Miss Elizabeth's Captive

by Chris Bellows

  “You’re going to be very hungry, Sam,” a smiling Liz observed. “Let’s try again. No soup until you develop the right attitude.”

  Another piece torn, another toss. This one I caught it my lips. After all, I was hungry.

  Jamie served Miss Elizabeth then and, for whatever reason, placed a bowl of steaming, fragrant bisque before me. Laced with sherry it smelled rich. The margaritas had peaked my appetite. Liz began to eat.

  “If Sam would like some soup, Sam had better be more attentive to Jamie’s housekeeping. There’s bread on the floor.”

  Liz was more than hinting at a certain hierarchy to be established. It was not Jamie’s task to clean up the carpet from my mishap.

  “He’s nice enough to clean your trousers, Sam.”

  Both Liz and Jamie just looked at me until I finally bent at the waist, parted my knees to steady myself and then without use of hands found the piece of bread with my lips. I ate it.

  My task completed, Jamie came to my side and stood uncomfortably close, brushing his nakedness against mine. For the first time I noticed his extensive makeup. I had either missed the eye shadow upon arrival, gazing instead at the supple buttocks and chastised penis, or Jamie had been preening himself while Liz narrated her story. My hostess noticed my examining look.

  “Jamie’s prettied himself for you Sam. I told you he likes you.”

  For some reason, Liz felt I should somehow express a degree of attraction or pay a compliment. I could not. Though cuffed and naked, kneeling in the presence of a fully clad woman…eating off the carpet, my flesh brushing against the hairless epidermis of a hermaphrodite... my machismo remained.

  Liz picked her spoon and began to consume the rich reddish brown soup, almost appearing to be a stew with the sizable chunks of lobster. Jamie picked my spoon in turn, dipped it in the bowl, then held it for me to purse my lips and gently blow to a acceptable temperature. Now his nails were not only manicured and polished but coated with a thick glossy blue. The shade matched his eyes which the eye shadow so alluring highlighted. Jamie had indeed been professionally trained. He could make himself up to look very sweet and in his complete nakedness, his perfectly white Scandinavian skin was like a blank canvass on which a skilled artist could paint a masterpiece. His nipples were rouged and after three spoonfuls of richness, I finally summoned the fortitude to glance at his privates. His cute empty scrotal sac, showing no signs of having been marauded and mined of its jewels, was also rouged to an attractive shade of pink, matching his nipples.

  Little Sam defied me. After Liz relinquished her grip, he calmed for a time. But Jamie’s presence made something click and in feeling the heat of Jamie’s proximity, he rose again. Jamie noticed and seemed to smile with an odd pride of craftsmanship at the reaction.

  Liz also noticed, smiled coyly and gratefully resumed her story.

  Chapter Eleven

  In the final week I denied Jamie any masturbatory relief and, unbeknownst to him, assured that the staff kept him well clamped with arms and wrists most taut. And then as the agony slowly built and his basic need for climactic relief accumulated, my instinct told me it was time. Jamie very much sought another kindness and I visited him in his dormitory cubical.

  Evening visits to the dormitory area can be very entertaining, Sam, particularly for a teenaged girl with flourishing Dominance. As stated the candidates lie on a board, more like leaning back in a standing position, with straps holding each in place at the waist and chest. The board can be swung at the middle to a completely upright position, or for rest, swung to almost horizontal. The design imbues marvelous control, for with the merest downward push of a hand, a boy lying prone can be instantly put on display, his entire nakedness turned upright to face a counselor or other scrutinizing woman.

  So the clinic masturbatrix, a rather stern matron with a most amazing hand, strolls into the dormitory and announces her presence.

  “Who needs to be stroked?” she typically calls out. She has a list of the boys to be pleasured, of course. No candidate exhibiting disobedience during the training day is ever stroked, I can assure you. But she so much enjoys, and I also found delight, in watching the reaction.

  Each boy knows that to receive her touch he must assume the required position. Thus, there is simultaneous movement of feet and legs, the boys knowing that the masturbatrix insists that the ‘ankles be behind the ears’, as the position is termed, before she’ll even begin to bring them to tumescence.

