Dr. Winthrop Samuels Series

by Chris Bellows

  “Tossed out? For what?”

  “It seems that to be bestowed with her gift of oral satiation there is a price to be paid. You know the rules...”

  Yes, I do. No professionals. It’s a social club for consenting adults, although visitors of my ilk hope not too consenting. I hate it when the bondage is deemed superfluous.

  “How did she get in?”

  “Offered a free one to the randiest guy she could find at the club’s entrance. His membership is suspended, of course.”

  “So you are suggesting I meet with a pro? Come on, Louise, you know that’s not my style.”

  “Not a pro, just desperate for money. And I think you can help her... and it will scratch that itch.”

  More code for the gratification attained in bringing young feminine flesh under my complete control... which is the issue in dealing with professionals. When the encounter is based on pecuniary interests, who really controls?

  “I don’t want anyone I have not before met at my apartment. So where can I have her exhibited?”

  “She is unaware of your thing... our thing. I recommended you as a professional who can help her. So I suggest meeting in your laboratory. You said yourself it’s lonely there working at night.”

  A rather stunning suggestion. Yes, I spend many late hours when clinical trials end and there is a deluge of data which needs immediate evaluation. Quiet is best... and in the late hours the lab becomes a bat cave, empty of all until dawn. But I insist on a professional atmosphere and shepherding a girl known for her skills as a fellatrix is dicey. Yet Louise’s tease is working. After all, there was Sunny Sudenskaya. Quite the gratifying encounter.

  “Ok, tell this Sandra to drop by tomorrow night at 8:00 p.m. I will alert the security guard. But, Louise, no propositioning... and make sure she’s appropriately attired!” My last comment coming as I envision the likes of a Tenth Avenue, gum chewing street walker trying to convince security that she has a legitimate appointment with the noted research designer, Dr. Winthrop Samuels.

  What am I getting into?

  ***

  The following evening I call security and arrange her entry.

  “The girl alleges that she is having trouble with one of our hips. Really need to evaluate her before the lawyers do.”

  Most security personnel are ex police officers with little fondness for the legal profession. Therefore the urgency is empathetically understood. What is not explained is why a girl in her early twenties has a new hip. Yet, it’s security. Medical questions and evaluations are my purview.

  I arrange to assure that one of the evaluation rooms remains unlocked and I inspect beforehand to see that it is neat and clean. I will not inform this ‘Sandra’ of the purpose of the bright white clinically clean chamber. It’s to perform autopsies on dogs. To owners of arthritic dogs we donate hips, made of very expensive alloys and of precision manufacture. The agreement is we get the hip back upon Fido’s demise to ascertain wear and tear and assure the FDA of efficacy.

  No dogs tonight. The bright lights, the stainless steel table, the many cabinets of devices appear to be more of a standard operating room. And the room is sanitized; our operating budget spares no expense in cleanliness, neatness and presentation.

  My phone rings promptly at 8:00 p.m. Security announces the arrival, Ms. Sandra Devon, already ascending in the elevator.

  “And it’s good that you’re seeing her doc. She is walking real funny. Hope it’s not one of your designs.”

  More intrigue. A young woman with a gait problem. Maybe Louise is toying... maybe this Sandra Devon has a legitimate need outside of my social hobby of ineluctable restraint and slow, unending discipline.

  I hang up and head for the elevator bank. With no one on the entire floor, finding my office will be difficult. Besides I do not want this stranger aware of personal details... stuff hanging on my office walls like awards and degrees. I prefer to first vet for now. So I will direct her straight to the austere evaluation room.

  The elevator opens. Out steps Ms. Sandra Devon. She is young, as expected. She is dark skinned, not expected. Also not expected – a ring, large in circumference, large in gauge, emanates from her nose. And security is correct, she steps not so much with a limp but labored, as one would walk the day after a grueling ten mile jog. Also not expected, despite the warm early fall evening, she is draped in a loose overcoat from neck to ankles, as if anticipating a torrential rain storm. Not even her hands are exposed, such stuffed into the oversized pockets of her billowing coat.

