“You need to be milked, Corky. I’ll bring some gloves.”
The control chain is returned as is the short chain connecting my anal insert to my scrotal ring. I feel the warm young hands attach my testicle bells. When Miranda attaches the leash and retrieves the obedience stick, Miss Mary returns the Sjambok to the wall. I wonder if my muted sigh of relief is discernible.
The beach is a reasonable walk. A proud Miranda keeps tension on the leash and I rapidly shuffle elbows and knees to keep up with her pace. Miss Mary is due to follow us shortly and I do not understand Miranda’s rush. Then the path turns away from the plantation house and we reach a dense area of vegetation out of view of both the beach and the house.
“Come Corky,” Miranda encourages in tugging the leash and snapping the single strand of the obedience stick. The slim length of leather rapidly unfurls and nips my scrotum. I lurch forward and follow her into the shrubbery. My instant reaction to the teen’s correcting stroke brings a smile.
Miranda seats herself on a log, hiking her short skirt and drawing me forward with the leash.
I now understand the rush. Watching Miss Mary work me, the proximity to my nakedness while I suffered under the therapist’s demanding governance, has stimulated the girl. Years of the Duval island environment has cultivated a young woman of dominance. Observing my humiliation has stirred the pubescent Miranda and she parts her thighs obviously demanding the attention of my tongue. The years of observing the subjugation of the Caucasian male has created a craving. In controlling my leash and being unsupervised, Miranda’s developing maturity shows, as does her concupiscence.
As stated, undergarments are rare in the tepid climate. Thus in raising her short skirt and spreading her thighs, the wondrous pink, surrounded by smooth flesh the color of coffee, is readily offered. My nose detects her arousal. It is by rote that my tongue extends first to taste, then to humbly lave her outer labia, then to plunge inward as my lips purse to form a bond over her just ripening mons.
I feel her shudder. Her moisture flows. She sighs. Then I feel the obedience stick. The precocious girl knows Miss Ashley’s code. A snap to the scrotum... thrust with my tongue, taps to my penis... suck more forcefully, strokes to my feet... clitoral stimulation.
The legacy of Miss Meredith Duval continues. As I gather in the sweet feminine essence of the pretty teen, I think about the names Chippie, Bernie and Ralphie. How did Miss Ashley describe them... companions of her aunt who lost the second wager?
Once the Caucasian male agrees to the final capitulation, submitting to the governance of a Duval woman, do any leave the island?
My thoughts stray to the hearing before the judge... my own capitulation at the Amsterdam Institute for Behavioral Modification. After that initial hearing I was led back to the glass walled room and placed in my canine restraints. Dr. Corrothers kindly furnished me with the signed prenuptial agreement so I could review it as suggested by the judge.
“We located it in your apartment. You’ll see that your signature is witnessed by a Miss Priscilla Peck.”
Nurse Peggy placed it on the floor. As I read she flipped the pages for me.
The cover page, with the standard preambles, I recognized. But the second page, where I disgorged the payments and emoluments that I would receive upon separation, was altered... significantly altered. And I had unknowingly signed it! But Miss Ashley stated that it had been reviewed by an attorney. What lawyer would change the document without offering the courtesy of highlighting the alterations?
Then there came a voice over the loudspeakers.
“You signed it, Charles... or should I say Corky.”
It was Ashley’s voice! She was behind the one way glass with Dr. Stella. Probably there for many sessions, as I had suspected.
“You asked me to have an attorney review it and I did. Some changes were made. You should have reviewed it one more time before signing...as any good lawyer would recommend.”
She laughed as I stared. The monthly alimony figure from the original agreement was missing several zeros. Gone too were all the add-ons that I threw in... use of the jet, visiting the island, yacht excursions, vacation reimbursements.
It was no wonder the judge questioned my ability to support myself. Upon final separation, I agreed to forgo all claims against Ashley’s extensive wealth for payments of $500 per month. Such a paltry sum would not cover my food bill.
