Dr. Winthrop Samuels Series

by Chris Bellows

  “Just thought I’d let you know there is a certain itch being scratched indeed. And Louise, care to switch to the night shift for a while? Exercise your seniority? You may also have an itch that requires attention.”

  24/7 bondage requires attentiveness and during the Sunny Sudenskaya matter, Louise was kind enough to change her schedule and enter an arrangement of accommodation for Sunny.

  “Will she accommodate me? I did not have much time to talk to her before she was tossed from Spankers.”

  ‘Accommodation’... more code. As suggested, Louise is polysexual. And though there has been no discussion, no hint that Sandra Devon’s oral skills are adaptable, sometimes the fun is in ‘tutoring’ those deemed unnecessarily homophobic.

  “I think the girl can be adapted to anything and everything,” repressing Mr. Haig’s urge to gleefully chuckle.

  “What is it you’re planning?” she inquires, having piqued her attention.

  “Still thinking about it. But I have not before worked in iron. It’s wonderfully rough, weighty and symbolically gothic. Nicely industrial in adorning young feminine flesh. No glitter, certainly no decorativeness, there projects a message... one of slavery, of restraint forged by sweat and hot coals.”

  Louise laughs, gloating indeed.

  “So Parker Lyle & Co., will be procuring iron... its noted research designer to sweat over a coal oven, pounding away with his hammer and anvil?”

  I join in the humor. A career in shaping sophisticated alloys, the Cad cam capability offering precision intricacies, and there comes the irony of being intrigued by... iron.

  “Thought you’d find fascination, Winnie. How does the girl function... and however did she get to New York?”

  “She’s only just arrived. But how she got here... well that part of her story remains untold... for now. It is late for me also. There’s another day to learn that.”

  We say good night, Louise needing to return to slumber. And I... well despite the hyper activeness of my scientific mind, the pillow beckons as well.

  ***

  With the morning, I awaken with zeal, thought’s of the prior evening’s activities bringing inspiration. Though a day’s research requires my return to Parker Lyle & Co., it is early. Time for more.

  I don a bathrobe and enter my chamber of torment. Sandy is leashed on the floor, I assume the many months of sleeping tummy down in her stall enabling her to acclimate and rest with ease despite the awkwardness. I pick up the basin and step into the bathroom to empty and rinse it. There I retrieve soap and some towels... and a razor.

  I return and release the leash, gently joggling to awaken. She stirs.

  “Bath and breakfast, my pet,” I announce with enthusiasm.

  She obediently rises and returns to all fours. As my hand tightens, Sandy snaps to attentiveness knowing the slightest miscue, failure to follow the directing hand, can bring instant agony.

  It’s delicious.

  I lead to the granite slab and note the look of terror. It truly appears to be a grim prop from some crime show, scenes coming to mind where a gruff detective is standing over a cadaver while being briefed on the cause of death of some unsavory criminal character.

  “Up,” my lifting hand accompanied by a cheery command.

  She mounts, the iron laden hands somewhat ungainly scraping the scabrous granite surface. But as I poke and prod with my free hand, my naked pet is soon positioned on all fours at the center of the rectangular slab of stone.

  I tie off the leash to the front, the many fixtures, hooks and eyelets enabling any number of positions of restraint. I then secure the ankle rings and buttock rings to tight cords, knowing that in a strange way Sandy will feel more comfortable held in place against her will... if any of such remains. She is nicely spread open for me. Lots of pink displayed.

  At the back end is the plumbing, a faucet with attached hose and spray nozzle await. Such a treat for Sandy, I am sure bathing opportunities were rather limited of late. Plus remaining at her gluteal cleft and inner thighs is evidence of last night’s intrusion, remnants of my impromptu buttery lubrication bringing a sheen and that decadent fragrance.

  I turn on the water and let it run to warmth. There have been morsels of flesh which I bath in frigid coldness, the crinkling nipples and cutis anserina always bringing delight. But I want to further debrief Sandy, and for that comfort is best... relative comfort.

