The Chris Bellows' Collection

by Chris Bellows

  “Good boy.”

  Big Sam’s left hand slides down the length of chain to hold the leash close to the collar and steady me. I feel his powerful thumb soothe my neck at the cortex in a guileless gesture of reward. In his right hand is the obedience stick, which in Big Sam’s grasp appears almost dainty. It is a two foot length of bamboo, decoratively wrapped in leather, with a thin strand of hide dangling from the end. I have learned to fear its application, the simple six inch strip of rawhide can sear intolerably when used for correction... particularly on the more sensitive areas of the male anatomy.

  “Nice and big for Miss Duval now.”

  Big Sam can be incongruously tender at times. His right hand lowers and uses the dangling strip to caress the underside of my neglected penis, beginning the expected process of tumescence.

  In being completely naked and forced to crawl about on knees and elbows, a nice firm erection will complete the ensemble of subjugation for the arriving Miss Duval. She likes to impress guests visiting for the first time and Corky the human canine always makes an impression.

  “Yes, a nice fat penis for Miss Duval,” Big Sam mirthfully encourages, tapping out a cadence which he knows to be wildly sensuous to my thoroughly chaste libido.

  I feel myself stiffen. All reservations concerning homoerotic interaction have long since been driven from my psyche. When Big Sam wants me hard, I will become hard. And I find myself augmenting his efforts by gingerly moving my head forward and back. This action, though irritating the flesh of my neck, is known to gyrate the slim chain running from the back of my neck collar, down my spine to where it slips into my gluteal cleft, connecting there to my combined anal insertion and faux doggie tail. Thus I can anally stimulate myself, to a point. Since a second shorter chain connects from the tail and leads to a metal band encircling the base of my scrotal sac, I cannot be too exuberant in manipulating my control chain, as Miss Duval has come to describe it. Still, I can hear my testicle bells chime in response to my motion. The sound always brings a smile to Big Sam and he laughs that deep throaty laugh. Something about observing well restrained balls affords a sense of relief to he whose gonads remain free.

  And something about having a Caucasian male on a leash, one under his control, brings constant amusement. At one time I felt frustration in being under Big Sam’s tutelage, particularly when he showed me off to the women of the island. But such feelings of reservation are long gone, just as I recall Miss Duval implying...

  “Some very expensive psychologists have assured me you’ll be completely broken, Charles,” Miss Duval insouciantly suggested before anointing me with the name of ‘Corky’, her childhood pet. “I’m sure you won’t disappoint.”

  As I spread my knees to prepare to better display my altered male package, I can honestly report that her cadre of demented psychologists have not been dissatisfied.

  “Nothing like a steady stream of homoerotic encounters for the virile homophobic male. The shock, the horror, the revulsion. So nicely cathartic. He’ll be barking for you sooner than you think,” I overheard one highly educated woman propound.

  Woof, woof, doctor.

  The nearing jet engines muffle Big Sam’s baritone laugh as he rhythmically pats my penis. I peer down to see it rise to point skyward, the relationship of Master and obedient human canine imbuing Big Sam with an intimate knowledge of my anatomy. He likes it when I am made to stand at his behest. And he knows how to facilely bring forth the demanded priapic reaction.

  The aircraft taxis to within a few yards. The turbines spin down and the cabin door opens. A smiling copilot steps to the tarmac and extends his arm. A hand appears to take it. There follows into view the exquisite limb of my owner and benefactress, the woman I married... the fabulously wealthy Miss Ashley Duval.

  I tremble with a tinge of frisson as she steps into the bright sunlight. A finely manicured hand rises to don sunglasses, disappointingly covering the blue eyes I adore. Still her magnificent form exudes a confident beauty, which I have never seen in a woman of such limited years. She wears a flowing white cotton pleated skirt, a sleeveless silk blouse adorned with a pattern of tropical flowers. And there are of course the boots... white soft leather gracefully rising to her knees where such gratefully end to leave uncovered shapely knees and a hint of the wondrous thighs, which I foolishly assumed, would be forever mine to covet.

