Miss Elizabeth's Captive

by Chris Bellows

  A strong but comfortable steel collar encircled the neck with adjustable bars jutting upwards and out to the right and left. At the end of the bars were wrist restraints. Thus every boy had his hands held up and well away from his body. And most fascinating was that the peculiar key could be used to adjust the angle and the span. Thus, tension could be applied to the muscles, ligaments and tendons for inordinate periods, bringing some boys to slow tears over the course of the day.

  And so if you can picture the scene that greets us. Dressed in conservative but moderately elegant attire, we clients stroll about with naked boys, all in some degree of torment from the various clamps, and all being closely supervised by staff members if not attentively listening and observing in a group training session. For the Dominant woman, Sam it’s divine. And as you sit on my couch with your phallus proudly seeking to reach the ceiling, you’d be very interested to know how many of the boys achieved similar tumescence and with hands immobilized could do nothing other than parade about and put on a rather cute show for their ‘captors’.

  Was it the humiliation which caused such a reaction? Forcibly being presented completely nude before dozens of demanding women? Or was it the pain, the constant aggravation of having the nipples pinched, the ankles clamped to the point of near hobbling? And as stated, depending on the severity of the angle and the adjusted length of the wrist restraints, the muscles in the arms will eventually reach a limit of tolerance and begin a slow, retching pain.

  I was reminded of the reaction to so many floggings where many condemned became uncontrollably aroused for some reason. And it was gratifying to see that it happened every day to almost every boy at the clinic. Their penises stood in humble tribute to the Dominant woman and in respect for the anguish to be borne. The counselors had developed a program to be savored.

  So getting back to the Stockholm Syndrome... Obviously with wrists constantly secured and close daily supervision, there was no furtive masturbation or other gratification permitted. For boys approaching that time of life when anatomical exploration and the discovery of self satisfaction can divert much time and attention, being kept chaste was equivalent to ‘threatening their survival’ and seemed to meet the criteria outlined by the various psychologists who had nobly studied the phenomenon. And added to the perceived threat was the rubber slapper carried and frequently used by the strict counselors. Good firm swats to the testicles were doled out without compunction for even the most trivial infraction. Since most boys were already experiencing the dull agony of the clamps and wrist bindings, sharp pain had to be dispensed in order to obtain results. And it was.

  That first day I just strolled about getting the lay of the land so to speak. With our special keys we could take a boy aside and tighten clamps and bindings to increase the slow agony. I could hardly resist so doing. But the purpose of being supplied with the little device was really to implement the last principle...known to be the most critical...that the captive perceived small kindnesses from the captor.

  Can you imagine such a simple process? First you place a boy in ineluctable and painful bondage...and then in relieving his agony...in the most modest amount and for the most limited period of time, you can demand his devotion. Not earn it mind you...demand it!

  And so, as our packet of information suggested, after selection of a candidate, the client should visit with him once or twice per day and graciously loosen a clamp, moderate the wrist bindings, and as the process of obtaining devotion proceeded, perhaps even remove the neck collar for a time!

  That could only be achieved through well displayed and most humble groveling mind you, but at such an impressionable age, the results attained were both rapid and noteworthy.

  That evening there was a little introductory cocktail party, with service provided by some of the more experienced boys who worked hard to be relieved of their neck bindings. There I was able to converse with my colleagues, the other clients. I was the youngest in attendance, most having lived in female supremacy, at least in their own homes, for many years. I learned that the methods employed for control over the male were quite varied as was the proposed uses for the planned acquisitions. For some it was as if another beast was to be added to a barn full of domesticated animals. Some of the candidates favored constant heavy bondage in utilizing the boy for manual labor. Others desired domestic help, preferring a program of feminization. I had spied some very cute maids being trained. And as stated, some just truly wanted beasts, treating the acquisition as a pony or ox. For those women an older boy with developed muscling was sought.

  But there was one theme underlying each envisioned relationship, the continuing of the forced chastity.

  No boy exiting the clinic was ever allowed to achieve self gratification without proper feminine tutelage.

  “Allowing a boy to masturbate is like allowing him to defecate in the rose garden, for in so doing, there is little decorum and certainly no control,” one middle aged woman solemnly explained to me.

  And so I began to understand why the packet contained page after page of information concerning chastity devices. Dozens...some more severe than others, but all utilized toward the same end...a lifetime of control over the male libido.

  “Keeps them frisky and eager to please,” another woman explained. “And they’ll never give up trying to stroke themselves. It adds such a delightful dimension to the frustration.”

  Later that evening I returned to my room and learned much about the various commercially made male chastity devices. Well designed, inescapable, some wonderfully tormenting when combined with an implement to abrade or prickle the aroused penis. But alas, nothing compared to my childhood experiences in observing the condemned male on the Palace platform and later assisting in the infirmary. Despite my youth as compared to the other clients of the clinic, I seemed to desire the most drastic form of chastity.

  Chapter Eight

  “I think you’d better tend to dinner now Jamie. Mr. Sam is squirming rather animatedly.”

  I was indeed squirming.

