Dr. Winthrop Samuels Series

by Chris Bellows

  In the ancient Chinese culture, such was known as foot binding, tight straps forcing the feet into a curved position... and held there... and held there... and held until the bones reset. Not only was the woman immobilized but the feet permanently bent, the bones bending to make walking difficult, if not impossible without special shoes.

  Well, I won’t go that far with Sandy’s feet. But she’ll feel the weight, standing upright with the toe restraints in place will be quite the balancing act, and thus there will be one more contributing factor in her complete subjugation.

  Sandy watches as I thread nuts onto the bent bar, tightening to make the heavy device one with the wooden mold. I return to the anvil and renew forging the second bar. When complete, the left mold is likewise enshrouded. Sandy knows that when such adorn her feet the bars will be slipped through her ankle rings, enhancing the level of ineluctability, and tightened such that the foot will be bent and somewhat arched. Not to the extent of the ancient Chinese custom, but enough to discourage such silliness as attempting to walk when crawling about naked and spread offers such deliciously suggestive humbleness.

  Also, my design, such ingeniousness, permits bastinado, the soles of the feet exposed as are the tips of the toes, Sandy not to deny the sadist the joy of applying simple taps of rattan to the largest collection of nerves in the body.

  “Come, Sandy, I have something for you.”

  Knees shuffle forth, the cunny cone swings about, the Ben Wa insertion I am sure brings pangs of teasing ephemeral joy, the breast spikes cause the mammary glands to roll upwards to offer pleasant greetings for the appreciative male eye. And Sandy so docilely presents herself... never to walk again.

  Sandra Devon

  My hands... now my feet. Unnecessary restraints for the most part... the many links of the heavy cunny chain making it painfully impossible to stand. Still there is completeness... a message of thoroughness. I shall only move about on all fours... and not by choice... by someone else’s bidding.

  It is something about which to ponder... every waking hour.

  Dr. Winthrop slips my right toes into the curious strip of iron, bent and crumpled, holes precisely accommodating my five digits. Next a ‘U’ shaped bar is slipped through my ankle ring, the apex resting against my heel, the threaded ends guided to meet holes in the ends of the toe bar. The prongs slip through the openings, again with precision. Then Dr. Winthrop bolts together the well crafted pieces of iron. He turns with a wrench, smiling in satisfaction, as he should. The foot bondage is well designed, well fabricated and... as he turns and turns... tight.

  Yes, my foot is forced to curl, toes slowly drawn toward the heel. I grimace. His smile broadens. Then I feel a twinge. Vaginal moisture, seemingly always present with the constant motion of the rolling insertion, increases. I sense the fragrance of my sex. Feeling, observing, sensing the controlling hands of authority brings arousal. I do not understand my reaction. Daddy seemed to... and certainly this Dr. Winthrop. His look... his savoir faire... appear to be one of generosity... a man of charity giving to the needy.

  The left foot is similarly bound, the wrench turning steadily yet with enthusiasm. When completed, there comes one last symbolic adjustment. Dr. Winthrop files to smooth the threading, the ability to easily unscrew the nuts, to loosen... perhaps even remove the foot bondage... not to happen with any ease or alacrity.

  “It would be nice to weld the toe bar in place... but corrupting the threading should suffice,” he notes with confidence.

  I also note to myself that though not to be loosened, the foot bondage can be further tightened. Such wickedness!

  Finished, Dr. Winthrop encourages me to stand. I obediently rise, but of course cannot. The foot devices force me to my toes... and I am far from able to move about as a ballerina. I quickly terminate the effort, just lying on the grimy warehouse floor. Dr. Winthrop’s smile turns to one of Schadenfreude.

  “It is best for you, Sandy. You have already escaped the supervision you require once. It shall not happen again. You will serve here... until it is decided otherwise.”

  I must agree. Hands and feet rendered useless, huge chain making me and my cunny one with the warehouse floor, it is best that thoughts of escape or rescue be stifled. How is it Dr. Winthrop knows... understands the extremity of my needs?