  Yes, Sam, each cubical had a cross bar near the candidate’s head. And if he did not bend at the waist, pull his knees to his chest and hook his feet under the bar, there was no relief to be earned.

  Can you imagine the sight? Dozens of naked buttocks with hairless genitals draped over puckered little rectums, all pining for the touch of a woman. And when satisfied that a boy is properly displaying himself, she begins. The gloved left hand applying lubricant to the anus, her uncovered right hand diddling the penis. It’s amazing to watch Sam. The woman was an expert, within a minute bringing each boy to full erection, fingering his little prostate and then just before ejaculation withdrawing to move to the next boy. She labored with the focus of an assembly line worker, lubricating, penetrating, stroking, sensing for the pending orgasm and then stepping to the next cubical. Rarely was a boy brought to full climax. Unbeknownst to the candidates, her real duty was to add to the frustration and the feeling of helplessness. She was adept at so doing.

  So I watched her ply her trade, recalling all the erections I had helped stimulate among the condemned at the Palace. Knowing that for some it was their last stand brought comfort. And that night so it would be for Jamie.

  After watching the masturbatrix frustrate some half dozen boys, I moved to Jamie’s cubical where though he dutifully had his ‘ankles behind his ears’ and his thighs nicely parted, I explained to him that there would be no relief on that night.

  “You’re not scheduled Jamie. But perhaps if we talk I can grant you one more kindness, if you agree to do something for me.”

  With words well scripted by the clinic’s psychologist, we talked. Poor Jamie was in such pain and I sat with the key, dangling before him the simple little piece of metal that could relieve his suffering.

  It was really such an easy task. By the time it was his turn, with the masturbatrix stroking away in the adjacent cubical, Jamie agreed to return my kindness. His balls. I told him I wanted his balls and thereafter there would be no more clamps or wrist restraints. And he nodded with such touching enthusiasm.

  And so I loosened the clamps, adjusted the neck and arm restraints and welcomed the masturbatrix.

  “Full climax for Jamie tonight. He’s going to become one of us.”

  And to watch a boy ejaculate, knowing that it’s his last, and knowing that it’s his last because of my mandate, brings a very heady sensation of power. Complete dominion over the male, the soon to be altered male. The masturbatrix instantly had him standing. And I asked her to extend the pleasure…my one last offer of kindness for Jamie as an intact male. The stern matron smiled, kept Jamie’s erect penis bent downward and had him writhing...this time in pure ecstasy, unending ecstasy if she chose to linger. The woman was incredibly talented.

  “Let me know when you want him finished,” she casually suggested as she stroked and stroked. And when I finally nodded, she moderated the angle of Jamie’s erect penis and he exploded...for the final time.

  It was not much. At that age little real sperm is in the semen. But it was a wonderfully ignominious end to a brief life as a virile male, helplessly restrained, masturbated at my whim, climaxing under my authority.

  That very evening I decided that it would be the right testicle first. After the masturbatrix completed her task, I worked the little egg back down into the bottom of the tiny sac and simply tied it off using a thin strand of wire, cutting off the circulation. For the next two days there was such psychological trauma with Jamie realizing he was slowly being altered. The gonad finally d
ied and then I tied off the other. By then Jamie had changed his mind, begging to be left intact.

  “A deal is a deal, Jamie. You had your moment of pleasure,” I reminded him. And then I tied off the left, not fully tightening. I wanted Jamie to be slowly castrated…to maximize the number of days of declining maleness. I wanted him thinking of the superior female and the ‘dainty’ hand that was so easily robbing him of any opportunity for normality...that the power nature imbues can so readily be modified...that strength is so sadly evanescent. I wanted him to wallow in his ebbing virility while I took mental control.

  Jamie was forlorn at first, moping about the basement clinic, many times at the end of my leash, as I smilingly walked him about while he was painlessly being castrated. Sometimes I wonder if the male is better off experiencing some overwhelmingly traumatic episode when undergoing alteration...one final agonizing moment. I read where the Romans castrated by crashing the testicles between two bricks. Simple, fast, cost efficient…and producing such a memorable and definitively painful event. One moment a feared male, esteemed by the female for his virility...the next a wimpish neutered beast, but useful to the fairer sex in such deviant but conveniently alternative ways.

