Pink Flamingo excerpts - Pony Play, Edging, and a lot of Femdom

Casual_Reader · Nov 24, 2013

Pink Flamingo, an erotic book publisher, used to post a lot of interesting excerpts online. They don't seem to do that any more, but several of them are quite good.

One of their more prolific writers, Chris Bellows wrote some particularly inspired (and possibly frightening) stories involving female domination and chastity - often using very inventive approaches:

Nurse Maura (Part One - from Tales from the Estate)

“Such a good pony boy. Just relax, Johnnie. Let Nurse Maura take care of you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He wasn’t supposed to talk. But with bit removed and basking in the relative comfort of being in the presence of the maternal Nurse Maura, experience suggested he could bend the rules. As long as no one else heard, he could verbally respond, however briefly, to the gentle knowing touch of his benefactress.

Pony boy Johnnie kneels on the examination table, naked but for the yoke entrapping his wrists at the level of his chin and well outside his shoulders. His young, crisply cropped flesh, burning in various areas, gratefully absorbs the soft, lotion-swathed hands of the handsome middle-aged nurse. She knows exactly where to knead and caress..., which muscles require deep, penetrating squeezes from vise-like fingers, which sensitive pink places need the most temperate of soothing applications of the special healing ointment.

“Mistress worked your scrotum today, Johnnie. Were you naughty?”

Johnnie nods as best he can. A line on his nose bridle remains hitched to a simple overhead hook. Stable rules mandate some form of restraint at all times. And Nurse Maura is very much aware that a pony boy who is not hitched, leashed or harnessed can lead to her dismissal.

The caring hands return to the jar of special balm, glycerin with a steroidal additive to promote rapid healing. She scoops up a large daub.

“Spread nicely for me, Johnnie.”

The truckling lad further parts his knees, his eagerness obviating any notion of resistance. Johnnie is naked, exposing all to the nurse, but any humiliation is greatly exceeded by the enjoyment of her palliative touch.

Enormous testicles are palmed by moist, gleaming hands. Their size belies Johnnie’s age. Though in his late teens, the organs hang nearly to his knees and are the size of overly ripened plums. As the nurse’s hands cup the weighty male genitals in mocked reverence, and her fingers gently squeeze and rub, she recalls his earlier days, when a less endowed Johnnie was not so receptive to her touch.

“You used to beg and cry when I worked you here Johnnie. And now you’re reaping your reward. See what happens when you’re good and just let Nurse Maura take charge?”

The comment brings memories. Johnnie indeed remembers the horrid injections, when as a young pony boy in training, Nurse Maura induced orchitis, inflamation of the testicles, by utilizing a specially formulated compound. The results were amazing, swelling Johnnie’s young gonads such that it appeared he had the mumps. Over time the daily injections made the condition permanent, swelling his testicles to an outlandish size well beyond his years and physical stature. And Mistress was most pleased with the result.

The genitals grew so large so fast that Nurse Maura also had to begin scrotal infusions of saline solution in order to properly expand the scrotal sac and accommodate the enlargement. And to see a young naked male walking about on the end of a leash, cradling his precious reproductive organs as if carrying an infant, was the most amusing scene imaginable.

Now the pink globes, reddened by Mistress’ crop, hang like trophies..., to be palmed, caressed, squeezed, pinched, pulled, and cropped with impunity by the Dominant female.

Johnnie’s balls are ornaments..., jewels adorned for the Mistress of the Estate.

While the fingers sooth the scrotal flesh, Nurse Maura also searches and finds the various nerves and sperm ducts within the oversized sac, checking for unusual swelling and changes. He receives the best of care at Mistress’ stable..., visually examined by several pair of feminine eyes each day…, a succinct anatomical inspection after each outing..., a thorough physical exam monthly.

Nurse Maura begins to feel wetness between her thighs. Proximity to the helpless male genitals always has that effect on the Dominant female, and holding the subservient pony boy’s testicles begins the expected flow of moisture.