  “You’re going to have visitors from time to time. It goes without saying you should be obedient. Remember, whenever you hear the elevator, you are to crawl to your stall, kneel tummy down on your bench and await. Overall, there are many acquaintances who want to make you happy. It is best. You’ll never again suffer a need.”

  A tear forms... of sadness... of joy... of frustration?

  Dr. Winthrop Samuels

  There is inner satisfaction in completing a task with the outcome as envisioned.

  Sandy came to me for help, and I have proven to be richly accommodating. Removing all confusing thoughts of freedom and independence from the mind of the masochistic, the psyche of the subjugated, brings focus to the demented needs and cravings.

  So with Sandy’s additional modifications completed... for now... our impromptu gathering, those with itches to be scratched, begins to coalesce. And as stated, I am relieved, partially, of the financial burden of keeping an insatiable masochistic dually tormented and fed.

  Utilizing numerous webcams in Sandy’s new home, I can tune in from my desk at work, feeding the hunger of Mr. Haig’s licentious needs, and assuring my naked well trussed charge is adequately tormented. With Louise remaining on the night shift, Sandy attains care and attention almost every day. A nice full doggie bowl – hash or some other vile concoction – fresh water to lap, a daily high colonic to assure her sodomizing guests don’t soil marauding appendages, adequate lubrication... not so much to comfort... but to assure she can be penetrated... again and again.

  The latter requires the skill and judgment in which Louise is well versed. The plunging penis requires some ease of entry yet modest tightness for pleasurable friction. Sandy, not to have her sphincter torn and in need of sutures, requires a degree of protection. Thus preparing the girl’s aperture is a process of optimizing... not too dry, not too sloppily greased. And our cohorts can rest assured; Sandy is well cleansed and prepared for deep anal penetration before each and every evening.

  Missing from Sandy’s new environs is the multiple couplings of the many stable hands.

  What were her recollections in describing existence in Daddy’s barn, welcoming four to five turgid male penises per night?

  Well, there is a certain decorum among our cohorts... less quantity... more quality so to speak. Therefore, in general Sandy shall need to perform for one member of our clan per night. But the couplings will not be quick... of that she can be assured.

  Yes, in terms of fulfilling Sandy’s deeply ingrained need for humiliation and subjugation, there are no better offerings than those conjured by our bevy of New York sadists and tops. Quite inventive, quite arduous, not to be denied the nirvanic lust of complete dominion over the hapless subordinate. Night after night Sandy will be brought to a frothing performance.

  So again in my office... data... data... data... and Mr. Haig has had enough. Dr. Winthrop must yield, turning to his office computer and clicking to the secretive webpage. Onto the screen comes a white uniformed Nurse Louise fulfilling her role but exacting her price for the time and attention paid.

  She has Sandy kneeling upright, her mittens bound behind her back, her breast chain tethered high above out of the camera view. As noted when tensioning the chain, stressing the deeply implanted spikes brings a most lustful presentation to the mammary glands, the nipples jutting forth in invitation.

  Louise sits before the motionless masochist, to her right on a nearby table an electrical hot plate for warming coffee and pots of food.

  But there is no coffee, there are no pots. Instead, languishing in plain view is a spatula... and knowing Louise, she will not be flipping pancakes or frying eggs.

 
Oh, I must turn up the sound, so I quickly rise and assure my office door is closed tight.

  “You’ve never had your tits hot spatulated?” Louise inquires with a naughty smile, in a way suggesting every properly subjugated girl needs such untoward attention to the breasts.

  “No, please don’t,” a tearful Sandy begs even before her glands are offered the slightest sampling of the narcotic she craves.

  “Well, it’s amazingly painful. Double with every slap. Slow and easy will bring the searing pain of the hot metal, fast and hard will bring the percussive sting of impact. I think you’ll learn to enjoy.”

  My imagination brings me to feel the glowing heat, smell the radiation as the flat business end of the spatula rests on the hot plate and slowly turns to a blazing red. And as I lustily peer at those tits, as Louise has crassly referenced, I certainly understand Louise’s temptation... perfectly formed... perfectly presented.

