The Chris Bellows' Collection

by Chris Bellows

  It was almost as if he didn’t want to come, putting off the climactic release, as if he, in so doing, would somehow stay an intact male.

  Finally he ejaculated. Strongly but the fluid was somewhat clear.

  “Not much sperm,” commented Lotta. “We’ll drain him again in an hour and then again and again until he’s completely spent. Most think of the act of castration as quick, which it is. But rendering a man sterile takes a little time. Chippie probably feels as if we’re bleeding him to death.

  “Yes, a little bit of his remaining maleness will dissipate every time you get him off, Ashley. Your aunt always relished that thought in watching others being drained.”

  As do I, I began to realize.

  By the end of the day, Chippie was completely drained of all male essence. He also began to lick my hand, oddly falling into the role Aunt Meredith had anointed upon him... he was becoming a pet.

  Over all, such a glorious summer. In the ensuing days, Chippie indeed became docile. He no longer needed caging. I learned more about Aunt Meredith’s legal arrangement, a display of the power of Duval wealth. She effectively bought the affidavit of the underage girl, holding it as leverage until Chippie satisfactorily immersed himself in his role. There would be no changing of minds. With any hint of resistance, the affidavit could find its way to the authorities and charges could be filed within hours.

  Thus even if he could escape the island, he would be incarcerated or live as a fugitive, a neutered fugitive.

  So for an entire summer I practiced giving hand jobs to Chippie, knowing that the normally gratifying act just teased and mentally tormented. And one can be assured, to bring a castrate to full tumescence requires skill, perseverance and soft yet firm hands. Words help, with Chippie’s psyche, a constant reminder of Aunt Meredith’s marauding hands seemed to add a strange degree of stimulation.

  “What happened here, Chippie?” was my usual reminder, right hand stroking away while toying with his empty sac with the fingers of my left. The question stirred something within, spurring unrequited arousal.

  As Aunt Meredith stated, I had come of age and with the ambiance of the island, the Zeitgeist, as Aunt Meredith termed it, I took Chippie to bed with me every night. He was an accomplished cunnilinguist, and as his penis became more and more useless, his tongue and lips seemed to become more and more sensual.

  It was amusing to practice my hand jobs, working to coax the slowly shrinking and sterile penis to a full stand and then mocking the once proud owner, who was becoming ever more bashful each day.

  “Come on Chippie, make it shoot for me,” I taunted, knowing full well that those days were over.

  Sometimes seeking a more active role, I rode Chippie’s manhood, its length and girth providing wondrous friction. I would reach down and grasp his empty scrotum and taunt, ‘something’s missing’, pumping up and down with my thighs and hips to bring myself to an explosive orgasm as Chippie just enviously looked at me. I relished the exasperation he must have felt, being forever denied ejaculatory climax. Yes, the Duval penchant for being on top.

  But by summer’s end, Chippie’s penis became softer and softer, useless to both of us. But his impotence gave rise to better and better oral service.

  And to see his large male form cower in Aunt Meredith’s presence was priceless. The male beast never forgets the castrating hand, that I learned unforgettably.

  As Aunt Meredith intended, I arrived on the island in June as a curious girl and left in September as an assertive and experienced woman.

  I never saw Chippie again. Years later when I inquired about him Aunt Meredith casually shrugged.

  “Chippie decided to take a long swim, Ashley. That happens with castrates. Some cannot live with the despair of having to face life as a neutered pet. And I’ll miss his oral attention. He was one of the best... as I’m sure you’ve come to realize over the years.”

  Yes, the mental aspects of castration can be burdensome. That’s the only reason why Corky’s balls remain. And even still I keep him well secured and controlled, his leash constantly tied off or held in someone’s hand. Should he also become despondent, I do not want him attempting the long swim.

  Chapter Thirty Four - Corky

  The week has gone so quickly. Compared to the relative inactivity, having Miss Ashley present adds such zest to the normally quiet solitude. She always has plans for her guests. And being free of the leash every afternoon is exhilarating.

