I quiver in suspension. Dr. Samuels has still not opened me for urination and that adds to the feeling of apprehension.
Mrs. Anderson takes her glass of wine and steps to inspect.
“Hello, pretty hanging girl,” her pleasant voice somewhat mocking.
She smoothes her free hand over my bald head. Then it moves to my breasts. It cups then gently tweaks right nipple then left, her touch sensuous. I believe she misses palpating all that young feminine flesh at Hartwood.
“She’s quite bloated, Winnie,” Mrs. Anderson’s sliding her hand to my distended belly.
“Ah. I’ve forgotten.”
Dr. Samuels tosses forth the tiny key which can be so liberating. Mrs. Anderson catches it and moves to stand at my hip.
“Most of her grommets can’t be seen while clothed,” Mrs. Anderson’s observation more of a question.
“I’ll open her low on the neck, near the collar bone. The grommets will be easily veiled while clothed.”
I hear the click of the tiny lock then feel the slight vibrations as the clever device is slipped down the thin cable which holds me closed. The offered slack permits my outer labia to part. I feel the room air where I now feel so little. Dr. Samuels steps forth with my basin as Mrs. Anderson splays to further spread my vaginal lips and remove any impediment to my urethral opening. Her firm but soft fingers feel good. I have been so long neglected there.
Though I need to go, there comes the familiar pause, brought forth by the insufficient intimacy, having to perform a function formerly carried out in private.
Mrs. Anderson steps away. Kim always takes charge of this duty in her loft. Dr. Samuels aligns the basin and patiently waits. It is then that Ms. Anderson notes my wet and I assume raw sphincter. She laughs.
“Semen about her rectum. The fellatio becoming a little tedious?” she humorously inquires.
There comes laughter. Dr. Samuels catches her drift.
“She’s wondrously tight there.”
I manage to summon a flow. I hear my excretion trickle to the waiting basin. But the level of humiliation is intense. This woman laughs with the notion of sodomy.
“At Hartwood we always had such concerns. My male guards were smart enough to know vaginal penetration offered a very revealing possibility, a little bun full of DNA to refute all denials of sexual contact. Thus when a girl did offer herself, usually accepting contraband for sex, she always got more than she bargained for... a good stiff one right up the alimentary canal. Lots of sore rectums. I’d put them on display as a lesson for the others... restrain the girl bent over naked and spread for all to see. Send the message... don’t tempt... don’t solicit... you’ll get more than you wish for...”
I finish. Dr. Samuels pats me dry with a napkin. I am returned to chastity so quickly that it is disconcerting. The lock slides up to tighten the cable, the grommets tightly align, the key turns, my cunny is again secured, held under the control of another.
The basin is emptied. Dr. Samuels approaches and jostles my neck collar, pushing it down onto the bone and marking with an alcohol swab to the right and left at a point well below my ears.
“Here and here,” he thinks aloud.
Then for the first time in months, the collar is released and removed.
“Two more openings, Sunny. Used to keep your collar in place so it won’t move about.”
I quiver as the grommet device is loaded. The skin at the base of my neck, almost at the shoulder, is pinched at the right side. With a click and a snap I feel the quick but intense pain of a needle prick. Then Dr. Samuels dabs away a droplet of blood. Within a minute another grommet penetrates my neck at the left.
“Amazing,” Mrs. Anderson comments in observation. “Permanent openings... and so quick.”
“I suppose someone could devise a method for drilling the metal out... it would require quite the hard and sharp drill. And the burning pain and trauma would greatly exceed the simple and quick installation. So my openings are not totally permanent,” Dr. Samuels advises.
The open collar returns. One open end is threaded through the grommet on the left, around the back of my neck and then through the grommet on the right where it greets the opposing end.
“Now we solder. The collar can be cut away, but not to be otherwise removed.”
For a man of Dr. Samuels skills, it is a simple matter to close the two ends and permanently join as noted. Yes, given the proper tool, hands at some point free of all encumbrances, I could cut away the slim circle of metal. But it will not happen.
Thus, I am collared. And just as with the dozens of other openings, those accommodating grommets will become part of me.
