Dr. Winthrop Samuels Series

by Chris Bellows

  It felt as if my nipples were jiggling about in invitation. And Daddy indeed encouraged me to struggle. Every move translated to some form of licentious display, nipples bobbing about, my glands quivering. As he set the rivets on my right hand, he sniffed then peered closely to note the condition of my quim.

  ‘You’re wet. Your Daddy’s bondage excites. But you’ll not be playing with yourself, despite your intense need. Your tramp mother may satiate her cravings so sinfully... but you’ll not. Not any more,’ words offered with a cackle.

  Yes, Daddy’s vengeance against Mom’s wayward desires... to be slaked on me.

  Dr. Winthrop Samuels

  I nod, my expression of compassionate understanding a sham. Perhaps Daddy was merely satiating a deeply suppressed need. Yes, as stated, my own nose detects arousal as well. Sandra Devon’s heated love portal is secreting... wet with precursory juices, anticipating the lustful penetration... of fingers? No. Of male phallus? No. It will merely continue to roast, in frustration.

  “What is it you expect of me, Sandy?”

  “Well, this woman at Spankers told me I should come see you. That you could help me.”

  My friend, Louise Flanner, quickly understood that not only would Mr. Haig find interest, but Dr. Winthrop as well. In working with metals, high tech alloys, it is indeed fascinating what ‘Daddy’ has crafted in a rural barn, using centuries old tools and much time and sweat.

  I conclude that Sandy’s propensity to pass out with each penetration of her flesh was unintentionally merciful. For such obviated feeling the more painful segment of the process of ringing her. Each loop of iron had to be open to insert it through the newly made opening in the skin... and then heated and hammered closed. How Daddy accomplished this is uncertain. But in reheating the ring, the epidermis about the new opening was well cauterized. No unsightly bleeding. Had Sandy been conscious for that time consuming and agonizing process... well I suppose she would have fainted again.

  I pause, trying to veil Mr. Haig’s nostrils.... flaring with her scent. Were Sandra Devon a mare in heat, the stud horse, Mr. Haig, would be well rutted. Indeed I feel a bulge, my white laboratory smock cloaking my own needs and desires.

  Still, I nod sympathetically. Yes, I think I can help. Lots of experience, lots of tools for metal working.

  “Would you mind being scanned, Sandy?”

  She appears perplexed.

  “A computerized imaging, three dimensional. We are quite advanced here.”

  Yes, we are. It’s all part of our Cad cam capability.

  “It will help?”

  I nod.

  “And not hurt a bit,” hooking my finger through her nose ring.

  “Come.”

  Such a gentle tug, such instant compliance. I am so well aware of the myriad of nerves the wrought iron ring aggravates, the synaptic signals crashing into the cerebral cortex to relay my message... move in total submission.

  Sandy scrambles from the table top, seemingly not at all surprised with the quick change in both protocol and my comportment... from the caring Dr. Winthrop to a tinge of Mr. Haig. Extending my arm, I step back to observe. The breasts bounce exaggeratedly. I see her flinch as the piercings at the ankles and buttocks bring spasms to muscles forced to too quickly contract. There comes the sound of metal scraping smooth metal as her naked form slides off the table top. With her feet reaching the floor I lift my hand. This forces up her nose and face and I am intrigued to observe that the neck chain in turn tightens and the breast spikes lift her glands most invitingly, the nipples projecting like pointed pistols.

  Such a wondrous specimen of femininity, appearing to be dangling at the end of a hook, a prized catch. I rotate my arm, forcing Sandy to turn and offer a profile view. I become even more infatuated. The buttocks clench, more spasms. Farm life is good for a girl’s development, I conclude. One could almost perch a wine glass, the rolling glutei forming a shelf of flesh just above the amazingly sized rings of iron.

  “On your toes for me,” my command offered with softness.

  I become a stable groom, my finger becoming a guiding hand gripping a bridle. Sandy dutifully rises to prance on toes, minimizing the discomfort of my lifting finger. She steps gingerly, of course, no choice but to follow, careful not to bring more cramping and spasms.

