Mother wriggles her hips and satisfies herself that Jean Claude’s face is well entrapped. Daughter returns to view wielding a very small whip. She positions herself where her mother stood.
“You know what needs your attention, Jean Claude. Your tongue is not through yet.”
Daughter reaches between the thighs and palms the scrotal sac. She toys and seems mesmerized by its size and the weight of the swollen testicles. After a moment, she assures herself that it is well exposed then steps back.
I recognize the small implement in her right hand. It is referred to as a “penis whip” for its diminutive size allows it to be very accurately applied to the eponymous organ. Applied to less sensitive areas, it can barely be felt, a mosquito bite. Applied to the genitals, it creates fire.
Daughter’s face yields a look of absolute delight that not only reveals the pleasurable afterglow of having her intimate parts served so obsequiously, but also the heady power of having a male restrained and exposed in such a subservient manner with his inviting genitals awaiting chastisement. And since it is the very male who so horribly violated her pubescent body and ended her halcyon days of youthful innocence, the delight is doubly pleasurable.
Jean Claude initially does not respond to the mother’s admonishment. But when the daughter snaps the small strand of leather directly to the swinging, fleshy bag, a muffled groan is heard and movement of the lower jaw indicates Jean Claude has found renewed strength.
Some ten minutes of videotape roll with daughter snapping and mother coaxing deeper penetration. The salts appear from time to time providing pauses during which I glance at Lady Constance who is sanguine in receiving her own oral attention. She apparently has the ability to achieve many, many orgasms without the verbal or physical demonstration of ecstasy displayed by most people. But barely audible sighs and the occasional biting of a lip indicated that Nancy is an accomplished and assiduous cunni-linguist. And her smooth, warm and completely hairless flesh must provide Lady Constance with glorious sensations of pleasure and power.
My coffee and toast were long gone when the Turkish women finally acknowledged that Jean Claude’ had swooned for the final time. Mother releases his bonds and easily rolls him off the horse unto the floor. He is semi-conscious and attempts to crawl by moving to all fours. Mother kicks out his arms and he returns to the floor in a fetal position. She then squats about his head and opens her bladder. The torrent splatters first onto Jean Claude’s face and then into his hair as the Turkish woman directs the flow to thoroughly soak his head.
“Your turn for the camera, Jean Claude.”
The final scene is of Jean Claude, precariously perched on well-chastised feet, squatting over a drain in the stone floor of the cell. Under the mother’s direction he spreads his thighs and the camera lens zooms in. The tiny penis occupies the screen. In an interesting ritual, which highlights his alteration, Jean Claude relieves himself squatting like a woman.
Lady Constance pushes the off button on the remote. Before I can speak, she picks up the phone and inputs a well committed phone number. Her free hand then reaches to Boy, quietly swinging on his frame. His huge erection still points skyward, slowly oozing the clear, pre-ejaculatory fluid of a virile male. While she waits for a response, her fingers toy and twist some of the many piercings then glides down to give the hanging sac a reassuring pat.
The blindfolded, deafened Boy seems to twist toward Lady Constance in an awkward attempt to obtain more attention from her soft, feminine touch.
Receiving a response on the phone, she speaks commandingly.
“Egbert. Send the Turkish woman her weekly check. Yes. $5,000, as usual.
“But include a note to the daughter. Tell her that if she persuades Jean Claude to volunteer for an oriechtomy, he will be released. Yes, that’s right. I’ll send Jasmine for a short holiday and whether it be done slowly or quickly can be decided by her. Inform her that as a reward, she’ll have his plums in a glass jar to be placed next to his prized manhood..., and $1,000,000. Yes, that’s right Egbert. $1,000,000 to be shared with her mother, when I receive a tape of Jean Claude humbly requesting the removal of his testicles and a subsequent tape of the operation. But emphasize that to be set free, he must request his own alteration. I want to experience the total capitulation of the male, and I want it recorded.”
Lady Constance hangs up the phone and turns to me.
“Whether Jean Claude volunteers or not I consider his incarceration to be an eleemosynary service. It is by my hand that there is one less sexual predator in the world. But I believe the daughter can be very persuasive, and Jean Claude will soon be more concerned with the feel of a fine pair of silk panties than attempting to gratify what little lies beneath.”
Lady Constance laughs wickedly with her observation and commences another phone call, evidently to Jasmine.
“Come and get Nancy. I want her released from her belt, restrained and feathered..., extensively, Jasmine. Correct. Keep her on the brink with no orgasm. Maybe next month she’ll try harder.”
With Lady Constance barking orders, it was apparent that the business portion of her day had begun. I used the excuse of a lunch date to bid her adieu. On my way through the hotel lobby, it occurred to me that Boy remained restrained and tumefied for well over an hour, before, during and after the videotape. His physical and mental training were unmatched.
I feel the plane begin to descend as I record my final thoughts. I will definitely have to follow up on Jean Claude. His choice of ritualistic, weekly canings versus one final act of complete submission to the dominant female must provoke the ultimate in consternation. Throughout our descent into Berlin, I picture the naked and beautiful Turkish girl taunting him with scraps of rancid food thrown into the cell and reminders that complete freedom is his to choose..., complete with the final offering of what remains of his precious genitals to the young girl he so viciously molested.
