The Chris Bellows' Collection

by Chris Bellows

  Meanwhile Miss Chloe looks on in fascination. It is evident that she has not often viewed the priapic male in close up. And it is difficult to determine if her interest is an aloof curiosity, a casual form of entertainment after a long afternoon of libertine carousing or lust.

  She giggles, evidently understanding my extreme frustration and sensing my futile attempts to rid myself of an afternoon’s building supply of male essence.

  Stroke after stroke, the crowd of women begins to chant. Finally Miss Chloe smiles and nods.

  “Do you have something for me Willie?” my blond goddess casually inquires.

  With that, the evil Miss Beverly rights the angle of my erection and turns my body. On Miss Chloe’s verbal cue, the gripping hand directs my stiff phallus toward the pool. Her left hand leaves my collar and grasps my celery stalk tail to keep me balanced. With a shove I feel the rectal pain/pleasure of extreme penetration then hear the snap of crisp vegetable. With a final extraordinarily firm stroke to my penis, thick gobs of whiteness erupt and splatter to the pool water. I hear the laughter and cheers of the feminine onlookers. After several quick draining strokes, forcing drool to drip to my feet, Miss Beverly joins in the cackling. Satisfied that my organs are depleted, her guiding left hand pushes and with a loud splash I find myself immersed in the shockingly cold water.

  I believe I faint.

  Chapter Twenty One

  Lenore

  Despite all the laughter, there eventually collects a degree of concern for our splashing puppy. Beverly reaches for his leash and with one hand drags him to the side and lifts him from the chilling water. Judy unzips the latex arm and leg coverings. The girls bid adieu and leave after our neighboring nurse assures everyone that the emotional and physical duress have finally overwhelmed and Willie the pup has merely fainted.

  Chloe and I are eager to mellow out. I am sure watching Willie being forcibly brought to such dramatic climax has spurred her own needs. We have both abstained from alcohol over the past hour and my libido is as anxious as hers.

  So I find Willie’s clothes and toss the grungy attire atop his reclining form. The cool night air will revive him. He can dress when he’s conscious and slip out the gate. Right now I want Chloe.

  Since the fifty dollars is obviously so important to him, I amuse by finding a safety pin and cruelly secure the single bill to his right nipple by piercing the very tip of his areola. Though I doubt he will forget us, he now has more reason to remember, awakening to the portrait of Ulysses S. Grant pinned to his useless tit.

  As I take Chloe by her hand, I notice that Beverly takes the time to slip Willie’s wallet from his jeans.

  “William Devereux. From Chillicothe. A nice little Ohio town. 78 Oak Blossom Lane. Most likely his parents’ address. Comforting to be able to put a name and address with a face.”

  Beverly tosses the wallet atop Willie’s supine and naked form. The contents spill about and contrast with the moist body paint mostly washed away in the pool. Our canine mime is left looking like a melted ice cream sandwich.

  My final view is of Beverly’s right foot placed where the male most seeks to avoid pressure and pain. Her boot is ominously foreboding, juxtaposed against the vulnerable pink flesh. Willie will awaken to a most menacing threat.

  That final glimpse will give me much thought as I strip Chloe for her bath. I want her fresh and smelling of herbal soap.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Willie

  I try to forget the cathartic events of that Saturday afternoon. It was only by enduring excruciating pain that I managed to extract the safety pin from my nipple. Then I spent most of that evening in a quiet dormitory bathroom working my bowels to pass the remains of the celery stalk. With the bulbous end remaining in my anus, my sphincter contracted after Miss Beverly’s final thrust broke it off. Thus by the time I returned to campus, my purse string muscle had relaxed with the greenery inside and it required time and much effort to extract it.

  Some of Miss Nancy’s paint was difficult to remove and only finally disappeared with a second shower on Sunday.