She is aroused. And when she recalls the process..., the power..., the omnipotence imbued upon her in slowly introducing a hypodermic needle into each of Johnnie developing organs, listening to his young voice beseech her for mercy, her thighs contract with a delicious vaginal orgasm.

TO BE CONTINUED . . .
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Casual_Reader · Nov 24, 2013

Nurse Maura (Part Two)

“There’s no real damage, Johnnie. As ususal, Mistress has been most adept with the crop. Was it painful?”

Johnnie nods as best as his nose bridle allows.

“Nothing like the injections, ma’am.”

“No, of course not.”

The left hand moves to the perineum. The right to the anus. Fingers of the left rub the hairless tactile strip between the scrotum and the anal opening. The middle and index fingers of the right penetrate the rectum. She smiles as it yields so easily. Rummaging within, she quickly finds his chaste male gland.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it Johnnie?”

She can feel the swelling of the curious unused organ. Mistress mandates strict chastity, insisting that the resulting excess energy be expended in harness. That leaves to Nurse Maura the task of assuring proper prostatic health..., a chore which at the stable results in the most exquisite form of Dominance..., the milking of the male organ.

“The end of the month is coming soon,” she advises with insouciant femininity.

Deeper exploration within finds the bulbous tip of his urethral insert. She smiles knowing that the devious device keeps young Johnnie in a constant state of randiness. The hollow tube, serving to partially catheterize the pony boy at all times, ends at the prostate gland. There, a one way valve prohibits urination and the flow of other fluids, of course. It is only by inserting a soft rubber tube to open the valve that Johnnie’s bladder can be emptied.

‘Control’, she thinks to herself. ‘Mistress controls all his functions’.

Her left hand moves from the perineum, forward past his penis, to feel his lower belly. It is distended.

“Would you like to empty your bladder for me Johnnie?”

Another strained nod.

‘The most basic of functions requires a woman’s touch’, Nurse Maura thinks with glee. ‘And for this I get paid.’

No one is watching. There is no need to suppress her smile as she steps away to retrieve the latex tube with connecting collection bag.

As KY jelly is applied, she wonders when Johnnie last urinated by himself and whether he can even remember. He has been in training for many months.

“I’m going to use a full insertion catheter. We’re almost done.”

Trained hands pull the partially catheterized penis down and back. It is plumped by arousal and Nurse Maura smiles again. She is comforted knowing that her treatment has attained the expected result. A most obsequious pony boy still reacts with attempts to tumefy. Though the hollow steel tube forcibly keeps Johnnie chaste, it is carefully devised to keep his shaft permanently firm and stretched to full length. But for the women of the Estate there is much amusement when Johnnie is aroused and the erectile chambers still cause the penis to engorge and fatten like a grilled hot dog.

Ostensibly, she ignores his condition as her professional training dictates.

“Here we go,” she forewarns. The hollow metal tube easily accepts the first seven inches of the rubber catheter. Then she feels the resistance of the one way valve and thrusts more firmly. Then she feels that most welcome shudder of the helpless male as the tube presses deeply into the sensitive urethra, worms its way past the swollen prostate, and with a little extra effort enters the bladder.

She so much enjoys the power.

As she injects air to hold in place the balloon catheter, the collection bag fills and she knows to reward the ordeal by rolling the penis tip between thumb and forefinger.

“Good boy.”

She steps back and gazes at the strange male appendage.

Johnnie has been forcibly adorned with what in BDSM circles is referred to as a Prince’s Wand. Modified to suit Mistress, of course, the tormenting chastity device required piercing the tip of Johnnie’s penis and inserting a cross bar to hold it permanently in place. She feels goose bumps looking at the results.

The hollow tube has an eyelet on the underside. Permanency required piercing the penis on one side, inserting the needle through the eyelet within the urethra and exiting the opposite side. A barbell was later substituted for the needle. With beads glued to each end, the barbell can not be slid out. And thus the tube..., the Prince’s Wand..., remains in Johnnie’s penis..., serving to keep Johnnie chaste, abrade the prostate and prevent unwanted excretions.

