A Gift From James

by Chris Bellows

  I sent James home to arrange his affairs. Before leaving I gave him a personal check so he could negotiate the termination of his lease and cut off all utilities and telephone. He returned in the afternoon and I immediately put him into the cage. For the next three days, if he wasn’t in sensory deprivation, he would be either working on an orange or demonstrating his new prowess with his hooded head between my thighs.

  On Tuesday I handled some brief appointments in the morning and checked with the bank. The first monthly payment of $100,000 had been wired into our joint checking account. ‘Joint’ in title only. James not only was denied blank checks, he didn’t know the account existed. The statements were mailed to my office address. I suppose at some point in time, he would ponder where his wealth was going, but for the short term, he would have other things to think about.

  On Wednesday morning, I sat through my last appointment as a psychologist. Goodbye, Mrs. Jones, and your dreary tales involving low self-esteem and overindulgence. Just lose some weight you cow!

  I could not say it, of course. But why do so many seemingly complicated problems have such simple solutions? So I just listened and thought about the prior evening when James had so ardently applied his lips and tongue to my steamy, moist slit. And he didn’t miss a drop, the dear boy. Capturing and sucking the dangling oranges were a most effective form of exercise.

  Wednesday afternoon I looked at houses. All large and old, I wanted something dramatic and that I could restore without raising the curiosity of nosey neighbors. Building a large exercise and discipline room in a newly constructed home would draw attention. Gutting a turn of the century mansion was an accepted process. Delivery and installation of equipment, no matter how eccentric, would not give rise to questions.

  I found a gem and put in an offer.

  James

  Is interesting how life and one’s outlook thereon can change so quickly. Having my week planned and knowing where I would be and what I would be doing was an ingrained habit before D began her program.

  Since then, I don’t think or plan at all. I just react. Quickly. Humbly. Obediently.

  Most times, I don’t know what day it is. And being hooded so much of the day, I judge time by relating it to D. Where she is, what she’s doing and what she wants of me.

  But I still dream.

  And strangely, most dreams are of the neighborhood girl who’s brash curiosity frightened me more than anything I remember from my youth. Eve always seemed to get what she wanted. A great manipulator, she always had the newest bicycle, the best toys, got the highest grades. She was the benchmark for every parent’s assessment of their own children.

  “If you’re good like Eve, you’ll have a nice Christmas present,” I had heard so many parents say.

  We all knew better, her friends and acquaintances. And I in particular knew of her duplicity.

  But she was the child Queen. And to paraphrase an old adage, if you’re planning to kill the ‘Queen’ make sure you indeed kill her.

  Thus, no youngster dared attempt to tarnish Eve’s ‘good girl’ image. Any effort would earn her wrath, the consequences of which could be substantial. Those who crossed her found themselves receiving a good strapping when their parents learned of smoking or skipping school. And it was Eve who always informed the parents of the forbidden conduct, thus further enhancing her ‘good girl’ image and raising her status to that of nearly untouchable within the community of kids.

  So, a couple of weeks after Eve watched my ignominious display of masturbation she was waiting outside my back door at a particularly early hour. She had apparently become aware of my early morning escapes and assured herself that I could not vacate my house without her interception.

  But there was no avoiding her on this bright, warm Saturday. No, Eve awaited and was holding a camera. Rather expensive for a girl of some 12 years, but it was a recent addition to her ‘good girl’ plunder. Her ingratiating parents had purchased it for her birthday. Instant photography had become easy to use and Eve was eager to demonstrate one of its more useful functions. Accumulating blackmail.

  Her words still stung and rattled my mind.

  “I want to see you do that again, James. You know, behind the garage.”

  It was not a suggestion. It was a continued part of our journey down this strange, unknown path. There could only be one reason she carried the camera. It was to assure I could not turn back.

  Laitai

  I find myself somewhat mesmerized by the puffy white clouds streaming slowly under the wing of the plane. San Francisco to St. Paul is expected to be a trip of over 3 hours, so I settle in and try to relax despite my excitement.

  My thoughts turn to mother and all she has taught me over the years. At 23, turning such knowledge into a steady flow of income has been difficult for me. Some in the D/s scene consider me to be more than talented. In thigh high leather boots, matching leather skirt and a frilly but loose fitting white blouse I am considered evilly alluring by those that choose to endure my skills. I have come to find it amusing that some initially react with a degree of aloofness due to my young age or perhaps my slight 110 pound frame. But those are the ones I particularly enjoy making sing. Securely strapped to a padded leather bench, in time they all break. My challenge becomes the matter of the timing to utilize in maximizing the mental torment and what pattern to leave on their exposed flesh to most amuse observers. And for those who are initially aloof, listening to their pleas turn to high pitched, unintelligible bursts of air passing over strained vocal cords, is gratifying. I always think of the sounds as song and overall, those that sing the loudest are the ones that later return and display a newly found level of respect.

  The D/s scene in San Francisco is active, but in some ways too active. Professional handlers of submissive males compete with amateurs and worse, people just experimenting and entering the scene as a lark.

