“It must be at least a pint, wouldn’t you say Doctor?”
Dr. Helga responds with a condescending nod.
As always, Lady Constance prevails at her own challenge.
With the exhibition over, I excuse myself. When I turn back at the doorway to bid a final good night, I see the two porters are lifting an exhausted Imelda from the table. She has been drained, physically, and in more ways than one...
Chapter Twelve
I open the door to my room and I surprise myself with the sight of the naked, plugged and clamped Ming. I have forgotten but quickly recall my relatively intemperate actions before leaving for dinner. As commanded, the minx has not moved her boyish torso one-inch.
She turns and looks at me through tear filled eyes. The anguish of the weighted clamps has slowly built and her look beseeches me for relief.
The hour is late and the house is large and silent. The few occupants are busy with various carnal delights. There is no one to hear, see, record, relate, or speak of anything that I do. I surrender to my urges.
I slip out of my clothes and into a large fluffy bathrobe supplied by my hostess. Perhaps emboldened by the alcohol, or just allowing my curiosity to prevail, I straddle Ming and sit atop the small of her back facing to the front. The well-padded footstool absorbs my weight with minimum added discomfort to the Asian ingénue. Pushing aside the folds of the robe, the skin of my buttocks and thighs rest against her smooth warm flesh. I reach down and toy with the tormented nipples, then quickly release the clamps. As the weights fall to the floor, she screams with the agony of the blood rushing back to the most sensitive of organs. She bucks. Gyrates her hips. I find myself riding a young bull. Feeling her muscles react and contract beneath the smooth warmth of her flesh is exquisite.
Gently I pinch each nipple between thumb and forefinger. They are hot, with the circulation rushing to the small forlorn area.
You’re going to give up your secret, my sweet, I think to myself, and I once again command her to remain still.
Pausing to extend the pleasure derived from my proximity to her warmth, I eventually force myself to arise. A nearby lamp is easily adjusted to better illuminate her stuffed backside and a small pillow from a reading chair will assist my endeavors.
I return and cruelly use the large phallus emanating from her rectum as a handle to force her buttocks and lower belly from the stool. I slide the pillow under her hips, give the phallus a firm twist as a reminder of my control and push her back to the stool. Her saucy backside is now raised and angled upwards toward the light. I resume sitting astride her lower back, this time facing toward her feet. I lean forward and push her thighs even further apart.
The patch will reveal what it so furtively covers. The lamp shines to offer an unimpeded view of the bottom of the patch and its attachment to a small ring piercing her perineum. It is thinly gauged and can easily be pried open as are the other rings closely securing the patch to the pudendum. I smile to myself. With the tip of a simple pen the rings can be spread and Ming’s gender revealed.
Ming begins to perceive my intent. She protests. I give the huge phallus another twist and my message is received. She demurs and seems to resign herself to my exploration. But I again stand. This time I move to the wall of implements and open the drawer of a dresser underneath. As expected, neatly arranged within, are an assortment of cuffs, chains, cords, hoods and other items. All very comfortable and designed for long term bondage. I select a combination of collar with wrist cuffs. I retrieve a spreader bar from the wall. Ming will soon be able to protest loudly and thrash about and it will be in vain.
It takes a minute to have her immobilized. I have observed many skilled practitioners of bondage but have little such skill of my own. The collar first, then the hands are pulled back, and with arms bent at the elbow, I secure the wrists into the cuffs. That done, the spreader bar is attached to her one ankle cuff. My lack of experience shows with the need for a second ankle cuff. But the drawer is well stocked and Ming’s free ankle is soon cuffed and her slender legs are spread. Widely.
I step back. She is helplessly bound but my evening of imbibing spirits induces me to adjust and tighten. The straps to the wrist cuffs are shortened. The bar is widened. Tears form with the forced contortion.
Now to business. My brief bag yields a pen. But I spy a more suitable device. A long neglected staple remover, tossed into the bag months before during a long research project, rattles about at the bottom. I smile with my serendipity.