  To the scanning room where a device resembling an x ray machine resides, antennas looming above. No gamma rays, no film. Instead Sandra Devon will docilely lie while every aspect and dimension of her body... and its metal accouterments... are recorded three dimensionally.

  “Can you point your feet for me?” my professional tone returning from long past days of medical internship.

  She grimaces but responds, the piercings at the Achilles tendons aggravating the calf muscles as intended.

  The machine whirs, megabits of information recorded. I will have a three D computer image stored, detailed right down to the very tip of those prominently presented nipples.

  As she lies, I gaze. She is unwitting as to my deviant lustful stare as I move about pretending to manually control the highly automated process.

  Finally, the data field is complete. And as the hour is late, security becomes a concern. A roaming guard may be sent to check on the esteemed researcher and the curious late evening visitor.

  So we reverse the short trip. The peculiar garments of Sandra Devon lie in the evaluation room and though I am reluctant to dress her, she must be clothed to depart.

  My finger hooks again the nostril ring. Mr. Haig requires his final recreation so I again hold my hand high and make her prance, on toes, of course.

  She protests not. Yes, she is one of those, the perceptive Louise not only once again finding a strumpet, but one whose needs require both Dr. Winthrop and Mr. Haig to be fulfilled.

  How will the girl eat?

  Chapter Two

  We exit the plush midtown office building of Parker Lyle and Co., providers of medical devices for the world... those of the prolific world... and arthritic dogs of course. Sandra Devon meanders with rigor. In wearing sandals, one source of her strained ambulation, the iron ankle rings, is easily detected.

  But it is New York. So even if spied, there is little chance of reaction.

  “May I call you a cab?” I inquire.

  She shrugs, iron clad hands returned to the loose coat pockets.

  “I would not know where the driver is to take me,” her reply I am sure intended to elicit sympathy.

  “Where have you been staying?’

  “The last two nights Central Park, but I was warned not to return tonight. The police woke me at daylight, suggesting that if they had encountered me any earlier I would be trespassing. It’s closed until dawn.”

  Well dear reader, how can I not step into the breach of the girl’s dilemma?

  “Share my cab. We’ll talk some more.”

  There’s more story to be told, for sure... and she tells it...

  Sandra Devon

  Well, the first sign of Spring arrived, at least in the manner I always noted it. Though snow remained, wet and heavy, farmhands began traversing the quarter mile drive from the main road. Buses, acquaintances, hitched rides; the transient workers were a resourceful lot when it came to journeying the many miles from the warmth of Mexico. Horse breeding season. There was work to be had.

  Watching their arrival from the farmhouse... a twosome, a threesome, a solitary figure or two, I noted none were familiar to me. Normally, but for a smattering of new faces, most farmhands returned each Spring, their simple lives molded into a routine, years of experience, gray beards, balding pates, at an age in which repetition brings comfort, the unknown a challenge. But these arrivals were young, most likely of limited experience, but so virile!

  With this notion, I panicked in seeing the entourage. I knew no one, and I not only remained without clothing but I was pierced and burdened with iron... where a girl most feels... everything.

  How would I introduce myself... be introduced?
>
  I calmed myself, convinced that Daddy would confine me to the house, my covered hands obviating most farm chores, my altered nakedness not to be revealed. Daddy would not do that!

  I was wrong! And though somewhat acclimated to being constantly exposed to Daddy, the notion of other males – peering, gawking, ogling, staring – brought apoplexy.

  Then I got an inkling as to the Spring and Summer plot.

  ‘You are not to tell anyone you are my stepdaughter,’ Daddy commanded with a voice most menacing, his finger tapping my lips to suggest silence.

  And what a strong suggestion. Having had my flesh opened eight times, nine if my cunny piercings are counted as two, the thought of a hot needle thrust through my lips brought terror. There was no basis to believe Daddy was bluffing. The unsightly nose ring was bad enough; I could not imagine being presented with wrought iron thrust through any other region of my face.

