Miss Elizabeth's Captive Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty One

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Chapter Thirty Four

  Chapter Thirty Five

  Chapter Thirty Six

  Chapter Thirty Seven

  Miss Elizabeth’s Captive

  by

  Chris Bellows

  ISBN 10: 0-9769679-9-5

  A Pink Flamingo Publications Ebook Publication

  Copyright ©2004 Chris Bellows, All rights reserved

  Chapter One

  Miss Elizabeth’s Captive…

  or the Application of the Stockholm Syndrome

  “What is it you think you like about Jamie, Sam?”

  Liz had that habit...turning any question asked right around. The trait manifested, I am sure, from her Ivy League college education in psychology with a smattering of philosophy courses.

  We were having a sumptuous meal in Liz’s Manhattan penthouse. It was just the two of us dining with Jamie serving. I had mentioned that there was something about Jamie that I liked yet couldn’t vocalize. His youthful physical cuteness combined with the skill and devotion of a servant many times his years resulted in a curious juxtaposition of observations and queries. What was his age? How did he acquire the skills of both a master chef and attentive butler? Why did his colorful garb so contrast with the sedate nature of his duties? And of course the ultimate carping but unasked ponderosity... what was his true gender?

  Thus I posed the question to Liz ‘What is it about Jamie that I like?’ And in her stylishly accented English she tossed it right back with the deftness of a slow ground ball limply hit to a celeritous shortstop. And she did so with such girlish glee, as a little girl would so childishly challenge, ‘I know something you don’t know’.

  Jamie returned from the kitchen with a soufflé and I just smiled in polite taciturnity, though speaking about him while he was present would probably not bring a blink of an eye or the discernible pause of an adroit serving hand…which, by the way, offered no clues.

  His effeminate hands were expertly manicured with nails honed to smooth perfection. But there was no colorful polish which would weight any conclusion toward the side of femininity.

  Still there was the blond hair...long for a boy, short for a girl...it was more than just casually styled, it was coifed. And the tresses, playfully tossed about as he moved, occasionally revealed that beneath was the glint of diamond earrings. How could a servant afford such opulence? And if indeed a male, why jewelry?

  The voice was high pitched when heard, which was rare. A humble, ‘Yes Miss Elizabeth’ came out slurred and I assumed there was verbal shyness due to a speech impediment.

  There was something about the eyes. Blue, evidencing a Nordic heritage, but with some type of subtle cosmetic highlighting...again tending to confuse the gender identification.

  And as mentioned there was the garb. Who proposed such strangely alluring attire? As suggested, it could not be described as drably genderless. Instead it teased the observer...a red silk blouse, the fineness of which any woman would be proud, but also of which one would often spy on males in the region of Southeast Asia and Japan. Then there were the trousers...shorts really...black and tight. Similar to ‘hot pants’, which for the male world so disappointingly came and went from style many years before, the glossy satin clung to Jamie’s buttocks and highlighted globes which would entice a pedophile. Yes, such were shapely, rounded and with the compactness of an adolescent girl more than that of an adult male.

  The ‘hot pants’ left bare most of Jamie’s thighs and calves, of course. Oddly smooth, and as one pondered the lack of hair, the strange shoes begged the next question. Sandals really, but with notably high heels, forced Jamie to sashay more than walk, the height requiring careful balancing steps as if he was parading about on a runway at a fashion show.

  It was all so distracting. Here I was with one of the most fascinating and beautiful women in New York, a romantic candlelight dinner...some Handel...some Mozart...and yet I found myself staring...hopefully not ogling...every time Jamie popped from the kitchen with the next course.

  “He’s very devoted to me, Sam. A lifelong companion. A gift, actually.”

  At that point the expertly prepared soufflé captured our attention and my question faded as focus turned to dessert and an exquisite port.

  With anyone else I would not have the mettle to broach a subject matter which could be deemed potentially reflective on the proclivities of the poser. I suppose, as Liz hinted when she returned it unanswered, some could interpret my question as being revealing of my own gender preference, which I assure the reader is devoutly one of a philogynist. But with Jamie’s presentment, and his most pleasant but servile demeanor, the mind wanders despite the radiant pulchritude of my gracious hostess. And besides, Liz and I were becoming good friends and I knew poor behavior on my part would be overlooked.

  The more Jamie glided about the table...serving, pampering, clearing, and pouring...the more it was obvious that beneath the brief silk and satin there were no undergarments. When he leaned to top Liz’s wineglass, there was a clicking sound from under the shorts and the motion of his arm caused his blouse to press against a most inadequate chest. Silhouetted was something piercing his right nipple which caused the nub to sprightly abrade against the smoothness of the silk and provide obvious pleasure, in that the areola was most erect.

  And after the soufflé was consumed and Liz nodded toward her snifter, it was evident that she noticed the same thing, playfully pinching the protrusion as Jamie leaned to refill her glass.