  So with bowel problems and face partially covered with paint, I was not able to spend the hard-earned fifty dollars as planned. Besides, having ejaculated so strongly, with Miss Beverly’s skilled hand having completely drained me of semen, my desire to carouse, sneak a few underage beers and perhaps meet girls, was much depleted.

  The next morning I did not have the fortitude to even look at the fifty dollar bill someone, presumably Miss Lenore, had pinned to my nipple. The sensitive pink skin where I found it attached was still sore and it was difficult to think about spending it while my clothing abraded the healing pin-prick, which served as a constant reminder. So the bill found a place in my dresser drawer and began to serve as a memento, but as a memento of what?

  A warning to be wary of dubious advertisements, odd employment arrangements and women of questionable intent?

  Weeks of class work served to mentally distance the events of that harrowing afternoon. But then, as Fate would have it, I stopped in a convenience store to load up on snacks for the long Thanksgiving drive home to Ohio.

  In greeting me, the woman at the cash register smiled knowingly.

  “Woof, woof, Willie!” she laughingly exclaimed.

  I looked into her eyes and could not recall her being at Miss Lenore’s party. And perhaps that is more frightening than the vision of her at poolside watching the large firm but feminine hand stroking my penis shaft while Miss Chloe looked on in rapt amusement.

  The fact that she was not familiar to me hints at the numerous attendees. How many women in this small town witnessed my ignominy?

  I said nothing, took my change and moved to the exit like an ashamed sloth. As the door closed I heard the laughter heighten and turned to see the woman pick up the telephone.

  That made for a most pensive drive to Chillicothe. The woman’s ridiculing laughter gave rise not only to annoyance and concern, but to also something else.

  The memory bank began to download and while driving I felt that odd twinge beneath my belt. While the recollection of certain events terrified me and others intrigued, if intrigue is the right word. For as the miles peeled away, the memory of intense humiliation transformed to a strange appreciation. Miss Chloe’s beautiful face, her merry blue eyes reflecting her surprise and immense enjoyment in directing a human puppy, permeated my thoughts. And as I pulled the car into the tollbooth of the Pennsylvania Turnpike, I realized that I had slowly become erect with a telltale tent almost touching the steering wheel!

  Hours later, arriving at 78 Oak Blossom Lane, all were happy to see me after life’s first lengthy sojourn away from home. It was at dinner that Dad remembered.

  “Willie, you got a package in the mail. Postmarked Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Don’t know why someone would send it here when you have been away for some two months.”

  Logical as always, Dad handed me a sizable manila envelope and thinking that it was from the college I mistakenly opened it at the dinner table.

  There was a note, but with it a pile of glossy photos. The top one put me in a state of consternation. Full color, with amazing clarity, a human black and white dog appeared. A large female hand held him upright at the collar and of course what shocked the most was this engorged human appendage standing straight up and reaching to the stomach. The purple tip positioned against the black and white painted skin fixated the viewing eyes.

  It was me, at the party, still masked. I did not have to dig deeper into the envelope to surmise that the contents contained a chronological montage of my abject degradation at the hands of the cadre of women.

  “Just some school work...from one of the professors,” I extemporized, quickly putting aside the envelope.

  Thankfully that ended any discussion of the matter. But with someone brazen enough to send such material to my parent’s house, that alone sent a message without need to read the accompanying note.

  Later, in my darkened bedroo
m I furtively reviewed the entire sordid contents of the envelope. The memories became distressingly vivid. But the note provoked the most concern.

  My Dear Dog Willie,

  We enjoyed the exhibition you put on that we produced a packet of pics for the girls. I wanted you to have a set to commemorate the afternoon. Chloe was so excited to finally have a pet that we’ll be extending more invitations to you. Perhaps some summer fun. The pool won’t be as cold and I promise those little testicles won’t shrivel as much with your next swim.

