Dr. Winthrop Samuels Series

by Chris Bellows

  The simple act of walking turned to an aggravating endeavor... the feel of another’s imposing hands ever present.

  “On all fours for me, Sandy. Knees well parted like a good girl.”

  She struggles on the smooth hard table top to assume the demanded position, iron mittens slipping, the muscles cramping indeed. But she protests not. Dr. Winthrop desires to ascertain the level of imposition offered by the extreme labial piercing. Mr. Haig just wants to see her cunt. So crass this Mr. Haig.

  She resumes her story, her love pouch as well displayed as the huge wrought iron ring permits. Meanwhile a gloved hand reaches forth, diddling the ring. It’s over three inches in diameter and appears to be that expected in the nose of a bull; I am sure such readily available in rural ranching country.

  Sandra Devon

  So winter comes. With the horses few, Daddy sends away the last farmhand. I am to feed those remaining. And now I will do so completely naked!

  An early heavy snowfall piles deep layers of white on the quarter mile drive to the main road. With the house well stocked with winter supplies, Daddy does not bother to clear it away. Therefore no one in... no one out. Perhaps someone laden with snowshoes can traverse the deep powder. But to what purpose? There is nothing to be had, no reason to make the endeavor.

  And so every morning after breakfast, Daddy sends me to the barn.

  ‘You know how I want you,’ he reminds, mother tending to the kitchen stove.

  Does she know? I cannot help asking myself. How can she not?

  Then he leans and whispers.

  ‘I want you to strip naked first then stoke the fire. That will encourage haste.’

  And of course, Daddy was correct, the temperature of the barn plummeting on winter nights, mere embers in the wood burning stove. But I was obedient, stripping naked and prancing about briskly, assembling split logs and stoking with fervor.

  In finishing I turned to the door, not noticing that Daddy had slipped in to watch. Familiar with my breasts, his gaze went to my buttocks, well muscled with the many months of laboring, and of course my pussy.

  ‘Shave... down there. Men like to view pink... and your mother will benefit... you know how,’ again pointing to his bulging trousers.

  Yes, the bedroom would be noisy tonight I concluded.

  I began feeding the horses, lifting the heavy bags of feed. Daddy was entranced.

  Dr. Winthrop Samuels

  “What do you feel, in your pubes area? The ring appears ponderous.” I interrupt again as a gloved hand again toys with the labial ring.

  Heavy indeed... and Mr. Haig so much wants to tug with vigor.

  “It feels as if I am constantly being controlled... all the piercings... but that one in particular.”

  “You were pierced simply to forestall masturbation. Yet, it would seem a determined girl could slip in some fingers and attain some degree of gratification.”

  With my clinical presumption, I lift the ring up toward the anus and oh so gently glide a gloved finger into her vagina very close to her clitoris. She stirs, pubo coccygeus muscles tensing with the briefest and slightest of touches. I note that she is quite wet, her vagina secreting, the amusing response of the masochist which I so often encounter. Yes the intensity of the humiliation excites. She may know it... but does she understand it? I do, and it so much abets the exchange of power. Girls such as Sandra Devon will protest, plead, beg... but in the end submit... completely.

  I withdraw and Sandy sighs... in disappointment?

  “My hand coverings are what really enforces chastity. Daddy used that ring... well it can be used to bind,” the words reluctantly offered.

  Mr. Haig finds the notion quite gleeful, restraining a girl using her cunny. And Dr. Winthrop notes that with the ring so deeply set, the piercings thrust through many layers of epidermis, untoward stress can be applied. The girl can be leashed and led about by her genitalia! And done so quite brusquely. No sloppy and painful tearing for this piercing!

  Alas, my clinical evaluation must move onward, less Mr. Haig give himself away. So my examining hands move to the ankle rings. Such are of equivalent size and gauging. When I hook my finger through the right ring, a slight tug elicits a groan and instant cramping of the calf muscles. Yes, as expected, the piercings serve to hobble and I better understand the awkward ambulation, the very weight of the ring and the girl’s movement can prompt involuntary contraction.

  How fiendish! How humbling! Reminded of one’s alterations with every footfall.

