Behavioral Modification: Lessons From Constancia Island

Chapter Two-1

Chapter Two

Mrs. Dalton

I slip my hand into the freezing slush and cruelly pinch Ted’s scrotal flesh between the sharp nails of thumb and forefinger. There is no discernible reaction. He is appropriately numbed. With my level of disgust over his conduct I certainly would not want him to experience pleasure.

The bottom draw of the dresser displays a collection of formidable dildos. Ted purchased the modest and smooth ones...hardly used. The larger more exotic ones I procured through catalogues and furtive trips to some of the more sordid shops of Greenwich Village.

Since I won’t be seeing Ted for a while I want him to have a memorable last evening. I select the largest...one with ridges, bumps, and furrows, which serve to properly pressure that curious male gland...the prostate. I don’t recall using this one before, I think to myself.

Then I realize I should take precaution against the unknown. I plan to have a child at some point. And since I do not permit prosaic copulation, I have been collecting Ted’s sperm for a while, m**********g him into a little collection bag and freezing it for later insemination. One more sperm sample can’t hurt. The described therapeutic activities on Constancia Island can be severe. The counselor suggested that the removal team will arrive with releases to be signed. As an attorney, I fully understand the underlying meaning.

So I remove the bowl of ice and retrieve one last collection bag. I secure it over the tip of Ted’s p***s with a bag tie. He can’t feel much and even though it may abrade the sensitive prepuce of his manhood it will not interfere with my efforts.

My hands shake in anticipation as I attach the huge hideously shaped dildo to my harness...at the flap covering my mons. Just jostling it with my fingers causes the insertion within me to pleasantly friction my v****a.

This is why I truncated the Chicago depositions and rushed through two airports. The well-lubricated rear opening of my submissive husband beckons me. My subterfuge will soon end. Ted knows my touch, particularly when I give his backside a thorough reaming...and tonight I will be unyielding. Fortunately for him, the difficulty he will have walking in the morning will be moot. On Constancia Island there will not be many places for him to go.

I push Ted further toward the bottom of the bed. His knees touch the carpet. I lift his arms...cuffed together behind his back at the wrists. This forces him to arch his back and present his shining well greased puckered rectum, ensuring easy and thorough penetration. When I press with the tip of the firm rubber cylinder, my male w***e pushes open his sphincter to accept the nasty dildo. So nicely trained, I think to myself. So submissive. So eager to please. Yet such a slut. You’re going to be quite the attraction on Constancia Island, Ted.

My sodomization begins. It is slow. Methodical. Painful to the sensitive skin around his rectum. Absolutely benumbing to the desensitized genitals. In and out my muscled thighs work. I feel my powerful buttocks clench as the dildo so nicely causes to tremble the well placed insertion within me. I squeeze off a mild vaginal orgasm. My c******s hardens and presses against the spindle absorbing the motion as I thrust...withdraw...thrust...withdraw.

Yes...Ted...I am back.

After dozens of gratifying thrusts, I withdraw completely. I look down. I have entrapped his p***s, forced to flaccidity by the numbing ice, against the bed covers pointing downward. Thus the clear plastic collection bag lies in plain sight between his thighs. I am heartened to see that amongst an impressive accumulation of clear prostatic fluid there is the beginning of a flow of whiteness. Sperm. Ted is being milked of his essence. By a woman. A Dominant woman. One, who is choosing to take...whether or not Ted chooses to offer.

And he cannot feel a thing. No ecstatic relief for my satyrical subordinate. He has had his last climax. Orgasms are for me...the Dominant woman who owns his body and will soon own his soul.

I press the faux p***s to his rectum and resume. When sodomizing Ted, I have never determined the limit to the number of c******l and vaginal orgasms. The constraining factor has always been the strength in my thighs and legs...which unfortunately for Ted is considerable.

My watch reads 11:15. Such a delightful way to wile away the time before Ted’s fateful trip. In, out, in, out...Ted grunts. He probably does not realize it...the headphones muffling his own voice.

Sometimes he squeezes which serves to add a luscious level of resistance and cause my insertion to brusquely friction my vaginal walls. He can be so thoughtful.

But alas all things must end.

I lift his arms high and bend to push my head and neck under them. I can feel his leather wrist cuffs on my back. My breasts press against his shoulder blades. This position serves to better pinion him and leave my hands free. For the coup de grace I reach around his torso and grasp each of his n*****s. If he had any doubts as to who was forcefully sodomizing him before, all now leave. This is how I finish every strap-on session, working his n*****s between my fingernails as I plunge as deeply as possible. He begins to shriek in pain...but he also nicely squeezes his cheeks, adding a wonderful degree of resistance, which my muscled thighs so easily overcome. But not before tossing off orgasm after orgasm.

