He reaches to the satchel, assuming that I am impressed with his lecture... and I am. I sense that he has almost dissected the female sex organs and his soft but firm words bring a sense of humility... there is nothing concerning the mass of complicated pink flesh... open, exposed and vulnerable to all manipulation... that he does not know and understand. It’s my cunt, but his to better comprehend.
“I understand there’s a certain vaginal insertion that can keep a naughty little girl on the edge.”
He retracts forceps. I am chagrined to learn he is aware of the deeply implanted tantalizing tube. Is there anything about me not open... divulged to Dr. Winthrop’s world of dominion?
He graciously lubricates the tongs. His left hand again grips the cunny chain lifting to best expose the lower entrance to my love sheath, just as Dr. Winthrop had done when the tube was first introduced. Then the forceps part the outer labia, inner labia and glide inward.
“Quite deeply implanted. You can feel it?”
I nod, the heavy ball rolls about with the slightest motion. When I am taken anally it brings delight... incomplete and distant. It frustrates.
The forceps find the tube, grip the end and a steady, deft hand slowly withdraws.
“Do not fret, it will be returned,” the words intended to comfort.
My love sheath long neglected, the slow sliding sensation feels good. Then the tube exits with a plop and the man holds up the devious but simple implement in the room light... I am sure positioning it for those viewing by camera. It gleams with vaginal juices. I close my eyes in embarrassment.
“You must find it quite thoughtful... to be so bestowed, your vagina nicely stuffed.”
My tube is placed aside. More paraphernalia is retrieved from the satchel.
“Unfortunately you are not to be brought to climax. And more unfortunately for you, I know exactly how to bring you to the edge without that ever, ever happening.”
The man arises and strolls to the kitchen area, that portion of the loft which my chain denies me, its length measured to place food and water within inches, but always beyond reach. He fills a large glass with water and returns. I am offered a pill, blue. I swallow. Drinking the entire glass is mandatory.
“Over the next few hours, you’ll be secreting lots of fluids. And the pill... a little stimulant. Let me know when you feel some tingling... at the mons pubis... and we’ll begin.
“Viagra. It has the same effect on your vestigial penis... your clitoris... as on the male anatomy. It will enhance the circulation in the genitalia. The difference is the female psyche does not always react in a similar manner. I know how to handle that,” words spoken as he holds up a feather and a slim hard rubber rod with a rounded protrusion on one end.
It becomes apparent that just as my rectum is objectified, my entire body turned to nothing more than a warm tight cavity for carnal satiation, my cunny is also to be objectified, to become a man’s toy, open for endless manipulation.
He stands and returns to the kitchen area. In opening a bottle of wine, I know he will leisurely imbibe, waiting for the Viagra to invigorate. Is it psychosomatic? I already feel something... down there.
“Please no more,” my words uttered in quivering desperation.
The man laughs.
“No more? Or more?”
His point is well taken. His has feathered my clitoris for nearly an hour, thumb and forefinger of the left hand gently pinching and lifting my clitoral hood, exposing my little bud... not so little with the Viagra swelling it to what feels like something the size of a large olive. The feather of the right hand diddles then randomly stops... diddles then randomly stops. Vaginal juices stream to the floor. I can smell my own feminine fragrance. He sniffs with zeal, enjoying – something he has harped on frequently – describing my pungent scent for those viewing by camera.
Miss Louise does not douche me. My sheath oozes both viscous fluid and embarrassment. So indeed, perhaps I should instead grovel for more rather than less. Beg for completion, despite knowing it will not come.
I need to be whipped, caned... something to end the tantalization.
The feather is finally withdrawn, my entire body trembling in need. The fingers of the left hand return to the cunny ring, lifting to offer access to my vagina. A right finger inserts. A second. Such circumgyrate adding to the ecstasy.
“The urethral sponge,” more lecture as the fingers turn upwards and rub more brusquely.
New sensations, different... perhaps stronger... certainly enhancing my need. The man tortures with pleasure.
