“Of course, Caroline,” Melinda responded to the council woman’s pleas. “Mark is an annoying dolt and I think he has the right attitude that we want in at least some of our permanent show cast. Three of my people will pick him up after he leaves the office Friday evening and you won’t be seeing him again until you visit the line-up at the club. I assume you want to participate in some of his preliminary training?”
“Oh,” said Caroline, visualizing her wandering, but charming hubby with his head tucked between her thighs and her with a riding crop flogging his ass. “Yes. Sure. I’ll look forward to it.”
“It's not going to be what you think, Honey,” Melinda said, flipping through the photos of Mark Fisher happily banging away in a local hotel’s Congressional Suite. “I don’t baby them. He won’t come back to you, ever, and his life, body and mind will be irreparably altered. You okay with that?”
“Yes. Fuck him,” Caroline replied, signing the multiple forms that Melinda provided to give her full legal custody of Mark. Given the pre-nupts Caroline had insisted upon before they wed and the binding powers of attorney she and her attorney had blackmailed the husband to sign, it was a done deal. Mark was not coming back...ever.
“Absolutely,” Melinda replied. “He will call you “Mistress” if he can speak, which isn’t likely. He will be kept in a kennel or horse stall and will slowly drop weight to the appropriate level in a few months. Meanwhile, he will learn how to survive at the club as a minor attraction and we will fuck his brains out. You can rest assured of that.”
“Oh Goodie,” said Caroline. “I can’t wait to see this. Are you going to make him into a sissy maid too?”
“That’s not on the schedule right now, Carol,” Melinda said. “But we will see how it goes. You want him useful for sex though, right?”
“Well,” Caroline hesitated. “I guess we’ll leave it to you. I’m sure you know best. Besides, I’m dating a hunk from LA at the moment and he has already shown that if Mark shows up at the house he will personally castrate him.”
During the first month of operation, The Bridge Club housed fifteen young, twenty-something males, none of whom would have ever expected to end up as they now were, captive slaves in a male whore house. Mark Fisher was among the residents and when his ex wife visited the facility she was told by the receptionist that Mark was “on line and available.”
“Do you want to see him, visit him, or use him?” Loretta, the receptionist, a lovely former housewife from the Westchester, asked sweetly. Her own boy friend and fiancée, Herman Crouse, was among the working slaves in the house and Loretta enjoyed seeing him getting flogged at the whipping post whenever the opportunity arose.
“I want to see him being fucked, royally, without mercy or respite,” Caroline Fisher said bluntly. “And by the way, I hear you might be able to accommodate his ass in your new Pony Farm as well.”
“I suggest you talk with our marketing director, Felice,” the receptionist said without missing a beat. The pony thing had come up before and she actually knew nothing about it, which peeved her, but was one of those things about Melinda’s multiple enterprises that was better off unmentioned until the boss brought it up.
“As you wish, Ms. Fisher. That will be provided,” said Loretta, as she dialed an in-house number and said: “Set up number six for presentation. Blind. Room B5. Priority client.”
Then she dialed another three digit number and got Melinda’s private voice mail.
“Ms. Fisher has enquired about the pony operation, about which I know nothing. Can you follow up or do you wish me to do so?”
Loretta put the phone down and spoke to Caroline Fisher in a discreet voice: “Someone will contact you this afternoon about your inquiry, Ms. Fisher. Your present viewing appointment is being set up. It will be about a half hour for things to be arranged. Would you like to sit in the lounge, the bar or the viewing gallery, Ms. Fisher?”
“The gallery, please. And let Melinda know I’m here, please.”
Another one of Melinda’s staff magically appeared and escorted Caroline Fisher into the lift. A few minutes later, she sat in a reclining leather chair, a Ghost Martini, (three shots of a special gin and a ghost of dry vermouth), at her side and a giant HD video display in front of her. There were three other well-dressed women in the room and all initially pretended they were new-comers. By the time Caroline’s computer watch emitted a discrete buzz, signifying that her session was ready, they were all pals.
