I step back, not so much admiring my work, it’s mainly the computer after all, but letting Mr. Haig visually feast. Louise stands with me and I know that despite the raillery, she also enjoys the forced exhibition of feminine pink flesh, her polysexual proclivities well known.
The enema bag finally empties.
“She won’t soil my new trinket, well she?”
“She’s well cleansed. I’ve been infusing her for hours. She grovels so wonderfully I could not resist.”
With that, Louise steps forth to release the air from the inflatable enema nozzle and remove, quickly stepping aside as the bowels gush forth the clear once cold now warmed water forced into her time and again for hours. The mass of liquid splatters to the granite surface and flows to the drain.
Sandra also gushes... meek words of thanks.
“She will sleep well... and be nice and clean for you... back there. Just be careful of your new bauble,” more banter from Louise.
Yes, it will have to be temporarily removed from time to time.
“Early morning. Long day. Tomorrow I can sleep in,” a worn Louise announcing her departure.
“Can you stop in tomorrow for a couple of hours? I’m going to look at space... for Sandy,” inquiring as Louise dries with a towel and I begin to release the many rings securing Sandy to the slab.
“Late morning. I’ll bring some orange juice and Champagne. Love Mimosas and cunnilingus.”
I smile. There is a price to be paid for Louise’s exacting attention... and Sandy will be picking up the check.
***
Early Saturday morning I arise, the phenomenon of nocturnal penile tumescence brings greetings to a new day.
I remember one elderly man expressing the dismay of the male anomaly... ‘it sleeps while I stand and it stands while I sleep’.
Fortunately this bachelor has a solution, naked and well restrained nearby.
So I don my bathrobe and saunter to my chamber. I find Sandy is awake, awkwardly positioning herself over her basin to urinate. My new bauble forces quite the comical pose, knees widely parted of course, but buttocks high and head low, attempting to have the cone of spiked metal hang more toward her chin, the flow not to be impeded. It does not work, her stream glancing off the cone and splattering about... most hitting the basin but some sloppy droplets splashing to the floor.
I step forth, the front of my tented robe evidencing a need subconsciously expressed in slumber. With my presence her flow curtails, the concentration for the deed interrupted.
I lean and most carefully hook the slim chain with my index finger, drawing the bauble up toward her tummy.
“Go ahead... psst, psst,” I encourage.
The girl wordlessly resumes the task, chagrined to require a male finger to assist. When finished I release the leash from a wall hook and give it a commanding jostle. Sandy instantly responds, her eyes glaring at my controlling hand, ready to follow.
I lead to the living room. There rests a large comfortable chair where so many of my tempting morsels of flesh pay homage and thank me for the tutelage and discipline they so much desire. And I cannot help turning back to see the knees so obediently parted, her crawl quite deliberate in keeping the spiked cunny cone from bringing harm.
“Thought you’d appreciate some juice for breakfast.”
At some point I will ravage that anus as firmly and deeply as any farmhand. But for now, fellatio is more appreciated, my muscles still lingering in respite from a long night’s rest.
I sit and lie back offering slack to the leash. When I part my robe, why am I not surprised that Sandy knows to shuffle forth and greet little Mr. Haig with lips well trained and tender?
Yes, considering the frequent anal sodomy... night after night... her propensity to suck, for her tongue to swirl, is noteworthy.
Her oral efforts are assiduous and after many gratifying minutes, to the sound of a meek gulp, her morning juice spurts into her gullet.
“Good girl,” the praise master to dog.
“So the delivery driver rescued you... kidnapped you...” I prompt for more of the story.
Sandra Devon
Dykes on Bikes. The van driver belonged to a motorcycle club. She took me to the clubhouse, an old warehouse. My ringed and pierced nakedness made quite the impression, as you can imagine.
My hands remained hooked to my breast chain. The girls liked the presentation. It was generally decided that the use of my tongue was more important than the use of my impinged hands. Also, to assure my continued servitude, inhibit any thoughts of escape, a hobbling chain was secured ankle ring to ankle ring.
