I decline to bid adieu. Any departing message I have for Ted will be expressed on my behalf by the staff at Constancia Island.
I watch the procedures with much curiosity. Girl number one releases Ted’s ankle cuffs and with a combination of strength and adroitness pushes him about with soft but firm hands so that he sits upright on the edge of the bed. Unwelcome motion is discouraged with quick and vicious pinches to his nipples and testicles. It doesn’t take too many painful encounters to convince the deafened and blindfolded Ted to remain still unless directed to move...that he is in the hands of very skillful Dominant women.
Meanwhile girl number two stands with clipboard in hand. She talks aloud as she writes.
“Uncircumcised, nicely hung, evidences a degree of scrotal stretching...is that right, Mrs. Dalton?”
I nod.
“Mid thirties. Moderate degree of body hair. All brown.”
Then girl number one moves about with a tape measure calling out various measurements at the wrists, arms, chest, thighs, ankles. Girl number two records all.
“He’ll be scanned in upon arrival. But it’s best to have preliminary measurements in case more rudimentary restraints are needed before his physical.”
Girl one number measures Ted’s flaccid penis. An action which brings tumescence of course. But that seems to conform with the technician’s intentions, for she most dexterously strokes the growing organ and in an amazingly short interval has Ted standing.
“Eight and one half inches fully erect.”
She then pulls Ted off the bed like a puppet and while he stands measures his scrotum and testicles while the erection points upwards out of her way. After calling out the dimensions she callously swats the penis tip and with a punctuated groan Ted’s manhood deflates as if air has been released from a balloon.
Number one slips on a glove and parts his buttocks.
“Very open at the rectum,” she calls out. “I assume like most males he responds to anal stimulation, Mrs. Dalton?”
I smile.
“He begs for it,” I declamatorily announce.
The three of us laugh.
“Cindy will need to use your bathroom while I ask some questions. I believe the stereo cord will reach. Do you care to watch?”
I wouldn’t miss a thing.
While I am interviewed, Cindy, girl number two, has Ted kneeling on all fours in the bathtub. A medical bag divulges paraphernalia needed for an enema, a interesting and humiliating activity from which I have refrained in Dominating Ted.
But after watching Cindy so deftly insert an inflatable nozzle, fill the rubber bag with warm soapy water, and then begin to slowly fill Ted’s bowels, it may be included in our play time in the future.
“We have some notes concerning your husband’s problem, Mrs. Dalton. There is not much behavior that cannot be modified at Constancia Island. But we need to understand your goals. We can mold him any way you desire. Mentally...physically...spiritually. We have the staff, the knowhow and a wonderful facility. There is no limit to how long he can stay. We have certain lifelong patients...their Dominant partners choosing to occasionally visit and ensure their continued indoctrination into servitude. Others depart very much enlightened, eager to please their owners.”
I pause for thought.
“I want devotion and complete capitulation to my whims. I am a litigator, a member of a professional group, which is sometimes compared to a pack of pit bulls in terms of cordiality. I slay opposing attorneys during the day. When I arrive home I want to be pampered. I’ve had Ted dressed as a maid on occasion and it works very nicely for me...being served hand and foot. What doesn’t work is for me to arrive home and see this with some low class dominatrix for hire.”
For emphasis, I point to my naked and bound husband kneeling before three clothed women while his bowels slowly fill.
Girl number one takes notes with a smug smile.
“Easily done. You’ll be getting progress reports from the Island...from the head psychologist, Dr. Stella Corrothers and the physician Dr. Helga Reinhold. There is not much they have not handled.”
The Corrothers name rings a bell. It was she who had years before delivered the lecture. I wondered what had happened to her.
Girl number two releases the enema and a torrent fills the tub. She then refills the bag this time with cold water. Girl number one notices my reaction.
“It not only rinses, the discomfort establishes control. He’ll be groveling in a moment.”
She is correct. My superficially macho husband feels the intense effect of the chilling water deep within his bowels. He doesn’t understand all that is happening. He does understand pain.
