About Eve,

by Chris Bellows

  Bobbi’s ears seemed to perk up and he flushed. His nakedness, standing and serving three women in high heels and maid’s cap, was challenging. But having his anatomy discussed seemed to trigger his latent exhibitionism and a normally well-hidden enjoyment was displayed. Then his little penis must have awakened again and met the teeth and its confining tube. He yelped, curtsied and stepped briskly to the kitchen, his uncovered buttocks bouncing about due to the walk ingrained constantly at the behest of Lucretia.

  We collectively laughed.

  “It’s best that I begin. He’s overdue and whatever implement encases his penis appears to be most painful,” Nami suggested with exaggerated concern.

  She surveyed the room, sizing up each piece of furniture then concluded.

  “This table is best. Bobbi, clear it for me then remove your heels...and your cap. I’d like to see your pretty hair...and bring a bowl with you.”

  Nami took charge. It was interesting how deftly her demeanor changed from mannerly guest to commanding nurse.

  Bobbi jumped at her orders, the table was cleared and his heels tapped a quick cadence to the kitchen. When he returned he was as instructed, devoid of all covering but for the belt of steel.

  Lucretia and I slid our chairs back from the table. Since Bobbi was occupied I located a bottle of Gran Marnier. Nurse Nami declined and I poured to two snifters for Lucretia and myself. The conversation had been interesting. It was about to become enlightening.

  “Up. Be a good girl for me. On the table. Hands and knees.”

  Nami’s tone was courteous but firm. Bobbi obeyed while our dinner guest retrieved her purse. There she removed latex gloves and a comically large tube of lubricant.

  Lucretia and I both smiled and giggled like schoolgirls.

  “Spread those thigh and knees for me Bobbi. Yes, that’s a good girl.

  “Now I want you to relax as best you can. The bowl is to remain between your knees. Don’t knock it about or break it.”

  Nami skillfully removed Bobbi’s butt plug. The last inch slid out of his rectum with a plop.

  “Good sized. He’s stretched nicely for a girl his age.

  “Do you like having your anus opened, Bobbi? Does it make your penis feel funny?”

  Bobbi demurred. Nami knew the answer and lubricated her right glove. The milking began.

  My reverie is interrupted by a very obsequious servant, humbly pouring another glass of bubbly. Motanda has taken her seat directly to Paul’s left. Her left hand aggressively kneads the scrotal sac, while the fingers of her well-oiled right begins to assault his rear aperture. She doesn’t touch the mammoth shaft, merely watching it bob about in reaction to her manipulation.

  Motanda has a great sense of timing. Never rushed, she casually works her right hand as pre-ejaculatory fluid begins to stream from the urethra. Her experience tells her precisely where Paul’s organs are in the ejaculatory cycle. He won’t disappoint the women of the Spa with any premature eruption. Motanda will not permit it. His role is to provide at least an hour of entertainment, with all the guests anticipating listening to his heart felt groveling as Motanda brings him tantalizingly close to release then denies him the ultimate pleasure.

  Twelve inches of manhood turned into the mere toy of a Dominant woman. It’s wonderfully comforting for our guests. The male beast is so easily tamed. And having Paul suspended and gently swinging like a puppet at the end of cords and chain is deliberately symbolic. It’s a scene that brings our guests back time and again to the Spa.

  When Paul begins to thrust his hips into the thin air, Motanda knows his semen is broiling. She has not yet touched his incredibly stiff phallus but senses his condition. This is when her strength and firm grip are most advantageous. Her left hand grasps the purple tip and gruffly bends it downward, almost pointing it toward the floor.

  Our poor puppet produces the most pitiful of cries.

  Yes. It is cruel. Knowledgeable women understand that the male organ cannot ejaculate at such an angle and Motanda knows the male organ. Paul will thrash, yelp, beg, whimper, beseech. But he will not come.

  With the business end firmly under control, Motanda can now go for gold. The fingers of her right hand probe deeply, feeling for that special area so often overlooked by the typical unwitting female lover. The little gland, so well hidden yet so detrimental to the function of male copulation, belongs to her.

