Dr. Winthrop Samuels Series

by Chris Bellows

  Well, Sandy’s next ‘exit’ won’t be so facile. Depriving her of the use of her feet is easy. It’s doing so in a manner to facilitate bastinado that is the rub. Iron hand mittens are one thing, but boots? Shielding some of the most receptive nerves of the body from torment? No... Mr. Haig would never concede, never proffer such mercy.

  I brusquely tug on the ankle ring, triggering a convulsive contraction of both the soleus and gastrocnemius muscles... and triggering a yelp of pain as well, of course.

  “Your new home is almost ready, Sandy. A place all your own. I do hope you appreciate my help,” doing my best to sound ingenuous... as Mr. Haig stifles a snicker.

  ***

  It requires a few days, a few visits, and a modicum of labor but in time Sandy’s new world takes shape.

  The fourth floor of a warehouse, practically abandoned, gives rise to wondrous possibilities.

  First I build a stall, as similar as possible to that described by Sandy in ‘Daddy’s’ barn. Yes, thick wooden planks form partitions, sturdy rings are embedded for bondage. A padded bench awaits Sandy’s tummy.

  An industrial bathroom needs some sprucing... no bathtub or shower, but Sandy will be sponge bathed. There are those with certain penchants... and such will need access to water.

  In the center of the floor I screw into the ancient wood a huge ring, wrought iron of course. Its size is more symbolic than functional. It requires not much to secure a girl by her cunny. But in being heavily gauged and some six inches in diameter, there is offered a message of permanency... such unnecessarily rough and heavy metal to secure vulnerable feminine flesh. Gothic.

  Guests require comfort. So in one corner section I have installed a prefabricated bar with refrigerator, wine rack, lounge chairs, couch. The space is incongruous, appearing to be from a movie set parked in the corner of a Hollywood studio. I even buy an old but decorative Persian rug. So the space becomes a living room with only two walls, otherwise open to the cavernous area of the fourth floor.

  There remains lots of space... and thus lots of possibilities. One can never accurately prognosticate the proclivities of the wicked. So open but evil minds need open space... and proper D/s gear.

  Yes, I contribute some implements from my chamber of torment, make bulk purchases, and even have Louise donate some medical paraphernalia – a cornucopia of implements of torment. Guests will be happy.

  Security is important. Once exiting the turn of the century elevator on the fourth floor there are two doors. The first with a standard key lock, for which I have dozens of duplicates made. Once inside a modest entryway there is a second door with a more sophisticated electronic lock, one requiring a series of five digits to offer access. The sophistication... I can give different codes to different people... and their entry will be recorded so I will know who is visiting Sandy and when.

  Yes, though I have installed a myriad of video cameras with internet access, some of Sandy’s visitors will be masked or otherwise disguised... for apparent reasons... the cameras recording what promises to be marvelous scenes of masochism. So though veiled, I will know the identity of the visitor.

  The inner door also inhibits exit unless the five digit code is again entered. Should a naked pierced and ringed Sandy somehow slip her bounds, she’ll not reach the elevator.

  In another corner, just to rattle Sandy’s psyche, I have installed the tools, anvil and coal burning oven of a blacksmith. Yes, it can’t hurt to have the girl constantly aware of her iron laden subjugation... aware that as heavy and imposing as her bonds seem... there can be more. And there will be more.

  ***

  “Thank you for letting me walk,” the words so meek.

  Sandy’s blouse and skirt are long gone, but her rain coat, that with the over sized pockets, has been stowed away for one last wearing.

  “It feels funny... not being naked,” Sandy gushes.

  “Just for a little while, Sandy. A short cab ride and then we’ll have you bound, chained and showing all parts pink... for a long, long time.”

  Mr. Haig won’t let me remove the cunny cone and the girl walks with even more clumsiness, feet widely parted, her penetrating rings creating havoc. Despite her efforts there come grimaces which suggest the spikes are adequately functioning. And of course in standing upright for the first time in days, the Ben Wa insertion brings new levels of joy as with each step the heavy ball rolls about to bring oscillation to the walls of her vagina.