  “I am Dr. Samuels,” extending my hand.

  The girl blushes, not desiring to extend hers. Or not able?

  “I am Sandra Devon.”

  “You don’t have a hip problem. Knees bothering you?” my fifteen years of experience, medical school and engineering degrees bringing a quick preliminary determination.

  “Er, no Doctor. My knees are fine... all joints are fine.”

  “Glad to learn that. Just commenting on the laborious ambulation.”

  Yes, we use words like that.

  “It’s from... from certain adornments. Gifts,” uttering the word with apparent disdain for the giver, “from my father... actually my stepfather.”

  “I thought we’d talk in one of our evaluation rooms,” hopefully my tone not hinting such are for dead dogs. “May I take your coat?”

  She becomes momentarily demure. I pause as well, not comprehending any problem.

  “Are we alone? I do not want to shock.”

  “Office hours ended long ago. There is no one here.”

  She nods... and then she shocks indeed.

  In slipping her hands from her coat pockets... there are no hands!

  “I could use some help,” her voice softening as I stare... quite unprofessionally I might add.

  At the wrists, extending to where knuckles and fingers should be displayed, there are instead smooth balls of iron... dark and gothic. At the ends there are dull hooks. I suppose such could be used to grasp and hold things in place of digits, but the effort required... and patience to do the simplest of things... must be... well, how does she eat, groom herself, use the bathroom?

  I grab the coat and note that beneath she is similarly loosely attired, blouse and skirt in sizes too large.

  “Let’s step immediately to my evaluation room Miss... Miss Devon,” her presentment so bizarre that I am now concerned with any prospective night cleaners.

  “Sandy, please, doctor.”

  “Sandy, please come this way.”

  More ungainly steps. Fortunately the journey is short and we enter without untoward delay.

  Then, shock somewhat wearing, I note that Sandy is pretty and though dark skinned not entirely of African descent, probably Mulatto.

  “How did you lose your hands?” my voice as steady and professional as possible, patting the stainless steel table indicating for her to sit.

  “I haven’t. My hands are covered. Beneath Daddy’s iron I have fingers... last time I looked.”

  ‘Iron mittens’, I think to myself. What torment, not being able to function.

  “Why? Why are you wearing them?’

  Sandy blushes.

  “Daddy caught me playing with myself. He said that had to end. Pleasure is for others.”

  Daddy, I quickly conclude, seems to have penchants with which I am familiar.

  I cluck my tongue... such wickedness.

  “He would do this to his own daughter?”

  “Well, I am really not his daughter. Stepdaughter, actually. Daddy is... was my mother’s husband. I don’t know my biological father.”

  I nod, a common atmosphere for abuse.

  “May I disrobe? It’s stuffy and I am not accustomed to clothing.”

  “Sorry, building services. They automatically adjust the air conditioning when the offices are presumed unoccupied,” I am amazed to observe as the hook of the right mitten tugs at a Velcro strap.

  “Louise said you’d insist on me being na
ked,” the loose skirt dropping to the floor.

  Such a vixen is Louise, but nicely saving time and the need to coerce. But such thoughts are quickly cast aside. As Sandy, sans undergarments and naked from the waist down, slips back to lean on the stainless steel table, I spy more iron. Heavy gothic circles of metal pierce the heels at the Achilles tendons. No wonder the girl walks with such effort! Romans were known to hobble slaves in such a manner, making quick flight quite arduous. But worse, a similar ring, heavy, well gauged, hangs from the outer labia, right lip and left, cruelly thrust through thick layers of epidermis. It impedes entrance to her vagina.

  Alone such would not forestall masturbation or digital manipulation, fingers easily slipping over and around, but normal copulation... awkwardly impossible.

  Sandy notes my intent stare.

  “Daddy... no pleasure remember?”

  I nod. Sandy somehow moves back to sit, apparently balancing herself so her blouse can be removed. In so doing I hear the clank of metal on metal. More iron... somewhere.

  “My buttock rings,” Sandy anticipating my next question. “Daddy... well he liked me used... back there. And I was not to resist.”

