The Constancia Compendium

by Chris Bellows

  And so I finally understand the banding procedure and its pernicious effect on male potency. In a simple and quick procedure, banded males cede their ability to achieve tumescence to the divine and dominant Lady Constance through her wickedly deviant conspirators, Jasmine and Dr. Helga. For his remaining life, the Danish lad will feel utter sexual frustration. The building of hormones, the urge of the penis to tumefy, the desire to masturbate or copulate, will fill him with unfulfilled desire. And all with a stern, authoritative female standing over him, deciding when and how, if ever, he will be permitted to spill his seed in some humiliating act of debasement.

  The Danish lad calms from his reaction to the trauma. We all watch in silence. Me with insatiable curiosity. Jasmine, Dr. Helga, and Lady Constance with a sense of finality in completing a job well done. Naomi with her typical Bagandan disdain and callousness concerning the male. For her, it is just another day of work.

  Finally Naomi steps forward, bends and adjusts a lever on the metal frame holding the harness. Her action unlocks the wheels and Naomi begins pushing the frame with her patient attached out of the operating room. Jasmine assists by pulling the frame and the trio exit.

  “I insisted that the hoods be removed for the banding. I want every one of my males to watch and fully understand that he has been altered by the hands of females. It is a fitting beginning to a long stay on Constancia. Something they never forget. Mental subjugation is as important as physical.”

  Lady Constance and I follow the rolling frame into the dark storage room and toward the ramp. As we once again traverse the room, I shudder in the ominous darkness and seclusion. The Danish lad had yelled loudly and animatedly thrashed about. But he found himself in a chamber cut deep into coral rock, in a building with thick walls, on an island unknown to most of the world, ruled by the woman who casually watched while his manhood was permanently altered to manifest her control. His protests were fruitless. And I hazard to guess that his downward spiral to complete subjugation will be swift.

  We step out the door of the medical building and I am surprised to see that the sun is disappearing. It is warm, despite the early setting of the winter sun. Lady Constance retrieves her shawl and wraps it about her shoulders. She quickly removes the ponies’ blindfolds, unhooks the penises and supervises the emptying of their bladders.

  “Time for cocktails, Doctor.”

  She reattaches the male appendages, joins me in the chariot and snaps the whip. I am amazed to see that small parallel lights on each side of the road guide us. The lights illuminate automatically about 30 yards ahead as we move along, and presumably turn off after we pass. This makes the final leg of our journey effortless, even in the failing daylight. I am once again impressed with the financial investment made in Lady Constance’s deviant tropical paradise.

  In the cooler evening air, the ponies seem to run with renewed vigor. I estimate that they’ve been run under the whip for some five miles over the course of the day, and I am amazed with their stamina. Although their performance is admirable, Lady Constance flicks away relentlessly, seeming to enjoy the sensation of the chariot shuddering in response to the painful nips to the penis and scrotum.

  We quickly reach the beach road and turn right, which takes us up a hill away from the ocean. After a short distance, the main road comes into view and Lady Constance directs the chariot to the right. With a rapid combination of strokes we accelerate for a few hundred yards. A tug to the left directs the chariot unto the familiar road up to Estovia. Lady Constance cracks her implement of pain with particular force to ensure her team is sprinting at full speed as we approach the porte-cochere. She accepts nothing less than absolute maximum effort and her ponies know this and accelerate accordingly.

  As Lady Constance pulls on the scrotal cords, porter number one steps out the front door. He has seen the road lights blink on and greets his mistress with a cashmere sweater and a beseeching look in apparent wait for her command.

  “Have Botana take the team to the stable. She should inform the grooms to sponge them down, warm water this time. They’ve been run hard. Extra feed and have them plugged. Tell her to use inflatable plugs. Maybe I’ll amuse myself after cocktails.”

  The porter nods as Lady Constance dons the sweater. When she moves to the front of her prize team they seem to be very disappointed with her covered breasts. But before leaving, she diddles their erections and smiles.

  “Good boys.”