  I slip my hand between the folds of her coat, copping a quick feel of her mons. She’s wet. The physical joy? The psychological response to subjugation? Perhaps the suffering of the cunny cone has come to excite.

  She came to me seeking help. I am so accommodating...

  No leash... not an explicit Coop prohibition... but I am sure a Coop board meeting and letter of rebuke would result if Mr. Haig’s yearning went unbridled. So I hook my finger through her nose ring and guide, to be quickly slipped away before any encounter with neighbors.

  Into the hallway, down the elevator, I must temporarily relinquish control through the building lobby and past the doorman. A cab awaits and though I’d like to depart timely, Sandy is quite deliberate in attempting to seat herself. Sometimes the cunny cone can be a little overbearing. Finally she sits... and with knees so far apart!

  To the lower west side. The area is devoid of residents. It’s Saturday afternoon. Few commercial operations are open. The cab pulls up. I pay. Sandy just as gingerly steps to the sidewalk. As the cab departs I whisk away Sandy’s raincoat and toss it into a dumpster. She stands naked on a New York sidewalk. I leash her cunny ring. When the cab pauses at the end of the block, I must wonder if the driver is looking in the rear view mirror.

  Sandy is uncomfortable... deliciously uncomfortable in being publically exposed. Her nipples crinkle. There comes cutis anserina and I prolong her mental suffering by taking her iron mittens, left and right, pulling them high behind her back then hooking them to her breast chain at the back of the neck. The breast spikes lift most enticingly.

  Such an improvement in posture! Those firm tits projecting like headlights...

  I admire. Little Mr. Haig swells in appreciation... anticipation? And finally I turn and pull on the leash.

  “Please, Dr. Samuels, not too fast.”

  There are four steps leading up to a loading platform, a large elevator beckoning to the side. I ascend and turn to look back, Sandy’s footfalls in negotiating the stairs plus my tugs cause the cunny cone to swing widely, the sharp points making its presence known. Perhaps the prickling pain is mitigated by the Ben Wa insertion. Such conflicting cerebral input...

  This is good training for the psyche... that motion brings pain... that remaining motionless is best... to be docile... accepting of the paradigm to stay still and let what happens happen.

  But that motioning the Ben Wa insertion brings delight. So which shall you have, Sandy?

  I unlock the control box and summon the elevator wondering if Sandy realizes the relatively fresh New York air will not be breathed... or felt in the instance of her nakedness... for quite a long time.

  The doors of the industrial elevator open, the top rising, the bottom dropping. I pull again. Into the bowels of Mr. Haig’s lair steps Ms. Sandra Devon... the Blacksmith’s daughter.

  ***

  I cannot decide whether adorning Sandy’s body with tormenting baubles is like painting a Dutch Master or sculpting her for the Louvre. She is so finely shaped... and she so divinely agonizes as I stoke the coal oven, squeeze the bellows for more oxygen and bring more nuggets of iron to red hotness.

  “Why are you doing this to me, Dr. Samuels?” comes a tearful plea as Sandy listens from her stall.

  Yes, I have her kneeling tummy down on a low bench. Ankle rings, buttocks rings and nose ring tethered. Iron mittens remain secured to the breast chain. I have added a bit of a twist... perhaps Mr. Haig has added a bit of a twist... in that I use strong elastic cords to bind her... bungee cords... so that sh
e can somewhat move. But in so doing there come the muscle contortions and spasms which ironically spur more movement, uncontrolled... which in turn brings more spasms.

  Effectively... she tortures herself... a masochist’s dream... the lazy sadist’s delight.

  Yes, there is something brawny... marvelously masculine... about shaping and hammering rough metal which a woman must bear... perhaps wear forever on her skin... attached to her skin... within her skin.

  For now it’s merely a long wrought iron chain, fabricated one link at a time. The Parker, Lyle & Co. milling machine has turned out dozens of open links, near circles. To lengthen the chain, I must heat, slip an open loop onto an existing link then hammer away to forge it closed. When completed, one end will be secured to the huge six inch ring embedded in the wooden floor. The other to her cunt... I guess less crassly described as to her cunny ring.