  “Just a dozen or so smacks. Think of how nice and tender they’ll be for tonight’s visitor.”

  Leave it to Louise to foil the one element of physical pleasure that the anally sodomized can derive from otherwise uncomfortable penetration... that attained with the natural propensity of the sodomizer to fondle the breasts.

  No, after adequate applications of the hot spatula, no joy can be had. In tenderizing the breast flesh the slightest touch will instead bring agony.

  “Think it’s hot enough?” Louise torments, lifting to show the smooth and glowing surface of the improvised implement.

  Sandy shudders notably, but her captured spiked breasts offer not a hint of motion.

  Such firmness!

  “Please no. It will hurt.”

  “I would not otherwise waste my time,” an aloof Louise flippantly retorts, the spatula returning to be further heated as her free hand lowers to Sandy’s ringed and chained mons.

  “You’re moist... and becoming wetter. Why is that Sandy? You say ‘no’, but your cunny suggests otherwise. Could it be you find pleasure in the pain and humiliation? I should remind you that the cameras are never off. So you may find comfort knowing that so many can watch as you beg and grovel... and you secretly enjoy.”

  The roaming hand rises, fingers slick with vaginal juices flowing in abundance. Louise assures Sandy takes note of her concupiscent reaction.

  “So, no more objections, Sandy. Deep within, your psyche has needs... cravings you don’t understand but we’ll endeavor to satiate for you. We are very appreciative of girls like you. You’re to be well taken care of, never to be in need, not a care to consider.”

  With that the hand returns and grasps the reheated spatula. It lifts and swings, applying a crisp splat to the main body of the left breast. The gland rolls and flutters most comically as Sandy howls in agony, surprised with the calloused quickness, troubled with the accuracy.

  Ironically, I know Louise to be initially merciful. But by afternoon’s end she will modify her hand action, ever so slightly nipping the very tip of the nipple. It is then that Sandy will cry out in earnest, the pink nubs worked and worked and eventually made hyper sensitive to the slightest touch.

  ***

  Louise is most cognizant of damage... and the undesired time required for healing. So I know by afternoon’s end, though the level of pain unbearable as intended, the overall results will be the equivalent of first degree burns... a sunburn more or less. But Sandy will have new found respect... and fear... for she who condescends and offers care. And what a ride this evening’s visitor shall have!

  I trust Sandy will be well restrained. I otherwise picture her bucking like one of Daddy’s broncos, spasmodically lurching with the slightest touch to those large, firm and now overly sensitive glands. Quite the challenge for the unsuspecting sodomizer, to be tossed from the saddle of Sandy’s muscled cheeks like a rodeo performer.

  Alas, Louise must leave to begin her shift. I watch, little Mr. Haig struggling against the confines of my trousers, as Sandy’s breast bondage is released and our physically spent masochist melts to the floor. Louise then unhooks the iron mittens and Sandy is free to crawl about... within the limits afforded by her heavy cunny chain.

  An hour or two more of data... data... data, and I’ll call it a day. The schedule suggests that Sandy will be entertaining the Frobishers this evening, a delightfully dominant couple known to feverishly work young strumpets in various New York S & M clubs.

  I’ll not want to miss their introduction to Sandy.

  ***

  Arriving home, I turn on the computer and make an ice cold martini... the old fashion way... gin and a drop of vermouth.

  I miss my one on one evenings with Sandy, firing the coal oven, hammering and forging, working raw iron, observing her distress in knowing that my output will adorn her body... adding to the weighty encumbrances... knowing of that sinking feeling experienced as she realizes she will forever bear the fruit of my labor.

  So I sit and sip, clicking to the secret web address. My timing proves fortuitous. Sandy crawls about for a moment or two then moves to her stall. Trained to respond to the sound of the elevator, she understands she must greet every visitor tummy down on her padded bench, knees well parted, showing the camera that well shaven, pierced mons. The Frobishers have arrived.

  I smile in noting the glistening aperture above the sturdy black cunny ring. Louise has left her well lubricated. The once tight now supple portal that has greeted and satiated so many phalli once again awaits in readiness.

