The offer of Lady Constance lingers more strongly in my mind.
Time passes quickly when so deep in thought. I return to the cart realizing that the light will soon be fading. An eager Big Fella turns and begins walking as quickly as his plug allows. The cart rolls easily down the slope and back into the deep lushness.
When we reach the Reinhold house, the Doctor is just arriving in a pony cart. She wears her white medical uniform and is returning home after a day’s work. She waves and signals me to stop. I tug on the scrotal cords though Big Fella is already following her intentions.
“Come in and see the house, Doctor.”
Normally there would be time but my pony, in effect hobbled by the butt plug, will not return me to Estovia before dark. I explain my situation and Dr. Reinhold just laughs.
“I’ll remove it before he leaves. Water him down and step inside.”
I push the narrow straw of the bottle into his mouth. He fidgets and twists his head. With his bladder full, he resists more water. The perceptive Dr. Reinhold will not let the slightest degree of recalcitrance go unnoticed.
“Well, we can easily deal with that.”
The mendacious Doctor produces a thin strip of rubber. It’s some six inches long, not more than a quarter inch in diameter, and the surface is covered with bumps, ridges and furrows. One end is flanged and as she waves it about I notice that, although somewhat flexible, it is relatively stiff, requiring some degree of effort to bend it.
“A penal agitator. Another interesting device developed by my mother. I think you’ll find Big Fella will display more obeisance after a time.”
The Doctor grasps Big Fella’s stiff manhood, releases it from the Prince Albert piercing then unmercifully pulls it straight down. Big Fella yelps pitifully. He seems to know what’s coming. The dexterous, medically trained fingers of Dr. Reinhold insert the tip of the narrow tube of rubber into my pony boy’s urethra then slowly but steadily slides it into his penis until just the flanged rubber end shows.
The mammoth organ is reattached to the abdominal ring and tears begin to flow. My giant noble beast begins to weep like a child. The pain must be unbearable.
“He’ll better remember his place after bearing the agitator for awhile. Now I suspect you can water him. If not, a slight twist of the agitator will facilitate the process.”
I secure the blindfold and I find the water is indeed now readily accepted. Poor Big Fella. My loyal steed will wait, bladder full, backside stuffed and most painfully, his urethra stretched and irritated by the specially designed rubber strip. I am sure there will be no long-term damage. Preventing and eliminating such was probably the goal of many years of research and experimentation in designing the size and shape of the device. But I doubt if understanding the relative safety of the agitator would be of any comfort to Big Fella. He only knows the painful effect of its presence.
I follow Dr. Reinhold into the house. It is a nicely furnished home. As with most homes in the tropics, the furniture and various fixtures are sturdy. More functional than decorative, everything is obviously chosen with the potential of harsh tropical storms in mind. Otherwise the home is most comfortable.
But Dr. Reinhold has no interest in taking me on a tour. We immediately proceed to the kitchen where large cold drinks are poured.
“I think you’ll find my laboratory of interest. I’ve continued much of my mother’s research concerning hormones.”
She leads me through a doorway into a large room in the back of the house. It is indeed a laboratory, well lit with sophisticated testing equipment, beakers, tubing, jars of strangely colored liquids and in a far corner..., Imelda!
We step closer with Dr. Reinhold explaining the utility of the various pieces of equipment as we proceed through the room. But my attention is riveted on the naked, hairless girl hanging in straps with tubes penetrating numerous openings.
“Yes, you remember Imelda. She’s spends much time being nourished. I believe I can get her to lactate a quart per day soon.”
The girl hangs hooded and prostrate. Broad cloth straps originating from strong hooks above encircle her, one under hips and another under her torso just under her breasts. Her arms her pulled behind her and upwards toward the ceiling where fur lined wrist cuffs seem to comfortably hold her hands immobile. Her legs are bent at the knees and similar fur lined cuffs hold her ankles well up and spread. A cord is attached to an eye-hook on the back of the hood which serves to hold her head up. Under her chest is a small table. On it is a basin filled with liquid where her unseen mammoth breasts are immersed.
