Saturday, July 27, 2019

'Submersed' Third Snippet

This will be the last posted snippet.

A Captive

“Arrgh,” the indiscernible noise emanating from a naked form kneeling on all fours, tummy propped up by a short wooden bench. 

“He’s coming to, Pansy. Water please.”

Aida Benson sets aside her precision tools, taking from her servant a squeeze bottle of water. First she douses the head of her kneeling charge, stimulating more consciousness, then inserts the straw into a yawning mouth to hydrate. Her captive sputters, some liquid imbibed, some spewing to the stone flooring.

“Whaa...” the well trussed man attempts to speak.

“Stay still for just a little longer and I’ll remove the molt gag. Don’t bother trying to talk,” Aida’s tone smooth yet firm.

Hands return to her tools. There comes the high pitched screech of a small drill, the bit approaching the captive’s mouth.

“Just one or two more teeth for today then we’ll talk and I’ll finish tomorrow.”

The drill pushes past a mouth forcibly opened by the steel jaws of the molt gag. There comes pain, there comes heat, there comes the pungent odor of enamel greeting the sharp rapidly spinning bit. The captive spasms, legs and arms flailing... attempting to flail. This triggers more pain.

“You’ll find that to be futile... mister whomever you are. You’re well bound. Let me finish and we’ll exchange information.”

The steady hand works, another bicuspid is ground to the gums.

“Your smile will be... ah... rather ungainly. But there will be few who will notice,” Aida’s flippant observation so aloofly uttered... considering the abhorrence of the deed.

“There... more tomorrow,” smiling in assessing her efforts.

In removing the molt gag, Aida surveys four front teeth, ground away, flattened to the point of uselessness in terms of masticating food. But more importantly in terms of biting.

“So... I’ll talk... you’ll listen. Then you will talk... answer questions... and I will listen.”

“Fuck you,” the invective comical in being hissed through missing teeth.

“Tsk, tsk. Such nastiness for the woman who saved your life,” a hand reaching forth, fingers gathering up the man’s nose and twisting. “I’m sure you’ve already realized you’re not only well restrained. But you’re also naked and quite vulnerable,” twisting convincingly, smiling with the resulting outburst of agony.

The hand retreats, the smile turning to a wicked grin in seeing unavertable tears of anguish rolling to the cheeks.

“That’s better. Silence. My name is Aida Benson. You were in an accident, driving your vehicle into the river. You were knocked unconscious. Blunt force head trauma. You’ve been in a coma for two days. Really, seat belts do save lives by the way. I rescued you, brought you to my home. It’s a good thing you float, otherwise I would have had to swim the width of the river.”


“No. I’m medically trained. You’re in capable hands. And I did not think you’d want to alert the authorities.”

The captive attempts again to move, his effort bringing more pain.

“I’d be hesitant to do that... Mr. Whomever. For reasons which you’ll come to understand. If you have not already guessed... I’ve got you restrained. While unconscious, I took the liberty of assuring you’re in bondage... inescapable bondage... and bound in such a manner that you’ll not need to be freed for quite some time. So move about, but be forewarned, too much motion... sudden pulling... will bring cramping.”

With that the captive mightily tugs at his right arm, a futile attempt to grasp or punch his interrogator... and a painful one. His action brings a sharp and agonizing cramping to his arm muscles.

“Yes, sometimes actions are more convincing than words. Slow and easy... you’ll learn. While you’ve been in la la land, I’ve been busy. You’re bearing some rings for me. Best described as surgically implanted. At your heels, deeply inserted to snare the Achilles tendons, and at your elbows, snaring your medial epicondyle tendons and thus the ulner nerves. As a child you were probably told it was your funny bone when you banged yourself there. Well, with your harsh attempt to strike me, you just triggered your funny bone. Different tendons in your legs, but you’ll endure the same type of pain if you were to try to kick me or otherwise try to stand.”

An arm extends to pat the man’s cheeks, the tenderness incongruous with the size and strength of the hand. 