“For some girls, the feather and the ‘G’ spot can bring quite the explosion. It’s delightful making a girl ejaculate, spewing juices in a manner never before achieved.
“For others, maybe a little nipple play... a slight pinch... a tweak. There’s not an erogenous zone that escapes attention.”
The left hand releases the cunny chain, rises to my breasts and indeed tweaks in demonstration. Not hard, not soft, his touch is gifted.
“But you’ll not climax... not tonight... not ever.”
Nipple play quickly ceases as the right fingers continue to work my so termed ‘G’ spot,
“No, a girl like you really prefers the intensity of pain...and the humbleness and humiliation that comes with it. Still it does not hurt to give you a sample of what you’re missing... what your body wants but your psyche chooses to deny you.”
The left hand holds before me the odd strip of hard rubber with the small protrusion on the end.
“Perhaps some manipulation of the anterior fornix, a little understood passage adjacent your cervix. Depending on the length and shape of a penetrating phallus, a girl may on occasion experience some stimulation there. But it would be a random occurrence... not like that offered by ‘Mike the Masturbator’.”
The fingers of the ‘G’ spot withdraw to take the probe. So small, so slender, how can it possibly offer stimulation?
‘Mike the Masturbator’, such a lustful nickname, proceeds to demonstrate...
Dr. Winthrop Samuels
I must marvel at the talent of Mike the Masturbator. By evening’s end poor Sandy does not know what to do or say. She beseeches... more manipulation... less manipulation... she begs to stop... she begs to continue... she knows she will not be brought to climax. Instead Mike’s knowing fingers bring her to the very edge then pause... a mentally overwhelming interlude... thighs squeezing... attempting to press together in desperation... such a look of delirium.
At times, I note Sandy pulls with her feet, causing herself pain, deliberately commencing the many cramps which her ankle rings trigger. She also wriggles her hips, bringing herself the pain of the buttock rings which likewise spur contractions of the glutei.
Our masochistic toy has indeed an addiction. When mentally stressed she requires the narcotic of pain for relief... to suffer!
Many hours, Mike the Masturbator finally emitted one final boisterous laugh, arose from kneeling at Sandy’s side, finished his wine and left... leaving Sandy well connected to the walls of the corner.
Between her outstretched thighs was a puddle of feminine essence, slowly milked from her cunt.
“Don’t leave me like this!” the final words uttered in despair.
I believe the elevator was descending at the time.
Louise released her the next morning.
Such divine torment. Such noble skills.
***
I miss the crude craftsmanship of working the hot iron. So with Tony Frobisher’s observation... the head too freely able to move... I have the computer controlled milling machine work on a large block of wood... not a challenge for tools designed to carve and mill alloys harder than steel.
From the three dimensional computer image, Sandy’s neck emerges, a perfect replica. At the top the lower jaw, at the bottom the top of the shoulders, my creation appears to be something one would spy in the window of a jewelry store, festooned with a diamond necklace.
Utilizing
such a replica, I can hammer and forge a nice neck collar that will perfectly fit... not too tight... but certainly not loose... never loose.
So Saturday morning I procure more wrought iron, my supplier inquiring about my ‘do it yourself’ effort to make furniture. I humorously inform him that he need not fret over any competition I may offer... unless, of course, he desires to fabricate bondage gear, I think but do not vocalize the latter.
Then it’s onward to the loft, an afternoon of creation, Sandy’s faux neck, chin and shoulders tucked away in a bowling bag.
I have not been able to spend much quality time with Sandy of late, the members of our gathering many and eager. But in viewing daily, it seems as if I have not spent more than a few hours since my last visit.
In the foyer, I unlock the control box for the camera systems. No one is expecting a performance during the afternoon hours. And I prefer to work unmasked, the heat of the coal oven can be stifling. So I flip the switch, temporarily turning off internet access to Sandy’s licentious exhibition then punch in my code for the inner door.