The tubes run from canisters hanging above. One penetrates her mouth and apparently feeds to her stomach. Another penetrates her rectum. A third disappears between her thighs, presumably catheterizing her. More tubes are attached to each end of the basin.
She hangs ominously. Her many tiny bells are completely silent indicating that she is either asleep or that Dr. Reinhold has commanded she remain motionless.
Impolitely, I am not listening to the Doctor explain all the laboratory devices. Instead, I am mesmerized by the helpless form of the rounded, pink and Rubenesque flesh hanging from the ceiling.
We finally arrive at the seemingly lifeless, naked girl.
“Well disciplined, wouldn’t you agree? I demand absolute stillness. Posture training is one of my passions and the bells are quite useful. When placing Imelda in a stern pose I can detect the slightest infraction from just about any room in the house.”
A smiling Dr. Reinhold momentarily excuses herself and retrieves a towel and a bowl from a small refrigerator.
“Let’s see how she’s doing.”
Dr. Reinhold tenderly pinches the top of Imelda’s right breast with her left hand, lifts it from the basin and cradles it in the towel in her right hand. It is enormous and obviously engorged with fluid. The long nipple, though constricted by a ring at the base, is amazingly swollen and the size of my pinky finger.
She dries the breast then carefully releases it to hang. Although firm and plump, it drapes well away from her chest and is an incredible mass of soft feminine flesh.
She repeats her actions with the left breast then gingerly slides the basin toward the back of the table.
“As you can see, Doctor, the tubes provide Imelda with quite the dose of hormones along with being fed a perfect formulation to enhance lactation. Not only induced intragastrically but intrarectally as well. And I control her bladder. Good hydration is paramount. The mammaries need quite a supply of fluid and nourishment to maximize production. In the basin circulates specially treated water. Through experimentation I know the ideal temperature for Imelda’s glands. The water also contains a compound, which serves to sooth her nipples. They become sore with all the lactation.”
Imelda’s nipples hang like cow’s udders. She makes no acknowledgment of our presence but I notice her skin is slowly becoming flushed with the humiliation of her exposure and Dr. Reinhold’s embarrassing narrative.
“Would you like to give us some milk, Imelda? Your breasts are quite full and your nipples seem to beg for attention. Good girls get a nice long milking.”
With the tube emanating from the girl’s mouth, she cannot reply. A smiling Dr. Reinhold answers for her in a soothing maternal voice.
“Yes. Let’s show the Doctor what a good girl you are. Hanging so nicely..., waiting to be milked.”
Dr. Reinhold reaches for the bowl. In it are ice cubes, which she uses to carefully rub against Imelda’s nipples. Which the shock of the cold against the warmed breasts, Imelda’s bells unisonantly ring out. The elongated nipples instantly shrink in diameter but not in length.
Dr. Reinhold tosses the ice into a sink and smiles.
“Warm breasts and cool nipples enhance the flow. The initial shock also sends a psychosomatic message, ‘get ready to lactate’. It’s a conditioning technique somewhat similar to Pavlov’s dogs..., see what happens.”
I peer down and incredibly see that Imelda’s ni
pples are beginning to drip. Dr. Reinhold catches the drippings in the bowl.
“What a good girl you are today, Imelda. Showing off so nicely for our guest.”
Dr. Reinhold’s speaks as if addressing a child or a puppy, with a soft seemingly mocking voice. For some reason, I doubt that Imelda is intentionally being so cooperative.
Dr. Reinhold smoothes her hands over the girl’s shoulders and smiles at me, deliberately delaying any contact with the waiting dripping nipples.
“She’s nicely trained, isn’t she Doctor? Pining for her daily milking. You know the need and desire builds over time. There’s a dull ache in the mammaries, which requires attention and beginning the flow becomes somewhat equivalent to having an orgasm. A desire to be milked grows and becomes a curious substitute for sexual gratification.”