The device also keeps Johnnie’s penis firmly stretched, providing an interesting contrasting exhibition..., a young virile male showing himself at full length..., but under the total control of his crop bearing Mistress.

The fact that the altered shaft can still engorge is an added attraction. And Johnnie unwittingly evidences his enjoyment of Nurse Maura’s touch. But for the telltale steel peeking from his pee hole, and the securing barbell, it appears that Johnnie is permanently erect..., a delightful condition in which to perform for his Mistress.

The nurse gently pats Johnnie’s buttocks, contemplating the pseudo scene of virility..., the long stiff shaft and the amazingly swollen testicles hanging almost to his knees.

Ironically, Johnnie’s penis has never penetrated the female vagina and..., with the cross piece jutting out an inch to each side of the tip..., it never will.

‘Tsk. Tsk.’ she thinks to herself. ‘ Well some males are just born to serve.’
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Casual_Reader · Nov 24, 2013

Another, more martial title by the same author, involves a skilled masturbatrix "helping" re-integrate prisoners of war into society:

I Welcome Her Nightly Visits (from Taming the Virile Male)

“I had many young men. And just like you every one of them not only stood so nicely for me but also watched so docilely while I stroked almost every night. Yes, they became very receptive to my touch. And when it came time for marriage, each made a wonderfully submissive husband, eager to perform the most demeaning and menial task in expectation of the soft, rewarding grip of a feminine hand. “Of course I had to teach their wives the proper technique. As you can imagine, every penis is a little different. But with experience, a woman learns to sense the desired manipulation... you know... a little twist at the top of the stroke... perhaps a little jiggle of the gonads. A man’s needs become rather obvious when being masturbated... no disguised emotions... no facade of disinterest.”

I humbly must listen and watch as this matronly woman, many years my senior, narrates and labors away. She fervently strokes my erect penis with a touch which can only be described as heavenly.

I would like to assist. My ingrained maleness tells me to gain control... to either reach down and finish the prolonged endeavor with one final climactic twist of my palm on the glans penis, or to reach around my tormentress’ rubber apron and beneath her starched white uniform to explore between her thighs and return the favor of her teasing sexual benevolence.

But alas, I can do neither. Twenty pounds of steel encumbers neck and wrists. Thus I sit in the mandated position on the small masturbation table, thighs obediently spread, back straight, trying my best to remain patient while the devilish woman has her way. As I have learned after many nights, it is she who is in control and I must, along with the abject humiliation, meekly absorb the indescribable and prolonged pleasure.

I deliberately allow my mind to wander, mentally cloaking the humiliation. I recall that as a teenager, among my male friends, the act of ejaculation was referred to as ‘pulling the trigger’. As I am stroked my imagination visualizes me holding a gun in one hand, my erect manhood in the other. Strangely I am unable to fire, waiting until this unctuous woman in white gives the command. The daydream is a peculiar mingling of sexual fantasy with my military training, unable to pull a trigger, brought on I am sure by the aggravation of weeks of confinement and the degradation of having my penis forcibly perform.

While the thrill of her touch so excites, the notion of her dominion so humiliates. With the conflicting emotions I have learned to divert my thoughts, however difficult that is. I know I must bear the frustration of unsatiated pleasure until the woman slips the fingers of her left hand into my rectum, moderates the angle of my engorged phallus and gives an ultimate twisting stroke to finally permit my essence to harmlessly explode into her rubber apron. She will then quite thoroughly milk my maleness of every drop, cooing embarrassing words of encouragement as firm fingers dutifully drain my organs. Such will gratefully respond and give all, my softening penis turning into a cow’s udder as the woman’s deft fingers squeeze from it every drop. Until that time, she knowingly keeps my erect penis bent downward, whimsically kneading, caressing and fondling, fully aware that the forced angle makes eruption impossible.

