Therefore, as two fingers gently but firmly knead and massage Mr. Dalton’s once tight rectum, stretched somewhat by Luana’s saddle insertion, I make sure I have handy all that I need. Nearby is a specimen dish, plenty of special lotion, and what we term a penis control stick...really just a three foot wooden dowel.., about a three quarters of an inch in diameter.
Assuring myself that all is within reach, I strive to insert a third finger and of course the ringed muscle yields. So anally responsive! Tsk. Tsk.
My free hand checks the penis. It’s incredibly stiff and just as Luana reported, Mr. Dalton is leaking like an old faucet. Clear viscous fluid pours from the urethra. Well that will be corrected.
Next comes the penis control stick. While the thumb of my right hand is still free, I place the stick on Mr. Dalton’s thighs just at the crease of the buttocks and capture it with the thumb. Then I ready myself for the cries of anguish and bend back the stiff penis. He lurches and yelps but I ignore his entreaties and wedge the middle of the shaft over the control stick. The force of his very tumescence presses the stick against the back of his thighs. When I remove my hand the dowel stays in place, with the penis cruelly pointing in a most uncomfortable direction...downward.
“It’s difficult I know...we’ll try to work quickly.”
I lie of course. I am giddy with the feeling of power and wish to bask in it all morning. With the penis so positioned, Mr. Dalton cannot possibly ejaculate...no matter what. That’s another anatomical fact not highlighted in nursing school but certainly utilized to great advantage on Constancia Island.
So now I can work him open with impunity. ‘No unintended climax for Mr. Dalton...that’s illegal,’ I humorously remind myself.
While working in my pinky finger to join the others, I position the specimen dish under the penis with my free hand. I will capture his essence for examination at the Island’s laboratory. We take very good care of our males and no expense is spared to ensure a long and healthy life of abject servitude.
No sooner done then a sizable dollop of prostatic ooze slowly drips to the dish.
‘Oh yes, Mr. Dalton. You are full indeed,’ I think with a smug smile.
I curl under my thumb and push. It could be painful...it does not matter. This is a clinical procedure that must be done. My hand slides inward. I can feel the mushy gland, much larger than the walnut size of one that’s utilized regularly.
Well, we’ll take care of that.
I diddle, rotate, and wriggle ignoring the pitiful cries. Poor Mr. Dalton so much wants me to withdraw…then he beseeches me to massage more firmly and do so while stroking his manhood. So fickle. Meanwhile the dripping turns to a constant oozing and the specimen dish fills. So full...so swollen...yet so reluctant to yield.
Time is not important when milking the male. Results are. Once my hand is inserted there is no rush, despite the level of humiliation and strange arousal of having the most intimate male gland so capriciously kneaded. So I wile away, working my fingers and listening to Mr. Dalton’s pleas turn to low moans. It happens often with the submissive male...first disbelief, then begging, then reluctant acceptance of the female’s superior and knowing hand.
The ooze turns cloudy indicating that I have struck pay dirt. Sperm. I have overridden the ejaculatory process and massaged the devilish substance from the ampulla. He’s done. Well milked though embarrassed and sore.
“We’re going to do this once per month whether you need it or not,” I suggest with a sardonic smile and a girlish giggle.
I slowly withdraw.
The contents of the specimen dish are removed and sealed in an airtight container to be sent to the lab.
“Bath time.”
Chapter Twenty Seven
Dr. Corrothers
Mr. Dalton has been with us for some six weeks. With the steady injections of Thorazine, being forced to work under the whip hand of Luana, hours and hours of severe bondage, the random and debilitating electro stimulation, mentally he is not much more than putty.
Jasmine has him lying blindfolded on his back, wrists secured over his head, legs straight up towards the ceiling and parted to form a wide ‘V’. She tightened everything to the point that he cannot move an inch. And one can recognize her touch, so to speak, by the smaller cords...restraining and stretching the scrotum and his tongue. And the tension on each restraint is impressive. She is very strong and without compunction in tormenting the male.