  But as the testosterone levels dissipated, Jamie began to respond with increasing joy. As the shock faded, his grief was put aside and I teased his subservient nature by explaining how much better he could serve me without the burden of administering to his own pleasure. As promised there were no more clamps. But as a precaution, his neck and wrist restraints were worn at moderate settings until the final procedure.

  Days later, with the left testicle deprived of circulation, I assisted the doctor in removing the withered organs. Under local anesthesia, simple novocaine, we opened up Jamie’s little sac. He watched as I performed the ceremonial snipping and the tiny eggs were plopped into a waiting jar.

  ‘My new maid,’ I thought to myself. I was giddy with anticipation.

  Liz interrupted her story. The soup had been consumed and Jamie had to retrieve the next course.

  Chapter Twelve

  Jamie cleared the soup bowls and returned to the kitchen.

  “I think we can have you better dressed for dinner, Sam. Solitary wrist cuffs may be a tad informal,” she noted, smiling with her humorous understatement.

  Liz arose and stepped to the living room. The doors on the armoire creaked open, there was momentary rattling, another creak, an affirmative closing click.

  “A little something for your posture, Sam. You’re slumping a bit.”

  With her pronouncement, she approached and stood to my side. Very close to my side. I remembered that evening weeks before in my apartment where I so much enjoyed her proximity. She smelled wonderfully fresh then as she did last week and on this visit as well. I turned my head and tried to nestle my face into the soft leather of her thigh, planning to push my nose and lips to her pubes. She laughed and entwined the fingers of her left hand into my hair, first jostling and then working into the strands for a grip. In her right hand were various strips and lengths of leather. Attaining her grip, she pulled my head away and back, forcing my face to the ceiling.

  “I see you’re enjoying my story.”

  Little Sam, blocked from her view by the table top during the partaking of bisque, was semi erect, his arousal just beginning to dissipate from Jamie’s strangely stimulating presence.

  “Hold still, now.”

  A wide and thick leather strap was pushed against my Adam’s apple and held in place. The left hand slid from the top of my head to the back of my neck and I heard more rattling. The right hand joined the left and the leather tightened.

  “A nice wide neck collar for you.”

  Then I felt her working about my wrists, remaining connected together behind my back. She pulled upwards. Her fingers worked and then my wrists rose to a somewhat uncomfortable position. I grunted with a final tug. She smiled and I heard more clicks. A strap connected my wrists to the back of the neck collar. With an impressive thrust of force, Liz had my wrists secured well up between my shoulder blades.

  My posture was indeed transposed, though I could not say for the better. There was discomfort unless I forced back my shoulders and held my head unusually high.

  I heard Jamie exit the kitchen with a tray of food as Liz circled my ankles with cuffs that felt like those matching my wrists. Because of the restraints I could not turn my head to adequately determine what he carried. It smelled delicious.

  As my eyes struggled to follow the naked male ingenue, distracting diamonds sparkling at the ears, nipples and jewel encrusted golden balls, Liz pulled together my ankles. A strap evidently had connected the two and when she pulled my feet involuntarily slid across the carpet and met. Then there was again the sound of rattling as a buckle was threaded and the strap secured.

  “There, that’s more appropriate for a fine dinner.”

  Liz sat and Jamie patiently stood at attention. A thick slice of prime rib of beef, roasted to pink perfection, fell onto one plate and then the other as an incredibly sharp knife made Liz’s carving effortless. The cuts made me think about Jamie’s little sac being opened years before...with his coerced consent...as a gesture of goodwill in acknowledging the simple kindness of having a Dominant woman loosen a painful clamp and in return for one last ejaculatory spree.

  “I timed Jamie’s alteration perfectly, wouldn’t you agree. Sam? He’s so wonderfully undeveloped, in the physical sense. Very little body hair to have depilated. No bulging muscles. Without the hormone flow his physique has wallowed in time, forever projecting the innocence of youth.

