Under Miss Ashley’s governance, the scalpel of Dr. Helga Reinhold long ago relieved me of the ability to achieve normal climax. With testicles remaining intact and producing both semen and testosterone I remain as randy as a billy goat. Yet, there is no release, as Miss Ashley intended.
“He’ll live a life of wonderful frustration,” Dr. Stella advised after the urethral diversion was deemed a success and my vocal cords were sutured.
And the noted psychologist has been correct. As I watch my wife pleasure another man, young, well hung and with classic physique, I strain against my leash to tension my control chain. By design, my tail wags and manipulates my prostate. Such is the only sexual relief afforded to me.
Chapter Eight - Corky
“Feed him and you can have Big Sam’s full attention tonight. Corky’s had his daily ration of sperm. I’ll want him well watered and posed during dinner.”
A beautifully dressed Ashley Duval hands my leash to Lotta. As I am led from Miss Ashley’s bedroom I hear her sonorous voice address Mr. Reggie.
“My male guests don’t need clothing here, Reggie. It’s an informal rule. The islanders are comfortable with the naked Caucasian male. There’s no contact with the outside world and no one will reveal anything.”
Yes, Mr. Reggie stepped from the shower to realize that his luggage never arrived from the plane and that for cleaning Lotta had dutifully carried off the garments in which he arrived.
So the studly Mr. Reginald will go sans clothing during his stay. From what I have gathered from his deportment while I fellated him, such will not faze Mr. Reggie and Miss Ashley will be entertained. And as I have learned over the years, Miss Ashley’s entertainment is paramount.
Miss Lotta is very kindly to her superiors but gruff with the leash. Once leaving the presence of Miss Ashley she tugs unmercifully causing me to lurch in pain and my bells to ring raucously.
Having ingested my daily ration of sperm, I will be permitted my one daily meal. Dog food of course, but nutritious, and I have learned to savor the offensive smelling concoction.
In arriving in the kitchen, a busy cook and assistant prepare a lavish meal for Miss Ashley’s guests. Lotta must join in the preparation and hands off my leash to her daughter, Miranda.
“He’s been served his ‘appetizer’,” Lotta instructs in extending the use of the crass code word, that which began with the women of the clinic in New York, indicating I had ingested my daily semen. “So he needs to be fed. Miss Ashley wants him well watered and he’ll be posing during dinner so give him a good inspection and sponge bath.”
I must learn to ignore the wafting aroma of fine cooking. Things are roasting, a rack of succulent lamb, I suspect. And it appears the talented chef will bake a soufflé. I will partake in none. For me its dog food.
A gleeful Miranda takes the offered loop of leather at the end of my chain. The minx relishes guiding about a subservient Caucasian male. In being nearly ready to attend college in the fall, I often wonder what stories she’ll be telling her new classmates who will most likely be much more sexually provincial than the girls maturing on Miss Ashley’s island.
“Come Corky,” Miranda politely encourages.
I look up into her pretty brown face and cannot help admiring the smooth and soft coffee colored skin. In the tropics, with the temperature rarely descending below 80 degrees, Miranda’s attire is brief. And in walking about on all fours I long ago learned that the frisky island girls consider undergarments to be an annoyance. Thus I follow her lead with alacrity, glancing up to catch flashes of nubile pink femininity when the hem of her short and loose skirt flutters with each step.
There is an area of the busy kitchen, known as ‘Corky’s corner’, where I am fed each day. Miranda slips the end of the leash over one of the ubiquitous wall hooks. There is not a room in the plantation house that has less than half a dozen. Miss Ashley insists that I always be secured when not being led about on the leash. Only when my Queen chooses to run me on the beach am I relieved of the leash and the ever present sensation of being controlled.
“Stay,” my young Master commands, stepping away to open a can of food.
I have long learned to wait patiently. After all, it’s a dog’s life, as Miss Ashley insists. And since my altered vocal cords obviate prandial discourse, I occupy my mind with more thoughts of Miss Ashley and our marriage.