“To the rings are attached steel cables. Such end with a foot or two of elastic cording which are in turn secured to floor bolts. So mercifully, you’ll be able to move a little and stretch... stay any cramping. But sudden motion... punches and kicks will aggravate some very large nerves. Just think, you can instantly punish yourself for any untoward attempts to become physical.” 

Aida stands from sitting on a low stool. The man is astonished to see that other than an attractive bodice of white cotton, she is uncovered... completely naked from just below breasts of size to her feet. Just as astonishing is the tone... the muscling. The woman has the physique of a well exercised Olympian, abdominal muscles rippling, shapely thighs of granite. He finds himself gawking where a man seeks to take his pleasure. Little pubic air, thick meatiness of dark brown yield to peeking deep pink labia... seeming to beckon for attention. Above is a clitoral hood, fleshy, the man’s imagination envisioning beneath a pearly bud of wondrous size.

“It tends to be warm in these parts. And with the seclusion, I keep myself comfortable... and readily accessible for pleasure... my pleasure,” noting his lascivious gaze. 

“Where...” speech faltering.

“You’re at my home, as I said. Along the river where you nearly killed yourself. You’re in a sub basement, dug well underground, beneath the original basement, before the Civil War. Supposedly as a wine cellar. But at the time the owners of this house were abolitionists and this hidden chamber was to shelter escaping slaves... the first stop on the so termed underground railroad... transporting folks like my ancestors to freedom in the north.”

A hand gestures to a far wall.

“You’ll note the many hanging artifacts. Chains, collars, shackles... forged from wrought iron. Much sweat and labor expended in assuring a man was well restrained for working the plantation. After escape, here is where they were freed... the bonds broken. I’ve left the stuff in place as mementos. Some it was probably worn by my ancestors. Ironic that sometime after the war, my great, great grandfather made a good living trading cotton... what the slaves long toiled to harvest in the hot sun. So when the plantation ran into hard times during the Panic of 1873, he bought the place. When things got better he sold off much of the land to make a tidy profit and kept this house. Family’s been here ever since.”   

Aida signals to her servant Pansy.

“Bathe him... and remove his hair,” reaching to tug a clump at the back of his head. “Curious that you have not inquired about your passenger.”

Aida steps back. The naked Pansy, clothing rarely permitted, works to the kneeling man’s rear side, unraveling a spray hose. Within a moment, the man is showered in comforting warmth.

“Now, what is your name?”

Saturday, July 20, 2019

'Submersed' Second Snippet

Military Training - Corrections Career  

Poverty left Aida Benson with few options despite excellent academic achievement in high school. For her it was the army. And once again her achievement excelled. Out of basic, it was into medical training, trauma surgery. There her efforts were noted, competency at the top of her class. But it was her cool confidence that most drew the attention of superior officers.

‘We need those who can function while being shot at and under attack,’ noted one officer.

Next step, ranger school, training with special forces, bonding with those most in the line of danger... and most likely to be in need of her skills. Her ultimate assignment was to be at the front lines of combat, treating the wounded at the place of battle... ostensibly.

Yes, ostensibly. Her tour was a cover. Indeed, Aida Benson went to the front lines... the middle east... the battle lines of terrorism. But it was not so much her wounded comrades... potential wounded comrades... who became the recipient of her skills.

Working with the Central Intelligence Agency, she was to tend to prisoners... committed terrorists... killers of innocent women and children. The goal... keep them alive for questioning... and make them eager... to tell their stories... to talk... to confess... and for those who didn’t... to have them begging for a merciful end to their lives.     

Surgical nurse Aida Benson assured such an end was not to come.

Many tours, many years, Aida mustered out and returned home to Alabama, all records of her service were sealed, despite her valor, despite her meticulous efforts to assure retribution came to the deserving... slow and unending retribution.

Job opportunities for her sophisticated skill set were rare in the rural south. With the prospects of an ailing mother facing the end of life alone and with limited access to care, Aida Benson returned home to the large, Civil War era decrepit house on the Mobile River. There she offered care and found employment at the only local facility in need of her skills... the nearby state penitentiary... the hospital ward.