She is a master. And my initial resistance to her method of establishing control crumbled so quickly. Now, in a strange way... despite the price to be paid by my male psyche... I welcome her nightly visits.

Yes, I watch and listen like a puppy in training, in expectation of a tasty tidbit, awaiting with tail wagging for the next command... in my case permission to ignominiously display my constrained male virility in order to be bestowed with the treat of dousing her rubber apron with my sperm.

I try not to think about my beloved Mary during these mental ordeals. Her embrace, her kiss, the warmth of her flesh, the sound of her kittenish whimpers as my engorged manhood burrows into her sheath.

Though the derived pleasure of being with her is ironically comparable to that accorded by my masturbatrix, Mary’s attention is affectionate... so warm and loving. In my cell, though the physical touch consoles, it is sordid... clinical... a function akin to having a bowel movement.

No, I do not think of Mary.

Thus my diverted thoughts wander to that fateful night of conflict. There is no point in concentrating on my pending climax. It is her charge to determine when and how I will spill my seed. And when she deems my penis ready, it will perform for her like a trained circus animal. The night battle was fierce and seemingly quick. My company fought hard. The odds were against us. We were surrounded from the start. The element of surprise was apparently compromised by either good intelligence on the part of our opponents, bad luck or a breach of security on our side.

The enemy troops were firing at our parachutes and those of us who landed alive were not able to coordinate a viable defense. Most of our soldiers simply ran out of ammunition, the ability to locate dropped supplies curtailed by the barrage of mortars and machine gun fire.

Thus with an empty gun, I was captured along with countless others. And despite survival training, one can never be properly acclimated to the duress and mental supplication of being a prisoner.

Overall, the assault was a disaster. A cease-fire was arranged within hours and our President, re-election pending, chose to sweep all events under the carpet. The treatment of prisoners of war was not discussed in the subsequent treaty. The hastily drawn document addressed those elements that were deemed more pertinent to a successful election campaign than the humane treatment of losing soldiers.

Voters were not to be reminded of our futile effort. We were abandoned.

In being captured, survival school training suggested that I expect the worst. I was prepared for physical abuse in being questioned... interrogated as to battlefield tactics, communication codes, military objectives, etc. What followed was the opposite. The cease-fire brought a degree of nonchalance from our captors. No one asked a single question as we were herded into an old barn and made to sit in coldness for hours. And such should have been of concern to me. Normal processing requires that name, rank and serial number be divulged and then passed on to the International Red Cross. The fact that no data was assembled on the dozens of men from my company should have been the first warning.

We were to be among the ‘missing in action’ in my home country. There would be no inquiries as to our treatment as prisoners of war. We were not reported as being held captive, and after all, according to our ‘fearless’ leader, there was no war.

So we sat until sometime the following afternoon. Then the supervising captor became busy on his radio, speaking in the foreign tongue, which we, in happier times, used to mimic as rapidly spoken gibberish.

We mocked no more.

In heavy accented English, we were commanded to stand and line up. With numerous menacing machine guns targeted at our group, we were directed to remove our pants and underwear. Then a wizened grimy veteran strolled down the line and gruffly covered every head with a loose canvas hood. It seemed like we remained standing for hours until a brisk waft of cool air told me the barn door had opened. Then there was gibberish... most deferential gibberish... and then a woman’s voice!

In being so forcibly exposed to the opposite sex, every convention for the care of prisoners was violated.

What followed was a shocking introduction to our treatment. And I quickly learned that the conventions were meaningless.

“Keep your hands on your head at all times!” the accented voice commanded.

And so I stood. In the silence, rustling noises could be heard from my right. The woman’s voice sternly rang out ‘Nugat’... a word I knew to mean ‘No’.

Then more rustling and the words ‘Shriften une’... ‘this one’.

