“Nice, pristine thoughts for you, Bobbi.”
Lucretia laughed with her suggestion.
My feminized brother, hormones abundantly flowing at age 18, in effect became a eunuch. But unlike a truly altered male, his drive would build and his desire would accumulate. With absolutely no hope of relief...except of course the cathartic release offered by Lucretia’s cane, Bobbi would have to learn to transform his sexual urges into energetic service for the Dominant female.
The next morning, Lucretia had Bobbi pierced as planned. As a result, when properly locked into his belt, Bobbi’s penis was inserted into the bracelet then secured into the urination tube. Judging from his teared eyes, the pain was unbearable. He had to stop using mascara until he became accustomed to it.
From that day onward, Bobbi became the most obedient of maids. He worked long hours, sometimes arising very early to bake or clean. The slightest nocturnal tumescence awoke him in unimaginable discomfort, his penis trying to defy its captive status. So he was always ready to serve, learning to take short naps to avoid becoming erect in sleep.
Lucretia explained that Bobbi was now truly emasculated and that with his male organs so tightly locked away, there was no longer any need for modesty in Bobbi’s presence.
So I followed her lead and took Bobbi into the shower with me every morning. It became one of his daily chores to gently soap and clean my body and later to towel me. Interesting how he learned to control himself, gazing at his sister’s nubile body, although I did occasionally hear a grunt as his little manhood twitched from time to time.
Lucretia began to teach him even more intimate service. Her casual household attire of halter top and short skirt were functional. And Bobbi’s tongue and lips become a substitute for the organs he could no longer see or touch.
With the thought of oral service on my mind, I enter my apartment. As expected a plate is set with a cup and tea bag waiting. Lotus hears me enter and humbly pads out of the kitchen with a tray containing a BLT sandwich and a pot of hot water for the tea. She is prompt, most servile and completely naked. Just the way the manager of the decadent Spa should be served.
Lotus is a Chinese girl, actually a woman of some 30 years of age. She spent three tours at the Spa, accumulating enough funds to not only finish her bachelor’s degree, but afterwards returned twice in order to fund her masters and Ph.D. Later she again returned and submitted herself to permanent service.
Lotus epitomizes the phenomenon of ‘submissive recidivism’ to which I previously referred. Having attained a thorough education, Lotus found herself unable to function in the vanilla world of chemical engineering. So she returned to the Spa and I selected her to fulfill the portion of my contract that affords me a servant at beck and call 24 hours per day.
I can’t help smiling as her little bare feet gingerly hop across the thick carpeting. I had Lotus’s ankles pierced with solid steel rings. A short chain, permanently welded from ring to ring hobbles her movements, constricting each step to a mere eight inches.
Lotus has the boyish physique of most Asian women. Small, firm breasts, smooth skin without a hint of fat, nicely shaped buttocks. I have not pierced her nipples, preferring to instead leave them unfettered so that there are ample areas to apply clamps. Her black hair is kept short. I don’t like a tickling mess of long strands moving about between my thighs.
My nose detects her feminine arousal. The many short steps jiggle the Ben Wa balls I had inserted into her vagina. Under my direction, the Spa’s doctor took her time in assessing the best location for the special gold spheres. From a small suture near her womb a large ball dangles on a thin line of somewhat elastic nylon. It constantly manipulates her magical ‘G’ spot. A smaller ball hangs on the same line below, titillating the sensitive inner labia at the egress of her love pouch.
The constant motion of the two balls keeps Lotus in a state of arousal. I like her that way.
My eyes move to the source of the aroma. There a hairless pudendum displays my infibulating steel rings, four piercing each of the outer labia with a fifth centered just above her clitoral hood. They are sizable and quite prominent. A thin chain is attached to the top ring and threaded through the labia rings. Lotus is ‘zipped’ closed...tightly, and no one can question the intent of my handiwork. Lotus is controlled, completely. Not even the tip of a finger can work its way to the well-hidden clitoris. It thrills me looking at her. Lotus must endure the pleasant suffering of arousal without relief...until granted by me.