  Yet I cannot dawdle. Maintaining the air of professionalism, I move to the left side of the table. The buttocks. Yes such are firm and shapely, the daily toil at the farm apparent and tedious but good for the physique. Athletic, a firm layer of effeminate flesh evenly covers well toned muscling. Yet such is also well tamed muscling. When I hook my finger and offer an equivalent slight tug to the ring atop the protrusion, again there comes a groan and instant cramping. Such will also affect the gait. And Mr. Haig notes that it will also obviate clenching of the buttocks when the rings are used to restrain. Sandy did mention sodomy. But what a devilish endeavor, to offer permanent deep piercings to assure there can be no denial of penile entry.

  “Quite deeply set,” I note. “Quite painful.”

  “I fainted with every one,” Sandy somewhat welling up with the memory.

  “And your mother? How could she not have known?”

  “She was gone.”

  Regretful that I preempted the story, I encourage her to resume.

  Sandra Devon

  Yes. Mom left... somehow in midwinter making it to the main road. By the time Daddy realized she was gone there was no tracking her. If he struggled through the deep snow as had apparently Mom, then what? She had probably hitched a ride and on foot he could not overtake anyone. And to finally plough the quarter mile drive would require hours. Plus make the farmhouse accessible to the interlopers I am sure he strove to avoid.

  Whatever happened in the bedroom night after night, apparently Mom did not ‘benefit’ from, as Daddy so glibly suggested when he had me strip naked for him.

  And so, Daddy’s aberrant behavior no longer had constraints... no longer needed to be tempered by Mom’s presence or potential interdiction.

  My life unraveled rapidly after Mom’s departure. First my clothing disappeared. While working in the barn naked, Daddy ransacked my room. I suppose everything ended up in the basement under lock and key. I should have noticed he was late joining me in the barn that morning. He would usually arrive while I labored to stoke the fire, he found my crinkled nipples quite amusing to watch. But he came late and immediately grabbed the covering I had shucked. I protested, but of course the garments were added to the sequestered pile somewhere in the farmhouse.

  Well, we went through a lot of firewood that winter. And Daddy laughed with every quick trip from farmhouse to barn, my bare feet prancing on the compacted snow. There was much coal burned as well... for Daddy’s blacksmithing... as you can see.

  Yes, Daddy made his own horse shoes, more of a hobby than convenience or cost savings. And it later became apparent that this ‘hobby’ veiled the need to purchase wrought iron, coal and the tools required to forge my many rings.

  The first ring, at my pubes came after Daddy unexpectedly entered the bathroom one evening. Yes, after shaving... down there... as he demanded... my fingers began pleasing myself. He was angry. Told me if he could muster the pluck for self denial, Mom’s departure forcing chastity upon him, then I should as well.

  That was the catalyst for the many additional piercings.

  The next morning, as I labored in the barn, he stoked away in the corner. At first I welcomed the added heat, my nakedness always in need of additional warmth. Then I realized he was bringing to white hotness a piercing needle. He made me watch, telling me that naughty girls need to be reminded... constantly reminded... of the need for self restraint.

  I became frightened. The forced nakedness had been just a strange
game up until then, a form of cooling for Daddy’s smoldering lust, Mom nightly extinguishing the flames. But now she was gone. And there was only Daddy and the horses, secluded from the rest of the world by foot after foot of snow... the freezing white steadily accumulating.

  Adding to the ‘cover’ offered by the need to make horseshoes, the many straps and bindings readily available not only to mount and ride equines, but to facilitate breeding as well. How many times had I watched the eyes of a well secured mare roll about in fright as she was forcibly held in place for mounting?

  Well it became my turn... not to be mounted... but to be thoroughly restrained for my first piercing. Yes, Daddy facilely strapped me down, gathered up a sizable tuft of labial flesh and thrust the white hot needle straight through... not a blink of his eye... not a moment of hesitation.

  I fainted. When revived I was horrified to look down to see that during my unconsciousness, Daddy had completed not only a second symmetrical piercing, but worked the crude heavy wrought iron through both lips and forged it closed. I must have been out for over an hour, the trauma so intense.

