Mr. Dalton’s body has been depilated giving him the look of a boy. It’s more antiseptic that way, particularly when being whipped and flogged. Hair is dirty and the numerous abrasions from flagellation heal better without its presence. Dr. Reinhold has done her usual good job with the nipple badges. The pink areolas, fluffed by the deeply penetrating bar beneath and gathered to a point by the circular badges, seem to beg for attention.
He does not move or acknowledge my presence. The dark silence combined with the drug has that effect...sometimes the patient slips into another world. It’s my job to find all about that world and make it reality.
The clipboard indicates he’s been in extreme bondage for nearly two hours. He unwittingly maintains his erection due to his high hormone level having been kept chaste since his extraction from New York more than four days ago, the endorphins flowing in reaction to the pain, and in general his psyche...the humiliation of being trussed up naked by a woman.
“Good morning, Mr. Dalton. I am Dr. Corrothers. I see you are enjoying yourself.”
The toe of my leather boot jostles his erect penis to emphasize my point. I also roll his left nipple in my right thumb and forefinger. His penis bobs in reaction. He tries to nod and the nose bridle painfully truncates the motion of his head. I smile with his grimace.
“Nurse Jasmine is known to be strict with her bonds. Some men enjoy good tight bondage. Do you Mr. Dalton? You’re painfully restrained, your testicles are being stretched, you’re stripped naked for all the women here to observe, yet your penis is most stiff. Why is that?”
I move to the only piece of furniture in the room, other than the supply cabinet. I sit in the comfortable chair with pad and retract my pen. These sessions are fascinating and I have written many articles for the Journal of the ASBM based on counseling previous patients. The fact is, most men do not understand their need to submit. Don’t have a clue. And I delight in the fact that it sometimes requires many sessions, over many days, to ferret the truth. The whole time they are kept in tight bondage, of course, though Jasmine most creatively changes the positions to keep the patient mentally challenged.
“You may speak.”
The Thorazine so nicely subjugates the mind. Mentally I have a little lamb, which I must guide about. Despite my prodding questions and provocative statements, he would not say a word without encouragement...or perhaps in his mind permission.
He says nothing. Is he being obstinate? Or is the Thorazine level a little too high?
Well, this is why the only jewelry I wear can so easily be removed. I stand and approach. Fastened to the lapels of my silk blouse are numerous alligator clips. Small with the nastiest of teeth, I slide one off, diddle Mr. Dalton’s left nipple and select the most tender area...the very tip. The teeth are sharp and bite with such agony.
I release the jaws and he yelps. In moving he creates more pain by way of his nose bridle. I remove another and unmercifully clip his right nipple. He yelps again but learns to remain motionless.
I pause. Then with the simplest flick of my fingertip diddle the left clip. I know the sensation to be indescribably painful and his howls so indicate.
“Now...let’s talk, shall we, Mr. Dalton? I have many clips and your foreskin is lusciously vulnerable.”
Chapter Sixteen
Ted Dalton
Once this Dr. Corrothers convinced me it was in my best interests to speak, my mind opened like a floodgate. I said things, told stories and related fantasies of which I had never before spoken. She was firm, direct in not allowing me to skip any details or camouflage any aspect of my closeted life before I met Mrs. Dalton...nor the secretive dalliances with professionals thereafter...seeking some unattainable ‘high’ of complete submission...or low as some would suggest.
With the nose bridle so tightly secured above me, talking was physically difficult. I had to hold my head steady and flap my jaw, for want of a better term, to project the words.
She paused quite often. I assumed she was taking notes and after much time Nurse Jasmine entered and my assumption was confirmed.
“Let me finish jotting down this thought, Jasmine, then he’s yours.”
Words pleasantly communicated, but placing me in a panic. My earlier brief moments with Nurse Jasmine proved to be most demanding. This was to be no different.