Being deemed cleansed Ted is led back into the bedroom and laid on the bed. An inflatable butt plug is inserted. Then girl number one, seeming to be in charge, rolls him onto his back. A slim metal tube is produced and she coats it with lubricant.
“Depending on the flights and boat connection, he may be in transit for close to twelve hours. We don’t want him needing to relieve himself.”
Thus the enema and now...a catheter. But not a comfortable Teflon tube. No, Ted gets a smooth but stiff length of stainless steel inserted into his urethra. The girl works slowly but firmly and judging from Ted’s exaggerated movements the sensation is not pleasant. He whimpers.
“It prevents erection. He’ll be standing only for his handler while under the care of the American Society for Behavior Modification. Unsupervised tumescence is not permitted.”
Of course not…why would I think otherwise?
The hollow steel tube is connected to a collection bag by way of a rubber tube. Ted won’t be needing to urinate for a while.
Then the question of just how my young handlers of recalcitrant males will pirate away my husband is finally answered.
The stretcher is wheeled into the bedroom. Under the sheet draped over the flat top surface is a box...really a coffin. The girls pull it out, lie it on the floor and open it.
“Say good bye, Ted,” girl number two humorously suggests to my deafened subordinate. Number one firmly grasps his testicles and guides him up and off the bed. Girl two prepares a hypodermic syringe.
“Thorazine,” she announces in anticipating my question. “Just a touch of a neuroleptic drug for the ride. He’ll be nice and quiet and then resume his friskiness in the Caribbean.”
Ted obediently follows the pulls and pushes. He flinches when girl two injects his buttocks. I am amazed at how quickly his legs become rubber. His wrist cuffs are separated and he is neatly laid to rest, so to speak.
Girl number one unplugs the wire from my stereo then plugs it into a portable CD player, which she places into the coffin like box.
“Just boring static...but with the Thorazine it doesn’t matter.”
She laughs and clips the wrist cuffs and ankle cuffs to eye-hooks on the inside. Then comes the final touch, completely transforming Ted into a piece of human cargo. Girl number one gruffly intubates him. A connecting canister at the floor of the coffin assures he will have a supply of oxygen.
“He’ll be in the unpressurized cargo hold of the plane. The box is well insulated but at thirty thousand feet the air is rarified.”
The lid is clamped on and I am impressed when the two girls effortlessly lift the box with my husband inside and return it to the bottom of the stretcher. In adjusting the covering sheet, no one will suspect what lies underneath.
“We will tell the doorman that your husband recovered from his chest pains and further assistance was not necessary. You’ll have to cover his absence from there.”
Easily done.
‘So long, Ted,’ I murmur to myself.
Forms are placed before me. I sign and keep a copy for later reading. A very bad practice for a gifted jurist with an ivy league degree, but I am tired and after all...it’s only Ted. The physically imposing girls whisk away the seemingly empty stretcher as if rolling a weightless shopping cart.
I return
to the bedroom experiencing second thoughts. Perhaps I have been too harsh.
Then I find under the bed, apparently pushed aside by the felonious ‘Mistress Samantha’ in her hurried escape, a small bag, within are an assortment of drugs. Amyl nitrate and other so called stimulants, possibly illegal but questionable all the same. Small items, but if discovered have the potential to alter one’s livelihood...particularly that of a licensed attorney.
So long indeed, Ted.
Chapter Three
The Girls of the ASBM
It’s an easy way to make some money while attaining an advanced nursing degree...and be entertained.
Just once or twice per month we get a call from the American Society for Behavior Modification (ASBM). We’re given a time...that’s all...and we know to meet at a west side garage where the Society’s secretive truck is hidden deep in the basement. With the bright red striping, large letters spelling out ‘AMBULANCE’ and numerous flashing lights, the garage’s owner thinks it is used for movie shoots...scenes in which a vehicle is needed to respond to a medical emergency. And when Cindy and I appear in our white uniforms the cover works every time.