Rather over done. Walking has always been difficult with Daddy’s deeply set rings. Plus where is a naked girl going to go? Still the chain mandated the tiniest of steps and suddenly, being walked about by Carlos, leashed by my cunny ring, allowed sun and fresh air, became nothing more than a pleasant memory.
Still the girls, dykes indeed, enjoyed having a club mascot... bound in iron. They quickly learned of the effectiveness of Daddy’s many deep piercings. That the slightest touch on the nose ring brought a crashing wave of pain. That tugs on the ankle and buttock rings brought a cascade of muscle cramps. That with the breast chain and spikes I could effectively be hung by my mammary glands.
To be fed... I had to eat... pussy. I performed cunnilingus or starved. As you can see, I did not starve.
Many weeks, many cunnies. Just as I got to know the taste of the farmhands, I got to know the taste of the girls.
Then one member, taking a particular liking to my tongue work, decided that I would be good company – unique company – on one of her trips. She was an independent long distance truck driver who owned a huge tractor with a sleeping compartment.
So one day, leashed by one cunny, I hobbled into the cab and off we went.
Fascinating being offered the sensation of freedom but without the ability to really move. Yes, stuck in the sleeping compartment without covering I watched the many miles of interstate highway... and performed oral sex with every respite.
The woman was insatiable, the trip requiring much inordinate time with the many stops for oral servitude. It soon became apparent that I was a distraction. The driver earns by the mile... and not enough miles per day were being earned.
So in reaching New York, though reveling in the abundant sex, she released me, affording me garments after a stop at the Salvation Army. Though she liked the idea of turning me out naked on the New Jersey Turnpike, more rational thinking prevailed.
In New York City, iron clad hands may not attract the attention, the populace diverse and accepting of eccentricities... at least that was the thinking.
‘The girls at Dykes on Bikes will miss you,’ came her final words, ‘but there are so many other girls with a hunger for pussy.’
Dr. Winthrop Samuels
Such similarities... such contrasts to the Sunny Sudenskaya affair, I think to myself. Sunny fellating for transportation across Europe... Sandy’s tongue and lips equally fervent in escaping the ‘Dykes on Bikes’.
With her story, Sandy plants a seed of thought. My leash hand rises, forcing Sandy to sit upright on her haunches. She grimaces as the honed needles of my cunny ring bauble remind her to keep those thighs well parted. My free hand then grasps an iron mitten and guides it behind her back. Such obeisance, not a smidgeon of resistance as I hook her right hand to the breast chain at the back of the neck. I then do the left mitten and presto, Sandy sits nipples spearing forth as the tension on the chain lifts the breast spikes.
Those Dykes on Bikes certainly knew how to display a girl in a most humiliating pose. I like the look plus it makes crawling and responding to the leash that much more challenging.
“Superb,” the word just flows forth, as if savoring a fine meal at Four Seasons. “Come, breakfast.”
Progress to the kitchen is slow, Sandy now shuffling upright on two knees, all use of her hands denied, the cone deliciously tormenting. I position her at her do
ggy bowl and pop open another can of hash, making a note to buy more. Then I feed and tie off the leash. Sandy will never again move without command or direction.
And I must admire... so nicely exposed... well shaven mons the meaty outer lips pressed together by the inordinately sized iron ring. In a snapshot, the resulting image would be a summation of a girl’s thorough subservience... her subjugation. I will have to offer her a treat...
I head for the shower... a busy day ahead... procuring iron and warehouse space.
***
My extracurricular activities keep me quite busy over the ensuing days. Thankfully, Louise, discovering for herself what Sandy disclosed, relishes the long slow sessions of cunnilingus and at the hospital, gleefully transfers to the night shift. Matinee oral sex, so gratifying...
Thus, Sandy is not only kept 24/7 but also nearly constantly monitored, Louise during the day, me during the evenings.
Still I must spend a few hours from time to time at the new warehouse space in the meat district of the lower west side, transforming industrial space into living quarters... quarters suitable for Sandy.
And I stealthily plan and design new iron wear for Sandy, first on the computer, easily done, but then utilizing the milling machine to fabricate... not so easily done.