  The amazing tongue finally stopped and the pretty coifed head retreated. Little Sam, barely touched, stood like a flagpole while Jamie’s fingers massaged and his tongue swathed my entire scrotal sac. He was most accomplished in using to incredible effect the knob piercing his tongue tip. And yes, I was writhing with the teasing ecstasy. I so much needed to climax and Jamie expertly held me off.

  The boy rose and though I was nowhere near finished with the second margarita, a nod from Liz made it disappear into the kitchen, borne by effeminate hands and expressed by the quick and humble naked feet. It was like watching a ballerina dart across a stage, seeing Jamie move. Only the clicking of his golden balls distracted from thoughts of the temptress Salome dancing for King Herod.

  My eyes moved to the divine Miss Liz. She appeared so regal sipping a rare wine, holding court over two naked males, or rather one male, one androgynous plaything. So young yet so comfortable with her need for and ability to manifest control. She smiled at me.

  “It appears you’re becoming more comfortable with Jamie, Sam. Just remember to judge by the hormone level and his tender touch, not by his chromosomes. And he does like you; extensive training and my commands can mandate only so much contrived affection.”

  The thought reviled me despite the intense pleasure I had undergone and my fomenting need for gratification.

  ‘He’s of the wrong gender’, I kept telling myself. But Little Sam was not so quick to make that distinction. And Liz knew it, and worse, she knew that my extreme arousal was forcing me to come to the same conclusion.

  “It’s one of the attributes that attracted me to Jamie, Sam. At the clinic a very young Jamie offered quite the fellatio. I thought such affection could be expanded.”

  Leaving me sitting naked on the couch, Little Sam expressing my desires for Liz’s voluptuous form, the story of the clinic resumed.

  Chapter Nine

  Knowing I had to make a choice, I began scanning the
data on the boys. Page after page of physical data, photographs all taken without benefit of clothing of course, and the results of a battery of psychological testing, most of which I did not know how to interpret at the time. Except for each boy there was a summary expressing the opinion of the lead psychologist, who over the years was renowned for her prognostications, which indicated a predicted success ratio for each boy and a suggestion as to his useful role.

  Even at my young age I gave the matter a lot of consideration. Knowing that I would be arriving in a strange country, living in a somewhat urban environment, and not aware of the forthcoming constraints concerning the ownership of a servant, I knew that I needed a very controllable boy.

  For a few of the other clients, some level of disobedience could be tolerated since such would then require discipline...delightfully applied discipline. But I knew that Brown University would not have a whipping platform such as that at the Palace. And a good flogging could not be executed in the confines of an apartment. So I needed docility. Plus, as a young college student, American propriety would bring scorn upon a female living with an obvious male. So I thought about those times in the Palace’s infirmary and watching all those male plums being snipped and tossed into a waiting pan. And then I recalled a particularly enlightening comment made by the doctor.

  Having once been attacked in an attempted rape, she reveled in her duties and casually hummed a tune and smiled as she neutered. Some of the condemned were more alert than others after the flogging, and on occasion, when the shears snipped and a vaunted pink testicle departed, there would be quite the amusing vocal reaction.

  “They come in here roaring like a lion,” the doctor would whimsically comment, “but leave purring like a kitten.”

  It was not until my later years, when I took biology, that I fully understood her quip...that the castration changes the hormone levels, thus not only rendering the male physically incapable of inseminating the female, but also altering the psyche, the drive, as well.

  I concluded that whatever my selection and the level of devotion imparted, I required a boy of complete docility. One who, if not passing as female, could at least appear to be a young nephew. And that’s when Jamie’s photo and data drew my attention. Even as he approached puberty, he appeared more youthful than he was. And there were very telling notes from the psychologists with corroborating observations from the attending counselors who tended to the boys day to day.

  ‘A proclivity for oral service,’ was the official evaluation, supported by recounts of several instances where he was found gleefully fellating one of his cohorts and had to be disciplined for his efforts.

  Though the hands were immobilized, the boys could still be naughty with their tongues and lips. And though gags were a possibility, clinic personnel decided to allow a level of homoerotic play, and utilized such in not only evaluating a prospect, but also in a system of rewards and punishments. Unsupervised climatic relief was always denied of course, but adding a layer of humiliation to a boy’s forced nakedness could achieve results. And over my two month stay at the clinic I daily observed encounters where a reluctant boy was forced to service another while his giggling colleagues watched and a counselor lectured on technique and patiently pointed out the transgression and the need for correction.

  The interesting facet with Jamie was that he learned to revel in oral interaction more than the others.

  ‘Gag reflex well controlled,’ the file noted. And when I looked at his picture, those blue eyes, the blonde hair...I knew in effeminate attire his presence could be cloaked from the potential scorn of neighbors. I had the right candidate.

  And the prognostication..? 99%. And in bold letters: ‘Maid’.

  Thus, I made my selection and the Stockholm process began.

  The packet suggested that the first face-to-face meeting was the most important, bringing forth the cascade of psychological bonding and devotion. Thus after notifying the clinic staff of my choice, Jamie’s clamps were tightened in preparation for an initial meeting. Nipples pinched, ankles pressured to the point that he could barely walk, his wrists were held high with arms extended to the limit, the staff were without mercy in beginning a process which so often led to success.