  Affectionately,

  Miss Lenore

  Her note poked fun, referring to the last photo for which I didn’t recall posing. My naked form is shown wet and lying on the pool deck, the black and white body paint partially gone with the remaining smeared about. A close-up photo shows a feminine hand cradling an obviously chilled scrotal sac, seeming to triumphantly present my shrunken testicles to the camera. When viewed in sequence there can be no doubt as to whom the organs belong. The photo was obviously taken after I was extricated from the frigid pool.

  The photographs were of high quality and had been professionally fabricated on expensive coated paper. I spent the entire Thanksgiving holiday in a funk, most anxious to learn how many sets had been printed.

  I concluded from her note that a copy of the collection was sent with a bread and butter note to each attendee. There were dozens, thus not only was the promised anonymity compromised, somehow my full name and parent’s address had been obtained.

  The realization brings catatonia.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Officer Annette Benson

  The college kids become frisky with the first warm days of spring. Thus I have my radar unit tuned and engaged, waiting for the next lead footed driver to exit the campus.

  I hear Max in the back seat whine with the boredom. The dauntless German Shepherd prefers tracking burglars and drug dealers to the unending drudgery of awaiting speeders. But as I turn to the console, my radar unit beeps and I look up to see an old wreck accelerating onto the main road, almost exceeding the speed limit in making the turn from the College entrance.

  The young driver is in a fog, not noticing my patrol car in the rear view mirror. So I patiently let the radar register the increasing speed, flip on my lights and pursue.

  “Got one for you, Max.”

  With the prevalence of drugs in a college community, the town has a policy of authorizing Max to assist with routine traffic stops. His sniffer can be quite effective, and there is the added intimidation factor in the event of encountering a feisty young male.

  Yet I have never had a problem. Though blonde, a six-foot frame and black belt suffuse me with the presence to intimidate on my own.

  With strobe lights announcing my presence, the somewhat delirious driver pulls over a mile down the road. I call in the plate, State of Ohio, and exit to retrieve Max.

  “License and registration,” I begin with the standard greeting, Max dutifully resting at my feet.

  The lad is fidgety but his attention is now focused, which had it been so earlier would not have resulted in my pursuing him.

  “Yes, Mr. Devereux. Just a little too fast this morning. Wait in the car.”

  I am pleasant but forceful, never hinting at a smidgeon of feminine docility. It is best.

  “Hold him, Max,” I command my furry partner.

  And I return to my patrol car, the name Devereux echoing deep within my sub conscience.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Willie

  It’s the week of final exams and I guess I was not paying attention. Every student knows of the speed trap at the college entrance. Guess I forgot.

  So it’s ‘license and registration’ time and while searching the glove compartment I don’t even notice that the commanding female voice emanates from a most imposing but comely blonde.

  Finding the needed documents I meekly utter a “yes, ma’am,” with her order to remain in the car.

  Then I sit and await sentence and execution...a ticket not often earned.

  Meanwhile this Max looks up intently, seeming to be eager for me to make the slightest provocative move.

  Within minutes, the rear view mirror indicates the tall officer is returning. She walks with an unusual combination of style and authority. As she nears a smile fades as she seems to force herself back into her role of enforcement officer.

  “Mr. Devereux, my name is Officer Benson and I’m going to need for you to move up about 200 yards and pull into that dirt lane to remove your vehicle from the right of way. This could take some time. I’ll hold your paperwork, sir. Make room for my vehicle, as I will follow.”

  Not an unseemly request considering the narrow but busy road where she pulled me over. I start the engine and comply, turning into an old driveway leading to an abandoned farm house. The overgrowth is thick and branches of white pine scratch the sides of my ten- year-old Toyota. I can barely traverse enough of the constricted right of way to allow for the patrol car to pull in behind me. But the officer negotiates handily, backing in with notable precision. She leaves the rear of her patrol car some three feet from my bumper. I am grateful to see the distracting strobe lights turned off. I can accept my summons in relative obscurity and move on without friends and classmates witnessing my culpability.

  “Mr. Devereux, I will need you to step from the vehicle and come to the rear between the two cars.”

