Dr. Winthrop Samuels Series

by Chris Bellows

  “An old English custom... figging. Offered to the recipients of school birchings so the bare cheeks would be properly presented for chastisement. With your cunny zipped closed, it’s time to awaken other portals.”

  I wait in silence as the almost unbearable heat festers. Just as the nipples begin to cool, there the ginger juice modestly applied, the effect of the anal plug becomes evident. The rounded globes clench deliciously to inadvertently pull the plug inward. That increases the burn. Thus comes the instinctive reaction of trying to expel the blazing root, pressing outward, forcing the glutei to expand in the opposite pose. Such lewd presentation, yet so enchanting.

  Oh, this is most entertaining!

  “I will always be available to counter the tedium, Sunny. Just say the word. Louise will soon be here and if you properly beg she just may remove the ginger plug.”

  As Sunny strives to find comfort, one moment attempting to expel, then clenching to pull inward, I labor to diaper her. She whimpers as I roll her about in her hogtie, working around the buttock grommets. But as a precaution I eventually have her bottom wrapped in absorbent white cotton in case she should somehow expel my plug.

  With that, I depart. A cab awaits.

  Chapter Seven

  Miss Sunny Sudenskaya

  I have become one with the trinkets of Dr. Samuels.

  The many apertures forced into my skin, held open by these small rounded shapes, ‘grommets’ he terms them, are part of my anatomy. But for the tension when hanging, I no longer feel their presence. The alloy is quite hypoallergenic... not a rash, not an itch, not a hint of discoloration or trauma to the surrounding skin. I will bear them forever. They are me.

  I have the sense that someone has put a lock on the door to my house. It is my house, yet another holds the key, affording himself/herself entry and constantly denying it to me. I have no control. People come in and out at their whim. And to all I must bow. I am governed.

  The concentration required to walk, in an odd way each footstep contrived, diverts all thoughts. I move as if on an imaginary tight rope. But the consequence of a misstep is not to fall but to instead experience wicked painful muscle cramps. Thus when I am walked, up on toes or in high heels, the mental exertion exceeds the physical in assuring no quick, untimely or awkward motion begins the cascade... a spasm leading to cramps leading to more spasms. Dr. Samuels has my full attention when leashed. I follow his controlling tugs with precision. Though the ability to move is welcomed, it must be executed so carefully...

  By the end of November, the intervals of arroycoo, Dr. Samuels’ modified form of the African torment turned macho challenge, become extensive. Louise has come to be enthralled and has decided to maintain her schedule on the night shift, my nakedness available to her during the day. Dr. Samuels visits every evening and on weekends. And when neither is available, Mrs. Anderson offers a defacto child care service, my well tethered form wheeled into the elevator and deposited into her fourth floor loft.

  Not one to engage in assisting with my toilet, her ‘maid’ Kim is charged with changing my diapers or assuring that I defecate in the offered bucket. He also controls my key. Yes, those tiny effeminate hands unlock my cunny after suitable pleas, work to part my encumbered labia and hold a receptacle under my urethral opening while I empty on his command. He giggles like a school girl. I do believe the months of Mrs. Anderson’s heavy restraints, preceded by the weeks in solitary, have distorted his faculties, though I have come to question my own as I hang hour after hour.

  On occasion, before returning me to my place, Louise will pause in Mrs. Anderson’s loft long enough for me to service her. And of course Kim joins me in offering cunnilingus. Mrs. Anderson reclines on her couch, Louise perches herself on a kitchen stool and we’re ‘off to the races’, as Mrs. Anderson whimsically terms the contest. Me meekly hanging in the frame, Kim kneeling between Mrs. Anderson’s massive thighs.

  Yes, I have been trained to provide oral service to the female gender as well. Not having to control my gag reflex is an accepted change and oddly, with the many weeks of forced chastity, offering climactic ecstasy... licking, nibbling, sucking on another woman’s over sensitive bud... brings welcomed diversion. Louise graciously plays with my breasts to encourage my efforts, a milking motion which intensifies the degradation of hanging naked, vulnerable and restrained in complete immobility. Visions of lactating cows being milked in their stall come to mind. And such images bring odd arousal.