***
Initial fellatio to bring stiffness, slow sodomy as I strive to concentrate and keep my muscles relaxed, ending fellatio to humbly cleanse Dr. Samuels’ penis of any traces of anal penetration.
Day after day after day.
Cunnilingus for Louise breaks the routine. On occasion there comes a stint in Mrs. Anderson’s loft where a naked and iron clad Kim tends to my needs as I hang immobile and embarrassingly vulnerable.
Satisfied with my level of acclimation, Dr. Samuels has stopped timing the intervals. But it certainly seems that I spend more of the day and evenings in arroycoo than walking or hogtied.
The strange distant pleasure of Dr. Samuels’ fornix probe also serves to bring interruption to the tedium. For that my cunny is unlocked, the nasty restraining device slid lower on the thin cable to ever so slightly part the bottom labial grommets. Then the knowing hands slip in the bulbous probe, careful to offer the least sensation to my entrapped inner labia. The doctor knows the female anatomy for the tip works inward, kneading the front of my vaginal wall until deep within the resistance of the tight anterior fornix is felt. Then I am fucked, if that adequately describes the manipulation, bringing forth an evanescent and peculiar joy. My pubo coccygeus muscles involuntarily contract and I feel the moisture of female ejaculate gush, rushing with gusto past the slightly parted labia majora.
Dr. Samuels laughs in smug satisfaction, the forced reaction truly that of a puppet on a string.
The sensation, though somewhat benumbing, is welcomed. But the pleasure does not amount to that experienced in sneezing. Still, the doctor knows it calms, the hormonal release permitting me to face hours more of slowly building stress... hanging within the frame.
***
“Got you some Christmas presents, pretty naked girl.”
It’s December, but days before the 25th. Dr. Samuels enters my loft where I await lying on my shag rug, well secured as always. I am happy to see him. Miss Louise left for work more than two hours ago, leaving me well watered. I need to pee!
In being diapered I have pressed and forced some flow past my locked labia. But the effort is laborious and it feels as though my bladder fills faster than I can contract my diaphragm and dribble into the absorbent white cloth. And in addition to the aggravation of constant fullness, lying in the smelly wetness adds to the discomfort. Plus as always, with my loose bowels, pressing to force fluid from my bladder brings another source of soil to the garment as well.
“Please, Dr. Samuels, I need the basin.”
He smiles graciously, stoops and pulls at the cords holding me in the hogtie. Ironically, two simple fingers can relieve me of hours of stress. The knots give. My legs straighten. The circulation rushes. I moan with the welcomed sensation.
“For you, a nice hot bath.”
He unties my leash and I know to stand, avoiding a directing and painful tug.
“But first, let’s see if this fits.”
From a large box he removes a bell, not small not overly large.
“For your cunny,” he announces with a smile.
Then comes some clothing. Red satin.
“Had it specially altered. Stay.”
He releases the leash and I obey, standing on toes as the hem is attached to my neck collar. With elbows remaining secured behind my back, the pleated
folds drape over my entire form to cover my shoulders and torso. It ends at my upper thigh.
“It’s a cape. Not easily found in being out of style. But perfect for you.”
Dr. Samuels takes the leash and directs me to the mirror. The loose garment is a gaudy crimson. Into the upper hem have been sewn clasps which can be quickly hooked to my collar. And it appears the lower hem has been shortened, barely covering my mons and buttocks. The very bottom fringe of my diaper can be seen.
“Modesty with required access.”
The doctor’s right hand slips between the folds at the front and tweaks my right nipple. The left dips under to caress the front of my diaper, brushing my grommeted pubes beneath. With the weeks of chastity, his touch feels good. I part my feet in a gesture of welcome. My reaction brings laughter, followed my animated sniffs.
“Such naughtiness. My little girl needs changing.”
The cape is as easily removed and I am walked to the bathroom. To the tub. Kneeling. The diaper is unpinned and removed. The cunny lock released. The doctor enjoys himself, his fingers working the grommets to hold me open as a torrent splatters to the tub.
“You’re a mess.”