  Just ask Paul, I think to myself. I doubt if he could offer any evidence refuting who will truly determine when and how he will spend his seed this evening. Left to his own devices, the blathering helpless male would empty himself in a most embarrassing manner, shaming his proud twelve inches by prematurely splattering whatever his reproductive system had to offer.

  No. It will be by Motanda’s hand that he will give up his offering. And Motanda knows that it is cocktail hour and the ‘entertainment’ will last until the dinner hour. Thus, Paul will indeed ‘dance’ like a puppet, somewhat sanguine with the knowledge that at some point Motanda will grant him relief and empty him of his male essence but simultaneously suffering with the cognition that the timing will not be his to determine.

  Those members of the serving staff having before encountered the masturbation harness, look for the metal pot for consolation. And as Motanda continues her delightful game, she nods to Latricia standing nearby. It is only then that a shining highly polished pot is placed on the carpet before the hanging supplicant and the more regular patrons of the Spa begin to playfully wager on the forthcoming results.

  Yes, Motanda will bring Paul to the ultimate climax and she will do so in a manner resembling an artillery officer, loading then calculating that angle of trajectory, which will most thrill and amaze the assembled guests.

  Paul’s twelve inch ‘cannon’ is sure to amuse. And as Motanda’s knowing fingers bring him to the brink, her left hand permits the incredibly stiff phallus to slowly right itself. With her left hand free, the cords securing the neck collar require attention and she pulls accordingly. The tension on the spinal cord causes the purple pole to spasm and with this motion Motanda provides a perfunctory manipulation with her deeply penetrating right hand, squeezing the prostate.

  In a truly amazing display, the virile male squirts his essence to the mirthful screams of feminine laughter. Paul impressively hits the pot then proceeds to soak the carpet as Motanda’s left hand begins to stroke him. She now pumps the long shaft with the left hand...massaging with the right. In draining him, Motanda allows Paul to finally attain bliss.

  I decide to depart. Lotus awaits and I am aroused. I am as eager to see her as she is to see me.

  The Spa has once again provided suitable amusement for the Dominant women of the world. It is challenging, but we try.

  Chapter Eleven

  When I open the apartment door Lotus is indeed as eager for my touch as I am for hers. With her elbows tightly secured together behind her, the pain of the contortion has built in a delightfully slow manner. As predicted, tears roll down her cheeks but my attention is on her small breasts and her wonderfully perky nipples. The forced posture serves to flatten her mammary glands and cause her nipples to stand up like little pebbles on a smooth beach.

  Lotus has had a trying afternoon. Unable to utilize her hands with ankles closely shackled together and her outer labia zipped closed, she has wiled away the hours anticipating my return, bearing growing pain while her bladder slowly fills.

  It’s nice to feel welcome and with Lotus’s forced smile I cannot help but feel wanted. I suppose every pet owner receives a similar greeting.

  Lotus is curled up on the living floor and struggles to arise without use of her hands and with her feet chained so closely. I suppose she has found some degree of comfort in the odd position. My nose tells me she has been rocking herself in order to stimulate the balls in her vagina. She is particularly fragrant and seems to have worked herself near orgasm in attempting to offset the pain.

  I will need to be careful in handling her. Unsu
pervised fingers may make trouble.

  So I graciously push her back to the floor and unlock her ‘zipper’. In pulling the small chain out my fingers encounter moisture.

  Such a wanton girl, Lotus, I think to myself.

  I spread her labia and the smaller gold ball peeks back at me surrounded by excited inner lips, vermilion in color and glistening with feminine juices.

  I smile and take the time to slacken the elbow restraint providing instantaneous relief but keeping her hands immobile.

  I pull her to her feet and point to the bathroom. Lotus knows to head for the bidet, and begins her humble walk, on toes, quickly shuffling one foot in front of the other.

  The bidet is of special design, higher then normal which allows me to inspect her and properly supervise her functions. She knows to bow her legs at her knees then slide back onto the seat. She is almost standing and I can observe without stooping.