Where did it all go wrong?
Within weeks of that night she shaved me, it was time to pop the question. Though Miss Ashley nicely paid down that one credit card balance, there were others. I found my modest associate’s salary to be strained by the continuing ‘investment’ in courting the world’s richest available woman. Plus the grueling legal work was becoming more ponderous. In finishing up the drafting of documents for one arcane merger, I decided that a timely announcement would preclude me from being assigned to another.
So I asked and Miss Ashley said yes. The prenuptial agreement I had mentally been drafting was turned into a formal document. I strongly suggested that Ashley obtain separate counsel, really a necessity on my part. Dozens of prenupts have been torn asunder when it has been shown that an allegedly injured party was not adequately represented before signing such a document. So, though a necessity, I phrased it as a suggestion and hoped Ashley would indeed do the right thing. She did. Stopping into my office and placing the signed document before me within a week.
“It’s been reviewed by an attorney. Here’s your copy signed by me. Just sign this one for my records. Miss Peck can witness.”
The nearby Miss Peck witnessed my signature with this airy look. I interpreted it as envy, the old gal wanted me, I was certain. Ashley took her copy with a buoyant smile. Having read the document so many times, I just tossed my copy into a drawer. I never thought that assuring a lifetime of leisure would be so easy, yet I disguised my elation, for it was then time to move on to the more pleasant aspects of union... discussing the details of ceremony and honeymoon.
Since she had no family and I only had a long estranged uncle on the west coast, it was agreed to keep things simple. I explained that the opening in my work calendar suggested a timely ceremony was best. Miss Ashley concurred.
“I’d really enjoy a couple of weeks in the Caribbean,” I suggested, fully aware of course, of the 5,000 acres upon which I now ironically frolic, frolic that is only when Big Sam walks me or Miss Ashley takes me to the beach.
A pensive Miss Ashley beamed with the thought, nibbling at the bait.
“There’s this island where my aunt took me every Christmas when I was a girl,” Miss Ashley offered.
Yes, of course there is, I evilly thought. The hook was taken and I stifled a wicked smile. My first foray into the benefits of the Duval coffers was a three hour flight on a chartered jet and a two week honeymoon in tropical paradise.
And yes, I didn’t wear clothing then, as despite the island’s inhabitants, Miss Ashley wheedled me into spending my entire visit without covering.
“An old rule of my aunt’s. Males go naked,” she mirthfully suggested. “May as well continue the tradition. And you’ll be more comfortable.”
So naked I went. I cannot help smiling in recalling the first time she applied sun tan lotion to my shaven pubes. Oh, the trivial delights of newlyweds.
Yes, those soft hands slathered my pink parts and kept kneading away until I found myself aroused and lying on the secluded beach completely naked alongside Miss Ashley’s fine body, modestly covered in a rather priggish bathing suit. She brought me to a full stand giggling as her right hand stroked with fervor and her left cupped my balls just has she had done with Mr. Reggie during the late afternoon shower. Miss Ashley’s hand jobs were superb, teasingly controlling, but superb all the same. And the afternoon shower scene was a deliberate taunt, forcing me to watch while she afforded Mr. Reggie the pleasure once reserved only for me.
I should have been more direct in attempting to determine where she acquired such skill. But how does one eng
age in such cross examination on a honeymoon? Instead I just enjoyed.
But then one afternoon as we lounged about on the white sand, Lotta approached with a tray of ice cold pina coladas. When Miss Ashley spotted her in the distance she reached over and began to trifle and trifle where the attention of a newly married woman is most inclined to be expended. I had become accustomed to displaying myself to the women of the island while denudated, but certainly was not ready to exhibit myself with penis in full blossom.
I stirred, trying to roll over, protesting her playful antics. Miss Ashley gripped firmly and I received a becalming reprimand.
“Oh Charles, the women here have seen much. You must cast aside your puritan values and relax. We’re married now.”
