“Stay, Corky,” my pretty Master commands, stooping to reattach the short chain from anal insert to scrotum band.
Her soft warm fingers, working where I no longer touch, feel good.
Then with a brisk snap of the leash, the devilish spikes on the interior diameter of my collar abrade my skin and instantly draw my attention to the stern holder of my leash.
“Heel,” comes the next command as Miss Ashley rises and turns to resume the journey to the plantation house.
I bound onto the path to follow, my testicle bells once again chiming with the movement of my thighs. My subservient reaction, the renewed ringing, the shuffling of my elbows and knees to keep up, all bring tittering from my enthralled audience. The entourage follows, most likely transfixed by the scene of a naked male on a leash with sizable balls and erect manhood displayed for all.
The boyfriend strolls forward to Miss Ashley’s side and leans over to place a kiss on her cheek, apparently impressed with her handling of my leash and my ingrained obedience. She smiles, seeming to know that the observance of her control excites him. Does he know that it is my wife he is kissing?
I think back to when I first expressed such similar sentiment, in New York, after several casual phone conversations, the first date. I craftily invited Miss Ashley for an unpretentious meal at a small Greenwich Village bistro, still pretending not to know of her vast wealth.
There we kissed, a mushy kiss reeking of sentiment. I thought I did a credible job of expressing an initial level of romantic attraction to her. And I actually told myself it was not the money. In hindsight, at times I actually believed myself.
But it was the money. Despite her beauty, despite those perfectly proportioned breasts, nicely shaped legs, disregarding the blue eyes and raven hair that made for a striking presence. Knowing that her bank account burgeoned while mine was woefully empty, but for two paydays per month, drove me to attraction.
And so I courted her, ostensibly with true affection, actually with a level of sentiment akin to drafting a merger document. There were steps that I had surmised. And one such step was being subjected to a degree of due diligence, as with any merger. But there was nothing she could learn or find out about me or my background that would harm my chances. On paper I was in earnest. And at age 27, reasonably handsome, college educated with a law degree from Columbia University, I had pedigree. And I was careful. Nothing I did or said would prejudice her against me, belie my displays of affection. After all, she could not read my mind, could not assess the mendacity, the conniving, the true motivations.
I wanted money.
So we dated and we had sex. It was good. Ashley was an attentive lover. But she was also demanding and in my fervor for enrichment I was somewhat blinded to the nature of her vigorous demands. So many times in the midst of coitus, she coyly announced that the missionary position was so blasé, or it cramped her back, or that I looked bored.
She would then wrap her arms and legs around me and roll forcefully, with surprising power, until it was I on the bottom and she on top. I did not resist or complain. Those perfectly proportioned breasts would dangle over me, jostling most enticingly as she proceeded to ride my manhood. I enjoyed the sex, of course. No male refrains from such opportunities. But it was a means to an end... a part of a process... one chapter of a plot, which would end with me rich and no longer dependent upon the drudgery of the law for subsistence.
Yes, while the gorgeous Miss Ashley Duval rode herself to climax, I found my own pleasure in envisioning a brokerage account stuffed with quality bonds and monthly wire transfers of alimony, which would afford chartered jets, yachts and endless recreation in warmth and sunshine.
After all, New York is a community property state. No advisor would permit the fabulously wealthy Miss Ashley Duval to marry without a prenuptial agreement. And what better person to draft one than Charles J. Barrington, Esq.? And who could be more devious in assuring that the terms of such agreement inordinately benefited Charles J. Barrington, Esq. than me?
Lifetime use of that Caribbean island should be a suitable part of any divorce settlement, I recall thinking during one of my daydreams. Its description in one of Samuel L. Brackett’s filings stirred envy. To think that one woman owned it all outright. But I could assure myself use of the facility. Without a prenuptial, I would legally be entitled to half of everything. So what’s the harm in insisting upon a few million to dissolve a marriage? Plus an annual stipend, and a few other perks...
The daydreams kept me inspired during the rocky road of romance. Sometimes in undergoing some of the more mundane activities, Ashley enjoyed opera for example, to the dulcet strains of Puccini I would mentally draft the agreement, which would be signed in a fog of romantic bliss but serve to emancipate me from a lifetime of servitude to the law.