  Since her hands are restrained, I lean forward and part her labia utilizing her rings. She has to lean back to urinate. Otherwise the small gold ball interferes with the flow. Being shy, it takes time for her to summon the courage to perform for me. My mind wanders with the pause and returns to that most interesting evening in my New England apartment.

  Nami worked her fingers into Bobbi’s anus. There was no rush and with two digits easily penetrating him she knew to massage a bit and make him comfortable. After a time Bobbi’s young sphincter seemed to welcome a third finger and within minutes a fourth.

  She was quite talented and Bobbi soon found himself completely impaled by her small hand with no more resistance then a verbal ‘uhh’.

  “Yes, the little gland is most swollen. Can you feel this?”

  Nami must have found the male ‘G’ spot for Bobbi spasmed.

  “Yes. You need a good massage Bobbi. Relax. Think about something else. If you tumefy it could be most painful.”

  Nami knew her suggestion was impossible to follow and unbeknownst to Bobbi, smiled at Lucretia and me with diabolical expectance.

  It was then that a clear fluid began to emanate from the egress of the tube in Bobbi’s chastity belt.

  “Yes. He’s quite full.”

  Nami’s left hand went to work on the perineum further pressuring the gland and causing Bobbi to cry out. The teeth bracelet and the tube were performing their function, keeping Bobbi’s penis flaccid. But Nami’s deft hands were providing every reason why it should erect.

  Lucretia and I both took a sip of the Gran Marnier, comfortably watching Bobbi’s discomfort. The flow of fluid increased along with Bobbi’s noisy protestations.

  “Do you want him drained, Eve? It’s easily done but the pain may be a bit much.”

  Lucretia and I exchanged thoughts and agreed. We may as well have Nami finish the task. Henceforth, after observing the technique, Lucretia could perform the function as required.

  Nami proceeded in earnest. Bobbi hollered but his glands continuously gave up their essence. Her hands resembled those of a carpenter working a piece of expensive wood with power but also with finesse.

  The bottom of the bowl became coated. Bobbi began to writhe uncontrollably. Nami knew the end was near but may be unattainable.

  “The penal restraint is to much for him. If you have some ice, I’ll finish him.”

  Disappointment, yes, Bobbi would be drained utilizing the simple anesthesia of numbing ice. But Lucretia and I could look forward to future milkings where perhaps mercy would not be so forthcoming.Nami held her position while Lucretia applied bags of ice to the steel belt. Although the neoprene liner served to insulate, the penetrating cold reached the metal tube and from there chilled the penis and testicles.

  Nami was able to resume with Bobbi remaining flaccid in the belt. Soon, the clear viscous fluid turned cloudy and Nami announced that Bobbi was giving up his sperm. He felt nothing. Lucretia found the process to be fascinating.

  Lotus bashfully opens and begins to empty her bladder. The hesitation partially results from my close proximity and the expectation of what will follow. She has sat propped up on the high bidet too many times not to know.

  When the stream of excretion slackens I stand ready. When she finishes I remove my hands and instruct her to remain still. Then I turn on the water valve.

  Lotus jumps but settles back down as a spray of ice water douses her pudendum. The manufacturer of the bidet found the demanded feature to be eccentric. Most orders required the water to be tepid. My order was to include a cooling compressor to ensure that my maid received a firm cold cleansing.

  I have to laugh at her reaction. Lotus knows I will not allow orgasmic relief and that the biting coldness is coming. And she also knows I will not allow her to patter about the house smelling like a cheap whore with traces of feminine arousal streaming down her thighs.

  So I lean over and again open her outer labia, pulling at the rings on her nether lips to ensure that the cold spray cools and cleanses. When I tug forcefully and expose her clitoris to the jet of liquid, she yelps and squirms, but obediently stays seated.

  Well, I will not take her to the dining room until her sex is sufficiently calmed. I want her focussed on my pleasure not hers.

  I turn off the spray. Nipple clamps await those perky nubs, now standing wonderfully erect from the chilling genital shower. I select a particularly nasty pair, applied brusquely to the most sensitive area then unzip my slacks. The shocking pain does not deter Lotus from sliding off the bidet, falling to her knees and groveling to thank me with her tongue for the bladder relief.