  At age 32, Miss Duval is one of the wealthiest women in the world. But it is not her pulchritude and limitless financial resources that so excite one who is naked, well restrained and led about on a leash by another male. It is her power... that for which I now have such unfathomable respect. I feel goose bumps knowing that my penis stands in salute to her dominion.

  Yes, she has the power and I have none. On her island paradise she reins and I obey... the hierarchy such that a native male of limited education and intellect decides all the where, when and hows of my existence. And only Miss Ashley can change that. She rules.

  But it is too late for me to pay the homage I should long ago have bestowed. My fate is sealed. As her pet, any such offering of deference is now superfluous... it is now something which is demanded and taken... not meekly tendered as I should have humbly offered years ago.

  Yes, years before I trifled... attempting to play a game in which I thought I knew the rules and had the upper hand.

  I lost.

  Big Sam does such a wonderful job with Corky.

  Left to his ways, the ingenuous native, barely able to read and write, dotes over my pet as he would his own. And to view the interaction, Master and dog, is both heartwarming and amusing. The team of psychologists were very specific about breaking my reprobate husband and as it turns out it was easier than expected.

  “Many times, the highly educated succumb the quickest... the realization of futility coming soonest to those who are most aware of the gravity of absolute vulnerability combined with constant torment. It leads to a complete collapse of mental resistance,” Dr. Stella explained.

  And with Charles’ Ivy League law degree and annoying intellectual pomposity, she proved to be correct. A steady diet of semen quickly transformed my scheming husband into a groveling pet.

  And to think he planned to profit from divorce!

  It seems a prized legal education does not prepare one for every challenge in life.

  Charles J. Barrington, Esq. is now led about on a leash by a man who barely has the intellectual capacity to write his own name. Yes, it is Big Sam who directs and governs and it is Charles Esq. who must obey.

  As always, the perception brings moisture to my loins. In stepping from my plane I have planned a delightful week in the tropical warmth. And rest assured, Corky may continue to scheme but it is most likely a plan by which he can skip his mandated nightly portion of sperm before being afforded his Alpo.

  Yes, I insist he practice fellatio. It does wonders for his spirit. And the island women so much enjoy the exhibition... a crawling Caucasian so humbly beseeching dinner, knowing that only after tongue and lips nimbly service the male organ will sustenance be provided.

  “Hello, Sam,” I call out to my smiling man servant. “You have Corky looking very tan.”

  He demurely nods with respect as I step forth to take the leash. I have given instructions that Corky be staked out daily in the sun. The radiant heat turns his neck collar, control chain and testicle trinkets to a searing hotness, providing a suitable reminder of his transformation.

  As Sam hands me the obedience stick, an enormous pink and wet appendage thrusts from Corky’s mouth to eagerly lick my hand in greeting. I laugh and playfully tap his nose, reveling in the notion that along with suturing his vocal cords I had certain alterations made to lengthen his tongue. No longer needed to enunciate words, certain ligaments were severed to allow dexterous and soothingly alacritous movement. Rather self serving on my part, but wonderfully prevenient for the oral gratification I demand. And the frustration I know he experiences in losing an attorney’s most forceful we
apon, his voice, makes me quiver with joy.

  “Been a good boy, Corky?”

  I take the leash and turn back, keeping him upright on his haunches. Sam has him hard as a rock and I have guests stepping from the plane who have not before visited my island paradise. To assure Corky’s tumescence is noticed, I lower the obedience stick and diddle his erection. When his testicle bells ring, there is collective laughter as the sound causes all eyes to follow the motion of my hand.

  “He’s happy to see me,” I zestfully announce.

  Corky whines with the intense humiliation. It is a plaintive sound, seeming to implore me not to put him on display. But I casually ignore.

  What is a pet for, Corky, if I cannot show him off to friends?