It was there she encountered Pansy... a part of the story to be later told. And there once again her cool confidence in a challenging environment... amongst killers and rapists... impressed her superiors. For after years in combat, proximity to terrorists, her cool confidence had been augmented by insouciance for the male. The machismo was all superficial, she learned... not a terrorist under her purview failed to break.  

‘I’ve squeezed my share of testicles,’ Aida Benson offered in response to a question posed during her job interview with the penitentiary’s warden... the question being her ability to handle threatening male brawn.

Warden Grace Addison stopped the interview. Aida Benson was hired.  

Some three years into her second career, mother passed on, leaving the mansion to daughter Aida. With its run down condition, Aida looked upon the bequeathment as an ironic opportunity to exhaust any excess funds from her modest government salary. For on her deathbed, Mother Benson beseeched her daughter to keep the house... and if sale needed in financial desperation, to first return the architectural gem to its antebellum splendor. Aida nodded her consent... yet knowing that restoration would require many years and much cash.   

Months later, on a Saturday afternoon, refurbishment beginning with a spare bedroom, there came a discovery. In preparing to remove ancient wall paper, Aida noticed that a patch which was behind an armoire was relatively recent. Someone had replaced the decades old covering, poorly attempting to replicate the design, the armoire positioned to cover the feeble attempt to match the pattern.

‘Pansy, let’s start here.’

They did. Peeling away, they found that an old closet had been covered up, the door hastily replaced with cheap wall board which quickly yielded to hammer blows. Sunlight revealed some steamer trunks. The illumination of a flashlight revealed the contents.

Someone in the family of Aida Benson robbed banks... or houses... or both. Cash and jewelry, a treasure trove, Mother Benson most likely aware yet too shamed to utilize the small fortune for household needs and medical care.

Thus her deathbed request... if in need... restore the house before sale.

Aida Benson kept her reason. She thought about her impoverished upbringing. The lack of funds for college. She both cursed her mother’s memory for withholding the benefits of such a stash, yet admired her integrity... the refusal to sully her hands with ill gotten gains.

Still she allowed the small fortune to remain in place. Not to be revealed, not to be turned over to the authorities. Mother Benson lived a life of conflict... guilty silence... yet silence of self sacrifice.

For Aida Benson, there had been enough self sacrifice.

No flashy displays of new found wealth. She instead slowly siphoned... weekly depleting the steamer trunks. A bank deposit here... the purchase of savings bonds... a brokerage account there... occasional visits to far off jewelry dealers. The latter effort was the most precarious, she realized. But after some half dozen trips to major cities, she concluded the presumed burglaries were many years in the past... no buyer suspecting or reporting her stash as potentially stolen. Yes, Aida Benson was cool enough not to press for immediate cash... never taking a low offer which would signal to the buyer an insignificant investment in what otherwise appeared to priceless rings, bracelets, earrings, watches, and necklaces. Instead she patiently bargained, maximizing all sales.

The task required nearly a year, but when all was turned to liquid accessible assets, she had a seven figure net worth. Not yet age 40, Aida Benson retired, humorously explaining to Warden Grace that she had milked her last prostate gland.

‘You’ll be missed, Aida. Your efforts calmed the prisoners so well.’

Friday, July 19, 2019

'Submersed' published

I have published the referenced story.

19,000 plus words. $4.50.  Also available from me direct in PDF format $3.50. Email for Paypal instructions.


Saturday, July 13, 2019

'Submersed' First Snippet

New story. Think it has a good plot. Will publish soon. 

Unfortunately there is macabre. A rarity in one of my tales. But remember, probably the largest selling genres of books are murder mysteries. So go figure the moral equivalence when concern over 'consent' versus 'non consent' is now such a significant factor in writing and reading D/s fiction.  




Copyright 2019

by Chris Bellows


The battered car accelerates onto the interstate. ‘Not fast,’ the driver tells himself. No speeding. But not slow. He must make it to his next stop in time. At the precise time. Too soon, he will draw attention in lingering about. Too late and the deal is off, his prized acquisition worthless.

