Dr. Winthrop Samuels Series

by Chris Bellows

  “A little more warmth for you.”

  Leaving the cape folded open we resume. I flush with embarrassment extending the warmth of racing circulation to my entire form. Then my nipples turn to fire as well.

  “Your cunny must be gushing. I miss apprizing your level of arousal.”

  He is correct, knowing my anatomy as well as me. I so much need to be penetrated there... yet a simple teasing finger applied to my clitoris would bring a massive orgasm.

  In reflecting on the overwhelming sensual input, the pain, the pleasure, the humiliation of being so abjectly governed, I do not notice a woman approaching until she is well within view. Dr. Samuels leads onward, no attempt to avoid an encounter. I hesitate and pay the price with a sharp controlling tug to my nose leash.

  “Please no, I am exposed.”

  The cape remains pushed over my shoulders, its bright crimson serving to frame my nakedness. Corseted, my erect nipples feel like bayonets, ready to spear any on comer. I cannot avoid exhibiting all. Dr. Samuels leads, I must follow and I note the woman does not so much gape in surprise as she assesses in amusement. With my tinkling bell, her attention is not to be diverted away from me.

  I am shocked when Dr. Samuels slows our pace.

  “Surprisingly mild night for December,” the woman matter-of-factly offers.

  Dr. Samuels stops to acknowledge the greeting!

  “Yes, one must enjoy this type of weather. It’s sure to be a cold winter.”

  The woman is tall. Mid thirties. A loose trench cost covers a frame which I suspect to be shapely but vigorous for a woman. The legs are always a good clue. Nicely curved yet muscled, one extrapolates. A fedora hat adds an alluring masculine contrast to even symmetrical features. In more youthful times, perhaps a model, but the overcoat bulges in places that suggest an attractive voluptuousness, precluding such an occupation.

  “She’s enjoying herself, your leashed plaything.”

  How brazen!

  “She’s not walked often. Strict bondage appeals to this one,” I am embarrassed to hear Dr. Samuels reply.

  “The nipples offer a good clue. Standing like eager puppies. May I?”

  Dr. Samuels nods. The woman steps to within inches. I close my eyes in shame. I have no words to offer... either in protest or plea.

  A hand extends. The index finger crooks and gathers in the two cords where they attach at the front of the neck collar. She jostles, pulling outward then wriggling her hand. The simple action brings a deluge of sensations. My breasts bob about, the clitoral hood bell rings, the labial grommets tighten, the ginger plug moves about. Even tension can be felt on the spinal grommets.

  “Clever. I see you have her zipped closed. I imagine chastity is good for a girl like this. Complete denial.”

  “Of course. She’s had her last orgasm, though I offer vaginal manipulation to adjust her hormones from time to time... limited pleasure of course.”

  More temerity as the finger releases the cords and both hands move to my breasts.

  “Lovely tits for a little girl. Have you ever had them hot spatulated?”

  “No, Sunny is more into slow and lengthy pain.”

  “Tsk. Tsk. Lovely targets. Sunny is it? Well hello, Sunny.”

  She mockingly greets as both thumbs and forefingers enclose about a nipple. She gently kneads, applying moderate pressure, sending a message of authority... that at her whim the pink nubs can easily be made to suffer.

  “Sunny has a loft on Ludlow Street. The recently converted warehouse. Sixth floor. We’re having a little gathering on Sunday. Stop in.”

  “I’ll do that. Thanks for the invite, Sunny,” the mocked reply most irritating.

  My ‘lovely tits’ are released. A gust of wind brings the expected cold of a December evening. The weather is changing. Even the insouciant Dr. Samuels knows I cannot remain too much longer outdoors and exhibited.

  “My name’s Consuela... Connie to my friends.”

  “I am Winthrop, known as Winnie. We must be going, my little pet’s getting cold. See you Sunday. And do bring your spatula, Connie. I am curious.”

  The woman smiles and nods.

  “Slow and lengthy you suggested. Have some smelling salts and we’ll see just what she’s about.”

  Her hand lowers, a finger works between my thighs to diddle my perineum and slowly graze upwards along the cords to tease the closed flesh of my labia majora. Up. Down. Up. Her touch feels both good but frighteningly controlling. I am so vulnerable and she so much enjoys my plight.