  Louise suggests that my hanging breasts are the only anatomical parts completely free to move. She laughs with the thought. I find the irony to be provocative, that which I used to lure Dr. Samuels, teasingly presented under a tight blouse, are now openly displayed in this bizarre relationship of bondage, exhibition and objectification.

  My Faustian bargain, eschewing a return to employment in order to fan the fires of my predilection, ‘scratch the insatiable itch’ as some would term it, is approached with curious ambivalence. There are no worries, no cares, no bills to pay, no demand for rent payments to bring concern. I am kept... to amuse... to entertain with my abject subservience. I have only myself to offer in return. But as I helplessly hang, day after day after day, no amount of begging bringing timely relief, am I indeed offering? Or, after sitting in that cab many weeks ago and having my nostrils penetrated, have I made a one time sacrifice... never to be reneged upon?

  Perhaps nothing is truly offered... only taken from me.

  I bear so many openings. Dr. Samuels not only punctured my body, the grommets, more than two dozen, have also opened my soul. Of late, a large mirror has been positioned. I can watch myself hang in my loft, hour after hour. When the experience becomes out of body, my endocrine system flooded with the natural opiates of physical stress, I concentrate and wriggle a toe, or perhaps a finger. My tongue can also extend. Sometimes my mammary glands will subtly sway. In gazing at my reflection, the movement conveys reality. That it is indeed my naked form... hideously stretched tufts of flesh holding me in place... that silly bob of hair graciously offering slack for my nose leash.

  Tears will begin to flow... but for naught. Nothing... no words, no pleas, no futile and painful lurching... will bring release. All who supervise me know that kept watered, Dr. Samuels has used his extensive knowledge and skills to perfection in terms of long term bondage. It is wickedly tolerable and safe... though the slow suffering smolders and roasts the cerebral cortex. The bladder control is devilish. As explained, in staving off shock, I am well watered, a straw inserted and plastic bottle constantly squeezed into my mouth. Thus the need to urinate seems unending along with the monotony, only broken by my requests to relieve myself... pleas never timely addressed.

  But most embarrassing, the ultimate in humiliation, is during my monthly cycle. It is only then that my zippered cunny is left opened, two simple swatches of white cloth are wrapped about my upper thighs, and my menses permitted to flow for all to see.

  I find that I must close my eyes with the intense shame. For during those periods, Dr. Samuels always seems to invite Mrs. Anderson in for a glass of wine, so greatly heightening my ignominy. There is the suggestion that others may find amusement as I suffer my monthly curse. Perhaps a cocktail party would place me in the proper mindset of subjugation, Mrs. Anderson flippantly recommends. I cringe with such discussion, thinking of the likes of Maggie or Theresa returning, gazing at my bound nakedness as Kim serves between their thighs.

  Why cannot I then be diapered?

  ***

  Something different!

  It is late afternoon and Miss Louise draws me to the bathroom. Into the tub I am secured, then returned to her three ‘H’ treatment... high, hot and a hell of a lot. She fills my bowels time after time. There is one more rinsing enema long after the outflow is running clear. Then she lubricates my anus and I am taken to the frame. Though I know her shift will soon begin, I am surprised to be suspended,

  “Special instructions from Dr. Samuels, pretty girl.”

>   Before donning her white uniform she draws up the stool, sits, hikes her skirt above her waist and presents her well trimmed mons. She gently tugs at my ears and slides forward on the seat. As always, the position offers that which I am to lick to ecstasy. I know to silently begin work. I have oddly come to enjoy her taste and knowing that I please brings a glow of pride to otherwise constant degradation.

  Within minutes, her thighs clench, there is more wetness to be lapped and a muffled shriek of joy announces I have placed Miss Louise in the proper frame of mind for an evening of work.

  She arises. I am well watered, a sure sign that I am to begin a long interval of arroycoo. To the bathroom for a quick shower and then as Miss Louise dons her uniform, I am surprised to see Dr. Samuels arrive. He has left work early. Normally I greet him in early evening, hogtied on the kitchen floor.

  “Well cleaned and lubricated, and I used a double cord for her spinal grommets,” Miss Louise announces in preening her hair in the mirror. “You will let me watch sometime, you’re not that shy.”