  Daddy then hooked a leash to my nose ring.

  ‘Let’s meet the new hands. They’re young and strong, and for some reason willing to work quite cheaply.’

  And soon thereafter I began to grasp the full extent of Daddy’s wickedness, the vengeance to be slaked on Mom through me. The arrival of the many new faces was intentionally contrived. No one was aware of our relationship. Under threat of horrible alteration, further modification, I was not to divulge that Daddy was married to my mother.

  Well, I attentively followed Daddy’s leash hand, the instant stabbing pain for renitence quite overwhelming, as you seem to be aware.

  ‘Please no, Daddy,’ I begged as on tiptoe I was led across the yard, the longest walk of my life.

  ‘You have new duties at the farm now, Sandy. The hands work hard, they will need occasional... relaxation,’ the word hissed with pending peril, a cackle following.

  Yes, we entered the barn. Such a change in atmosphere from the cold and lonely winter months, just me and Daddy... and his coal fired stove. Now there were some dozen hands, leisurely milling about, awaiting the arrival of the Spring breeding stock... and me.

  ‘Here she is boys... as promised.’

  Daddy lifted higher his leash hand. I yelped and went higher on my toes. The men’s voices mumbled satisfaction, some even cheered. Then Daddy began to parade me about, a horse in dressage, being exhibited for bidding.

  Yes, I became the Summer ‘entertainment’, to be offered to all and I assume in lieu of full pay.

  With head forced high, I did not notice that one of the stalls had been transformed. Daddy added some hooks to the wooden flooring, planks and beams, positioned too low for restraining horses. There was also placed in the center a low bench, waist height, padded for comfort not required for equines.

  It was my new home.

  Around and around, I walked and was evaluated as horse flesh. Young, naked and well tamed the humiliation was intense. Yet, I felt twinges. I attributed it to the many, many weeks of forced chastity, my hand coverings finally ending all hope... all thoughts of ever again bringing orgasm.

  So despite the discomfort of the hobbling ankle rings and buttock rings, the tension on the nose leash, I begin to feel wetness... down there... where a girl prefers to sense moisture when romanced... when coveted... when adored by amorous male eyes.

  What was this reaction?

  Finally Daddy led me to my stall, head forwards. I was brought to all fours, my tummy placed on the padded bench, face to the wall, backside seeming to jut into the middle of the barn.

  ‘She’s in heat boys,’ one boy noted with a hillbilly accent, my quim apparently glistening with moisture and the fragrance of my arousal apparent.

  This comment brought more twinges! What was happening to me!

  Daddy began chaining me in the stall. Ankle rings to the floor, forcing my feet well apart. The nose ring to the front wall, gratefully with slack. Below my face, the hook on each hand covering, the buttock rings... tethered out to the side and high. My cunny ring to the floor below. For that I was oddly grateful, the placement inhibiting vaginal penetration.

  But then I realized how well I was presented for anal sodomy! Yes the buttock rings held open my gluteal cleft... and if pulled... my penetrated muscles would even more readily yield.

  As my addled mind grappled with the bondage, there came the final binding. To a cord hanging from above, my breast chain was attached at the nape of my neck. Daddy gave it some quick tugs and laughed watching my breasts bob about, the spikes vigorously responding to tension on the chain, my meaty glands jiggling like jello.

  Such degradation, my body made one with the stall... not only exposed ... but well positioned for satiating the lustful male... in a manner most ignominious.

  ‘One of you boys make sure she’s watered and fed,’ Daddy’s last words of the evening coming as he tossed a bowl onto the floor before me. ‘Give her a little exercise... and the stall will need to be mucked, just like the horses.’

  Farm hands are an attentive lot. The mucking came daily.

  Dr. Winthrop Samuels

  As the cab nears my apartment, there is a decision to be made. As stated I don’t have subservient morsels of flesh at my apartment unless they have been vetted. One never knows the reaction to being stripped, bound and tormented.

  So what do I do with Miss Rings of Iron?