  Turning to me.

  “It’s 5:00 p.m., Doctor. Let’s have cocktails at 7:00. Meanwhile I’ll have champagne sent to your room. You can get to know Ming a little better. We’re very open about proclivities here...”

  She lets her comment hang as she abruptly turns and walks to the house. She is not being deliberately impolite. In her mind my audience with the regal woman of Constancia is over for now. And I do have much to record...

  Chapter Eight

  When I return to my room I check on Ming. I open the door to ‘her’ closet and she is kneeling facing me as if she has spent the entire day anticipating my return. She smiles most submissively and asks to use my bathroom. It is then that I realize the door can only be opened from the outside and she has been imprisoned for hours.

  Her chain is long enough to reach the facilities and a furtive peek through the door (which she does not close) reveals that she squats to urinate. The patch can either be pulled up or the flow streams through it or under it.

  I announce that I will shower and point back to the closet. She obediently shuffles back but the disappointment of being dismissed shows.

  It has been a long day. I intend after ablutions to relax and write. But the amazing tour overwhelms my thoughts. Just standing under the large showerhead and being doused with a deluge of hot water brings my thoughts to the power plant. I picture the cruelly bound and naked males sweating as they labor by slowly pushing in circles and bear the pain and resulting marks of Salina’s cane. I cannot help but ponder how many turns of the capstan and generator are required to produce enough electricity to power the water pumps for my shower. A woman such as Lady Constance must indeed be extremely dominant to live in comfort while hapless males endeavor around the clock to ensure her comfort.

  I put away the thoughts by planning my three-day stay and wondering how much I have yet to see. The stables must be interesting. And where do all the Bagandans live?

  When I step out of the shower I am shocked to see Ming kneeling on the bathroom floor with two large fluffy towels resting on her upturned palms. I obviously did not latch her closet door and now stand naked before her. She stares downward in a most subservient pose, seeming to realize that I am angry. But I temper any reaction by reminding myself that she is fulfilling her well-trained role. And the encounter does serve to break the ice somewhat, the two of us being completely naked. When I reach for a towel, I feel somewhat obligated to gently pinch one of her puffy nipples in a subtle thank you. This results in a smile with both pink effeminate nubs immediately erecting in response to my touch.

  I dry myself and let her observe. She has seen many of Lady Constance’s guests in more compromising positions than mine, I remind myself. But when done, modesty dictates that I don a robe and once again show her to her closet, this time making sure the door is latched.

  Porter number two knocks. He silently enters with a tray containing an ice bucket with a bottle of very expensive champagne and a small dish of fresh strawberries.

  He leaves and I finally have time to write.

  Chapter Nine

  The champagne has a wonderfully soothing effect. That, and I suppose the day’s exposure to the sun, slow my pen. After an hour, and three glasses of golden effervescence, my thoughts return to Ming. Having a naked young woman, secured in my closet and humbly kneeling in wait for my command, is distracting.

  I concede to compassion and open the closet door. Ming is kneeling in what appears to be a required pose, head bowed, knees widely parted, arms resting on her thighs with pal
ms up. When she humbly raises her eyes to look at me, I motion her into the room and point to the padded leather footstool.

  She seems to smile as she walks to the familiar piece of furniture and anticipating my wishes she kneels, places her abdomen on the center, and arches her back thus placing her buttocks in a most inviting position. She moves her hands to the back of her head, leaving her underdeveloped breasts hanging over the far edge and thrust toward the floor.

  Is it the hour? Her experience telling her that naked, robed guests imbibing spirits are given to frolic with her nubile body? Or perhaps just my look of earnest yearning as I silently point to, what for her, is an emblem of torment, yet for most a simple footstool. What prompts such a servile reaction?

  Inexplicably, I return to the small writing table where I again endeavor to record the day’s events. Am I being cruel to Ming by not indulging myself in some form of carnal pleasure? Perhaps this is the most unbearable form of torture for the masochistic toy..., doing nothing. Letting her imagination run while she faces the wall draped with Lady Constance’s implements of pain. It is most probably an encounter she has not faced before, and after a moment’s pause, I rise and gently smooth my hand over her child like buttocks. She flinches.

