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She forces her eyes shift about. She recognizes many devices, implements hanging on the walls, her own bedroom turned dungeon offering many of the same. Then, as a husky voice offers words of welcome, her eyes move to the desk. The form behind is human... but of what gender?
“Good afternoon, Director. I’ve been showing 128 some of the facilities she has not before seen.”
“Thoughtful of you, Kelly. I’ve been reading the reports and evaluations on her. Though there is indication she has a penchant for a good crisp bare bottom caning, she’s not built to pull in harness. Nurse Traite suggests she will lactate well, assuming the milk ducts were not damaged when she had her nipples porcupined.”
128 feels shame... they know so much... everything about her sordid life of masochistic debauchery. She is inclined to protest... it was not her desire to endure such nipple torture. Yet her humility demands obedient silence.
Her mind returns to the gender... the voice offering no clue. Perhaps female, but the timbre suggests male. The form wears a jump suit, color plain, not effeminately frilly, the fabric light and breezy for the tropical heat. Arms bare from the elbows down, there are tattoos... masculine... the emblem of the United States Marine Corp. on a well developed forearm. Unstylish black eyeglass frames, lenses thick, veil any hint of femininity.
What does the hanging naked male suggest as to the Director’s own propensity? A gay male... a gang banger in the parlance of those desiring to conquer male flesh. Or a bull dyke lesbian, contemptuous of virility, reveling in controlling helpless tumescence?
“128 prefers not to serve in the milking parlor,” Kelly proclaims. “Too tranquil.”
“Ha,” the Director sardonic. “Tits like that and she doesn’t want to let down for us. Well the evaluations would so suggest. Too deep into pain, the humiliation of merely hanging in suspension awaiting the next milking just not enough fuel for that masochistic furnace. She’s young for the pump house... though I’m sure the supervisors would be enthralled.”
The Director stands and approaches. Even a better view of his /her body does not affirm gender, 128 notes. Hands reach forth, palming the massive mammary glands then diddling the nipples between thumb and forefinger. Wrist and elbow binds clipped tightly behind, 128’s breasts thrust forth invitingly. The touch brings a thrill, held in chastity too long.
“She was introduced to the pump house Director... there reservations concerning servitude there as well.”
“Tsk, tsk, girl. Rather choosy for a girl of your ilk. We can have you kenneled... but that obviates any oral or anal use by the members. A shame to deny them the joy of repeatedly penetrating you. The reports indicate your fellatio is more than adequate... and improving.”
“Thank you Director,” 128 so humble with her response.
“And having advanced to a number 7 anal plug, you should be quite comfortable tummy down on a sodomy frame. Seems months of indoctrination will go to waste.”
“I’m on tomorrow morning’s flight to Teterboro, Director...” Kelly reminds.
“Leave her fate to me. Meanwhile, my hanging plant is drooping... needs attention,” the Director’s gaze diverting to the silently suffering 156.
Indeed, all eyes look to see the erection is softening, the hours of slow torment countering the body’s tumescent reaction.
“Take him deep. But don’t bring him to climax,” the Director’s pointing hand a defacto command for 128’s oral skills.
Chapter Forty-Nine
“So how are things at the Department of Justice?” Kelly queries, placing two large mugs of brew on the barroom table.
“Busy... challenging. How’s retirement?”
“Not really retired. Just focusing on other... ah... things.”
“You’re missed, Kelly. Chrissy boy so much enjoyed your touch.”
Kelly nods. She in turn misses the likes of Chrissy boy, house boy/maid for Linda Rankin... college roommate, lifelong friend, now Deputy U. S. Marshal.
“I’m sure you’re capable of bathing him, Linda. Any woman of authority brings quirky delight with the likes of Chrissy.”
“Yes, but it’s difficult... the head space thing. One moment you’re caning him... then entering him with a double dildo... then you have to calm and toss the little cunt lapper into a hot bath and wash like a doting mother. Tough to switch mind sets... the adrenaline thing.”
Kelly smiles. She once again envisions Linda Rankin, at some six feet in height and 180 pounds of well configured feminine muscle, thrusting away, her little neutered houseboy, naked and on all fours, yelping in protest.... but secretly enjoying the deep anal penetration... happy that the crisp caning is over.
After leaving Nusquam’s employment, Kelly built her aftercare practice initially offering her service to her old roommate. It expanded rapidly from there.
“Yes I can imagine. You always get so physically provoked when taking a boy. But I’m retired from that. My last enema... my last prostate milking... if that’s why you asked to meet.”
“No, Kelly. Chrissy will survive. Found a doctor’s office in the Village that is... well... the staff understands the dynamics of the relationship... attentive to his needs... the emotional roller
coaster of me having him castrated. His adoration of me... his need for direction and guidance... his fear of me... as I’m sure you’re well aware.”
