The Constancia Compendium

by Chris Bellows

  “Hello, Imelda. I see your hormones are working nicely.”

  Is it my imagination or did Lady Constance’s fingers become moistened with her firm touch?

  The conversation returns to Big Fella and Dr. Helga expresses similar comments about his fine conditioning. At that point, Jasmine enters and Botana uses the diversion to excuse herself.

  The large black native woman is stunning in a simple skin-tight white halter-top with a matching short white skirt ending at mid thigh. Her stomach is exposed and the impressive ripple of abdominal muscles accentuates her every move. Nipples point through the thin material of the halter. Her skirt likewise highlights the sensual crack between her buttocks and the viewer is very much aware of her feminine power. Jasmine deftly snares a glass of wine before the porter can properly position himself to serve her. She also joins us and a pleasant discussion ensues.

  During our prandial talk, Lady Constance holds her glass of wine in her right hand and casually works Big Fella with her left. She massages the testicles, lifts the scrotal sac and gives it a tug, then slips her hand well under and manipulates the perineum.

  Big Fella emits an occasional moan, spasms a bit when a gonad receives a particularly aggressive pinch, and becomes amazingly erect considering the impeding band worn around the frenulum. As I watch, I conclude that experienced males have some way of mentally postponing full erection and thus the accompanying pain from the band’s teeth. And it seems that Lady Constance is cognizant of this acquired discipline. Therefore an interesting game appears to unfold while we talk. Big Fella very much enjoying the exquisite touch of his mistress yet mentally laboring to avoid full tumescence vs. the hand of Lady Constance...,working every known male erogenous zone in attempting to bring on the full erection which will make Big Fella cringe and writhe with the torment of the nasty penis band.

  Finally, as expected, Big Fella cries out and somehow wriggles his hips away from the devious feminine hand despite his restraining glove being well secured to the eye-hook.

  Lady Constance laughs.

  “Still a lot of life left in him,” she casually informs her dinner guests.

  “Here, Big Fella.”

  Our hostess slips the left strap of her dress from her shoulder. This exposes her breast. Firm, tanned, magnificently proportioned.

  She puts down her wineglass and guides his hooded head downward. Big Fella struggles. With his years of serving Lady Constance, he knows what treat awaits. But the single glove secures his arms and elbows high on the wall, and bowing his head requires the slow and painful stretching of numerous tendons and ligaments.

  “Come on now,” coos Lady Constance, and finally his lips and tongue meet the soft, warm flesh of her mammary. He indulges, first licking, then drawing the nipple into his mouth as best as his craned neck and painfully gloved arms will allow.

  Jasmine and Dr. Helga laugh. Big Fella’s efforts appear to be that of a male who, nearly dying of thirst, is finally afforded a drop of water placed just beyond his reach.

  “Such a good boy. You know Doctor, you’re going to need a pony boy over the next few days. Big Fella can take you about the island as well as any of my younger steeds. And he won’t require much encouragement.”

  ‘Encouragement’ being Lady Constance’s euphemism for strokes of the whip. I nod and silently sip more wine. This helpless, suckling male is huge and indeed well muscled, I think to myself. Therefore he is certainly physically capable of pulling one of the small vehicles. Mentally, he appears eager to serve. And Lady Constance has not only suggested that I travel about the island unescorted, I would in fact prefer it. I have already concluded that to interview some of these most interesting Bagandan women without the overbearing presence of Lady Constance is a necessity for my paper.

  My curiosity is provoked as to just how old Big Fella is. But with the hood and the hairless torso, it is difficult to judge his age. Deep down I was looking forward to working one of these human ponies into a good sweat and I hope he is not so old that it will be detrimental to his health.

  Lady Constance curtails Big Fella’s oral homage by summarily slipping the strap back over her shoulder. More conversation, more wine and the center of attention moves from the naked bound human pony. The group strays toward the center of the room and minutes later when I look over my shoulder, I see Big Fella dutifully remaining erect, standing on his toes in as comfortable a position as he can find. He remains absolutely motionless.