  I laugh and find myself parting her cheeks, my curiosity piqued. But alas, the bottom of her patch is well secured to a small piercing through her perineum, foiling my efforts to examine what is beneath and determine her true gender with finality. But the pink rose of her rear portal invitingly unfolds hinting at extensive penetration, and I am pleasantly surprised to see that it is well lubricated.

  A knock on the door comes with porter number one calling out that cocktails will be served in twenty minutes. Punctiliousness should be afforded to the world’s most dominant women and I curtail my examination to dress, cautioning Ming to remain positioned.

  When properly accoutered for aperitifs and dinner, I peer into the mirror in a final, self-imposed verification of my attire. Over my shoulder is the reflection of Ming and I find I can no longer resist. She is too inviting and the wall ominously beckons. I yield to my urges and select some implements. Returning to the kneeling subjugant, I again slowly part her cheeks and slide a huge, evilly shaped rubber phallus into her puckered but lubricated rectum. She moans. She is well impaled but too experienced and disciplined to protest her discomfort. A pair of nipple clamps appropriately weighted with free swinging baubles finishes my decorative endeavors, and with the satisfaction of hearing a whimper and seeing tears slowly form, I step to the door, admonishing her to remain motionless as I close it behind me.

  Chapter Ten

  I arrive in the parlor just in time to see Botana complete some small details in securing an enormous male to one of the ubiquitous eye hooks embedded in the smooth concrete wall. He is wearing a hood, which covers his entire head, ears and eyes included, except a single opening for the mouth and nose for breathing. His only other garment, if it may be so termed, is a single leather glove, holding his arms painfully close together behind his back. He quietly stands on a block of wood.

  Botana is wearing a simple cotton throw-over dress, which gracefully hangs from her shoulders and disappointedly conceals what I know to be the delightful form of a native ingénue. We briefly engage in conversation and I learn that the male is an experienced steed, at one time Lady Constance’s favorite. The hood is referred to as a training hood, leaving the wearer without vision and if desired impaired hearing if the ears are muffled underneath.

  “This type of hood is used to teach the pony to react solely to the pull of the reins and the sting of the whip, not to what he sees or hears,” offers Botana. “When not in harness, we keep the pony hooded like this to ensure docility and reliance on his trainer.”

  While she speaks, she is standing on a small step stool and is testing and closely examining a simple but strong cord. It connects the top of the single glove to the eye-hook. My eyes move downward as she works to see that his nipples bear the familiar circular shields, that the flesh near both hips has been riveted, and that his flaccid penis is huge, pierced through the urethra and banded. His hairless pink scrotum encases two testicles the size of eggs, which leisurely swing between his knees. Two testicle rings serve to separate the sac into the distinctive “W” configuration, but no cords are attached. If the pink bag has been riveted on the bottom, it cannot be determined due to the angle of my view.

  Botana notices my shock at the position and size of the gonads.

  “The years of whipping take their toll. Over time the testicles swell. That’s why ‘Big Fella’ has mostly been retired from actively pulling carts.”

  Botana steps down. Apparently satisfied with her handiwork she leans over and removes the block of wood from under ‘Big Fella’s’ feet. The silent giant groans and his lifeless form begins to move about with the tension suddenly applied to his single glove. His feet thrash a bit until he finally finds a comfortable position standing on his toes.

  Botana smiles with his struggles and tenderly pats his swinging reproductive organs.

  “Calm down, Big Fella. Lady Constance will be here soon.”

  With that she reaches to a nearby table for a red ribbon and two small matching roses. She ties the ribbon around the flaccid manhood and then incredibly pins each rose to a nipple. Quickly and callously each sensitive areola of this docile giant is punctured through the very tip so that his very flesh is utilized to hold in place the fragrant roses.