Indeed. I can smell myself. The foul odor, being exposed and held open by a man, such discomfort juxtaposes curiously with the intense feeling of relief as I empty myself.
Dr. Samuels runs the water, leaving the drain open as he connects various cords to my grommets, making me one with the tub. He splashes water to begin rinsing away excrement mashed against my buttocks. Then satisfied that most has flowed to the drain, he closes it to begin filling the tub.
To be alleviated of so much aggravation, filled bladder, aching leg muscles, odorous diaper, the irritating feel of urine, and merely sensing the room air waft against my vaginal lips brings a frisson of soothing delight. The warmth is so welcomed and I recall being bathed by my father years ago. I begin to hum in comfort. If I could only play, frottage myself.
“Will I ever be permitted to touch myself... you know... there?”
Dr. Samuels laughs. “Such a wicked request. Thinking about pleasing yourself when your role is to please others... with your submission... your nakedness... your tongue and lips... with your suffering. You are a wonton one, Sunny. Have you not come to understand? For you there is bliss in your denial... in your slow anguish. Gratification is for others... for you to give, not ever to receive.”
Fingers work to slide the lock up the thin cable. It presses firmly against the lowest grommet, returning me to chastity. Clicking shut, the lock grips the cable to zipper me closed once again. I can feel increased tension on my clitoral hood grommet. I am locked tighter than ever, sending a message to end all thoughts of masturbation. Then, a soapy finger enters my rectum. I further part my knees, arch my back, and push back to avidly greet. I sigh in sensing it slide inward well past the second knuckle.
“Such a trollop!” comes the mild rebuke.
I silently agree, and find myself rocking back and forth, squeezing to symbolically pleasure his finger.
***
Well cleansed, muscles soothed and relaxed, I can almost walk normally, my impinged Achilles tendons stretching so that my full foot nearly touches the floor.
“Not too cold out. I have not walked you in a while. Something different tonight to break the monotony.”
I stand without a stitch as always, my hands folded atop my nearly glabrous head. I watch as the skilled hands of Dr. Samuels work at my kitchen counter. More ginger. He cuts the root into the shape of a plug. Apprehension grows as an ice pick opens a hole on the newly carved shaft. The scraps are tossed into a small plastic bag.
For the first time in weeks, the thin stainless cable has been removed from the four pairs of labial grommets. It dangles about, remaining attached to the clitoral hood grommet. To the end, Dr. Samuels has attached one of the Christmas presents... the bell. Appearing to be modest in size, when dangling from my hood, it feels ponderous. With the slightest motion it rings.
I am belled like cat.
“Stand still,” comes the command.
Dr. Samuels approaches. In his hands, two cords, two small rings of metal. The freshly cut ginger awaits on a plate on the counter. Next to it is the plastic bag of scraps.
To the back of my neck collar, he attaches the two cords. Slim but strong, apparently comprised of nylon. Fishing tackle? Dental floss?
He threads both through the spinal grommets. Right. Left. Right. Left. All eight pairs. Then the cords part, one through each buttock grommet. One ring finds a purpose, for the cords return to the center of my back and through the ring which in pulling taut, resides just at the top of my gluteal cleft to align the cords, holding them together.
“Spread.”
The cords are threaded through the opening in the shaft of the ginger plug. I cringe in sensing the burning sensation it can bring. Dr. Samuels laughs.
“Not yet, pretty naked girl,” he laughingly advises in pulling the cords down my crack and between my upper thighs.
Leaving slack, the ginger dangles but does not yet touch any sensitive flesh as the doctor moves to my front. There, beginning at the bottom, he adroitly threads the two cords through the four pairs of labial grommets, the small diameter slowing the process. Then the cords split around my clitoral hood.
Up to my breasts, the second ring finds its purpose. Threaded through the center, the cords split and circle my breasts then return to the ring to thread through again. Finally, the doctor draws the two cords up and loosely tucks them under the front of my neck collar.
“How does it feel?”
The configuration binds or touches every feminine erogenous area... breasts, hood, mons, sphincter.
“It’s controlling. It’s...”
