Miss Elizabeth's Captive

by Chris Bellows

  Chapter Thirty Three

  I became Jamie’s defacto assistant. I learned to clean first. Miss Elizabeth was quite demanding about keeping the penthouse spotless. And obviously in having the feminized Jamie running about, me, naked with my unruly and comical pencil-point penis firming constantly and requiring permission to use the bathroom and move from room to room, plus the examination room with its bizarre hospital-like accouterments, all served to obviate the engagement of outside domestic help or a cleaning service. So, for a large living, dining room, kitchen, examination room and some half dozen bedrooms, each with its own bath, Jamie and I were designated as the cleaning staff. And with Jamie in charge, it really became just me.

  I was also learning kitchen and serving skills, and after a week was permitted to serve breakfast, deemed to be the easiest meal.

  Meanwhile, Nurse Stenson arrived every Tuesday. She began with Jamie and ended with me. She performed an examination which included the most humiliating procedures, particularly in demanding that I masturbate for her, or attempt to do so, and insisting that I describe in very detailed fashion what and how I felt. She found the slowly mounting frustration to be amusing, smiling as my hand would finally give up in a combination of tiredness and boredom. In stroking myself, little penile sensation was felt and something stirred deep within my loins but never resulted in a discharge of semen. I could not ejaculate, as Dr. Wilson had so mindfully explained.

  A blood sample was taken to test my hormone levels and of course the obligatory testosterone injection ended every session.

  On the third such examination, Nurse Stenson announced that my testicle rings had been finished. She held up implements of stainless steel shaped somewhat like the figure ‘8' only one loop was more than twice the size of that adjacent to it.

  “Precision-made to your measurements, Sam. And they match you neck collar. Relax for me.”

  Nurse Stenson jostled my scrotal sac as her fingers sought to isolate my right testicle. Then she pushed and prodded firmly as the larger of the loops was slipped over the gonad. Next a frighteningly large set of pliers was retrieved, looking more like bolt cutters. I cringed as she placed the ring in the teeth. I was reminded of watching an animal show on television where bulls were being castrated using something termed a burdizzo...really nothing more than a similarly large set of pliers used to permanently crush the nerves, ducts and vessels sustaining the testicles.

  “Hold still,” she forewarned.

  Using both hands, she slowly closed the teeth. I was frightened, and she stopped momentarily.

  “Just enough to crimp the loop. See, it won’t slip off.”

  The left testicle was also ringed and crimped and I found her to be most correct. Though oddly comfortable, there was no way the rings, bent to a more oblong shape, could be slipped off my scrotum.

  Nurse Stenson found a cord and threaded it through the two small open loops on each figure eight ring.

  “Keep your hands on your head now,” she politely demanded.

  As with every examination, my hands never wavered from remaining so submissively placed unless instructed to move them for such procedures as the futile attempt at masturbation.

  “Come.”

  With the command came a tug on the cord. I followed my ringed balls as Nurse Stenson playfully pulled me about the room, testing to ensure that the circles of steel had been properly reshaped and could not be lid off. The level of tension applied on the cord while the rings steadfastly remained in place was impressive. And I realized that the high carbon steel would be very difficult to cut.

  Meanwhile, Little Sam rose to indicate his enthusiasm for the controlling feminine hand. And with that, Nurse Stenson also reminded me.

  “You may wish to visit your special room. Ms. Hobson will put your new rings to good use.”

  Chapter Thirty Four

  Miss Elizabeth is out. Jamie has been playing with my balls, admiring as artifacts what were long ago taken from her. The fact that mine are now ringed, so much more easily controlled, seems to enthrall her. As with Nurse Stenson, she takes delight in stroking me to full tumescence, attaching a cord to my rings and leading me about the apartment like a dog on a leash.

  Little Sam now appears so harmless when standing. The tip comes to such an insignificant point that Jamie has lost her fear of that which weeks before forcefully sodomized her anal passage. And Little Sam is shorter of course, the degloving removing the round and wondrously filled tip of nerves, ganglia and dendrites.

