The Constancia Compendium

by Chris Bellows

  I clamp his tongue, attach a cord to hold it well outside his lips and again hang an IV bag full of water. I set the drip valve and gently pinch his cheek. He has been worked hard and is tired and probably hungry, a condition which I cannot alleviate. The reasons will become apparent.

  I observe the first drop splash to the center of his outstretched tongue. His system naturally reacts by attempting to swallow which strengthens all the muscles and promotes the lengthening process which is exactly what I want.

  I cover his eyes with a leather mask. In the back there is a sturdy eyelet, which I use to secure his ankles...pulling back his feet until his back arches then tying the ankle bands to the leather mask. I tighten to achieve just the proper level of discomfort, seeking a modest level of pain, which will grow through the night.

  “You’re tied up like a nice gift, Mr. Dalton. Dr. Corrothers will want to know how it feels to be so tightly bound by a woman...made helpless and unable to move an inch. I’m sure you will tell her about it in the morning.”

  It’s part of the process. He will be very eager to talk with his next counseling session. And he certainly will have time to gather his thoughts.

  The final torment involves placing hollow tubes behind the creases of his bent knees. These I use to forcibly spread his thighs by looping cords through the center of the tubes and then tying them to eyelets on opposing walls. The separation completely exposes his genitals, adding a layer of humiliation and a nice view for our young nurses who will be monitoring him throughout the night.

  Satisfied that he is most frustratingly secured, I must carefully attach and insert the final equipment...electric probes. We’ve pioneered the use of electro stimulation at Constancia Island and have added ingenious refinements. But it must be done right. So from a panel on the far wall behind Mr. Dalton I retrieve a collection of bundled wires and uncoil them while approaching the prostrate patient. I work methodically but with some alacrity. I have done this before and it’s paramount that the right wire lead to the right probe.

  After a few minutes ‘poor’ Mr. Dalton is prepared to be ‘wired’. A steel anal insertion, a metal penis catheter, clamps on each nipple and each testicle. All are conducive to electricity and everything inserted has been lubricated. I have been very gentle in sliding each in place. The clamps are most modest. Hardly felt, but they will not fall off either. I attach wires to each assuring that the penis wire leads to the penis, prostate wire to the anal insertion, etc.

  “No dinner, Mr. Dalton. You’ll understand why later. I recommend in the future you eat as much as you can when food is offered. It is specially designed nutrition though all taste has been deliberately removed. Luana will want you very strong.

  “You’ll be getting a phone call later.”

  I step out into the hall deliberately leaving him most curious about his phone call. I slide open a cabinet door in the wall adjacent to the door to Mr. Dalton’s room. There sits a television monitor. I turn it on and the image of my well-bound patient comes into view. The video camera works though Mr. Dalton is slightly off center. I return to the room and open an unnoticed panel concealing the camera and adjust accordingly. I quickly return and the monitor indicates I have made the proper adjustment.

  One last check on Mr. Dalton, I feel the tension in all the cords, tightening one or two for proper restraint. I smooth my hand over his hairless buttocks and admire the tender slowly stretching flesh of his scrotum. I feel a twinge in my loins. Thankfully I am getting off duty and there is a delightfully young, well-trained male in my quarters with a very eager tongue.

  So I leave Mr. Dalton as he helplessly wallows in great frustration, both mental and physical. I cannot help laughing...loud enough so he can hear me. It’s part of the process… breaking the male. It is the only reason I am on Constancia Island.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Mrs. Dalton

  With Ted setting a new paradigm in our marital relationship, I have great fun picking up well hung gigolo’s and enticing them to our apartment. Getting a male into bed is easy, as always.., getting the right male is a different matter. After all, the manner in which I prefer to have sex is a little provocative, strapping on my harness and splitting the tight male rectum while my special female insertion frictions me to orgasm.

