Miss Elizabeth's Captive

by Chris Bellows

  Before another word could be uttered, a very stern and dour woman of some 35 years entered. She was accompanied by and talking to Ms. Grace Hobson in a very friendly manner. Their discussion ended before coming into earshot and Ms. Hobson stared at me with the smugness of an overconfident athlete who had just hit the winning home run, caught the winning touchdown pass, sunk the winning putt.

  I was shocked to see Ms. Hobson sit. I thought the conference was regarding personal matters, but the thought was lost when the dour woman began speaking. It was evident that she was the attorney, Suzanne Regal. Her manner was annoyingly brash and her speech well rehearsed.

  “I am Suzanne Regal, Mr. Winthrop. I believe you know everyone else here. I have asked Grace Hobson to participate on behalf of MacDonald, Bear as it is possible some of your alleged actions may have affected the employer/employee relationship. It is not our intention at this time to seek restitution from MacDonald Bear, but circumstance may come to light that suggest a degree of the firm’s involvement. There are numerous security licenses at stake here, and a blue chip reputation...”

  And obviously it was not mine, I thought.

  As the primly dressed woman spoke she began emptying a thick briefcase, piling folders and documents on the table. When a video tape appeared, I gulped.

  “This is a very complicated matter which we would like to settle. There are alleged civil torts, possible administrative violations, alleged criminal activity. The downside for a losing defendant can be considerable in this matter, Mr. Winthrop. Failure to successfully defend in all three of those forums could be devastating for someone in the securities business. Just losing a large civil damage suit could force personal bankruptcy, and I don’t have to elaborate on the prospects of a person’s employability in the securities industry who has sought the protection of the bankruptcy courts.”

  She paused. Yes, I was very much aware that there was an industry wide employment policy of abstaining from engaging the services of anyone who had declared personal bankruptcy within five years.

  “So, let’s begin.”

  A small tape recorder appeared.

  “Hope you don’t mind, Mr. Winthrop.”

  I nodded. I was not in a position to dictate any terms or conditions. And besides, I intended to merely listen.

  She pressed a button and dictated the time, date and persons in attendance. Then the verbal onslaught began.

  “Let’s begin with this folder, Mr. Winthrop. For now we’ll term it ‘exhibit A’. This copy is yours, to be read at your leisure.”

  She slid a folder across the table. In opening it, a very formal legal document appeared.

  “It’s the affidavit of Ms. Jamie Lindsey, minor, transcribed as required by law in the presence of her guardian Ms. Elizabeth Mouquoud.”

  Minor! I sat up in shock. I had not intended to speak but could not remain silent.

  “She’s a ‘he’ and not a minor,” I protested vehemently.

  Suzanne Regal interrupted her obviously staged presentation. But the interruption itself seemed rehearsed.

  “Why, Mr. Winthrop, we have no intention of attempting to disguise Jamie’s gender identification problem...something with which the poor dear has had to deal since a tragic accident caused physical injury and caused the masking of certain characteristics of masculinity. Such will be stipulated. But let me suggest that if it’s your intent to highlight the matter, drawing attention from your actions and the facts at hand, I think you will find that the courts will equate that to putting on trial the victim of a rape, which as you may have read has rightfully been restricted. Any allusions to Jamie’s accident and his resulting condition will be quashed. You would be well served to consult with your own counsel on that matter.”

  “He was trimmed by his alleged guardian,” I blurted under my breath.

  A calm hand slid two folders toward me.

  “Just for your edification, Mr. Winthrop. I won’t consider these as exhibits since they’ll never come to light in a trial. It’s young Jamie’s birth certificate, certifying that he’s age 15. The other is the hospital report which will detail the circumstances mandating his alteration.

  “And just look, Mr. Winthrop. What reasonable person would debate his age?” Suzanne gestured toward Jamie.

  I did look. A smiling, pigtailed Jamie did not appear to be 15. He appeared to be 11 or 12.

