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 Tagged by Chris Bellows

Lionel Hobsworth Middleton, in public life a banker to the privileged and the wealthy, leads a secretive private life of sexual perversion. Secretive except to the woman who nurtures his addiction and who chooses to film it.

Sadomasochism is in full color high definition. Lionel, serving as “Leroy the boy” on weekends, finds he has entered a relationship with no limits. Governess Elsa revels in the artistry of cinematography and shares her talent in a most unique manner. She informs Lionel that he will be “tagged” so that his fans will be able to scan his tattoo with their Smartphone’s to watch his canings, suspension and whatever other torture the wicked Elsa can devise. Nothing is private once he steps into her apartment. There is always a camera pointed at him. Even while he is prepped by having his entire body shaved, during humiliating enemas and as Nurse Hopkins constructs a chastity device with piercings and cable ties, Lionel is constantly recorded.

As the library of debauchery grows, Lionel finds he on a course of depravity he cannot reverse. When his personal assistant, Miss Teasdale receives a cryptic piece of mail with his “tag” on it, he lives in fear of her discovery behind its true meaning. If the prestigious firm of J. Covington and Associates were to find out about his surreptitious lifestyle they would fire him immediately; there are things that are just not done at a banking firm.

When Heather Covington, granddaughter of J. Covington, takes Lionel on a business trip to Arkansas, he learns she knows all about his degeneracy into the BDSM world. She shows him her favorite videos from the site, and compliments his mistress on her editing abilities so only Lionel’s identity is known. Dreading losing his job, he submits to Heather immediately. Taking him to a property they are handling in a business venture, she shows him how to be a proper pony boy and rides him bareback.

As more people learn of Elsa’s videos online, Lionel lives with constant anxiety of the wrong people discovering the truth about his being “tagged” and what it really means. Corporal punishment, bondage, sensory deprivation, intense medical scenes, humiliation, dog training, pony play, there is nothing the governing women of Lionel’s life will not subject him to, including the ultimate male sacrifice.

Classic Chris Bellows... D/s erotica with a thoughtful story line and intriguing ending.

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“Tattoos are permanent... somewhat.”
I sound so wimpy. What is intended to be a manly protest, words leading to a staunch refusal, instead squeak forth as a futile plea. I don’t often talk to Elsa. The relationship has been one in which I listen and obey. Occasional weekends serving as houseboy... naked of course. With some ‘curves’ as Elsa suggests. Different, kinky, everything with Elsa has an angle.
“Keeps a man on his toes,” she whimsically suggested on one Saturday afternoon in announcing another surprise.
I was... kept on my toes... strung from her ceiling in rather thorough, leisurely applied yet tight bondage... for so many hours.
And so there comes another ‘angle’... this announcement that she wants me tattooed.
“You’ll not remove it, if that’s what you’re thinking to comfort yourself, Leroy my boy. Remember the videos. Lots to show for boys who are disobedient.”
Every dominant woman knows to apply or offer some form of control beyond the physical. After all, you cannot keep the submissive male in ropes and chains forever... least not in modern times. And it is more fun to toy... cat and mouse... anointing the submissive male with some freedom... thus making the weekends and evenings of abject servitude special after enduring days of laboring in the vanilla world. But there must remain some form of mental governance.
For Elsa, her form of control is a myriad of video recordings... of me... soaking up what the submissive male psyche calls out for in desperation... the need for the controlling touch... the smooth commanding voice... the firm yet calm savoir faire of she who governs.
In a fog of bliss, I wordlessly permitted Elsa, quite the artsy film editor; to record the many interludes of servitude, each one more bizarre than the next... at least that would be the presumed reaction should the world outside of her apartment-turned-dungeon ever have opportunity to view.
The horror of potential disclosure struck me one day, in reading of some politician having to resign from office after grainy videos of a sordid hotel tryst with an expensive hooker were released. It was then that I realized the weekend encounters could be career ending. It was then that I better understood Elsa’s glee in having me watch her productions. Yes, the level of her authority finally dawned.
I thought it was self pride in her ability to produce Hollywood quality video and audio of lurid scenes of D/s that offered her joy. Instead it was smugness in having me so deeply hooked. Demanded visits to her lair could not be refused
She never appeared before the camera... at least not in any of the final, well edited versions. That should have been a clue.
My name, by the way, is not Leroy. It is Lionel. Lionel Hobsworth Middleton. But when with Elsa, I am Leroy the boy.
“Tattoos are not stylish among private bankers,” another futile form of protest, knowing that part of the game is to have me working and earning... so I can lavish her with.... well with whatever she desires. We both know not to impinge on the vast income stream I earn for assuring the well being of wealthy widows.
Elsa smiles warmly... wickedly... knowingly. Indeed, if cats could smile, I often imagine just such a facial expression as in mordant jest a nimble paw bats about the condemned mouse.
“I will want it here,” tapping the back of my neck. “It will be quite colorful.”
I am naked of course... as always in her presence. And her finger circles an area which would be below the neck line of even the briefest shirt, such as worn when playing tennis or golf. And just where a mother cat totes her kittens... at the scruff.
“It will be quite prominent when nude. You’ll just not be showering when the clubhouse is crowded... unless you want to show off your tag.”
“Yup. From Microsoft. Quite the clever system.
“Yours will look similar to this. Only larger.”
Elsa points to an advertisement in a magazine placed on the kitchen table. Imprinted in the lower right hand corner is a small box of triangular shapes... colorful indeed.
“It’s a scanning code. More sophisticated than the bar codes on consumer products.”
Elsa aims and aligns her iPhone, pressing a button. The camera’s flash lights up. Then she hands me the device. The advertisement is for flour, and onto the small screen comes a video. A pleasant homemaker, standing in a kitchen, extols the virtues of the product. The Madison Avenue production then continues and there comes a demonstration of a recipe for baking cookies... to be comprised of the bespoken brand of flour. A quality production.
“The tag takes the iPhone into a YouTube video. Slick and seamless, don’t you think?”
I must nod in agreement. Formerly it would cost hundreds of thousands of dollars to advertise the product in such a manner on television.
“I think two inches square should be large enough and not overly challenge the tattooist. The diagram has to be somewhat precise. I registered and downloaded yours yesterday. And I have already linked it to the URL.”

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