  She runs me on the beach, adding a degree of challenge to moving about on elbows and knees, but with no one’s hand directing the leash and tugging on the collar the sense of freedom is divine.

  Still I have to face the grueling mornings with Miss Mary and Miranda. Though it’s nice to be out of the arm and legs bindings, I must face the discipline of the pretty young woman and her sjambok. And the stretching is agonizing. By Wednesday the awkward position of lying on my back with my thighs and hips folded over me brings the tip of my penis to my lips. Of course both Miranda and Mary sit on my upturned thighs and press their weight to enable such a peculiar pose. But still when commanded, I am able to extend my tongue and lick my penis tip. Miranda laughs and Mary smiles which is rare.

  “Keep licking, Corky. It feels good, doesn’t it?” Mary forcefully observes.

  And it does of course. The two woman titter as I am able to bring myself to full erection, utilizing my talent for fellatio on myself! When I engulf the swollen tip I am ordered to stop.

  By Friday my ligaments are further loosened. Miss Mary uses the tip of the sjambok to push aside my penis and my scrotum comes into range.

  “Press your tongue out as far as you can,” Miss Mary commands as I feel the slowly building discomfort of having both women press fully with their strength and weight.

  Incredibly, as Miranda’s fingers grasp my ball sac and pull, the soft pink scrotal flesh can be touched! Miss Mary considers the feat to be an important milestone.

  More laughter as Miss Mary lectures.

  “Remember Miranda, all males are mentally malleable. From this point he’ll be licking his balls tomorrow and lapping away within a week if you continue the daily stretching.”

  And of course Miss Mary is correct. On Saturday morning I am able to extend my tongue and lick the smooth soft flesh of my scrotal sac as would a dog.

  “Good boy,” Miss Mary gushes.

  And I feel oddly proud in performing for her. The few years as a sports trainer have imbued her with an irresistible governance. I want to meet her demands....and I do.

  That afternoon on the beach Miss Mary announces for all that I will be putting on a show before the plane departs on Sunday.

  “Corky has a new talent,” she smilingly exclaims with pride.

  Freed of the leash, Miss Ashley has me posing upright on my knees. The soft sand helps me keep my balance and as I am instructed to look upwards, a dog biscuit is placed on my forehead.

  “Stay,” Miss Ashley commands.

  And so I remain before her cadre of guests basking in the sun, Corky the human canine entertaining, performing a trick one would teach a favorite pet.

  The one meal per day keeps me constantly hungry and thus I am known to beg for treats throughout the day. Any sustenance will do, and the biscuits are not completely without taste.

  “I’ll do him tonight, Ashley, during cocktails.”

  I do not need to turn my head and drop the biscuit to know that the voice is that of Dr. Helga Reinhold, the wicked woman who took such delight in suturing my vocal cords and modifying my urethra.

  What could she be planning?

  “Corky... eat!”

  Miss Ashley gives the command and my thoughts are diverted. I deftly snap back my head and catch the falling biscuit in my mouth. While the women laugh, I eat ravenously. Miss Ashley extends her hand and strokes my penis as a reward. As always her expert touch feels good. I stiffen instantly, providing more entertainment.

  “Take a run then rest, Corky. Dr. Helga has a
surprise for you tonight,” Miss Ashley commands.

  A ‘run’ is a rapid movement of elbows and knees across the beach, propelling me not much faster than a walk but enjoyable for the women to watch as the exaggerated motion causes my testicles to flop about and my bells to chime as at a church wedding.

  That evening, cocktails are served in the preparation room. Miranda feeds me, having ingested my obligatory sperm appetizer, donated by Mr. Reggie, but offered by way of Miss Ashley’s marvelous quim... a copious serving each day of the gigolo’s stay.

  I am led from the kitchen to join the group. As I enter the preparation room, Miranda pulling on my leash, I pause in apprehension causing the spiked neck collar to bite into my skin. Dr. Helga is dressed in surgical garb!