Short wave scanner blaring, the drive brings stimulation, adrenaline, anxiety. No soothing music, he must listen for activity... police activity... and watch the road with diligence.

Engaging in his skills in a rural area has advantages. He can move about at his schedule, no traffic jams, limited surveillance. Conversely, the roads are sparse. With alerts and bulletins such can be easily monitored, readily cordoned off.

There comes a moan from under the blanket in the passenger seat. Perhaps not enough sedative, but there is nothing to be done now. The next stop... ten minutes. There, after contact and additional instructions, he will inject anew.

He reaches to his right, under the blanket, his hand smoothing about naked flesh. Ostensibly he comforts.

“Just a few more hours, sweetheart... then to your new home.”

From most, the words would tend to sooth. But not from the gravelly voice of abductor John Anderson Tilly. And his intention is not to bring composure but to instead test the level of consciousness. When his fingers find a nipple and firmly pinch, he is quieted in not hearing a screech of pain. His package is merely hallucinating, the sedative sufficient.

The scanner squawks. There is activity. The interstate highway is being blockaded at the river one mile ahead. Though the abduction has brought attention, there is no panic. There is an alternative route. Easily taken. It is the timing which will suffer.

Off the interstate. A secondary road to the south. A left turn returns the car towards the east. With the local authorities no doubt engaged in the road block, he knows he can speed, make up for lost time. Fast, faster... with pending darkness the surrounding farm fields become a blur. Then comes  a sign, construction ahead.

‘I cannot slow,’ John Anderson Tilly tells himself. ‘The next instruction point. Arrival must be on schedule.’

But the construction is more than minor. The locals are aware. John Anderson Tilly is not. The bridge of the secondary road is out. In approaching a detour sign, John Anderson Tilly’s sense of direction suggests the alternative route will take him north, back to the interstate and the road block. No slowing, time of the essence, he reaches for the Google maps function of his cell phone, swerving around the detour sign, attention occupied in finding another route over the river.     

With the distraction, the speeding car ascends the ramp to the missing bridge. When John Anderson Tilly looks up, the windshield shows nothing but water. He swerves. The car veers to the right. Heavy braking, down the embankment, the vehicle stops not until water’s edge is reached. Then it topples, to the right, passenger side into the river.

John Anderson Tilly, no seat belt, is tossed about, head hitting the steering wheel to join his captive in unconsciousness. Even the cooling water, slowly immersing the car, does not revive him. And his package... doomed. The new home reached is celestial.   

Aida Benson

The mammoth woman of color lies supine on a work bench, legs of power folded, knees at her chest, bare feet pressing a bar of steel above, weighted with some three hundred pounds. She pushes, legs straightening. The bar slowly rises within the stanchions. She smiles. Anyone observing would think the deed to be strenuous. Then she flexes. The bar slowly lowers, knees returning. Pressing again, with force, the weighted bar now effortlessly pops upwards, seeming to be a balloon kicked into the air.

Warmed, the workout begins in earnest. Up, down, up, down. The rhythm steady and fluidly easy, the repetitions many. 

Nearly nude, the seclusion of rural Alabama makes outdoor exercise invigorating for Aida Benson. It is only a tight sports bar, inhibiting breasts of size from flopping about, that is worn. With breezy wafts of fresh air, the quick evaporation of perspiration augments the invigoration. And knowing that subservient tongue and lips wait nearby to cleanse brings ascendant thrill.

The leg lifts end a most exhausting two hour exercise routine and her servant stands, water bottle and towel prepared for presentation. The tall muscular form rises and silently beckons. With adoring eyes glued... her servant obediently responds.

Dusk approaches. The biting flies and mosquitoes of the river will soon claim the night. A warm bath will be drawn. Perhaps she will share it with her servant, offering a rare privilege.

“Enough exercise, Pansy. Come. Kneel for me.”

