The Constancia Compendium

My free hand checks the penis. It’s incredibly stiff and just as Luana reported, Mr. Dalton is leaking like an old faucet. Clear viscous fluid pours from the urethra. Well that will be corrected.

Next comes the penis control stick. While the thumb of my right hand is still free, I place the stick on Mr. Dalton’s thighs just at the crease of the buttocks and capture it with the thumb. Then I ready myself for the cries of anguish and bend back the stiff penis. He lurches and yelps but I ignore his entreaties and wedge the middle of the shaft over the control stick. The force of his very tumescence presses the stick against the back of his thighs. When I remove my hand the dowel stays in place, with the penis cruelly pointing in a most uncomfortable direction...downward.

“It’s difficult I know...we’ll try to work quickly.”

I lie of course. I am giddy with the feeling of power and wish to bask in it all morning. With the penis so positioned, Mr. Dalton cannot possibly ejaculate...no matter what. That’s another anatomical fact not highlighted in nursing school but certainly utilized to great advantage on Constancia Island.

So now I can work him open with impunity. ‘No unintended climax for Mr. Dalton...that’s illegal,’ I humorously remind myself.

While working in my pinky finger to join the others, I position the specimen dish under the penis with my free hand. I will capture his essence for examination at the Island’s laboratory. We take very good care of our males and no expense is spared to ensure a long and healthy life of abject servitude.

No sooner done then a sizable dollop of prostatic ooze slowly drips to the dish.

‘Oh yes, Mr. Dalton. You are full indeed,’ I think with a smug smile.

I curl under my thumb and push. It could be painful...it does not matter. This is a clinical procedure that must be done. My hand slides inward. I can feel the mushy gland, much larger than the walnut size of one that’s utilized regularly.

Well, we’ll take care of that.

I diddle, rotate, and wriggle ignoring the pitiful cries. Poor Mr. Dalton so much wants me to withdraw…then he beseeches me to massage more firmly and do so while stroking his manhood. So fickle. Meanwhile the dripping turns to a constant oozing and the specimen dish fills. So full...so swollen...yet so reluctant to yield.

Time is not important when milking the male. Results are. Once my hand is inserted there is no rush, despite the level of humiliation and strange arousal of having the most intimate male gland so capriciously kneaded. So I wile away, working my fingers and listening to Mr. Dalton’s pleas turn to low moans. It happens often with the submissive male...first disbelief, then begging, then reluctant acceptance of the female’s superior and knowing hand.

The ooze turns cloudy indicating that I have struck pay dirt. Sperm. I have overridden the ejaculatory process and massaged the devilish substance from the ampulla. He’s done. Well milked though embarrassed and sore.

“We’re going to do this once per month whether you need it or not,” I suggest with a sardonic smile and a girlish giggle.

I slowly withdraw.

The contents of the specimen dish are removed and sealed in an airtight container to be sent to the lab.

“Bath time.”

Chapter Twenty Seven

Dr. Corrothers

Mr. Dalton has been with us for some six weeks. With the steady injections of Thorazine, being forced to work under the whip hand of Luana, hours and hours of severe bondage, the random and debilitating electro stimulation, mentally he is not much more than putty.

Jasmine has him lying blindfolded on his back, wrists secured over his head, legs straight up towards the ceiling and parted to form a wide ‘V’. She tightened everything to the point that he cannot move an inch. And one can recognize her touch, so to speak, by the smaller cords...restraining and stretching the scrotum and his tongue. And the tension on each restraint is impressive. She is very strong and without compunction in tormenting the male.

To ensure his hours and hours of discomfort, Jasmine has a cord running from the ceiling to his nose bridle, which forces him to hold his head just an inch or two from the floor. The soft rubber surface so tantalizingly beckons him to lower his head to the floor to relax his neck muscles...except the pain of the nose bridle with the small posts inserted right up into his sinuses would overwhelm.

So Nurse Katani has throughout the night granted momentary relief every hour or so by doing something as simple as cradling his head for a few seconds to relieve the tension from the nose cord. For that she has been trained to extract a psychological toll, of course. Cajoling our obsequious Mr. Dalton further down a path of complete capitulation...softly speaking very carefully scripted words to which he cannot reply...his tongue remains clamped.

Words such as...‘You seem to be suffering so...but you’re erect, Mr. Dalton. Why are you so aroused?’

Another suggested phrase...‘Would you rather be with Miss Luana, perhaps? Straining in the hot sun and under her whip...proudly showing off your erect penis?’

He cannot answer, but the comments and questions plant seeds for the growth of certain thoughts. We also like to control those on Constancia Island.

So I quietly stand over the naked and supine Mr. Dalton. Nurse Katani has removed the electrical apparatuses, assured that his bladder is empty and his bowels have moved then nicely given him his sponge bath. His penis stands impressively. I have seen this so often on the naturally submissive male...the system is so overpowered by the physical and mental dominance of the women of our facility that reactions which others would deem unusual we see every day.

It is time for the next phase. His tongue is ready, his scrotum is agreeably stretched...the chart indicates we’ve lengthened it three inches in six weeks...and he’s as obedient as a loyal dog.

He has probably heard me enter but has no way of acknowledging my presence. And sometimes even with the gnawing and slowly building pain, the flow of endorphins will allow the severely trussed male to enter a dreamlike state. That’s why he’s massaged regularly throughout the night. He thinks Nurse Katani is offering kindness, whereas actually her nimble hands are not only restoring circulation but also resetting his tolerance level to the pain...back to zero...permitting the suffering to begin again.

So I nudge his stretched scrotal sac with the toe of my boot. He stirs and winces since the slightest of movements tensions his nose cord.