of the anatomy. Neck collar and waist bands hammered and forged into circles such that the meeting points are indiscernible. For the wrist and ankle cuffs, the strips of iron were merely folded over, leaving elliptical openings for the limbs with the ends riveted, not locked together. Sizable holes accommodate the huge links of the restraining chains.
It is perplexing to ascertain how Kim will ever by freed of his/her bonds. I suspect an acetylene torch would be required with special insulation somehow protecting the skin.
Kim turns towards the kitchen where trays of food and drink await. I note that an unseen narrow strip of wrought iron is attached to the rear of the waist band. It extends vertically to split the disturbingly effeminate buttocks, seeming to disappear within the gluteal cleft.
“His prostate manipulator,” the voice of Mrs. Anderson calls out in stepping from the bathroom, my look of curiosity apparent.
“Theresa’s idea and design. Finely crafted by Maggie. What you don’t see is that the slim strip bends upwards, slips into the anus and then expands into a nicely sized protrusion which kneads the prostate. Kim manipulates himself with every step he takes. Good therapy for the forcibly chaste male. As you can see, in being connected to his waist bend he cannot expel it.”
Mrs. Anderson moves to a corner of the vast square footage. There is a large bed, dresser, vanity, armoire. I am surprised when she disrobes, no concern about my presence. In her nakedness I note a woman who, though a few years past prime, has maintained her conditioning. Her size precludes any aura of dainty femininity. But it is apparent she works out and maintains her weight.
My glimpse of her form is brief. Clothing has been laid out on the bed. She begins to dress.
“And the special insert mandates such wonderful mental discipline. As I explained, and you probably noted, I have made it painfully possible for that tiny penis of his to engorge. Yet the continuous prostate massage beckons an erection. Constant mental turmoil. It is best for him.”
A brassier cloaks massive breasts, otherwise undergarments are shunned. A strapless slipover dress completes her ensemble. Shoeless, without hosiery, she approaches. The hem of her only visible garment ends at mid thigh.
“We keep our attire simple at my little gatherings. Should have put that in the note,” she smiles in gazing at my office attire. White shirt and tie, I did leave my suit jacket in Sunny’s loft.
Kim’s bare feet shuffle, the hobbling chain clanking away. His wrist restraints permit him to carry a tray... barely. I know he cannot reach up to his face. It appears the shortness of the links are designed such that he cannot fiddle with his prostate manipulator. I doubt too whether he can reach his penis, though futility would be the result of such an attempt.
“Such a good little girl,” Mrs. Anderson gushes, furthering the gender obfuscation.
Kim curtsies as best he can, offering me an ice laden cocktail glass.
“Thirty year old single male Scotch. Hope you don’t mind the presumption. Kim can prepare anything if you prefer otherwise. Gin, vodka, bourbon, rum...”
I shake my head and take a glass. Kim next shuffles to Mrs. Anderson. She beams again and ruffles his hair.
“My naked well bound maid. The effect of such permanent shackling can be provocatively degrading... mentally and physically. Freed of her bonds I doubt Kim would dare move. Would not know what do to, how to act. Constant discipline keeping her in her place. Just the sound of each movement of a hand or a foot brings thoughts of subjugation. Thorough... complete... she’s fulfilled in serving... me and others.”
Kim curtsies and returns to the kitchen area, seeming oblivious to Mrs. Anderson’s words and thoughts.
“How’s the little pet?”
Mrs. Anderson turns her attention to Sunny. Humbly dangling by the many cords and grommets.
“The oiled skin is most becoming. Makes her look... edible. How’s her time?”
“Went nearly four hours last light. I would like to request an accommodation, if I may be so bold. Sunny’s been given to soil herself. We do keep her diapered, but I assume your guests would prefer her to be completely naked.”
Mrs. Anderson smiles.
“Yes. It is best for her. Kim, get some old newspaper and a bucket.”
“That will do nicely.”
As I speak Mrs. Anderson moves to stand before the naked dangling form. Sunny blushes of course and closes her eyes as a hand reaches to those tempting mammary glands.
“Nice presentation with the oil. A nice alluring sheen. Offers such attraction.”
Dr. Winthrop Samuels Series Page 10