  The chain will enable her to crawl about when not ‘entertaining’. Though Mr. Haig prefers constant bondage, Dr. Winthrop insists that some form of exercise and ability to stretch will maintain the suppleness which visitors will come to relish.

  So just as Sandy languished in the barn as Daddy labored, sweating over a hot stove, forging so many ponderous adornments of iron, I likewise endeavor. Weekends I work with fervor and add two to three feet per day. Weekday evenings less, I only have an hour or two. Yet, within two weeks the permanent chain of formidable weight and strength reaches its desired length.

  I test, noting that it does not reach the door, or the regular bathroom and shower, or the kitchen area with food supply. Such mental torment. Sandy will be within inches of the door leading to freedom, the nourishment for which she will always pine, and the bathroom where normal ablutions and less embarrassing toilet facilities are of use.

  No, as stated, Sandy will not depart, Louise and I will feed her... like a dog... and for excretions she will crawl to a potty area, akin to a cat box, which can be washed away whenever she is hosed down and cleansed. Well within the reach of the chain is her stall... where she will be trained to entertain.

  So it is time. I step to Sandy, lying tummy down with the tight bungee cords exerting tension on the buttock and ankle rings. The nose ring as well seems to bring suffering. Perhaps Mr. Haig has too much tightened.

  “Come. It is time.”

  It requires mere seconds to unhook her. I use the nose cord as a leash and she knows to crawl for me without need for command... to the hot stove and the anvil. Sandy begins to tremble.

  “No piercing. And I’ll try to be quick. But you must be very obedient.”

  “Yes, sir,” her voice quavering in fear.

  So delightful to have her psyche revisit the intense trauma of those farm days.

  I remove her cunny cone and have her straddle the anvil. A red hot open loop is heating in the coals of the oven. I grasp her cunny ring and position it pointing upwards then draw the chain to the anvil positioning the end loop adjacent the cunny ring. The links are about the same size. The weight added to her precious feminine anatomy will serve to assure that she remains off her feet... the less dangling links the less stress on her cunny flesh. I then go to the kitchen area and retrieve a bowl and ice. There will be a moment of unavoidable burning pain... Mr. Haig has not an iota of concern... as I hammer with hopeful alacrity to close the final loop.

  Sandy begins to sob, mentally becoming aware of the finality... the permanence. The crude, hand forged chain of some thirty feet leads to the visually imposing ring deeply set into the thick wooden floor. It appears to be that used to moor eighteenth century sailing ships, its size totally unneeded for the task at hand. Mentally, being attached to it overwhelms.

  Yet, such a wonderful message. And to think the ponderous snake of metal ends embedded in a girl’s most sensitive flesh... ah... I feel little Mr. Haig firm in a gesture of approval.

  Tongs grip the heating open loop. I remove it from the coals, carefully hook it to the chain then quickly hook it to the cunny ring. With the many days of forging and hammering, I have become sufficiently nimble and accurate. Turning the loop upright, my left hand positioning it with the tongs, my right hand swings, a strong blow, dead on. I see the open loop somewhat close, about a centimeter. Sandy shrieks, the heat transferring to the cunny ring.

  Bang, bang, bang... it closes. Without taking the time for precision I douse the chain, cunny ring and cunny with slushy ice water. Most delightfully Sandy’s labial flesh instantly chills. She shrieks again, her nipples crinkle... again most delightfully.

  I favor her, lifting the chain to relieve the weight, then I command that she dismount. As she obeys she quavers again.

  “Why are you doing this to me, Dr. Samuels?”

  “I am helping you. Girls like you feel better in bondage. The stricter the bondage the better you’ll feel.”

  She lowers to her knees and I release the chain. Yes, the added links will require acclimatization and I just step back and watch. As Sandy begins to crawl I become a proud father watching as an infant takes her first steps.

  “Really rather merciful, Sandy. From now on you don’t need to be constantly secured in your stall. But the protocol will be... when you hear the elevator, go to your stall and bend, tummy down for sodomy. Failure to do so will bring punishment.”

  I point to a far wall where I have ‘donated’ to the cause numerous instruments of correction. Her eyes follow to where some nasty lengths of rattan hang in wait.

