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“Up, Imelda.”
The humiliated girl steps onto a chair then crawls atop the table. Without a word she kneels on the cushions and lets her amazingly plump breasts hang over the bowl. The silhouette of her nipples shows they have been stretched and constricted by the two small rings.
“Hands,” reminds Dr. Helga, and she instantly places them behind her head giving Lady Constance unfettered access to her mammaries.
“Knees apart and keep those bells quiet.”
She complies. When properly positioned the tintinnabulation ceases.
“Let’s see how well you’ve developed.”
Lady Constance’s fingers and touch are much more adapted to the task at hand. She softly pinches each nipple between thumb and fore finger and ever so slightly draws down. Imelda’s white milk squirts and splatters into the bowl. She moans and closes her eyes. Lady Constance repeats the action. This time a larger squirt. Jasmine’s hands move under the table apparently guiding her oral subjugant to areas needing attention. Dr. Helga looks on, admonishing Imelda to hold her chest higher and keep the bells silent.
“She’s quite fertile. Have you tried feathering her? Sometimes clitoral stimulation increases the flow.”
“Not yet, Lady Constance. With the Ben Wa balls constantly moving about in her vagina, she is usually quite aroused.”
It is interesting to watch Lady Constance apply such fervor to a task requiring such a soft touch. But over time her fingers slowly work and the bowl slowly fills. Imelda has difficulty maintaining her position. It becomes part of the sensuous torment to make her hold still while her thighs spasm in orgasmic reaction to the slow forced lactation and her back muscles strain to hold up her torso, weighted by the huge female glands hanging over the bowl. An occasional tinkle is heard, otherwise she stays amazing still while her glands are worked.
“Such a good girl. We have many ponies here, but you’re our only cow, Imelda.”
Finally, Lady Constance’s fingers draw very little liquid. The look of pleasure on Imelda’s face fades. Her nipples have been worked for some fifteen minutes and the bowl brims.
“It must be at least a pint, wouldn’t you say Doctor?”
Dr. Helga responds with a condescending nod.
As always, Lady Constance prevails at her own challenge.
With the exhibition over, I excuse myself. When I turn back at the doorway to bid a final good night, I see the two porters are lifting an exhausted Imelda from the table. She has been drained, physically, and in more ways than one...
Chapter Twelve
I open the door to my room and I surprise myself with the sight of the naked, plugged and clamped Ming. I have forgotten but quickly recall my relatively intemperate actions before leaving for dinner. As commanded, the minx has not moved her boyish torso one-inch.
She turns and looks at me through tear filled eyes. The anguish of the weighted clamps has slowly built and her look beseeches me for relief.
The hour is late and the house is large and silent. The few occupants are busy with various carnal delights. There is no one to hear, see, record, relate, or speak of anything that I do. I surrender to my urges.
I slip out of my clothes and into a large fluffy bathrobe supplied by my hostess. Perhaps emboldened by the alcohol, or just allowing my curiosity to prevail, I straddle Ming and sit atop the small of her back facing to the front. The well-padded footstool absorbs my weight with minimum added discomfort to the Asian ingénue. Pushing aside the folds of the robe, the skin of my buttocks and thighs rest against her smooth warm flesh. I reach down and toy with the tormented nipples, then quickly release the clamps. As the weights fall to the floor, she screams with the agony of the blood rushing back to the most sensitive of organs. She bucks. Gyrates her hips. I find myself riding a young bull. Feeling her muscles react and contract beneath the smooth warmth of her flesh is exquisite.
Gently I pinch each nipple between thumb and forefinger. They are hot, with the circulation rushing to the small forlorn area.
You’re going to give up your secret, my sweet, I think to myself, and I once again command her to remain still.
Pausing to extend the pleasure derived from my proximity to her warmth, I eventually force myself to arise. A nearby lamp is easily adjusted to better illuminate her stuffed backside and a small pillow from a reading chair will assist my endeavors.
I return and cruelly use the large phallus emanating from her rectum as a handle to force her buttocks and lower belly from the stool. I slide the pillow under her hips, give the phallus a firm twist as a reminder of my control and push her back to the stool. Her saucy backside is now raised and angled upwards toward the light. I resume sitting astride her lower back, this time facing toward her feet. I lean forward and push her thighs even further apart.
The patch will reveal what it so furtively covers. The lamp shines to offer an unimpeded view of the bottom of the patch and its attachment to a small ring piercing her perineum. It is thinly gauged and can easily be pried open as are the other rings closely securing the patch to the pudendum. I smile to myself. With the tip of a simple pen the rings can be spread and Ming’s gender revealed.
Ming begins to perceive my intent. She protests. I give the huge phallus another twist and my message is received. She demurs and seems to resign herself to my exploration. But I again stand. This time I move to the wall of implements and open the drawer of a dresser underneath. As expected, neatly arranged within, are an assortment of cuffs, chains, cords, hoods and other items. All very comfortable and designed for long term bondage. I select a combination of collar with wrist cuffs. I retrieve a spreader bar from the wall. Ming will soon be able to protest loudly and thrash about and it will be in vain.
It takes a minute to have her immobilized. I have observed many skilled practitioners of bondage but have little such skill of my own. The collar first, then the hands are pulled back, and with arms bent at the elbow, I secure the wrists into the cuffs. That done, the spreader bar is attached to her one ankle cuff. My lack of experience shows with the need for a second ankle cuff. But the drawer is well stocked and Ming’s free ankle is soon cuffed and her slender legs are spread. Widely.
I step back. She is helplessly bound but my evening of imbibing spirits induces me to adjust and tighten. The straps to the wrist cuffs are shortened. The bar is widened. Tears form with the forced contortion.
Now to business. My brief bag yields a pen. But I spy a more suitable device. A long neglected staple remover, tossed into the bag months before during a long research project, rattles about at the bottom. I smile with my serendipity.