  “So there came this delivery driver. You must have offered him quite the shock, naked, ringed and effectively hanging by your tits...”

  Sandy Devon

  Actually ‘he’ was not shocked. The driver was female.

  Yes, after ringing the doorbell and getting no response she turned toward the barn and there I hung in the adjacent corral. The humiliation which had dispensed over the many weeks in being acclimated to the many farmhands, my defacto masters, returned. Intense, stultifying, the woman stared – and I would not describe her gaze as shock or disbelief – but curiosity.

  There I hung high on my toes, my breast chain taut, my glands presented so explicitly, nipples thrust forth. Plus the cunny ring was most evident as always... not to mention my iron clad hands, nose ring and ankle rings.

  Still the woman did not shy away. Instead she slowly approached, her deliberate saunter offering further opportunity to take in the lewdness of my naked form. Her look turned softer, almost to one of enjoyment. And of course, I began to moisten... down there.

  What is it about the exposure... the sense of vulnerability in being forcibly exhibited that nurtures such a reaction?

  ‘Package for Mr. Devon,’ she simply proclaimed, her words mere cover for approaching.

  Her right hand presented a small parcel, a clip board in her left. Then she focused on my hands, her down gaze offering better viewing of my shaven mons and cunny ring.

  ‘Guess you can’t sign. Okay if I initial? We do that with some of the older customers who can’t get to the door or see well enough to write.’

  Horrified, I could not speak. I just nodded, feeling the motion of my head increase the tension on my breast chain.

  The parcel was placed under her left arm, the left hand rose with the clipboard and the right took a pen.

  ‘What’s your name? Need to record the delivery.’

  ‘Sandy,’ I managed to blurt.

  “Nice day to be getting some sun, Sandy,’ not a hint of mockery as she initialed the clipboard.

  I finally summoned the courage. No one had yet seen us. All were well away in the high grazing pastures. I was desperate. The hooded couplings had become more frequent, Daddy slaking his revenge more regularly. Autumn was approaching and I could not imagine what winter would be like, transient farmhands moving onward, left alone under Daddy’s tutelage.

  More piercings... more iron? Where else would I bear his ponderous handiwork?

  ‘Please help me!’ finally summoning some words.

  The woman lowered the clipboard and peered some more... I was a side of beef being auctioned.

  ‘I just drive a truck. Not much into heroics.’

  With that she stepped even closer. The pen rose and she playfully used it to diddle my right nipple then the left. Accustomed to being handled I protested not. Then I was shocked when her hand lowered and a finger hooked my cunny ring. She pulled... sensuously.

  ‘How badly do you want help?’ her voice lowering, almost becoming masculine, the question intended to taunt.

  I gulped. Completely helpless, naked, not a stitch of clothing to be had.

  ‘You just need to move the box under my feet and unhook the cord.’

  Carlos always left the box nearby... as a tease. Relief was always within inches but not to be had... until he decided it was wash and feeding time.

  ‘Then what? Where is a girl like you going to go... pierced and bearing iron? Going to run away naked?’

  ‘I... well... maybe you could drive me...’

  The woman shook her head and I began to comprehend the
cruelty... and her enjoyment thereof.

  ‘Against company policy to offer rides.’

  It was then that she spotted my buttock rings... seeming to understand that such hampered walking.

  ‘Yes, you’ll not be scampering away hobbled like that.’

  She then reached behind and gave my left buttock ring a firm tug. I yelped, the huge muscle instantly contracting in a spasm. She laughed.

  ‘I’ll give it some thought. Get out this way once or twice a week with deliveries... and it doesn’t look like you’re going anywhere.’

  She then took her cell phone out of the breast pocket of her brown uniform and began taking pictures, slowly circling and clicking away.

  ‘Got some friends who may be interested.’

  Dr. Winthrop Samuels

  Sandra Devon talks. I wash, a soft chamois, fragrant soap. It soothes. Were she a cat she would be purring.

  “So, would you say the driver had certain prurient interests?” I inquire smiling to myself.

  Such peril, dangling naked, struggling on toes, exhausted, the only respite being to be restrained and multiply butt fucked. Yes, so much in need of relief... and the first and only interloper has untoward desires.