After several more proclamations, hands began toying with my genitals. In rolling my eyes downward, my lower peripheral vision and the loose hood permitted me to glimpse at dark, large but effeminate hands, one cupping my scrotum, the other stretching my flaccid penis. I squirmed and a soft accented woman’s voice demanded in English that I hold still. Then she began to stroke and I was shocked at the level of skill used to quickly bring my penis to full erection. Despite the cold... despite the strange circumstances... despite the adrenaline and high level of emotional fear... the hands worked me to full tumescence.

Then I hard a soft feminine chortle and the words ‘shriften une’. Wetness was felt on my right buttock.
Later I found that I was marked, a crude letter ‘X’ painted on my posterior.

That simple marking sealed my fate.
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Casual_Reader · Nov 24, 2013

Perhaps his most popular (certainly most excerpted work) involves a militantly femdom island society

Approaching the Island (Part One from Constancia Island)
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The phone rings. It quickly becomes apparent that I have overslept and the driver for my car ride to Lady Constance’s waiting boat has been imbibing coffee in the hotel lobby for 20 minutes.

I hurriedly shower, pack and scurry to the lobby. There, a very large native male greets me in a manner conducive to all I have met in the employ of the domineering Lady Constance. He bows and humbly rushes to take my luggage.

The ride is short and I am surprised when, instead of going to the island’s main marina, we veer onto a narrow road engulfed by tropical greenery. A casual passerby would overlook it as a pathway to a squalid native hut, but when we traverse a bend a guardhouse indicates otherwise. There is also a formidable fence, topped with strands of viciously sharp razor wire, which also serves to further suggest something other than squalor.

A huge guard, machine pistol in hand, nods to our driver and an automatic gate slides open. The auto eases forward and within a hundred yards or so the ocean comes into view, along with a long pier and several cinder block structures. The car stops in front of the furthest building. A door opens in response to the sound of the car. A very tall black woman steps into the Caribbean sunlight. It is Jasmine, the nurse and trainer for Lady Constance’s toy submissive, Boy.

She is casually attired. Normally, she is wearing her starched white uniform, but this morning a colorful sarong is wrapped about her muscular physique, making her appear as a native.

“Good morning, Doctor. I have signaled for the boat waiting off shore. It will be here in minutes. We try to minimize activity here during the day. Please come inside and wait.”

The driver hurriedly carries my luggage into the simple block building. On his way out he falls to his knees, reaches for Jasmine’s hand and obsequiously kisses it. He arises and closes the door after him.

My eyes slowly become accustomed to the lack of light. It is a magnificently accoutered room with a distinguished antique bar, heavy oak tables, large chairs, comfortable couches and thick dark wood paneling. It is an interesting juxtaposition to the stark, cinder block outer walls. There are no windows and a small crack under the exit door emits sunlight, which appears dazzlingly bright.

“We are equipped here for lengthy stays, should there be a sudden storm or other cause for delay. There is a bathroom should you need it and a small kitchen if you’d like coffee or refreshments.

“The other buildings are for supplies awaiting transfer to Constancia and of course holding pens for new arrivals.”

Although Jasmine is smiling, her description of the diabolical manner in which new males are stored for transport to the island is chilling. Treated more as cargo than human, I recall the coffin like boxes at the clinic, which I visited the day before. Comfortable but confining they provide an ineluctable chamber for the transportation of the human form.

Jasmine moves to the kitchen and returns with a pot of coffee and two cups. She pours and talks.

“You’d be amazed at how this little enclave bustles on some nights. The supply boat is only loaded in darkness and of course new recruits embark here. We release them from their travel box a day or so before moving them to the island. The sedatives wear off, we cut off the control rings and it’s easier if they get on and off the boat under their own power. Well secured wrists and a nice long whip ensures thorough compliance.”

Jasmine smiles broadly with the thought of herding like cattle the naked forms of young males.

We sip the hot brew in silence. I inquire about Boy.