She serves as I sit. Then humbly stands to my side and looks at me beseechingly.
Yes, the key. She needs to be released to visit the bathroom.
Sometimes I make her wait. But with my recollection of Lucretia and Bobbi, I am in a mood to be serviced. I retrieve the key from around my neck and unlock the small padlock dangling at the bottom of the chain between her thighs.
“Hurry back,” I admonish her. “I want you under the table.”
I cannot help but smile as I watch her childlike buttocks bounce with each tiny step toward the bathroom. The letter ‘S’, branded onto the bottom right side of the right cheek, evidences her acceptance of permanent servitude.
In zipping her genitalia and restraining her ankles, there is not a minute of the day when Lotus is not aware of her status and who is in command. She has one function, to serve me, twenty-four hours per day seven days per week. Her only respite is her biweekly medical exam. It is only then that she is opened and inspected. And the reader may be assured, it is not a restful interlude. Sitting spread and open, many regulars enjoy watching the doctor and nurse play with her balls. And my poor, shy Lotus must sit and endure.
When Lotus becomes too old to continue serving, her rings, balls and chains will be removed. But she will depart the Spa with the letter ‘S’ deeply embedded into her flesh as a lifetime reminder of her submission ...and with a pile of money.
Chapter Seven
Lotus hurries as best she can from the bathroom. She knows that delay will not be tolerated since she is unlocked making unauthorized masturbation feasible.
She dutifully reports to the side of my chair. The small chain has already been threaded through the labia rings and I merely have to give her a quick inspection and ensure the lock is properly closed.
With a snap of my fingers she falls to her knees and crawls under the table. She knows that my slacks have an elongated zipper and her fingers work to open the front to facilitate her oral efforts. I slide forward in my chair and open my thighs. Within a minute the sound of her soft moist tongue joins the sounds my consuming lunch.
She is an expert cunnilinguist and as she works my right labia then my left I recall her first session on the training table and how many times her head had to be dunked into the frigid water before she began to perform satisfactorily. But expending time and having the trainer patiently instruct the proper technique was worth the effort. She has no equal.
The pleasure waves begin to lap at my cortex and as I finish my sandwich I snuggle deeper into the chair and open my thighs wider. Lotus is working her way toward my clitoris and I want to remove all impediments.
Tea is most enjoyable when so posed.
I can feel Lotus gently rocking her hips. The little minx is doing her best to maneuver the Ben Wa balls entrapped in her vagina. Yes, I permit her some modest pleasure. It spurs her tongue and lips and I am comforted knowing she cannot attain a full orgasm. She’ll just frustrate herself more.
She used to beg for release when she first entered my service. Now she knows better. She fully understands that I will decide when she will experience her next orgasm...and how...and where.
With her extreme shyness, having one of the nurses slowly masturbate her before a gathering of guests in the lobby is most enjoyable. Listening to Lotus’ contradicting entreaties always adds a degree of mirth to the exhibition... “please not here”... “please not like this”... “please not in front of everyone”...and finally... “please more...please fa
ster...please harder.”
As my clitoris begins to experience the sensation of assiduous tongue and hungry lips, a reverie of life with Bobbi in that New England town returns.
I alluded to working in a ‘clinic’. Modesty precluded me from referring to it otherwise. It was actually a sperm bank, but I found too often that if I used such a moniker, I received glances of either strangeness or laughter.
I was hired by the owner, Ms. Matilda Langley, as a trainee for a management position. The clinic (sperm bank) operated all hours of the day and Ms. Langley, later known to me as Ms. Matilda, needed time off.
