Dr. Winthrop Samuels Series

by Chris Bellows

  Since no mammal can remain healthy kept stationary, after a morning wash, I was released from the stall. A smug Carlos led me about by my nose ring. In good weather he walked me about in a corralled area adjacent the barn, my impinged muscles even more unstable in being held immobile for many hours. I was limbered aside the other horses, Carlos deemed not ready to handle precious breeding stock.

  Thereafter came the more intense humiliation. My breast chain, at the nape of my neck, was hooked to a cord hanging from an overhead pole. When tightened it tensioned the breast chain and pulled on the spikes, presenting my glands, nipples thrust forth, most invitingly.

  And that is how I spent a good portion of the day as most of the farmhands departed for the pastures... some near, some far.

  Occasionally I would catch a glimpse of Daddy as he entered or exited the farm house and he in turn would glance at me... and always with a smile... one of warmth... one of Schadenfreude?

  Dr. Winthrop Samuels

  Exiting the elevator I slip my finger through Sandy’s nose ring and once again guide as she obediently follows. The hallway is devoid of neighbors and it sets the tone for entry, symbolically stepping into my abode under my complete control.

  We enter my apartment, home of the esteemed researcher, Dr. Winthrop... but also lair of the imposing sadist, Mr. Haig. I release the nose ring and know to help with the coat, Sandy slipping her iron laden hands from the vast pockets. Then I save time, it is late. Being observant, my fingers instantly rip at the Velcro holding in place the billowing skirt and that at the neck.

  Presto, the odd garments fall to the floor. Sandy meekly kicks away her sandals and she is returned to complete nakedness, the preferred presentation for quivering female flesh visiting my apartment.

  “You need food,” my tone direct, not posed as a question.

  Well, for those morsels who so much enjoy spending the weekend learning to sit up, beg and role over at the snap of Master’s fingers, I have a feeding bowl. I also have mock dog food, my medical training suggesting that the food sanitation standard of real dog food is questionable for humans. So I keep handy a can or two of hash. Covering the label and serving at room temperature, the psyche is easily deluded, the typical subordinate wanting to believe she is forced to consume canine fare.

  Into the kitchen, I toss the large doggy bowl to the floor, snap my fingers and point at it. Sandy knows to go to her knees, quite clumsily, and kneel in wait. I retrieve a can of hash, palming to cover the label. In opening, I suggest with firmness that she resume her story.

  Sandra Devon

  So I would stand, hour after hour, essentially bound by my breasts. Curious, the sensation, learning to bend at the knee, warding off cramping muscles and stimulating circulation. This movement stressed more my breasts, more tension on the chain... on the spikes. I was chagrined to find it felt good... oddly comfortable... a sense of security... of sacrificing freedom but gaining protection... the curious warmth of being owned and cared for. An occasional farmhand would return from the pastures... smiling... at first gawking. But then after several days, my bound nakedness came to be accepted. The gawks turned to gazes of lust... not of lust to be denied... but of lust to be satiated... night after night.

  It was at day’s end that the farmhands collected the promised bonus... that which augmented an otherwise diminished pay check.

  So once again my bound nakedness was used essentially for rutting. For after a grueling day, dawn to dusk, the hands returned and Carlos would release me from breast bondage and return me to my stall. Watered and fed, tummy down, my many rings secured, I awaited. Gratefully with the tiresome day, many slept, but never ever every one. No I was taken, night after night, never knowing the ritual for who was privileged to sodomize me first... whether they drew straws or there was some unknown hierarchy, I never determined.

  But the protocol was ingrained. On a shelf next to my kneeling form were two squeeze bottles with straws attached. One was filled with a viscous unguent, facilitating anal penetration, and the other with a soapy fluid, a quick spritz enema administered after every coupling... my aperture prepared for the next farmhand.

  Dr. Winthrop Samuels

  My goodness, Mr. Haig is enthralled with Sandy’s story, my smile to be suppressed but not little Mr. Haig. He stiffens as I spoon the faux dog food into the bowl, Sandy patiently kneeling in wait.