We don’t work in iron at Parker, Lyle & Co. Thus a few furtive after hour evenings are required, setting the machine, monitoring as it carves and grinds, tidily assuring all scraps and millings are properly disposed of, black wrought iron rather prominent if inadvertently mixed with the bright glossiness of nickel cobalt.
Fortunately, as opposed to orthopedic devices, nothing needs to be honed and polished to glass like smoothness. Matter of fact, it’s just the opposite. Yes, I so much like the gothic look on Sandy, making her appear as an ante bellum slave girl.
So I labor diligently, heartened to know that in arriving at my coop after a long day, a well tethered Sandy awaits, thighs spread, Louise’s high colonic and abundant lubrication inviting deep slow anal penetration... as long as Mr. Haig remembers to remove the tormenting thigh cone.
An impressive skill level Sandy has acquired. Her sphincter is tight yet supple and I almost feel as if I am benefitting from the manual manipulation of an adept masseuse. Yes, she humbly opens herself to invite deep thrusts then squeezes firmly as I withdraw, her timing sublime in maximizing pleasure. She seems to know precisely where Mr. Haig is in the cycle of male arousal, sensing pending eruption and laboring to assure the deluge of male essence explodes well into her back passage.
There is something symbolic about that... giving... subordinating all... offering herself completely... taking my essence as well into her cavity as possible.
There comes to mind the many farm nights of sodomy... so many thrusts... so many spurts. Then the spritz enemas, the hasty cleansings so that the next farmhand can begin anew.
When butt fucking Sandra, I am given to grip her buttock rings, tugging to trigger muscle spasms which translate to delightful sensations for a well implanted little Mr. Haig. Such wickedness, forced to cede control of some of the largest muscles of the body to another.
And of course, I must tension the breast chain as well, causing those nice firm mammary glands to flutter about.
I like the notion that the nipples remain not only presentable but vulnerable... positioned for torment without the need to consider the potential damage of torn nipple rings and the like. Yes the glands are full and natural yet under an appropriate level of dominion, the vertical spikes engendering all manner of torture and bondage... including hanging her by her tits.
Delicious!
Tonight I stop at a seedy sex shop. Most times I find the offerings overpriced and flimsy, novelty junk, tending to spur one night’s concupiscence before boredom or breakage mandate disposal. Still, there are trinkets which can be less transitory and I take my time evaluating. Money is secondary, quality of primary concern. I want a gift for Sandy. Since our initial meeting days ago, my interview and inspection, she has only received from me faux dog food and sperm.
How ungracious of me.
Arriving at my coop, a kindly Louise has left Sandy leashed in the living room, kneeling before the big stuffed chair where I demand fellatio. Held in Sandy’s teeth are old slippers, the leather worn and supple.
Such a nice thought, my pet waiting in bondage, her rectum cleansed and lubricated.
I smile, step into my bedroom, remove the dreary office attire and don my bathrobe. I return, my novelty gift plus this evenings offering from the milling machine in hand.
I grasp the leash, loosely attached to a radiator pipe and hooked to Sandy’s nose ring. I pull it low, taking in all slack then wrapping it about the front leg of the chair. Sandy grimaces having to move, the cunny cone pricking her inner thighs, impinged muscles contorting.
She bows, face to the carpet, her knees parting even further in expectation of sodomy.
“Stay. I have something for you that you will enjoy.”
Now for the battle. I have purchased a smooth plastic cylinder some one inch in diameter, three plus inches long. Inside is a heavy metal ball which rolls to and fro within the cylinder, gyrating about noticeably with the motion of my hand. Inserted into the vagina, the sensation will be quite similar to Ben Wa balls... only not as easily expelled. Matter of fact, assuming I can slip the cylinder past the cunny ring, I don’t think Sandy will ever extract it given the condition of her hands.
So once again I am offered a luscious display of a freshly shaven mons, huge cunny ring, and dangling prickly cone.
For this procedure the cone must go... temporarily.