Yes, I schemed and schemed, dragging myself to morning’s labor after a late night on the town. I paid most of the tabs, mentally allocating the expenditures to ‘investment’; investment in an immensely wealthy fiancé, the first step to marriage and financial independence.
There is more laughter as Miss Ashley guides me up the stairs to the plantation house. Having spent many months forced to move about as a dog, the steps provide no obstacle but the exaggerated motion of my thighs does serve to further animate the movement of my well exposed balls. I can feel the jewelry brush against the inside of my thighs as I lift each knee and the tension on my control chain wriggles my tail, which in turn kneads my neglected prostate gland. I am ashamed to realize it feels good and judging from the comments of the more observant female guests, the effect of the manipulation is apparent. My stiffness waggles to their amusement.
Chapter Three - Miss Ashley Duval
I wonder if my wetness will begin to stream down my thighs. Leading about Corky, formerly known as Charles, brings a level of arousal I cannot describe and there forms within my love pouch a river the exposure of which would normally prove to be disconcerting. Still, it is my island, and whereas my guests are quite diverse in backgrounds, education and pursuits, all have delightfully libertine viewpoints. Let the moisture flow, I conclude.
The stairs leading to the house are few and Corky obediently heels, nicely showing his privates to my guests who follow. The scene of thorough Dominance sets the stage for the ensuing week, as intended. And my voyeuristic companion, Reginald, seems particularly impressed with my handling of the leash. With a couple of hours until dinner, perhaps a matinee is in order.
One of the island maids, Lotta, greets us at the door with a radiant smile. My many millions assure that all on the island are well cared for with the dozens of families wanting for nothing. Even a free college education awaits the children. Thus the loyalty is both absolute and genuine, leaving me free to engage in the many idiosyncratic desires, which intrigue a person of my ilk. It is a privilege bestowed upon the fabulously wealthy.
So Corky, despite his bound nakedness, has the run of the island, so to speak, as long as he obeys Big Sam. And all my people, the island’s inhabitants, have been instructed to treat Corky as a canine... my pet.
They have fallen into the role marvelously, providing care and wonderfully augmenting the mental torment, which I have long planned for my conniving husband, my ward, my pet, my oral servant.
I’ve aggregated many hours in the Citation X since committing Corky to a dog’s life, visiting my island paradise often. Where else could I walk a naked man on a leash? And where else could Corky be left to frolic in the sunshine and contemplate his sins, his mendacious scheming, his deceitful plot to extract funds from the bottomless Duval coffers?
And in terminating his ability to speak, as Dr. Stella suggested, Corky must confront daily the frustration of never being able to confess, never able to seek my forgiveness, never being able to beg for mercy, never even able to request an explanation for his treatment or how it is I decided to place him in such dire bondage.
No, Corky will just serve. And he will do so without fully understanding why, just
as would a dog. Dr. Stella suggests that may be the pinnacle of all his torment... the intelligent male having his intellect so confined, so limited, so nicely stifled by silence.
“Let’s all freshen up for dinner. Lotta will show you to your rooms,” I announce.
“Come, Corky.”
I lead. Corky follows and I coquettishly beckon my companion, the well hung Reginald, to follow us up the stairs.
I may seem notably succinct with my guests but we all talked in the plane over Mimosas and strawberries, so further conversation would seem iterative. And most are tired. Except me. I need satiation.
Thus I pull with vigor and thrill as I feel Corky spasm in reaction to the pain of my governing hand jostling his spiked collar. Control is so delicious.
We enter my bedroom where well placed latticed windows catch the tropical breezes, filling the room with the fragrance of the floral bouquet of my lush gardens. Corky obediently stays behind and to my right as trained. I turn and open my arms to my trailing cheri, Reginald.
As I well know, the scene of me manifesting such absolute power... Masterful woman... subjugated human dog... has Reggie panting. As we embrace I can feel the bulge of his erection tenting his pants. We kiss and I pat my right leg with the obedience stick. Corky lunges forth to instantly begin licking my boots, objects of my supremacy that he has covetously eyed since I stepped from the plane.