“So, Charles, think about what you’ll tell the judge next week,” Miss Ashley’s voice boomed. “Submit and I’ll permit use of the island. That I’ll offer. Resist my stewardship and you’ll be an impoverished disbarred attorney. Your old firm is still seething over the short notice you gave in departing so there’s no help to be sought there. And there are many photos of Corky the dog servicing many phalli. The close ups of you and Henrietta are lurid. Not much demand for the services of a sexually deviant lawyer. You’ll be broke and living on the streets. But perhaps your new found oral skills will support you...”
The microphone clicked off to the sound of her irritating and uproarious laughter. Nurse Peggy took away the prenuptial and tossed the foam rubber ball.
“Go get it, boy.”
My reverie ends with the sharp pain of the obedience stick being crisply stroked against the soles of my feet. Miranda desires clitoral stimulation. I lift my face and slide my lips upwards. I nestle my tongue against her protective hood and suck in the hardened nub. The girl shrieks in ecstasy. A flood of feminine essence must be quickly consumed.
As trained, sloppy cunnilingus is to be avoided.
Having stolen the moments of pleasure, knowing that Miss Mary will soon be traversing the path to the beach, Miranda stands and rights her skirt.
“Good boy, Corky,” her voice burbles with satiation. “Come.”
Chapter Twenty Seven - Miss Ashley Duval
It’s a welcome change to see so many people on my normally secluded sandy white stretch of paradise. Dr. Stella and Dr. Helga have joined us followed shortly by Harold and Pam. The women relax in lounge chairs wearing modest bathing attire while the naked Harold and Reggie kneel or lie in the sand. In the distance my licentious flight crew sun themselves. The penis of my copilot remains locked up and the hormonal buildup has driven him to a delicious level of groveling. He’s licking my pilot’s feet. We cannot hear his words but can be assured that he’s begging for the turn of the key in the small padlock that forcibly transforms his joystick into a most neglected tube of flesh.
Pam amuses herself in having Harold expose his tube to the radiant tropical sun. The direct rays of the Caribbean latitude quickly heat the metal to untouchable hotness and has Harold first fidgeting and then beseeching for permission to take a cooling swim. Very entertaining, but practicality suggests that Harold spend some time sunning his back. Thus Pam grants permission not for a swim but to instead turn over. This allows the Lori’s tube to slowly cool. A much better result than the instant relief of cooling water.
Miranda arrives with Corky in tow. Mary follows.
The young therapist carries a small bag and is attired in the skimpiest of two piece bathing suits revealing a muscle structure most would consider ungainly on the feminine form. Her stomach is rippled with abdominal muscles and with each step her thighs seem to explode with power. Her arms are nicely shaped, but not in a girlish way, more in a manner observed on gymnasts. Small patches of cloth barely cover nipples which point skyward... perched on mounds of pectoral muscle more than feminine fat. One can easily extrapolate to envision buttocks of very firm roundness. And the triangular patch of cloth covering the mons is strained by the bulge of a well formed clitoral hood.
The protrusion is revealing of Mary’s sexual preference. I envision the lips of many young college girls being introduced to her notable sculptured form and with it the delights of Sapphos. Or perhaps, just perhaps, her disdain for the male gender is such that she will put aside her disgust and allow one of her athletic charges, blindfolded and well trussed of cour
se, to service her there.
Either way, our Mary’s prominent clitoris evidences her demanding penchant for the assiduous application of tongue and lips.
I am handed Corky’s leash and receive a report.
“Corky’s range of motion is not too bad, considering the many months of muscle constraint in emulating a dog. He’s close to being able to suck his penis. If I can’t have him licking his balls by flight time on Sunday, his flexibility will be close enough so that Miranda can finish the stretching. Thereafter I recommend mornings of intense stretching once or twice per week. Though it requires him to be freed of his bindings, the sense of relief is limited. I assure you the physical discomfort is intense. It’s not much of a respite from dogdom.”
We women all smile envisioning the amusing manner in which I will be insisting that my pet exhibit his canine behavior.
