Exposed, Vulnerable...and Perplexed
by Chris Bellows, Femdom bdsm
"What I want from you is your life story. Every detail. And I suspect you’ll soon be singing like a choir boy,” his interrogator tells him. Assessing his position, Mr. Davies is likely to agree.

Copyrighted © 2008, all rights reserved.

“Your nurses are all from a small Pacific Island near the Samoa Islands... in case you’re wondering.”

       The voice is calm yet direct. The woman is in charge, that is evident, though oddly I can envision her in recent years leading a team of high school cheerleaders. Yes, her confidence belies her youth... and her extreme good looks. And her beauty serves to intensify the distress over my situation.

       I am strapped supine to a plank. And I am without a stitch of clothing.

       “How do you feel?”

       In any other setting the question would be comically superfluous.

       “Why?” is my simple response. “Why am I here?”

       The woman nods to the Samoan nurse, though she is not Samoan but from an island near Samoa. A white uniformed arm reaches forth and an olive-skinned hand pulls a pin on the edge of the board. She pushes. The bottom edge lowers, the top edge rises and with a click the hinged board is reset so that I am presented more upright, afforded a direct view of the woman who will question me…but also presented more exposed.

       Alluring indeed. My interlocutor sits with perfect posture in a straight back chair, her legs crossed just as proper young ladies are taught in charm school. Professionally attired, yet the conservative pantsuit cannot disguise what my gaze extrapolates to be a trim yet well formed figure.

       “I’ll ask the questions, Mr. Davies,” comes her firm rejoinder.

       The nurses don’t speak, though I know they understand English. So I have been afforded no information since my... well I guess it’s termed rendition. Instead I have for an interminable period lied well strapped to this board. A large hole under my buttocks offers opportunity to empty my bowels. But with the near constant supervision such is most embarrassing. The small olive hands also assist with spoon feeding, tasteless mush, as well as urination, holding my penis to assure neatness. Once or twice per day, if I am accurately judging the time, each limb is one by one released, permitted momentary movement, and most gratefully massaged. I am also sponged bathed, shaved... every square inch of my body... and coated with a light viscous oil. A steel collar encircles my neck. But most embarrassing of all, besides being left totally naked to be sponge bathed and massaged by cute young nurses, a smaller loop of steel snugly encircles my scrotal sac. No explanation was offered for its presence until, during my second massage, I stupidly resisted in returning my wrist to the waiting fur lined cuff secured to the side of the board.

       That is when I felt the extremity of the first shock. The scrotal ring can deliver searing voltage to an anatomical area where a man prefers to feel nothing more than tender feminine caress. Thereafter I limply allowed the nurses to quietly complete their chores, moving not a muscle and obviously offering no resistance. Shaving, bathing, massaging... and as noted assuring that my penis is properly aligned to relieve my bladder.

       “How do you feel?” the voice more forcefully repeats.

       “Exposed, vulnerable... and perplexed,” I meekly reply.

       “It is intended that you feel vulnerable. Such extreme exposure imparts such thoughts. But perplexed? Why would an operative feel perplexed when he is subjected to interrogation?”

       “I am not an operative. I sell machine tools.”

       The woman smiles demurely.

       “That’s what I want to know more about. And you’re going to tell me.”

       “Who are you?”

       “I ask the questions, remember, Mr. Davies.”

       With the snippy reply the woman’s hand rises. In it is an all too familiar black remote control device. The right thumb presses. Just as I felt when I stubbornly resisted returning my wrist to its waiting cuff, there comes a tingling which grows to a jolt and then an eruption of pain. It emanates this time from my neck and seems to creep up my spine to explode in my cerebral cortex. Just as with my scrotal ring, my neck collar is electrified. I lurch within my bonds hearing the soft chuckle from the woman zinging with her black remote.

       “I can activate the other ring as well, Mr. Davies,” the now more authoritative voice offers as I feel a very moderate zing within my testicles. “But I prefer to save that for occasions of extreme truculence... which I suspect I will not encounter. Or when I want to be entertained.”

       The woman arises. My eyes involuntarily inspect, my nerves calming.

       Yes, alluring indeed. Curves where a woman is best curved, an angelic face, the beauty of which an overly plain hair style cannot disguise. More appropriately dressed... or rather undressed... she would be the object of male fantasy.

       “We’ll talk again. In time you will be eager to speak to me.”

       “Am I to be waterboarded?” I inquire in apprehensively breaking her mandate of no questions.

       She laughs. I ask because of the nature of my bindings. With the plank capable of tilting, returning me to the supine position then lowering the upper edge just a little more, my form of restraint would enable the perfect angle for pouring the eponymous liquid over my towel covered nose and mouth.