  “Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Chapter Four

  Louise visits daily to feed and bathe plus cleanse and lubricate a rear aperture always to be prepared for anal penetration. Also, in being more socially gregarious than me, within the scene at Spankers and other clubs she passes word that there is forming a gathering... an informal but earnest group with similar wants and penchants.

  Whereas I make a very good living, there is no reason why I should bear the entire cost for Sandy’s upkeep. Dog food, warehouse rent, raw iron... Sandy has needs. Nor for that matter, should I enjoy all the fruits of her subjugation. We therefore work out an arrangement in which monthly funds are remitted in order to obtain a key and an access code to the inner door.

  You see, I am always thinking of Sandy’s welfare. In being accustomed to nightly multiple penetration of her sphincter, whom am I to deny to her her joy... the inner sense of fulfillment for which the masochist strives but never achieves?

  There are also voyeuristic offerings for those more shy sadists.

  Numerous cameras installed in the warehouse space transmit constantly to an exclusive internet site. For a reasonable monthly sum, the licentiously curious can receive the password and log on 24/7 and observe as Sandy crawls about, is cleansed, receives her daily enema, takes a stout phallus or endures a brisk caning.

  Plus I can monitor her from the office.

  In fact, for those with more scatological tastes, I have a special camera for them, training Sandy to position herself in a most revealing and humiliating pose as she kneels in the area designed for toilet needs. My goodness the cunny cone mandates such a nice spread of pink moist flesh!

  Meanwhile this blacksmithing thing grows in terms of recreating... both mind and muscles. Something about male power and sweat forcing metal into malleable implements... to pierce and adorn, the hideous scabrous black to forever penetrate, split open a girl’s flesh and thereafter reside... to bring anguish... subjugation... the sense of being property... to be owned... the ceding of the will to something that will never ever yield.... it all brings repose.

  And so I forge and hammer every Saturday, Sandra woefully observing, knowing that the fruit of my energy will somewhere be worn... on... in... through... her nubile nakedness.

  The first project... the feet.

  As stated, Sandy won’t be ambling away from her new home as she did from the farm. Though her cunny chain provides adequate restraint, to permit moving about upright... well such just seems a little too prideful for a
girl trained to best display herself and entertain on all fours. So I have the computer designed, machine milled toe restraints and must assure such remain permanently in place.

  Saturday afternoon, I stoke the coal burning oven, the smell of the embers alone bringing apprehension to my quivering naked pet. I have bars of iron and the task is simple, though there will be required a degree of precision. Some half inch in diameter and two feet in length, I begin to heat. I will need to bend the bars in half then thread the ends to accept tightening nuts.

  As I heat I smile in looking at Sandy. I have her iron mittens hooked to her breast chain, both immobilizing her arms and presenting those breasts quite enticingly, the spikes tugging away. She kneels upright, the heaviness of her cunny chain offering quite the stress to the flesh of her mons if she were to stand. So as with most of her trinkets and adornments, the foot bindings will be somewhat superfluous. Her cunny cone forces apart the knees, the open thighs presenting a quim which Louise keeps immodestly shaven. A tear begins to form, each and every time she has faced a coal oven her body has suffered most inordinately. But she protests not, no words or pleas, having come to realize long ago that she will bear pain for the pleasure of others.

  I tell her not that this afternoon’s endeavors will cause no suffering. The mental duress will be enough.

  Turning to the desired glowing red, I remove iron bar number one from the coals. Courtesy of Parker, Lyle & Co. I have a wooden mold of Sandy’s feet and as I hammer to bend, the blows admittedly becoming fervent with my sadistic lust, after every third or fourth blow, I place the heated bar about the wooden right foot. In time, the now ‘U’ shaped bar is shaped to enshroud the carved block, the bend osculating at the heel and the two ends jutting forth, one to the left of the big toe, the other to the right of the little toe.

  More hammer strikes and I have it! When I slip on the toe restraints, as stated, appearing to be brass knuckles for the feet, the threaded ends of the bar fit perfectly into holes left and right. The threading will permit me to bolt on the toe restraints... and tighten... and do so without mercy.