Upon entry I find that Sandy obediently kneels tummy down in her stall, ready for penetration and oral servitude, never truly knowing her fate with any visit. She looks up and meekly smiles, sensing that my visit is a reunion of old friends.
“May I suck your penis, Sir?” the humble words bringing such inner warmth to the likes of the demanding male.
“No, Sandy. Perhaps later. I have a chore. Another trinket for you. Iron... thick and heavy,” holding up the sizeable plain black sheet I will be laboring upon.
“Please no, Dr. Winthrop, it’s all so heavy. A girl can barely crawl now!”
“Oh, Sandy. You will feel better. You know that. And you do not have far to crawl. If you’d like I can take in the slack a few feet.”
Such wickedness on my part. I can quickly and easily shrink Sandy’s world by locking her cunny chain a few feet closer to the mammoth iron floor ring which now defines her range. Doing so would enable her to reach her stall and little else, greatly truncating any self imposed exercise.
“No please don’t,” begging to keep what little I have permitted.
It’s precious.
“Well then, be a good girl and no more groveling. I think you will very much enjoy my efforts. It is best for you.”
I have difficulty disguising my enthusiasm and eagerness to get started. Having reviewed medical equipment catalogues, scanned the internet, ideas for Sandy’s neck collar began to bubble like an overheated coffee pot.
Sandy will not really be collared, she’s going to have a neck brace – hard, heavy, restrictive, unyielding – and never, ever to be removed.
Those designed for the medical community are soft and comfortable. Sandy would never have that.
I fire up the coal oven, the smell of the smoldering embers bringing instant trepidation. Yes, Sandy trembles... she should.
***
A front piece, a back piece, molded to perfectly enshroud not only the neck but immobilize the chin and press heavily on the shoulders. The intent... no turning of the head, no downward gaze, perhaps some upward motion... I’ll have to see.
Upon completion, hot riveted together, removal will be painfully impossible, damaging, and harming the bearer no matter the care taken to cut the iron or grind out my many rivets.
As I heat and hammer, heat and hammer, the flat sheet curves to conform to the wooden block replicating Sandy’s anatomy.
What impresses? The weight. My arms tire in shifting it about for forging. And this sheet is only the back portion. The front will be heavier, a pedestal shape to cradle the chin and jaw which will bear prongs thrust through holes opened in the top. Such will be exchangeable and I plan for now on three different sets... sharp, sharper, sharpest... irritating, serving only to remind good girls... somewhat restrictive and aggravating, to remind recalcitrant girls... painfully, totally restrictive, for punishment of bad girls.
I am not sure if the ‘good girl set’ will be deemed too lenient. Yet in being simple shards, there will not be much wasted labor.
At the end of the second Saturday, the back portion seems to perfectly conform to the wooden block. Such appears to be shoulder pads worn in football, but not forgiving, not intended to absorb impact.
“Come, Sandy,” I beckon, holding up the once flat now curved and sculpted sheet.
My trembling pet crawls forth, her apprehension noticeable. Kneeling on all fours I lay my creation over her shoulders. Much of my effort has been to hammer folded sections, a flanged segment, lips with holes which will align with lips to be forged in the front section. This excess iron, two one inch high continuous strips, one running from the right shoulder to the neck, another from the left shoulder to the neck, make the sheet most ponderous.
“It’s heavy, Dr. Winthrop... too heavy.”
Do I detect tears? Little Mr. Haig begins to firm.
“But there will be more, Sandy. The front half will add even more weight.”
“Why? Why are you doing this to me?”
The tears now flowing in abundance, little Mr. Haig fights the entrapment of my undershorts.
“You will feel better. Being able to move your head empowers. And you’re not to be empowered. I have designed the front half to keep your mouth and chin perfectly angled for fellatio and deep throating. Think of how intensely humiliating that will be for you... held ready to offer oral gratification at all times. It is best. You so much want to please.”
I lift away the shoulder section. It is indeed heavy – not fifteen pounds, but certainly not much less.