“He’s very good, thank you, Doctor. Lady Constance decided to leave him in New York for this trip. The hotel has a deliciously devious sensory deprivation chamber. When we return he’ll be particularly eager to serve.”

The thought of the effeminate lad squirreled away in the hotel basement, lying in a dark room and/or floating in a deprivation tank, is provocative.

“But not to worry, Doctor. He’s in the care of a particularly dominant young specialist. A Russian woman thoroughly trained by the KGB in mind control. I suspect she’ll let him see daylight on occasion. She’s working to extend the ability of females to have control over his tumescence. You know Lady Constance likes to have him erect for lengthy periods. We understand the specialist has a very successful record of opening up to the influence of dominant females that portion of the submissive brain affecting the penis. I get goose bumps thinking about the results.”

The sound of a horn signals Jasmine that the boat is nearby. She suggests that it is time and returns the pot and cups to the kitchen. I stand and begin to pick up my travel cases.

“Those will be taken care of, Doctor. No guest lifts a hand on Constancia. Lady Constance insists.”

Jasmine opens the door and the bright sunlight is blinding. When my eyes adjust I can see the sleek shape of a very fast boat approaching the pier. It docks and a black woman steps off and waves. In her left hand is a small whip. She is dressed in a colorful sarong like Jasmine’s.

Jasmine returns the wave and steps onto the hardened crushed coral surface serving as the parking area for the buildings. I follow and we proceed to the pier.

“It’s Motamba. She runs the main house.”

Two naked Caucasian males appear from the cabin area of the boat. Motamba turns her head, barks a command and cracks her whip. The two instantly jump unto the pier, tie up the lines and run toward us. They are both totally naked but for various ornaments which glint in the sunlight.

“House boys,” Jasmine explains. “Tightly banded, to the point of essentially being eunuchs. But their oral skills are renowned amongst Lady Constance’s guests.”

I remain confused about the reference to ‘banding’, a procedure mentioned during my visit to the clinic in Germany. But I remain silent and observe. I am sure I will learn more over time.

As the naked males approach running at full pace, I notice their steps are somewhat awkward and when my eyes move downward I notice that their testicles are prominently displayed but remain somewhat motionless despite the hurried steps. Their flaccid penises swing to and fro and bands of metal encircle the shafts of pink flesh near the tip.

They rush past us and I turn to watch the well-formed buttocks strain to propel their young bodies up the slight incline to the building we have just left. Apparently, it is a race as Jasmine’s comments indicate.

“The loser will experience Motamba’s wrath. During daylight it is not good to delay the boat’s departure, therefore she encourages haste.”

We reach the boat and board. I look back to see one lad running at a good pace with my lighter bag. The other has been burdened with my heavy bag and will obviously be the loser as he struggles to run with it back to the pier.

With the house boys freely running about it becomes evident to me that the high fence surrounding the enclave serves two purposes: not only keeping the curious out but the servile bonded males in. Their freedom to move about being aberrant to any conduct I had observed among other charges under Lady Constance’s tutelage.

I visually examine the young male bearing my light bag as he joins us on the boat. He appears to be in his late teens, but I know from experience that smooth, depilated skin such as his can be deceptive in attempting to judge age. He is short in stature. The top of his head is at the height of Jasmine’s shoulder. His nipples are curiously pierced in a manner, which I have not before seen. Each nipple is exposed but completely surrounded by a circular metal shield, resembling a badge. It is obvious that this badge is attached to his chest by way of at least one and possibly two deep pins connected to one side of the metallic shield, penetrating under the sensitive nipple then connecting to the opposite circumference. The badge has eight points ending in small eyelets. The areolas are puffy, soft and quite effeminate in appearance. They remind me somewhat of Boy’s, where chastity and hormones transformed the organs into delightfully sensitive nubs, reacting to Lady Constance’s touch by obediently crinkling and standing in salute.