“Gotta go see my ex getting his ass reamed,” Caroline said brightly. “See you all later. Let’s plan to have dinner in the Ultra Bistro, okay?” The other two women nodded agreement, keeping their eyes transfixed on the sweaty, hooded creatures engaged in a three way that was encouraged by two cat-suited females with the appropriate training tools, cats of nine tails applied vigorously to three bloody asses.
While The Club was staffing up, Melinda put some of her recently acquired TG men into the talent mix. George and Allen, two former men who had made significant killings on Wall Street, were among the headliners on the menu. The most popular show featured these two, plus the former Mark Fisher, displayed in a steel rack. They were hairless and trimmed down from their original weight. Hormones and diet had given them an acceptable figure that was improved by a steel-boned corset and heavily wired, push-up bra. They wore semi-hoods that allowed them to see and breathe, but held ring gags in their mouths. Combination branks and collars kept their heads in a fixed position that conveniently allowed the three young women specialists assigned to the room to use their mouths in an effective fashion, forcing them to lick and suck pussy while having their backs and asses whipped with long willow canes. None of the captives resisted, demonstrating to the audience that they had already learned that disobedience was painfully and immediately punished.
Following this “tuning up session,” the rack was pivoted so that the branked and now well gagged former men faced the back wall while their tormentors mounted them from behind and used large strap-on dildoes to plumb their asses. The struggles that followed were exciting to the women watching in the gallery and the more their tormentors hammered away at the helpless asses, the more the gallery cheered and laughed.
The third act saw the three exhausted captives hooked to milking machines, their medium-sized breasts being sucked and stretched while wheeled stanchions with an adjustable, telescoping arm were rolled up behind the three and even larger false dicks inserted in their already well-pumped asses.
The narrator for the session indicated that these monster dicks were electronically controlled and could and would inflate once well up inside the former men’s colons. In additional, as some of the watching women knew from first-hand experience, these big dicks could pump all kinds of hot or cold liquids into the waiting rectal receptacles, giving the victims an involuntary enema which they had to hold while being ass-fucked and milked.
Shortly before the end of the session, Melinda entered the gallery and spoke to each of the watching women, making sure that they were comfortable and listening to any suggestions they had. Of the three watchers, two women asked to have private sessions, but with other men shown on the in-house video catalog. In both cases, the clients specified that the men would be placed in fully restrained, inescapable positions and be hooded or blindfolded throughout the encounter. These one-on-one events were extremely popular at the Club and Melinda knew that she had to add more staff if she was going to avoid disappointing her members.
Before she left the gallery, Melinda addressed all three guests, reminding them of the house rules and discretely making sure they knew the automatic fees that would be placed on their credit accounts. That matter taken care of, Melinda left the room.
The three ex-men in the show were removed from the rack and taken back to their cages in a sub basement which had been conveniently converted from an old, disused metro station, leaving the tiled walls and other appointments that proved useful in keeping the house slaves in order. A favorite ac
tivity in these catacomb-like facilities was known as “Keelhauling,” a reference to the ancient and usually fatal punishment on sailing ships where the victim was tied hand and foot and dragged across the vessel’s bottom underwater. If they didn’t drown, or get attacked by sharks, they were recovered on board looking like a bloody mass of tattered flesh. In this case, the remaining rail tracks in the old subway were often used as penalty areas where recalcitrant bodies, stretched between a set of motorized steel wheels, were trundled along a half mile of the filthy, old track, the captives’ various private parts dangling below, enhanced with weights. Moving at controlled high or low speeds, the rolling device provided impact on the hanging organs, as cocks and balls, swinging below the pinioned bodies, struck each track tie and other sharp debris in the roadbed. Multiple impacts with the old rail ties served as a cyclic reminder of just how much torment Melinda was capable of doling out. The eventual follow-up from this usually fatal ordeal was “extreme remission,” as Melinda called it, meaning that the damaged organs were totally removed and the victims, if they recovered, could look forward to a physical gender change. None of the present resident slaves ever wanted to go to the tracks, so they behaved accordingly.