  Then her finger finds the clitoral hood. She looks straight into my eyes as she amuses herself, her toying finger making the bell peel with zeal. She laughs. I look down in shame. Finally she grasps the loose length of thin steel cable that normally zips me closed.

  “This is what I would use as a leash, pretty naked girl.”

  She gently pulls to demonstrate and the sensation almost causes my knees to buckle. She notices me dip and catch myself. She laughs, releasing to step away, noting my reaction to the brisance of pleasure. She sees something.

  “Yes... Sunday. Ludlow Street.”

  ***

  “Please no more of that, Dr. Samuels.”

  The elevator grinds. Thankfully the fire of the ginger has dissipated, both anus and nipples.

  “Oh Sunny, it’s the fantasy you dream about and you know it. Lewd exhibition... nicely bound... controlled on the end of a leash. You protest but you enjoy.”

  Returning to the loft, I am amazed to feel comfort in knowing I will be strung up in the frame. It’s become a place of sanctuary. Nothing expected of me, no cares, no worries. My mind dulls. The slow building pain brings the flow of endorphins, the body’s natural opiate. I have been disciplined to remain motionless, thus the muscles enter a state of suspended animation. I am fed and cared for with minimal intrusion. The unknown... the unexpected... not to be encountered.

  The odd cord configuration is removed, quickly untied, unraveled and slipped from the many grommets. The ginger plug removed. I am led to the frame.

  “We will have visitors... on Sunday?”

  “A little holiday gathering. You will enjoy being placed on display.”

  The reply comes as the last bungee cord is attached to my left ankle grommet and Dr. Samuels works to assure my weight is evenly distributed. Then he retrieves the basin. When he splays my labia he laughs.

  “You’re gushing, Sunny. It appears you’ve attained a mild orgasm or two. This Consuela woman rocked your boat did she?”

  I remain silent, knowing to open my bladder whenever offered the kindness of a receptacle. A trickle begins, becoming fully accustomed to male hands embracing my pudendum will never happen. Still, I press to drain myself.

  Bladder empty, genitalia patted dry, the bell is temporarily removed from the thin cable. I am then zipped closed, fingers working to press together my labia majora and return the cable, threading the strand through eight tiny grommets. The lock firmly presses against the lowest grommet. It clicks closed. Then the bell is reattached to the free swinging end. The slightest motion will bring forth a ring. I can feel its weight.

  I look to the mirror. As with the first time Dr. Samuels sodomized me, the long corset cords, now two, split at the base of my spine. Tied right and left, the configuration offers unfettered access to my rectum. The pleasure of my tight rear portal has come to entice. I sense that my little bell will soon be ringing, and it will not be as a result of languishing muscle movement.

  A finger glides along my gluteal cleft. It’s cool... and moist. It pauses at my rectum, slips within and wriggles about. I am being lubricated. I am ashamed to realize the penetrating finger feels good.

  “I’m going to miss walking you, Sunny. The winter cold obviates the fun.”

  Dr. Samuels steps to my front. There is a bulge in his trousers. As he nears I know to clench the zipper tab in my teeth.

  “But I think we can find some suitable indoor activities for you...”

 
***

  Sunday morning I am bathed. Louise once again offers the three ‘H’ treatment. Massive infusions of hot soapy water. I find my bloating belly to be barely tolerable... until she begins the cold rinsing enemas. These don’t fill but instead bring painful cramping which racks my entire form with intolerable pain.

  Dr. Samuels enters, has me lie supine and obscenely spread. He shaves my pudendum, working the razor around my grommets. For good measure he slathers about a depilating cream. It burns. It smells.

  “With enough applications, over time shaving will not be necessary.”

  Rinsed clean, my elbow grommets are clipped together. I am positioned to kneel, forehead pressed to the bathroom floor, buttocks high. Louise rubs my entire form with mineral oil... lots. She reaches beneath to work with deliberation about my breasts. Her touch feels good. She most sensuously tweaks my nipples.

  My skin is brought to a sheen. Then for the first time, Louise slips the tip of a syringe bulb into my anus. She squeezes. I feel a deluge of viscous fluid enter my colon. She refills and squeezes again then slips a moderate anal plug into my rectum.