  “I had no choice but to try to stimulate her interest,” Sandy explains. “And I don’t think it required much effort.”

  I nod in agreement, paying particular attention to the pubes area, further establishing my control, her subjugation. There is stubble. Her keeper Carlos has not shaven her of late... and she certainly can’t shave herself.

  So I soap well her intimate parts and grasp the razor.

  “Hold still,” I forewarn, my notice most likely moot, her nakedness having been handled daily by rugged farmhands.

  Such a pretty beaver... and such harsh denial, I think to myself as the fingers of my left hand flip about the huge ring so I can shave.

  Sandy very much feels my manipulation. With the many, many months of chastity she probably feels the slightest touch. And sure enough there comes moisture... and not from my spray hose.

  “When you crawl for me... as a matter of fact whenever in my presence, I want you to display your sex. Men like that... and I am a man. And I think I’ll fabricate a little bauble to encourage you to stay nicely spread for me.”

  Won’t take me more than a few minutes on the Cad cam to design a sharply spiked sizable ball to hang from her cunny ring. That will keep the thighs parted. I’ll make sure it’s nice and heavy as well.

  “So you apparently did stimulate interest...” prompting a return to the story.

  Sandra Devon

  Yes, she returned. I am not sure how she knew Daddy and the farmhands were again well into the distant pastures. I suppose she had something to deliver as a ruse had someone been present. But days later, the van again navigated the quarter mile drive from the main road.

  Well, such a simple deed, pushing the box under me with her foot. In once returning to my feet, the cord attached to my breast chain slackened and she with working fingers unhooked it in less than a second.

  But when she took hold of my nose ring and led me to the truck, I realized my rescue was somewhat tenuous.

  ‘I have a belt with a clasp that will hook very nicely to this ring,’ she noted with a snicker.

  To the back of the windowless van, I guess I should not have been surprised to see a chain awaiting... with an open padlock. She once again grasped my cunny ring. Using that I was restrained, locked in place by my pubes. Then came an inkling of the expectations of me.

  Strong hands guided my arms behind my back, folding such at the elbows and then facilely hooking my iron coverings to the breast chain at the back of my neck. To do this she had to pull upwards most firmly, painfully stretching ligaments, bending my arms. But once the hooks were attached to the chain I could muster neither the strength nor the agility to unhook them. This, of course, stressed the breast chain, pulling on the spikes to put nipples and glands on prominent display. My forced posture was found to be pleasing. But the woman knew time was of the essence. She briefly toyed, rolling a nipple between the thumb and forefinger of both hands to take her delight, placed a hood over my head, then moved forward to the cab.

  She drove. And that is how I escaped the farm.

  Where she took me I know not. Many miles, much time on the road. And when the van stopped I was led from the back, hooded, obediently following tugs on my cunny ring, as if I had not left Carlos’s tutelage.

  I did not feel the sun; apparently we had driven into a garage, more likely a warehouse. Then I heard voices... female voices. Such were cheery, many murmurs, my thrusting spiked breasts, my gruesome piercings, my leashed nakedness apparently making an impression... a favorable impression.

  Dr. Winthrop Samuels

  At Parker, Lyle & Co., I think about Sandy’s story as I feign reading research reports. Having cleansed I led her to the kitchen and offered more faux dog food. Then again leashed her in my chamber of torment for a long day of... nothing.

  Then work beckoned and the chronology of her departure from Daddy’s farm, going from frying pan to the fire, or so it seemed, had to be put aside. I left for work.

  I will have Louise check on Sandy in the late afternoon, her shifting ending at 3:00 p.m. She has a key and is on the doorman’s official list as someone to check on my apartment’s status during my absence.

  Meanwhile, enough dull data. I move to the Cad cam terminal and begin, first a nasty trinket for Sandy’s cunny ring. Large, heavy, laden with spikes, she will always feel my craftsmanship.

