The observer’s eyes scanned the left hip. A ring pierced the flesh there and from it dangled a metal disk. A closer look revealed that inscribed on the disk was data regarding the donor. Donor number, birthday, date of entry to the sperm bank. With the donor number all other pertinent data could be accessed from Ms. Matilda’s extensive computer data bank. No names were used. The donors were anonymous to all nurses and visitors.
The thighs were held well spread by two large comfortable cloth straps strung from the overhead beam. Each strap ran from the beam around the mid-thighthen back up to the beam. These straps supported most of the donor’s weight.
As written, the donor was held suspended off the floor, for the legs were bent back at the knee with fur lined ankle cuffs holding the feet well up and bent back. As with all other restraints, the ankle cuffs were held up by chains running to the overhead beam. An inquiry to the attending nurse revealed that the feet were well positioned and presented for bastinado, the evil punishment of whipping or caning the soles of the feet. The observer cringed with the thought. There was no way for the donor to avoid such torment, if it be deemed necessary.
Thoughts of bastinado were quickly put aside as the eyes move to between the thighs. Here lay the essence of Ms. Matilda’s competitive advantage in the industry. An extremely large penis and two hairless pink testicles rested in a trough. The trough was set on a bench between the thighs, which was adjusted to the proper height so that just the organs lay in within it. Filling the trough was a special viscous liquid, which constantly circulated and was kept at the perfect temperature to induce the production of sperm in the testicles. The nurse explained that the optimum temperature varied among males but ranged between 95.5 degrees and 97.5 degrees. The fine art of sperm production involved ascertaining the perfect temperature for each donor, a tedious process, which required months of experimentation and measurement.
Emanating from the tip of the penis was a catheter tube. The flow of urine was monitored and controlled, explained the nurse. All intake and outflow was measured. And the process further served to inculcate the subservience of the male donor and the control to be demonstrated by the nurse. A closer inspection revealed that the donor’s penis was pierced. The catheter tube covered the moderate gold ring, but a side view shows that it was a common ‘Prince Albert’ piercing the underside of the urethra. The ring exited under the head of the penis.
A rear inspection likewise revealed a tube inserted into the anus and held in place by an inflatable nozzle. A special machine pumped in water and nutrients into the bowels and also reversed the flow at timed intervals to evacuate the bowels. Between the feeding tube and the anal tube all nutrients were completely controlled. There was no need for solid foods and, as the nurse explained, the constant forced feeding left few reasons to ever release the donor from his bonds.
Having taken in all the details, I stepped back and silently watched nurse and donor. It quickly became evident that the donor could not move except to squirm to a certain degree, and that his existence was entirely reliant on the good graces and quiet, competent compassion of his nurse. He was completely under her authority and control.
Lotus continues to work tirelessly. Years and years of tenderly but firmly working my sex has built the stamina of her tongue and lips to incredible levels. When it comes to cunnilingus, she is the equivalent of an Olympic athlete, plying her skills quietly and competently, and ardently seeking the ultimate goal, ecstatic climaxes and the strong flows of my essence which follow.
Again my thighs clench her head and the orgasmic endorphins overwhelm my hippocampus. My hands move to the table to steady myself. I can feel Lotus sucking in everything my vagina offers.
One element of this gratifying service, so magnanimously included in my employment contract, is that if so inclined I can sit in this chair all afternoon and Lotus will continue her oral servitude. Presently I rest, but with a mere tap on her head she will resume...again and again and again. She has no other duty to perform, no place to go, no one to visit. But alas, I have other duties and arise.
Lotus cleans the table and her fragrance is very strong. She is flushed and obviously on the brink of her own orgasm. The devilish balls have been working inside her, spurring her toward the ecstatic relief she cannot attain. I am pleased they work so nicely.
Although somewhat satiated, I contemplate Sunday afternoon, when I will indeed lie in bed and have Lotus perform a marathon of oral caresses, as suggested. There I can watch as she frustratingly grinds her hips into the mattress, making my little gold spheres dance within her sex. The notion of her ‘hanging’ so close to orgasm but achieving mere mental torment, excites me.
Before leaving to return to my office, I strap her elbows together behind her back. In so doing, she stoically confronts the initial discomfort. But I know by cocktail hour, I will step in the door and greet the tear stained cheeks of a very subservient naked girl, eager to be released and ready to serve me.
Chapter Eight
It is interesting how accustomed I’ve become to Lotus’s service. My knees are somewhat wobbly but I recover quickly as I stroll into the hallway. When Lotus first arrived, I was being serviced by a rotation of selected males. They worked hard but had not the nimbleness and dedication of Lotus. Thus, my pleasure was somewhat superficial, and I never ‘tapped’ for more. When Lotus first knelt between my thighs, the initial level of ecstasy was bewildering. But over time I learned how best to ‘ride’ with it and, in insisting on seizing all that her skills have to offer, have adapted and come to function normally thereafter.