  Dr. Samuels smiles and nods.

  “Just want to experiment a little with the first go. Then we may have a plaything you can take to Spankers. I am sure Sunny will bring much entertainment to that otherwise dull crowd.”

  Dr. Samuels humorously references the D/s club where I first met Miss Louise. Masked and in black leather, she calmly watched as I endured a lengthy flogging. Later she had me lick her boots and we talked. I described the nature of my masochism, as best as one can describe such a proclivity. She thought it curious when I vocalized my disappointment, suggesting that the flogging was too quick, that I needed longer, slower suffering. That is when I was given the cell phone number of Dr. Samuels.

  ‘Subtle, but delightfully pure evil. Call him. Should you be able to grasp his attention, I am sure he can address your needs. He does not broadcast his predilection. You’ll never see him in the likes of this place,’ the masked woman suggested.

  I called. I grasped. He addressed.

  Miss Louise departs on schedule for her 3:00 p.m. shift. Dr. Samuels’ attention turns to me.

  “Comfortable?” the doctor’s bedside manner always apparent.

  “Yes, sir,” a verbal reply required. I cannot effectively nod.

  “Good. Something different for you Sunny. Break up the monotony for both of us.”

  I feel Dr. Samuels rummage with my corset cord. As noted, for the first time, Miss Louise threaded two cords through the many grommets, tying both sets of ends together at the front pipe and the back.

  “Your weight will shift just a tad, Sunny. Have no concern.”

  I look into the large mirror which assures constant awareness of my subjugation. One corset cord is released from the rear pipe. Dr. Samuels brings in the slack, moves to the left side pipe and reties it about a foot behind where the bungee cord is attached for my left buttock grommet. The second cord is released and retied to the right side pipe in a similar manner.

  The change requires mere moments and offers no discernible shift in my evenly supported weight.

  “Easy enough. Good Girl.”

  Fingers rub about my well secured mons. Though the sensitive inner labia are well tucked away, the brief caress is welcomed, awakening my neglected sex. Then I feel exploration about my anus. Miss Louise oiled there and I feel the fingers glide about and slip into my squeaky clean portal. There comes an ‘ah ha’ expressing satisfaction. The fingers withdraw.

  “Thought I’d enjoy a little matinee debauchery.”

  To the kitchen area, Dr. Samuels pours one if his well chilled Chardonnays. He returns and stands and before my face, most proximate. I know to begin working his zipper. I am adroit in capturing the tab in my teeth. He loosens my nose leash and the hair cord. I lower my head and unzip him.

  Such a rakish image, fully clothed, sipping a fine wine while a completely naked and helplessly bound girl endeavors to please with fellatio. I sense that brisance which defines the psyche of girls like me... the need to please... the need for humiliation... the need for pain.

  When the penis finally pops through the folds, I engulf. I suck. I offer what a girl with my psychological bent must offer... everything.

  “Just make it nice and firm for yourself,” Dr. Samuels encourages.

  I do. The rock hard tip plummets to the depths of my throat. I stifle the gag reflex, displaying my complete subservience... not a whimper of protest with my capitulation.

  “Just enough. Now my pretty hanging pet... another challenge.”

  He withdraws. I am oddly disappointed, mentally ready to ingest the deluge of his hot seed. Instead he places his wine glass on the nape of my neck, knowing that in my immobility, it will not topple. Then he moves to my side, then to the rear. I look to the reflection in the huge mirror. He ducks, his erection bobbing, stepping under the rear pipe to stand within the frame. My ankles, secured by short bungee cords are to the left and right of his head. I now understand why he adjusted the corset cords. He has made way for himself to stand within the frame.

  “If you recall, I suggested that you’d be offering more than fellatio, Sunny.”

  “No,” I moan, my voice surprisingly pitiful.

  “Oh yes.”

  His hands grasp the buttock cords. I concentrate. The slightest increase in tension can bring a spasm. But with the many, many weeks I know I must remain perfectly still. Any attempt to resist will begin the agonizing cascade.

  “Do not spill my wine, Sunny. Just lie and accept my offering. You have no choice, and deep down you know it will enhance that which you most desire... what you crave.”

