“It’s actually to his benefit, Charles. One cannot neglect the prostate for extended periods. You’ll see semen oozing through the cock cage. Since it is not to come off, it’s the only stimulation his gland receives.”
Chapter Seventeen - Corky
“You really are a good cocksucker, Corky. Look at Reggie’s entire erection disappear. Where do you put it all?”
Miss Ashley’s mocks me of course, her sonorous words chosen to amuse her guests. She knows that many weeks of training and indoctrination were needed to overcome the natural revulsion of orally pleasing a man. The cost was enormous but I suppose she is pleased with the results. I know Reggie is. I can feel him spasm with pleasure as the huge swollen penis tip squirms past the narrow choke point of my throat where I have been trained to control my gag reflex.
As I extend my tongue to swish it across Reggie’s scrotal sac, heightening the exquisite sensation of warm and soft wetness, I ironically recall the first time Miss Ashley called me a cocksucker.
The two week vacation on the island ended. We returned to New York relaxed and refreshed though I was somewhat frustrated by the denial and limited climactic relief. As I promised myself, I began the divorce proceedings.
“You’re a cocksucker,” Ashley sibilated upon receiving the papers.
I remained calm, in no way wanting to personalize the complaint. To me it was business, just another spinoff. Ashley would be left with her billions and I would receive a tidy couple of million per year, plus other assorted perks I had thrown in the prenup after the many daydreams.
Well needless to say, the vanilla sex I had come to enjoy, if constantly being under Ashley is considered vanilla, ceased. After being served the papers, Ashley disappeared for days on end, I presumed returning to her small apartment from which she never fully moved. And I returned to the life of a bachelor. Just the spillover of the Duval fortune into an old checking account was enough to keep me going until things could be amicably settled. My lifestyle had really not changed much. I just had a couple of more zeroes on the monthly ending balance that I had never before had.
I did not expect much trouble in effectuating the divorce... from a legal standpoint. But did expect an emotional response, which other than Ashley’s hissed initial reaction did not seem to be forthcoming. Nothing happened for days. No arguments. No nasty words. When Ashley and I crossed paths she was stoic and civil.
I assumed the delay in answering the papers was due to the process of arranging for attorneys. Obviously the size and complexity of the assets, trusts and streams of income were considerable in Ashley’s case. The fact that Samuel L. Brackett was still wrapping up Meredith Duval’s estate spoke to the complications on that side of the family fortune. And though I had no specific knowledge of the size and structure of Ashley’s resources before the demise of her Aunt, I imagined such to be equally intricate. That alone was said to be in the hundreds of millions.
But I reassured myself about potential problems by mentally turning the pages of the iron clad prenuptial agreement I had written. I convinced myself that even the most aggressive and money hungry lawyer would advise Ashley to settle for ‘no contest’ and arrange for the monthly wire transfers mandated by the prenuptial agreement.
Then one evening I returned home after joining some law school friends for after work cocktails. Ashley was there, cleaning more of her things out of an overstuffed closet. Again she was civil, saying hello and not much else. Then came the buzzer for the front door of the building.
“Let them in please, Charles. I need to have some things moved.”
So without further inquiry I pressed the button for the electronic lock. Within minutes there came a knock on the apartment door. Ashley seemed to be ensconced deep in the closet so I opened the door expecting workmen. Instead there stood a burly man in a white uniform and a woman.
“Charles J. Barrington?” the woman inquired in an authoritative voice.
I nodded. She held up papers.
“This is a court order to present yourself to the Amsterdam Clinic for a psychiatric examination in preparation for a non compos mentis hearing.”
I uttered an expletive and informed the woman that such an order had to be authorized by the closest known living relative. I had none. And therefore there needed to be an appearance by me before the judge.
And that’s when Ashley stepped from the bedroom.
“You have a living relative, Charles. The closest defined in law... your wife.”
I grabbed the papers. As I read, the burly man in the uniform took hold of my arm. I was shocked to see Ashley’s signature on the motion. With attention diverted I was shocked to feel a jab in my arm.