To ensure his hours and hours of discomfort, Jasmine has a cord running from the ceiling to his nose bridle, which forces him to hold his head just an inch or two from the floor. The soft rubber surface so tantalizingly beckons him to lower his head to the floor to relax his neck muscles...except the pain of the nose bridle with the small posts inserted right up into his sinuses would overwhelm.
So Nurse Katani has throughout the night granted momentary relief every hour or so by doing something as simple as cradling his head for a few seconds to relieve the tension from the nose cord. For that she has been trained to extract a psychological toll, of course. Cajoling our obsequious Mr. Dalton further down a path of complete capitulation...softly speaking very carefully scripted words to which he cannot reply...his tongue remains clamped.
Words such as...‘You seem to be suffering so...but you’re erect, Mr. Dalton. Why are you so aroused?’
Another suggested phrase...‘Would you rather be with Miss Luana, perhaps? Straining in the hot sun and under her whip...proudly showing off your erect penis?’
He cannot answer, but the comments and questions plant seeds for the growth of certain thoughts. We also like to control those on Constancia Island.
So I quietly stand over the naked and supine Mr. Dalton. Nurse Katani has removed the electrical apparatuses, assured that his bladder is empty and his bowels have moved then nicely given him his sponge bath. His penis stands impressively. I have seen this so often on the naturally submissive male...the system is so overpowered by the physical and mental dominance of the women of our facility that reactions which others would deem unusual we see every day.
It is time for the next phase. His tongue is ready, his scrotum is agreeably stretched...the chart indicates we’ve lengthened it three inches in six weeks...and he’s as obedient as a loyal dog.
He has probably heard me enter but has no way of acknowledging my presence. And sometimes even with the gnawing and slowly building pain, the flow of endorphins will allow the severely trussed male to enter a dreamlike state. That’s why he’s massaged regularly throughout the night. He thinks Nurse Katani is offering kindness, whereas actually her nimble hands are not only restoring circulation but also resetting his tolerance level to the pain...back to zero...permitting the suffering to begin again.
So I nudge his stretched scrotal sac with the toe of my boot. He stirs and winces since the slightest of movements tensions his nose cord.
“Good morning, Mr. Dalton. It’s Dr. Corrothers. I have something for you. Something I think you’ll enjoy. It’s a little cushion.”
Despite the weeks of having his tongue clamped, stretched and strengthened for hours upon hours, he tries to speak. The words come out in a guttural gibberish and I laugh out loud. It is an irritating laugh and I am well aware of its effect.
Nurse Jasmine enters. The protocol that I have instituted on Constancia Island mandates that I do not become directly involved in the physical handling of the males. We have ample staff for that. In having others do my bidding it accentuates my authority and for the male places me on a symbolical yet psychologically important pedestal.
“Remove the clamp please, Jasmine. I think he wishes to talk to me.”
She steps over and around the various restraining cords and slips off the clamp. So agonizingly held in place...so easily and quickly removed, I think to myself.
“So perhaps you would like to use my little pillow? You may speak.”
“Yes please, ma’am.”
So polite. So succinct. I hand the cushion
to Jasmine. She knows to delay.
“Well we’re going to talk for a while and then I will need your signature. I know it will be difficult with the masturbation mittens but Nurse Jasmine will guide your hand in assisting.
“Would you like to talk to me this morning?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Very good. You’re very considerate.”
I nod to Jasmine and she gently slides the pillow under Mr. Dalton’s head. For the first time in many hours, other than brief visits from Nurse Katani, he can relax his neck muscles. There are probably tears of joy under his blindfold. The feeling of relief can surpass that of an orgasm...and throughout the morning session I will be sure he is reminded who granted it.
“Well you’re standing very nicely for me, Mr. Dalton. Tell me what you think about to produce and maintain such a stiff penis.”
Jasmine departs. I move to my chair and prepare pad and pen. We begin.
