Miss Elizabeth's Captive By Chris Bellows
The Application of the Stockholm Syndrome
How does a woman, drawn as a young girl to the erotic power of Dominance over the male, satiate her lifetime need for control?
In another provocative story from the demented mind of Chris Bellows, she replicates the phenomenon so broadly debated and discussed amongst noted psychologists, the Stockholm Syndrome.
Sam, a successful investment banker, is lured into a spider's web of sexual intrigue. The bait is an ingenue named Jamie...or is it Jami? Despite Sam becoming fully aware of the process, Miss Elizabeth, a wealthy female sexual predator, is always one step ahead of him. She first fosters his sexual appetite for the bizarre then gradually increases her control of his psychological, physical and financial needs.
Consummate devotion is what she demands, an unquestioning sex toy is what she receives. Her male beast is mentally captured and isolated. He perceives no escape and is threatened with the loss of employment and the curtailment of sexual pleasure. Yet, all the while, Miss Elizabeth graciously bestows on him trivial kindnesses. However insignificant, such indulgences lead to his subservience, despite the captive's full knowledge of his plight.
We dare not reveal more of the intricate story line but assure the Chris Bellows? fan that the author has not relented in the continuing efforts to pen unique stories with unusual plots. Heavy bondage, suspension, caning, anatomical modifications, engaging medical scenes, piercings, restrainment, public displays, enemas and forced chastity will entertain the Chris Bellows aficionado in this intriguing tale.
As always with Chris Bellows, this book is not for the timid reader of romance and should not be selected as one's first foray into D/s erotica.
“The floggings, Liz. Tell me about the floggings.”
As with my questions weeks ago about her knowledge of circumcision, once again she paused, encircling the base of my shaft and kneading my testicles with the aplomb I came to expect.
“Weekly events in the Palace Square. Crime in my country is limited and there is very little recidivism. Once a man has had a taste of the whip there is rarely a return to transgression. But there is enough first time thievery to make for an entertaining afternoon. And whereas most times the men are poor, old and unsightly, on occasion there would be a young male worthy of special consideration. At first Mother only had me watch the actual flogging. But when I got older, she took me to the preparation room where the prisoner was stripped and put into a yoke. Heavy wood planks about the neck and wrists.”
Her left hand moved from my scrotum to my shoulder and smoothed across to my throat to demonstrate her point.
“I had not before realized that one element considered meaningful to the procedure was the humiliation. So after being yoked, the prisoner is forced to drink much water. I suppose there are medical reasons for such in encountering the possibility of shock, but Mother explained that with the searing pain, the prisoner’s bladder would eventually open. And that of course so much added to the trauma…urinating uncontrollably in the Square before the watching throng.”
“How old were you Liz? It would seem to be rather shocking for a young girl to watch such events.”
“Yes, I suppose it was. But Mother so much enjoyed herself. She assumed I would also.”
Liz’s right hand remained steady, seeming to know that Little Sam needed a respite. She stared at the far wall in reflection.
“My first viewing was when I was 8 or 9.”
“And did you, Liz? Did you enjoy it?”
Another pause. There was a bump against the swinging door leading to the kitchen. The soft glow of the fire momentarily yielded to the harsh florescent lights of the kitchen.
Jamie entered with a tray of coffee. As I moved to right my clothing, Liz held firmly to my erection inhibiting any effort to zipper myself. She smiled.
“There is no need for modesty, Sam.”
Liz was correct. Jamie had shorn himself of the garb. No red silk blouse. No short satin slacks. And as he gracefully tiptoed toward us, the absence of the odd sandals became evident. The suspected nipple piercings were confirmed, each pink nub was speared by a oversized gold bar, some three inches in length. Diamonds on each end prohibited the decorative shards from slipping from his pink flesh. The gems highlighted a hairless chest and appeared to match the flashes of glitter emanating from his pierced ears.
Jamie wore expensive jewelry. And shifting my eyes to a prideful Liz, I knew from whence the opulence came.
I looked back to the lad’s mid section, seeking to confirm his maleness. After all, the penetrating gold bars caused his nipples to be puffed, presenting feminine attributes which would require a young girl to don a training bra. My visual examination was impeded by small patch of cloth, later identified as a folded napkin, draped over his pubes and hanging from a decorative golden chain encircling his waist. With each approaching step the clicking sound, barely heard during dinner, became more discernible, no longer muffled by the covering layer of black satin.
“Put the tray here, Jamie.”
Liz pointed with her left hand, her right embarrassingly gripped about an engorged Little Sam and seeming to wave it about enticingly before Jamie. And our servant, my hermaphroditic new acquaintance, seemed mesmerized by the display of the fully erect phallus.
Yes, Jamie smiled with a coyness which could only be described as effeminate, seeming to be as bashful as a school girl, yet never taking his eyes from the purple head of Little Sam.
And I was startled by Liz’s reaction when she shook my phallus, seeming to offer its hardened girth as one would offer a scrap of meat to a hungry dog.
“You’re not getting anything until Mr. Sam inspects, Jamie. You know how I feel about your misplaced shyness.”
Liz seemed to be referring to the folded napkin, the only covering the hairless figure wore. It was easy for Liz to make the demand. She remained fully clothed while I sat with Little Sam pointing toward the ceiling watching the near naked form of a boy with a shape which could only be compared to that of a ballerina.
Jamie’s smile remained but turned to a forced pleasantness as he placed the serving tray on the low table before us. As his right hand gripped the piping hot silver pitcher of coffee and his left held a priceless china cup, Liz reached out and slowly pulled away the napkin, the only covering which cloaked the evidence of Jamie’s gender and slyly inhibited final identification as boy or girl.
The sight beneath caused me to sit upright, bringing an uncharacteristic giggle from Liz and newly found bashfulness from Jamie.
There in the glow of the firelight was revealed why Liz had teasingly returned my question, ‘What is it about Jamie that I like.’ Liz preempted my words of awe.
“Yes, Jamie’s been fixed...just like a puppy.”