Another pause, as Dr. Reinhold softly laughs and watches the steady dripping.
“Well, let’s see what you have for me today.”
She moves to Imelda’s side and turns valves on the catheter tubing.
“That allows her bladder to drain. The feeling of relief will increase the flow rate of lactation. We’ve done much research over the years, my mother and me. We learned to extract what we wanted and when by manipulating the hormones, breast temperature and forced inducement of fluids.”
Dr. Reinhold returns to Imelda’s front, positions herself facing the hanging girl and grasps a nipple in each hand. An amazing eruption of white fluid splatters to the bottom of the bowl. If Imelda’s milking is in fact a substitute for sexual gratification, I am witnessing an amazing orgasm.
Another slight squeeze and another burst. A humming noise can be detected emanating from Imelda’s throat. She cannot speak but she can purr like a kitten and given the freedom, I picture her humbly curling up to Dr. Reinhold and graciously licking her hand in gratitude.
Dr. Reinhold continues milking her kitten and the initial strong bursts slow to a mere torrent, with the bowl steadily filling. The sound of the bells diminishes as Imelda settles into her straps and lets the conflicting feelings of gratification and humiliation overwhelm her.
“You know, Doctor, this can be performed by machine. But that isn’t much fun for either of us. And having an observer helps. Imelda is learning to become quite the performer. Soon she’ll be able to begin lactation with the mere snap of my fingers. It takes time but it can be done.”
It is mind boggling to understand what inspires the dominant female. I will have much to record tonight, I think to myself, should Imelda ever stop producing and I thus be permitted to leave.
Stroke after stroke, Imelda is relieved of her essence. Finally, as Dr. Reinhold’s fingers tighten and the strokes become longer and firmer, the flow lessons despite her more earnest efforts.
Now the purring stops and the bells ring, this time in reaction to discomfort. Dr. Reinhold smiles knowingly.
“My little cow is all milked out. Very nice. You almost filled the bowl.”
Indeed she has. Dr. Reinhold carefully removes it.
“My mother learned to induce forced lactation in certain males. There’s a certain rare genetic predisposition necessary for noticeable results, but it can be done. I look for it among the candidates from the clinic, but so far no luck. Lady Constance is enthralled with the concept, though I have cautioned her that the flow rate will be comparatively modest, unless of course the inducement is done in conjunction with a rather permanent alteration...,”
With Doctor Reinhold’s ominous pause, I use the interruption as an excuse to beg my leave. She smiles politely.
“Yes. It is best you return in daylight. Let me help you with Big Fella.”
I waste no time returning to my steed. Dr. Reinhold gives a command and with the aid of a firm tug of her fingers Big Fella expels, with some degree of reluctance, his plug. She places it in a plastic bag.
“I’ll remove the agitator. But I suggest you keep it for future use. They’re considered standard equipment for bellicose pony boys here on Constancia. We turn them out by the dozens at the Medical building.”
Dr. Reinhold grasps the huge penis in her left hand and snares the flanged end of the agitator with the fingers of her right. With a quick twist and pull, she removes the small but mendacious implement. Big Fella almost faints with the pain. The simple strip is also placed in the bag, which Dr. Reinhold tosses into my cart.
“He’s too sore to urinate now but will badly need to do so when he returns. Tell Botana he’s had a penal agitator inserted. She may choose to just catheterize him rather than make him suffer.”
I cannot believe my ears hearing a statement of moderation concerning the treatment of a male pony. But as I step into the cart, my experience tells me Big Fella will have a long and painful night attempting to empty himself.
Needlessly stated, the trip back to Estovia is very fast. As we pass the turn off for the cove, the automatic lighting system begins to work. With Big Fella in a funk concerning his need to empty himself, there is no need to encourage speed. He seems to realize that he needs the tender touch of Botana or Salina to gently help him relieve his bladder without further urethral irritation.