  I glanced at the documents. A birth certificate from Liz’s Middle Eastern country for a boy with blond hair and blue eyes. There was an odor to it. And the hospital report was geographically similarly derived. With Liz’s family running the country, one could probably obtain a document certifying he was born on the planet Mars and sustained injuries when his flying saucer crashed.

  “But let’s get to the crux of the matter.” Ms. Regal held up the videotape. “I’ll term this exhibit B.”

  “I’m afraid it will show that I was restrained during any sexual encounter. And despite the fact pattern that you’re building here counselor, one is unlikely to commit sexual assault while restrained in cuffs.”

  I spoke with brazen machismo. The tape was embarrassing, the ingenue Jamie standing to my side and stroking away at Little Sam. It was indeed a career ender. On that I had already consigned myself. But it was not criminal. Kneeling naked, in a very restrictive neck collar, half hanging from a pulley, it could not possibly be argued that I forced myself on Jamie.

  “Really, Mr. Winthrop. Is that what your defense will be?”

  Suzanne Regal, attorney at law, calmly strolled to a credenza. She plopped the videotape into a very expensive VCR, turned, smiled irritatingly and paused.

  “Jamie, can you watch or will you be too upset?”

  My ingenue friend put on a lugubrious face and leaned to hug Liz. What an act!

  “She’ll be okay,” Liz answered on Jamie’s behalf.

  A firm finger pressed the start button, The high tech room automatically darkened and a curtain parted to reveal the huge high definition screen installed at the cost of thousands. The conference room was transformed to a small theater with the simple press of the start button.

  “I’ve taken the liberty of forwarding to the pertinent segment. Obviously the tape will be available in its entirety. You can take this copy when you leave, Mr. Winthrop.

  “And, by the way, did you know that video cameras can be rigged to begin recording whenever motion is detected. Clever, the technology they now have.”

  As expected the tape was from the hidden camera in Liz’s examination room. But what was unexpected was that the scene was not me being suspended from the neck and slowly masturbated. No, it was from last Wednesday’s visit, where in my building frustration I had slipped out of the wrist cuff while Jamie retrieved a margarita. The high definition caught every lurid detail and I was forced to silently watch in terror.

  My mind replayed the events as they simultaneously unfolded on the huge plasma screen.

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Little Sam was free. Jamie looked so alluring and, at five foot three and some 120 pounds, deliciously vulnerable. I knew the little cocktease liked me, having at the door experienced the wonders of a trained and exceptionally supple tongue swathing over my scrotum.

  Now it was my turn.

  I stood with my hands clasped behind my back not alerting the bare footed blonde of my escape. She placed the margarita laden tray on a low cabinet, took the goblet in both hands and approached as if offering a humble sacrifice to an enraged pagan god. And Little Sam so nicely fit the role, standing in full tumescence, purple with virility.

  Yes, Jamie, you should be approaching with reverence. It’s as close to an erection as you will ever get, I thought so callously.

  But as much envy as Jamie exuded, I too was envious. He serviced Elizabeth, nightly basking in her rich bronzed flesh, his tongue and lips feasting in her feminine essence. And now I stood about to pounce on that which so arduously ministered to the exquisite Liz.

  Jamie held th
e margarita to my lips...chilled and well salted. I sipped and used the proximity of his body to thrust Little Sam into his abdomen. The softness of the cashmere sweater felt magnificent and I closed my eyes and sipped again.

  I paused. I demurred but only for a moment. My homophobia had evaporated. I brought my arms around the narrow shoulders. Jamie looked up in surprise. But it was not a shocked surprise, it was an expression of pleasant surprise.

  As the scene unfolded on the video, that recollection did not come to the screen. Jamie’s head was turned from the camera. No viewer would ever know the alluring look of enjoyment in knowing that I had broken the rules and Jamie would be an unwitting beneficiary.

  Her smile finally turned to soft words as my hands smoothed down her torso to the narrow girlish hips.

  “You should not be free, Mr. Sam.”

  Innocuous words, certainly not suggesting that Jamie was covertly complicit in any escape and subsequent dalliance. And unfortunately, the soft giggle, seeming to wheedle further action on my part, was not heard on the tape.