  “How did you feel in being so cruelly used?” I inquire as I place the bowl on the kitchen floor and slide it before her with a quick kick.

  Sandy becomes reticent... not a refusal to answer my question per se... but a reply is being cogitated... not easy to formulate.

  Hunger finally prevails over any words to be offered. She humbly lowers her torso, arms folding to rest her elbows on my kitchen floor, then bows her head. It is a well practiced maneuver, her mouth greeting the hash. As she begins to masticate, wolfing down my offering like a dog indeed, Mr. Haig’s priapic response makes the bulge in my trousers quite evident. My naked pierced and ringed guest is the picture of servility. No longer concerned with professional decorum, the ice having been broken so to speak, I can be more brazen.

  Sandy spent an entire summer in extreme bondage and being butt fucked, Mr. Haig so crassly reasons. What can possibly be considered impolitic if one is to further inspect and examine?

  I step to the refrigerator. Butter will do. The smell and feel on human flesh I have always found to be deviant... decadent. I gather a glob, listening to gulps of hash animatedly ingested, just as would the puppy Sandy has become.

  I return and slide a chair behind my kneeling morsel, admittedly more sinewy than the ‘little girls’ normally seeking ‘Daddy’s discipline’.

  “Stay,” the command master to dog

  The ungreased fingers of my left hand lower to hook the cunny ring. Large enough to accommodate three digits, it offers a satisfying grip, and in penetrating so many layers sure not to messily tear away. Then the dollop of dairy product smears the gluteal cleft. Sandy’s jaw pauses, hinting at a degree of surprise... but certainly not shock.

  So many men have used her there... and so often. And indeed, middle and index fingers find the sphincter and glide inward with untoward ease.

  I feel her tremble but there is no resistance, no words of protest, instead the muscles relax, her head lowers to almost press her face into the food bowl, and she arches her back inviting better access. It is a well ingrained rote response to penetration there. I momentarily withdraw and resume another slow inward thrust, this time three fingers. Again no protest, certainly no clenching to inhibit entry. My left hand playfully jiggles her cunny ring. Now comes sound... but it is a moan of pleasure.

  “You enjoy it this way... yet you left the farm... where you were so well cared for...” my words provocative as intended.

  She nods as I revel in the power exchange. Forgoing the latex gloves required in my austere research laboratory, the flesh of my hands and fingers directly abrades hers, sensing the warmth, the slippery smoothness, the intimacy of the most private feminine anatomy. I am inside her... and I slog onward, again withdrawing... again adding a digit to my slow humiliating assault.

  Four fingers!

  “You’re a good girl. Men enjoy good girls here... tight and warm... and for you so wonderfully degrading. Girls like you need this. And men such as me understand that.”

  My left hand pulls on the cunny ring, establishing my supremacy... my authority. She knows I want full penetration. And she knows she will submit... succumb to my entire hand. Her anus further yields. Four digits well inside her.

  “Can you squeeze for me? Be a good girl.”

  She can... and she is a good girl indeed. Her sphincter tightens upon command and I imagine the delight of the farmhands, first plunging with fervor then resting to feel the triumph of the sodomite, humbled purse string muscle first yielding then bowing in capitulation to welcome the conquering male appendage.

  I withdraw, tuck my thumb into my palm an
d slowly most gently thrust again. Sandra is methodically fisted. She takes my entire hand and I sense glory as the invaded rectum closes about my wrist, her cavity seeming to hungrily swallow all I offer. Mr. Haig chuckles wickedly.

  “You’re both open and tight. Well trained,” offering a compliment... and it is taken as such.

  I twist, adding friction, clockwise, then counterclockwise, then back, establishing more of my dominion, forcefully highlighting her humility.

  “Can you play with my ring? Please,” such a truckling request.

  Ah, the plea of the chaste. Sensory system overwhelmed, still she needs more. Needs attention where she has been so long denied. And indeed, she secretes, the ring and my tugging fingers dripping, her vaginal juices preparing her love sheath for entry... penetration that will never ever happen... not under Daddy’s tutelage.... nor that of Mr. Haig.