  In holding firmly on the leash, I can feel Corky’s trembling apprehension as he is forced to confront my guests stepping from the plane. With me is an eclectic gathering... Reginald, a well hung new boyfriend, Dr. Helga Reinhold, whose impeccable reputation as a surgeon belies her deviant affectation for altering men, a physical therapist with noted disdain for the male gender, one of the prominent psychologists, Dr. Stella Corrothers, who years before helped with Charles’ behavioral transition, and a lovely couple whose enjoyment of kinky encounters and thorough subservience always makes for stimulating company.

  “There are no cars on the island, folks. But the plantation house is a short walk. The flight crew will assure that your luggage finds its way.”

  Sam steps away to assist the crew and I relax my grip on the leash. An attentive Corky knows to lower himself to his elbows where little doggie legs extend. Since his arms are forcibly bent and encased in thick latex, his hands are useless. Likewise, his folded legs are surrounded with similarly strong but comfortable material ensuring that Corky moves on all fours. So with a brisk tug and a command of ‘heel’, my loyal canine follows as I lead the entourage to the plantation house. And of course I cannot resist lightly snapping at those balls with the single strand of the obedience stick. Corky’s animated reaction to my playful nips brings forth both the sound of his bells and laughter from my amused guests. My strokes serve to establish control and since Corky knows that the whippy shaft of the firm obedience stick can also be applied to the upturned soles of his feet, complete obedience is assured. He has had enough bastinado for a lifetime. Some experts suggest that my cruel method of indoctrination into dogdom may forever have obviated his ability to again walk normally.

  I wonder if Corky will ever have the opportunity to find out whether that is true.

  Chapter One - Charles

  How could such a perfect scheme go so awry?

  As I obediently heel, vigorously shuffling on all fours to stay in position at the precise location behind Miss Ashley’s right side, listening to the humiliating chiming of my testicle bells, I reflect back. Occasionally glancing upwards under Miss Ashley’s flowing skirt, I catch glimpses of the fine smooth pink flesh about which I first fantasized some five years ago. Miss Ashley is known to forgo undergarments when relaxing with friends and the view from down here, head and shoulders just above the level of her knee, brings memories.

  It is New York, 1997. A fine spring day in Battery Park I am enduring the drudgery of apprenticing in the legal profession after many years studying at Columbia University School of Law. I am young, handsome, attracted to the fairer sex but with little time. I am at a point, after some three years as an associate at a prestigious law firm, where I cannot envision spending my life reviewing legal documents for the missing dotting of an ‘I’ or the failure to cross a ’t’.

  I steal time for a quick hot dog in the park. And there sits a beautiful girl. She wears a loose skirt and unwittingly flashes a hint of her charms when she switches the crossing of her legs. Quickly thinking, I decide to approach and act the role. A chance meeting in the park of handsome young attorney and nubile young woman. Her decorum, her attire suggest she is seeking companionship but doing so in that most coquettish yet judicious way, avoiding eye contact, pretending not to notice that I have noticed.

  I sit and of course comment on the weather, a warm and sunny day after many weeks of snowy March rain. She nods aloofly also playing the role. We talk. She is demure, seeming to pose as a mere secretary or lowly member of a typing pool. What she does not realize is that I know her to be Miss Ashley Duval. She spent the morning in the offices of Samuel L. Brackett, the estate attorney of our firm. She did not notice me but I of course noticed her and her divine appearance mandated that I undertake the bachelor’s investigation.

  The secretary of Samuel L. Brackett, the punctilious Miss Priscilla Peck, divulged all, explaining that the aunt of Miss Ashley Duval had passed on and she, as sole heiress, was there to learn that many more millions would be heaped upon Ashley Duval’s already moderate wealth and layer upon layer of trust income.

  “The poor girl has no one,” the frumpy Priscilla asserted, seemingly with genuine sympathy. “All living relatives are gone.”

  “Tsk, Tsk,” I recall empathetically offering in disguising my zeal.

  Yes, with financial resources approaching the range of ten digits, possibly well into the ten digits with sizable blocks of stock discounted for estate tax purposes, I could only express gratuitous pity.

  Where would all that money go?