The nipple clamps were summarily removed and the pain from the return of circulation to my most sensitive areas of pink cannot be described. And yet I had to remain motionless, lest I double the anguish by pulling against testicle and nose restraints.
Then she swatted down my erection, or what little remained, and placed a bowl under my flaccid penis. When I felt her fingers holding my manhood I knew I was to fill the bowl. I did.
Food was next. Tasteless mush. Spoonful after spoonful. Nurse Jasmine encouraged more and more and just as I finished swallowing a spoonful more was shoveled into my mouth. I was reminded of the joke concerning the good news and the bad news about dinner. The bad news...horse manure was all that was to be served...the good news...there was plenty of it.
I guess Dr. Corrothers left. While eating, another nurse must have entered, for while the spoon scooped some excess mush from my chin and reintroduced it to my lips as one would feed an infant, I again felt the cool wetness of an alcohol swab and the jolt of pain from a Thorazine booster.
When lunch ended I was chagrined to find myself placed into a another level of bondage.
Nurse Jasmine clamped my tongue. She was most cruel in doing so, tightening to the extreme and then securing the end to another cord to forcibly keep it pulled out of my mouth.
“You’re going to feel liquid, Mr. Dalton. I have hung an IV bag filled with water above you. It will very slowly drip into your mouth and of course you’ll swallow. It will not only keep you hydrated but also serve to exercise your tongue and promote stretching. We like nice strong tongues on our males.”
With those words she left. And sure enough a sizable drop of water splashed into the back of my mouth and with my tongue forcibly extended I had to work hard to swallow. It was frustrating but if I did not work the muscles I would have the sensation of drowning. How devious. Without my tormentress lifting a finger I was being exercised and my tongue slowly stretched.
It did take my mind off the other horrid restraints. Was my erection returning?
I remained blindfolded. The silence returned. I could not determine whether the boredom and monotony was worse than the slowly building pain with my bonds causing every muscle to ache...or the aggravating drops of water I was so laboriously forced to swallow in defiance of the cord and clamp holding out my tongue.
It felt like several hours. My bladder slowly filled and I tried to urinate. I could not. Was it the training.., not having a feminine hand assisting me...or perhaps I was erect. I did feel a throb there.
Finally, there came the sound of the door. Someone cruelly slapped my penis. I felt the brim of a bowl and the light grasp of fingers I had come to expect during urination.
“Luana is here. She’ll be taking you to the salt flats for some indoctrination.”
It was Nurse Jasmine speaking as I dutifully filled the bowl. Then I felt the various cords being jostled and one by one the restraints were loosened and removed. Had I been able to see. I would have kissed her feet in gratitude.
My eyes blinked as I was led to the entrance, this time by cords attached to my testicle rings. When I stepped out into the daylight I was surprised to see how much the position of the sun had changed. It was late afternoon and I had spent most of the day bound in the soundproofed room. It would not be the first time and nowhere near the last. I was strangely grateful to see Miss Luana and remained perfectly still for her while she saddled me. When finished I bent to offer my knee without being commanded. She giggled with a knowing pride and mounted me. It felt good to be free and to be of service.
She pulled on the reins to direct me back to the nearby path and cropped my right nipple. I immediately
responded, stepped onto the soft surface and felt a tug on my nose bridle to direct me to the left back down the hill. I felt her ankles work my testicles and understood she wanted speed. I began to jog and felt her free hand gently caress my left nipple as a simple reward. Rider and pony-boy were wordlessly communicating as she had suggested. With my exaggerated motion the anal insert manipulated my prostate gland and I once again stiffened.
We turned to the right and I jogged for five or ten minutes. Miss Luana pressed the fingers of her left hand against my neck. She was monitoring my pulse and I reflected on how knowledgeable she was at handling and controlling the male beast. I realized she knew my limits better than I did and I was oddly proud realizing she would take me there...the very brink of physical exhaustion...and perhaps beyond with well placed and timed applications of the crop.