Ted, you have been marvelously f****d and have not felt anything except pain. How delightfully Dominant.

Exhausted, I step back. I feel good. The dildo exits his anus with the sound of an amusing plop. The collection bag is full of his ooze. I seal it and toss it into the freezer with the others. As stated, it can’t hurt to have one more sample.

I bask in the glow of complete gratification and a degree of revenge...with one final glass of Chardonnay. Ted reenters his world of deprived senses. His little rectum must be on fire yet I know with the unfelt hormonal release he also experiences a glow...though comparatively diminished to mine.

The counselor suggested visiting him on Constancia Island but only after proper regimentation. I will have to find a local boy toy during his sojourn.

Two can play this game, Ted.

The house phone rings. The turncoat doorman announces the arrival of the Society’s team.

“I hope Mr. Dalton is alright,” he utters sheepishly.

I don a robe. Minutes later when I open my apartment door, I understand why he expressed concern. Two women enter. One is pushing a stretcher draped with a white sheet. It is not often that I look eyeball to eyeball with other females. The white uniformed girls are huge and though young carry themselves with an impressive air of confidence.

“We’re from the Society, Mrs. Dalton. We move about under the guise of emergency medical workers as you can see.”

I just smile and nod.

“Your husband?”

I point to the bedroom where Ted remains in sensory deprivation. I follow the girl of some 22 or 23 years and am comforted when she expresses no shock or outrage.

“Well this should be simple enough. We’ll need to do some paper work, take some measurements and get your signature on a few forms. Do you wish to say good bye to him? If not we can take him just like that...as long as you’re willing to part with the headphones.”

I decline to bid adieu. Any departing message I have for Ted will be expressed on my behalf by the staff at Constancia Island.

I watch the procedures with much curiosity. Girl number one releases Ted’s ankle cuffs and with a combination of strength and adroitness pushes him about with soft but firm hands so that he sits upright on the edge of the bed. Unwelcome motion is discouraged with quick and vicious pinches to his n*****s and testicles. It doesn’t take too many painful encounters to convince the deafened and blindfolded Ted to remain still unless directed to move...that he is in the hands of very skillful Dominant women.

Meanwhile girl number two stands with clipboard in hand. She talks aloud as she writes.

“Uncircumcised, nicely hung, evidences a degree of scrotal stretching...is that right Mrs. Dalton?”

I nod.

“Mid thirties. Moderate degree of body hair. All brown.”

Then girl number one moves about with a tape measure calling out various measurements at the wrists, arms, chest, thighs, ankles. Girl number two records all.

“He’ll be scanned in upon arrival. But it’s best to have preliminary measurements in case more rudimentary restraints are needed before his physical.”

Girl one number measures Ted’s flaccid p***s. An action which brings tumescence of course. But that seems to conform with the technician’s intentions, for she most dexterously strokes the growing organ and in an amazingly short interval has Ted standing.

“Eight and one half inches fully erect.”

She then pulls Ted off the bed like a puppet and while he stands measures his scrotum and testicles while the erection points upwards out of her way. After calling out the dimensions she callously swats the p***s tip and with a punctuated groan Ted’s manhood deflates as if air has been released from a balloon.

Number one slips on a glove and parts his buttocks.

“Very open at the rectum,” she calls out. “I assume like most males he responds to anal stimulation, Mrs. Dalton?”

I smile.

“He begs for it,” I declamatorily announce.

The three of us laugh.

“Cindy will need to use your bathroom while I ask some questions. I believe the stereo cord will reach. Do you care to watch?”

I wouldn’t miss a thing.

While I am interviewed, Cindy, girl number two, has Ted kneeling on all fours in the bathtub. A medical bag divulges paraphernalia needed for an enema, a interesting and humiliating activity from which I have refrained in Dominating Ted.

But after watching Cindy so deftly insert an inflatable nozzle, fill the rubber bag with warm soapy water, and then begin to slowly fill Ted’s bowels, it may be included in our play time in the future.

“We have some notes concerning your husband’s problem, Mrs. Dalton. There is not much behavior that cannot be modified at Constancia Island. But we need to understand your goals. We can mold him any way you desire. Mentally...physically...spiritually. We have the staff, the know how and a wonderful facility. There is no limit to how long he can stay. We have certain life long patients...their Dominant partners choosing to occasionally visit and ensure their continued indoctrination into servitude. Others depart very much enlightened, eager to please their owners.”