  Having so obeisantly denuded herself in my evaluation room, having so meekly followed a guiding finger in her nose ring, the vetting seems adequate. Plus, she seeks help. A reckless call to the authorities certainly would not abet her goals.

  “You’ll need shelter. It may rain. That will not only bring physical discomfort but I am sure hamper your revenue stream.”

  I am not sure for whom and at what level she offers her oral talents, but with hands encumbered I am reasonably confident such are quick, sly encounters on quiet streets and secluded areas of various parks. What guy wants a blowjob standing in the rain?

  Sandy nods, becoming somewhat pensive in having been telling her story for over two hours. Plus I imagine there is the physical frustration... stripping naked for me... displaying herself so humbly... recalling Daddy’s cruel alterations... such has again brought arousal without satiation. Though not as strong as in the male, there is a somatic need for a girl to orgasm... that which Daddy has vengefully forced her to forsake.

  I become more direct.

  “I have a room. A spare room, but only for a night or two. I own a coop. In New York, coops can be drearily snobbish... about the conduct of members... about the perceived conduct of members. Co habitation is frowned upon.”

  In addition I do not have a barn with a specially equipped stall, I am tempted to add.

  She nods again and murmurs a ‘thank you’, I am sure my invitation somewhat expected. My thoughts turn to Louise Flanner. In the plans I am formulating I will definitely require the skills of ‘Nurse Ratchet’. She was so helpful in bringing the minx Sunny Sudenskaya into her element... a level of subservience not even Sunny had envisioned... fantasized really.

  I often wonder where Sunny is currently ‘hanging’ out.

  The cab arrives. I pay. We exit. The doorman nods, smiling broadly as I guide Sandra Devon through the door. He has no idea of the specific antics undertaken when one of my tempting morsels visits, but he does know it earns him quite the generous tip at Christmas time, the coop board not to ever have the slightest hint of Mr. Haig’s predilections. Yes, with Sandy’s harsh nose ring so prevalent, there is quite the contrast... 35 year old staid and noted medical researcher... twenty something girl of color, apparently Goth and ambling about as if she has spent a painful night at Spankers.

  Yes, Sandy’s many impinged muscles must exasperate, making what I prefer to be a quick trip through the lobby somewhat labored.

  Still, since it is comparatively late for a midweek evening, we enter the elevator unobserved.

  “So, you are well restrained in a stall...” prompting a continuance...

  Sandra Devon

  Yes, it has been a rat
her traumatic summer.

  The farmhands numbered an even dozen – young, virile as stated, hard working. They slept in cubicles in the loft of the barn. It was a devious arrangement, for just about every one of them could peer over the loft railing and spy me tethered and kneeling... naked and tummy down on the low padded bench.

  Talk about rutting horses! You can only imagine each and every day first falling asleep then awakening to the sight of a bound girl, her naked backside begging for attention... and positioned so conveniently to receive it.

  Some points. First Daddy’s cunny ring proved to be ingeniously positioned. Perhaps luck, but no one even gave vaginal penetration a thought. The iron is gruff, as you have felt, and to some how patiently work around it was in contradiction to the male need for timely gratification. None would make the effort to fumble about vaginally. Why bother when I was so well presented anally, my buttock rings ideal for encouraging cooperation? Not that any of the farmhands were given to quick ejaculation. No, they were all not only adequately endowed but their stamina surprisingly incongruous to their youth. Once entered, I was pistoned for inordinate intervals... and often.

  Second, I was treated with the same care and attention as the breeding stock. Curious that the most inexperienced hand was anointed as my caretaker. Constantly strapped down, each morning whatever exited my bowels was shoveled from the floor. I was then hosed down and Carlos, my keeper, would swab my nakedness. His touch, the motion of his hands, by rote replicated that offered the other livestock. Yes, he was a budding groom and knew no other manner of comportment. There was tenderness but not intended as affection, more like that offered to a valuable breeding animal.

  Feeding time next. Slack was added to my nose restraint so I could lower my face into the bowl Daddy designated for me. Something soft and mushy. Water was also offered of course.