  “Oh come, Corky, Dr. Helga has some very nice refinements I think you will come to enjoy,” Miss Ashley rebukes in noticing my reluctance.

  I am placed on a surgical table. Straps hold me down. My thighs, remain forcibly folded by the bindings and are spread well apart. I whine, signaling to Miss Ashley, my owner, my Master, provider of all, my discomfort in being bound and in close proximity to the demented doctor. She laughs.

  “I’m not going to let any harm come to my Corky,” she proclaims in her child’s voice.

  The guests gather about to observe, smiling with my squirming within the intense bondage.

  “First a little nipple piercing, Corky. Chaste males develop very sentient nipples and I think you’ll come to enjoy the feel.”

  I am forced to watch in horror as, without any numbing anesthesia, Dr. Helga heats needles. A gloved hand toys with my left nipple. Incredibly, she callously spears the tiniest pinch of sensitive pink flesh at the very tip of the areola. My scream of pain brings laughter as my sutured vocal cords bring forth the usual sounds of inhuman squawking.

  Dr. Helga ignores my reaction and immediately goes to work on my right nipple. She is a machine, once programmed and turned on, nothing stops her from her goal.

  Through the two openings Dr. Helga inserts steel bars with chains attached. To the free end of each bar she solders a small steel balls making it impossible to slide the bars back through the new openings. She tugs on the chains. I grimace with the strange new sensation. Not entirely painful, a woman can now manipulate another sensitive part of my anatomy.

  Next curious lengths of matching steel are attached to my neck collar... one right, one left. The prongs extend some three of four inches and their utility is quickly realized; Dr. Helga attaches the loose ends of my nipple chains.

  “Turn your head, Corky, try out your new trinkets,” Miss Ashley strongly suggests.

  I do and find that by way of the chains I can turn my head and jostle my nipples. And since Dr. Helga has taken the time to penetrate the most sensitive areas, the feeling is strangely pleasurable.

  Miss Ashley notices my reaction of relative acceptance.

  “You see, Corky, I take care of my pet. Now just by turning your head you can manipulate your nipples.”

  And for what purpose? I think to myself. Ultimate climax has long been denied. Tensioning the nipple chains merely results in more teasing... as I am sure Miss Ashley intends.

  “And now I’ll loop him,” Dr. Helga announces as I again cower.

  The gloved hands hold a length of latex tubing. Having been catheterized over a year ago at the Amsterdam Clinic I quickly understand the controlling utility of the tube. Yet it is short and there is a bulbous section near one end.

  “Just a little discomfort, Corky. Nothing you have not felt before,” Dr. Helga tries to sooth me.

  Her hands work at my perineum where she had opened my urethra. I feel the tube enter. She pushes gently. I feel burning as the latex finds its way past my prostate then into my penis. Finally I look down to see the end exit my penis tip.

  “You’re really going to enjoy this, Corky,” Miss Ashley predicts.

  The tube extends some ten inches beyond my penis when I feel the pressure of the bulb on the opposite end enter my urethra. I grimace as Dr. Helga forces it inward.

  “We’ll insert it right to the edge of the prostate gland,” she declares.

  And she does. I can feel the bulb abrade where Miss Mary so alacritously milked me days before.

  “Perfect,” the demented surgeon announces. “A new handle. What better purpose for an otherwise useless organ.”

  I do not understand her meaning until she begins to inject a gooey substance into the tube, then she takes the free end, bends it downward past my balls and attaches it to the end at my urethra.

  In joining the ends, the tube forms a loop. And she fills the hollowness with glue.

  “You’ve been looped,” Dr. Helga enthusiastically declares.

  The glue dries quickly and another thin chain appears. This one is attached to my neck collar at my throat with the opposite end attached to the hardened latex projecting from my penis tip.

  “Marvelous,” Miss Ashley declares. “Corky, every erotic nerve you have is now under control.”

  The crowd of women step back and I am helped off the table to the preparation room floor.

  “Go ahead. Move your head about. The neck collar will tension one of the chains no matter the direction... left, right, up, down.”