  Big Fella cries out and once again thrashes in his simple but painful bonds. Botana merely dabs away a little blood and smiles.

  “You look very nice, Big Fella. Lady Constance hasn’t seen you in a long time. Be sure to please her.”

  No sooner said than the regal Queen of Constancia enters the parlor. She immediately claps her hands and the two porters appear bearing trays. Hors d’oeuvres and wine are served.

  “Oh, Botana, how nice. Big Fella!”

  She strides across the room. Her raven hair has been freed of its ponytail and the lights shine from it as it brushes her bare shoulders. She wears a simple white slip with straps. At the hips it becomes pleated and the fabric rustles about her knees as she approaches her bound and naked charge. The slightest of bounces about her chest indicates that she is sans brassiere and there are no detectable seams, which would hint at any other undergarments, for that matter.

  “I haven’t seen him in so long. He’s been kept quite trim.”

  Botana beams with pride as Lady Constance inspects her former prized pony. In varied locations, she pinches his flesh in a very practiced manner, evidently gauging the body fat. She then more deeply kneads the thighs, then bends for a feel of the straining calve muscles. Finally her left hand grasps his right buttock and firmly squeezes while her right fingers gently diddle the underside of the banded ribbon entwined penis.

  “Katrina has kept him well exercised.”

  As she speaks her deft handling has its effect. Big Fella indeed becomes a big fellow as his phallus stiffens and begins to rise.

  “And he remembers my touch, how nice.”

  She steps back and retrieves a glass from the tray which porter number two has been patiently holding to her side. Once she has imbibed and nods approvingly, I am offered a glass.

  Dr. Reinhold enters. She has discarded her medical garb and wears a frumpy cocktail dress. Still it is an improvement. But my attention is quickly drawn from her attire to what follows her into the room. At the end of a leash is a naked woman, Caucasian, hairless including her head, and covered with piercings. Finely gauged rings penetrate her skin in every conceivable area and attached to each is a tiny bell. Thus her presence is announced with a cacophony of rings as each of her steps jiggles her piercings.

  Her leash emanates from a chain at her abdomen. There it is threaded through a large ring piercing the lower belly and continues down to her pudendum.

  Lady Constance and I return Dr. Helga’s greetings as porter number two rushes to serve h
er a glass of wine.

  The leashed woman is Rubenesque. But her plumpness is well proportioned and firm. And as expected in such a female, her mammaries are huge. Unlike Lady Constance’s and Jasmine’s, the breasts are pendulous and swing heavily with each step. Her nipples protrude about an inch and a half from the main body of the mammary. My eyes detect a small ring at the base, which seems to constrict each pink areola, forcing the flesh to point forward.

  Dr. Reinhold takes a glass from the tray, gives the leash a playful shake and moves to join us standing about Big Fella. With the slight motion of the leash, the woman seems to jump, again commencing numerous ringing sounds. As the duo approach I begin to understand her reaction. Her genitalia have been zipped closed with a thin chain threaded through small rings penetrating her labia. The chain also passes through a clitoral ring. It is to this chain that the leash is attached which obviously serves to greatly exaggerate the feeling of any tension on the thin leather strand. This woman is one obedient female when so secured, I think to myself. She stares at Dr. Helga and tries to anticipate her every move in order to minimize the torment of tension on the leash.

  As she crosses the room her buttocks come to view. Large. Perfectly rounded. A thick layer of flesh covering nicely molded fat. I have been told such a thick layer of epidermis over the gluteus maximus makes the cheeks very receptive to the cane. And sure enough, faint stripes can be detected.

  “I brought Imelda for coffee later.”

  Imelda is now standing close by and having finished examining her more meretricious parts, my attention turns to the head and face.

  As stated, she is hairless but has been incredibly depilated to the point where her eyebrows have been removed. The affect is that Imelda appears to be a sordid ball of soft flesh which has been randomly pierced and penetrated with rings and attached bells. She is Dr. Helga’s pin cushion.

  Lady Constance reaches out and pinches one of her pencil point nipples in greeting.