The clinic was a most profitable operation, for years of experience and experimentation imbued Ms. Matilda with knowledge of the best methods. With such knowledge came a long list of satisfied customers and when combined with efficiency made her sperm bank the most profitable in the northeast. She had driven the competition away with the best product at the lowest price. As a result she could pick the best employees and more importantly select and procure the most prolific and genetically superior male donors.
Most customers were not familiar with Ms. Matilda’s methods. Her reputation for delivering sperm of the most potent variety from physically and mentally superior donors created an atmosphere of ‘don’t ask’. The superior results spoke for the quality of the product. Therefore no one, other than certain select female friends with curious proclivities, ever inquired about her methods for the collection and storage of sperm.
And the large building abutting the office and storage freezers was also the object of unasked questions. It was assumed by most to be sublet to another business.
“A dairy business,” was Ms. Matilda’s terse reply on the rare occasion when someone inquired about the space. There was little activity that would indicate such a business was present and follow up questions were avoided when the subject of conversation was quickly changed until the customer finished reviewing the profile of the suggested donor and frozen sperm was purchased.
And few inquired about the abundant number of Asian females mulling about. Young. Quiet. All quite pretty in identical starched white uniforms they were ubiquitous but never interacted with customers. Since it was assumed by most that they didn’t speak English, no one availed themselves of the opportunity to address them and learn of their background.
But the young Asian nurses were in fact highly trained, experienced and, those who demonstrated proper technique, were well compensated. Ms. Matilda had run the sperm bank for two years before she realized that two Asian nurses seemed to extract the largest samples. And when she asked the women if they knew of others with similar backgrounds, the resumes of distant friends, sisters and cousins began to cross Ms. Matilda’s desk.
All were from a small island in the Philippines where hundreds of years of local custom and culture had taught the women things about the male psyche and anatomy that few women learned at a young age. And all were fearless in handling males. Fearless and relentless. Since the time Ms. Matilda converted her staffing to exclusively include the young Filipino women, she could count on one hand the number of times the cane had to be utilized. Before that, she had to regularly back up her staff with firm applications of the thin, whippy, strand of bamboo to the buttocks and feet of recalcitrant males. The building had to be sound proofed as a result, an unnecessary expense as the business was currently conducted.
Customers believed Ms. Matilda’s supply of sperm was collected from willing donors who received a stipend. This was indeed general industry practice. But Ms. Matilda realized within the first year of business that genetically superior males don’t often voluntarily give up or sell their sperm. That left two options to replenish inventory. Increase the amount of the stipend to a ridiculously high level, or accept donations from the dregs of society; drunks, addicts, drifters, etc. Both solutions were unacceptable for the long run profitability of the business.
So one day she read about the horse breeding business and how the sale of the frozen sperm of thoroughbred horses was collected and sold. Effectively the business turned horse feed into manure and valuable sperm, as Ms. Matilda viewed it. Except you needed to start with the right horse. And in the brief years of collecting and selling sperm, Ms. Matilda came to know the preferred ‘horse’ in human terms. One just needed a system for finding and keeping him.
Thus, the empty warehouse next to the sperm bank was converted to a barn, only its occupants were not equine or bovine but human.
Ms. Matilda developed a system and network of ‘scouts’ that would be the envy of every professional sports organization. Across the country, hundreds of scouts reported on the physical and intellectual attributes of thousands of high school students. Computer data banks tracked their progress and growth, right down to their physical development
Over time, the candidate list was narrowed as the attributes of some students failed to meet standards. But every Spring, Ms. Matilda had a lengthy list of graduating males with impressive grades, SAT scores, athletic skills, and incredibly...penis size.
How she obtained the latter was a deep secret. But there were rumors that, before being added to the list of finalists, each candidate received an unsolicited offer from some beautiful young trollop who, unbeknownst to anyone, was on the payroll of Ms. Matilda. Many students declined to engage in such a sordid escapade and were simply eliminated from the list. But the hormone levels of most made the offer irresistible and during a quick session of oral sex in the back of a bus, or in the alley outside the hamburger shop, or behind the public library, or in an empty building on the way home from school, or wherever time and opportunity permitted, the size and girth of each candidate’s erection was surreptitiously measured. Such data completed the candidate’s file and the final decision was made.
