Miss Elizabeth's Captive

by Chris Bellows

  “So... Sweden. The blonde hair... the blue eyes,” I urged.

  “The obedience, the training, the attention to detail, the inextinguishable desire to please,” Liz completed my sentence.

  “Not necessarily Scandinavian traits, but ones which can be instilled in a disciplined, organized and well educated society. Whereas in my home country one would use the whip and constantly threaten unrelenting pain, the Clinic has developed much more humane procedures.”

  “Like removing the testicles?” I chided.

  “Yes,” Liz laughed, “Like removing the burden of having testicles... the adjusting of the hormones to more genteel levels, replacing the penchant for aggression and instilling instead a desire to serve.”

  Liz extended her hand to toy with Little Sam, dutifully remaining standing for her.

  “Substituting the demand for receiving pleasure with the desire for giving it,” she whispered as her digits explored. Her fingers brushed the sensitive underside of the shaft then wrapped around its pink girth. I pictured her doing so with a man condemned to sacrifice his balls. Does he squirm in resistance, or perhaps he accedes to his teenaged tormentress and accepts in surrender the last feminine offering of pleasure before a surgeon snips away? Or maybe he just closes his eyes and pretends it’s not happening, mentally ignoring the offering by idly letting the Dominant young female have her way, cursing as his penis betrays him by responding to the knowing touch by slowly engorging. He has always proudly fostered its firmness in the past. The ignominy in feeling it defy his control and stand for the last time must be sickening. And how does he react to the ridiculing laughter?

  The castrating vixen...a girl of 16 years.

  I shuddered with an odd combination of ecstasy and fear.

  “I can tell you the story of the clinic, Sam. But there is a price for the privilege. Your curiosity isn’t going to kill a cat, but it will have a cost.”

  Liz arose and strolled to an armoire. Rather ornate for my tastes, but my eyes did not care to deviate for long from the amazing figure. Liz’s outfit was skintight and revealed every curve. I wondered where she wore such attire outside of her apartment, if in fact she ever did.

  She gracefully opened the double doors and standing between afforded me very little view of the cabinet contents. She selected something, turned her head and smiled.

  “Let’s term it a surprise, Sam. Close you eyes.”

  I complied. I wanted to hear the story. I wanted to learn about Jamie, the castrated, servile, fellator of renown. And despite the subsequent sounds...clinks really...I kept my eyes closed even when Liz asked me to extend my arms.

  “Straight out in front; be a good boy.”

  She spoke in the firm collected tone that she used for Jamie. When I felt softness encircling my wrists I suppose I should have opened and ascertained the surprise. I didn’t.

  She cuffed me. Strong but firm bands of fur lined leather. She was quick.

  I opened as she laughingly lowered herself onto the leather couch, kneeling facing me and then lifting a leg to straddle my thighs. The smooth and soft leather of her pants suit felt good and Little Sam found himself thrusting forth in attempting to again frottage, this time against her lower belly.

  “You see how easy it is to make boys obey, Sam? Offer a simple reward then begin to take them down a path... then offer another,” she proclaimed while looking down into my face and holding a cuffed wrist in each hand out to the side.

  Then she lowered her face as if to kiss me. Sweet... warm... so inviting. I lifted my face in return and leaned forward to greet her lips. I thought she was guiding my hands and wrists back for better balance.

  It was a subterfuge. I heard a click. She had pushed firmly and quickly and my wrists were coupled together behind my back. It was so simple, so alacritous. How many men had she shackled?

  She stood and I was denied the kiss, but was able to brush my face against the thin leather forming the halter. Her breasts firmed the leather covering and felt good. I wanted more.

  “So let’s see...the path...” And her story began.

  Chapter Five

  Though a rather mature 18, I still faced the trip to America with trepidation. I had not traveled much outside of my small desert country. And when I did so, it was on a private jet and surrounded by family members and my father’s body guards.

  So being on a commercial flight with peasants and what the family referred to as infidels was a new experience. I remained quiet and just observed.

  As the real world opened to me, it was interesting to hear and observe men interact. Teenaged girls in Islamic countries are sheltered, to say the least, and I think in realizing this, that is why Mother had me attending the floggings at an early age. A young girl’s perception of the aura of male superiority dissipates quickly when a tough man screams like a girl and begs for mercy under the whip. And as I mentioned, the whimpering I heard as testicles are snipped away can completely modify a girl’s esteem for all things male.

  At my birthday party two weeks before, after I opened many lavish gifts, Mother handed me an envelope and whispered in my ear.

  “Say nothing to your father about this, Elizabeth. It’s in preparation for your sojourn in America. People there are open minded and my gift will not be a problem. And I think you’ll know how to handle this when it comes time to return.”

  Inside was a letter of introduction to the clinic in Sweden. I read it quickly at the time and my eyes riveted on the section referring to the acquisition of a boy and his subsequent training as my servant. I looked up at Mother with pleasant surprise. We had many servants in the Palace, but such were for the entire family, which was large. Personal servants for teenaged girls were unusual.

  But it was a practical gift. I did not cook, clean, or wash and I did not care to learn.