I pause for thought.

“I want devotion and complete capitulation to my whims. I am a litigator, a member of a professional group, which is sometimes compared to a pack of pittbulls in terms of cordiality. I slay opposing attorneys during the day. When I arrive home I want to be pampered. I’ve had Ted dressed as a maid on occasion and it works very nicely for me...being served hand and foot. What doesn’t work is for me to arrive home and see this with some low class dominatrix for hire.”

For emphasis, I point to my naked and bound husband kneeling before three clothed women while his bowels slowly fill.

Girl number one takes notes with a smug smile.

“Easily done. You’ll be getting progress reports from the Island...from the head psychologist, Dr. Stella Corrothers and the physician Dr. Helga Reinhold. There is not much they have not handled.”

The Corrothers name rings a bell. It was she who had years before delivered the lecture. I wondered what had happened to her.

Girl number two releases the enema and a torrent fills the tub. She then refills the bag this time with cold water. Girl number one notices my reaction.

“It not only rinses, the discomfort establishes control. He’ll be groveling in a moment.”

She is correct. My superficially macho husband feels the intense effect of the chilling water deep within his bowels. He doesn’t understand all that is happening. He does understand pain.

Being deemed cleansed Ted is led back into the bedroom and laid on the bed. An inflatable butt plug is inserted. Then girl number one, seeming to be in charge, rolls him onto his back. A slim metal tube is produced and she coats it with lubricant.

“Depending on the flights and boat connection, he may be in transit for close to twelve hours. We don’t want him needing to relieve himself.”

Thus the enema and now...a catheter. But not a comfortable Teflon tube. No, Ted gets a smooth but stiff length of stainless steel inserted into his urethra. The girl works slowly but firmly and judging from Ted’s exaggerated movements the sensation is not pleasant. He whimpers.

“It prevents erection. He’ll be standing only for his handler while under the care of the American Society for Behavior Modification. Unsupervised tumescence is not permitted.”

Of course not…why would I think otherwise?

The hollow steel tube is connected to a collection bag by way of a rubber tube. Ted won’t be needing to urinate for a while.

Then the question of just how my young handlers of recalcitrant males will pirate away my husband is finally answered.

The stretcher is wheeled into the bedroom. Under the sheet draped over the flat top surface is a box...really a coffin. The girls pull it out, lie it on the floor and open it.

“Say good bye Ted,” girl number two humorously suggests to my deafened subordinate.Number one firmly grasps his testicles and guides him up and off the bed. Girl two prepares a hypodermic syringe.

“Thorazine,” she announces in anticipating my question. “Just a touch of a neuroleptic drug for the ride. He’ll be nice and quiet and then resume his friskiness in the Caribbean.”

Ted obediently follows the pulls and pushes. He flinches when girl two injects his buttocks. I am amazed at how quickly his legs become rubber. His wrist cuffs are separated and he is neatly laid to rest, so to speak.

Girl number one unplugs the wire from my stereo then plugs it into a portable CD player, which she places into the coffin like box.

“Just boring static...but with the Thorazine it doesn’t matter.”

She laughs and clips the wrist cuffs and ankle cuffs to eye-hooks on the inside. Then comes the final touch, completely transforming Ted into a piece of human cargo. Girl number one gruffly intubates him. A connecting canister at the floor of the coffin assures he will have a supply of oxygen.

“He’ll be in the unpressurized cargo hold of the plane. The box is well insulated but at thirty thousand feet the air is rarified.”

The lid is clamped on and I am impressed when the two girls effortlessly lift the box with my husband inside and return it to the bottom of the stretcher. In adjusting the covering sheet, no one will suspect what lies underneath.

“We will tell the doorman that your husband recovered from his chest pains and further assistance was not necessary. You’ll have to cover his absence from there.”

Easily done.

‘So long Ted,’ I murmur to myself.

Forms are placed before me. I sign and keep a copy for later reading. A very bad practice for a gifted jurist with an ivy league degree, but I am tired and after all...it’s only Ted. The physically imposing girls whisk away the seemingly empty stretcher as if rolling a weightless shopping cart.

I return to the bedroom experiencing second thoughts. Perhaps I have been too harsh.

Then I find under the bed, apparently pushed aside by the felonious ‘Mistress Samantha’ in her hurried escape, a small bag, within are an assortment of drugs. Amyl nitrate and other so called stimulants, possibly illegal but questionable all the same. Small items, but if discovered have the potential to alter one’s livelihood...particularly that of a licensed attorney.

So long indeed, Ted.