I lose my words as I anticipate the feeling when the configuration is tightened as I am sure is the intent. Meanwhile, my elbow grommets are clipped together. Next he has me step into my heels. The straps enter the ankle grommets and entwine my calves. The small locks, symbolical more than functional, click shut, securing the footwear.
“Ready?”
I know what is to come. I reluctantly nod.
Returning to my rear, Dr. Samuels begins taking in the slack of the two cords, pulling at the base of my spine to bring the spinal grommets together. The tension ‘corrects’ my posture, forcing my shoulders back, my breasts to jut forth. His fingers move to next add tension to the buttock grommets. Then the ginger plug is slipped into my rectum and he maintains tension, moving to my front. There his hands pull above the labial grommets removing the slack and likewise bringing those into alignment. My cunny is once again zip closed. Then on to the breasts where the cords separate. He tightens about my glands, pulling the slack through the ring there. My glands are more tightly circled. With my forced posture, the cords add comical prominence. Lastly the hands pull the slack up to the front of my neck collar where the cords are tied off.
As my cape is attached to cover me, I feel the burn in my sphincter. The nose leash is clipped on and Dr. Samuels brushes away tears, uncontrollably flowing with the intensity of the burning.
“Please, I need to move about.”
“As you shall, pretty girl.”
The fire of the ginger is just beyond the point of bearable. I am to be walked but have the urge to run, the reaction I suppose similar to that of a person whose clothes have been set afire. Meanwhile, outside of arroycoo, I have never before had such a strong sense of being controlled, the thin lengths of nylon replicating a form of shibari... Japanese rope bondage. No elaborate knots. Yet the grommets offer a sense of thoroughness, the cords in effect penetrating my flesh.
The plastic bag finds a pocket Then, gratefully, Dr. Samuels pulls the leash and I step with zeal. Below I feel combined sensations, the cords abrading breasts, cunny, anus. The clitoral hood bell chimes in announcing my motion. The gyration tantalizes. Dr. Samuels takes the time to reach beneath the cape and flick it, bringing sonorous peels and more
teasing gyrations to my hood.
If only I could touch my little bud!
To the elevator, the wait seems interminable. I stamp my feet in frustration. I know each step causes the lower hem to flop about, flashing buttocks and my mons. Though the bell dangles quite noticeably and the chiming attracts attention, oddly, my near nakedness does not concern.
Finally, down to the lobby. Out the creaking door.
It is day’s end. December darkness looms. The overhang of abundant sunshine has left some warmth in the air. With my rectum on fire, I actually welcome the rapidly cooling air.
My metal shoes tap the concrete. In cadence, the bell rings. Dr. Samuels walks ahead leading and occasionally looking back to assess my... well I suppose my level of degradation. Yet I lose all concentration. I am burning. In knowing that there can be no lasting damage, enduring the pain becomes pure mental challenge. It only hurts in the mind, I tell myself. My superior finds amusement in observing the ongoing masochistic contradiction. Pain... to be avoided... yet to be enjoyed.
People pass by. I do not care. The leash, the scanty attire which would stultify weeks ago is no longer of concern.
“I need to touch myself... down there,” I plead.
A wry smile.
“Curious effect, is it not? The ginger stimulates the circulation, can be quite the aphrodisiac.”
Well described. In addition to my blazing rectum, I have an insatiable need to impale my quim... a baseball bat would suffice, though a smaller phallic implement would be welcomed as well.
We walk briskly. I am happy to move, a horse champing at the bit. When we turn a corner to enter a more secluded street, Dr. Samuels stops. He turns. He parts the cape pushing open the folds, draping them over left shoulder and right. My breasts are fully exposed. The air is cool, my nipples crinkle to buttons. In being circled by cords, the plumpness of my glands has transformed. They resemble projectiles.
He toys with my nipples.
“Hard as pebbles. Must be the cold,” he remarks.
The plastic bag comes out of his pocket. I close my eyes knowing what is to come. A remnant of ginger root finds its way to my right nipple. The juice is initially cool. His hand circles about to coat the entire pink flesh of my areola. The left nipple is next.
Dr. Winthrop Samuels Series Page 15