  “To finish the Stockholm story...more training followed the procedure and within a week, after I obtained for Jamie citizenship papers and a passport from my home country, we started off for Brown. Interesting to think that technically Jamie became and remains a citizen of a country to which he’s never been. But it keeps things very simple for me. I can have him deported at any time. And you can imagine to what employ Jamie would be put back home, a neutered blond infidel in an autocratic Islamic country. Hmm. I wondered what role he would serve...”

  Liz laughed and cut into her beef. Jamie cut into mine. I was again to be fed like a child. Only now, with ankles so precipitously close together and chin forced high, keeping my balance was a challenge.

  “Help Sam, now Jamie. You know how much I like tight bondage, I wouldn’t want to have to loosen something because he can’t balance himself.”

  This spurred Jamie to stand inordinately close, ensuring that I did not topple, by leaning his nakedness against mine and reaching to the plate for each morsel. His skin was so perfectly smooth and soft...and so warm. Little Sam seemed conversely happy with his presence but disappointed in being left to merely stand in tribute.

  We ate in silence.

  During the meal, Liz drank a very expensive Bordeaux and I was offered an occasional sip of water. Dessert was an apple pie with a topping of crumbled cinnamon seeming to be dripping with butter. It smelled very enticing but I was not offered a slice. Instead, Liz’s delicate fingers pinched some topping that had spilled to the table, rolled it into a small ball and tossed it into the air as she had with the bread.

  Fortunately she was very accurate, for I merely opened and caught it with my tongue without having to move, which I could not. Moments later, as Jamie cleared the table, a larger gathering of the buttery cinnamon was pinched from the uneaten remainder of her slice and likewise tossed. I was prepared in watching her fingers and more fully understanding her intentions. I snapped it from the air like a trained dog. It was delicious.

  “Good boy! Let’s take Sam into your examination room, Jamie. After last week’s visit I am sure he’s expecting more than just dinner.”

  Liz used her smooth sultry voice in hinting at the prandial activities in the ‘examination’ room. Jamie cleared the dishes and momentarily returned to the kitchen.

  Liz stooped, removed the strap connecting my ankle cuffs and l
eft Jamie and me alone. When Jamie returned from a final trip to the kitchen, smiling like a little girl, his manicured hand wrapped about my scrotum just as Liz’s had in walking me from the living room. But his grasp was tenderer, more reverential, and seemingly more inquisitive. When I thought about it later, I realized that he was touching something which he had long ago sacrificed to Liz’s whim.

  Jamie had me stand and walk to follow him, hand remaining in place. Little Sam appreciated the view of his jouncing buttocks as he pranced on toes, balls clicking.

  His grip around my testicles moved about. His effeminate fingers, nails polished in blue, communicated envy...yet also transmitted a curious message.

  ‘You may still have yours, but look who’s controlling them.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was late Wednesday when the messenger plopped a thick envelope on my desk. When I noticed that the return address was Liz’s Fifth Avenue penthouse, I knew to close the door to my office. Investment bankers are known to engage in very confidential and secretive undertakings and this action would not draw attention. What would draw attention would be any hint of the past weekend frolicking at Liz’s apartment. Since I was not sure what was enclosed in the padded manila, caution seemed to dictate it be opened in seclusion.

  A quivering hand slit the top with my souvenir opener. I drew out a note from Liz, along with a videotape.

  ‘Jamie would like to see you on Saturday. Plan to stay for the duration until Monday morning. No need to pack anything. Call for details after you’ve enjoyed the tape.’

  Liz signed the note in her precise Middle Eastern hand. Her signature was not fancy... the three letters plainly written to communicate purpose, not style or fashion or frivolous intent. And the purpose was for the reader to understand precisely who wrote the note.

  I pressed the intercom and commanded of my administrative assistant complete isolation. Liz probably did not realize that I had a television and VCR in my office. At times, breaking news and events were key to the business and deals were occasionally presented by way of videotape. Thus I am sure, in delivering the tape to my office, she intended for me to quake in anticipation until I arrived home to view it. And if that was her intent, she was partially successful. My hand trembled as I slipped the cassette into the machine.