  Around and around, Jamie, cutely dressed in tight blouse and short skirt, leads me about the large abode, naked and erect. Finally the game ends with Jamie needing to prepare dinner. I have spent the day cleaning and find myself with idle time. So I stroll about the penthouse like a lazy cat, cognizant that my neck collar bars my entrance to many doors.

  For the first time I push open the door to the special room where weeks before carpenters had labored for most of two days. As suggested, it is the only door which yields to me and I step in and hold the door open to ensure that I can later exit. The hallway lighting partially illuminates the chamber, Gothic paneling in dark walnut. It is eerily dim and my hand finds a wall switch.

  Spotlights beam and as my eyes scan the former bedroom. The carpenter’s endeavors are firstly evidenced by the lack of windows. As with the examination room, all have been paneled over. There is a paucity of furniture, matching dark wood cabinets lining the left wall, and a large throne-like chair is placed before the second evidence of wood craftsmanship. It is a platform, solid, formidable, and familiar. It is a replica of that shown in the photographs from the Palace, those adorning the living room wall. Mounted upon it are two sturdy posts… parallel, heavy wood, some six feet high, four to five feet apart. Iron rings hang from bolts penetrating the posts at variously points. The appearance of the oppressive ironware makes me shudder. Anything or anyone attached would not likely ever attain liberation. The carpenters obviously labored for hours to ensure that the most robust captive would remain restrained.

  On the right wall is presented a collection of pegs nicely complementing the posts and platform with each supporting an item of restraint... chains... cuffs... collars... spreader bars... ironware for every conceivable part of the human body. All are old, forged on a blacksmith’s anvil, and the time, devotion and care taken to craft such precision implements in a era of rudimentary tools is ironic. So much meticulousness to assure the that the captive is meticulously captured.

  On the far wall, obviously presented where the captive can view the assortment, is a collection of instruments for the excoriation of human flesh. Strips of leather in every length and width... whips, crops, quirts, tawses. A converted umbrella stand provides a tribute to Victorian discipline by holding an assemblage of birches. An entire wall section is devoted to presenting canes... rattan strips in every size and shape. The sight makes me tremble, when I think of the time and expenditure required to transform and ‘decorate’ the room, and particularly with the realization that it has been referred to as my special room.

  And the spotlights are positioned to illuminate the small stage-like platform, highlighting the room’s function and leaving no doubt as to the purpose of all the wall coverings.

  Again, Ms. Hobson’s words resonate along with Nurse Stenson’s sonorously uttered suggestion, that I will at some point request a visit in my special room.

  “I’ve had the collection in storage for many years. Family heirlooms, really.”

  I snap my head to greet my benefactress, owner of all I have. She has returned, doffed her footwear and decided to quietly check on my wanderings while sipping a glass of wine. I fall to my knees and kiss her feet as she nears. I beg her forgiveness.

  “It’s okay, Sam. If I had not wanted you in the room, I would have arranged the locking mechanism just as with the other latches. But you’re wise to hold open the door. Once you enter, it will lock from the inside.”

  She smiles. “I see you’re e
njoying yourself.” The beautiful brown eyes glance downward. Little Sam is stiff. Unbeknownst to me, the room’s suggestive furnishings have caused arousal. That and an abundance of testosterone.

  “Most of the iron shackles are from the Palace. Metallurgy now being greatly advanced there are more suitable restraint devices currently utilized. Better locks and what not. But the black wrought iron has such wonderful connotations, does it not? A certain finality... a wickedness... a blunt craftsmanship that sends a message.”

  She pauses to sip.

  “The cabinets are filled with a variety of behavior modification devices. Some designed to obtain confessions. Others to alter and transform a male’s... well let’s use the term ‘outlook’. Well before I observed the surgical castrations, there were more rudimentary methods used.”

  My flesh becomes anserine in listening to the calm and cool tone which Miss Elizabeth uses to describe such fateful and final events.