  So I have learned to find guys who have latent bi-sexual proclivities and either don’t realize it or keep such a deep secret. Thus when I strip them down, lay them on the bed and pull their ankles up around their ears, they are either accustomed to the ignominious position or quickly acclimate to it.

  Sometimes, if I am in a generous mood, I’ll give my plaything a handjob while reaming away. But most times I just have him later masturbate for me...maybe kneeling in the kitchen stroking away and beseeching me for permission to ejaculate. The messy semen can be readily mopped up there.

  Ted has been gone for some five days. The packet of information from the ASBM suggests that contact be quite limited during initial indoctrination. But there is also this process whereby I can call in on the telephone and also, using a special code, log onto the Constancia Island website.

  This could be quite the source of entertainment.

  I have scheduled a visit from Anthony, some 25 year old stud, I had over the weekend who probably prefers guys but finds that some women pay just as well. He’s well hung with an active tongue and knows to become quite submissive in my presence. His virgin backside was rather resistant to my initial efforts, but that just made it more fun in opening him. When I called he was not reluctant to schedule an appointment.

  He’s expensive, yes. But husband, Ted, was the first to hire a pro. I can do likewise.

  When the doorman announces Anthony’s arrival I turn on the computer in the den and log onto the site. A rather colorful yet prosaic page flashes onto the screen...mundane pictures of tropical beaches and greenery... until I type in my special code. Then I am amazed to see the idyllic scene fade and the well bound and naked form of husband Ted come into view.

  It is a live web video image from the secluded Caribbean Island. The internet era is incredible. Ted is some fifteen hundred miles away, so thoroughly trussed he can barely move, and I can watch his torment. He is so snugly secured, perched atop that little stool. And that metal thing in his nose must be very aggravating. I feel a tinge of arousal.

  Surely it’s rather boring for him, but according to the instructions, telephone contact will liven things up a bit.

  My well-hung but somewhat effeminate ‘escort’ knocks. I gruffly fling open the door. At five foot eight, my six feet seems to tower over the satiric Anthony and I enjoy using my height and strength to intimidate. I pull him into the apartment by the lapels on his jacket and toss him onto the couch.

  “Strip,” I command. “You have work to do while I play on the web. Get yourself up and join me in the den.”

  He knows I tip well and obeys, piling up his garments while I retrieve the cordless phone and return to the computer.

  I dial in the special phone number provided by the ASBM. A very pleasant and firm woman’s voice answers. It is a recording.

  “Thank you for calling our facility. Please enter the four digit code for the patient to be contacted, followed by the pound sign.”

  The ASBM information suggests that Ted’s number is 4527. Obviously the digits have information encoded within. I cannot believe Constancia Island has so many ‘patients’ as to require a four digit number to distinguish each one. I push the keypad as Anthony crawls into the den...naked. As commanded he has stroked himself. A full and firm nine inches bobs about between his thighs.

  ‘Nice touch,’ I think to myself. He must really need the dough. And tonight he will earn it. I bought a new dildo which the young girl at the store assured me could barely be tolerated.

  ‘Yes, Anthony, crawl to mama. She’s going to make you feel very open tonight.’

  I part my bathrobe and separate my thighs. Beneath I am without attire and have just trimmed my
pudendum to clear a path for Anthony’s lips and tongue. As I listen to the woman’s voice, I just point. Anthony knows what I want. He crawls between my knees.

  “Welcome to Mr. Ted Dalton’s stimulation line. If this is your first call, please listen carefully to these instructions. Each charge requires a two digit number followed by the pound sign. The first digit will determine the level of voltage to be discharged. One is the lowest, five is moderate, nine is the most severe. You may press any number between one and nine.

  “The second digit determines to which anatomical area the charge will be delivered. One is to the urethra within the penis, two is to the prostate gland, three is to the urethra and prostate simultaneously, four is to the left testicle, five is to the right testicle, six is to both testicles, seven is to the left nipple, eight is to the right nipple, nine delivers a simultaneous charge to all areas.