The nakedness of her servant prances forth, knees bending, eagerly dropping, the water bottle handed over along with the towel. The empty arms reach forth, relatively slim and tender, the alabaster hands lovingly embracing the mammoth mocha buttocks, wet and warmed with vigor.

“You so much enjoy my taste,” Aida letting herself be guided, parting her thighs, her well trimmed uncovered mons to be aligned with an eager mouth.

She towels her shoulders, the height of her six foot frame putting her upper body out of reach. Then feeling the mouth enshroud, lively tongue slithering past her labia to swish at her urethral opening, she opens herself, always marveling at the neatness, not a drop ever to touch the soil... just as with the flooring of her home. Such training... such eagerness to please... self imposed discipline.       

Deed completed, the towel stills and a smiling Aida drinks. The sweat of her thighs, legs and buttocks is reserved for the oral attention of her servant. So cute, the page boy styled hair the only covering, the entire body denuded of hair, the lack of tan lines evidencing the denial of clothing at all times and all places. 

“Quickly, Pansy,’ she admonishes, “the flies will eat more of me than you.”

With that comes the sound of a roaring engine. Down river. The opposing side. With the bridge out, it has been quiet of late, the noise thus drawing attention. Clamor follows. Aida steps away from the lapping tongue. Dashing down to her dock, she catches the sight of the car, rushing down the embankment, into the water, flipping to one side, the mud slowly engulfing.

Retired, yet medically well trained, Aida knows to respond.

“Pansy. Into the house. Have my kit ready.”

Donned only in her sports bra, Aida knows it is no time for modesty. Oars grasped. To the end of the dock. To her boat.

It is a racing scull... for exercise... of limited utility in an emergency, other than that Aida’s arms of steel will propel her down river and to the embankment of the missing bridge in less than a minute.

If there is a life to be saved she has the skills to do it.     

Sunday, July 7, 2019

Foreign readership

From time to time I review the stats of this blog. Fairly steady number of monthly page views... about 5,000 to 6,000.

But curiously, many are from Poland and Russia, (third and fourth after the USA and the UK). These are countries where I have never sold a story, according to the Lulu revenue details. 

Anyone care to comment or explain? Can Lulu books be purchased in those countries?

Saturday, July 6, 2019

Third Snippet From 'A Summer at the Phipps Estate'

This will be the last snippet from this story. Not sure what is next.


To the Psychiatrist - Redmond

The room door opens. Entering is the pretty young nurse, she who so embarrassingly explored with her hands and fingers before my brief encounter with the doctor.

“Turn for me, Redmond. I’ll take you to see Dr. Rosen.”

I obey, my penis remaining somewhat engorged. She looks down, smiling, arms folding about her chest. I note that at her right wrist a metal baton of some two feet hangs from a strap.

“Come now, Redmond. I know you’ve been masturbated, but certainly you can offer me a proper greeting.” 

I can. And I do, the encouraging words not needed as I feel full erection returning. More concern, more confusion. Why am I so eager to stiffen yet unable to ejaculate?

“That’s a good boy,” the smile beaming as she steps forward, her free hand wrapping about my upstanding firmness.

“We don’t get many ten inch males here... not beta males anyway. So you may as well show off for us.”

The nurse leads, I follow, out the door. I am reminded of my first visit to the Estate, Miss Eve directing me through the unknown mansion utilizing my penis as a leash.

Into the hall, though the journey is brief, the sights impress. Nurses in uniform, young males without a stitch, all in make up, hair coifed, effeminately prancing about in a manner antithetical to their age. Apparent adults, but appearance and behavior contrary.

Little time for evaluation, we enter an office, a sign suggesting it is that of Dr. Rosen.

“Redmond Richards, Dr. Rosen.”

Sitting at a large desk of dark wood is a woman professionally attired in a dark blue business suit. Short light brown hair, even features, she appears trim. She is attractive, not stunning, the attire suggesting a woman of purpose, perhaps dressed to intentionally distract from her beauty.

“On the stool. Position him for me. Remove his gag.”