“Be careful not to afford too much pleasure, Ashley. His attentiveness to your needs may diminish,” Dr. Stella forewarns.
“The control chain will inhibit any furtive autofellatio. He will only be able to lick himself when it’s unhooked,” I respond.
“He needs milking, Miss Duval. If you agree, I’ve brought gloves and some lubricant,” Mary offers.
I smile in thought. Lotta used to stimulate the odd male gland after she shaved Charles and prepped him for our nightly trysts. Since his transformation to Corky there has not been any such manipulation that I can recall. When excited Corky’s prostatic fluid flows to his new urethral opening and down the inside of his thighs.... messy but refreshingly remindful of the frustration of his chastity.
“Well Pam, as long as Mary’s equipped, it appears Harold could use some care. And I have no idea how long the copilot has gone without. Though I believe his prostate is stimulated more unconventionally.”
Yes, what an interesting way to be entertained during a leisurely afternoon on the beach.
“Let’s do all three, Mary. A treat for our collection of chaste males.
“Miranda, please tell Lotta we’re ready for the first round of Pina Coladas.”
I will set the scene for the afternoon. I wave to the pilot beckoning her to join us, knowing that it will be a better show if her effeminate toy is milked before she dons her strap on and engages in one of her endless sessions of sodomy.
“You’re in charge, Mary.”
The pilot joins us with the naked copilot in tow. Mary looks at the wimpish male nakedness with disapproval, her life’s work combating physical meekness.
“Is that a CB3000?” she inquires of the elaborate device, a cylinder of plastic covering an unimpressive penis, held in place by a mechanism locking it to a circular base around the root of the penis and scrotum.
“Yes,” the pilot responds. “Rarely needs removal. He must sit to urinate, the flow passes through the openings. And once a week I cuff him and remove the device for cleansing, but otherwise he’s kept randy and obedient. He begs for the strap on. It’s his only relief. Yet he must concentrate to remain flaccid while I sodomize him. Quite a challenge for him.”
“I’ve recommended such devices to the athletic department,” Mary enlightens. “Too much male energy expended on meaningless masturbation. It affects performance.”
We all titter with the thought of a key bearing Mary, dictating which athletes, performances deemed satisfactory, are released for a reward of climactic relief.
She’s such a Spartan.
Mary takes charge, directing the copilot to an empty lounge chair.
Meanwhile, I notice Reggie, relaxing in the sand yet attentively following the events, is semi flaccid. I remove Corky’s leash. Just about the only time he does not feel the restraint of someone’s hand guiding the leash or feel the constraining tautness of being tied to a wall hook, is while frolicking with me on the beach.
I think his tail wags in a canine form of a ‘thank you’.
I snap my fingers and point. Corky knows to crawl to Reggie.
“Bring him up... not off,” I command, my female guests very much enjoying the sight of the male organ standing at ten inches.
Mary sits on the lounge chair. Her muscled buttocks are as expected, round and perfectly formed.
“On all fours now. Turn to your side. Yes, now lift your left knee and rest it on my lap.”
The obeisant copilot instantly reacts to Mary’s commands. Accustomed to directing well conditioned athletes many times her size, she knows that succinct and sharp words leave room for no thoughts of disobedience.
When the copilot raises his leg, as if turning up on a fire hydrant, his puckered rectum is perfectly exposed. Mary reaches to her little bag to retract latex gloves and lubricant.
“I have a bevy of boys I milk at the university. When they arrive as freshmen, if you take immediate charge, stepping into the role of parental authority for teenage males who are away from home for the first time, you’d be amazed at how easy it is to bring to subjugation young male minds. And once they become accustomed to stripping down and presenting themselves for the subterfuge I term ‘necessary therapy’, they’re mine for the duration of matriculation. So easily controlled.”
A gloved and lubricated index finger penetrates the copilot’s rear aperture. It glides inward with embarrassing ease and Mary giggles. Her left hand grasps the CB3000, using the device to steady the penetrated copilot.
“This reacts more like a girl’s pussy,” she jokes, facilely thrusting in two fingers and then three.