  “The charge will be delivered while pressing the pound sign. For a brief charge press and quickly release the pound sign. For longer charges press and hold the pound sign.

  “We recommend caution in applying a nine nine charge for any extended period.

  “You may press zero for assistance at any time.

  “Please press zero zero when you are through or just hang up.

  “You will now be transferred to Mr. Dalton.”

  I feel wetness, and it is not caused by Anthony’s assiduous tongue. The thought of lounging about in my den while tormenting my philandering husband hundreds of miles away as the oral efforts of my sycophantic 25 year old bring me to orgasm, causes an indescribable sexual rush.

  “Lick,” I summarily command.

  Meanwhile I press ‘36’ and tap the pound key to apply a moderate zing to Ted’s precious gonads. I watch the computer screen and within an instant he delightfully tries to squirm within his masterfully implemented bondage. Anthony’s hot wet tongue pierces my outer labia as I hear Ted’s moans in the earpiece.

  It is a powerful exhibition, which includes sound. I am in heaven.

  I hope the battery on the cordless phone will not need recharging before the evening ends.

  Chapter Twenty

  Ted Dalton

  I understand why dinner has been withheld. I feel the zing of intermittent electrical shocks. Some are brief and merely annoying. Others are gut wrenching, seeming to fry my most intimate areas. Within moments of the first charge I begin to feel nauseous. Any food in my stomach would be quickly given up to the rubber-coated floor.

  There is no one in the room. The only sound is of my labored screams of agony...my clamped tongue inhibiting intelligible pleas for mercy. Perspiration begins to form and ironically the moisture seems to enhance the conductivity of whatever it is attached to my nipples.

  The jolts of electricity have the effect of making me squirm and lurch within my tight bondage, doubling the anguish, particularly when I inadvertently tension the cord to my nose bridle.

  But worst of all is the randomness. There is no pattern as to the length of each charge nor to what area. And sometimes the jolts stop completely for minutes...as if my tormentor needs a respite from pressing a button or turning a dial...or whatever causes the severe shocks.

  It is weird, but my mind occupies itself by trying to determine which area is most sensitive. My penis feels as if is being broiled like a hot dog. But then there will be a charge to the anal insertion and my poor prostate explosively reacts and feels ready to surrender.

  Does it last an hour? Two? I don’t know. And ironically I have no way of knowing if it is over. Twice I relaxed only to be suddenly bombarded with a diabolical series of shocks, seeming to form a circle...right nipple, right testicle, penis, prostate, left testicle, left nipple...capped by a jolt to all areas. Someone is having fun.

  There is a third long intermission. I stand guard, mentally preparing myself for more. And I guess that is one sinister aspect of the torment...not really knowing. Always expecting.

  Meanwhile the drip bag has continued throughout the entire ordeal. A splash of water hits my tongue and I struggle to swallow...so devious...so well planned. They know the male body here and exactly what can be tolerated.

  I believe it is over. My perspiration dries during a long period of nothingness. I hear the door open and I mentally cower. I do not know whether a visitor is good or bad. Am I being summoned back to the salt flats? Could the night be that short? Perhaps I have passed out and not realized it...completely losing any concept of time.

  I feel hands...soothing hands. Young and soft they work to remove the clamps from my nipples and testicles. The anal probe is gently removed. My benefactress is most tender in sliding out the probe in my penis. My bladder is full and aches...a minor discomfort compared to the hours of shocks and jolts.

  Gratefully, she knows. Fingers grasp my penis and slip back the foreskin.

  “Empty yourself for me, Mr. Dalton.”

  The voice matches the hands and fingers. Young, soft, feminine. But like all the females at this facility there is a no nonsense firmness...a directness that eliminates all hesitation in reacting to requests and directions. All spoken words are really commands.

  The sensitive tip of my manhood brushes against a bowl placed on the floor beneath the stool. The feminine hand continues to hold me as I do my business as instructed. I am so relieved.