  So I ignore, continuing my robust anal probe.

  “Tell me more, Sandra... about your summer.”

  Sandra Devon

  What more is there to say?

  A summer of being treated as well as any breeding mare... except the exercise could have been more. And of course, the horses couple once... possibly twice... then are put out to pasture with foal.

  I coupled... anally... and three, four, five times per evening. The hands were direct... not caring but certainly not without a degree of tenderness. They fucked me with purpose... that being to be relieved of burgeoning hormones. Daddy had forgone the aged and experienced farmhands of the past. This crew reeked of testosterone. Therefore other than the possible need to sleep... there was no reason why off duty time could not, would not be spent in my stall.

  I got to know every hand... their manly aroma... the size and shape of their phalli... the grips on my chains. Some enjoyed tugging on the buttock rings and feeling my muscles spasm, thrilling in the sudden convulsive grip of my sphincter on a well thrust manhood. Others enjoyed toying with my breast chain, pulling at the nape of my neck knowing my spikes would humiliatingly bob my glands.

  Deeply they spent, no one pulling out. After ejaculating there came the courtesy of a spritz enema, cleansing me for the next farmhand, and lastly my oral efforts to in turn clean the marauding weapon.

  I become accomplished. In knowing that there was a waiting line, particularly on Saturday nights, I would bring the younger less experienced boys off as quickly as possible, sparing my fractioned rectum of too much painful wear. Yes, my sphincter became supple and despite the buttock rings I learned to control my glutei to great success. I learned to please... my only role... to offer my nakedness... to lie spread and open... walk about at the end of a leash... stand in stress in complete humiliation in the corral... bound by my breasts.

  I became complacent. Having no choice I accepted my role.

  But then came certain evenings when someone approached from behind and slipped a hood over my head. I was not to know who was ravishing my anus. But I know it was not a farmhand, their penises well known to me, their manly scents distinct to me.

  It could only have been Daddy, slaking more vengeance.

  For some reason, despite the continuous nightly sodomy, this disconcerted me. Horrifying piercings, bound in crude wrought iron, now forced to yield anally.

  Emotionally it took me over the edge. But physically what was I to do? The horses had more freedom... a better chance of escaping the farm’s regimen than I had.

  I had no choice but to lie tummy down, thighs parted, rectum lubricated and glistening to entice... night after night after night. And the sexual depravity evolved. Carlos become more and more comfortable handling a naked bound woman. He took to leashing me by my cunny ring and walking me about, proudly displaying his dominion to the other hands. He became more cruel. When putting me on display in the corral my breast chain was hooked higher and higher, the stress increasing, forcing me higher and higher on my toes.

  Exhausted, I looked forward to my return to the stall. There I merely had to lie and pleasure the penis... time after time. And orally clean, of course.

  Then one day, on toes in the corral, there approached a delivery van. Supplies for Daddy. No one was watching me, I just stood half hanging, my toes desperately working to lift and ease the tension of my breast chain.

  For whatever reason I suddenly felt shy, accustomed to being bound and naked with the men, not with strangers. But I could not move, of course, and the van pulled up to the farmhouse door, some 50 yards from where I hung. I knew Daddy to be in the fields, not at home. So when the driver stepped from the truck and rang the bell I knew there would be no response. It was then that I was spotted. It was then that things changed.

  Dr. Winthrop Samuels

  Having thoroughly explored and palpated deep within, opening a girl anally or vaginally always a joy, I rest easy. Sandra Devon has been thoroughly vetted, for sure meeting my criteria for spending time in my abode, worries of some mercurial post session phone call to the authorities eased.

  So I release the cunny ring, my greased hand withdraws, the smell of warm butter quite zesty.

  “Stay.”

  I step away to my play room... returning with a leash. How can Mr. Haig resist?

  By now Sandra Devon has come to understand a few things, though there probably remain many questions in her mind.

  Having just fisted her anally, my deportment quite opposed to that in the research floor of Parker Lyle and Co., she must realize by now that the clinical and professional demeanor of Dr. Winthrop Samuels is given to transmogrify... and quite radically.