  Motamba emerges from the kitchen and announces dinner will be slightly delayed. Lady Constance appears unfazed, the wine apparently affecting her normal insistence on punctuality.

  “The stables, Doctor? There isn’t much time but I want to check on my team. You can revisit again tomorrow at your leisure.”

  Although she has posed the short trip as a question, I realize that on Constancia her whims are more akin to commands.

  We take full glasses. Dr. Helga and Jasmine elect to stay behind.

  After a brief walk through the pleasant night air, we arrive at a building set into a hill to the side of the house. The back of the low structure abuts high ground. The front opens to a level area, which has obviously been filled from the sand and coral excavated for the building. Being located on a down slope makes the stable invisible from the house, although when standing at the far edge of the level corral area, one can look back up the hill and see hints of Estovia through the thick shrubbery.

  Dim lights frame the stable building and it appears to be very wide. A woman greets us at the entrance to the far right side. I am introduced to Sumani, stable mistress and mother of Botana.

  “Just a quick look around, Sumani, and I want to check on my team.”

  We follow Sumani into the building. It is quiet and dimly lit.

  “Our ponies need much sleep,” explains Sumani. “They’re worked hard during the day whether pulling in harness or exercising on the treadmill.”

  Down the right wall, which is windowless since it backs up against the slope outside, is a row of ponies. They are hooded, collared and hanging in thick fur covered straps.

  We walk down the row toward the end passing pony after pony. Finally I recognize Lady Constance’s favorite team by their massive size.

  My hostess beams with pride looking at the helpless duo. They are asleep which is most curious since the straps hold them upright in a kneeling position. Both heads are covered with soft cloth hoods with a single opening for mouth and nose. Most of their weight is held by the wide straps, hooked behind them to the wall, each encircling the inside of the upper thigh, then returning to the wall hook. The collars, also wide and fur lined, are likewise hooked to the wall, and while serving to bear a small portion of their weight, mainly holding the pony upright. Their ankles are cuffed and drawn up behind them as are their wrists. These limbs are also hooked to the wall.

  The overall configuration is to place the pony in a kneeling position about two feet off the floor. Their somnolence indicates that their bonds are comfortable, and indeed I believe a close inspection would reveal that their weight is proportionally borne first by the thighs, then the ankles, wrists and lastly the neck collar.

  “These sleeping hoods are very thick,” explains Lady Constance. “No light can be seen, and much noise is muffled.”

  I turn back toward the entrance and count some ten ponies to our right. There appears to be half a dozen more to our left. Past them a wide arch leads to a separate room at the far end of the long stable building.

  “The exercise room, “ comments Sumani when she notices my gaze.

  Meanwhile, Lady Constance is brushing her hand over the exposed flesh of our starboard pony, although he may have been harnessed to the port side, it is impossible to discern the two. He stirs in reaction. Recognizing her touch, he attempts to lower his head, lips and tongue at the ready. Lady Constance smiles and glides her right hand to the penis, the testicles and then between the thighs.

  “Good. Botana has plugged him.”
r />   Her hand returns to view. In it is a rubber squeeze ball at the end of a flexible tube. She hands me her wineglass.

  “A little amusement before dinner, Doctor. And don’t be alarmed. It’s actually quite healthy for them.”

  Her left hand reaches over to the other giant steed. Between his thighs she finds another squeeze ball and pulls it forward.

  “Inflatable butt plugs. One of their favorite treats.”

  Lady Constance simultaneously gives the bulbs three quick squeezes. If the ponies were not fully alerted to her presence before, they certainly become so with their thighs pulling against the straps and heads wriggling.

  And then the penises begin their slow rise for their mistress. The shafts engorge. The tips expand and make a steady journey toward the stable ceiling.

  Lady Constance laughs. The wine stimulates the heady feeling of having the male organs perform like trained circus animals.

  Her goal is to achieve as much tumescence as possible without incurring the pain of the bands. Thus, the knowing hands give each bulb a fourth but much slower squeeze. She can apparently feel the back pressure of the ponies’ internal organs, most notably the prostate gland. And with her experience she knows precisely the timing and action needed to properly display the prodigious manhoods for her viewing pleasure.