  Now I know the electric show is over.

  “I am the night nurse, Katani...Nurse Katani to you.”

  She removes the bowl, which I so dutifully filled. I hear splashing followed by the sound of running water. Somewhere in the room there is access to a drain and faucet. Evidently wall panels conceal the fact that the room is better equipped than it appears. She returns and I feel her fingers on my scrotum, still stretched and restrained by the testicle rings. She applies more cream and tenderly works the curious substance into my skin, seeming to enjoy the feel of the hairless, warm and most vulnerable flesh.

  “You’re stretching nicely, Mr. Dalton. Your sponsor wants these hanging just about to the knees...easily done.”

  She laughs with a disturbing aloofness. The notion that a male can so easily be altered amuses.

  “We can even go further if desired. This cream makes the skin very supple. It’s extraordinarily useful.”

  Finished, I feel her hands smooth over every inch of my nakedness. It feels good. Is she being kind or inspecting…trained to find and treat any abrasions or contusions...like a horse trainer or dog breeder.

  She talks while she examines. I guess the night shift is rather boring and though I cannot reply, my prostrate and well bound form supplies some degree of companionship, however unresponsive.

  “I watched your little show. Mrs. Dalton is quite a fast learner and very resolute in using the call in feature. For most women it takes two or three calls before attaining the level severity to which she took you.”

  Mrs. Dalton! Calling in? How devious. So somehow her presence is felt despite the geographical separation. My mind enters a funk. I am not sure that Nurse Katani’s revelation is comforting. Is it better to know that at the end of the long electrical cord, stretching all the way to New York, it is my Superior on the other end of the attachments to my genitals? The woman who evidently found me cavorting with a professional Dominatrix?

  While my brain continues to roil, my nurse begins to massage various areas...assuring that circulation adequately flows to arms and legs long held immobile by Nurse Jasmine’s extreme bondage.

  It feels good. Am I tumefying? I cannot tell but Nurse Katani giggles at something as she works.

  I wish my mind were more settled enabling me to enjoy some of the few sensuous moments on Constancia Island.

  Shoulders and back are next. Then my buttocks. Lastly I feel her fingers on my penis. Yes, it is firm. The stiffness resists her efforts to bend it back for inspection. Still she palms it and cruelly pinches some of the tender foreskin. I have no way to resist. She can poke, prod, pinch, inspect and examine with impunity. I must take the bad with
the good. The young nurse is giving herself an anatomy lesson.

  All good things must end and she shifts to my front. The dripping stops and I detect movement. Then the flow resumes. She has replaced the bag with a full one.

  “Try to sleep. In a few hours I will shower you and induce a bowel movement. That’s how you’ll begin every day here.

  “Then Dr. Corrothers will stop in and your tongue will be freed to tell her all she wishes to know.”

  How comforting.

  Chapter Twenty One

  Ted Dalton

  I have no idea if I actually slept. With the dripping bag and my face pulled upwards I was forced to deal with the water constantly splashing onto my tongue and rolling to the back of my throat where I had to swallow or I would choke.

  I suppose my mind adapted to it and I entered some form of restful state, as one can become accustomed to constant noise.

  Anyway, I am drawn out of a dream, perhaps more of a daydream, by the feel of fingers fidgeting about my anus. As promised Nurse Katani is inducing the movement of my bowels by inserting what feels like moderate sized marbles. She finishes then massages my lower abdomen and intermittently presses firmly with her thumbs, I suppose to knead my lower colon. Within minutes I find myself struggling to announce my need to go with words garbled by my clamped tongue.

  “So you like my little balls?” she laughing inquires as she works to release the testicle rings.

  “There’s a basin under you. Just go as you please.”

  I do. The balls obviously are comprised of some kind of laxative and I hear them plop into the waiting basin as Nurse Katani kindly holds my scrotum out of the way. I also empty my bladder for her and she seems pleased, chiming compliments which one would make to a child being potty-trained.