  Yes, in addition to the control chain, which I used to pressure my prostate, motion of my head left or right can now jiggle my nipples. And in the oddest sensation, I can lift my head to tension the small chain attached to the urethral insert. It feels as though someone is pulling my penis, except that since the tube is inserted right through to my new opening, the sensation goes deeper. It feels as if fingers are working within my penis and the bulb provides a different form of prostatic massage.

  I just kneel and move my head about, soaking up the erotic pleasures while the women laugh and laugh. Due to the autoerotic manipulation, my penis stiffens and that seems to be the most humiliating notion of all... forcibly arousing myself before all the observing eyes, yet with no climactic relief available.

  Miss Ashley pats my head.

  “See what I do for my little pet. You’re really going to enjoy being walked now, Corky.”

  Chapter Thirty Five - Corky

  I found Miss Ashley to be correct. Walking about jostled my chains. Thus whenever my collar was pulled, nipples, testicles, prostate and penis were vibrated or kneaded or caressed with every resulting step. For a woman to have me tumefy, it merely required governance over my leash and a few supervised steps about the room. Such degradation, yet such annoyingly teasing pleasure.

  There is something about the constant chastity, the abundance of hormones, that actually leaves me wanting for the controlling hand. When tied to one of the wall hooks for hour after hour, I pine for the thrill of governance. That which will release me and though degrade, permit motion that will in turn flood my cortex with the countless erotic messages of my vibrating chains. Such devilishly pleasing torment. To stiffen at a woman’s behest, yet never to experience the satiation of climax.

  Sunday morning found me in the preparation room where Miss Mary had her last go. After removing all the bindings and chains, I was positioned on my back and found that my range of motion had increased to the point where for the first time I could lick my balls with impunity without the two woman pressing down on my thighs.

  This could only occur when the various chains were unhooked of course. When connected the control chain running the length of my spine would not permit me to curl up and bring my pubes area into proximity with my face. So as good as it felt to orally simulate myself where so little attention was received, the controlling women of the island would decide when I would put on the ignominious display of emulating that most crass canine act... licking one’s genitals.

  In being curled up and performing for Miss Mary I was better able to evaluate the inserted tube, my ‘loop’ as Dr. Helga termed it. The glue added a degree firmness to the otherwise flexible latex. And with the two ends connected it did indeed form a
loop, the exposed part running from my penis tip, curving downward, slipping past my scrotum and then entering my new pee hole. Since the tube didn’t block that part of the urethra that served to empty my bladder, urination was not affected. And as Miss Mary had me rolled up in a ball, I was able to work my tongue around my new modification and lick away at my hairless pink scrotal sac.

  After satisfying the assertive trainer that her week’s goal had been accomplished, I was told to right myself and Miss Mary then took great pleasure in hooking her index finger through the firm loop of latex and leading me about, as if it was a leash. The conflicting sensations overwhelmed...the bizarre physical sensation of having a female finger tug at something that was so deeply inserted into an intimate male organ, the strange joy as the latex rubbed my most sensitive urethral flesh, the ignominy in having a young and pretty woman using my male organ to control me.

  “Put on his bindings and chains, Miranda. It’s time for one last afternoon on the beach.”

  The mischievous Miranda slipped on my bindings as Miss Mary stood over me with the sjambok, ready to stroke with the slightest hesitation should I appear to resist. As the young hands worked to insert my tail, Miss Mary departed the preparation room to change into her bathing attire. Thereafter chains and finally my testicles bells were attached.

  “Beach time, Corky,” Miranda announced, eager for the daily diversion into the shrubbery where male subjugation and my assiduous tongue would bring the pretty girl to numerous climaxes. With obedience stick in hand we departed the house and quickly diverted into the underbrush.

  My furtive oral endeavors began and I noticed that Miranda quickly became wetter than ever, obviously not only enjoying the work of tongue and lips but becoming accustomed to providing the obedient and well trained male with access to her otherwise private parts.