Returning to Ming, I straddle and sit. The staple remover wedges open the first ring. I pull up on the phallus and my little room servant lifts her hips. Two more rings appear, left and right, a little higher on the patch. They open easily but I take time to avoid distorting their shape. Other rings pierce the outer circumference of the pubes. But I hesitate to loosen all. Much effort will be required to close them after my examination and it is already late into the evening.
I slip the patch off the bottom of the open rings and fold up the coarse cloth. Pink flesh comes to view, but related to what organ? I lift further and slip two fingers underneath. Ming shudders and tries to wriggle about, but my amateurish efforts with the bonds suffices to hold her in place. It feels like the very loose labia minora of a mature women, only there is no moisture and no vaginal opening. And then my fingers encounter the determining organ..., a very pusillanimous penis! I quickly conclude the smooth loose flesh is a scrotal sac, but where are the testicles?
I stand in shock and lift Ming by ‘her’ collar. Commanding “her” to remain motionless, I now perform a frontal inspection, holding up the bottom of the patch as far as it will go.
Yes. I confirm for myself that Ming is an underdeveloped boy!
On the wall is a rather impressive cane. I place Ming back on the footstool grab the ultimate instrument of pain and begin. A stroke to the right buttock. A stroke to the left. Ming screams. As much time as he has spent on the stool, I doubt if he has been the recipient of crisp strokes applied by someone with purpose. And my purpose is disclosed as his tears flow and he begs for me to relent. Ming will tell me his story. I feel betrayed, tricked, flimflammed by this gender subterfuge and the alcohol serves to heighten my resolve to learn of its origin.
With a third stroke, quickly followed by a fourth, his story is divulged in accented, in halting English, as he chokes away the pain...,
Ming was born in a Southeast Asian country controlled by the most brutal and controlling of dictators. He is a descendant of people whose remote tribal village continuously resisted the dictator’s authority. After many guerilla type raids on the dictator’s property, the village in final retaliation was attacked and ransacked by government troops. Every tribe member, women and children included, was captured and relocated to a compound, essentially a prison camp, where they became slaves of the dictator.
Within a few years, the dictator died and his widow assumed power. But she was probably even more cruel. It seems she was concerned with possible rife among her growing captive tribe and she issued a most interesting edict. To stifle the growth of the tribe’s numbers she mandated that newborn males be rendered impotent utilizing a very simple ancient Chinese practice. In their formative years, their testicles were pushed up under the epidermis of their lower abdomen. This curtails the natural development and flow of hormones and effectively truncates development as a male.
Ming, I learn, is close to thirty years old and few of his male hormones ever flowed to enable the penis to mature. The testicles did not produce testosterone and sperm. It is amazing to think that as a result of the gentle push of fingers at the optimum age, his gender was neutralized.
But to complete the story, the dictator’s widow became sexually enthralled with many of her more effeminate appearing eunuchs. Selecting many to become her personal maids, she was known to demand extensive oral service from them. Cosmetically she took particular interest in having them appear as females, insisting they wear rouge, mascara, eyelin
er, etc. They also dressed for public appearances in sordid female attire. All this further served to emasculate the psyche of the various tribe members. The knowledge that those who would have become fierce warriors were instead made to serve bound and naked in the palace of the wicked woman, kneeling between her thighs in complete servitude, was most disheartening to the tribe. The policy was not only proven to be effective for the ruler but was executed with zeal.
After a number of years, the concerns of the evil ruler diminished. She slowed with age and found she had more underdeveloped males than she could possibly abuse. And that is when Lady Constance came into the picture. With her immense wealth, she enticed the aging ruler to part with a number of her curious servants. And when the ruler was assured that their dreary lives of complete subjugation would continue, on an island thousands of miles from her territory, she promised a continuous supply.
And so I learned Ming’s story. Born male, he never spent a day fulfilling a masculine role. So I ponder whether my quick conclusion that his gender has been camouflaged is correct. He is better described as genderless. And his abject masochism is also explained. He has been trained to serve and accept the whip from a very early age.