Upon arrival we find on the front seat is an envelope from the Society. On one simple sheet of paper is what we need to know for the evening’s work. The name and address of the ‘patient’ and other pertinent details. From there all else falls into place...deliver the boxed patient to Kennedy Airport by 3:30 a.m. and retrieve a returned empty ‘coffin’ to be stored in the ambulance until the next pick up.
For that, Cindy and I receive $500 each...in cash. Not bad for college students of modest means. I only wish there were more opportunities.
And then there is the annual summer trip to Constancia Island. A free week in a dreamland for Dominant women. There are morning training sessions for us but during afternoons we are free to frolic in the tropical sun. Not a bad ‘perk’ for a job demanding 3 hours of time twice per month.
So we stop at this Dalton apartment and encounter a scenario that makes our job even easier than normal. The guy is already bound! Most times to get the ‘patient’ into cuffs we have to use a little ‘persuasion’...which, after a few years of working in a mental institution during our undergraduate days, is easily applied. Of course we can always use the Thorazine, but Cindy and I agree that’s like cheating. It’s more challenging to physically place the subordinate male in cuffs, cleanse his backside and catheterize him while he is fully alert. It’s a very satisfying ‘take down’ scene, stripping him of both clothing and dignity before two clothed women...or more if his benefactress cares to observe, like Mrs. Dalton did.
Months ago, we had one pick up where the wife invited two of her neighbors. Seems the guy thought of himself as quite the cocksman and had been enticing certain nubile daughters into his apartment. Well the mothers of the building united, I think all chipped in to cover the ASBM fees, and we soon had Mr. Cocksman stripped down and feeling the effects of some of Cindy’s very deep enemas.
Those are the extractions where I wish I could observe the entire process at the Island. He initially resisted quite adamantly. But by the time Cindy got done he was groveling as with the all the others. Then it’s the Thorazine and into the box for a nice trip to another life...one of obedience and servitude. The girls on Constancia would find much amusement with that one, I remember thinking.
So we missed out on some fun with Mr. Dalton. No pleading. No crying. Though sometimes a smooth extraction is welcomed...it is a little boring.
But to enliven our task there is always Eddie...the little wimp at the freight terminal. At Kennedy, it is he who takes the box...termed ‘cargo’ at the loading dock and ensures it is properly stowed. Officially working for the air freight company, ASBM owns him and Cindy and I enjoy watching him cower in our presence. We know he spent some indoctrination time at Constancia Island. He occasionally makes remarks, which could be judged as disparaging to the Society...then catches himself and apologizes...very humbly.
At some point, we’re planning to disclose his true thoughts to the Society at a time when Cindy and I are leaving for our week on the Island. It would be fun working him there without need for interruption. After all, it would not be difficult to secure him into a box and toss him on that 5:00 a.m. plane to Aruba. We know how to handle ‘cargo’.
Currently we appease our urges by ‘inviting’ him into the back of our ambulance. After the ‘cargo’ is tucked away in the plane and paper work is completed, Cindy and I are given to stripping Eddie down and having some fun. After all, the vehicle is fully equipped. Nothing like strapping a naked male to a stretcher, pulling his feet up around his ears and slowly masturbating him into a partial catheter tube while probing his anus with a sizable insertion of our choosing. Though at that hour there are few onlookers, Eddie panics when later we push him out the back sans clothing. Then one by one we slowly toss him his garments and watch him fidget in getting dressed. The control element is arousing.
Chapter Four
Ted Dalton
Even while deprived of the use of sight and hearing one maintains some sense of time, for awhile. So, when I felt Mistress Samantha’s gloved fingers abruptly withdraw from my anus followed by nothing for the longest period, I realized something was amiss. Professional dominatrixes work by the hour. The successful ones do not noticeably watch the clock but do tend to wrap things up, no pun, within the prescribed allotted time. None are going to sit about and watch ‘Gone With the Wind’ while a sub is enjoying a lengthy scene...unless of course they extract their hourly fee for the entire visit.