  The basis for my question was reestablished when, upon sensing Liz’s clasping fingers, he smiled like a schoolgirl and seemed to beam with joy. Liz’s touch...‘Miss Elizabeth’ as Jamie was given to use...spurred the reaction of a lonely puppy starving for attention. Had he a tail, it would be wagging in response to his mistress’s brief caress.

  She whispered something to him, very unusual for the normally ultra courteous Liz, and after several words Jamie nodded. I suppose it was the wine that brought forth such a faux pas. But it was Saturday evening and two weeks before Liz and I had kissed, hugged and cuddled in front of my fireplace. This was the return hospitality and she suggested it would be ‘intriguing’. I interpreted her statement as meaning getting laid. But so far, I was just intrigued.

  Jamie returned to the kitchen, the whispered comment causing him to scamper more than sashay, and Liz most impolitely laughed when he stumbled in trying to move with haste in such awkward footwear.

  “Jamie does not often wear shoes,” Liz explained, stifling her alcohol-induced reaction.

  “And I told him you had an affinity for
him. Please excuse any presumption in so suggesting, but your eyes have been diverted all evening.”

  I sheepishly sipped more port. It was not only my question that had given away my roving attention. My curiosity was apparently more obvious than I had thought.

  “Coffee in the living room, Sam? I too have a fireplace.”

  Such a provocative choice of words, suggesting that we return to the staging of our relaxing tryst two weeks prior.

  I emptied my port and arose to help Liz with her chair. As she stood I chided myself for being so engrossed with Jamie. Liz looked marvelous and smelled of a most rare and tempting perfume. She had attributes that I had always found so appealing in a woman... raven hair, rich brown skin, breasts perfectly proportioned to her narrow waist and modest hips. Her legs were athletic...not the thinness found in fashion photography...but instead robust, sculpted with intent. Tonight our lovemaking would be complete.

  What attracted me to Liz was the no-nonsense attitude. Liz carried herself with purpose and seemed to approach love like a tiger pursuing her prey. She had zest.

  She seemed the type of women who, in bed, would know where she wanted to go... and got there. I imagined there would be no faked orgasms with Liz. She would grasp ecstasy by the throat and ring everything she could in assuring her own satisfaction.

  I supposed the demeanor originated from her Royal upbringing.

  Yes, in contrast to her Brown University education, Liz came from a Middle Eastern country with vast oil wealth. And after Daddy the Sheik died, some very arcane legal maneuvering assured that she became the beneficiary of a sizable flow of funds, despite her lacking marital status and her perceived second class stature as a member of the female gender.

  But with the provincials, the financial machinations caused envy amongst the women and rage amongst the men, leaving for her a very limited welcome whenever she chose to return home. Thus her life of leisure in New York and my latest obsession...a woman with authority, panache and financial resources.

  “By the fire, Sam. Jamie will serve us in a moment. I’m afraid in exciting him he’s been delayed.”

  I did not understand the reference but let it pass. After all, an engrossing and wealthy woman had asked me to step into her living room. There had to be more than coffee on the menu. Liz pointed to a large stuffed leather couch. It seemed to swallow my body as I plunked myself down with disguised eagerness. There was no doubt as to her intentions. And despite my untoward behavior concerning Jamie, hopefully she had no doubt about mine.

  “I have had much wine and prefer to dispense with pretension,” she blithely exclaimed.

  And what red-blooded male could find contention with that? Particularly when she sat next to me...almost on top of me...and rested her right hand on my left thigh.

  “I trust you’re not shy, Sam. Where I was raised servants were thought of more or less as part of the furniture.”

  That said, her hand casually drifted to my crouch. In the absence of drink, such a move would be awkward, perhaps even crass. But as stated, Liz was a woman of purpose and with the enhancement of wine she left no doubt as to her intentions and I left no doubt as to mine. I parted my thighs for better access.

  From our prior dalliance I knew she abstained from indulging orally. But her hands were warm and soft. And she had previously used such with aplomb, bringing ‘Little Sam’ to full stand before lifting her cocktail dress and straddling me as I sat in my easy chair. But that is as far as we had gotten.

  “You know it’s late, Sam. I should be going,” she had suddenly blurted.

  She knowingly brought Little Sam to full erection, felt him throbbing against the softness of her inner thighs and then decided to withdraw.

  Strange, but it’s a woman’s prerogative, I thought at the time. It was a letdown, but she was firm in her decision to depart.

  Tonight, I expected more. And she again boldly commenced.

  She unzipped me and brought to the firelight a very eager ‘Little Sam’. He was quickly brought to full tumescence. As stated, Liz was a most beautiful woman and my penis stood in admiration. Plus, since I’m circumcised high and tight, Liz enjoyed the clean-cut look as opposed to the looseness of the phalli in her home country. Thus her handiwork resulted in pumping with unabashed enthusiasm, despite being fully aware that Jamie was expected with a tray of coffee.

  “You have something of which Jamie will be quite envious, Sam. I trust you’re not a selfish person.”