I decide to take my chances. With the possibility of incurring the wrath of Lady Constance, I stand Ming up and again pick up the staple remover. The remaining rings, three on the right, three on the left and on the top, four across the lower abdomen, are opened.
I carefully push each ring out of the flesh. The patch falls away. Ming is completely exposed. Strangely, he is embarrassed. I laugh uncontrollably.
The smallest penis I have seen protrudes about half an inch above a hairless, empty little scrotal sac. Ming becomes flushed. For him, he has been stripped naked before a stranger, and his humiliation is apparent. I stand and watch him squirm under my gaze.
The day has been long. The flow of adrenaline wanes with the uncovering of Ming’s secret. The alcohol is pushing me toward a state of repose.
In a last diabolical act, I find a hood amongst the evil items in the drawer. I push the well-restrained Ming onto the footstool and slip the hood over his head. A cord is located and I tie one end to an eye-hook on the back of the hood. The other end I loop around the huge phallus, still deeply penetrating his rectum. I pull. His head is forced back. I pull again. He arches his back. With a final tug I tie the cord tightly around the protruding rubber device.
Have a good night, Ming, I think to myself. I slumber heavily.
Chapter Thirteen
Mornings in the Caribbean are delightful. The sun shines. Birds sing. Soft breezes, neither cool nor warm, waft through my room. But when I arise and see Ming meekly struggling in his bonds, my evening of alcohol and exploration jolt me to full consciousness.
I contritely release the spreader bar and before I can untie the cord and hood, he is blindly trying to find his way to the bathroom. I order him to pause and then remove the covering, where upon he hurriedly moves to the adjoining bathroom, dragging his ankle chain along. Despite the fact that the patch no longer impedes normal urination, he squats on the toilet to relieve himself with hands submissively placed on top of his hand.
Knowing that he is without gender diminishes my bashfulness concerning my own nudity. And after he finishes his business I drag him into the shower with me and have him soap and wash my body with a soft sponge. He is very well trained.
Later as I dress, there is a knock on the door. I am wearing enough garments to answer without infringing on my modesty and Naomi steps in carrying a medical bag.
“Morning ablutions for Ming, Doctor,” she announces matter-of-factly. “And his hormone shots.”
Although he has just showered, Ming’s scheduled morning ablutions are more involved. As I finish dressing, Naomi drags Ming back into the bathroom and quickly spears his buttocks with numerous hypodermic needles. Next she sets up a rubber bag with various connecting tubes. It seems Ming receives a colonic cleansing every morning and I now understand how his backside came to be well lubricated when I inserted the phallus the day before. When Naomi notices that he is no longer covered by the patch, she giggles like a child at the sight of his tiny penis.
I depart for breakfast and hear Ming protesting as Naomi inflates the bardex enema nozzle. The rubber bag is stretched with the weight of the warm water and awaits Naomi’s simple twist of a valve. I conclude Ming will be occupied for a good part of the morning. I leave, eager to see the island.
A table beside the swimming pool awaits and porter number one serves a light breakfast of Danish and fruit. His buttocks bear the tell tale stripes of some instrument of correction. The dinner party obviously progressed well into the night therefore experience tells me that Lady Constance will probably not join me. The immensely wealthy don’t seem to face the morning well, and when porter number two arrives to pour more coffee, I see his backside is similarly decorated. The activities must have continued until dawn.
It is just as well that I am left on my own. After all, it is difficult to get lost on a small island and as written, I prefer to further investigate on my own. So I gulp down the dregs of my coffee and walk through the house to the porte-cochere.
There, as promised, kneels Big Fella, hitched to a small cart, hooded and blindfolded. Botana is attending to him. She is once again naked and seems to be taking great delight in laving his flesh with lotion.
“Good morning, Doctor. We’re very careful to cover our ponies with sun oil. Big Fella is wonderful to work. He erects so beautifully.”