The turn from the main road to Estovia’s approach is negotiated at full speed and we sprint up the hill to the usual stopping point. Botana awaits. When I hand her the plastic bag and she sees the agitator she begins to giggle.
“Oh, Big Fella. You’re going to have a long night.”
Chapter Eighteen
In what seems to be a nightly ritual, porter number one knocks on my bedroom door and enters with more Champagne. This time a bowl of extremely ripe melon chunks accompanies the beverage and I am informed that I will be dining with only Lady Constance. Cocktails to be served at 7:00 p.m.
My watch tells me I have two hours to shower, write, and relax. But strangely, as I pour my first glass, I find my thoughts turning to Ming when the notion of relaxing crosses my cerebrum.
Yes. I suppose I should exhibit some degree of mercy and let ‘her’ out of the closet.
When I open the door, she looks up at me from her kneeling position and meekly smiles. Somehow she knows. Yes, this life long, trained, subservient masochist can read thoughts. ‘She’ has probably seen it happen time after time, observing first hand as the most steady, sane and vanilla of personalities first summarily points to the foot stool and then ominously selects the most painful instrument of correction from the inviting wall of decadence.
And yet she smiles. Knowing full well that once I have tasted the pleasure of seeing her soft pink flesh redden and swell with each stroke, that once hearing her delightfully muffled cries of torment, that once seeing her tears form and drip to the carpet, and that once smoothing my hand over the hot, excoriated skin of a well caned buttocks..., that I will return for more.
It rankles me. As a professional psychologist having my actions anticipated and being the object of ‘her’ prognostications and acquired wisdom is an affront. And with my anger, her prophecy is thus fulfilled. I indeed point to the footstool. I indeed attach neck collar, cuffs and spreader bar. And I indeed select the longest cane I can swing with relative accuracy.
And then I pause. Clothing is not required, I tell myself. And as Lady Constance so explicitly stated, the oral skills of her charges are renowned among her guests, no matter the gender or proclivity of preference.
I strip..., and my relaxation begins.
Chapter Nineteen
I find myself slightly late for dinner. My hands shake as I approach the parlor and I’m not sure why. Perhaps from the fear of my own actions. Perhaps from the overwhelming enjoyment of them. Whatever the cause, Ming will heal and I console myself with the reassurance that there are many miles and many rules of silence and discretion separating my untoward activities on Constancia and my New York career and reputation.
Lady Constance enters the room with me and with porter number two standing in wait we quickly engage in cocktails and conversation. She seems to be aware of my day
’s exploits but is uncharacteristically coy.
“I think you’re beginning to like it here, Doctor,” was her only comment.
We talk more about the psychological aspects of dominance and submission. She is quite knowledgeable, as one would expect, and we return to a potential project, which seems to intrigue her. Once again she mentions, this time with more enthusiasm and emphasis, the concept of instilling in submissive males an insatiable desire to provide oral service by substituting such for the normal need for sexual gratification. In so many words, mentally switching the pleasure receptors of the penis with those of the tongue.
Maybe it’s the alcohol, but I nod and laugh with the concept. And somewhat inexplicably, I not only acknowledge the possibility of successfully establishing such a program, but also indicate a level of interest in participating.
Lady Constance quietly smiles at that point and changes the subject.
“I have special entertainment for dinner, Doctor. The supply boat brought over a certain young male. Rather renowned and expensive I might add.”
She just as quickly drops the subject and reminiscences about some of her early exploits on Constancia. Growing up among naked subjugated males certainly aids in developing the dominant psyche, I think to myself. But I still cannot conclude with certainty whether the traits of strict domination are genetic or environmentally acquired.
When Motamba announces dinner, the point becomes moot. I am hungry and somewhat tired. As entertaining as the day has been, it has also been long.
Lady Constance begins moving toward the dining room while describing her first solo pony ride.
“I could barely reach the nipples with the whip, but more importantly I soon learned to enjoy their strong yet tender tongues.”
She laughs with her summation of her efforts as we step into the dining room.
The Constancia Compendium Page 28