Saturday, December 24, 2016
Serving the Queen I
Not that any one has noticed... I suspended posting on my Facebook account. Not a good medium for smut as most folks utilize their real identity in communicating... something that had not occurred to me when I initiated the effort.
New story. Merry Christmas to all.
Serving the Queen
By Chris Bellows
“How is it you found me? You must have spent much time and money.”
The white uniformed woman of some fifty years sits, legs crossed, leaning back in the bar stool, the pose one of self assurance. She sips her wine, smiling, amused that her host somewhat fidgets.
“Money... no time. I hired a search firm. With the internet, these types of things aren’t impossible... particularly with a sizeable checkbook.”
“I’m glad to learn you have that, Richard. I assume I can still call you Richard?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” the man’s expression becoming sheepish with his unintended show of servility.
“So your servitude to the Queen was fruitful... in the end.”
“I suppose... in a way... yes. She put me through college... as agreed. And graduate school,” the tone one of conciliation.
The woman becomes emboldened. Expecting a confrontation, the man’s truckling demeanor brings a degree of tranquility. Though the meeting has been at his quest, she finds herself directing rather than responding to verbal examination.
“Glad all is for the better. What is it you want from me Richard? It’s been some ten years since I wiped your ass for you.”
The coarse words bring discomfort, as intended. There comes thoughtful silence as the woman sips again. Richard rattles the ice in a cocktail barely touched.
“Not enjoying your drink?”
“I... I... really don’t drink.”
The woman snickers, her courage mounting.
“Then what is it you do... to relax I mean?”
“I trade. I’m a trader. Stocks... I’ve become rather good.”
“So that’s it? That’s your recreation?”
Richard nods, glumly.
“I’ve read that somewhere... about men... boys... who have been altered. Something about the hormonal changes that bring better balanced thinking and analysis. More focus, less diversions. In battle the Roman generals favored castrates... as advisors... emotionless in formulating strategy... least that was the conjecture.”
“Why did you do it?” the non sequitur query blurted with frustration.
The woman snickers, placing her wine glass on the bar to focus intently.
“Full head of beautiful blond hair, your voice has not changed, limited body fat. And you’re a successful business man. I’d say the procedure has not been overly detrimental,” the woman smiling, deliberately avoiding the question.
Richard finally sips, finding sudden attraction in the alcohol, annoyed with the non response.
“Hormone pills,” he finally explains, finding himself obligated to reply despite the woman’s diversion. “Plus exercise... and an occasional injection.”
Delighted in having taken control of the discourse, the woman pounces, wickedly putting aside all pretense.
“And your penis? I’m told it shrinks. That would be too bad. You were quite a sizable boy. I enjoyed handling you.”
The brash words bring a flurry of thoughts... recollections... further spurred when the woman reaches forth, left hand extending to gently cradle the back of Richard’s head. A slim index finger of the right hand goes to the nose. In a bold yet smooth motion, otherwise ungracious, the digit instantaneous slips into the left nostril then withdraws.
“How curious Richard, your nose remains grommeted. And here I am without my leash. All the money you’ve been making and you’ve not had it removed.”
“I... I... well... over time you become used to it. I don’t give it much thought. And no one sees it.”
“But you know it’s there. A reminder... of being under control. And the time in bondage? Being tended to like a toddler? Your time... ah... entertaining the Queen? You don’t give all that much thought?”
“It’s all in the past. I try not to think about it,” the reply brusque in frustration.
“Yet you made such an effort to find me. The email sent to my hospital address brought concern Richard. It’s monitored. Rather nasty of you to endanger my employment.”
“Not intentional. I made the note innocuous. I’m aware of the... ah... possible controversy.”
“Yes. It suggested you needed to talk to me. But it seems I’m doing all the talking.”
“I have a penthouse... upper east side. I know you’re in Manhattan as well. Since you’re nearby, I thought... I... well it would be good to discuss things... better understand.”
“Yes, you want me to come home with you. You find the need to bond with the woman who so tenderly cared for you. Some maternal supervision. It’s common. Having shared in the trauma, patients so often want to marry their nurse. And the castration thing... such remorse over losing two mostly useless glands. Am I to console you Richard? Care for your emotional wounds as I did for the physical. Mentally still feeling the searing sting of the Queen’s canings are you? Need Nurse Audrey’s aftercare?”
Richard sips again, his hand trembling.
“You’ll not answer my question... why?”
“Why do you think it was I who did it? Most times you were hooded. Did you hear my voice?”
“No. But you’re medically trained. The hands, the soft fingers. You... you... caressed me there just before...”
“Before the life transforming snap of rubber," nurse Audrey Timmons interrupts. “Richard any woman who’s worked on a ranch knows how to use an elastrator. On a sheep farm the procedure is performed by the dozens... quickly... humanely... painlessly... but for that most meaningful snap. Not much happened at the palace without the Queen’s concurrence, Richard. You should not doubt that what was done was under her auspices. Perhaps she wanted to be remembered... offering you a parting gift... a life without distractions... freed of dalliances. You’re well off Richard, focusing on your fortune rather than trivial sex... the fruitless search for the perfect woman. Were the Roman generals wise seeking the input of those without balls?”