He stows my bag in the cabin and returns. Motamba snaps her fingers and he instantly places his hands on his head and stands with feet apart. His pose is well practiced and his stillness enables me to further inspect.

TO BE CONTINUED
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Casual_Reader · Nov 24, 2013

Approaching the Island (Part Two)

My gaze moves downward. A flaccid penis of larger than average length freely flops about, the steel band seeming to exaggerate its movements. His skin is pierced at each hip with what can only be described as rivets. It appears that a pinch of skin was gathered and several layers of epidermis penetrated by a small circular piece of steel the size of a coin. This metal disk is open in the middle and cords appearing to be elastic, run from these hip rivets to his scrotum. There, the pink bag is ringed by two moderately gauged bands of steel around the top of each testicle. The cords are secured to the scrotum bands serving to pull the testicles forward and apart. Jasmine notices my observation.

“Interesting, is it not, Doctor? The island is staffed with descendants of a certain African tribe, which is noted for body modifications. Lady Constance insists they be free to practice their skills. Their practices have modernized somewhat with the aid of a device that embeds metal rivets into the skin. The rivets are much less susceptible to tearing as with simple piercings.

“This is a typical configuration designed to best display and control the testicles. Each testicle band is sized to perfectly slip over the gonad with moderate pressure and is serrated on the inside to hinder attempts to slip it off. The cords pull the sac forward and separate the testicles for better viewing.

“Turn and bend.”

The naked youth obeys and his plump but muscular backside is displayed. Two more cords come to view.

“These serve to stretch and hold the sac while walking and running.”

Jasmine reaches down and gruffly pulls the lad’s scrotum back and up. The cords tighten. Two smaller steel rivets pierce the bottom left and right of the long pink bag. The two cords, also elastic, run from each rivet and terminate at piercings on the inside of each knee. Therefore the bottom of the scrotal sac is held downward and is pulled by the knee rivets with each step forward and back. The overall effect of the cords, bands and piercings is to stretch the scrotum into the shape of a large letter “W” with the knee cords pulling it downward and also separating the sac into two sections, each encasing a testicle.

The second naked youth arrives and struggles to lift my bag. The moment his foot leaves the pier Motamba turns to the control panel and starts the engines. She claps her hands and the two naked forms jump to release the lines and free the boat for its journey.

Having a clearer perception of the various modifications, I now watch with interest as the young males move and the elastic cords pull their hairless scrotums, producing a most lascivious display of the male organs. But the metal band encircling the penis just below the tip remains unexplained.

Motamba expertly guides the boat away from the dock and through coral reefs. We soon reach open water. There she pushes the throttles well forward and begins to relax. Jasmine disappears into the cabin. When she returns, her sarong has disappeared and she is naked but for a small patch of cloth loosely dangling over her pubes from a string around her waist.

I find myself staring for a moment. Her physique is incredibly muscular. She has the appearance of a professional body builder with huge muscles that flex and roll with every movement. Her torso displays the characteristic ripples of abdominal muscles which have been toned to perfection.

Her arms are large as are her thighs. When I interviewed her in New York she described herself as being 6 foot and 180 pounds. Her weight exemplifies the adage that muscle weighs more than fat, the latter of which is undetectable.

Her perfectly rounded, brown breasts are large and firm. The advanced muscle development causes the nipples to point straight out and the body of each mammary is so firm as to remain motionless as she moves about the boat. She smiles under my gaze.

“We don’t wear much clothing on Constancia, Doctor. The climate is warm and the sun feels so good.”

Motamba trims the controls and steps back. She signals lad number two, the porter of my heavy bag, who promptly presents himself, hands obsequiously placed atop his head.

“You’ll run faster for me next time.”

With her admonishment, Motamba cruelly twists the metal badges encircling the youth’s nipples. The right is turned clockwise, the left counterclockwise. The lad yelps in pain as she then retrieves a small chain from her pocket and connects the two utilizing the eyelets. This holds the twisted badges in place, and judging from the youth’s grimacing face, greatly irritates the nipples, which are also twisted.