The words are not barked as a command, but firm, leaving no doubt that the woman is in charge. And I am heartened to have removed the gag, the deep penetration constantly titillating to trigger the gag reflex.

Dr. Rosen returns to reading files, many folders piled on her desk. The nurse tugs to a low stool.

“When permitted to sit in the presence of a woman, the protocol at the clinic is to always maximize your exposure. So feet back, knees parted. Think of it as offering your penis and testicles,” the nurse lectures.

It’s ungainly, lowering myself onto the hard wood and adjusting feet and legs as mandated. As the nurse pokes and prods to assure compliance, it feels like I am in a position of offering prayer, almost kneeling, my thumbs remaining secured to the back of my neck collar.

“Good boy,” the compliment coming as for some reason I seem to further stiffen.  

Next the nurse takes from her pocket a simple rod of metal. It is incongruous that something appearing so innocuous can offer such welcomed relief. For the fingers of her left hand part my lips, and the right hand slips the tip of the four inch rod into my mouth, deftly finding the valve which releases air, deflating the ghastly ball which silences me. Then fingers pinch and slowly slip away, the long penetrating length following.

“You’re convincingly silenced, Mr. Richards,” Dr. Rosen notes, the penetrating tube quite stout. “And you will remain silent until I direct you to speak.”

I nod, repressing the desire to graciously offer thanks.

“Sleep okay? The Segufix restraints are severe, but I believe you have acclimated to such at the Phipps Estate.”

I nod, the system almost a duplicate of that into which Miss Eve binds me each and every night.

“I am the clinic psychiatrist, as I am sure you by now are aware. I’ve been evaluating you for summer employment. Plus your own... ah... benefactress wants us here at the clinic to assure that certain attributes detrimental to your standing at the Phipps Estate have been adequately addressed. And I suppose you are due some answers as well.”

A slip of the tongue? Did she begin to use the term ‘owner’?

“I’ve been reading about you. Everything there is to know about you is on this desk. Your mother... stepmother... was interviewed by satellite phone. She’s somewhere in the south Pacific on a year long world cruise. In reviewing the transcripts of the call, I would judge her to be a passively dominant woman. Says here that she bathed you well into your teen years.”

I nod.

“Did you object? You may answer.”

I demure. For it is true, and with the embarrassment of so enjoying, I never told anyone... not my closest friends. I always felt the many Saturday night baths were an intimate thing between my widowed stepmother and me... offering myself to her, in a way alleviating her loneliness with a form of male companionship... completely non sexual. Yet now she has told of it. How much of it?

“No. No objection,” my words raspy, throat worn.

“So you enjoyed it. Exposing yourself, at an age when most teens are shy.”  

“It seemed... natural... and harmless.”

“Yes, natural for a boy of your predilections. Really, Mr. Richards... I’ll call you Redmond... attaining an erection... in front of your mother?”


“Stepmother. Yes, I know. So in your mind such conduct is ‘natural’,” the term somewhat mockingly enunciated.  

I blush, visions coming to mind of my stepmother tenderly cleansing me... everywhere... with hormones raging, my priapism spontaneous.

“And then you posed for her,” Dr. Rosen holding up photos of me exiting the shower, hands to the back of my head, obediently turning about then bending, the pictures sent to Miss Taylor Phipps to become the catalyst for law school and my sojourn at the Phipps Estate. 

“Miss Taylor Phipps has nicely submitted detailed records of your stay at the Phipps Estate. No clothing... ever. And your affinity to submit to the rather exacting care of her nurse is telling. As well as your relationship with your law school classmates... Marsha Devine and Zoey Roberts. That you allow them to cane your bare buttocks.”

“I don’t... don’t allow...”

“Oh but you do, Redmond,” Dr Rosen grasping another piece of paper. “Six foot three, 250 pounds,” she reads. “And you beg like a little boy... cry like a little boy... kneeling for punishment without resistance.”

Dr. Rosen pauses, skillfully letting the shame of my submission further fester.