  It only requires some ten minutes and I program the computerized metal working machine to begin milling after normal work hours... fewer fellow colleagues to question why Parker, Lyle & Co. is producing something intended to frustrate and irritate rather than ameliorate and soothe.

  Then I download the complete body scan of Sandra Devon. This is where my skill set will be useful... a bit of a challenge... but useful. After all, the girl needs help. How can I refuse?

  ***

  Having made many calls to real estate agents while the milling machine carved and honed, I decide to end the day. I pack up my notes, addresses to visit, potential industrial space in the lower west side, sparsely traversed during the day, eerily devoid of people and traffic at night.

  The rent per square foot is surprisingly cheap, the awkward logistics of trucking in and out of Manhattan dampening demand. So tomorrow, Saturday, I will look over three potential locations. As stated, I am wary of my Coop board and whereas my friend the doorman covers as best he can, having Sandy present for too long is sure to foster encounters with neighbors and fellow members. Not good.

  Saturday, I will also need to procure iron. An internet search offered a quaint avant garde business in Long Island City which makes hand crafted wrought iron furniture. Surely they will be willing to part with some raw pieces. Iron is a commodity after all.

  Returning home near eight p.m., I am not shocked to find Louise Flanner still present. After all, I know Louise... know that she also as certain itches... and the likes of Sandy can offer quite the scratch.

  “What a darling. Amazing what bearing so many pounds of iron can do for a girl’s physique. Maybe it should be developed into a workout program,” Louise humorously suggests as I step within the foyer.

  Smiling I offer, “Not the most stylish accouterments.”

  “Yes, we’d need to manufacture in a variety of colors other than black.”

  “How is she?” I inquire in opening my brief bag.

  “Fed and watered okay, but she does not like enemas. Seems she has never had one professionally administered.”

  I can only imagine the level of slow torment.

  “And certainly not administered by ‘Nurse Ratchet’,” I add, using Louise’s sobriquet, the imposing nurse known to quiet the most recalcitrant of young patients with her high colonics.

  “Other than the nose, I was unaware of the piercings. Absolutely divine. Using
the rings she remains perfectly motionless despite a slow, cold water rinse.”

  “Yes, she has learned by now that to stress the rings at the ankles and buttocks is to stir muscle convulsions. She will docilely accept almost anything when so restrained.”

  I carefully remove the fruit of the milling machine from my bag, tenderly palming as the many needle sharp points will puncture. Both Louise and I inspect. It is the size and shape of a pine cone... with its weight perhaps more aptly described as a hand grenade. At the top is an eyelet and Louise quickly ascertains its function.

  “You men. Having her naked isn’t enough?” her tone one of pleasant banter.

  “Pink, Louise, men think in terms of pink. She’s sleeping in the chamber?”

  “In the chamber but I doubt if she’s sleeping. One slow final rinse.”

  I smile and step to the door gingerly holding the new cunny bauble. When I enter I see Louise has Sandy kneeling on the granite slab, rings secured, an enema bag hanging from a stanchion, its contents slowly siphoning into her bowels.

  “Please no more, Dr. Samuels. I am full.”

  “I would think it would feel cathartic after what has so often been ejaculated there. One long symbolic cleansing,” a paternal admonishment.

  “That sphincter was rather supple, Winnie,” Louise notes. “So now I know the purpose for the rings...”

  I nod.

  “Anal sodomy. Though a girl like Sandy finds enjoyment, why make it possible for her to resist?”

  I move to a cabinet and rummage through a drawer... all the small stuff of torment... nipple clamps, needles, etc. I find a slim chain, its length perfect.

  “Remember to keep those thighs well parted now, Sandy,” stepping to her rear.

  I loop the chain through the prodigious cunny ring then must labor a bit to attach the two ends to the eyelet atop my hasty creation, the spikes milled to noted sharpness. When finished I release and the weighty lump hangs freely, the tension on the cunny ring instantly felt and drawing a sigh... of distress... of joy?

  Sandy feels so little there. I am sure the attention brings some sense of gratitude... initially.

  I note the circumference is more than adequate, the spikes almost abrading the inner thighs despite the knees being held well parted.