  My vagina is zippered and locked. Anal penetration! And Dr. Samuels is correct. Hanging naked, cleft spread wide open, well cleansed then lubricated, my rectum beckons. I cannot even clench my buttocks to resist. Such would begin the cascade... and ironically add to Dr. Samuels’ pleasure, tensioning and bringing the extreme tightness which the male organ covets.

  How wicked! Miss Louise’s words come back to me... ‘delightfully pure evil’.

  I close my eyes. I feel that which I have so facilely serviced with lips and tongue slide along my gluteal cleft. Up then down, the good doctor plays, lubricating the tip with the excess oil, feeling my hanging form quiver with the expected penetration. There are soft words of encouragement. Then I feel the tip directly press at the rose bud opening.

  “Here we go,” the doctor apprizes, the words of a parent advising a toddler that a pony ride is to begin.

  “Ah,” is my only reaction.

  What more can I muster? What more can I do? I cannot move a muscle without spurring intense agony. Instead I lie hanging in my bonds, my attention turning to the stem glass at the nape of my neck. In even more irony, I concentrate, obediently assuring that the wine does not spill, accepting the pain and humiliation of sodomy as Dr. Samuels both thrusts with his hips and with his hands gently rocks me to and fro within the frame.

  In time, I once again feel his gush of hot male essence. Strangely, I miss its taste.

  ***

  Just as my excrement has on too many occasions oozed uncontrollably, Dr. Samuels’ male essence drools from my rectum, slithers down my perineum to the small lock zipping closed my love nest and from there drips to the floor. I dare not tighten to close my sphincter, the contraction could lead to spasms and cramping. And for whatever reason the good doctor chooses not to clean, instead sitting in that large chair, sipping wine and smirking in satisfaction.

  I have not before been penetrated there. I suppose my proficiency in oral sex has sufficed, most males ejaculating in my throat. And as noted, my training has been with truckers. They sit and drive, the constraint of the professional obviating anything more than quick fellatio at a rest stop... though many enjoyed the challenge of guiding at high speed the many tons of freight as I brought forth an explosion of joy.

  I am concerned, though as with most emotions I should cast such thought aside. After all, it matters not my feelings,
desires, wants, needs, cares. I am an object... hanging as one would display a painting... exhibited as a living sculpture. What is done to me... will be done to me... is well beyond my control.

  I cannot even empty my bladder!

  Dr. Samuels finally arises. The water bottle is offered, the plastic straw pushed to my lips. His fingers close to pressure. The flow begins. I am bloated but know to imbibe. I have no choice.

  “That was good, Sunny. You have a natural tightness there that pleases my penis... thus I am sure you are pleased as well. Though you dared not squeeze yourself closed, there was sufficient tension to offer the friction required for male pleasure and ultimate climax.”

  A rather clinical analysis, Dr. Samuels knowing that any muscle reaction would begin the agonizing cascade. I do not respond as I must drink. But strangely, I am indeed pleased that in my chastity, I may bring ecstatic climax to others.

  “Do you need to urinate?” Dr. Samuels inquires as he returns the bottle to the kitchen.

  “Yes, sir. Very badly.”

  “Good. I’ll open you up in an hour or so.”

  ***

  “Nice of you to stop in, Mrs. Anderson.”

  Dr. Samuels steps back from the door and the large imposing woman enters.

  “Good afternoon, Winnie.”

  “Just about to engage in a little procedure. Very timely,” the doctor announces in moving to the kitchen.

  Mrs. Anderson has learned to enjoy the well chilled wine of Dr. Samuels’ selection. He knows to pour a glass.

  “Sunny’s neck collar. Going to add a degree of permanence.”

  I have not been consulted on the matter. The referenced thin circle of nickel cobalt loosely adorns my neck, gliding up and down when not used to hold in place the short corset cord when I am walked. Then the tension forces it downward to rest on my collar bone. Its circumference is kept closed by a simple clasp, to be easily opened by those with free hands. Mine are most times restrained.

  “Fabricated two more grommets... brought my installation device. You may be interested in seeing how Sunny’s skin is so easily modified for usefulness.”