And so Miss Ashley continued masturbating me and insisted that this most handsome island woman watch. And Lotta did, donning a devilish smile while Miss Ashley’s hand pumped and pumped.
In hindsight there was a message being sent, the establishment of a hierarchy. On the Duval island, the Caucasian male was more an object, there to entertain, something to perhaps admire, perhaps amuse, and amuse even the natives.
“I can have him come on command for you,” Miss Ashley cheerfully announced to Lotta in further introducing me to the libertine ambiance of her beautiful island.
And then Lotta finally nodded, irritatingly giggling as Miss Ashley had me explode into the sand.
Chapter Nine - Miss Ashley Duval
Reggie and I stroll arm and arm into the dining room. He’s not wearing a stitch and though his manhood has been well exercised over the afternoon, even after being drained of so much essence the nicely circumcised tip distractingly swings back and forth at mid thigh.
Anywhere else we would make for an incongruous sight, for juxtaposed against Reggie’s nakedness, I’m wearing a rather formal silk evening gown, light and flowing and most comfortable in the tepid evenings of the tropics.
Aperitifs are served. Dr. Stella joins us shortly followed by Dr. Helga. Reggie squirms a bit in discomfort, Dr. Helga glancing at his lengthy appendage with odd gaiety. I know her to consider such a specimen as a potential trophy. Within minutes, Mary, the physical therapist, a beautiful girl just a few years out of college, joins our soiree.
We women are dressed formally. The dinner hour is the only time I insist on some degree of decorum during an otherwise licentious week of debauchery. And so when Harold and Pam arrive, the lovely kinky couple, our gathering is complete... and of course so is the incongruity. For Pam wears a provocative but very expensive Dominatrix outfit and though males are normally nude on my island, she has Harold attired in a rather ineluctable chastity device...and nothing else.
“It’s termed ‘Lori’s tube’, and I’ve added some refinements,” Pam replies before the anticipated question is asked.
Dr. Helga is the first to inspect.
“How long?” Dr. Stella feels compelled to ask as Dr. Helga leans forward for better viewing.
“Chaste for close to a year, though I release for cleansing once a week,” Pam matter-of-factly replies.
“Yes, this should do it,” Dr. Helga observes. “A rather small yet formidable lock thrust through both a Prince Albert piercing and a hole in this steel tube encasing the penis. But there is more... something surrounding the frenulum.”
“A Kali’s teeth bracelet,” an ebullient Pam explains. “Nasty little thing. A simple circular piece of metal with teeth on the inside diameter... precisely measured to slip over the penis tip and encircle the shaft at the most sensitive point. Harold can’t even think about the slightest bit of stiffness without placing himself in pain.
“Makes for wondrous oral service. Harold now seems to vicariously think of my pleasure as his, since he gets none.”
The women collectively laugh as Pam divulges Harold’s oral prowess.
With a second round of drinks served, Champagne for most, the kitchen door swings open and to the sound of chiming bells, Miranda leads Corky into the room. The young island girl has my pet nicely bathed with a coating of light oil to highlight his nakedness. She smiles with pride in being afforded the privilege of handling my plaything and she certainly has Corky looking presentable. She even polished his testicle bells.
“Put him up on the table, Miranda.”
Corky will pose for my guests. And though this afternoon’s little walk was a suitable introduction for my guests, the sturdy four foot high table, higher than most, will place Corky at a level where all can inspect with impunity. This is important for Mary, for she’s not on the island for a vacation. No, she’ll be working Corky every day while my entourage relaxes.
Miranda properly arranges Corky, having him first step up onto a chair, elbows then knees, then onto the table top. A bright light above brings an attractive sheen to his flesh. The leash is secured to a nearby wall hook. Miranda adjusts the control chain, knowing to take in a few loops to facilitate Corky’s pose.
“May I inspect?” the ostensibly shy Mary inquires.
“Of course, he’s here to amuse.”