I begin to perspire. Wetness dripped from every pore and she playfully reached back and cropped my buttocks, the flat leather tip making a frightful cracking sound the decibel level of which greatly exceeded any discomfort. Still it so nicely symbolized her authority...her control...smacking my haunches with impunity to ensure my attention and spur my efforts.
We passed the turn for the medical building and kept going. There were other turnoffs, which were ignored. Finally Miss Luana pulled to the left and I instantly reacted. This new path led downward and in the corner of my eye to my right I could see a windmill...sleek and shining...it was modern and was turning in the consistent tropical wind.
Both ends of the nose bridle rein were tugged. I slowed.
“The electric power generator,” commented my rider. “Further down the hill is the desalinization plant. We’re very self sufficient here.”
She slowed me to a walk. Though the breeze was quite warm it evaporated my sweat and cooled me. I was tired but proud to have performed for her.
The Thorazine!
Chapter Seventeen
Miss Luana
I direct my steed past the desalinization plant to the slat flats. I slow him to a walk to rest him while I speak and take him on a tour of his new work place.
“The process is simple, Mr. Dalton. Electric motors pump seawater through a network of membranes housed in that building. The water molecule is smaller than the salt molecule. Water passes through. Salt does not. It is not efficient to completely filter all the salt from the water. Therefore a highly salty effluent flows down here to what we have termed the slat flats. Originally we just released it all back into the ocean. Then Lady Constance visited some neighboring islands where the British actually farmed salt hundreds of years ago...filling shallow man made lagoons with seawater and letting the tropical sun evaporate the water. The result was a very valuable commodity in those times. Salt. It was used as a preservative more than as a seasoning and before refrigeration was in high demand. Now, with the craving for ‘all natural’ foods, sea salt is once again in demand. And you, Mr. Dalton, will produce it...with proper encouragement.”
My steed looks out over the three separate ponds. Two are covered in water, still receiving effluent from the plant. The third is a grayish white, filled with mushy brine, which has been drying for days before Mr. Dalton’s arrival. His task...speed the drying process then under my direction and whip hand skim the upper most layers of dried salt for packaging and sale. There are tons to be collected but many hours of many days in which to work. I feel a twinge of arousal knowing I will be working him relentlessly in the hot sun. Abrasions from a whip can be doubly irritating in the salt flats. Mr. Dalton will soon be learning that.
Standing at the ready is a device resembling a small plow, thought it is not to drawn by horses...instead it is to be pushed. The single curved blade is designed to cut through the briny mush, turn over the caked effluent, and thus expose more of the wetness to the sun to speed the drying process. I tug on the right rein and crop a nipple to direct Mr. Dalton to the device.
“Hold the handles and push...it’s that simple.”
He complies of course and after leaning into the plow and establishing some momentum, we begin turning up the brine.
Each lagoon is some hundred yards long and almost as wide. I estimate the first row took Mr. Dalton a full five minutes. In the soft wetness, the feet sink in and it requires several snaps of the crop to ensure he extricates himself. If we are going to completely plow one lagoon per afternoon I will need more speed. I feel wetness with the vision of my whip hand working so hard to ensure the task is done.
We reach the end of the row and I crop and pull the testicle rings with my ankles to teach Mr. Dalton how to turn around the plow. I align him properly and we turn up another row for practice, returning to where we started.
I reach down and gently caress a nipple...still hot from my crop.
“Very good, Mr. Dalton. That’s enough practice for today. We’ll be back tomorrow for a full afternoon.”
I direct him back to the path. Since it is uphill to the main path I let him walk. The sun is declining rapidly and I want to run him in the dark...an important training procedure for any pony boy. So we just amble along while he catches his breath and his muscles become restored.
When we reach the main path I direct him to the side and reach down to his penis. It is partially erect…a very good sign.
I pull back the foreskin just a tad.
“You’ll need to relieve yourself. Do it here please.”