  Soon, I will be as clean as she but first I move to the living room, pour my own wine and assume the requisite position in a large, stuffed chair. Lotus shuffles about, her boyish buttocks bouncing with each abbreviated step, obediently following me until I sit and spread my thighs. She then genuflects to begin her arduous oral endeavor.

  The Princess does not expect me for another hour and so I relax with the wine. Lotus’s tongue begins to gently caress and I have more thoughts about Bobbi...

  After Nami demonstrated the proper milking technique, Lucretia added it to her repertoire of care. She preferred letting Bobbi’s hormones build but understood that every six to eight weeks his glands needed attention.

  Bobbi’s rear aperture needed more stretching since Lucretia had larger hands. And it was curious that over time, less and less ice was needed for his milking. Perhaps he indeed learned to think pristine thoughts as Lucretia had once suggested or he was becoming more and more asexual.

  Meanwhile Lucretia continued to teach him cunnilingus and reported that he was constantly poking his head under her brief skirt and partaking in her charms.

  Over time Lucretia taught Bobbi social skills...as a girl of course. The curtsy made an impression, but Bobbi also learned how to courteously and effeminately greet people...how to eat in public with charm and grace...how to sneeze...cough...use a handkerchief. The powdering of the nose became a labored learning experience with Lucretia taking Bobbi to lunch in some very proper local restaurants. There she would lecture while plying Bobbi with ice tea. When nature called she accompanied Bobbi to the ladies room as one would accompany a little girl. Bobbi would blush as he was forced by the stainless steel belt to squat and release his bladder while Lucretia supervised, holding open the door of the toilet stall and observing like a concerned parent.

  I observed the development of a very interesting bond. Although constantly tormented, there was nothing Bobbi would not do for, to, or with Lucretia. He welcomed her touch, whether in the form of a gentle caress of his overly sensitive nipples or an aggressive caning of his buttocks.

  Privately, Lucretia informed me that Bobbi savored her sex, at times begging to be allowed the privilege of servicing her. Lucretia in turn accommodated him by temporarily removing the teeth bracelet and permitting him to tumefy while the belt was removed for weekly cleansing.

  It was a most curious scene with Bobbi tightly secured to the ‘A’ frame absolutely stripped of clothing
. Upon removing the belt, his untouched penis began a slow, steady rise to full erection while Lucretia looked on with a smile.

  Bobbi would blush with the reaction but one could detect deep down some level of well hidden male pride, seeming to suggest that despite Lucretia’s physical restraints and strict control, an important anatomical body part still flourished.

  Lucretia’s ostensibly uncharacteristic response was more deviant than a casual observer would suspect.

  Her thoughts were that the penis rose to stiffness only because she permitted it. That, but for her munificence, Bobbi’s neglected appendage would never see the light of day, much less be allowed to blossom and stand at humble attention.

  Meanwhile my duties at the Sperm Bank were growing. Ms. Matilda became more and more comfortable with my managerial talents and began taking time off. Therefore Lucretia’s efforts in caring for Bobbi were becoming more than just appreciated, such were essential.

  It was nice to know after working late that a well-trained handmaiden awaited me, a light dinner prepared, looking as radiant in the late evening as he did when I started the day. I insisted on the heels, providing Bobbi with the ongoing challenge of balancing and moving about. And the maid’s cap was quaint. But otherwise he served wearing just the belt...nothing else.

  Nami had shown us the importance of the perineum, the area between Bobbi’s thighs just behind where his tube emptied. It was there that Bobbi earned a caress for services rendered and many a time, while my maid served a late night cup of tea, my hand reached to his smooth, hairless thighs in a wordless offer of affection.

  His response was to separate his feet, thus opening his thighs and facilitating access to the curious erogenous zone. If I were not too tired, I would also toy with his nipples and watch him flush and smile with the simple pleasure.

  Such was the level of his sensitivity. Just the brush of a Dominant female finger brought goose bumps. But an extended massage of the perineum brought pain when his entrapped penis engorged and met the teeth of the ring and the confines of the chastity tube.