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Taming the Virile Male

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Taming the Virile Male by Chris Bellows

Captured in a failed invasion attempt, is a young military officer. Is he interrogated for his knowledge of communication codes, battlefield tactics and military secrets?

No, in this setting, a strange tropical monarchy, he is subjected instead to the whim of the Princess and her Dominant cohorts. Examined, selected and most humiliatingly restrained naked by female jailers, the Captain endures an unusual barrage of psychological and physical tests in which he is deprived of all control and coerced into revealing the deepest and most lascivious events of his adolescence.

The results? He is deemed acceptable to serve. And the Princess anoints him as a birthday present for her daughter, finally coming of age and deemed to be ready for a plaything of her very own. First, however, certain alterations need to be performed to ensure complete subjugation. And of course the daughter, as an aspiring artist, has an agenda of her own in creating a portrayal of an ancient tradition... the taming of the symbolically virile male.

Intense bondage, forced chastity, CBT, caning, and whipping, bring the reader into the environment of this strange tropical monarchy. But the Captain’s past, serving as beast of burden for the strict daughter of a friend, imbues him with the psychological attributes needed to serve.

Chris Bellows has once again woven a tale of plot, memorable characters, unsurpassed depravity and ironic ending for the aficionado of D/s literature.

This story line entails intense body modification and should be read only by the most enthusiastic readers of D/s erotica.


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“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.

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