Miss Elizabeth's Captive

Meanwhile, Nurse Stenson arrived every Tuesday. She began with Jamie and ended with me. She performed an examination which included the most humiliating procedures, particularly in demanding that I masturbate for her, or attempt to do so, and insisting that I describe in very detailed fashion what and how I felt. She found the slowly mounting frustration to be amusing, smiling as my hand would finally give up in a combination of tiredness and boredom. In stroking myself, little penile sensation was felt and something stirred deep within my loins but never resulted in a discharge of semen. I could not ejaculate, as Dr. Wilson had so mindfully explained.

A blood sample was taken to test my hormone levels and of course the obligatory testosterone injection ended every session.

On the third such examination, Nurse Stenson announced that my testicle rings had been finished. She held up implements of stainless steel shaped somewhat like the figure ‘8' only one loop was more than twice the size of that adjacent to it.

“Precision-made to your measurements, Sam. And they match you neck collar. Relax for me.”

Nurse Stenson jostled my scrotal sac as her fingers sought to isolate my right testicle. Then she pushed and prodded firmly as the larger of the loops was slipped over the gonad. Next a frighteningly large set of pliers was retrieved, looking more like bolt cutters. I cringed as she placed the ring in the teeth. I was reminded of watching an animal show on television where bulls were being castrated using something termed a burdizzo...really nothing more than a similarly large set of pliers used to permanently crush the nerves, ducts and vessels sustaining the testicles.

“Hold still,” she forewarned.

Using both hands, she slowly closed the teeth. I was frightened, and she stopped momentarily.

“Just enough to crimp the loop. See, it won’t slip off.”

The left testicle was also ringed and crimped and I found her to be most correct. Though oddly comfortable, there was no way the rings, bent to a more oblong shape, could be slipped off my scrotum.

Nurse Stenson found a cord and threaded it through the two small open loops on each figure eight ring.

“Keep your hands on your head now,” she politely demanded.

As with every examination, my hands never wavered from remaining so submissively placed unless instructed to move them for such procedures as the futile attempt at masturbation.

“Come.”

With the command came a tug on the cord. I followed my ringed balls as Nurse Stenson playfully pulled me about the room, testing to ensure that the circles of steel had been properly reshaped and could not be lid off. The level of tension applied on the cord while the rings steadfastly remained in place was impressive. And I realized that the high carbon steel would be very difficult to cut.

Meanwhile, Little Sam rose to indicate his enthusiasm for the controlling feminine hand. And with that, Nurse Stenson also reminded me.

“You may wish to visit your special room. Ms. Hobson will put your new rings to good use.”

Chapter Thirty Four

Miss Elizabeth is out. Jamie has been playing with my balls, admiring as artifacts what were long ago taken from her. The fact that mine are now ringed, so much more easily controlled, seems to enthrall her. As with Nurse Stenson, she takes delight in stroking me to full tumescence, attaching a cord to my rings and leading me about the apartment like a dog on a leash.

Little Sam now appears so harmless when standing. The tip comes to such an insignificant point that Jamie has lost her fear of that which weeks before forcefully sodomized her anal passage. And Little Sam is shorter of course, the degloving removing the round and wondrously filled tip of nerves, ganglia and dendrites.

Around and around, Jamie, cutely dressed in tight blouse and short skirt, leads me about the large abode, naked and erect. Finally the game ends with Jamie needing to prepare dinner. I have spent the day cleaning and find myself with idle time. So I stroll about the penthouse like a lazy cat, cognizant that my neck collar bars my entrance to many doors.

For the first time I push open the door to the special room where weeks before carpenters had labored for most of two days. As suggested, it is the only door which yields to me and I step in and hold the door open to ensure that I can later exit. The hallway lighting partially illuminates the chamber, Gothic paneling in dark walnut. It is eerily dim and my hand finds a wall switch.

Spotlights beam and as my eyes scan the former bedroom. The carpenter’s endeavors are firstly evidenced by the lack of windows. As with the examination room, all have been paneled over. There is a paucity of furniture, matching dark wood cabinets lining the left wall, and a large throne-like chair is placed before the second evidence of wood craftsmanship. It is a platform, solid, formidable, and familiar. It is a replica of that shown in the photographs from the Palace, those adorning the living room wall. Mounted upon it are two sturdy posts… parallel, heavy wood, some six feet high, four to five feet apart. Iron rings hang from bolts penetrating the posts at variously points. The appearance of the oppressive ironware makes me shudder. Anything or anyone attached would not likely ever attain liberation. The carpenters obviously labored for hours to ensure that the most robust captive would remain restrained.

On the right wall is presented a collection of pegs nicely complementing the posts and platform with each supporting an item of restraint... chains... cuffs... collars... spreader bars... ironware for every conceivable part of the human body. All are old, forged on a blacksmith’s anvil, and the time, devotion and care taken to craft such precision implements in a era of rudimentary tools is ironic. So much meticulousness to assure the that the captive is meticulously captured.

On the far wall, obviously presented where the captive can view the assortment, is a collection of instruments for the excoriation of human flesh. Strips of leather in every length and width... whips, crops, quirts, tawses. A converted umbrella stand provides a tribute to Victorian discipline by holding an assemblage of birches. An entire wall section is devoted to presenting canes... rattan strips in every size and shape. The sight makes me tremble, when I think of the time and expenditure required to transform and ‘decorate’ the room, and particularly with the realization that it has been referred to as my special room.

And the spotlights are positioned to illuminate the small stage-like platform, highlighting the room’s function and leaving no doubt as to the purpose of all the wall coverings.

Again, Ms. Hobson’s words resonate along with Nurse Stenson’s sonorously uttered suggestion, that I will at some point request a visit in my special room.

“I’ve had the collection in storage for many years. Family heirlooms, really.”

I snap my head to greet my benefactress, owner of all I have. She has returned, doffed her footwear and decided to quietly check on my wanderings while sipping a glass of wine. I fall to my knees and kiss her feet as she nears. I beg her forgiveness.

“It’s okay, Sam. If I had not wanted you in the room, I would have arranged the locking mechanism just as with the other latches. But you’re wise to hold open the door. Once you enter, it will lock from the inside.”

She smiles. “I see you’re e