The process has been slow but on each visit Mr. Dalton has mentally slid further into an abyss of male servitude combined with a growing admiration for the Dominant female. I know the signs. I understand the symbolic stories. I can interpret has dreams better than he can.
He answers questions and unlike the early sessions there is no hesitation, no matter how humiliating or degrading the situation of which he has dreamed or about which he has fantasized. In my notes I highlight various parts of his narrative. In every story the dreaming or hallucinating Mr. Dalton is being commanded or controlled by a Dominant woman. And what is most important, upon my careful cross-examination and reflection on his part, is that he enjoys the encounters.
With every segment I ask, “And how did that make you feel? Does recalling it now arouse you?”
The recurring dream of Mrs. Dalton riding about on a white horse and whipping a naked Mr. Dalton as he runs about in a field is wonderfully symbolic. And each time he tells the story his subordinate mind embellishes it to make Mrs. Dalton more supreme, himself more abjectly subjugated, and his level of arousal and enjoyment unsurpassed.
After some two hours I broach a most important subject matter.
“You exhibited very poor behavior a few weeks ago back in New York. Fortunately we know how to modify behavior here as you are aware. Luana says you’ve become a very obedient worker.
“But Mrs. Dalton has insisted on making sure your behavior is permanently modified. And she has decided on certain physical changes. Rather severe, but I think you know it is best.
“Dr. Reinhold is highly qualified in this field. There will be no complications and you will be able to so much better live a life of loyal servitude to the Dominant woman of your dreams.”
I review the list of procedures. Unlike the piercings which after removal would heal within weeks, or the stretchings which are noteworthy but can easily be camouflaged, Mrs. Dalton has decided on various interesting alterations...all irreversible.
And for that we need Mr. Dalton’s permission. And he will give it...in writing.
There will be no day’s exercise, no frolicking under Luana’s whip, until papers consenting to certain surgical procedures and releasing the ASBM, Lady Constance and all her associates from liability are signed. And with the signature there will be no further counseling. My job is done.
I arise and step under cords securing Mr. Dalton’s ankles and over cords attached to his testicle rings. With a simple push of my boot the cushion slides from under Mr. Dalton’s head. He does not expect my brusk maneuver and the nose bridle instantly provides a jolt of pain in renewing its torment. He winces and the neck muscles resuming straining to keep the bridle cord slack.
“Nurse Jasmine will be in with a pen. A signature will earn more pillow time.”
I depart. With many members returning to Constancia Island for relaxation and to rekindle discipline training, perhaps I will see Mr. Dalton again. If not there is much good work that needs to be done elsewhere.
Chapter Twenty Eight
Ted Dalton
“Can you speak?”
It is Dr. Reinhold asking another question. She persists...and of course I obediently try to answer. But the words pour out in an unintelligible slur and even I do not understand what I am saying. I hear her laughing under her breath.
“Over time you will learn to speak very slowly and work to pronounce each word. It will be easier when the swelling dissipates.”
Once again I hang in harness in the Island’s medical building. It is so comfortable compared to the unyielding nightly bondage and electrical torture at the clinic. Yet, I experience many periods of terror.
Yesterday, I think it was yesterday, Dr. Reinhold resumed assaulting me with her needles. She gathered up a pinch of flesh over my left hip and thrust one of her longer shards through about an inch of thick epidermis. Once again I was skewered. She twisted, as seems to be the standard procedure, and let the thin length of steel set while she did the same to my right hip.
She stepped back to satisfy herself that her new openings were symmetrical. Then she held up a curious strand of steel, about the same gauge as that of the metal encircling my ankles, approximately that of a wedding ring. It was long...about three feet...and flexible. She bent it so the two ends came together to form a circle and held it up before me.
“Your new waist band,” she gleefully announced.
The needles were removed and she threaded an end of the long band of steel through the punctured flesh on my left hip. The opening allowed the band to penetrate the skin at a point near the very front of my hip bone, slide beneath and then exit to the rear at a point at the top of my left buttock. She pushed more of it through the new aperture so that it circled around my back. There she inserted it into the opening over my right hip. She positioned the two ends together over my navel and, with a spark and a moment of searing heat, welded them together.