“You’re going to be a good boy for us, Mr. Barrington. No more nasty words. We have a nice warm and comfortable place for you and in time you’ll have your appearance before the judge.”
I began to feel groggy, obviously having been injected with a sedative. Within a very few moments my speech became slurred and within minutes talking became too much of an effort.
Whatever substance was used to subdue me was cleverly intended to physically incapacitate but not cause me to lose consciousness. A conniving Miss Ashley wanted me to be cognizant of what was happening to me but not be able to resist. She was sending a message, I realized. Just as in the bedroom, she was once again on top. I was to be controlled and in knowing that I was to be controlled my feeling of frustration instantly flourished. It was as if Miss Ashley was once again slowly masturbating me on the beach. ‘Say when, Miranda,’ her taunting words began to echo as I pictured myself writhing in the prolonged ecstasy of her thrilling grip, my eyes beseeching the island girl to give Miss Ashley the nod.
“I’m Dr. Stella Corrothers, Mr. Barrington, and I’ll be supervising your care. Your wife has been very concerned about your mental state since you lost your job.”
Lost my job? I resigned... yet I could not utter a word of explanation or protest.
My introduction to the demented doctor continued while I was gingerly walked to the building elevator. My legs felt like rubber and the white uniformed orderly held me up. I could hear Ashley laughing but could not turn my head to look at her.
“As I said, Charles, I am having some things moved... you.”
She laughed at her own entendre.
I was positioned in the elevator. When the burly orderly spun me to face the doors, there stood a smirking Miss Ashley.
“Bye, bye, Charles,” she mockingly waved as the doors slid closed.
I was not to see her again for months.
Chapter Eighteen - Corky
Mr. Reggie ejaculates copiously, bringing forth a wrenching sound despite my months and months of training. He’s a virile one, the hot gush of sperm erupting deep in my throat, even after an afternoon of lustful sex with my wife, Miss Ashley. Still I take all he offers, having almost daily fellated Big Sam, my source of ‘appetizer’ when Miss Ashley is not visiting the island with guests who require servicing.
His look of divine satiation and my dutiful efforts to swallow all he has to offer bring laughter from the observing group of dominant women.
“Nicely done, Corky. Such a good doggie.”
I do not have to look to know the voice is that of Dr. Stella, reinforcing the behavior desired of me. I concentrate to hold the deflating penis in my mouth, sucking the final juices as every man prefers, minimizing messiness by assuring every drop of semen is ingested.
“Yes, ladies, as I said, Corky is a very good cocksucker,” a gushing Miss Ashley exclaims.
Small talk ensues. Miss Ashley takes my leash. It is generally agreed that it is time for bed. All have had a long day of travel.
When Miss Ashley is on the island I sleep leashed to her bed instead of tied up in the kitchen. Thus I obediently follow as Miss Ashley and Mr. Reggie climb the stairs. In the bedroom a concupiscent Miss Ashley strips, and I can smell the fragrance of her arousal. Watching me drain Mr. Reggie of his essence has excited
.
“I need lots of tongue,” she lustfully announces, snapping her fingers and pointing to the floor.
It is obvious that she and the gigolo Reggie have been seeing each other for awhile. For with the snap he falls to his knees and presents his face to Miss Ashley’s mons. I feel tension on the leash and know my Master wants me behind her. In calling for abundant tongue Miss Ashley wants male tongue servicing between her thighs, both front and back.
I lick between her cheeks, my powerful tongue working into her gluteal cleft. I hear a squeal when Mr. Reggie’s splits her labia. My prandial display of fellatio has made her quite moist. Power so arouses her. Within minutes my Master shudders with an initial orgasm. It will be the first of many and as I assiduously lick my mind returns to the most fateful evening of my life... an ambulance ride and then admission to the bowels of the Amsterdam Clinic.