Club members always checked the flat panel display in the lobby before they decided on their entertainment for the evening and on one particular night they were surprised and pleased to see that there was a special event on the schedule with limited participation and seating in the gallery for observers. The schedule read as follows:
Limited Engagement – Tonight Only
The Bronx/Westchester Sissy Trio
Manny – Blond, built and still power packed,
(when his junk isn’t confined).
Moe – Cute Little “Girl Next Door”
with all equipment front and back.
Jacque- Completely transformed TG with new Frontal
Gear and a sweet butt to match.
Direct from OpaLocka Florida
All three members of this perfect TG group are former husbands/boyfriends and have been well trained in the Sissy Arts.
Book your choice of entertainment now. Two shows – 2300 and 0230
Fees: Full course – watch, pound ass of one or more, get it on with any or all - $2,000
Appetizers only – Bugger your choice for as long as you can stand it - $700
Dessert – Sloppy seconds. Your choice - $500
Our standard guarantee: If you don’t have the best screw of your life, money refunded.
The show was an instant sellout and a few members had to settle for less than the full course, but management agreed that all would get pretty much what they wanted and, as an additional accommodation, the club agreed to hold three of their regular stock slaves available for anyone who felt they didn’t get enough of the guest trio. Melinda, always the perfect hostess, made certain that the members all got more than they bargained for. That meant that if they were in a three or four way and one of the Trio wasn’t doing his/her part, a Club staff member joined the scene with a whip or quirt and livened things up.
Party night at the club was always damned near perfect and the Trio went back to their cages exhausted and well marked from nose to toes, their little cocks and balls over sucked and their assholes leaking from too many injections from a club member’s loaded strap-on. The three stand-ins from the club inventory were suitably abused and spent the entire evening strapped down, collared and locked up in appropriate CBT gear, released only when they were needed as a third or fourth in a group scene on the padded carpets.
Chapter Thirteen
Iron Junk Party
One colder winter afternoon, Melinda said: “Just for a test, Hank, let's see if you have any talents I can use in the future, before I make any final decisions about what to do with you. I know what to do TO you, but what I do WITH you, long term, is still up in the air, so to speak”.
Hank stood in his usual chilly cell, his collar, ankles and wrists chained to the walls and overhead. Melinda sat in one of what she called her “observation chairs,” studying the lean form of her former husband. He wore the by now all too familiar chastity harness that was locked in place around his now much thinner waist and through his crotch. The somewhat complicated metal assembly served two purposes: first it secured his shrunken junk and confined his cock to a snug steel cage that had a slight downward curve in it. Any attempt to get a hard-on resulted in his cock being jammed against the small, sharp spikes inside the confines of the steel cage. This was not only a hard-on killer, but quite uncomfortable as well.
The second function of the harness was to keep any one of several false dicks up Hank’s by now constantly violated rectum. The night before, Hank endured eight long hours on the Chicago Butt-Fucker (CBF) machine and what was left of his ass and associated organs was scarlet red and swollen. The CBF was a simple machine derived from a more complicated one that was designed to bring females, who were involuntarily strapped to it, to the ultimate mechanically-induced orgasms, whether they wanted them or not. Women who were forced to ride the CBF almost always said they hated it, but inevitably wanted more. Asked afterwards what it was like, one of the most colorful references made was the analogy of spending hours bound to the machine to being vigorously screwed in a dark alley by some stinking homeless bum who hadn’t been laid in six months and was capable of endless coital activity. In other words, it was exhausting, disgusting and crude, but resulted in a screaming, sweaty climactic experience that some actually wanted to repeat.
