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She then pulls Ted off the bed like a puppet and while he stands measures his scrotum and testicles while the erection points upwards out of her way. After calling out the dimensions she callously swats the penis tip and with a punctuated groan Ted’s manhood deflates as if air has been released from a balloon.
Number one slips on a glove and parts his buttocks.
“Very open at the rectum,” she calls out. “I assume like most males he responds to anal stimulation, Mrs. Dalton?”
I smile.
“He begs for it,” I declamatorily announce.
The three of us laugh.
“Cindy will need to use your bathroom while I ask some questions. I believe the stereo cord will reach. Do you care to watch?”
I wouldn’t miss a thing.
While I am interviewed, Cindy, girl number two, has Ted kneeling on all fours in the bathtub. A medical bag divulges paraphernalia needed for an enema, a interesting and humiliating activity from which I have refrained in Dominating Ted.
But after watching Cindy so deftly insert an inflatable nozzle, fill the rubber bag with warm soapy water, and then begin to slowly fill Ted’s bowels, it may be included in our play time in the future.
“We have some notes concerning your husband’s problem, Mrs. Dalton. There is not much behavior that cannot be modified at Constancia Island. But we need to understand your goals. We can mold him any way you desire. Mentally...physically...spiritually. We have the staff, the knowhow and a wonderful facility. There is no limit to how long he can stay. We have certain lifelong patients...their Dominant partners choosing to occasionally visit and ensure their continued indoctrination into servitude. Others depart very much enlightened, eager to please their owners.”
I pause for thought.
“I want devotion and complete capitulation to my whims. I am a litigator, a member of a professional group, which is sometimes compared to a pack of pit bulls in terms of cordiality. I slay opposing attorneys during the day. When I arrive home I want to be pampered. I’ve had Ted dressed as a maid on occasion and it works very nicely for me...being served hand and foot. What doesn’t work is for me to arrive home and see this with some low class dominatrix for hire.”
For emphasis, I point to my naked and bound husband kneeling before three clothed women while his bowels slowly fill.
Girl number one takes notes with a smug smile.
“Easily done. You’ll be getting progress reports from the Island...from the head psychologist, Dr. Stella Corrothers and the physician Dr. Helga Reinhold. There is not much they have not handled.”
The Corrothers name rings a bell. It was she who had years before delivered the lecture. I wondered what had happened to her.
Girl number two releases the enema and a torrent fills the tub. She then refills the bag this time with cold water. Girl number one notices my reaction.
“It not only rinses, the discomfort establishes control. He’ll be groveling in a moment.”
She is correct. My superficially macho husband feels the intense effect of the chilling water deep within his bowels. He doesn’t understand all that is happening. He does understand pain.
Being deemed cleansed Ted is led back into the bedroom and laid on the bed. An inflatable butt plug is inserted. Then girl number one, seeming to be in charge, rolls him onto his back. A slim metal tube is produced and she coats it with lubricant.
“Depending on the flights and boat connection, he may be in transit for close to twelve hours. We don’t want him needing to relieve himself.”
Thus the enema and now...a catheter. But not a comfortable Teflon tube. No, Ted gets a smooth but stiff length of stainless steel inserted into his urethra. The girl works slowly but firmly and judging from Ted’s exaggerated movements the sensation is not pleasant. He whimpers.
“It prevents erection. He’ll be standing only for his handler while under the care of the American Society for Behavior Modification. Unsupervised tumescence is not permitted.”
Of course not…why would I think otherwise?
The hollow steel tube is connected to a collection bag by way of a rubber tube. Ted won’t be needing to urinate for a while.
Then the question of just how my young handlers of recalcitrant males will pirate away my husband is finally answered.
The stretcher is wheeled into the bedroom. Under the sheet draped over the flat top surface is a box...really a coffin. The girls pull it out, lie it on the floor and open it.
“Say good bye, Ted,” girl number two humorously suggests to my deafened subordinate. Number one firmly grasps his testicles and guides him up and off the bed. Girl two prepares a hypodermic syringe.
“Thorazine,” she announces in anticipating my question. “Just a touch of a neuroleptic drug for the ride. He’ll be nice and quiet and then resume his friskiness in the Caribbean.”