  “Slipperiest stuff made. Do try to hold it,” she forewarns.

  I can feel the gooey mass. Slippery indeed.

  I am hooded. Thick black cloth. A hole has been cut for the silly bob of hair atop my head. One other large hole for nose and mouth. Otherwise I cannot see, and my hearing is impaired. The bell is attached to the loose end of cable which locks away my sex. I feel the clip for my leash slip into my nostril. It clicks closed.

  “Come little girl,” the voice of Dr. Samuels.

  I still cannot fully use my feet as the leash directs me. I struggle to rise. I am frightened. I cannot see. My bell rings with my motion. With arms encumbered I must carefully balance myself. My thighs slip together as do the cheeks of my buttocks. I can feel rivulets of the mineral oil drip. Droplets form on my nipples. The anal insertion feels oddly welcomed.

  “You are quite the charming sight, pretty naked girl.”

  I blush. The controlling hand smoothes over my slick skin, pausing to diddle at my zipped up mons. I quiver with the touch and my little bell chimes. It brings laughter.

  “We’ll walk a bit, then it will be time to hang.”

  Out the bathroom, I stagger about. On toes, I instantly respond to my leash. I have no choice but to be obediently governed. Around and around, the bell chimes, I am a race horse limbered for competition... being prepared to meet a challenge.

  Finally it is time for the frame.

  Leash tied to the front pipe. Elbows unclipped, drawn high, secured to bungee cords. Long double corset cord threaded along my spine. Buttock grommets connected. Finally the ankle grommets attached well over my head, forcing my legs to bend at the knees. Then the quick scramble to tighten and adjust. Lastly comes the cord draping from left pipe to right, snaring the ring knotted into my hair bob and gratefully relieving my nose leash of tension.

  Mentally, I prepare to enter my space. Submission, total helplessness, immobility... after the many weeks I have trained my muscles for complete subjugation. Such meekly linger, responding to the challenge that motion is to be avoided. The slightest move can bring the cascade of unbearable cramps. The darkness adds a new dimension. I can no longer view my reflection to watch the slight motion of fingers, toes and tongue which serves to evidence reality.

  Fingers work to slip away my anal plug. I feel the viscous fluid injected within. I dare not clench my buttocks to hold the injected slickness. I continue to relax and feel the goo begin to ooze. Rivulets slowly stream down my perineum. With Louise’s liberal application, I will not soon be emptied of the lubricant.

  So I settle. I become a painting. An erotic form of art. A living sculpture. As the slow suffering spurs the flow of endorphins, my mind slows. The tedium becomes oddly acceptable. My bell stills to ring no more.

  ***

  Do I sleep? Pass out? Time becomes immeasurable in my darkness. I hear motion. Someone works in my kitchen. Glassware clinks. Plates rattle. I know I began the stint in the late morning. Spasms and the resulting cramping usually set in after two hours, though I have gone longer. I have been disciplined to remain perfectly still. Concentrating on... concentrating on... well I guess on nothing. That is the trick. I must avoid thoughts which would stir physical reaction. To move is to create pain. Sharp pain... intense pain. The slow, creeping suffering is tolerable. It mounts, yes. But does so in conjunction with the endorphins.

  So, how long have I been suspended?

  A straw is pushed into my mouth. Water streams to the back of my throat. I swallow. I am thirsty, but am always forced to imbibe more than I want... more than I need. Still I gulp, careful not to even move a finger. Water, water, water. It seems to not end. Yet I meekly imbibe.

  Finally, a second bottle drains and fingers tweak my nipples in a reward for my obedience. It feels good, the sensuous input. Of that, I want more. I shall not have it.

  Whoever offers such refreshment wordlessly steps away. I return to nothingness.

  ***

  I stir. I smell food. I hear activity... more than in the kitchen. There are voices. Greetings are offered and exchanged.

  Who?

  I fight the urge to move. Unknown, unseen people have entered my loft. Naked, bound, oiled to gleam like an expensive new car... I am very much aware of the lascivious image I present, having for hours stared at my reflection in the large mirror.

  My mind clears and garbled murmurs turn to discernible words.