Then my scrotal parachute was attached and I became somewhat concerned. Evidently Mistress Samantha was going through the dresser drawer and had found a favorite toy. Clever how she attached it to my ankle cuffs. I could either stretch my balls or futilely struggle to hold my feet and ankles back near my buttocks. Maintaining either position meant slow suffering.
Then came the ice! It was not what I had scripted. Perhaps Mistress Samantha enjoyed innovating.
Then my numbing testicles just floated in the coldness and I slowly lost feeling where a man enjoys feeling the most.
When the stout tip of a dildo knocked, I knew it could only be one thing. My wife...my defacto owner...had arrived home! She was supposed to be in Chicago for another two days.
I could only lie and take the punishment...the extreme and seemingly endless sodomy that I experienced on most Sunday mornings. But with my genitals iced to complete numbness I could feel nothing but the pain of the penetration. Normally she slowly masturbated me, providing not only orgasmic relief, but this wonderful fulfilling sensation that the woman of my dreams was using me for her pleasure. That the sensations caused by my efforts to resist the long and undulating cylinder of rubber pleasured the woman I worshipped. This in turn pleased me and on cue I would do my best to ejaculate for her. She enjoyed giving the command. I enjoyed obeying.
Then there were different hands. Firm with feminine softness like Mrs. Dalton’s...and knowledgeable...fingers that were not only familiar with the male anatomy but comfortable working it. They poked, pinched and prodded...squeezing my testicles until I would do anything to curtail the dull ache. These hands worked with purpose and knew men and how to control.
What was happening?
The enema was beyond anything Mrs. Dalton had done before.
“Curiously controlling but sloppy,” she once exclaimed in shrugging off that manner of play.
And then the application of the cold water broke my limited fortitude. My bowels filled without relent as a soft warm hand checked the pressure on my lower abdomen.
There was more than one woman. As I felt the deep intrusive pain of the catheter, one hand holding my penis and another pushing the tube, a second pair grasped my testicles and used the pillowcase to steady my head.
And it was all done so agilely, like a well drilled athletic team. The injection turned the muscles in my legs to jelly. When a tube entered my mout
h, I seemed to welcome it.
I was then truly in sensory deprivation. The music stopped abruptly and turned to a fuzzy static. My wrists and ankles were secured and whatever had been injected robbed me of any desire to move anyway. No sight. I could not talk. With slight movements my shoulders and knees brushed against something. I was confined. I managed to lift my head and my forehead touched a firm surface...confirming I was in an enclosure.
What was happening?
But then whatever was injected took its course. I became torpid, not wishing to do anything other than explain to Mrs. Dalton. Perhaps kneel and beg her forgiveness. And I could not do so.
I had no opportunity.
I began to dream...perhaps hallucinate...and of course once again Mrs. Dalton became my Valkyrie...as with almost every dream. The woman of my fantasy rides a horse...a large white stallion. The beast is huge, powerful...galloping with a frenetic energy, which only the firm hands of my idol can restrain. He wants to run tempestuously yet the masterful grip of my beautiful but forceful specter uses bit and bridle to ensure that his friskiness is well constrained.
She wears black, so wickedly contrasting the purity of the snow white horse. Black leather gloves, ending at her forearms hold reins and a riding crop. Muscled biceps and shoulders are bare. A thin strapless black leather bustier snugly covers mammoth breasts, which voluptuously ripple with the canter. A brief leather skirt leaves brawny almost masculine thighs exposed. Black leather boots end at the knees. Gusts of summer wind and the cadenced motion of the horse cause the skirt to flutter. The resulting glimpses of pink feminine flesh draw the eyes and tantalize the imagination.
I stand naked and restrained. A stiff leather collar is clipped to a lanyard hanging from an overhead board cantilevered from a tall sturdy post. The thin but strong strand is short, forcing me to struggle to stand on my toes. My wrists are cuffed behind my back. In the late morning sun I perspire. Sweat drips into my eyes frustratingly interfering with my rapturous gaze of the puissant equestrienne.
The Constancia Compendium Page 31