She then tenderly pats his head and pushes him away, returning her attention to navigation. Tears slowly form, but the hands remain on the teenager’s head and he stoically stands with feet well parted.

Meanwhile I sit in the rear of the boat taking in the breathtaking beauty of the Caribbean. The morning sun is surprisingly strong with our proximity to the equator and after weeks of experiencing a dreary New York winter, I am grateful for the change and in particular for the warmth.

Jasmine appears amazingly relaxed with her nudity in the company of the two males. It seems she indeed considers them to be the equivalents of eunuchs and she beckons to both. They obediently step forward and stand before her. She gently reaches to their heads and guides their faces down to her breasts. Without a word, each dutifully opens his mouth and begins to suckle. Jasmine smiles with the pleasure. It is the feeling of the supple tongues? The power? The control? The warm air blowing over her naked form? She becomes enthralled and closes her eyes as the well-trained young males exhibit assiduous oral skills.

After a few minutes, she pushes their heads down further. Number one licks her thighs and works his tongue up until the small patch of cloth rests on his forehead. Number two licks her naked buttocks, the pain of his chastised nipples not deterring him from what is a well conditioned response to Jasmine’s prompts. He circles to her rear and a lengthy tongue plies the crevice of her muscular cheeks. It works its way in and Jasmine parts her legs and grasps one of the boat’s structural supports for balance.

The two subservient naked males work deeper and Jasmine moans with the combined pleasure of cunnilingus and analingus.

I recall that when I interviewed her in New York, she described her clitoris as outsized and I envision the young male tenderly wrapping his lips around it and rhythmically sucking the hardening pink nub into his mouth. Meanwhile, number two kneels and positions his head directly between Jasmine’s thighs from his position behind her.

“Yes, thrust that tongue in, lap it all up.

“As you know, Doctor, Lady Constance insists that all her charges be well imbued with oral skills. These two work together very nicely. Their tongues intertwine and don’t miss a drop of nectar.”

It is quite the display of subservience. A most powerful female basking in the warmth of the Caribbean and the glow of multiple orgasms, verbally spurring two naked, servile and chaste young males to ardently apply their tongues and bring her to even higher levels of pleasure.

I watch, unable to take notes with the motion of the boat and the rushing air. Both penises remain flaccid and the lower cords of the kneeling youths are somewhat taut, pulling the long scrotal sacs down and into better view.

Eventually, a verdant strip of land comes over the horizon. The low coral island is punctuated by a ‘bump’ on the highest stretch of land. As we get closer it becomes evident that it is a windmill. Not of the ancient wooden kind found in Holland but new and shiny. Mostly it is built of steel or some alloy and topped by a huge propeller.

Motamba guides the boat directly toward the obelisk, using it as a point of navigation. Closing in on our destination, she slows the boat and Jasmine pushes away the head of number one and closes her thighs on number two. The insatiable, puissant nurse has been the recipient of oral service for the entire 45 minute trip. Her bright smile acknowledges some level of pleasure, but more akin to that received from a fine glass of wine or an exotic dessert. The intense feelings of the multiple orgasms have been swallowed up in the cortex of her brain and her outward appearance of calm indicates that incredibly attentive oral service is merely a daily regimen.

In a demonstration of extension training, both lads briefly return to their endeavors to carefully lick all traces of feminine excitement from her pudendum, thighs and buttocks. They remind me of kittens playfully and tenderly licking the fur of mother cat.

When they finally withdraw, the small, loose patch of cloth returns to its function of protecting Jasmine’s false modesty, only it now reveals a small protuberance where the large excited clitoris remains engorged by number one’s laborious oral ministration.
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Pink Flamingo excerpts - Pony Play, Edging, and a lot of Femdom

Casual_Reader Long term member

Casual_Reader Long term member

Casual_Reader Long term member

Casual_Reader Long term member

Casual_Reader Long term member