“You’re amazing, Ashley,” Reggie burbles with the glee of an aroused voyeur.
“Take off your clothes, Reggie. Corky’s well trained and won’t bite.”
We both laugh at my jovial prompt as Reggie disrobes with alacrity. The male gender is always so eager to shun garments. With Reggie a woman is best served in not detaining the flailing hands as belt is unbuckled, zipper is lowered and buttons are pried open, for in Reggie’s case the results of many hours of strenuous exercise are most pleasing to observe.
Yes, Reggie’s body is cut from stone and his manhood a gift. And to further endear my handsome Reggie to the female gender, he is polyamorous.
Stripped naked I find as expected, that my imposing governance has aroused him and I smile at the sight of his semi erect ten inches.
“I’ll want a quick ride before dinner,” I announce, knowing that Reggie responds to authority.
And with that I snap my fingers and point to Reggie’s slowly rising manhood. A very chagrined Corky knows what I demand.
“Bring him up fully for me Corky. Nice and hard. But don’t bring him off.”
Oh, the sense of complete power as a reluctant but completely subjugated Corky shifts on knees and elbows to approach Reggie.
As stated, Corky is trained in fellatio. The psychologists explained that it was the most demeaning act one could demand from the normally homophobic male. And I can barely stifle a giggle as Corky suppresses his gag reflex and the penis of my huge cheri slowly disappears into my canine husband’s gullet.
To add to my thrill, I slide my hand down the leash to where it connects to his collar. There I push a little on the back of Corky’s head and listen for the telltale gagging sound as the bulbous tip of Reggie’s stiff penis greets the depths of Corky’s throat. Reggie sighs with the extreme sensation of Corky’s warm and wet tightness. Ah yes, the control.... bringing pleasure to one man... enduring maximum humiliation to another.... such heady stuff.
I smile and reach to pinch Reggie’s cheek as he struggles to maintain his composure.
“I think you’re going to enjoy your stay here,” I teasingly suggest.
“And it will soon be time for my ride.”
As Corky knows and Reggie will learn, I like being on top.
Chapter Four - Corky
“Take him all the way in now. Yes, good boy. Now swallow. You know how good that makes a man feel.”
While my wife’s hand guides the collar and the back of my head she softly coos instruction in her most sultry voice. I hear the rustle of clothing and know that her free hand is unbuttoning her blouse and unhitching her skirt. Meanwhile I endeavor to deep throat the man who is courting my wife. And though I have long ago learned to suppress gagging, this Reggie approaches the size of Big Sam.
Miss Ashley always preferred size in her men.
With a particularly energetic forward thrust of my head, adding a most sensuous degree of wet friction to my oral endeavor, I feel Mr. Reggie quiver in ecstasy. Miss Ashley knowingly draws back my head.
“Enough,” she commands, pulling at my leash.
Mr. Reggie’s stiff penis makes a discernible plopping sound as I quickly drawback, truncating any premature male discharge. When freed of my lips it instantly snaps upwards to thump against his stomach, bringing soft laughter from Miss Ashley. Firm tugs draw me to the bottom of Miss Ashley’s oversized four poster bed. Rapidly moving hands secure my leash to the bottom right post. I remain on knees and elbows, as always, and look to admire the exquisite nakedness of my wife, her white boots remain and add a sordid quirkiness to her sublime form.
She snaps her fingers and points. A smiling and most erect lover steps to the bed and lies supine. Yes, just as I learned many years ago, Miss Ashley prefers to be on top... demands really.
So here I am, cuckolded again with the irony that I performed the foreplay, orally stimulating Miss Ashley’s lover to the point of volcanic eruption.
As Miss Ashley joins her handsome and well hung lover, the catharsis of the interaction sets in, causing me to quaver in an odd combination of envy, lust and hate. I glance downward, careful not to cause undue tension on my control chain, to see that my own male organ remains hard and has perhaps further stiffened.
As intended with the many modifications, my hormones roar with normal release having been long obviated by the scalpel of the demented Dr. Helga Reinhold. And as I watch Miss Ashley straddle Mr. Reggie’s stomach, it dawns on me that the island visit of the noted surgeon does not bode well.