Pleasantly phrased but firmly spoken, I want to further train him and make him realize that I control all his functions. I lean and make some soft sibilant sounds in his ear and after a pause hear his excretions splatter on the hard coral to the side of the path.
When finished I give the modest sized phallus a good shake as I learned from my mother so many years ago when directing the human oxen about the fields.
Then I turn him toward the clinic and wickedly crop away...forcing him to a full run in the gloaming.
Constancia’s lighting system engages the numerous motion sensors detecting our presence and clicking on lights located on both sides of the path. As the sun sets it appears we were traversing a small airport runway. After we pass by the system extinguishes the lights behind us. Expensive and ingenious, Lady Constance enjoys running her pony boys at all hours and spent many dollars assuring that the paths could be navigated without the need for intrusive constant illumination. The lights only come on when person, cart, or chariot is detected.
For the novice pony boy such as Mr. Dalton, the visual effect of running full speed into a narrow area, lit for only some 25 feet ahead, can be daunting. It appears as if he will run into an abyss of blackness. Thus I crop firmly and tightly hold the reins, providing him with reassurance...that I am in command...and that he will perform as directed despite his reservations. He will learn to fear nothing when I am in control.
Though skittish, he learns to work under me and we are nicely propelled through the limited lighted area into the darkness ahead. I know the paths. There is no danger...but Mr. Dalton will learn that by way of my hands on the crop and reins and my feet on the testicle rings. Over time the feel of my controlling hands will be most comforting for him.
He perspires and I treasure the sensation of working a male into a lather. My naked thighs are wrapped about his waist. When he runs I lean forward to establish better balance and thus my breasts press against the naked skin of his back. I can feel his muscles contract and then slacken with each step. When I crop his nipples, I feel the spasms caused by the pain shooting to his cortex. The slightest pull on the nose bridle results in an immediate reaction of his head and the change in direction I mandate. There is a visceral sublimeness in feeling the motion under me.
Despite the generosity of Lady Constance, how can I give this up and leave Constancia Island to attend college? We reach the clinic and after releasing the testicle cords, Mr. Dalton knows to bend so I can dismount. He’s been good. For a novice I have worked him hard and he has responded splendidly.
I take the left portion of the
nose bridle in my right hand and pull downwards. He obediently stoops lower. I turn, holding the bridle behind me. As a treat, I let him lick my buttocks. He has certainly found them intriguing and the hot tongue of a well-worked subservient pony boy has a marvelously Dominant appeal to my psyche.
Chapter Eighteen
Jasmine
Mr. Dalton will be getting a phone call tonight. Therefore I water him well. It’s quite easy with his bridle making it impossible to breathe through his nose. Everything I introduce to his mouth he eagerly swallows so he can gulp air. I just have to train him not to spit anything out, which is quickly done. He is completely naked and bound and has learned that compliance to my whims avoids much pain.
I have him lie on a small stool in the center of the room. We change the position of severe bondage regularly. It keeps our patients off guard, provides entertainment for our young nurses and makes it interesting for me...seeing how I can truss the male in a manner that inaugurates the slowest buildup of agony.
So Mr. Dalton’s stomach rests on the stool some eight inches off the floor. We wouldn’t want him pressing his erection against the smooth soft rubber flooring. That might provide pleasure...something that is only to be given by the Dominant female, never taken by the subordinate male.
Cords are attached to his nose bridle forcing him to crane his neck and face upwards. The testicle rings are secured, pulling his precious little eggs toward his knees while separating them within the sac. His masturbation mittens are clipped together behind his back and another cord nicely pulls them up toward the ceiling.
He is thoroughly bound and completely immobile which is always the intent. Muscle movement imparts the notion of freedom, which is only mine to give.
I apply the special cream to his scrotum. The Bagandan recipe, refined over hundreds of years, promotes the stretching of skin and precludes unsightly stretch marks. There is no limit to how far flesh can be stretched over time. The challenge is to avoid scarring, which the cream magically does.
The Constancia Compendium Page 37