  Louise Flanner recommended that the girl come to see me concerning help. Sandra Devon can barely function physically, has no money for food and shelter and the only prospects for attaining such is by seducing and orally gratifying men of questionable caliber. So I assume there is desperation such that she will kneel on all fours and object not to having her nicely rounded backside slowly penetrated by an entire hand. Not a gesture of resistance, not a word of objection offered... yes the level of desperation is palpable.

  I clip the leash to her nose ring... or perhaps Mr. Haig clips.

  “By now, Sandy, I am sure you now realize I am a man with certain tastes... term such ‘proclivities’. Somewhat eccentric, but quite desirable for girls like you... girls with complementary needs.”

  I tug on the leash, establishing control. I note her face and head follow my governing hand with admirable promptness. Such obedience.

  “So men like me have rules. And though we prefer having our rules obeyed, please be aware that just as much enjoyment can be attained when the rules are disobeyed.”

  I pause, jostle the leash and issue a command of ‘come’. Sandy begins to stand.

  “No, no. When with me you will crawl. Keep your knees parted; show me that cunny ring and your pert backside.”

  The metal laden hands thump the linoleum of the kitchen floor then move onward to the quiet carpeting of my dining/living room then to my spare bedroom turned dungeon, torture chamber, operating room... depending on the scene du jour.

  I open the door and lead. Whenever I first introduce a girl, the astonishment is noteworthy. There is a wall for every penchant. Before us hang instruments of correction in every shape, size and medium – leather, rubber, bamboo, wood, metal. To our left... restraints – cuffs, shackles, collars, chains, yokes – some leather, some metal, some padding suggesting clinical care but exacting thoroughness. To our right – medical implements the sight of which can bring tremors – vulnerable flesh to be opened, examined, and tormented in any number of humiliating procedures.

  Just as daunting for the uninitiated, in the middle of the room is a platform of flat granite, just below waist height. Some might describe it as a slab for pathologists, plumbing fixtures at one end to offer water, beveled toward a grate for drainage. For others the myriad of heavy canvas straps hint at institutional restriction... the mentally disturbed not to inflict self harm.

  “As you can see, Sandy... yes, I can h
elp you.”

  Chapter Three

  It’s rather dismaying for a man of my ilk to find that a girl like Sandy can be so readily restrained. No pageantry, no symbolic leather straps, no clinking of metal, snaps of locks.

  No, for Sandy I must merely secure the end of the leash where I want her to stay. I do, however, take the precaution of covering the hooks on her iron mittens with thick duct tape. She has learned to function, somehow dressing and undressing herself and opening cans wearing Daddy’s bizarre coverings. Thus I am wary of her ability to open the snap hook of the common dog leash.

  “Please no, Dr. Samuels,” Sandy becoming tearful as I terminate her only manner of functioning.

  I heartlessly ignore and produce a basin, used often when one of my tempting morsels must relieve herself, and push it between her widely spread knees, keeping in mind that in Daddy’s barn, she simply soiled the floor, her excretions to be mucked away with that of the horses.

  I require a modicum of neatness.

  I also leave a water bowl and depart, leaving Sandra Devon to her thoughts, kneeling on all fours, free to lie in slumber... but otherwise not free to do much else.

  Such a slim length of leather... but such imposing restraint.

  I retreat to my bedroom. Though it has been an intriguing evening, the day has been long. Still there is time to call Louise Flanner and offer her an opportunity to gloat. Plus we need to conspire.

  She answers after three rings, not a good sign.

  “Hello.”

  “It’s Mr. Haig,” cluing her as to my mindset.

  “Winnie, it’s after 11:00 and you know I’m doing the day shift,” her voice slurred with sleep.

  As the reader may need to be reminded, Louise Flanner, aka Nurse Ratchet, indeed has an advanced degree is nursing. The day shift means arriving at the hospital promptly at 7:00 a.m. As a supervisor, tardiness is conspicuous, thus her need to arise at some ungodly hour and assure traffic and other vagaries of New York commuting are mitigated.