  So when I spotted Miss Ashley Duval in the park, I schemed. Other than her prettiness, she blended with the masses. It quickly became evident to me that she either did not desire to flaunt her new wealth or had not yet learned to do so. But that’s New York... the density offers concealment... the anonymity of the many providing camouflage for the celebrity of the few.

  I don’t recall everything I said but certainly did not reveal that I had knowledge of her name and ‘unfortunate’ circumstances. ‘Ashley’ was her simple reply when I introduced myself as Charles. Still I turned on the charm, scheming from the very start. After all, those millions upon millions needed to go somewhere. Why not to the benefit of a jaded attorney?

  We exchanged phone numbers. And why shouldn’t she be forthcoming? It was reasonable to assume that every date she had was with some gigolo pursuing her money or some foppish trust baby in evening jacket and ascot, pushed by an overbearing mother to attempt a relationship. In her mind, I was someone different... attracted to her person, her looks, which I was. But countless millions certainly improves one’s appearance.

  Thereafter, we talked on the phone several times. I went slowly, never revealing that shortly after that encounter in the park I took the time to review Samuel L. Brackett’s memos floating about the steno pool. I also pumped away at Miss Priscilla Peck. A graying spinster of some fifty years, the lonely old gal seemed delighted that a young handsome associate would choose to engage in casual conversation. Any attention she received brought a warming smile and a subtle expression of gratitude. And on occasion her eyes would flash revealing a hidden lust, possibly for me, possibly for any virile male. When not working, one envisioned her sitting alone on cold evenings wrapped in a shawl and sipping a cup of herbal tea, reading some cheap romance novel.

  With her hidden desires, I played her like a fiddle. So she talked and talked revealing much confidential information to a person she perceived as a trusted young attorney with empathy for the orphaned Ashley Duval, the naive and unsuspecting Ashley Duval, the fabulously wealthy Ashley Duval.

  Within a week I knew more about the finances of Ashley Duval than she did. Even the ownership of the tropical island, which our cagey estate lawyer had listed as nominal in value.

  ‘No comparable valuations’, Sam had noted in summarizing the appraisal of the island in the lengthy list of Miss Ashley Duval’s assets. I could only imagine the true value of 5,000 acres proximate to islands known to be the most expensive vacation destinations in the Caribbean. My eyes gleamed at that point. Miss Ashley Duval was by far the richest unmarried woman in the world, and she was alone, and pretty, and seemingly detached from the cognizance of her fiscal circumstances.
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  She needed me, I deduced. And admittedly, it was a self serving conclusion.

  “Corky need to go?”

  Miss Ashley’s question snaps me from my reverie. The plantation house is within sight and Miss Ashley asks the obligatory question. With my modifications, relieving oneself outdoors is neater than requesting the assistance of one of the household maids when indoors or imposing on someone to take me out for a walk.

  I sheepishly nod, causing the collar to somewhat aggravate my neck.

  “Over here,” Miss Ashley directs, drawing me from the well worn path into some low growth vegetation.

  “Position,” she simply commands.

  I part my elbows and lower my face and head to where my chin touches the soil. I widely part my knees then arch my back as trained thrusting my buttocks upwards. I feel the tender fingers of my Master, Miss Ashley Duval, graciously detach the small chain connecting the metal band encircling my scrotal sac to the anal insertion and tail. This serves to reveal my pee hole, the surgical opening in my perineum where my urethra now empties the contents of my bladder.

  Yes, I now squat to pee.

  Miss Ashley stoops and uses the obedience stick to push forward my balls, permitting my flow to splash to the ground unimpeded. Her free hand caresses my neck in relaxing me. Though her divine touch stimulates I know to concentrate on the task at hand. I do not need to turn my head to know that the many visitors watch with a combination of amusement, curiosity and Schadenfreude.

  “Come, come,” Miss Ashley gently encourages. “Be a good boy.”

  Having been well watered by Big Sam shortly before the jet’s arrival, my bladder is indeed full.

  With Miss Ashley’s verbal inducement I do not disappoint her guests. I flush with embarrassment but perform for my Master. Goose bumps again form as my flow splatters to the soil. I am indeed a good boy.

  Chapter Two - Charles