By the middle of May, a very auspicious and formal letter was sent to each graduating finalist with the offer of a complete scholarship to a very prestigious university. The offer included an airplane ticket and was conditioned upon the candidate appearing for a week of interviews and testing before the prestigious selection board of the fictitious charitable foundation.
Some declined the offer, but every year Ms. Matilda was able to entice between ten and twenty highly intelligent, athletic and well endowed males into her web. For upon stepping off the airplane, a waiting limousine sped away with the unwitting candidate chloroformed and helpless in the back seat.
Tracks were carefully covered. If there were ten candidates then they flew to ten different cities and from there were forwarded to Ms. Matilda’s sperm bank operation. For the first few days of their journey, post cards to parents and relatives assuaged family and friends. Then a professionally prepared letter with a forged signature was sent indicating that the testing had not gone well. Emotional words expressed dismay, disappointment, and depression and the desire to delay returning home and instead to travel and explore.
It would be the last communication. By the time the letter arrived, the candidate was held deep in the bowels of Ms. Matilda’s barn. Stripped naked, bound and beginning the process of genetic servitude.
Thinking back to the ‘clinic’ with Lotus’s face between my thighs brings my first climax. I squeeze her head...hard. She knows to keep sucking, having her lips wrapped firmly about my bud. My reaction cuts off her supply of air, and this is when the training manifests so well. She cannot breathe but there is no panic, just complete dedication to my pleasure. She knows that when the enthralling sensation subsides, her air supply will be restored. But meanwhile she commits herself to my pleasure. It is her only function in life.
I am finally able to relax and can feel Lotus draw a large breath as my muscles slacken. She obediently laps up my juices. Nothing escapes her and there has never been a trace of my spending left on the chair or any garment.
She pauses. I look at my watch then reach down and tap the top of her head. This is the signal to resume. She quietly begins again.
My thoughts return to the ‘clinic’
and how odd a place it seemed when first visiting there.
On my first interview, Ms. Matilda explained the processes and procedures for the ‘donors’.
Upon arrival the status of the candidate changed to that of donor in training. As the anesthetic from the limousine ride wore off, the donor woke to find himself completely immobilized in extreme bondage. Ms. Matilda informed me that she learned over the years that to properly keep a male healthy and ready to produce, complete access to every limb and orifice was required. And so the trainee helplessly hung stripped of all clothing in a specially designed combination of straps and cuffs.
A brief tour was undertaken, with a proud Ms. Matilda speaking and explaining as we walked through the building.
The barn was partitioned into numerous stalls. Each was large enough so that the attending nurse could access the hanging donor from front, back and sides. A strong beam was strung high above the stall from left to right and was studded with various eye-hooks. An observer would describe the helpless donor from top to bottom as follows:Hair had been removed to the point that the donor’s flesh seemed to gleam under the bright overhead lights. The head was held high by an overly wide and thick leather neck collar. The collar was secured left and right to the over head beam by two strong chains, which served to immobilize the head. The donor was forced to look straight forward and could not twist his head or look downward.
A feeding tube emanated from the mouth, gagging the donor and supplying nutrients and hormones from a plastic bag hanging from the beam. An occasional guttural sound was heard but nothing intelligible. It is subsequently learned from experienced nurses that over time, certain sounds became a rudimentary form of communication between donor and nurse.
The arms were secured in back of the donor. Strong fur lined wrist cuffs bound the wrists together. The elbows were bent so the wrists and hands were pointed upward with another chain leading from the connected wrists to the overhead beam. The chain held the wrists firmly but not painfully. An attending nurse insouciantly explained that the chains could easily be tightened for behavior modification purposes.
About Eve, Page 6