Thinking back, what makes the most lasting impression is the atmosphere set by the attending nurses. It punctuates all memories of my many months there. ‘Pleasant cruelty’ is the only way to describe the treatment and the attitudes. Voices were never raised. There was no physical violence. No infliction of pain. Yet the nurses extracted from me all they wished, mentally breaking me. In the end they owned me and they took such wicked delight in the process.
In the ambulance I was laid on a stretcher and restrained with broad straps across my chest, hips and thighs. Wrist and ankle cuffs, quite similar to those I had worn during the vacation, completed the task of assuring that stretcher and I were one.
“We’re taking you on a journey, Mr. Barrington. Miss Duval says you like to travel. Well this trip won’t be far but you’ll be away for quite a while and you’ll meet many new people. Treating depression can take time. But fortunately you have a wife who cares and has the resources to assure you’re properly handled... I mean to say that your needs are addressed.”
A subterfuge of course. At the time, I did not understand why she maintained the pretense. Since then I have surmised that the burly orderly was not in on what was really a disguised abduction.
The Amsterdam Clinic is on the lower east side of Manhattan, the main building of red brick dating to the late nineteenth century. There have been renovations to the facility with sizable wings added over the years. But the main entrance still greets patients and visitors with an aura from Dickensian England. The main reception area is old and foreboding and not well lit, ironically serving to cultivate a sense of gloom rather than begin any recuperative process in contending with depression.
Whatever was injected into my arm continued working as I was wheeled through the lobby. The straps were superfluous. I had neither the desire to move nor could I seem to muster the energy. But I was oddly mentally alert and recall being wheeled past a huge bronze plaque thanking Ms. Meredith Duval for her munificence in supporting the Amsterdam Institute for Behavioral Modification. Dr. Corrothers just waved to the nurse at the reception desk calling out the name ‘Barrington’ as the stretcher trundled straight into an elevator.
That would be the last time I saw the outside world for many months.
Did the elevator go up or down? I do not know. It moved slowly with the doors opening after several moments to a windowless floor with annoyingly bright fluorescent lights. A nurse waited there... blonde, young, ebullient, pretty.
“He was given 25 milliliters of Thorazine thirty minutes ago Peggy. He’ll be a good boy for you.”
Obviously I was expected as the nurse smiled and used my name, addressing me as if talking to a child.
“Welcome to the clinic, Mr. Barrington. My name is Nurse Peggy and we have a nice place for you. This will be your new home for a while until you feel all better.”
She gushed with annoyingly pleasant enthusiasm, as if welcoming a small boy to summer camp.
“Come.”
Dr. Corrothers disappeared as Nurse Peggy led down a hallway. The stretcher followed with the orderly pushing from behind. Even under the effects of the narcotic I remember admiring a form that a frumpy starched white uniform could not camouflage. Nurse Peggy’s rounded buttocks projected the figure of a beautiful young woman. Soft rubber soled white shoes did not detract from shapely legs. And I imagined the pile of blonde locks that would tumble to her shoulder blades if the obligatory white cap was removed.
It seemed that even the Thorazine did not counter my hormone induced desire. Since serving Miss Ashley with the divorce papers we had not had intercourse, dating would have endangered favorable settlement terms, masturbation was, well, avoided as rather boring after eighteen months of marriage. I was horny.
So there I was strapped down, physically incapacitated by some drug, and placed under the sole care of an alluring young nurse. Yes, Nurse Peggy and I were left alone. The orderly just wanted his stretcher. After being wheeled into a room and transferred to a table, he wasted no time in departing.
“Well, let’s get you out of those things. You’ll be more comfortable,” Nurse Peggy began after the orderly closed the door behind him.
I could not move and Nurse Peggy knew that. So shoes came off, belt removed, pants slid down in a forceful effort. Nurse Peggy demonstrated that I was not the first male patient she had stripped, for after the challenge of the slacks, a special cutting instrument was used on my shirt and underwear, shredding all and permitting removal without my rising from the table. It did not take more than minutes to begin what would be become a long process of degradation, for my tattered clothes were gathered and stuffed into a plastic garbage bag and I soon laid totally naked in the bright fluorescent lights of the windowless room.