  No explanation was given to the boy for his torment. Part of the process was that he suffer randomly, never knowing when, where or why a supervising woman would choose to place him in agony. Thus after an hour of enduring the slow building pain, I visited him in his dormitory cubicle. It resembled a telephone booth, enclosed on three sides, but with no door.

  And there was Jamie, lying partially reclined in the resting position on a firm board tilted back at the head. That’s how the boys rest, almost standing and at all times exposing themselves to the clinic staff who constantly stroll the dormitory area. Tears were streaming, and yet he was partially erect, as I had seen so many times during a flogging. And I instinctively palmed his tiny testicles in my left hand and ever so gently stroked his partial erection with my right. Everything in his file was accurate. The natural effeminate looks, his expected reaction to the pain, his most obsequious plea when I held his genitals.

  We talked. I introduced myself. I asked him why he was in pain and why his penis was hard. The packet was so helpful in supplying words the that began our bonding.

  “I think we can be friends, Jamie. If I do something nice for you, maybe you can do something nice for me.”

  He agreed of course. What choice did he have? His situation could not worsen, at least in his mind. So after acknowledging his nod, I produced the strange little key, inserted it into the left nipple clamp and turned. Not much of a twist, just enough so he could feel a modicum of relief. Then we talked some more, allowing to set in my level of control, and then I repeated the maneuver with the right nipple.

  “Now Jamie, Can you be a good boy and waggle your penis for me?”

  By then it was standing straight up, small but stiff...uncircumcised. The resting board positioned his ankles well apart, thus Jamie’s pubes was well displayed. And so when he complied there was no doubt that the movement was in following my request.

  “Such a good boy. Why would anyone tighten your clamps so firmly?”

  Our conversation continued. The tone of my voice became like that of a caring older sister or perhaps akin to a stern aunt. I donned rubber gloves and explored. With an index finger in his rectum I asked him to squeeze it for me. That earned just the slightest turn of an ankle clamp, providing just enough relief to receive a ‘thank you’; a very sincere ‘thank you’.

  And so the morning meeting continued. Jamie getting to know my voice and my touch and learning gratitude. It was my hand, perceived as being such a kindness, that relieved the slow building agony. I also explored ‘the goods’ so to speak, examining Jamie as I would a piece of fruit in the market place.

  Thereafter, twice per day, Jamie and I spent time together. Sometimes I walked him on a leash hooked to his neck constraint. Casual conversation ensued in which he would beg to have the key used. I would hesitate of course, always extracting something in return. He agreed to take certain classes... learning to cook, care for a woman’s clothing, master the application of make up.

  Hands had to be freed for such undertakings, of course. And thus Jamie found a double reward in responding to my kindness and developing the skills I required... pleasing me... and simultaneously having his wrists released from the cruel cuffs and arm restraints.

  And if you want to see a most fascinating sight, watch while pubescent boys apply cosmetics to each other in staged rehearsal. With their propensities known by way of extensive psychological testing, their reaction was as expected. But still they become giggling school girls, diligently working on lips, eye brows and lashes in trying to outdo each other in making a cohort appear more effeminate.

  The summer continued that way... the staff placing Jamie in agony day in and day out. Me rescuing with my key. Small twists, small favors demanded in return, until it neared ti
me to leave for Brown. And that last week, the ‘favors’ began in earnest. By that time we had bonded, particularly during nightly sessions in which I would have Jamie masturbated. And sometimes, if he begged, I had him stroked to climax.

  Chapter Ten

  “Shall we eat, Sam?”

  “I’ll need to use my hands,” I logically pointed out.

  Sitting cuffed, I had listened attentively. It was frightening but fascinating, as Liz suggested, picturing truckling boys gleefully learning to use makeup and reacting so subserviently to Dominant women.

  “That won’t be necessary, Sam,” Liz countered my subtle request for freedom.

  Liz stood and approached. She was so stunning in the black leather. There was a projected sinister beauty, suggesting an evil which could not be resisted.

  “Come. We’ll be served in the dining room.”

  She reached under my standing penis and palmed my scrotum. Fingers manipulated in arranging the testicles within and then thumb and index finger circled the base. She gently pulled and squeezed with just enough pressure to hasten my compliance in leaning forward to stand. It was obviously not the first time she had so led about a male. Her hand worked with just enough tension to send her message of authority and control without creating pain. But with resistance, such would come...quickly and applied with ease. Her mastery was well communicated.

  She turned and walked stretching her arm and closed hand behind. I of course followed. Into the dining room where she sat and I began to move toward a waiting chair.

  “No Sam, here. On the floor. Kneel like a good boy.”

  She tugged downward. I knelt. Jamie pranced from the kitchen and Liz released her grip.

  “Lobster bisque,” she gaily announced. “Jamie’s soups are superb.”

  Liz tore a small corner of bread from a roll and tossed it lightly. It arched upwards then descended to hit my chin, appearing just above the surface of the table, and tumbled to the floor.