  “The women at the clinic will train a boy to serve all your needs, Elizabeth. So take your time in Sweden and choose wisely.”

  In emphasizing ‘all’, there was no doubt concerning the nature of Mother’s advice. Yes, Sam, women too have sex drives, and many times such are stronger than those in the male beast. But society discourages overt displays and even in conversing, women use coded phrases.

  That night I lay in bed thinking about males, and contemplating the joys of controlling one. After the years of watching the floggings and assisting with those condemned for alteration. The prospects were exciting.

  So months before beginning academic pursuits at Brown, I flew to Stockholm where a limousine took me to the clinic. The guest quarters there are lavish, more like a four star hotel than an orphanage. The school and medical facilities are first rate. The boys receive the best care and education and all are happy... at least those in the main body.

  But beneath one of the buildings, deeply dug out as a bomb shelter during the war, is a different clinic. Term it a clinic within a clinic. And there is where I spent most of my time in the ensuing two months. In a way, I too was in training.

  Running an orphanage requires money. And though there was much support by way of donations, government grants, etc., it was explained to me that there always seemed to be a shortfall. Until one day, one of the more creative counselors developed a concept. She was interviewing a boy at the time, and noticed in both his social interaction and his various psychological testing that he not only possessed a deep need to serve, but he was most deferential to women. Subsequent brainstorming with her peers and the clinic’s director resulted in the development of a special program and facility where such propensities could be put to use.

  Servants for sale. Initially the goal was that simple... transforming young boys into servile but well-trained domestics. And it worked. The clinic annually produced dozens of boys who at a reasonably young age demonstrated skills and the abject aptitude required to be valuable servants.

  But demand quickly outstripped the supply of naturals. There were not enough innately submissive young males to train. And while the revenue from th
e endeavor became material, there also developed a desire amongst the staff to do more. Controlling boys seemed to interest many of the counselors, and stints in the deep chamber were popular amongst the staff.

  So, there was revenue and the need for more. There was demand; there was the facility. What was needed was more raw supply.

  And that’s when the program began in earnest... ‘the psychological and physical transformation of boys into servile objects for the enjoyment of Dominant women’. I am quoting from the clinic brochure, one that is obviously not publicly disseminated.

  Upon arrival at the living quarters, I was ushered into a reception area with some dozen other potential ‘clients’, as the clinic personnel referred to us. These were amazing women...some wealthy, some famous, some politically prominent. All desiring a boy, a young male whose only role in life would be to serve...in all aspects of the term.

  The clinic director spoke as each of us was handed a packet of information.

  I remember the talk almost word for word...

  “Good afternoon, ladies, you are about to embark on a very interesting endeavor... selecting... modifying... and training a subservient male.

  “Whereas many of you are quite experienced at similar undertakings please take the time to read the information in your packet. There is much data, pictures included, about the available candidates, and an outline of our procedures, to which you must strictly adhere for proper results. There is also a rather singular key-like device which you should carry with you at all times. Should you find it impracticable, the packet includes a simple necklace which can be worn and hooked to the key to keep it handy.

  “Tomorrow morning, the selection process will begin.”

  That was it. Off to my room with the thick packet, I gave much thought to what I wanted. Cost was no object. Thorough subjugation was.

  In reading the material I found the procedures to be fascinating. I was planning to major in psychology and learned much from the clinic before even stepping foot on the Brown University campus. Basically the clinic developed a protocol paralleling the widely discussed phenomenon known as the ‘Stockholm Syndrome’. The moniker came from an event in 1973 when two ruthless criminals attempted to rob a major bank in Stockholm and ended up taking hostages and being surrounded by authorities for 5 days. After surrender, the captives, 2 men and 4 women were found to greatly empathize with their captors despite the fact that they were, during the ordeal, threatened with death and violence if they resisted and tried to escape.

  The empathy and devotion was such that while in jail, both criminals became engaged to a former captive, and even the males were found to be reluctant to testify against the vicious men who threatened to kill them.

  And so the term ‘Stockholm Syndrome’ was coined to describe the empathy/sympathy and unlikely devotion developed by a captive for his/her captor. The phenomenon has been vastly studied ever since by psychologists and the principles were found to apply in many situations where the following conditions exist...

  - there is a perceived threat to survival and the belief that a captor will act on that threat

  - the captive perceives small kindnesses from the captor within the context of terror

  - there is isolation from all but the captors

  - there is the perceived inability to escape

  A full page of information explained that at the clinic, there was no actual threat to survival. What was substituted was a constant threat to gratification, which for the pubescent male could be most traumatic.

  ‘Forced chastity at an impressionable age, and/or the threat thereof, can be a very effective alternative in achieving the effect of the Stockholm Syndrome’, the clinic’s packet cited.

  How curious!

  After a wonderful breakfast the following morning, the entourage was taken to the deep subterranean basement where the candidates were kept. We passed through numerous thick and heavy iron doors guarded by huge, powerful women with potent stun guns and cattle prods.

  We changed from one elevator to another at a level well below the ground and then kept descending. When the second elevator stopped and we finally arrived at the most formidable door of the lot, I certainly perceived there could be no escape.