  “Time for dinner. If you don’t remember Ms. Hobson’s phone number, it’s on the reminder pad in the kitchen. You’re going to want to visit with her here. Despite your past impressions, you will find her to be very understanding.”

  So kind of Miss Elizabeth to facilitate matters.

  Chapter Thirty Five

  Night after night of listening and watching Miss Elizabeth being serviced by the lovely Jamie. I lay on the shag rug put Little Sam in a constant state of priapism. Jamie took to chaining me utilizing the testicle rings, which seemed to add a new aspect to his delight in controlling me, particularly when the selected chain was annoyingly short. .

  And then last night I was summoned to the boudoir early and for the first time chained in Miss Elizabeth’s huge bathroom, really a spa. There I had to watch while a naked Jamie pampered an equally naked Miss Elizabeth under the bright lights where Miss Elizabeth normally primped and applied make up. There was no amount of stroking to satisfy Little Sam for the evening. Jamie gently massaged Miss Elizabeth’s fine form, smoothing his tiny soft and warm hands everywhere upon which an intact male fantasizes. And as Miss Elizabeth lay with eyes closed, the minx took the time to assure I did not miss the special attention paid to all areas pink... reveling in the relative freedom permitted the altered male. His fingers frolicked where even husbands do not dare explore.

  Watching the two contrastingly beautiful forms bathe together in a Jacuzzi tub designed for four or more put my hormones in an uproar, particularly when Miss Elizabeth graciously freed Jamie’s penis and the two giggled like school girls as both worked to coax the neutered organ to stand, Jamie tugging on the Prince’s Wand while Miss Elizabeth wormed a soapy finger into his anus.

  And it did partially stiffen, with Miss Elizabeth laughing so haughtily, knowing that any attempt at complete erection was made futile many years before by her slow and judicious twists of thin constraining wires.

  “Can you spurt for me Jamie? Why not show Elizabeth what a virile little man you are? Or perhaps you’d prefer a soapy bubble bath followed by some fragrant body powder and the feel of a nice set of silk panties.”

  Miss Elizabeth laughed with her debasing observations, knowing full well that the blonde hermaphrodite would indeed enjoy parading about in scanty silk panties. And Jamie just smiled, seeming to feel on his depilated flesh the fine smoothness of frilly undergarments as such gently caressed skin made exquisitely receptive to touch by the deluge of feminine hormones.

  Afterwards, in the bedroom, their love making was particularly heated with Miss Elizabeth’s husky cries of passion coming sporadically over many hours and throughout the night.

  In lying and listening on my rug, I don’t think Little Sam ever returned to flaccidity. And once again, in a late night trip to the bathroom, Miss Elizabeth offered a morsel of what Jamie feasted upon, standing before me in her nakedness and slowly coating my nose and lips with the evidence of her arousal. She laughed as I thrust with my pierced and stretched tongue in hungrily seeking more.

  The next morning I asked permission to use the phone to call Ms. Hobson. As I dialed, my hand shook in thinking of what I was about to say to the woman who had ended my career... had so gleefully gazed at my hooded and restrained nakedness... had found such amusement in exploring and examining my offered genitals... had delightfully observed the alteration of my penis.

  “Hello, Sam,” the authoritative voice began, her secretary having screened my call. “How’s the recuperation? Completely healed?”

  Her annoying questions were followed by the familiar throaty laugh. I am sure office protocol restrained more direct and gruff references, such as... how much of your penis did she leave, or have you completely wanked away the stub yet?

  I ignored her taunts.

  “Thank you for asking, Ms. Hobson. Both Nurse Stenson and Miss Elizabeth have suggested that you can assist me. And you also stated you could help.”

  “Yes, Sam. My late husband had a problem after a comparable modification. I would like to think my efforts to help as being more than palliative. He was not as fortunate as you in having Elizabeth as guardian. For him I decided on a complete removal,” her voice trailing off in a snort.