  At the time, I thought her reference was once again to my superior circumcision, something with which I had little pride until weeks before when Liz so adoringly held it in her hands and so reverently described its contrast to males in her home country.

  “Most have been cut very sloppily, Sam. I’m sorry to say that over the years the precision of Middle Eastern surgery has not been applied to the male appendage,” she explained as she gently stroked.

  She laughed with her observation but I could not let her lighthearted comment pass. I asked the question.

  “And how is it that you are so aware of the results of the procedure? I’ve seen many circumcisions in various locker room scenarios and would not for a minute portend to be an expert.”

  Her subsequent reticence was noteworthy, perhaps contrived.

  My question did not so much strike a nerve as it did stimulate thought. In the darkness I could not see her face, but surmised that the query gave rise to much rumination. With her answer, I realized that the pause originated not so much from the complexity of the answer but instead in how to best frame it for a proud but naive young Western male.

  “Mother enjoyed watching the floggings, Sam. At a very young age, she dragged me along. At first I resisted and closed my eyes...feeling fright...concern, perhaps misplaced compassion. But later I put aside my youthful reaction to the anguish so demonstrably portrayed and instead reveled in the pageantry...the exactness...the finality of seeing a recalcitrant male flogged. In my home country there are no effective pleas, no quarter, no respite. A man is flogged, bound, naked...well displayed for all to see. And many times there is a very curious reaction to the whip. He becomes engorged, as if welcoming with his penis what his psyche so adamantly resists. Yes, Sam. I have seen so many...flaccid...engorging...erect, all begging for the attention of a compassionate hand. Some standing for the last time, depending on the offense.”

  For whatever reason I changed the subject, chagrined to realize that the woman with whom I had been cuddling was perhaps more worldly and had experienced more carnal interaction than I could mentally fathom. I let the reference to ‘standing for the last time’ pass. It did not register.

  Perhaps in prodding her memory, images better kept within precipitated her early withdrawal.

  And now the subject seemed to arise again. This time with regard to Jamie. And of course the floggings came to mind. Though I had timidly changed the subject weeks before, continuous visions of a little girl watching grown men being whipped flashed into my imagination. Such were sexual fantasies really and I suppose it was the lurid shock which prohibited the thought from fading.

  And now the ‘compassionate hand’, as Liz so warmly described what the condemned male organs sought, was tenderly stroking Little Sam. As stated, she had a marvelous, knowing touch for a woman several years shy of 30. In my experience, though being stroked by an ingenue as a randy teen can bring ephemeral pleasure, but in the long run the phallus requires a combined skill of pressure, timing and knowledge of the erogenous zones. Such are acquired over time and with experience. And as I watched Liz’s lotioned hand glide up and down my fully erect shaft, I reminded myself that the best ‘hand job’ I had ever experienced was from a woman in her sixties who had spent a lifetime as a masseuse.

  I always prided myself on self control and knew that Liz did not want me to explode. Thus I needed to avert both her attention and mine, lest the ‘cream’ for the coffee be served prematurely.

  “The floggings, Liz. Tell me about the f
loggings.”

  As with my questions weeks ago about her knowledge of circumcision, once again she paused, encircling the base of my shaft and kneading my testicles with the aplomb I came to expect.

  “Weekly events in the Palace Square. Crime in my country is limited and there is very little recidivism. Once a man has had a taste of the whip there is rarely a return to transgression. But there is enough first time thievery to make for an entertaining afternoon. And whereas most times the men are poor, old and unsightly, on occasion there would be a young male worthy of special consideration. At first Mother only had me watch the actual flogging. But when I got older, she took me to the preparation room where the prisoner was stripped and put into a yoke. Heavy wood planks about the neck and wrists.”

  Her left hand moved from my scrotum to my shoulder and smoothed across to my throat to demonstrate her point.

  “I had not before realized that one element considered meaningful to the procedure was the humiliation. So after being yoked, the prisoner is forced to drink much water. I suppose there are medical reasons for such in encountering the possibility of shock, but Mother explained that with the searing pain, the prisoner’s bladder would eventually open. And that of course so much added to the trauma…urinating uncontrollably in the Square before the watching throng.”

  “How old were you Liz? It would seem to be rather shocking for a young girl to watch such events.”

  “Yes, I suppose it was. But Mother so much enjoyed herself. She assumed I would also.”

  Liz’s right hand remained steady, seeming to know that Little Sam needed a respite. She stared at the far wall in reflection.

  “My first viewing was when I was 8 or 9.”

  “And did you, Liz? Did you enjoy it?”

  Another pause. There was a bump against the swinging door leading to the kitchen. The soft glow of the fire momentarily yielded to the harsh florescent lights of the kitchen.

  Jamie entered with a tray of coffee. As I moved to right my clothing, Liz held firmly to my erection inhibiting any effort to zipper myself. She smiled.

  “There is no need for modesty, Sam.”