A leather and aluminum saddle was mounted on a steel frame that resembled a large gymnastics horse. In the center of the saddle was a single, interchangeable phallus. The rest of the insidious machine was a series of motors, hydraulic rams and pumps that allowed the entire mount to move on four axes: up and down, sideways, back and forward and tilted downward or upward. All night long, Hank suffered the gyrations and ass-mining of the CBT. Strapped to the beast with his legs bent at the knee and pulled back behind him and his hands strapped to the rear of the thing, he remained in the seated position, held there by a harness that pulled his body forward and down. The collar, belt and hood completed his outfit and Hank learned during the first few minutes that noise or muscular resistance triggered even more violent movements by the machine. By morning, his raw ass was bleeding and his insides felt like they had been totally rearranged. Perhaps the worst part of his learning experience, as they called it, was the preparation with Melinda thrashing his thighs and ass with willow canes until the flexible sticks broke and Hank’s legs and ass were riddled with the slash marks.
But not wanting to give him any respite, Melinda proceeded to introduce Hank to what She called “The Four Ring Circus,” a specially designed gadget that would contain his cock, ball sack and his painfully separated balls in one compact group of four steel rings mated to the harness he already wore. The Circus was an innocent-looking device made with Four chromed rings, two the same size and the others slightly different in diameter, welded together to form a triangular enclosure for the male sex organs. Each ring had a duplicate ring with a slightly smaller diameter welded to it to double the strength and narrow the confining area within the first rings. When she first showed it to Hank, Melinda lectured him about how it would work, pointing out the one positive benefit that was the removal of the cock cage he presently wore before this new horror could be installed in his crotch. Just listening to this narrative and knowing Melinda’s skills at torment, Hank sweated and shook as he constructed a mental image of this steel thing enclosing his sex.
“First we must make sure that your crotch is totally hairless. No stubble, no stray hairs.” Melinda instructed. “Then we stuff your puny balls through this largest ring set, pressing it against your pelvis and separating the balls as they hang down, putting first one and then the other nut into each of the two smaller rings below. This is only possible if your scrotum is relaxed and your balls hanging to their lowest level. That gives us enough sac slack to get
the balls into the separate rings. Then we pull your sorry cock up through the final ring set and stick it into the cage, which I will then close and lock. Got that?”
Hank nodded, his face a portrait of disbelief. He had certainly seen and used a lot of arcane gadgets on his women in the past, but nothing in his experience quite equaled the potential horror or discomfort promised by this Circus device.
“Look familiar, Hank?’ She asked. “This little steel pin at the end goes through that piercing we put in you dick a few days ago. It’s sort of a tie down to assure everything inside the cage stays in place. Understand?”
Hank shook his head again. He had to admit that this thing his wife now dangled in front of his nose was not terribly different from one of the many custom-made devices he had commissioned for use on his many female conquests. That device, Hank now recalled, had elicited hours and hours of pained complaints from several of his women while they unwillingly wore it invisibly inside their sex. Hank had named it simply “Iron Junk,” because it could conceivably be said to resemble a chromed steel sculpture of male organs.
“Sure you remember it, don’t you, Dickhead,” She asked again. “You called it your Iron Junk and you shoved it into more than one unhappy and unwilling woman while you had her tied to the bed or the whipping post. Remember this…” Melinda held up a chromed metal gadget that did look, he had to admit, a bit like the Four Ring Circus.
“Oh, yeah,” added Melinda with a grin at the afterthought. “One more thing: since this metal mess was intended to go up inside a female pussy, it is also very much suited to penetrating your asshole. Notice how the Junk can be locked onto the end of your cock cage. Then imagine the Junk being stuffed up your ass.”
Hank shivered in fear.
Melinda continued: “The instructions I just gave you are to permit you to play with yourself and put this thing on unassisted. If you don’t do this yourself, I’ll get Gretchen or Penny to put it on you and I assure you, they will not be gentle. Imagine, if you can in that thick skull of yours, having one of those gorgeous blonds playing with your cock and balls, jamming them into this cage while you, naturally, have a raging erection... Got that? The securing steel pin at the end is the special finishing touch, don’t you think?”
Retaliation Page 7