It is close to 3:00 p.m. and some of our guests are returning to their rooms after skiing. As I pass them in the hallways, I inquire about their day and smile, inwardly reflecting on their various proclivities. One woman for example, a very aggressive attorney from Washington, will shortly be straddling the hooded face of a male staff member. His ankles will be spread high and wide and in her hand will be the classic ‘penis’ whip which many guests enjoy applying with fervor to well exposed genitals. He will find himself applying his tongue with equal fervor.
My thoughts return to the sperm bank and Ms. Matilda.
During my initial interview with Ms. Matilda she made reference to Miangas, a small island in the Philippines where her nurses were born, raised and trained. It may be apparent to the reader that after my initial visit to the Sperm Bank and barn, my curiosity was piqued by the casual but incredibly firm treatment afforded to the donors by the Asian nurses. And such curiosity spurred a subsequent discussion with an anthropologist at my alma mater. I followed up with a lengthy reading session in a research library to better understand such an interesting culture, which produced such young but competent and authoritative women. The conflicting characteristics and mannerisms such as a nurturing demeanor vs. abject cruelty; insouciance vs. a complete dedication to the business; a loving, caring touch vs. constant torment afforded to the donor; all such juxtaposed observations from my brief tour needed further elucidation.
The resulting research revealed to me amazing information, generally ignored, perhaps even concealed by a male dominated academic community.
The island of Miangas has a female dominant culture. Spotty and incomplete research indicates that hundreds of years ago most of the adult males of the island were killed in an inter-island war. The fighting left the female population to fend for itself, and the women became very self-reliant. Having learned to live without males, those that were newly born were treated as lower class citizens, even beasts of burden, left uneducated, and living outside the home.
But the females learned that despite their disdain for the male, they needed the seed, which the ‘inferior’ gender provided. Therefore, on Miangas the procurement of sperm became as commonplace as growing crops or raising livestock.
I found an obscure academic paper concerning Miangas and the pictures included in an appendix were both shocking and enlightening. Written just after the turn of the century there we
re numerous photos showing naked males on Miangas pulling ploughs in open fields and vehicles similar to rickshaws through village streets. One particularly interesting wide angled photo was evidently taken in the main square of one village. Four males, again without benefit of clothing, were laboring in yoke to turn a heavy stone post. Various ropes and a nearby stream of water suggested that they were endeavoring to pump water from the village well. To the side stood a woman with a whip. A closer inspection of the naked backsides suggested she was using it well and frequently. The sardonic smile she wore may have just been for the camera, but I could not help thinking that she was thoroughly enjoying her position of authority.
Perhaps even more telling about the culture of Miangas were the little girls shown in the photo as observing nearby. Some eight to ten years of age, they appeared to be closely watching the tormented males and smiling contentedly.
To read the paper was even more telling. The author attempted to cloak the abject cruelty of the island culture in bombastic academic prose, but the chapter explaining how the young teenaged girls of the island were trained to masturbate males with impunity, was shocking. For upon reaching puberty, the reader learned that almost every male was restrained in some manner and normal sexual relief was only to be awarded by groveling or performing some service for a condescending female. And the girls were taught to grant such favors quite infrequently.
It seemed reasonable to assume that modern times had moderated much of the island’s culture. I thought to myself that displays of the naked, well whipped buttocks of subservient males could no longer be permitted in the modern world. And indeed the anthropologist, when questioned again, suggested that the aberrant behavior exhibited in the photos could no longer be found on the island. But the anthropologist seemed to think that many of the practices had merely gone underground. With an ironic smile, I remember he coyly suggested that it might be difficult to find any males at all!
My research and conversation with the anthropologist left me with many questions. What then, had happened to the males of Miangas? If the culture was no longer female dominant, how was it that Ms. Matilda could locate and hire so many nurses whose natural demeanor was so superior to the male gender? What type of hospital/medical program would include in its training such precise and exacting care of the subservient male and more importantly of the subservient male’s testicles?
At Ms. Matilda’s suggestion, within a week of the initial interview and tour I returned to the sperm bank not only for more talk, but to spend an entire day, in order to better understand the operation.
Ms. Matilda and I began the morning talking over coffee. In very polite conversation, this firm but very gracious woman soon gleaned information about me which not only was absent from my resume, but I had rarely discussed with anyone. It mainly concerned my relationship with males. Was I dating? How often? What relationships had I had with males? How did I feel about them? Any commitments? Why not?
It did not take Ms. Matilda long to formulate an understanding of my own level of disdain. And upon so doing she appeared satisfied and quickly but courteously concluded with one last question.
“Shall we begin the day?”
We exited Ms. Matilda’s office and I was introduced to one of the nurses. Her name was Nami, and her English was better than the nurse I had observed days before. Ms. Matilda graciously instructed Nami to take me through her shift, and that I should be permitted to observe all operating procedures. I was thrilled to learn that a twenty-one year old donor would be ‘milked’ at mid-day. An interesting term for obtaining a sperm sample, but I made no comment, deciding to defer most questions until I fully understood the Sperm Bank operations.
Nami was a short, dark-skinned girl, as were all the nurses. I judged her to be thirty, but her stature and lithe body gave her a girlish appearance and, had I not known she was a highly trained professional, I would have assumed her to be a teenager. She was cute with a clear complexion and dark mouse-like eyes. Certain motions caused her well-starched white uniform to strain against her breasts and that view when combined with a glance to her shapely calves, caused one to surmise that under the uniform was a very charming and feminine form.