       “Waterboarding is too quick, Mr. Davies. What I want from you is your life story. Every detail. And I suspect you’ll soon be singing like a choir boy.”

       Her smug look, her threatening words, bring goose bumps of fear. She notices. But most embarrassingly, she notices something else.

       “An interesting attribute of uncircumcized men, Mr. Davies. Sometimes latent fears... and latent desires... cannot be veiled. That’s why I prefer a man to be stripped naked. It can be amusingly telling.”

       With her irritatingly impolitic and intimate observation, her arm extends and the smooth black surface of the remote control sensuously grazes the underside of my penis. Her brief action is a deriding tease. In my lower gaze I can construe the gist of her reference. Despite the extreme embarrassment, despite the pain of her quick application of wattage, the tip of my penis has popped from its sheath. For some reason my appendage finds stimulation and I am chagrined to also find enjoyment in the ephemeral action of her hand. She knows the male anatomy... ever so briefly brushing where a man covets feminine attention.

       She chuckles again in retracting the device. I do not like her... but then again I do. Her form pleases, her demeanor irritates.

       “We’re going to get along just fine... as soon as you better understand your circumstances... and the rules.”

       She speaks as the pin is pulled and the Samoan nurse of some 100 pounds facilely returns my 200 plus pound frame to lie supine.

 ***

        I know from my worldly reading that my manner of restraint is a more humane form of a Chinese torture termed the ‘tiger board’. Those shackled to it are never released... except when it is time for execution. But with the attentive care of the bevy of Samoan nurses, who are not really from Samoa, I am certainly better off than those yearning for the final relief of death.

       Soft but extremely secure cuffs offer thorough immobility but relative comfort. Same with the institutional straps which bind thighs, waist and biceps. Curiously, the bondage is overly thorough... sending a message. Helplessness... vulnerability... exposure... as expounded. The fact that a mere woman can make me writhe in agony with the press of her thumb is disconcerting. Studies have shown that in many ways women are more tolerant of pain... and can be thus more apt to dispense it. 

       Yet, if I remain obedient, there is no application of electricity. And so I lie in tedium, grateful to be bathed and massaged but never becoming accustomed to relieving myself under the guidance of a young feminine hand. As stated, the nurses do not talk and I have learned to empty myself on their schedule not mine... holding my urges until a repository is offered.

       Bowel movements are easier, a receptacle positioned directly below the opening where my cheeks protrude through the board... though the plunk of excrement can bring shame... as well as the subsequent feel of a wiping hand. 

       For how long do I lie? And who is this woman who governs in such youthful authority?

 ***

        The bright lighting in the windowless room is never doused. Instead sleep is encouraged when a nurse merely enshrouds my head with a thick cloth hood. The cycles seem sporadic. Sometimes the hood remaining in place for what I judge to be lengthy intervals. Other times it seems I have barely shut my eyes before one of the pretty Samoans whisks away the dark cloth covering.

       Whatever the timing, I know that when the stab of light greets my eyes the receptacle will be offered and I know to empty myself. Failure to do so means either uncomfortably lying for an inordinate period awaiting the next opportunity or wetting myself. And though the nurses are constantly in attendance, they make me lie in my own excretions as punishment for not relieving myself at their behest.

       Thus I am essentially being potty trained and know that with the removal of the hood a tender brown hand will hold my penis, knowingly slip back the foreskin and align the tip with the collection vessel.

       How many days did it require for me to become so obeisant I do not know. But I do know that lying in urine and begging to be cleansed is not the appropriate option for demonstrating disobedience.

       With relative seclusion, the nurses rarely speaking a word, with the extreme bondage, being presented naked to such nubile femininity, I can feel my hormone levels rise. The tender fingers drawing back my foreskin for urination become a catalyst. I can feel my organ begin to firm as a tissue dabs away the final droplets. When controlling hands begin to lather me for shaving my tumescence continues. By the time the warm hands palpate my scrotal sac and the sharp blade of the straight edged razor begins to scythe the stubble of pubic hair, I am completely erect. My penis tip, bulbous and purple, unsheathes to proudly display itself as the nurse ignores my embarrassing condition and dutifully shaves.

       During the subsequent sponge bath I remain fully erect and the nurse shows no reaction in dabbing away prostatic fluid which streams down my turgid shaft. On one occasion, when my right arm was freed for its massage, I made a motion in attempting to please myself and bring relief from my most shameful condition. It was then that I once again found how quick and easily the ubiquitous remote control device can discourage disobedience. Yes, the nurse applied a memorable jolt to my scrotal ring and I immediately knew to let my arm go limp and acquiesce to her kneading hands.

       And so I become a pile of flesh, mine yes, but ceding all dominion to my bevy of pretty nurses. And I just lie in thought.

       Why am I here?