“Oh,” Nurse Peggy effeminately exclaimed in noticing that my socks remained.
Such were plucked away without effort and joined my other garments. Then the nurse occupied herself at a cabinet and I rolled my eyes in attempting to survey the room.
It was large, much bigger than the standard room for hospital patients, with white walls and tiled floor. Against one wall, glass-doored metal cabinets were filled with instruments and other hospital paraphernalia. Canisters stood in one corner containing what I assumed was oxygen. There was a stainless steel sink and an array of plumbing fixtures.
In the extreme periphery I could see a sizable box lying on the floor. Had I not been drugged, the sight would have brought shivers. Though white and appearing to be comprised of plastic, it was the size of a coffin.
“Now just relax, Mr. Barrington. I’m going to prepare you for a nice long rest and then Nurse Valerie will be in to assist me.”
Though young, Nurse Peggy worked with alacrity and professional determination. First she catheterized me, plunging a long latex tube into my urethra. The end was tidily clamped to prevent any flow. Next she pinched my nose and when I opened my mouth to breathe a gastric tube slithered into my mouth. She cooed irritating words of encouragement as she worked it in, commanding me to take a breath, then swallow then take a breath until the uncomfortable hose found its way to my stomach.
“We do a lot of men here, Mr. Barrington. Naked as the day they were born. Don’t be embarrassed.”
With that she pushed my left leg off the edge of the table. She then stood to my right and lifted my right leg, placing my heel on her shoulder. This awkward position, one that the narcotic inhibited me from resisting, gave the pretty nurse access to my rectum.
“Just one more tube, Mr. Barrington, then a nice long rest.”
One hand held my balls out of the way while my rectum was lubricated. The last tube pressed against my rear portal and knowing fingers worked it past my tight purse string muscle. A hiss and resulting pressure suggested it was inflatable.
Nurse Peggy pleasantly spoke as she pressed a button on a nearby wall.
“There now, all tubed up. We control your breathing, urinary function, excretions, all sustenance. Not a care in the world for you, Mr. Barrington. You can lie in rest and think. And when Dr. Corrothers wants to talk to you, I’m sure you’ll be eagerly waiting, thinking of
what to say.”
The room door opened and a middle aged nurse entered. She appeared dour but smiled upon seeing me helplessly lying naked and intubated.
“He’s ready,” Nurse Peggy proclaimed with a prideful gush.
The women released a breaking mechanism, the table rolled and was moved adjacent to the plastic white box.
“Your new home,” Nurse Peggy smilingly announced.
The table was lowered. In a well practiced maneuver my lifeless form was slid into the coffin-like box. The tubes were attached to connections within the confines. Electrodes were adhered to my chest. My last vision was of Nurse Peggy’s pretty smiling face as she heartlessly lowered the lid. The hinged cover formed a perfect seal against all light. I was entombed.
Chapter Nineteen - Corky
The river that flows from Miss Ashley’s love nest cannot be entirely consumed by Mr. Reggie’s relatively untrained tongue. Thus I thrust my elongated tongue past Miss Ashley’s perineum to lap the excess, heedfully gathering every drop. Miss Ashley dislikes sloppy cunnilingus. All offerings of her essence are to be respectfully accepted.
There comes a joyful shriek that I know signals the consummation of Miss Ashley’s satiation. She snaps her fingers again and Mr. Reggie rises from his knees. My leash is tied to the bedpost. Mr. Reggie crawls onto the mattress to lie supine. A switch is flicked to dim the room and I know in the darkness that my wife and her well endowed lover will entwine, to sleep yet possibly to awake well before dawn so that Miss Ashley can mount a restored Reggie and take her morning ‘ride’.
I roll off my elbows and knees to lie on my side, listening to the lovers whisper, Miss Ashley lying on top as always, her words planting seeds of lust in the mind of her well hung gigolo.
The Chris Bellows' Collection Page 23