  I step to the side for a profile view. Sure enough incredibly large, heavily gauged rings pierce the buttocks near the top of each globe... I am sure the piercings snaring both glutei, two of the largest muscles in the body.

  The hook of the right ‘mitten’, for want of a better term, grasps a strip of Velcro about the neck, releasing the specially made garment. It is tossed aside. Again no undergarment, I am sure such deemed too exacting to don. And again more shock... more piercings, but not the common variety seen weekly when cavorting about Spankers and other dens of sadism. These intrigue... just as Louise insisted.

  I am without words.

  “Daddy was a blacksmith.”

  He was indeed, and I do not know here to begin with my questions... like how does the girl live and eat.

  So I just ask for her story... chronologically...

  Sandra Devon

  I was born some twenty years ago in Colorado. Daddy owned a horse farm. Mom just kept house, plus helped in the barn. My childhood was unremarkable until the awkward years of pubescence. Then, amongst my predominantly white schoolmates, the hue of my skin began to be noticed. This brought taunting and snickering, and of course, questions from within. Mom and Daddy were white. Why was my skin the color of creamed coffee?

  Sex education classes came, and with knowledge came more questions as well. Finally, the taunts became more direct... more specific... a bastard child. Children can be cruel, and children undergoing hormonal changes even crueler. I finally confronted Mom during one of our mother daughter chats. I rarely interacted with Daddy. He was standoffish and I attributed his aloofness to the long hours and grueling tedium of horse breeding. In my chat, Mom’s usual directness transcended to pensiveness when I broached the subject matter of the taunts I was enduring. Still with newly attained brazenness I pursued my questions.

  It seems my folks separated for a time... before I was born. Mom moved from the farm, feeling stifled. She was young and though Daddy was well acclimated to the seclusion of farm life, Mom was more urban. She left, moving to Denver, and without divulging too many details had an affair. And yes the affair was with the man who was my biological father... and he was black. The man turned out to be a rogue. And after impregnating my mother he simply walked out... but not until she was well into the third trimester... until I was in the third trimester.

  Mom was not only heartbroken but also destitute. Little money, not able to work, few friends in Denver, she returned to Daddy, beseeching rides from strangers. One can imagine the scene as she ambled the final quarter mile drive to the farmhouse, rounded belly announcing her condition well before words were to be exchanged.

  Mom confessed, if such is the appropriate term in disclosing the obvious. Not revealed... the ethnicity of the father.

  So one can imagine... traumatic episode one... estranged housewife returns expecting child. And then traumatic episode two... housewife bears a child of color... her infidelity never to be veiled.

  It was then that I began to better understand Daddy’s standoffishness, the many hours on the range, including overnight stays in the high country during the summer months, when the stock were pastured on high chaparrals.

  As my sexuality developed, Mom and Daddy’s relationship became of more interest. It was apparent that whatever the agreement... the bargain Mom made to be taken back in, to have shelter for the remainder of her pregnancy, to have a roof over the head of her new born... it was draconian.

  Yes, despite being somewhat ostracized, I did have some teenage girl friends. And in visiting their homes, I noted the husband wife relationship typically was warm and respectful. Whereas Mom and Daddy? well it seemed she was there to merely serve. And not only in the kitchen and barn.

  With puberty, the locked bedroom door, the whimpering, the muffled yelps became more apparent to newly aware ears. Despite the infidelity, Mom and Daddy still had a sexual relationship, but it was one of subservience. Later I was to find how subservient.

  Daddy was a sodomite.

  Dr. Winthrop Samuels

  I listen to Sandy’s story intently, trying not to interrupt. As my initial gawking transforms to medical inquisitiveness, I inspect. Sandy merely sits naked, expecting to be exhibited... and to be palpated. I cannot help donning latex gloves and assuming a professional demeanor, feigned I might add.

  She thinks I am Dr. Winthrop. She is going to meet Mr. Haig.

  Those breasts for example, so nicely presented by her horrific modifications of iron... yes... very tender... very inviting... so prominently displayed...

