A Sadist's Story

Chapter 3

“You’re to be wrapped. I’ll have you released in due time.”

A knock on the door indicates Gladys has returned. Danny Boy rises and I stroke again, landing a stinging blow to his right cheek. Though I know the well-aimed swat to be agonizing, he giggles. The attention is appreciated and pain has become a replacement for the pleasure he will never experience.

Gladys

Visiting Ms. Monique’s apartment is stimulating. I cannot help recalling my tour as a flagellant, one of her pets as she whimsically calls her scribes. Early days of unmitigated terror combined with the joy of having the supreme woman ply her craft..., turning the human body into an artist’s canvass of bright red stripes and welts..., are remembered with a strange fondness now. To suffer at her hands was a religious experience. So refreshingly cathartic that after my tour, though financially secure, I sought to stay as an attendant. My nursing background could obviously be well utilized in a facility the sole purpose of which is to excoriate human flesh.

And there is Danny Boy. Such a wonderfully deserving fate for the male gender..., to be altered and forced to serve as maid to his castratrix!

But I am jealous of his proximity to Ms. Monique. It is I who should be serving her feminine sheath with lips and tongue. And so in taking charge of the blond hermaphrodite, I will slake my own revenge on each and every occasion.

Danny Boy opens the door and looks at me with trepidation, as he should. Cute is the word that always pops into my head when visually examining. Just over five feet, tresses of fine blond hair covering his ears, bright blue eyes, as always he stands naked, not possessing any clothing that I have ever seen, and he projects an aura of youthful innocence. Ms. Monique has insisted that he maintain certain cosmetic enhancements..., closely clipped eyebrows, extended lashes, eye liner, trimmed but painted finger nails..., all of which at first blush make Danny Boy appear effeminately attractive. But then my eyes scan to the emaciated p***s flopping about over the puffy empty scrotal pouch. One must also stifle a giggle at that point.

He bows his head; in seeing me his joviality quickly fading and then steps back and to the side to draw the door fully open. His motion sets a dramatic staging for Ms. Monique who sashays through the living room to greet me.

“Everything prepared, Gladys?”

I cannot help admiring my queen, the regal Ms. Monique. So potently beautiful. I feel pride in knowing that I once bore the sting of her cane-wielding hand. I visually gather as much of her as possible without interjecting an awkward pause. Then I reply.

“Julie is hooded and balancing herself on toes in the staging room. She’s quite excited about her opening night.”

I describe Julie’s anticipation with sardonic inflection. The girl is scared witless. Under the rules of the club, flagellants are presented with full bladders and empty stomachs, the assurance of which is part of my job. For Julie, I barely needed to induce an emetic. What little food the girl had ingested was ready to be given up.

But she will put on a fine exhibition, the anatomical thinness inured by her modeling career yielding of late to wonderfully feminine fleshiness. We have her on a special diet. And the skin, so white and unblemished! I wish I could be present for Ms. Monique’s first stroke of the cane.

“Wrap Danny Boy. Use lots of lotion. I want him blinded and deafened. The usual tubing. Stretch the tongue. I’ll let you know when I need him back.”

Yes, coded words for long term sensory deprivation. Danny Boy may be under my spell for days and when released not have any idea of time, space or what has transpired during his physical and mental absence. But he expresses such delightfully submissive gratitude when finally unwrapped. And the lotion does wonders for his skin, his hormonal imbalance seeming to relish the softening effect.

“Come along, Danny Boy.”

I speak in a matronly voice, as if addressing an infant, and offer my hand. Danny Boy is frightened and he should be. I have complete control, and absent marking his child like body, I can do anything to him. He pauses and pouts then takes my hand. His demeanor is that of a contrite but irascible adolescent being led to the woodshed for punishment.

“Be a good boy for Gladys,” Ms Monique calls out as we head for the elevator.

Oh yes, Danny Boy will be good, I think to myself with a chuckle.

Miss Julie

I feel like a cow waiting for slaughter!

How did it come to this?

Ms. Gladys has me strung me up so that I’m struggling to stand on the tips of my shoes, my nose ring secured to a hook high above. Though my hands are free I cannot reach where the chain is attached. So I just stand perched on these suggestive high heels. How devious! I know that the club has handled so many flagellants in the past that it is futile to resist. There is no escape. No second-guessing. No last minute recanting. I have spent a month being prepared and will entertain.

But jeez, I have to go to the bathroom! Ms. Gladys forced me to drink gallons, denying access to the facilities. Then after asking if I had to go, and I nodded, she smiled and handed me another tumbler of water.

Oh, the waiting.

I am both eager and afraid..., my big moment on stage. Though I spent a good part of my youth modeling, this is so different. My entire body completely exposed; my face covered by an evil black hood. It’s the opposite of my career on the runway and before the cameras. There all wanted to see my face.

I just hate the weight thing! I have been fattened. Some special diet has added pounds to my bust and hips. Some may find it alluring, but resuming my modeling career will take work and much self-control.

Finally Ms. Monique enters and I experience an odd combination of relief and new concern. She is dressed in black, her muscular arms and thighs exposed and a skirt so short that her mons flashes with certain motions.

“Hello, pretty girl,” she begins.

I try to nod, adding to my discomfort and instead utter a brief and meek ‘hi’.