  Thus Dr. D’s offer of a well paid, lengthy assignment could not be ignored.

  As a little girl I watched mother ply her craft, the disciplining of the subservient male. She in turn had learned from her mother who learned from her mother. The passing down of this knowledge went back for countless generations and it all began when my ancestors served the Emperor of China. In those ancient days and continuing right up to the beginning of the twentieth century, the Emperor was served by eunuchs, males who by tradition had sacrificed their genitals for the privilege of serving royalty.

  The care, training and disciplining of the Emperor’s young eunuchs was entrusted to my great-great-grandmother. Perhaps the connection went even further back, for it seemed the daughters, granddaughters, etc. continued their service right up to the last Emperor, by whom my grandmother was employed.

  Eunuchs have special needs. All of which my mother explained to me in long lectures. But one particular skill that was required for their care, mother continued to utilize and had taught me. That was the firm caning of the buttocks and other receptive areas.

  It is well know that Eunuchs cannot experience sexual pleasure in the normal sense. What is not well known is with most altered males there is a very common psychological transition that substitutes the desire to experience pain for the loss of the ability to achieve sexual gratification.

  In the Emperor’s palace, there developed a ritual where the firm crack of the cane and the resulting overwhelming signal of pain became the preferred substitute to normal sex. And to have the ritual performed by a young attractive woman added a dimension that the Emperor found to be amusing.

  Mother used to revel me with stories told to her of the special room in the Emperor’s palace where sexually frustrated eunuchs were stripped and firmly caned by our ancestors. Large and well equipped, the high ceilinged room was used to restrain the altered male in any number of positions. And the Emperor’s balcony afforded an unimpeded view of all, the antics of the groveling flagellant being a common form of entertainment for both the Emperor and a carefully selected naked and orally gifted
concubine. All the Emperors were appreciative of my ancestors’ talent and made certain the craft was passed by mother to daughter for many generations.

  The skill involves more than just swinging a thin strip of bamboo. The flagellator must know the optimal areas of the flesh, how to maximize pain without breaking the skin, how to bring the eunuch to the highest level of pain without permitting him the ironic mercy of passing out. But most importantly, she must be relentless.

  One cannot display the slightest degree of compassion and be an effective flagellator. No. The eunuch must understand he will be caned firmly and steadily. Once begun, no part of a session is within his control.

  The talented flagellator is closer to being a machine than being human.

  And mother imbued me with assiduous talent and ardent desire to inflict.

  I looked at the picture of James, which Dr. D had sent me with the plane ticket. The submissive male always had that certain look and I saw it in James. Like that of lost or stray pet, an imploring look, as if seeking to be taken home and sheltered.

  He’s considerably older than me, I think. Probably approaching his mid thirties. It’s the perfect age, still young enough to withstand the rigors of the cane, but with the added maturity that will make the humiliation of his subjugation to a girl of 23 to be that much more mentally stressing. Dr. D indicated he took nicely to the leash...

  D

  Packing was a challenging experience. So much equipment along with thick winter clothing and ski apparel, all of which had to be stowed. The winter climate in the Canadian Rockies is extremely cold with bright sunny days turning to nights of sub zero temperature.

  When finished, the numerous bags and trunks forced me to call the cab company and have them send a van rather than a regular car.

  James was not much help. He had expressed some reservations the evening before and I had to immerse him in darkness with another tape. Doing this was difficult for me. I was excited by the trip and needed attention. Robert was not available on such short notice so I relieved some frustration by standing before the cage and letting James lap away at my sex through the bars. This also proved to be a effective way of monitoring his progress, his tongue becoming more attentive as the evening wore on, thereby providing an indication of his level of submission.

  By early Thursday morning he was pining to be let out so he could better service me. The timing could not have been better. Our train left Union Station at 2:10 p.m. I wanted him groveling in order to get him into the private cars by noon and without incident. Depriving him of food and assuring that his bladder was well filled helped speed the matter. Eventually his needs overcame his reluctance and when I finally deemed him ready for release he scrambled to the bathtub like an energetic puppy released to do his business.

  I prepared my apartment for a long period of absence, emptying the refrigerator of just about everything and turning down the thermostat.

  Then I just lounged in my favorite chair and had James lick my boots while waiting for the van. I needed to keep him in the right frame of mind and I gently brushed my fingers across the front of his trousers. Yes, the bulge indicated his penis was nicely turgid as he made the black leather shine. As planned and suggested in the hours of subliminal messaging, the act of serving me was becoming a significant source of arousal for him.

  Right on schedule, our driver quietly pushed open the door which I had left ajar. A very pleasant black woman stepped in and smiled when she saw James kneeling at my feet with his fortified tongue ardently applying long laps up and down my right boot.

  “I have one of those at home,” she announced with a wry smile.

  It was nice to learn that I did not need to explain the large dog cage when she stepped into the bedroom to pick up some luggage. And when James stood, the rather prominent erection pushing through his pants was likewise not in need of explanation.

  With the van loaded, our trip began. A stop at the bank provided an enormous windfall in the form of James’ cash.

