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Lady Constance and I follow the rolling frame into the dark storage room and toward the ramp. As we once again traverse the room, I shudder in the ominous darkness and seclusion. The Danish lad had yelled loudly and animatedly thrashed about. But he found himself in a chamber cut deep into coral rock, in a building with thick walls, on an island unknown to most of the world, ruled by the woman who casually watched while his manhood was permanently altered to manifest her control. His protests were fruitless. And I hazard to guess that his downward spiral to complete subjugation will be swift.
We step out the door of the medical building and I am surprised to see that the sun is disappearing. It is warm, despite the early setting of the winter sun. Lady Constance retrieves her shawl and wraps it about her shoulders. She quickly removes the ponies’ blindfolds, unhooks the penises and supervises the emptying of their bladders.
“Time for cocktails, Doctor.”
She reattaches the male appendages, joins me in the chariot and snaps the whip. I am amazed to see that small parallel lights on each side of the road guide us. The lights illuminate automatically about 30 yards ahead as we move along, and presumably turn off after we pass. This makes the final leg of our journey effortless, even in the failing daylight. I am once again impressed with the financial investment made in Lady Constance’s deviant tropical paradise.
In the cooler evening air, the ponies seem to run with renewed vigor. I estimate that they’ve been run under the whip for some five miles over the course of the day, and I am amazed with their stamina. Although their performance is admirable, Lady Constance flicks away relentlessly, seeming to enjoy the sensation of the chariot shuddering in response to the painful nips to the penis and scrotum.
We quickly reach the beach road and turn right, which takes us up a hill away from the ocean. After a short distance, the main road comes into view and Lady Constance directs the chariot to the right. With a rapid combination of strokes we accelerate for a few hundred yards. A tug to the left directs the chariot unto the familiar road up to Estovia. Lady Constance cracks her implement of pain with particular force to ensure her team is sprinting at full speed as we approach the porte-cochere. She accepts nothing less than absolute maximum effort and her ponies know this and accelerate accordingly.
As Lady Constance pulls on the scrotal cords, porter number one steps out the front door. He has seen the road lights blink on and greets his mistress with a cashmere sweater and a beseeching look in apparent wait for her command.
“Have Botana take the team to the stable. She should inform the grooms to sponge them down, warm water this time. They’ve been run hard. Extra feed and have them plugged. Tell her to use inflatable plugs. Maybe I’ll amuse myself after cocktails.”
The porter nods as Lady Constance dons the sweater. When she moves to the front of her prize team they seem to be very disappointed with her covered breasts. But before leaving, she diddles their erections and smiles.
“Good boys.”
Turning to me.
“It’s 5:00 p.m., Doctor. Let’s have cocktails at 7:00. Meanwhile I’ll have champagne sent to your room. You can get to know Ming a little better. We’re very open about proclivities here...”
She lets her comment hang as she abruptly turns and walks to the house. She is not being deliberately impolite. In her mind my audience with the regal woman of Constancia is over for now. And I do have much to record...
Chapter Eight
When I return to my room I check on Ming. I open the door to ‘her’ closet and she is kneeling facing me as if she has spent the entire day anticipating my return. She smiles most submissively and asks to use my bathroom. It is then that I realize the door can only be opened from the outside and she has been imprisoned for hours.
Her chain is long enough to reach the facilities and a furtive peek through the door (which she does not close) reveals that she squats to urinate. The patch can either be pulled up or the flow streams through it or under it.
I announce that I will shower and point back to the closet. She obediently shuffles back but the disappointment of being dismissed shows.
It has been a long day. I intend after ablutions to relax and write. But the amazing tour overwhelms my thoughts. Just standing under the large showerhead and being doused with a deluge of hot water brings my thoughts to the power plant. I picture the cruelly bound and naked males sweating as they labor by slowly pushing in circles and bear the pain and resulting marks of Salina’s cane. I cannot help but ponder how many turns of the capstan and generator are required to produce enough electricity to power the water pumps for my shower. A woman such as Lady Constance must indeed be extremely dominant to live in comfort while hapless males endeavor around the clock to ensure her comfort.
I put away the thoughts by planning my three-day stay and wondering how much I have yet to see. The stables must be interesting. And where do all the Bagandans live?
When I step out of the shower I am shocked to see Ming kneeling on the bathroom floor with two large fluffy towels resting on her upturned palms. I obviously did not latch her closet door and now stand naked before her. She stares downward in a most subservient pose, seeming to realize that I am angry. But I temper any reaction by reminding myself that she is fulfilling her well-trained role. And the encounter does serve to break the ice somewhat, the two of us being completely naked. When I reach for a towel, I feel somewhat obligated to gently pinch one of her puffy nipples in a subtle thank you. This results in a smile with both pink effeminate nubs immediately erecting in response to my touch.
I dry myself and let her observe. She has seen many of Lady Constance’s guests in more compromising positions than mine, I remind myself. But when done, modesty dictates that I don a robe and once again show her to her closet, this time making sure the door is latched.
Porter number two knocks. He silently enters with a tray containing an ice bucket with a bottle of very expensive champagne and a small dish of fresh strawberries.
He leaves and I finally have time to write.
Chapter Nine
The champagne has a wonderfully soothing effect. That, and I suppose the day’s exposure to the sun, slow my pen. After an hour, and three glasses of golden effervescence, my thoughts return to Ming. Having a naked young woman, secured in my closet and humbly kneeling in wait for my command, is distracting.
I concede to compassion and open the closet door. Ming is kneeling in what appears to be a required pose, head bowed, knees widely parted, arms resting on her thighs with pal
ms up. When she humbly raises her eyes to look at me, I motion her into the room and point to the padded leather footstool.
She seems to smile as she walks to the familiar piece of furniture and anticipating my wishes she kneels, places her abdomen on the center, and arches her back thus placing her buttocks in a most inviting position. She moves her hands to the back of her head, leaving her underdeveloped breasts hanging over the far edge and thrust toward the floor.
Is it the hour? Her experience telling her that naked, robed guests imbibing spirits are given to frolic with her nubile body? Or perhaps just my look of earnest yearning as I silently point to, what for her, is an emblem of torment, yet for most a simple footstool. What prompts such a servile reaction?
Inexplicably, I return to the small writing table where I again endeavor to record the day’s events. Am I being cruel to Ming by not indulging myself in some form of carnal pleasure? Perhaps this is the most unbearable form of torture for the masochistic toy..., doing nothing. Letting her imagination run while she faces the wall draped with Lady Constance’s implements of pain. It is most probably an encounter she has not faced before, and after a moment’s pause, I rise and gently smooth my hand over her child like buttocks. She flinches.