Chapter Four
Visit to the village
January 29, 1998
It was a short flight from Berlin to Munich. From there Lady Constance had graciously arranged for a limousine to take me to the small town in the Bavarian Alps where the clinic was located.
Lady Constance requested that the exact location be kept confidential, but I will offer that the rustic village has overwhelmingly beautiful views of snow covered mountains and the four story, brick structure housing the clinic is quietly imposing in its comparative size to the small, commercial district in the rural village.
In a phone call from Berlin, I had politely declined the Director’s invitation to have dinner using the long trip as an excuse. I am expected at the clinic the following morning and do not wish to preempt my interview and tour with casual dinner conversation. I prefer to relax with an idle evening surveying the area.
In spending time in the village shops and bistros, it becomes evident that either the townspeople are unaware of the clinic’s activities, or they conveniently choose not to delve into the odd goings on. Judging from the number of behavior specialists I encounter during my stroll, the clinic is probably the largest employer in the village, and thus has significant economic impact.
The local leather shop alone must profit handsomely from the constant delivery of thick, broad “dog” collars to the large, brick structure. And it is incredulous to think that the shop owner’s curiosity is not piqued by the consistent orders for more collars compared to the paucity of canines in the vicinity of the town, not to mention the purchase of leashes, cuffs and other items of restraint.
And of course, there is the curiosity of the ominous, windowless vans swiftly moving through the square at very late hours. Whether an untrained, obstreperous orphan is arriving or a meek, thoroughly broken subjugant is leaving for his new owner is never known. The drivers never stop to eat or rest. The large, uniformed women arrive and depart with earnest determination, and it seems that it is only I who notice them.
Another oddity which strikes the casual visito
r but seems not to phase the villagers is, as noted, the presence of numerous, stern, young women shopping or otherwise traversing the village square to and from work, or perhaps on work break. Ostensibly, their white uniforms indicate a hospital or medical facility is nearby, but their dour demeanor and the resolute manner in which they conduct themselves seem to hint at something more gravely purposeful to their mission than nurturing the sick or providing obstetrical care.
In a small coffee shop, where I sit addressing postcards over a cup of hot chocolate, I overhear a very telling exchange between a behavior specialist purchasing a magazine and the proprietor.
“You have shorted me again, Herr Hermann.”
Her tone is aggressively firm and coolly even. Verbal intimidation is not normally encountered or expected from a young, handsome woman. But it is the shopkeeper’s histrionic reaction that is most noteworthy. Fumbling for more change, he blanches in apparent fear and begs her indulgence. The woman just extends her hand and stares with a piercing look. She does not blink or move until the flustered, middle aged man carefully recounts the change and humbly places it in her palm. After she drops it in her purse, the man nervously reaches for her wrist, bends his head and kisses the back of her hand, simultaneously dipping in subtle genuflection.
“Perhaps another visit to the clinic’s fourth floor would sharpen your concentration, Herr Hermann. I may take the time review your file.”
It is only with that ominous reference that the woman seems to smile. But the shopkeeper becomes catatonic and wordlessly watches the uniformed antagonist walk to the door. Before stepping into the cold Bavarian night air, she turns back to look at the frightened man, stifles a sardonic laugh and pulls the door closed.
So..., what does the casual observer conclude from such an encounter? As a psychologist, I know that studies have shown many errors to be subconsciously intentional. Perhaps the behavior specialist is also cognizant that the shopkeeper’s repeated mistakes in a process, which is most basic to the daily execution of his business, is actually an expression of desire. Maybe a yearning for attention in the form of a visit to a certain red brick building and an appointment with a firm, uniformed woman? My conclusion is that an interesting mental game had unfolded between the dominant specialist and the sycophantic shopkeeper. And it was a game he was most desirous of losing.
But on a larger scale, by extrapolating the shopkeeper’s behavior to the entire village, many of my questions are answered concerning the ability to run a secretive operation as large as the clinic in such a small town. The tentacles of the clinic’s deviant activities extend well beyond the forbidding walls of brick, affecting the behavior and economic well being of every citizen. Thus, it seems to be in everyone’s self interest to join in conspiring to weave the clinic’s shroud of secrecy
And to think the clinic has a file concerning the shopkeeper....
With the late hour and the time change resulting from my long journey, rest becomes essential. Despite my piqued curiosity, I do not have the energy to engage the shopkeeper in conversation. I return to my small hotel.
Chapter Five
Visit to the clinic
January 30, 1998
Mrs. W----- died several years ago. She was the founder of the clinic and as written built the business into a world -renowned center for treating socially deviant, young males and conforming them into useful subordinates.
The Directorship passed into the able hands of Dr. L------, in whose office I find myself on a bright, crisply cold, winter’s day.
The good Doctor is a fully trained psychiatrist, who I discover is not fully forth coming concerning her background. Research indicates that her past includes a hint of scandal and the threatened retraction of her medical license. But that all seems to have disappeared when a loyal customer of the clinic assuaged various medical and psychiatric boards. Charges were retracted and all action was tempered after Dr. L------ quickly volunteered to take over the duties of the then ailing Mrs. W-----. But I found it interesting that details of the alleged transgressions were completely purged from all records.