“Opening night. Well you know what to expect. And the flogging area is well drained, should you have an accident.”

She presses against my lower belly, feeling the distension of my full bladder and also adding to the pressure. How devious! Ms. Gladys’s offerings were intentional. They want me to humiliate myself!

Ms. Monique’s hand smoothes down to my shaven pubes. One finger and then a second slides into my v****a. She diddles, smiles, and softly laughs.

“So afraid, so concerned; yet so aroused. You’re soaking wet.”

The hand withdraws and the fingers extend to my upturned nose. She brushes the moisture onto my upper lip. “Let’s get started. You have a long night ahead of you, pretty girl.”

My nose ring is released and in its place a six-foot pole with a short cord is attached. Ms. Monique raises it and of course my head follows. The flat tip of her crop slaps at my outer labia, a ‘reminder stroke’ Ms. Monique termed the painful application during the month of training. And it does serve to bring my thoughts in line.

I place my hands on the back of my hooded head and thrust out my chest to obscenely present my breasts, as trained.

“Good girl.”

Though my vision is limited, staring at the ceiling, I follow the pole, stepping carefully in the awkward five-inch heels. Fortunately, I have a great deal of experience as a model, but with my only covering being the hood and the heels, nothing can prepare a girl for the utmost in exposure..., which I am about to endure.

Danny Boy

I know where Ms. Gladys is taking me and I know that she does not like males, though in being castrated, her particular dislike for me is somewhat tempered. After all, as Ms. Monique constantly reminds me, I am almost one of them.

The procedure known as ‘wrapping’ begins with much discomfort and continues ad infinitum into a bottomless abyss of nothingness. With the extreme boredom one is given to dreaming, and one can imagine of what it is that a castrated male dreams.

“This will hurt a bit,” Ms. Gladys always forewarns.

The caring tone of her voice is straight out of nursing school and I envision her cruel hands nonchalantly catheterizing young males and stifling mirthful giggles as the tip of the rubber tube passes first through the sensitive prostate and then into the bladder. But I dutifully stand with hands on head as she delivers her warning and the catheter plunges into my urethral passage.

An inflatable enema hose is inserted next. And lastly, I am intubated, my gag reflex surprisingly under control with all the fellatio Ms. Monique has insisted that I perform.

“Good boy,” Ms. Gladys gushes, most sanguine with her expanding control over my body.

Then comes the lotion, that which Ms. Monique finds most important. The thick creamy white substance is a concoction of unguent, skin softener and depilatory. The result of long term exposure to the substance is amazingly feminine, moist and soft skin which is totally devoid of hair. And though my follicles surrendered years ago, Ms. Monique takes no chances. After many hours, even days of exposure, the touch of my skin will please her... and that’s important.

So Ms. Gladys swabs the thick whiteness everywhere and, just as with Ms. Monique, she takes particular delight in handling my empty sac. Her fingers knead and massage, pulling downward to expose the remnants of my maleness to her gaze. She laughs with delight, I suppose the loose and empty scrotal sac is found to be similar to labial flesh, and refreshingly demonstrates to her satisfaction the frailty of the male gender.

When finished I am lathered in white and Ms. Gladys steps back and cackles. Then she walks me to a waiting bed. It is a mattress filed with water, the gelatinous composition making long term ‘wrapping’ tolerable in minimizing muscle cramps.

“Arms at your sides and feet together.”

Then the wrapping begins. Heavy clear plastic, used to wrap pallets of cartons and other freight, is unraveled and wound and wound around my ankles, calves, thighs, and hips. Ms. Gladys works around the tubing, ensuring that the free ends remain accessible. Then it’s the stomach, torso, arms and chest.

“Comfy?” she mockingly asks, knowing that I cannot speak.

My feet and legs are wrapped together. My arms pinioned to my sides. She demands that I extend my tongue. It is clamped with the tip forced to remain well beyond my lips. Then my eyes are covered, my ears plugged, and my head is similarly wrapped. My nostrils remain clear for air. And lastly, I feel a gentle push and topple like a felled tree onto the bed. Hands work to connect the tubes. Over the ensuing hours nourishment will be pumped to my stomach by way of the gastric tube, my bowels will be evacuated by way of the enema hose. My excretions will drain through the catheter, though Ms. Gladys has been known to reverse the flow, pumping I don’t know what into my bladder.

And so I am ‘wrapped’ as Ms. Monique demanded and will remain so for countless hours, completely immobile but with no need to move. It is the pinnacle of feminine control. I must rely on Ms. Gladys for all that one normally takes for granted..., air, food, water. There is no sound, no sight, no taste, no smell..., and my sense of touch is limited to the abundant squishy lotion slowly depilating my already hairless body.

But my mind is free to wander, and of course I think of Ms. Monique. I can dream and my dreams are of serving the ebony giantess with aplomb and being duly rewarded with the return of my testicles.

Ms. Monique

It is little matter that show time at the club can be as often as three times per week, I still feel a thrill performing before an audience of s****l debauchees. And though it is a Wednesday evening the crowd is notable, comprised of some two dozen couples. Since it is Julie’s debut, the curious onlookers are eager. A program guide divulges all there is to know about Julie therefore her modeling career is known. And the guide also has photos...most revealing...warming the members to the prospect of watching me well into the evening as I cane the budding masochist.