  Then it was off to the train station, where our luggage was taken to our private cars. I made a simple request of our delightful cab driver, which she immediately understood and accepted without hesitation. She was subsequently well tipped, with James’ money course, and I took down her phone number for the return trip. Her name was Angela and I was sure she would be very interested in inspecting James after his visit to the spa and his appointment with Dr. Alice.

  Stepping into the private lounge car made me pause for breath. The restored opulence was magnificent. The late nineteenth century car had an open platform in the rear, sizable lounge with cocktail bar, galley and small office with phones and fax.

  The connecting sleeper car was more modern. At one end was the master bedroom with shower. Two smaller but spacious bedrooms, which a shared second shower, comprised the opposite end. In the middle was a glass domed observation section, which protruded above the main body of the car. This provided for a panoramic, three hundred and sixty degree view of the countryside and the sky above.

  Under the dome were four well-stuffed lounge chairs, designed to provide the occupant with the capability of swiveling in order to observe all passing sights. I was heartened to see thick carpeting on the floor. Obviously intended to absorb the noise of the moving train, it would also provide long term comfort for my kneeling subjugant.

  I sent James back to the lounge car suggesting, in a firm manner, that he ensure the Champagne was well iced. This provided me with the opportunity to arrange the master bedroom and tend to the luggage.

  I also met with the conductor. The train would be under his control. Therefore, although I had private cars, he had the responsibility and the authority to inspect and tour our facilities.

  I showed him our tickets, which included some crisp greenbacks tucked inside the travel pouch.

  “We’d very much prefer to be left in privacy,” I suggested with a smile, but with hands placed on hips in a portrait like stance of dominance.

  His ‘yes, ma’am’ reply and meek look suggested that he may well be inclined to drop in for reasons other than his professional duties.

  But when he returned our tickets, I noticed that the greenbacks had disappeared. Our privacy would be respected unless, of course, I invited him in for a talk...

  In one sizable trunk I located the expensive suspension harness I had purchased years before. The lounge appeared to be a likely area for its use and I decided to divert James’ attention by showing him his new restraints.

  I returned to the lounge car to find James dutifully preparing the Champagne with, of course, only one glass. Since it dampens the libido, I had denied James all alcohol for weeks and he knew not to even ask for a sip.

  With just a nod he poured a glass and I gave the lounge a closer look.

  The rear of the lounge car had wonderful fenestration providing the occupants with unimpeded views through oversized windows. In the center of the ceiling, a few feet from the door leading to the observation platform, I noticed some sturdy hooks, apparently at one time used to secure a ceiling fan before the car was refurbished with air conditioning.

  How serendipitous. The harness is comprised of wide nylon straps, originally designed for use in bungee cord jumping, with comfortable ankle cuffs sewn to the back of the waist belt and wrist cuffs sewn to the top, rear portion of the shoulder straps.

  Modified by a certain kinky San Francisco cobbler with access to heavy duty stitching machines, his thoughtful alterations provided a combination of safety and comfort which is perfect for long term bondage. The harness is ineluctable and with my experience in the psychiatric ward, I used it with enthusiasm for many years before tiring of it.

  But for James it will become the perfect traveling restraint device. First the occupant is buckled into the wide waist belt. Then a pair of straps run from the waist belt, circle the inner thighs in the upper area near the groin and back to the waist belt. Then two shoulder straps are buckled up, running from the waist bel
t, crossing the chest, running over the shoulders, crossing the back and attaching to the rear of the waist belt. Then the wrists are drawn behind the back and firmly encased in fur lined cuffs.

  The cobbler added extensions to the top of the shoulder straps. These extension straps have large rings at the top from which the harness and the occupant within hang.

  In the lounge car, suspending James will be just a matter of having him stand under the ceiling hooks, running cords from the shoulder rings to the ceiling, tightening them to an appropriate level of tension, then lifting one foot into the waiting ankle cuff, then the other.

  James will hang. Naked. Completely immobile. Perhaps blindfolded.

  I can feel my arousal visualizing the train flashing through the small dairy towns of Wisconsin with the blinds drawn up, providing the unsuspecting inhabitants with delightfully lewd glimpses of my subservient plaything. And a nice inflatable butt plug will add an element of spice and serve to remind him of his role by keeping him nicely erect for the journey to the spa.

  My watch indicates it is just after 1:00 p.m.

  “Well, James...your journey has begun,” I think to myself, as I lift my glass and sip, looking directly into those beseeching eyes. He silently looks down to my boots in well-ingrained obeisance. Then his eyes move with trepidation to the harness.

  James

  The private cars are beautifully arranged. I am so happy that D can enjoy herself and my fortunate monetary circumstances.

  After serving her Champagne, she selects a video tape from a collection she has brought from her apartment. My role is to stand to her side and replenish her glass as she enjoys a rather well produced ‘X rated’ movie. She doesn’t speak. She just occasionally extends her glass and I humbly pour.

  The large windows in the lounge area provide a view of the busy station platform. Most people just scurry by, but others pause to look in, the exterior of the car being most decoratively painted and its nineteenth century design being quite the attraction.