The Doctor is very young compared to her education level. In whatever scandal she found herself, she must have endeavored in earnest to rile the various boards the way she did. For most newly degreed medical types, it requires years to roil the community.
Yes, she’s young and handsome. Not beautiful in a “pin up” girl way, but pleasant to view; someone in whom you would place professional confidence. As she speaks of the clinic, it is evident that she is dedicated to her work. And I’m sure her looks and firm demeanor have brought to erection many a young, naked recruit, that is before their regimen began and they were taught the lessons of proper submissive protocol.
Our tour and conversation are replicated as follows.
“Our facility here is marvelously equipped for our pursuits, Doctor. Originally a sanitarium for the mentally ill, the Gestapo added certain refinements during the war including a most Gothic basement dug deep into the rock as a precaution against Allied bombing. Many of the Third Reich’s political rivals were detained and questioned here. Most subsequently became loyal Nazis.
“As a psychologist, I believe you’ll have great appreciation for our methods. I understand you’ve spent some time with one of our older, former protégés. Well, we’ve really been able to build nicely on the foundation Mrs. W----- set. We are now able achieve more thorough submission in a reduced period of time. Very important since it costs some $300 per day to keep a boy here.
“But I must say we couldn’t do it without Lady Constance. She graciously takes our rejects and pays more than a fair sum for them. It seems the more incorrigible they are, the more she enjoys completing their training. Her Caribbean facility must be most interesting. You know she has the most interesting procedure for banding the male appendage. It affords her and her staff an amazing degree of control..., but I digress.
“Her letter of introduction for you certainly got my attention. We don’t allow many casual visitors..., that is to say non customers. But for an acquaintance of Lady Constance, our doors are open.
“Shall we get some coffee? We can talk in the dining area.”
We leave the Doctor’s fourth floor office. As we proceed down a hallway toward the elevator, we pass several doors with thick padding. Each door has a red and green light above. There is an electronic number pad resembling that of a telephone to the right of each door. The Doctor notices my look of curiosity.
“Our sound proofed rehabilitation rooms. The electro-shock therapy gets a little noisy. And the key pads open the doors only to staff with the proper code.”
There is no opportunity to comment as the Doctor begins a practiced explanation of the clinic, its methods and procedures.
“We start now with two to three days of very thorough psychological and psychiatric testing including sensory deprivation. We learn everything there is to know about each boy. We concentrate on his phobias. And as you will see with our tour, our facility is equipped to indulge all the common fears. Fire. Heights. Claustrophobia. Snakes. Insects. Water.
“Once we learn which to apply, the candidate is most judiciously exposed to his greatest phobia. The procedure speeds the process of mentally breaking the will. You’d be amazed what a couple of days locked into a tight, dark box will do for a recalcitrant lad with claustrophobia. And the well trained specialist knows exactly the level of comfort she should offer, the proper words of support, the breaking point to which he should be brought..., if not beyond.
“When finished we have mental putty..., a very frightened and dependent male mind to be molded and formed to the will and whim of his specialist and later to his new owner, of course.
“And that’s another area in which we’ve begun to expand our services. Under Mrs. W-----, the clinic delivered a very basic untrained but submissive male. We have now begun to more specifically train to the prospective owner’s proclivity. As you’ll see, the entire third floor is dedic
ated to maid training for the feminized candidate. We converted a boring, sterile cafeteria into a well adorned dining area with our French maids-in-training serving beautifully prepared meals.”
The elevator arrives. We enter. She pushes the number three button. The door closes.
“A large portion of the second floor has been stocked with extensive exercise equipment. A survey indicated that many of our gay customers demand a buffed muscular physique. With the assistance of new technology, we have developed procedures for controlling the physically strong submissive, as we tone and sculpt their bodies to the wishes of the prospective owners.
“The remainder of the second floor is a dressage area. We can now train more specifically to the desires of the pony owner. Obviously we don’t have the facilities for full pony training. But our pony protégés now leave after much time spent in bridle and harness and with a good understanding of the basic equine commands.”
The elevator stops. We exit to a large, beautifully accoutered room equipped with heavy, darkly stained, wooden tables and large, comfortable chairs. Long, red velvet drapes cover the windows. The room appears to be a nineteenth century dining room, perhaps replicated from an historic hotel or from the mansion of a wealthy individual.
Several uniformed specialists occupy one table. Coffee is being served and the young women are apparently on break. A cute waitress approaches their table with pots of coffee and chocolate. She’s dressed as a French maid but with extremely high heels and a very short skirt.
But there is something about the way the maid/waitress moves that catches the eye. The steps are just a bit awkward and the sway of the hips is exaggerated. As I peer downward to better ascertain what is so incongruous about her motion, a flash of pink flesh meets the eye as the short skirt rustles against the thighs. With the following step the skirt swings left and the pink swings right. It is the tip of a rather lengthy penis.
The Constancia Compendium Page 9