  And we were certainly isolated. The staff, all female, wore starched white uniforms. The packet requested that we as clients dress simply with no revealing attire. ‘Plain business suits seem to instill the desired ambiance,’ the information in the packet suggested. ‘Be plainly attired but appear to be professional and neat in order to establish a hierarchy above the staff.’

  Easily enough done. I had, after all, assembled a wardrobe conducive to attaining an Ivy League education. And a prim gray flannel jacket and skirt with white cotton blouse met the requirement.

  And so, the candidates were isolated from all except the perceived captors... which were the clients and the staff, of course.

  And as for the remaining two attributes required for inducing the Stockholm Syndrome, well that was where the staff earned their keep, and we as clients learned to use the strange key.

  Chapter Six

  “Another sip of your drink, Sam?”

  Liz interrupted her story, arising from the chair opposite me. Though naked and meekly sitting with wrists cuffed behind my back, I was mesmerized by her dialogue. And Little Sam seemed equally enthralled with Liz’s fine body. He remained standing throughout the telling, and the throbbing was becoming uncomfortable.

  I nodded in response to her question, thinking that it would be her exquisite hand holding my goblet. Instead she snapped her fingers and the male ingenue instantly appeared from the kitchen. Jamie entered dashing on toes in a most girlish fashion. It occurred to me that the only time I had seen him walk was in the awkward sandals last Saturday. On less formal occasions, quick moving feet seemed to be mandated. Jamie approached with balls clicking.

  “Help Mr. Sam with his drink, Jamie.”

  Two tiny hands lifted my margarita from the low table. Though I leaned forward to accept the offering, Jamie stepped between my knees to better hold the edge of the glass to my lips. For a brief moment it was his naked hairless skin brushing against mine. My homophobia flared and, though I reminded myself of his status as an altered male, I quivered with his proximity and drew back. Still the lad took advantage and Liz was soon giggling as he pressed closer and closer and my aversion to naked male flesh caused me to return my shoulders to the back of the couch.

  “Oh, Sam. So phobic. Why Jamie has not bitten any one in weeks.”

  She laughed at her own joke as Jamie persevered, of course. For after leaning back as far as possible I found that he just approached to the point where his dangling balls of gold pressed against my scrotum.

  Such a perverse scene, amusing a fully clad beautiful woman: a naked man cuffed at her behest and an effeminate eunuch, dashing about at the snap of her fingers, castrated as a birthday gift, psychologically forced into a lifetime of servitude.

  “You doth protest too much, Sam. Perhaps with another margarita you’ll find Jamie as appealing as you did on Saturday night.”

  Liz cackled, reminding me of my somewhat inebriated dalliance with the lithe ingenue. I cringed with the recollection.

  “Well, Sam. Jamie’s just trying to provide the best hospitality.”

  My goblet was returned to the table.

  “Why not keep him nice and hard for me, Jamie? Dinner can wait. I don’t often enough have a stiff penis here, at least not one that can be used for anything.”

  More laughter as Jamie, upon Liz’s simple suggestion, again fell to his knees. For him I presumed it was a command. I suppose I should have protested...arisen in a huff and... and what? Cuffed and without clothing, what were my options? And there was Liz...

  The soft hands took first cradled my scrotum, gently kneading my balls. Then his forehead tipped forward and the pretty face disappeared from view. I closed my eyes as Jamie lowered his head and began to lick. With hot ton
gue on the most sensitive flesh encapsulating my testicles, I jumped with the unexpected delight. It was exquisite.

  “He’ll just lick and suck a little. Just your testicles. His way of expressing envy for what he had to sacrifice. And have no concern, he knows enough not to let you climax. He can be quite he tease.”

  While Jamie worked every tactile inch of my sac, a giggling Liz returned to her seat, sipped her wine and then resumed, leaving Jamie’s tongue to lick and his fingers to massage. I had never experienced anything like it...mentally or physically.

  Chapter Seven

  The facilities under the clinic building were enormous. As stated the space was designed during the war to accommodate hundreds of people for what were predicted to be extended bombing attacks.

  Thus the clever staff had installed a large dormitory area, training facilities, an infirmary, and many classrooms. Education was important, Sam. But not in the standard sense which one might expect.

  No, the classes ranged from the somewhat basic, in acquiring the skills required to pamper the Dominant woman, to the more exotic, in learning to cook with high skill and serve with appropriate élan. There was cosmetology, hair care...and yes, massage, as you are becoming aware.

  But how does one instill the need, the abject desire to serve? That is where the clinic so excels and where the Stockholm Syndrome comes into play.

  I toured the underground chambers and found a number of things which strike the first time visitor.

  The boys don’t wear a stitch of clothing, access to all anatomical areas being required for disciplinary purposes. And they are forced to wear the most medieval contraptions... clamp like devices on the nipples and ankles and even more elaborate gadgetry around the neck and wrists.

  And that’s where the strange little key came into use. One could use it to adjust the clamps. The ones pressuring the Achilles tendon almost hobbled some of the boys. The smaller nipple clamps were self evident in the ability to discharge torment. But it was the neck and wrist restraints that were most sui generis to the clinic.