Indeed he does. Botana has paid particular attention to applying the slippery lotion to his penis and scrotum. His penis ring is secured to an abdominal piercing and is as fully tumefied as his band permits. As noted, he seems to be able to avoid the pain of the teeth.
But I also notice that Botana’s breasts glisten with moisture. The lascivious lass has encouraged Big Fella to service her fine young nipples, emulating Lady Constance. The training starts early on Constancia, I think to myself. But then my eyes casually move to her mid section and similar traces left by Big Fella’s mouth and tongue reflect both the sunlight and my pony’s oral skills.
And I realize how well instilled are the elements of control and domination at such an early age. It is not the forced oral servitude per se that so boggles the mind, it is Botana’s level of comfort with it.
The vibrant native girl spends a few moments explaining rudimentary cart skills. Unlike the chariot, the rider sits in a single seat behind the pony. The configuration reminds me of a rickshaw except the pull poles are attached to the pony’s waist belt instead of being held in his hands. A nasty single strand whip stands at the ready. Hopefully, I will not need it. After my evening with Ming, I am frightened by my own diabolism, howsoever induced by drink.
Botana removes Big Fella’s blindfold. He stands without command and I verbally express my intention to visit the village. Ostensibly spoken to Botana, Big Fella understands my desired destination and without need for tugs on the reins or snaps of the whip, he leans into his harness and the cart rolls. I am grateful for his experience. I surmise that a younger pony would continue kneeling and be the recipient of numerous crisp and painful strokes before my intentions were forcibly perceived.
And it is such a beautiful morning for an excursion. Thankfully, I can sit back and enjoy the scenery as Big Fella seems determined to work himself into a lather.
I hold the reins in order to appear experienced and so they don’t tangle in Big Fella’s feet. But otherwise Big Fella is controlling speed and direction. Down the hill, right turn onto the main road and he pours on the speed. The cart is lighter than the chariot and with one passenger it appears that we are moving as quickly as Lady Constance’s vehicle, though I would dare not mention that.
As we move, I reflect on last night’s dinner and my subsequent actions with Ming. Over my many years of studying, writing about, observing D/s relationships and activities, I had never before participated. Research has al
ways been my objective and as the morning sun illuminates the beautiful tropical greenery there too seems be something enlightened in my mind. Under the guise of satisfying my curiosity, I tormented and humiliated Ming. I rationalize. I did nothing that one of Lady Constance’s other guests would not do, I convince myself. And certainly Ming has experienced worse, I think. But through my tabooed involvement, I have to face more than just breaking the unwritten rule of research psychologists. I have to confront the fact that I thoroughly enjoyed myself!
Big Fella begins to perspire. Although the morning air is relatively cool, the sun is intense and I estimate he has run at least a mile at a three-quarter pace.
Is it my thoughts about Ming? Big Fella’s powerful naked buttocks straining just inches away? Perhaps the incredibly long scrotum encasing the huge eggs?
The proximity of the whip also has a bearing. It rests within easy reach its in cylindrical holder. And again I have those thoughts. No one will hear, see, record, relate, speak of, anything that I do on Constancia Island. The well-enforced rule of complete silence for the ponies comes to mind. And again I surrender. My hand grasps the handle and the thin, single strand of leather limply hangs over Big Fella’s back. I flick my wrist. The leather cracks in the air. This time, without the influence of alcohol, my urges again prevail.
I extend my arm to the side as I watched Lady Constance do so many times during yesterday’s journey. I flick my wrist again, this time emulating a tennis stroke. The business end of the whip lashes sideways, unfurls, and snaps to the front of Big Fella. It appears that I missed the targeted right nipple. But as I try the left side, the cart begins to accelerate. My backhand attempt does indeed find the sensitive pink areola and the cart lurches, possibly more in surprise that a dilettante rider would use the whip so prodigiously than the actual pain.
The Constancia Compendium Page 24