  She pauses. The tips turn from pink to red to purple.

  “Wriggle for me.”

  Both phalli respond bringing another laugh from the Queen of Constancia and another slow squeeze from each hand.

  “We’ll strike fluid soon,” she announces with pleasant enthusiasm.

  Within a minute, beads of prostatic fluid ooze from the urethra. This seems to provide a signal to the prescient Lady. She releases the bulbs and they gently swing just below the scrotums. She retrieves her wine.

  “With the inflatable plug massaging the prostate, they experience a very slow and subtle pleasure. They’ll squirm a bit, trying to add to the manipulation of the little gland and bring themselves to ejaculation, but it isn’t possible. I don’t allow that. Since they’re kept chaste, the gland does need stimulation. But I decide when and how.”

  The need for a sip of wine curtails her explanation. We stand and watch. The wet mammoth shafts begin to reflect in the dim stable lights as clear fluid flows with more abundance. The ponies wriggle and squirm as Lady Constance suggested, and their actions do indeed seem to increase the flow. And my dominant hostess is most sanguine in casually standing by, watching her prize team move about in their bonds.

  Finally, she announces it’s time for dinner. But before leaving, her right hand lifts her pleated dress and explores between her thighs. Her fingers reappear and she then coats the nose and lips of the right pony with her feminine essence. The left pony receives the same treatment and the aroma of her sex seems to spur renewed writhing within their bonds as we turn toward the exit.

  Sumani stands near the door and bids us good night.

  “Remove the plugs in another fifteen minutes, Sumani. Their glands are quite full.”

  Sumani nods and smiles.

  Chapter Eleven

  Dinner is served.

  Lady Constance, Dr. Reinhold, Jasmine and I sit at a table for four set off to the side of a huge dining room. By my estimation, a formal seating for thirty and possibly more is feasible in the modestly furnished room. But tonight we are casual with the two porters scurrying about and Motamba occasionally stepping from the kitchen to obtain feedback and receive special requests.

  It is odd enough to be served by two naked males. But even stranger are the chairs and what antics take place unseen under the table.

  The seat of the large, padded chairs are notched in the front. And when Imelda kneels and crawls under the table I quickly learn the purpose of the odd shape. It is indented to accommodate her neck. Thus when Dr. Helga hikes her skirt and sits, Imelda’s head disappears between the Doctor’s thighs and under her garment.

  The notch in Jasmine’s chair is already filled. Through conversational tidbits during dinner I subsequently learn the naked lad kneeling before it is a new acquisition and Jasmine has volunteered to teach him the art of proper oral servitude.

  Lady Constance’s notch seat is initially unoccupied. But within a moment of her seating herself, porter number two enters with another naked human form in tow. ‘It’ is close enough in appearance to be Ming’s twin, Asian with the same lithe body, underdeveloped breasts, child-like buttocks and the baffling patch covering the pudendum. ‘She’ is led by a leash attached to a nose ring which the porter hands to Lady Constance who in turn guides the form under the table and into the requisite position in front of her chair.

  A dinner discussion of little consequence unfolds. At one point there is a brief silence and the pleasant sound of wet tongues being applied to moist flesh can be heard, where upon Lady Constance first inquires about my length of stay and schedule then responds to my reply.

  “Tomorrow I have many business calls to make and must meet with the captain of the yacht,” she suggests. “Botana will have Big Fella harnessed and waiting for you. He’ll take verbal commands if you’re uncomfortable utilizing the whip. You may wish to visit the village. And the blacksmith shop will pique your interest, I’m sure.”

  Yes. The very notion of having a ‘blacksmith’ employed in the twentieth century deserves investigation, I think to myself. And as written, I have pondered about the Bagandans and their living arrangements. Lady Constance’s comment serves to answer that quandary. But a visit to the area is certainly in order.

  Dessert arrives. Porter number two serves coffee to Lady Constance. She playfully grasps his testicles and squeezes, challenging him to pour without spilling.