I remove. The three fingers of my left hand grip the ring. Sandy groans, attention there is rare, the anus above greased and inviting. Still I tug downwards the labial flesh stretching, managing to offer a slit for entry.
This will be perfect, I tell myself, the more difficult to slip in the cylinder the more difficult to expel. So I use the surfeit of anal lubrication, courtesy of Louise, grease the cone and work and work, ignoring Sandy’s entreaties as I pull the ring with vigor to create a suitable opening.
Sandy has not had much attention paid to her feminine slit, many, many months of forced chastity. So I am sure my gift will be most welcomed... mind bogglingly tantalizing... but welcomed.
Finally, the tightly compressed labia yield just enough. I press firmly and her cunt swallows like a hungry dog, the function of this portion of female anatomy designed to devour and suction inward the male seed. Yes, once introduced I merely guide with my index finger and the cylinder disappears well into her grotto.
“There. You can thank me later... and you know how to offer your thanks.”
I return the cunny cone, hooking it to the huge ring and release the leash.
“Come.”
I direct, having her crawl about. I smile in seeing after two shuffles that she wavers, my vaginal insertion creating waves of lusty motion within a quim in need.
“No. Please,” Sandy gasps, looking up with pleading eyes.
My little trinket will not foster an orgasm... just bring her right to the edge with every slight movement. Yes, the intense joy tends to overwhelm, her love canal so long neglected.
“In time, you may become accustomed to it,” but Mr. Haig hopes not.
I tug on the leash. The nose ring functions, bringing a stab of pain. Sandy must choose, the agony of the leash... the unbearable ecstasy of the clever Ben Wa ball. Tight, tighter, my hand pulls. Finally her knees shuffle forth to my chamber of torment.
***
Having scanned Sandy’s entire body into the computer, I have access to a three dimensional image, the precision of which down to the width of a pubic hair... had any been permitted to propagate.
So numerous trinkets and adornments can be fabricated... little trial and error required. Still after fitting, I need to envision the next implement... its design and adjustments. So I lead Sandy to the granite slab where Louise cleanses her
bowels with daily exuberance.
“Up,” Sandy mounting with comforting obeisance.
“Lie on your back,” the sighs of delight apparent as her stuffed quim senses the tremors of the weighty inserted ball.
Well, I need to work a bit. But I cannot have Sandy sense any degree of freedom. That would not do. So my leash hand draws the length of leather down to the cunny ring, loops it through, tightens then knots.
Two extremely sensitive areas, nose and pussy, stressing one another. That should keep her psyche in a place of subordination.
From my pocket I retrieve the fruit of the milling machine, this evening’s output. Black wrought iron, a strip of metal has been shaped, bent numerous times, crumpled, to appear like a miniature stairway. In the steps are five holes of different sizes. When I move to the lower end of the slab I slip the metal over the toes of Sandy’s right foot. As expected, a perfect fit, a toe comfortably thrust through each hole. Not tight, certainly not loose, as right hand and left grip the ends of the crumpled bar, jutting right and left some two inches outside of the width of the foot, I wriggle about and the entrapped toes and foot follow my motion.
“What is it, Dr. Samuels?” Sandy circumspect I am sure about all things iron.
“Nothing of concern, just a little trinket for you, Sandy. It will help you. And you know I am here to help.”
There is no point in having my pet troubled. What will happen will happen. She no longer has will, is no longer in a position to decide her fate... really no longer wants to decide her fate. That is for others. She has about the same ability to alter her treatment as a planted tree can change the weather.
I release the toe bar, my hands moving to the ankle ring penetrating the Achilles tendon. Equal in size to the cunny ring and buttock rings, it is understandable why Sandy passed out with not only the intensity of the pain, but the somatic reaction to having the body so deeply violated.
As stated, the Romans typically hobbled slaves in such a manner, their gait thereafter quite ungainly, the fleet of foot quickly brought to lumbering sluggishness. With hobbling buttock and ankle piercings I am sure ‘Daddy’ Devon must be quite curious as to how a naked and ringed stepdaughter exited the farm.
Dr. Winthrop Samuels Series Page 23