  “Quite the toy, Winnie. I’ve seen her flogged at Spankers. A pain puppy.”

  A male voice, owner unknown. It comes closer.

  “I assume there is a reason she’s not gagged,”

  There is laughter. It is Dr. Samuels’ laugh.

  “Quite obedient. She just silently lies in suspension wallowing in what she most en joys, vulnerability, pain, humiliation. Quite orally proficient. One would not want to impede her talents with a gag.”

  “Really? And so young. Usually requires much experience to train a girl to properly swallow.”

  “She thinks sperm is a rare delicacy, Harold. Never gives up a drop.”

  I hear a zipper.

  “Would you like some sustenance little girl?”

  “I’ll loosen the nose leash. She’ll need to move her head a little. Try not to cause much motion.”

  I feel my nose leash jostle.

  “Do give the man your best, Sunny. It’s Christmas after all.”

  A semi firm penis greets my lips. I engulf. It hardens. I begin to fellate. Lips tighten. Tongue flutters. It’s mechanical, a machine turned on with a flip of a switch. So many penises. So much sperm. Hands embrace my hood covered head. My head bobs. The bulbous engorging penis tip abrades the back of my throat. I suppress the gag reflex. My mind hears a truck engine. My body feels the vibration of the road. Kilometers pass. I am in Europe earning my travel fare. In. Out. In. Out.

  My mind returns when I hear words... male... female. People watch. People laugh. People mock. I am the center of attention... gleaming, grommeted, stretched, suspended, helpless, naked... my body turned into an exhibition, my muscles and ligaments transformed to a source of torment... used against me as a source of pain.

  I hear a sigh of pleasure. The rigidness plummets with increased energy. It’s a sizable manhood, but I am well trained. I open myself. There comes a firm clenching of my head and the final plunge which I know so well. The organ explodes, hot seed rushes to my stomach. Another explosion. The penis draws back. I know to suck, swirl my tongue about the urethral opening, drawing forth every droplet, though really not a rare delicacy, dutifully cleansing and taking all that is offered.

  “She’s quite the cocksucker. Takes every drop.”

  To the sound of much merriment, the softening organ withdraws. It is the first blow job of the day... but not the last.

  ***

  Dr. Samuels has temporarily released each limb, one at a time, mas
saging to restore circulation and forestall cramping. Remaining hooded, I have no concept of the time. Hours at least, perhaps it is near dinner time.

  Food has been served, guests coming and going all afternoon. Fellatio has been provided on demand. On at least three occasions a dauntless male stepped within the frame and used me anally, no compunction in offering sodomy before a loft full of mixed company. With Louise spritzing significant lubrication into my rectum, slipperiest stuff made, accepting penetration is gratefully simple, though I obviously tend to swing about within my tethers. And as described when first used anally, the manner of restraint, the arroycoo, encourages me to most meekly accept the otherwise painful and degrading use of my backside. I just lie and gently rock back and forth, the rhythm of the repeated penetration determined by the hands of the sodomite, my bell chiming to his cadence. Resistance, futile of course, would merely bring forth the cascade... spasms leading to cramping leading to spasms.

  So I become a one hundred pound naked and well bound sperm receptacle. I have given up counting the expended loads of male seed... oral and anal.

  I recognize some voices. Mrs. Anderson, Theresa the reform school nurse, her companion Maggie. Many woman of the party enjoy playing with my breasts, those who don’t mock and offer deriding comments. Others squeeze the water bottle. One unlocked me and assisted in urination. Relieving oneself before a crowd without forcing a flow to avoid muscle exertion, brings the humiliation which Dr. Samuels knows to stimulate. I do not understand it. But I indeed feel myself blush as so many watch while words are expressed... those normally reserved for potty training a child are offered to encourage my flow.

  Yes, I become aroused. Just slightly graze my clitoris while drying me, I hope to myself.

  Overall, my guests, some of whom I assume I have encountered at Spankers, are quite the libertine crowd. It becomes apparent that Mrs. Anderson’s loft below is open for female guests. I imagine Kim awaits well chained with eager tongue ready to bestow Christmas cheer. Some women slip out, down the elevator, and return well satiated.