  “No more drink, Jamie. Later.”

  I released her hips. Jamie knew to return my margarita to the tray. When she returned I grasped the bottom of her white cashmere sweater and gruffly pulled it over her head in one tug. I laughed with noted perversity as the puffy pink and pierced nipples appeared. And as the screen showed me stooping to suck the left areola into my mouth and tenderly toy with the right, I envisioned the reaction of a jury to having what appeared to be a young girl forced to endure the powerfully compelling maneuvers of a virile and obviously aroused grown man.

  “You’re nicely sized, Mr. Winthrop,” attorney Suzanne mockingly chimed in pressing the pause button.

  The frame stopped with Little Sam standing centered on the huge screen.

  “But let me explain some things I learned while a prosecutor. That phallus of yours won’t be so proudly displayed at the clinic where they test sex offenders. No, Mr. Winthrop, you’ll find yourself strapped to a chair with an inflatable penis cuff firmly wrapped around your manhood while a charming young and pretty psychiatric nurse flashes slides of graphic sexual interplay. And your response will be measured. Yes, your sexual profile will be sliced and diced and documented for all the world.

  “And the bad news, Mr. Winthrop, will be that if you happen to endure the battery of tests and there is in fact a tinge of normality found, then you’ll still be sharing a cell with a guy named ‘Bubba’. And I’m sure he’ll have more time to consider your defense than any jury. Bubba will love learning of your amorous escapades with children.

  “Look across from you. The notion of ‘I thought she was over eighteen, your honor’ isn’t going to play.”

  A finger hit the pause button again and the tape resumed. I did indeed look across the table. Liz sat expressionless. But little Jamie was playing into the role...pouting.

  ‘Mommy, must I watch the horrible man again,’ her saddened face communicated to the naive.

  An act of course, but for whom?

  And then I realized, it was not only a rehearsal, there was a message being sent.. ‘there is a perceived threat to survival and the belief that a captor will act on that threat’. A haunting element of the Stockholm Syndrome.

  And the message was received. Jamie was prepared to take the act on the road, so to speak, and play her role before whomever required her testimony. And her portrayal of the role of brutally assaulted, innocent girl could only improve over time. Look how young she appeared with only three days of preparation!

  And what was I to do, subpoena the withered testicles which Liz had so callously snipped and had tucked away in a drawer?

  My eyes returned to the screen. I had no choice but to watch as my image leaned down and whisked the short skirt to the floor, exposing to the camera Jamie’s little girl buttocks. So fine, so smooth, so rounded. I was happy not to be wearing the inflatable penis cuff in the conference room. Little Sam, betraying me again, reacted to the scene in the exact opposite manner of what I needed. He began to engorge.

  On that late Wednesday afternoon, depicted on the tape was just me and Jamie, no imposing Liz, no constraining chastity device, no wrist cuffs.

  Yes, I, Samuel L. Winthrop, III, master investment banker, ivy league educated, masculine college athlete, made love to the altered ingenue. And before a camera, a video recording device cleverly equipped to begin filming with the slightest movement and capturing the must lascivious and licentious events in the examination room.

  How many tapes did Liz have of Jamie being stripped, humiliated, and milked of his remaining impotent male essence, his system being deluged with female hormones?

  And now she had the most precious recording of all.

  Yes, dear reader, macho Samuel L. Winthrop sodomized the effeminate castrate Jamie before a camera. And as I was being forced to watch, Little Sam celebrated his triumph once again.

  The screen showed that I fell to my knees and licked the little stub of Jamie’s locked penis. My hands gripped his buttocks. My hot tongue forced a sigh from the pleasured hermaphrodite. And then as I had diligently learned over the weeks, I knew to tenderly begin to stroke his sensitive empty scrotal sac and perineum.

  Little Sam was raging. My hands reached for the ever present jar of lubricant. Jamie smiled as my fingers applied the slippery unguent to his rectum. But he still remained facing away from the camera. His reaction of pleasure went unrecorded. But I felt his little penis stiffen in my mouth.