  “I’m going to need milk. Good boys get to serve it.”

  With her comment, Dr. Helga shifts in her chair and Imelda appears. Her wet chin and nose evidence that her oral ministrations were well received. An unabashed Dr. Reinhold wipes the moisture from the plump girl’s chin with her napkin. With every motion, Imelda’s many bells ring.

  “Lady Constance first. Hands on head.”

  The thin leash is handed to the porter who leads the voluptuous girl toward our hostess. There she obsequiously bends at the waist over Lady Constance’s place setting, where upon the porter gently palms her left breast and slowly draws his fingers down to the long pointed nipple. A stream of milk erupts and lightens the coffee placed before the regal lady of the house.

  “One more.”

  The porter repeats his motion, the nipple gives up more white liquid and both Imelda and the porter move to Jasmine.

  “She’s lactating nicely, Doctor. Your hormone treatment is very effective.”

  A smile of pride appears on the good Doctor’s face.

  I watch in amazement as Imelda is moved about the table and slowly milked. And I detect a twitching of the porter’s tightly banded penis. The sensuous duty of stroking the overflowing breasts even arouses the forcibly emasculated male.

  I decline coffee and with it the curious delectation of watching Imelda’s nipples spurt their essence. But the Lady Constance and Jasmine have a second cup. And when Imelda slips past my chair a whiff of feminine aroma causes me to look down to where juices of arousal stream down her thighs and reflects in the light. Dr. Helga notices my observation.

  “The lactation and the permanent Ben Wa balls excite her. She’s a very randy girl.”

  An after dinner wine is served and the abundance of alcohol begins to take its affect. Lady Constance issues a command that the table be completely cleared which the porters execute in seconds.

  “Cushions.”

  With that simple edict porter number one rushes to the parlor and returns with the demanded objects.

  “A pint,” she barks in a challenging tone. Jasmine nods.

  “She hasn’t done that yet and she’s lightened lots of coffee,” cautions Dr. Helga.

  But Lady Constance just smiles wryly. Without request, porter number
two places a bowl on the table.

  “Up, Imelda.”

  The humiliated girl steps onto a chair then crawls atop the table. Without a word she kneels on the cushions and lets her amazingly plump breasts hang over the bowl. The silhouette of her nipples shows they have been stretched and constricted by the two small rings.

  “Hands,” reminds Dr. Helga, and she instantly places them behind her head giving Lady Constance unfettered access to her mammaries.

  “Knees apart and keep those bells quiet.”

  She complies. When properly positioned the tintinnabulation ceases.

  “Let’s see how well you’ve developed.”

  Lady Constance’s fingers and touch are much more adapted to the task at hand. She softly pinches each nipple between thumb and fore finger and ever so slightly draws down. Imelda’s white milk squirts and splatters into the bowl. She moans and closes her eyes. Lady Constance repeats the action. This time a larger squirt. Jasmine’s hands move under the table apparently guiding her oral subjugant to areas needing attention. Dr. Helga looks on, admonishing Imelda to hold her chest higher and keep the bells silent.

  “She’s quite fertile. Have you tried feathering her? Sometimes clitoral stimulation increases the flow.”

  “Not yet, Lady Constance. With the Ben Wa balls constantly moving about in her vagina, she is usually quite aroused.”

  It is interesting to watch Lady Constance apply such fervor to a task requiring such a soft touch. But over time her fingers slowly work and the bowl slowly fills. Imelda has difficulty maintaining her position. It becomes part of the sensuous torment to make her hold still while her thighs spasm in orgasmic reaction to the slow forced lactation and her back muscles strain to hold up her torso, weighted by the huge female glands hanging over the bowl. An occasional tinkle is heard, otherwise she stays amazing still while her glands are worked.

  “Such a good girl. We have many ponies here, but you’re our only cow, Imelda.”

  Finally, Lady Constance’s fingers draw very little liquid. The look of pleasure on Imelda’s face fades. Her nipples have been worked for some fifteen minutes and the bowl brims.