  Her voice booms on the patrol car’s public address system. I unlatch the car door, barely able to hold it open against the evergreen branches. Max is there to observe and ensure I proceed in accordance with the officer’s desires. I stumble forth, pushing away branches and slip between the cars where there is room, however limited.

  Meanwhile, the officer exits, her door free of any obstacles. She carries a night stick and beckons ominously.

  “Stand between the vehicles, sir. You and your car are to be searched. I am sure you are aware that under Pennsylvania law drivers under 21 cannot refuse such procedures under penalty of losing their driving privileges. Do you wish to refuse?”

  Well, since it’s a long walk from Lancaster to Chillicothe, Ohio it would seem I have no choice. I need to drive. I shake my head to indicate my compliance.

  “Hands on head, lean over the trunk, please.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spy Max entering my car through the open driver’s door. His deep, throaty growls suggest disquieting virility and an enjoyment of his role in unveiling stashes of illegal substances, of which I fortunately have none.

  But meanwhile I am startled to feel Officer Benson’s hands. I am being frisked, and am not accustomed to being touched in such a manner. She spends inordinate time about my groin, standing very close against my back as I lean, stomach on the trunk, hands obediently placed on the back of my head. She reaches around and presses in the most sensitive of areas through my jeans. Through the cloth, her left hand finds my house keys in my left pocket and her right closes over a small wad of single dollar bills in the opposing pocket. She amuses herself by manipulating both objects, ostensibly to assure there are no weapons but pressing both into my penis and scrotum.

  With a nineteen-year-old male, one cannot toy there for long without the expected results. I feel a pang and know what is happening. I convince myself I can remain under control but then I hear the authoritative voice of Officer Benson and feel the familiar twinge, a Pavlovian response.

  “Just stay still like a good boy.”

  She presses her hips against mine, pushing my groin into the car trunk, and moves her hands up my sides. It must be my imagination to feel her fingers tweak my nipples. I am about to protest when she steps back and speaks.

  “Max won’t take long, Mr. Devereux. Meanwhile, just remove your clothing and we’ll be done very shortly. Slowly please. No sudden moves, Max can become easily distracted.”

  Spoken so matter-of-factly...‘it’s just another step in a routine traffic stop’...one would judge from her smooth an
d even tone. But her searching hands and her firm demeanor bring about the sensation experienced so many months ago at Miss Chloe’s party. The twinge, followed by arousal, and then uncontrollable tumescence. I feel myself hardening with the tip of my uncircumcised penis escaping the foreskin and abrading my underwear.

  And now I am to remove my clothes!

  Max exits my car and on the driver’s side dutifully guards the opening between my car and the patrol car. Officer Benson steps to my left blocking the opening to the passenger side. To resist...escape, run, hide...whatever, I must get by Max on one side; grapple with the armed and well built six foot Officer Benson on the other, or climb over one of the two cars.

  There is no option.

  “We strip search routinely, Mr. Devereux. Step back and let’s get started. Face me and make no quick moves. Move now; your delay is approaching the point of resistance.”

  Her words are stern and loudly offered. I am thankful for the seclusion of the thick pine and the blocking patrol car. No one will see my comeuppance...my humbling reaction to authority.

  I meekly slip off my shoes. Officer Benson picks them up and inspects as I unbuckle and pull out my shirttails. There are low growls from Max, evidently trained to make the Officer’s apprehended suspect or perpetrator very much aware of the continued presence of a potentially vicious beast.

  I unbutton my shirt. Though I am a head shorter than Officer Benson, the proud muscling of years of gymnastics and swimming initially offsets any sense of inferiority. I detect the hint of a wry smile, which the pretty officer gamely suppresses, when I hand her the garment. My socks are next which she inspects and tosses onto the trunk. And then...well, then there are my jeans. I unzip and as I feel the soft, well-washed cotton slide down my legs, I see Officer Benson’s eyes move to my groin area where the evidence of my arousal continues to press against my underwear.