  Little Sam took over at that point, forcing me to pick up the lithe naked form, turn him facing the mirror and bend him over the stainless steel examination table, tummy down. Jamie voluntarily spread his legs and opened himself to me. The camera of course did not capture that. What it did capture was the feigned look of duress as the tip of Little Sam tenderly rubbed within the oiled cleft of the girlish cheeks.

  Jamie’s face, unseen by me, said ‘No’, but his inviting backside said otherwise. Little Sam plunged. Jamie was both tight yet receptive, and knowing Liz, the puckered anus was deliberately kept tactile just for moments such as on Wednesday, when a virile male could pleasure himself with Jamie’s tight but yielding rear aperture.

  And pleasure myself I did. Jamie’s sphincter yielded but seemed to tease. The camera could not distinguish the subtle welcoming contractions, placing Little Sam in nirvana, from what could be interpreted as attempts to resist.

  There was no resistance. When Little Sam pressured the prostate I felt Jamie’s muscles tremble in delight. Not only did his gluteal muscles have entrapped the object of his envy, but his little gland was being so nicely massaged and caressed.

  Yet, for the camera, Jamie’s facial expressions suggested otherwise. For the camera, Jamie communicated the pain of unwanted anal penetration. For the camera, his face had the look of horror, of disgust and fear...

  Little Sam stroked away with impunity, greedily making up for eight weeks of chastity and frustration. I plumbed Jamie’s amazingly welcoming backside with abandon. And I know he thrilled in every moment.

  After many minutes, I grabbed Jamie’s blond locks and pulled back, forcing the angle of my penetration to thrust directly against his prostate. Then I exploded and had Jamie been intact he too would have climaxed. Instead he looked, as Liz had suggested, in his partial state of ecstasy like someone who was about to sneeze but could not.

  Jamie could not pull the trigger...and never would.

  He could come back for more, yet I was spent, exploding as stated, deeply, forcefully unloading everything I had deep into Jamie’s colon.

  The finger hit the stop button of the VCR but my recollections kept going.

  In my satiation, I retrieved my margarita and stood at Jamie’s head, blocking the camera. My blond lover gratefully licked Little Sam clean of all juices, and did so with a smile, as I leisurely finished my drink.

  Jamie’s look of gratitude was not on tape. He reacted like a frustrated teenaged girl, strangely appreciative th
at her state of virginity had finally passed. But the camera lens was blocked. There was no visual evidence of Jamie’s gratification.

  Knowing that I had broken the rules, that my career was over, that my hostess would soon return home and I had little explanation to offer other then suggesting I had encountered a moment of self destruction and could not fight the urges, I left.

  On the way home, I was already mentally assembling my resume. I knew it was over. What I did not know was that in my surrender to temptation the recording capability of the examination room added the potential for criminal charges.

  The voice of Suzanne Regal, attorney-at-law, brought me from the reverie of debauchery.

  “I’m going to step out while settlement discussions commence. I’m sure there are points to be made that are not well fostered by my presence. But keep in mind, Mr. Winthrop, the impressive technology of digital imagery.”

  She turned off the tape recorder. One last folder was slid across the table as she said, “Thousands of still shots can be extracted from high definition videotape without diminishing one iota of quality, Mr. Winthrop. Imagine a court room where the prosecutor lines the walls with the likes of that.”

  She pointed to the folder as I picked it up and scanned its contents. Within was a mounted close up photo of my face and Jamie’s pubes. It filled the 8 by 11 inch piece of cardboard. My tongue was extended and about to lick the pusillanimous tip of Jamie’s penis.

  Suzanne Regal, attorney at law, smiled for only the second time, and stepped out of the room. All heads followed as the guard could be seen directing her to the ladies room.

  I was cooked. The phrase ‘there is the perceived inability to escape’ invaded my panicking brain. But the kindnesses also associated with the Stockholm Syndrome could not be forgotten. On that Wednesday afternoon, now so much subject to scrutiny, Jamie’s supple rectum drained Little Sam like a milking machine working a cow’s udder. His passion for that which he himself could not enjoy was gratefully felt, but of course such reaction was not seen on tape.