I remember the touch of her altering hands.
The operation to divert my urethra, forever ending ejaculation and the pleasure associated therewith, was performed utilizing a local anesthetic.
“I’ll want you to watch closely as the hands of a woman end all possibility of climactic release, Charles,” I recall Dr. Corrothers counseling as I begged for clemency.
“And understand it is your wife who has approved the procedure. She controls.”
I can still hear Dr. Helga’s cackling under the surgical mask as I felt the ironically painless incision.
Later, the evil woman sutured my vocal cords. There would be no more begging.
My thoughts return to the present as my wife’s lovely derriere lowers, her spread thighs nicely serving to flash her feminine pinkness. Miss Ashley’s mons is kept well trimmed and whereas normally a priapic male would revel at the arousing view, such stimulation only serves to heighten my frustration. I want her and can sense her hand gripping Mr. Reggie’s massive erection and rubbing the tip against the portal of her love nest, just as she did with me during the months of courtship.
Next she will emit her little sigh of pleasure as the engorged tip splits her inner labia. Her hands will move to pin Mr. Reggie’s arms to the mattress. Then she’ll lower her hips and impale herself, her fine sheath swallowing her lover’s phallus as would a hungry snake. And she will moan, soaking up the sensation of physical delight and the mental satiation of control... a man’s erect penis under her total governance.
Yes, I can feel her warmth, her wetness. And I think back to that first time. Bells of warning should have rung when my ostensibly demure companion first rolled on top and begin to fornicate with the energy and knowledge of an experienced whore. But I was too wrapped up in my scheme, blinded by visions of breaking into the Duval vaults and whisking away bags of cash. I did not understand that in plotting I was sealing my own fate.
So I watch as Miss Ashley pumps and the room fills with the fine fragrance of the aroused female sex. There come moans and groans, the intermingling of the sounds maki
ng it impossible to discern the source. And I listen and sniff the air. There is the stimulating fragrance of tropical flowers and feminine aroma as Mr. Reggie pleasures my wife as a normally functioning man, an obligation long ago denied me.
And I find that just as the dog I have become, I strangely whine. A plaintive whine... pitiful... but it is the only expression of my feeling that I can muster.
Miss Ashley hears yet continues pumping, my beseeching noises seeming to spur her to renewed efforts. She giggles, her mirth arising from knowing that I watch in total frustration. But perhaps it is the pleasure of Mr. Reggie’s hot and hard erection abrading what I perceive to be the very entrance to her womb.
I see muscles clench then Miss Ashley’s hands, continuing to pin Mr. Reggie’s arms to the mattress, move to his nipples, pinch and then painfully twist. There results a paroxysmal bucking, which Miss Ashley absorbs like a rodeo star. Yet she shrieks in ecstasy, extracting from her lover a powerful orgasm.
Then I see her thighs squeeze and she slaps his face.
“Come,” is her simple command.
And another giggle evidences that her well hung lover accedes to his lady’s wishes.
“Yes!” Miss Ashley hisses, her shoulders slumping forward to rest her firm breasts on Mr. Reggie’s chest.
My heart pounds. I can feel the rush of blood bringing a burning to my face. I strain against my leash. Such humiliation... yet I am aroused.
Miss Ashley rests in her glow then finally rolls to the side.
“I’m going to need you, Corky.”
Yes, I think to myself. But does it have to be before him?
Chapter Five - Corky
“He likes the taste... I know he does,” Miss Ashley attests to a chuckling Reggie. “He’s been well trained.”
The man annoyingly laughs, standing close by, arms akimbo as my Master, my beautiful Queen, positions herself in her special chair. The padded seat has been partially cut away to accommodate my neck collar. Miss Ashley has removed my leash and clipped eye rings on my collar, right and left, to the seat of the chair. She sits, wearing only her boots, and her steamy well frictioned labia are presented within inches of my nose and lips. As she settles, she lifts her boots and props her feet on foot stools to my right and left. Then her buttocks slide a little toward me and my nostrils fill with the odoriferous scent of a woman who has engaged in vigorous sex. Traces of Mr. Reggie’s spending are few.
The Chris Bellows' Collection Page 17