  Yes, it hurt, the skin not only punctured but burned of course. Yet, the emotional, the psychological suffering was more deeply felt. I was summarily transformed to a beast of burden, marked for life. And marked where a girl will always feel, always be cognizant of another’s dominion.

  ‘There,’ Daddy summarized with a huff. ‘A good reminder for you. You’ll not have much fun toying about now.’

  He was right, of course. Though as you observed, slim fingers can slip past the ring and somewhat frig, the rough iron constantly reminds of the horror, the cruel callousness meted for a girl doing what a girl is wont to do. And in nakedness, the ring flops about with every step, particularly when running in the cold, the 50 or more yards from farmhouse to barn.

  So I knew it was there, knew masturbation was wrong, and with Daddy’s supply of iron and many tools, knew more reminders awaited.

  Dr. Winthrop Samuels

  I listen intently, hoping that the bulge in my trousers, so prevalent with Daddy, is not noticed. Yes, Dr. Winthrop is most professional, but Mr. Haig... well Mr. Haig’s eidetic mind relishes the imagery... a well restrained naked girl being pierced where she finds a piercing so significant.

  I step to the front of the steel table, my nose detecting the fragrance of feminine arousal. Poor Sandy gives herself away, thoughts of her own cruel treatment excite her. I have seen it so often, so many morsels of feminine flesh begging to be taken home... to enter ownership... to be protected... only to reenter the realities of the vanilla world after a weekend in bondage.

  What would they ever do without the likes of me... or rather Mr. Haig?

  I stand before her in need, gazing at basic prettiness. As stated, Sandra Devon is well muscled... effeminate but with an athletic physique. Laboring on the farm, constantly bearing many pounds of excess metal, has served to hamper the accumulation of any notable fat. The mocha flesh is smooth and admirably uniform with curves where a girl is expected to have curves, and certainly no undesirable bulges to displease the lustful male eye.

  Still, the breast piercings distract. The cruelest, most bizarre body modifications I have encountered... such that no girl would ever volunteer. For the breasts are not really pierced... such are spiked!

  Even Mr. Haig is initially concerned, an odd flash of ephemeral compassion. But then I evaluate, signaling for Sandy to sit more upright by placing my own hands behind my head.

  The metal mittens go to the back of her head as she leans back to rest on her haunches. With motion she winces, the deeply set piercings of her buttock rings functioning as intended.

  Such glorious mammary glands... and such presentation! Large, firm, the angle of projection enhanced by vertical strips of metal. Such penetrate the main body of the mammary gland at the top, quite close to the breast bone. I note that in exiting beneath, the spike bifurcates, forming an upside down ‘T’. At the top the spike has an eyelet. Attached is a slim dark wrought iron chain running up to the shoulder, behind the neck and then down to the eyelet of an opposing breast spike. As a result, the bodies of both sizable globes are held upwards, supported by the taut chain, not only providing quite the enticing presentation, as noted, but leaving the perky nipples completely vulnerable, seeming to welcome attention... both amorous and evil.

  Amazing! A brassiere of metal!

  “Did you faint?” I inquire, a gloved hand extending to grasp the breast chain and teasingly jiggle.

  I must stifle Mr. Haig’s wicked smile as the globes jounce about despite the extreme firmness of the flesh.

  Her breasts are leashed!

  “I faint with every application of white hot iron,” poor Sandy concedes.

  I note the use of the present tense... not ‘I fainted’ but ‘I faint’.

  I extend both hands, first palming then palpating in feigning a clinical breast examination. Sandy sighs again, my touch more sensuous than the standard brusque squeezing to ascertain lumps.

  “A curious form of breast bondage,” feeling deep within the iron posts thrust from top to bottom, my choice of words hopefully not revealing my weekend social pursuits.

  She closes her eyes, apparently experiencing intense pleasure. I begin to realize with no coitus possible, with iron clad hands forbidding masturbation, her nipples and breasts have become the primary erogenous zones, the sensitivity heightened well above that of the normal female. Yet she cannot adequately fondle there either!

  Her state of chastity is thorough... extreme.

  ‘Daddy’ and Mr. Haig would cavort together very well.