Yes, my waist was banded...permanently...and in threading the circle of steel through the two piercings, it could not be slid off...it could not be slid anywhere!
It was painful and felt most awkward, though Nurse Naomi assured me that like all permanent alterations, I would become accustomed to it.
Today I was given an anesthetic. Other than the mentally sedating effects of the Thorazine, it was the first time I was not required to feel the full brunt of the pain from Dr. Reinhold’s procedures. She worked in my mouth. I was conscience and felt things happening but certainly not the intense pain of the various piercings.
So here I hang trying to speak in response to her question. At first, I attribute my ludicrous attempts to enunciate words to the effects of the anesthetic. Then I realize she has done something to my tongue.
She reaches to my mouth.
“Give me a nice ‘ahhhh’ and show me that tongue, Mr. Dalton.”
I comply, as trained. She tugs with a gloved hand. I am amazed to feel the wet warmth of my oral appendage touch the very bottom of my chin. It is amazingly long.
“A simple operation, really. I have incised a couple of small ligaments, which formerly served to hold back the tongue. Thus I have loosened it. You can now extend it much further than before. And I have added some implants. Mrs. Dalton sent us a MRI scan of her genitalia. I’ve added little bumps where she’ll most appreciate it. You will feel like your mouth is full of marbles...only don’t bother trying to spit them out. They’re permanently inserted under the surface of the tongue.”
She laughs softly. Though blindfolded I have come to know the look of Schadenfreude on the diabolical women of Constancia Island. I can imagine the expression of demented satisfaction on her face.
“Sleep, Mr. Dalton. Naomi will be encouraging you to speak from time to time and you will do your best to comply. Otherwise you need your rest. There is much more to come. At times you will feel heat on various parts of your body. We are going to remove all of your body hair...by special laser. Preliminary research suggests the removal will be permanent…though something may grow back...in twenty or thirty years.
/> “And your foreskin has an appointment with Nurse Jasmine. Though I can do circumcisions as well as any woman, Lady Constance promised Jasmine that all were hers for her collection. For Jasmine they are like scalps.”
I hear footsteps and cackling. Dr. Reinhold departs.
Hours later I feel exactly what Dr. Reinhold described. Someone is methodically passing an instrument over my shin. It hurts but is tolerable. My right arm is released and I approximate it takes some thirty minutes before the entire surface has been exposed to the radiant heat of the laser. Afterwards it is my left arm. Then my right thigh is released from its sling-like bond and actually touches the floor. After re-securing it, the left leg follows. I am grateful to feel the application of a numbing cream when it is time to apply the device to my scrotum.
After two or more hours, the procedure stops.
All limbs are carefully checked for proper bondage and I am left to while away the time, blindfolded and helplessly hanging in full suspension.
Nurse Naomi later awakes me. She holds my penis and I know to empty myself for her. She spoon feeds me the all too familiar mush and I have difficulty swallowing.
“Slowly, Mr. Dalton. Your tongue does not have use of all the ligaments it had in the past. And you’ll find that your implanted beads make it feel as if you have not swallowed everything. It’s a learning process.”
For some reason my penis becomes erect. I am becoming more and more easily aroused having been so long kept chaste, exhibited naked and then placed under the control of the Dominant female. I can hear Nurse Naomi’s giggled reaction.
“You so much enjoy showing off for me, Mr. Dalton. Just like a peacock. Well...soon you’ll be showing off for every woman all the time.”
Chapter Twenty Nine
Nurse Jasmine
Mr. Dalton hangs so meekly...like a child in a crib. I wonder if he knows his engorged manhood stands for all to see.
Well, it will soon become flaccid and do so at my hand. Complete feminine control over even the proudest of male functions, such a delicious meal...and at Constancia Island, we feast every day.
The Constancia Compendium Page 41