  There is a pause as Sandy patiently kneels. I know the Frobishers are in the foyer donning masks, identities not to be revealed despite the privacy of the exclusive web site. Some members watching from home, such as me, are given to record the encounters. Great fun, great entertainment, but such impels the need for sheltering one’s vanilla life.

  We know of each other and of each other’s penchants in our little gathering. We need not have such exploited, inadvertently revealed outside the group.

  So I am not surprised when I hear the inner door open and then see the Frobisher’s come into view, Mrs. Frobisher, Susan, fully clothed and wearing a Marie Antoinette party mask... a bare chested Mr. Frobisher, Tony, attired in boxer shorts and a mask of Clark Kent.

  Appropriate disguises with Susan quite erudite... a graduate of Wellesley... and Tony renowned for his super human stamina... quite the cocksman. His prowess is what prompted Susan to first shyly join we libertines, Tony capable of multiple couplings with his size known to friction vaginal walls to undesired tenderness before exhausting his energy. Thus in regard to carnal pursuits, Susan has learned to both directly partake and then restfully observe as husband Tony fucks onward.

  She now relishes the debauchery and her prim persona brings such delightful contrast to our group. Yes, the supremely dominant Susan Frobisher is known to torment without relent. Unable to match husband Tony’s sexual appetite, she has found release in satiating another hunger... one for the application of intense, unending pain.

  I turn up the sound, take another sip then snuggle in my chair to enjoy...

  ***

  “My goodness what a thoroughly chastised slave girl,” a masked Susan exclaims with unbridled enthusiasm.

  Yes, with Sandy’s mocha skin tone, and the myriad of black wrought iron piercings, one can easily envision her working the cotton fields of the antebellum South, covered hands notwithstanding.

  Tony moves to the stall and demonstrates how facilely Sandy can be made immobile... and done so with such exasperating frustration.

  Yes, the many elastic cords await and within seconds, ankle rings, buttock rings and the breast chain at the nape of the neck are secured, the tension serving as catalyst for the muscle cramps which Sandy struggles to bring under control.

  I note the nose ring is without tether and with the secured breast chain holding Sandy’s face at waist level, know of the antics to come.

  Yes, as Tony completes his task and steps to stand before Sandy’s face, I hear the meek words...

>   “May I suck your penis?” Sandy inquiring by rote.

  I hear Tony chuckle as Susan utters words of feigned dismay in response.

  “That’s my husband!” the Frobisher’s ruse played out so many times during frequent club visits.

  Tony’s superman appendage briefly comes into view, popping from his shorts, its impressive size momentarily flashing as Sandy knows to purse her lips, extend her tongue and take it in her mouth.

  “Bring me up and I’ll offer a nice long butt fucking,” the tone that of offering ice cream to a child.

  Yes, for Sandy the humiliation and subjugation have come to be indeed a narcotic. Yet, with the presence of Mrs. Frobisher, there is certainly an added ingredient of spice.

  “There’s a price to be paid for enjoying my husband’s cock, you young harlot,” Susan feigning more concern.

  She steps from view and returns with a cane, the length of rattan thin and threatening.

  “Have you been caned before? You’re perfectly presented.”

  Possibly by ‘Daddy’, I think to myself. But in Sandy’s many months of compelled subordination, who knows what deviant undertakings have been forced upon her?

  There is no reply... none really expected... Sandy’s mouth otherwise occupied. As Susan grazes a well presented foot with bamboo, my evil foot bondage leaving the soles exposed, the bound ankle rings mandate that such remain exposed and vulnerable.

  “Go ahead, suck him if you’re willing to pay the price.”

  With that gracious offer, Tony loops his finger through Sandy’s nose ring to better control oral penetration.

  Yes, Sandy will suck. And as Tony endures the thrills of a talented, ardent tongue, she will endure bastinado.

  Fortunately, Sandy no longer has much use for her feet. Many of Susan’s prey have limped from club Spankers with much regret. But for Sandy the appendages are no longer needed, becoming simply cushions for the sadist’s many pins.