  I reluctantly withdraw my hands lest the girl orgasm, gesturing for her to return to all fours. She obeys, of course, such ingrained obeisance.

  Finally comes the nose ring, a gloved finger hooking to jostle the exposed end of the loop and bring a yelp of pain.

  I still my hand, remembering to remain professional. No shenanigans, Mr. Haig.

  The ring is elliptical and of matching iron. Graciously, for Sandy, it is of lesser gauge. Yet it is deeply set as well. Daddy’s handiwork was not to slip out, be easily removed, or tear under tension or stress. It penetrates the cartilage of the septum well up into the nostrils. The suffering and aggravation of this one piercing alone will wear the psyche. Sandy will not only constantly sense its presence, but see it as well. Gothic and hideous on a girl of otherwise relative beauty, there is a wordless message offered by its presence... and that is... the girl is more beast than human... to be tethered at a whim... led about with no resistance to be offered... just as a well tamed bull stud.

  I step back, arms akimbo, both Dr. Winthrop and Mr. Haig assessing. There is animalistic beauty... strength, vigor, yet brought to such wondrous subservience.

  “So he pierced your pudendum...” encouraging the continuance of her story.

  Sandra Devon

  Daddy was a bitter man. Mom had fled once, returning with a swollen belly and later bearing a bastard child... and one of color. Then she fled again, leaving Daddy to support me.

  I did not recognize the rage, the intensity... not so much his disdain for me, but how my presence served to constantly remind of Mom’s cuckoldry. Yes, I became the ‘red headed stepchild’ as the common bromide goes.

  Though Mom was seemingly contrite, I am sure yielding nightly to Daddy’s aberrant sexual demands, it was not enough. After she fled again, his rage needed another outlet.

  So just as the ‘red headed stepchild’ is beaten, I was to be pierced and ringed.

  There were always infractions, Daddy always found fault with something. There were canings, but such proved to be mild forms of rebuke compared to when he fired up his coal stove. Yes, throughout that winter, as I tended to the horses, mucked the barn, the coals glowed, his hammer pounded.

  I was pierced about once per week, the trauma incurred with each penetration of my skin required that many days of recovery. And you see the results, my hands finall
y rendered useless as Spring approached. Though Daddy knew the hand coverings greatly restricted the performance of my chores, the pending return of the farm hands would limit the need for my efforts.

  He constantly accused me of toying with myself. I denied and denied... but he was correct. I was given to furtively fondling, despite the ring inhibiting access. Something about the piercings, my body succumbing to metal... something about the permanency... submitting to the will of another... and so intensely. Metal... hot and glowing... driven into the depths of my flesh. Enduring the agony... mental and physical... brought this sexual need... a craving for release.

  Plus the bondage brought odd desire. Daddy seemed to take glee in binding me in various places, various positions, utilizing the fruit of his sweat and toil, the many rings. And something within, knowing that this pleased him... in turn pleased me... and brought desire. He was a strong man, brawny... and conceding to his power... well... it aroused.

  So... the hands. The ultimate chastity contrivance. I watched as he forged. It required many days as opposed to the fabrication of my rings and breast spikes. I was not sure of his intent but there came this strange comfort... limited pain to be endured... contrasted by a sense of denial. It was evident the large lumps he hammered and bent would not be utilized to pierce me. This brought a sense of relief... yet such was superficial. The ordeal of the piercings... eight times my body penetrated with white hot shards... had brought catharsis... agonizing to the point of bringing unconsciousness... but cathartic relief... like being expunged of something... my lust tamed... made to submit. Perhaps the red headed step child deserved the beatings... desired the beatings... craved the beatings.

  Daddy hot riveted the hand coverings as I laid bound to a table in the barn. Yes, he tethered me... nose ring, ankle rings. The ring at my pudendum was tied to a cord, more of a symbolic gesture than serving to immobilize. It was the neck chain attached to my breast spikes which was particularly effective. Secured to a hook on the table, the chain attached at the nape of my neck, the binding produced the most bizarre sensations if I attempted to rise, tensioning the chain which in turn joggled the breast spikes and my breasts.