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minute, his humble tongue reappears and the girl beckons for its attention by once again parting her inner labia. This time the tip of her clitoris evidently peeks out, for Jean Claude struggles in his bonds to move higher and savor the inviting bud of the beautiful, young girl.
The collaboration between mother and daughter is well rehearsed. The girl impassionately sits and waits until Jean Claude is able to crane his neck and position his lips and tongue. When he finally laps and draws the pink bud into his lips, the cane rises. An equally abbreviated stroke lands on the right foot in the area preferred by the bastinado aficionado, at the very center of the arch.
With this shriek, the daughter giggles like a schoolgirl.
“Lick again, Jean Claude. Your little manhood is showing your enjoyment.”
The mother’s comment is interesting. Oddly enough it is indeed possible for the mind to mix signals of pain with those of pleasure. But to achieve enforced masochism takes time. Thus my own research tells me Jean Claude has been groveling on the leather horse for many sessions and perhaps these weekly encounters are, deep in his psyche, a strange source of sexual enjoyment.
After many strokes, Jean Claude’s shrieks and struggles against the tight bonds tire him. The daughter several times waves smelling salts under the Frenchman’s nose, but it is evident that a respite is needed.
The Turkish mother nods to her daughter, who responds by standing and momentarily leaving the screen. There are a few frames displaying her backside, and it is marvelously proportioned with smooth globes of the tanned skin so prevalent in the Middle East.
A blip in the tape indicates that the camera was turned off for an indeterminable period. A new scene unfolds. Mother moves the stool and stands in its place. Her large, powerful buttocks are facing Jean Claude and as she backs closer to him, she reaches behind her, gruffly picks up his head utilizing a clump of hair, pushes it back, and thrusts the cracks of her cheeks into Jean Claude’s face. The nose and lips of Jean Claude disappear into the pungent crevice and the half conscious prisoner cannot escape this most humiliating of positions. He cannot pull his head further back. Forward places his nose and mouth further into the fragrant abyss, and left or right are impeded by his prodigious proboscis wedged between the sizable cheeks.
Mother wriggles her hips and satisfies herself that Jean Claude’s face is well entrapped. Daughter returns to view wielding a very small whip. She positions herself where her mother stood.
“You know what needs your attention, Jean Claude. Your tongue is not through yet.”
Daughter reaches between the thighs and palms the scrotal sac. She toys and seems mesmerized by its size and the weight of the swollen testicles. After a moment, she assures herself that it is well exposed then steps back.
I recognize the small implement in her right hand. It is referred to as a “penis whip” for its diminutive size allows it to be very accurately applied to the eponymous organ. Applied to less sensitive areas, it can barely be felt, a mosquito bite. Applied to the genitals, it creates fire.
Daughter’s face yields a look of absolute delight that not only reveals the pleasurable afterglow of having her intimate parts served so obsequiously, but also the heady power of having a male restrained and exposed in such a subservient manner with his inviting genitals awaiting chastisement. And since it is the very male who so horribly violated her pubescent body and ended her halcyon days of youthful innocence, the delight is doubly pleasurable.
Jean Claude initially does not respond to the mother’s admonishment. But when the daughter snaps the small strand of leather directly to the swinging, fleshy bag, a muffled groan is heard and movement of the lower jaw indicates Jean Claude has found renewed strength.
Some ten minutes of videotape roll with daughter snapping and mother coaxing deeper penetration. The salts appear from time to time providing pauses during which I glance at Lady Constance who is sanguine in receiving her own oral attention. She apparently has the ability to achieve many, many orgasms without the verbal or physical demonstration of ecstasy displayed by most people. But barely audible sighs and the occasional biting of a lip indicated that Nancy is an accomplished and assiduous cunni-linguist. And her smooth, warm and completely hairless flesh must provide Lady Constance with glorious sensations of pleasure and power.
My coffee and toast were long gone when the Turkish women finally acknowledged that Jean Claude’ had swooned for the final time. Mother releases his bonds and easily rolls him off the horse unto the floor. He is semi-conscious and attempts to crawl by moving to all fours. Mother kicks out his arms and he returns to the floor in a fetal position. She then squats about his head and opens her bladder. The torrent splatters first onto Jean Claude’s face and then into his hair as the Turkish woman directs the flow to thoroughly soak his head.
“Your turn for the camera, Jean Claude.”
The final scene is of Jean Claude, precariously perched on well-chastised feet, squatting over a drain in the stone floor of the cell. Under the mother’s direction he spreads his thighs and the camera lens zooms in. The tiny penis occupies the screen. In an interesting ritual, which highlights his alteration, Jean Claude relieves himself squatting like a woman.
Lady Constance pushes the off button on the remote. Before I can speak, she picks up the phone and inputs a well committed phone number. Her free hand then reaches to Boy, quietly swinging on his frame. His huge erection still points skyward, slowly oozing the clear, pre-ejaculatory fluid of a virile male. While she waits for a response, her fingers toy and twist some of the many piercings then glides down to give the hanging sac a reassuring pat.
The blindfolded, deafened Boy seems to twist toward Lady Constance in an awkward attempt to obtain more attention from her soft, feminine touch.
Receiving a response on the phone, she speaks commandingly.
“Egbert. Send the Turkish woman her weekly check. Yes. $5,000, as usual.
“But include a note to the daughter. Tell her that if she persuades Jean Claude to volunteer for an oriechtomy, he will be released. Yes, that’s right. I’ll send Jasmine for a short holiday and whether it be done slowly or quickly can be decided by her. Inform her that as a reward, she’ll have his plums in a glass jar to be placed next to his prized manhood..., and $1,000,000. Yes, that’s right Egbert. $1,000,000 to be shared with her mother, when I receive a tape of Jean Claude humbly requesting the removal of his testicles and a subsequent tape of the operation. But emphasize that to be set free, he must request his own alteration. I want to experience the total capitulation of the male, and I want it recorded.”
Lady Constance hangs up the phone and turns to me.
“Whether Jean Claude volunteers or not I consider his incarceration to be an eleemosynary service. It is by my hand that there is one less sexual predator in the world. But I believe the daughter can be very persuasive, and Jean Claude will soon be more concerned with the feel of a fine pair of silk panties than attempting to gratify what little lies beneath.”
Lady Constance laughs wickedly with her observation and commences another phone call, evidently to Jasmine.
“Come and get Nancy. I want her released from her belt, restrained and feathered..., extensively, Jasmine. Correct. Keep her on the brink with no orgasm. Maybe next month she’ll try harder.”
With Lady Constance barking orders, it was apparent that the business portion of her day had begun. I used the excuse of a lunch date to bid her adieu. On my way through the hotel lobby, it occurred to me that Boy remained restrained and tumefied for well over an hour, before, during and after the videotape. His physical and mental training were unmatched.
I feel the plane begin to descend as I record my final thoughts. I will definitely have to follow up on Jean Claude. His choice of ritualistic, weekly canings versus one final act of complete submission to the dominant female must provoke the ultimate in consternation. Throughout our descent into Berlin, I picture the naked and beautiful Turkish girl taunting him with scraps of rancid food thrown into the cell and reminders that complete freedom is his to choose..., complete with the final offering of what remains of his precious genitals to the young girl he so viciously molested.
Chapter Four