“And the prostate is only slightly swollen. He’s been well used here.”
Mary works methodically. It is apparent that the manipulation is not her first foray into the depths of the male backside. And one can quickly understand the use of the term ‘milking’ when ridding the male of excess prostatic fluid, for given a small stool and appropriate attire, Mary does indeed appear to be laboring to produce milk from a lactating bovine.
“He’s trying to firm,” Mary announces, her left hand sensing tumescence.
The copilot grimaces. His overly sensitive penis entrapped in its plastic cage, any stiffening is cruelly stifled. His flesh turns to pink, flushed with the intense humiliation. The pilot steps forward, ostensibly to comfort. The shapely and authoritative blonde reaches to take the pilot’s ears, using them as handles.
“Just relax for us, you know that worthless penis is not going to be released. Male pleasure on this island is at the discretion of women.”
She presses his face into the area of her pubes then sensuously slides her hands down his face to his chest. There she heightens his ignominy, kneading and caressing nipples that in the hormone laden male have become overly sensitive.
“He’s beginning to flow,” Mary proclaims.
Gooey fluid drips from the plastic cock cage and oozes to the sand.
“Corky, that’s enough,” I command, his tongue and lips having Reggie at full stand.
“The copilot’s offering you something that I think you’ll enjoy.”
Chapter Twenty Eight - Miss Ashley Duval
Having drained the copilot, we watch in leisure sipping pina coladas as the talented Mary works her fingers into Harold’s rectum. I have Corky ready to likewise scoop any ‘milk’ emanating from his urethral opening. He took every drop the copilot offered.
“Helga and I took a little walk this morning, Ashley. It appears the many trails were designed for horses as well as hikers,” Dr. Stella notes.
I nod.
“Aunt Meredith was quite the equestrienne. Had some very fine riding horses. I used to ride here in my youth. The last stallions were sold shortly after her death. I’ve been thinking about replenishing the stable,” I offer in reply.
Dr. Stella’s comment spurs memories. In relaxing with women of my ilk, listening to Harold’s pitiful cries as he attempts to withstand the agony created by his own stimulated organ, my mind floats back to a pivotal time in my life. It was the summer before my senior year in college. Aunt Meredith I suppose deemed me ‘of age’. And in fe
eling some degree of responsibility for me, both my mother and father had passed on, she once again invited me to spend the summer on the island.
“It will be a last fling for you. Soon you’ll be entering a male dominated world and learning to endure the exasperation of testosterone induced behavior. As you know, on the island you’ll find no such influence.”
I had watched some of the start of the ‘hunts’ during previous summer sojourns, the preparation and the beginning when Lotta would stroke the prey to full stand, apply pepper oil to the rectum and then open the cage door to free a fleeing naked male.
But on this summer, Aunt Meredith suggested I join her on horseback.
“At the very least you’ll enjoy a ride. At the most... well you can tell me if the Zeitgeist I’ve sought to create is compatible with your anima.”
Having observed the process by which my proud schoolmate lost his foreskin during the previous summer, I had an inkling of Aunt Meredith’s intentions. Yes, the propensity for the Duval women to enjoy mastery over the male had somewhat manifested in me. But not as strongly as in Aunt Meredith, I told myself. I was not about to devote my life to collecting foreskins like a renegade collecting scalps.
Yet I decided to join in the hunts. As stated the challenge was for the naked chaste male to evade Aunt Meredith’s dart gun for twenty four hours. But with her knowledge of the island and her prowess as a huntress, the hunt usually ended as early as noon.
“I’m hungry and I think a box lunch on the beach would be a good way to wile away the afternoon,” I recall Aunt Meredith commenting some three hours into one hunt.
And with that she spurred her horse and I followed. Within minutes, the naked male prey was flushed from a hiding place, run to ground and Aunt Meredith’s practiced aim caused his right buttock to be speared with a dart laden with curare. The drug instantly immobilized the frantic male but most importantly, consciousness remained.
The Chris Bellows' Collection Page 27