Not enough time to begin the front section, I hammer away at the prongs, five per set, one directly under the chain, two each to the right and left under the jaw. There will be three sets... short and stubby... taller and pointed... restrictively high and intensely sharp. Some skill will be required in threading both the prongs and the receiving holes to make the sets interchangeable. Nothing precise needed, yet threading taps and dies are easily procured.
***
It is the fourth Saturday of laboring over Sandy’s neck restraint. She watches as I enshroud the wooden shoulders, neck and chin with the front segment and back. I temporarily secure by slipping cold rivets, easily removed, through the many holes in the flanged top portion... the lips. I swell in pride and accomplishment noting the alignment is perfect. I step back and survey.
Shoulder pads with a neck enclosure and chin support. Heavy and thick shoulder pads with a neck enclosure and chin support, I rethink.
I step forward, prongs in hand. I one by one press into the holes in the underside of the chin support then screw to hold in place. It is difficult as I must press the points into the wood. Not so difficult when Sandy is adorned. The flesh will yield... and painfully, especially with the totally restrictive punishment set.
“What do you think, Sandy? See what gifts Dr. Winthrop makes for you?” Dr. Winthrop and Mr. Haig I cannot help mentally correcting myself.
“It’s big... and ugly... and heavy!”
“That much more impactful for you. You’ll better feel the role you so much cherish. If I wanted you to move your head about I would allow it. But I don’t, therefore you will not. You’re already free to crawl about. Look at the nice long chain I crafted for you!”
Mr. Haig somehow represses raucous laughter. The condemned, having watched week after week as gallows have been constructed, now gazes in horror as the completion brings thoughts of finality.
Improvising during the last minute of fabrication, I added certain small features which are sure to entertain... and bring Sandy closer to the complete subjugation she furtively desires. Mr. Haig never stops ruminating those wicked thoughts.
“Tomorrow, Sandy. It’s too late in the day now. Heating and hammering all these rivets will require much time.”
Yes, there are many. And I’ll not rush the task. Just as the appropriate aura for convincing bondage is timelessness, the process of applying such
should never be done in haste.
***
Whereas afternoons are usually enough allotted time for working on Sandy’s apparatus, I arrive at the loft midmorning. I do not want to interrupt the process of adhering the neck restraint when Louise arrives in the late afternoon for bathing and enema time.
So on a quiet Sunday morning, bright and sunny, though Sandy will never ever know the weather, I ascend in the elevator, enter the foyer and turn off the cameras for the internet broadcast. My code is punched and when the door yields I am heartened to see Sandy humbly lying tummy down. She knows not the time of the day... the day... the visitor... or the purpose of his/her visit. But she is disciplined and will always greet tummy down, spread and ready for... well for whatever.
I fire up the coal oven. It takes time to heat. Then step to the stall and marvel at the apex of sexual servitude. Louise has been demanding... and receiving of course... cunnilingus after every daily feeding and cleansing. Yes, the hot spatula treatment was quite convincing. There is no hesitation when Sandy is summoned to serve in any manner desired.
She looks up and I cannot help thinking that it is probably the last time she will do so without great effort.
“Just me, Sandy. Neck brace time.”
Expecting to be sodomized, is she instead more serene knowing she will merely need to lie in place while I labor to enhance the restrictiveness of her bonds?
“Come, to the anvil. I think you’ll come to enjoy the severity of your new device.”
Cutis anserina. Goose bumps. And the cause? Fear? Concern? Joy?
It matters not. Sandy slithers from her perch, crawling, the heavy iron links clattering on the wooden floor. I walk behind, admiring that muscled posterior, penetrated so often, shared with so many... pierced... caned... it serves so many so well.
“Supine, Sandy. Head next to the anvil.”
I have moved the formidable block of steel to the floor. I tether Sandy’s iron mittens to her buttock rings then throw the many rivets into the coals and retrieve the back segment of the neck and head restraint. I lift her head and slip the molded sheet of iron beneath, noting with pride that it seems to swallow her upper torso, the fit perfect.
Dr. Winthrop Samuels Series Page 27