  Obviously coded words for a complete penectomy, my hand tightened on the receiver in listening to the aloof discussion of an event which a male would only describe as a travesty.

  As always, Ms. Hobson cut to the chase and abruptly curtailed the conversation.

  “I will stop in tonight, Sam. Be in your special room at 7:00 p.m. Door closed. I suggest that you not eat. Your stomach best remains empty for these occasions.”

  Chapter Thirty Six

  I continue to humbly sit, wondering the time. As directed, I begged to be excused from assisting Jamie in serving dinner and quietly retreated to my special room. When the door closed behind me, there was no changing my mind, no going back. It clicked and locked.

  I did not have the temerity to explore. Miss Elizabeth told me what was in the cabinets. In finding the fortitude to call Ms. Hobson, I had apparently expended what little courage I could summon. Miss Elizabeth had described the contents as ‘behavior modification devices’. In viewing the stark horror of the implements hanging on the wall, so evil yet displayed with such presumption, my timidity precluded me from viewing what was chosen to be furtively tucked away.

  I look up to see a camera high on the wall facing the platform. Unlike the examination room, it is in plain sight, no subterfuge about viewing and recording the events in this room.

  Finally Ms. Hobson enters. In coming directly from the office, she wears the drab and frumpy business attire now known to me as a disguise. Her hair is pulled straight back in an unattractive bun, complementing her ensemble. No one accompanies her. It is apparent she has a card key similar to that carried by Jamie and Miss Elizabeth.

  “Good evening, Sam. I see I am expected,” she greets with a tinge of sarcasm, peering at my manhood.

  Yes, Little Sam stands in wait. Apparently in viewing the room’s accouterments and swimming in a sea of testosterone, he has chosen to greet Ms. Hobson in a state of tumescence. In being surgically desensitized, sometimes I do not notice or feel his wanderings.

  When not laboring at a task or under other instruction, I kneel as Jamie and Miss Elizabeth have taught me. Thus the woman of so many nightmares appears even larger standing over me in heels and full length baggy overcoat. She pats my head. This is a new Grace Hobson. She appears to have such compassion for the vanquished.

  “Why not step up on the platform, Sam? Between the posts. Don’t be shy. You’re the center of attention in this room. It’s for you.”

  I obey. The platform, reminding me of a small stage under the spotlights, is some eighteen inches above the floor.

  “Hands on head. Give me good posture, now.”

  She speaks crisply but politely as if to a potentially unruly child, verbally establishing control before mischievous hands stray. I do indeed have a desire to stroke Little Sam. But I part my feet, place my hands accordingly
and push my shoulders back at attention.

  “Good boy,” Ms. Hobson graciously offers, extending a hand to palm my testicles.

  Little Sam waggles with her touch, bringing laughter.

  The height of the platform places my genitals at shoulder level. She smiles in viewing more closely Little Sam’s shortened and pointed tip. The wry look suggests that she knows all to well of the relative numbness compared to the thrilling sensitivity before Dr. Wilson’s altering procedure.

  The huge form turns away and strolls to a tall cabinet. She produces a key, unlocks and swings open the double doors. She speaks as she removes her long coat.

  “You know, Sam, amputees experience an interesting phenomenon where they claim to feel sensations from limbs surgically removed. You’ll probably undergo the same. Though your penis has little feeling, you will desire to stroke it or pine to thrust it into the warm and moist confines of the female sheath. You will experience limited satiation, if any. But you’ll get used to it over time. And when the need builds, there’s always sessions here which will serve to alleviate an urge.”

  She hangs her coat while speaking. Beneath is more drab and baggy attire.., a dress which could serve as a tent. She moves to the right wall laden with cuffs and shackles. I gulp in realizing that I have placed myself at the mercy of the heartless woman who sent Samuel L. Winthrop, III for coffee, had revoked every one of my licenses and terminated my employment with such enjoyment.

  There is a pause while she selects a collection of simple chains and returns to me. She bends and pulls from under the platform a small step stool, so low that its utility is questionable. She places it near my feet.