In casual conversation I learned that each day a nurse was assigned four donors. It was fascinating to realize that each donor was afforded two hours of close intimate care each day. The barn had a capacity for 64 donors, although rarely was it full. The process of quality control necessitated constant review and culling of the donors.
Entering the barn we turned left and walked past numerous hallway entrances until we reached the far end. I looked back to count eight such entrances and as we entered the selected hallway I viewed eight stalls. The capacity was indeed 64.
Nami entered the first stall. A male donor was suspended as described. He was new and Nami casually narrated as she worked.
Donor 00523 had been in harness for three days. He was blindfolded and, unlike the donor I observed on my first visit, I noticed plugs in his ears with wires attached. Whether 00523 was asleep or awake, there was no way to determine.
Nurse Nami stepped to an electrical control panel on the right side of the stall. There were gauges, dials and switches. She explained each. Body temperature. Temperature of the liquid in the trough. Pressure of the fluid in the intestines. Amount of nutrition fed through the mouth tube and anal tube over the past hour, past six hours, past 24 hours etc. The available data was exhaustive.
“Our experience tells us what is needed for each donor. Over time I’ll learn exactly what donor number 523 needs. You’ll notice the testicle temperature is close to the body temperature of 98.6 degrees. I’ll lower that as sperm samples are taken to find the optimum temperature. The process will take two to three months, but when I’ve finished, 523 will produce sperm like a well fed dairy cow produces milk.”
Nami put her finger to her lips to indicate silence and flipped a switch. The earplugs were evidently connected to a microphone as the teenager stirred to a “good morning” from the nurse.
“I’ll bet you’d like to empty that bladder, 523. Well, be a good boy and I’ll open the valve. We have a visitor this morning. We don’t get many, so be obedient and show the nice lady how much you like your nurse.”
The switch was flipped off. Nurse Nami explained that the earplugs pipe a constant hissing sound, effectively deafening the boy.
“I’ll allow him to watch. Yesterday he developed a partial erection despite the catheter. A very good sign.”
Nurse Nami removed the blindfold and the boy blinked under the lights. I stood to his front as the nurse instructed and let the boy gaze at me. Nurse Nami began her daily inspection.
“He’s a good specimen. I may be able to get him to top production in six weeks. You develop a feel over the years as to the optimal feeding level, hormone flow, temperature, etc. It’s more art than science, but the science helps.”
As the nurse spoke she was gently smoothing her hands over 523's body. A slight squeeze of the nipples caused a noticeable jerking motion and Nurse Nami smiled. Likewise a pinch to the soft, hairless flesh of the buttocks produced the same reaction.
“You can see the distended lower stomach here? His bladder is absolutely full. Depending on how cooperative he is, I’ll open the catheter and release some of the night’s excretions. We use bladder control quite a bit here. Every morning I have four very subservient boys eager to see me.”
Nurse Nami dipped her fingers into the rough and pulled up the scrotal sac. As she predicated the boy began to tumefy despite the catheter. He was also blushing.
“At age eighteen, they haven’t spent much time with females, much less being stripped naked and harnessed. Can you imagine what this organ would do without the catheter?”
The nurse smiled with her thought. I nodded. For an eighteen year old, 523 had an enormous set of eggs. I could feel my arousal as Nurse Nami toyed, fondled and squeezed each gonad with impunity. The pair of male reproductive organs w
ere hers to do with as she wished. She knew it and handled them with the professional confidence of a museum curator.
“Good seminal ducts,” she commented, as she released the hairless sac to let it slide back into the viscous liquid.
Nurse Nami retrieved a shaving bowl and implements. Over the next half hour, each limb was released, one at a time, shaved with a frighteningly sharp straight edged razor, massaged, oiled, and then returned to the restraints. 523 remained perfectly still, allowing Nurse Nami to manipulate the free limb as though it was attached to a rag doll.
“You’ll notice that every inch of flesh is exposed to the razor. This serves to heighten his feeling of vulnerability and with it my control. There is also a therapeutic effect, providing the skin with a very thorough cleansing by removing everything from the surface.”
The razor glided over his torso and then with amazing dexterity she shaved his face and head. Last came his neck, which required the temporary removal of his collar. Nami aggressively pinched his nose with her left hand and pulled up, immobilizing his head while her right hand finished its task.
“He feels nice and clean now. Over time his daily shave will become quite a sensuous experience, being the only physical contact permitted other than milking.”
She pushed the microphone button.
“You like your shave?”
With her question, Nami gently toyed with the teen’s left nipple utilizing the very tip of the super sharp razor. Two contrasting and powerful feelings, the fear of being slashed combined with the erotic thrill of having a pretty nurse toy with an erogenous zone, caused the lad to stir in his bonds. His penis appeared to stiffen.
“Yes, I think he does,” smiled Nami, quite sanguine with the demonstration of her control.
She discarded the razor. The teen’s nipple was erect but without injury.
About Eve, Page 7