Miranda checks the leash and departs. I join Mary. My human pet kneels on all fours, the table placing his torso at eye level. Such a delicious sight, pure male submission, complete, thorough, everything subservient to the examining female.
“He’s in good condition...well exercised,” Mary observes with a knowing eye.
“A strict diet and Big Sam takes him on long hikes. Numerous paths weave throughout the island offering miles of idyllic scenery. Corky enjoys being walked.”
Effeminate but forceful hands begin to smooth over Corky’s flesh, kneading, caressing, pinching, ascertaining muscle structure and development. To the Sapphic Mary, Corky is a slab of beef being inspected for sale. The nature of her touch... cold, aloof, calculating... suggests I have engaged the right woman for the job.
Though young, Mary is an accomplished physical therapist, graduating just three years ago from one of the finest universities to offer a degree in Sports Medicine. Since matriculating she has worked for a major university in training its various sports teams. My investigators, spies really, report that she is hard working, loyal, knowledgeable, attentive and with really only one attribute which would impede her rise to the top of her field of endeavor. She likes to see men suffer.
Thus when Mary barks out commands, extracting improbable performance from otherwise incorrigible young males, she relishes the knowledge that she is bringing torment to the gender she so much disdains. Thus muscles are unduly stretched, limbs awkwardly bent, legs run to exhaustion, and, in general, entire teams worked into sudoriferous frenzies all for her secretive enjoyment.
This being the off season, I engaged Mary to spend some time with us on the island. In alluding to Corky, her proposed ‘trainee’, I described his basic circumstances and that seemed to seal the deal.
So I am pleased with my selection as I watch young Mary ply her craft with the sang-froid of a butcher at a slaughterhouse.
The hands move to the thighs and with a playful but firmly mechanical slap to the buttocks Mary positions herself at Corky’s rear. There the shortened control chain serves to keep my pet’s balls well displayed and of course no woman’s inspection of the male gender would be complete without spending ordinate time there.
“Nice presentation with the bells,” Mary comments palming the scrotal sac and twisting for examination. “And the piercings, straight through the gonad.”
I see Corky tremble somewhat as Mary’s observation reminds him of a day he’d like to forget but never can. Dr. Helga steps forward to edify. It is her work.
“Akin to an acupuncture needle. But I assure you the pain was much more intense. The punctures for the two needles are symmetrical penetrating each gonad at its widest point. A jeweler friend looped a small decorative chain from the points of each protruding needle so the bells hang as if from a trapeze bar. Then the needle ends were folded over so as to hold the chains in place and not abrade or scratch. Thus Corky n
ot only hears the bells ring, he feels the slightest movement and feels such where normally a man enjoys a woman’s touch. But instead the jewelry serves as a constant reminder of his supplication.”
Mary nods in apparent appreciation of Corky’s diabolical modification. A firm hand then reaches forward, grips Corky’s semi erect phallus and forcefully draws it back between his thighs for inspection, making him squirm in discomfort.
“Reasonable size. Foreskin nicely cut. It firms nicely to my touch, but otherwise with the rerouted urethra, it’s rather useless, is it not?”
A very practical observation. I cannot help but smile and merely shrug.
“Yes Mary, but it serves as such a nice symbol of who is in control. Term it an ornament.”
My guests collectively laugh. The dour Mary refrains from joining and sums up her initial examination.
“Overall, Miss Duval, he’s in better shape than I expected. But I’ll need him out of the canine restraints for a couple of hours each day. The control chain too. The training will be intense and one of your staff should work with me. I’ll train him or her for ongoing sessions to maintain or even augment my results.”
“There’s a large room in the back of the house, Mary. I believe you’ll find it suitable for your needs. I suggest you work him in the mornings and save the afternoon for time on the beach. You know the ocean water here is warm and crystal clear and there is a protective cove which provides shelter from the wind and serves to transform the Caribbean into a picturesque sand bottomed pond.”
The Chris Bellows' Collection Page 19