  So I cop a feel... professionally rendered, of course. The fingers are those of Dr. Winthrop... the licentious thoughts those of Mr. Haig. When my fingers turn from examination to sensuous caress, she pauses, cognizant of the transition. So I ask a question to divert attention.

  “How long have you been in New York? And how on earth do you fare with your hands... confined?” searching for the word to describe iron laden hands.

  “I have only been here three days. I keep my hands hidden in my coat pocket. I have been begging for food and earning money by...”

  She pauses, blushing. I know how she earns her keep, Louise suggesting quite the oral skills.

  “Fellatio,” I finally blurt, using the time worn Latin term to augment my shammed air of professionalism.

  She smiles quite shyly and nods.

  “I can open cans,” lifting her iron clad right hand to show the hook. “Pop tops. People have to help me with money. I’ve been ripped off. The city sucks. I need help.”

  Offered the opportunity, I grasp the hand for closer examination. I work with metal... expensive stuff, special alloys such as nickel cobalt, quite hard, not given to corrosion. Thus the workmanship is of interest. As I inspect I nod, indicating that Sandy continue her narrative.

  Sandra Devon

  I graduated high school. An uninspired student, mediocre grades, Daddy’s true feeling about me came to light. College denied, I was to work on the farm. And now in relative isolation, no further contact with fellow students, it was apparent Daddy was aware that whatever happened at the farm stayed at the farm, more or less.

  I was not permitted to drive. There was no cell phone... no cell phone reception to be had. And I found the land line phone placed under lock and key. My chores increased. The work became physically daunting, lifting bags of feed, mucking the barn. Daily contact dwindled to Mom and Daddy, the farm hands seasonally transient with little chance to develop relationships.

  Then, I suppose because my body was developing... and having no blood affiliation with Daddy... he began to notice me... sexually.

  There came a hot summer day when the hands were well out into the pastures. He suggested I would be more comfortable topless, my shirt to be removed. As you can see, my glands developed well, later than
my friends, but well. There was attraction found.

  What was I to do? I was frightened. I attempted to interject reason, mentioning the possibility of Mom’s presence. Daddy just laughed. And he became crass.

  ‘She will be silent... and pleased to know I find attraction. She knows she will benefit from a good stiff cock as a result,’ pointing to his bulging trousers.

  Things were changing at the farm. Deemed an adult, there came a new protocol. Yes, I labored topless, instructed to cover myself only when visiting buyers arrived... or one of the hands rode in from the pastures.

  And Daddy was right, Mom was not only silent but at night sounds behind the locked bedroom door became more noticeable... or maybe my perception advanced. Whatever.

  Autumn came. There approached the isolation of winter. The winters of Colorado brought heavy snow. The few horses not sold in season for the most part stayed in the barn or grazed in a corral area. Thus the hands moved south, to return in the spring for breeding time. I was apprehensive, over the warm months Daddy’s comportment somewhat tempered by the occasional interloping farm hand or visitor. This would end with the sale of many of the horses and the advent of heavy snows, I realized. Would there be more change? Would Mom continue to remain silent? Benefitting from a good stiff cock?

  Dr. Winthrop Samuels

  I listen. I examine. The ironwork is crude, in the mind of Dr. Winthrop – forged and deliciously gothic, in the mind of Mr. Haig. Two hot strips of metal have been pounded, hammered to be hemispherical in shape with openings for the wrists. The two pieces then placed over the hand and hot riveted together. Time required... many, many hours. And the bearer? Sitting... lying... with inordinate patience... either willingly submitting to the bizarre transformation, total denial of the use of hands... or perhaps, as the imagination of Mr. Haig effervesces, restrained. Yes, held well bound, immobile as for many hours the blacksmith forges with deliberation.

  As I cup the right hand, the weight makes an impression. The iron sheet is thick... unnecessarily thick, the loss of prehension equally accomplished with lesser clad. There is a message conveyed, over and above the loss of the use of digits. And as I look down at the ankles the same is true there as well. With the sizable gauging of the rings, the penetrating implements not only serve to potentially bind, but to constantly remind, the bulky loops affecting the gait, bringing uncontrollable cramping to the calf muscles I am sure.