Feminizing The Belligerent Male

Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

I carefully traverse the many dimly lit steps. My chamber is well below the earth’s surface and intentionally kept dark and dank. Unruly prisoners feel they are being swallowed up into the bowels of the penitentiary when brought to my disciplinary cells. Symbolic as always, the tenebrous environment makes them feel as if they have been buried... which to a certain extent they have been. The belligerent only leave when I am satisfied that their behavior has been transformed; and for some that requires a long, long time.

At the final landing I press the code to the electronic lock that opens the last of three doors. Its function is not so much to offer security but to keep out what little light shines in illuminating the stairs. During the long unending nights my charges are kept in complete darkness. Nothing... not a scintilla of light... enters the chamber hollowed out of the granite bedrock. The dire atmosphere keeps the inmates docile. And should any somehow escape their bonds, the futility of having shucked my heavy irons would quickly be grasped. When we close the doors for the night, one cannot see one’s own hand, the extreme darkness making freedom from the irons fruitless. The nothingness becomes delightfully frightening and humbling.

Light is something I bestow... and sparingly. Inmates learn that quickly, along with my careful rationing of food and water. Only corrective action is freely dispensed.

Stepping through the door, the dim bulbs of the stairway create a flash of light akin to a bolt of lightning. For the half dozen I have well chained and locked in cells, the noise also brings stirring, ending the many of hours of thorough blackness that my ‘bad boys’ have had to endure.

“Good morning, my pets,” I pleasantly call out in announcing another day of torment and ‘counseling’.

I can barely see the many cells surrounding the main chamber on three sides. Within each is a well trussed male, which even a prison as foreboding and inescapable as Hempstead has not brought to capitulation. All violent criminals, one normally earns a stay with me for committing more violence... mainly against guards but other inmates as well. Here I suffuse gentleness, transforming the psyche to that of giver, provider, and nurturer. Such requires a skilled intellect, patience and time... the latter offered here at Hempstead in abundance.

Even when I turn on the lights, the main chamber remains in eerily gloomy darkness. All illumination emanates from low wattage bulbs placed low to the floor. The resulting shadows produce a haunting effect with a high, seemingly imperceptible ceiling left in blackness. Sounds echo. My chamber with adjacent discipline cells is more cave than living quarters. My charges subsist more than live.

Despite the limited wattage, for my half dozen bad boys left in many hours of total darkness, the sudden immersion brings a painful explosion of light to the eyes.

“Everybody up! Do your business. Then I want to be greeted,” I announce in my authoritative voice.

With that I press a wall switch, turning off the speech inhibitor. When I press a second switch, I hear in unison the involuntary cries of the anguished male. My boys are wired. In addition to their heavy irons, wires lead to and are wrapped about each set of genitals. A cleverly designed electric probe delivers painful but physically harmless voltage to the perineum, that area between the scrotum and the anus. The location, the level of electricity, are both intended to open the bladder... and such does. As my boys yelp in unison they also quickly move to their respective drains in the concrete flooring which serve as toilets. The clatter of so many chains rattling simultaneously warms the heart. The most dangerous and violent of Hempstead’s ‘guests’ lurch and move at the press of a button, the slightest motion of my hand. It’s like leading an orchestra... and the thought of having such power stimulates.

“Did everyone sleep well?”

The question is sardonic. I don’t permit anything soft or comfortable such as bedding and certainly not mattresses. Thus all have slumbered on the stone and cement flooring, the cold slowly robbing their naked forms of body heat and the ability to physically resist. Plus, my awakening charge is not the only shock they experience. The n*****s are also wired. Throughout the night, a computer driven device has delivered at random intervals mild but sleep interrupting shocks to clamps.

“Let’s start morning counseling with you, Toby.”

Despite turning off the speech inhibitor, no one speaks. My boys are trained to remain silent, enduring a powerful shock if the speech inhibitor detects the sound of the human voice.

I retrieve my remote control and slide my stool to the front of a nearby cell. I sit before a facade of thick iron bars to face Toby. Surrounding him are three walls of concrete, the dull gray color almost imperceptible in the dimness. Within is my young hulking prisoner... huge and otherwise physically imposing... but for his many pounds of iron shackles and connecting chains.

“Come, Toby. Talk to your Dr. Dawson.”

The form slowly moves from the hole where I have forcibly made him empty his bladder. Once again chains rattle. Links of black iron connect his waist band to a formidable ring deeply embedded in the wall. In adding to his restraint, the length assures that he cannot break free of the connecting wires that deliver my controlling jolts.

Toby bears huge wrist shackles that are secured behind his back and to his broad heavy waist band. A spreader bar, an unnecessary four inches thick, connects his ankle shackles, its weight necessitating an ungainly hobble. Wires trail his motion. As described, his genitals and n*****s are electrified for discipline and my amusement.

As he approaches the bars where I sit, one can almost feel pity for the well bound male beast. Yet I must smile in observing his comeuppance. Weeks ago he had words with a female guard... a threat. Such ill tempered remarks will cost him what little male vanity remains.

“My tribute, Toby.”

I can always judge how long I have kept a male in one of my discipline cells. For as Toby closes his eyes and his forehead lifts to the dark ceiling in concentration, I watch his p***s, large as is he and delightfully uncircumcised. It begins to engorge.

My white blouse is like a beacon of light in the dismal chamber, projecting firm breasts for which the forcibly chaste male pines. In sitting there is flashed a modicum of thigh, just enough to foster my ‘tribute’. That is... full tumescence. He is to approach me fully erect. And with the weeks of chastity, control, supplication and psychological counseling, Toby is eager to offer. I watch with a smile of satisfaction as the purple tip of Toby’s manhood pops fully into view, swells to fullness and stands.

He is well endowed, not that such means anything in the bowels of Hempstead Penitentiary, but for a woman of my ilk, large and well tamed can amuse as much as small.

“Very good, Toby. You’re becoming quite attentive to a lady’s wishes.”

I point to the floor where Toby knows to kneel. Below there is an opening in the bars and Toby knows to position his head proximate.

“My right boot first, Toby. You will lick and you will talk... and maybe earn a release.”

I push forth my appointed foot. A humbled head slowly threads its way through the tight space in the bars. A tongue extends. My patent leather footwear begins to receive the first of many daily oral polishings.

Toby knows that in my hand is a remote control device that empowers me with the ability to apply a most debilitating shock at any time... to the nipples... to his genitals. Thus my boots are well cleansed without resistance. It is bringing the boy to the next step that is difficult.

“Good boy, Toby. I’ll soon have you in pink... and you will enjoy it.”

Thoughts of the ultimate transformation again bring memories of Sammy.