“It’s all here, Redmond, your escapades as a beta male well documented, the ongoing retention, to be interrupted only when commanded to ejaculate, your chastity, the conflicting sentiment concerning Miss Phipps’ husband and maid... a very accomplished product of the clinic by the way. Your homophobia when fellated by her.”

I am shocked... and disheartened... so much documentation... the disclosure of such antics having the capability of ending my legal career before it begins.

“I could go on and on, Redmond. It’s quite a bit of reading... the affidavits of Miss Zoey Roberts. and Miss Marsha Devine quite prurient... having you strip naked in the cafeteria bathroom... ”

My heart sinks. I am emotionally exposed as well as physically.

“They are very much amused by the suspension bondage I should add. Young women of their ilk find smug comfort in seeing the disdained gender so vulnerable and helpless. No still photos of that. Taylor Phipps submitted to us videos. Amazing how stiff you become.”

The humiliation intensifies. I know there are cameras. I did not know there are video recordings.  

“But enough of that. Suffice it to say, Redmond, that we know everything about you... you and your depravity... your warped proclivities. But you should be cheered to know such attributes  make employment at the clinic possible. Even the fact that you’ve been toilet trained. Such sordid servitude. But from the information I’ve reviewed, you’ve come to enjoy a woman’s effluent. This Marsha girl states in her affidavit that you seem particularly enthralled with her taste.” 

Yes, but more that it pleases her for me to take from her what she discards... and relish it. And I so want to please.

Damn this predilection! 

“So we can accommodate that need. You’ll not go thirsty. Many nurses... much delight in subjugating you.”

Dr. Rosen leans to her desk, elbows down, arms upright, resting her chin on her folded hands.

“Let me explain what we do here. There are males who have latent desires for change... gender change. And there are certain women... and men... who wish to not only cultivate such change but... ah... let’s say augment such change... to the extreme... to permanency. For a considerable fee, we ensure transformation not only takes place, but is done in a manner most pleasing to the own... ah... benefactress... benefactor.”

Again, a slip of the tongue... owner!     

“Yes, we assure the latent desires... sometimes expressed... sometimes well concealed... are turned into talent... and that there is inclination to please... strong inclination to please... whether the boy likes it or not,” the latter greatly emphasized.

“Likes it or not?” 

“As I said, sometimes the latency is well hidden... obscured in confusion. That’s why we often neuter. It speeds the process. Mandates acceptance of life’s new role. No going back once a boy is snipped,” Dr. Rosen’s tone both flippant and calloused.

Maid Maxine comes to mind, testicles dangling in Lucite, bells announcing for all that she has succumbed.

I begin to tremble. What will my role be? Still, in glancing downward I note my penis seems firmer than ever.

“One aspect of the talents we imbue here is oral servitude. Cunnilingus... fellatio... we strengthen tongues... we lengthen tongues... for many a frenectomy is appropriate... a little snip to an otherwise constricting flap of skin under the tongue. Another is anal sodomy, we open for both ease and safety... done under medical supervision. All the nurses are trained... kindly yet exacting... helping in turning boys into obedient little girls with unfettered desire to please... and of course the ability to do so.”

Dr. Rosen pauses. My mind races... so many thoughts... so many visions... the notion that Miss Taylor had her husband so institutionalized and changed bringing heightened fear... and respect... for the libertine woman of wealth.  

“And I am here to...” afraid to complete my query.

“Fellatio training, Redmond. We use dildos of course... in the early stages. As you have learned the gag reflex needs to be addressed. But for our male own... benefactors... we need to assure our girly boys can properly take cock... to be blunt. Utilizing rubber phalli, there is only so much detail one can replicate in teaching proper oral servitude. Before being released, all our girly boys must suck the real thing. Bring pleasure... and learn to enjoy bringing pleasure. That can only be done... adequately assessed... with real cock. And for the summer months... it will be yours.”

I am stunned. My homophobia stirring anew, I cringe, thinking of the many times I have had to endure maid Maxine’s attention.

Alas, I counsel myself in reluctant realization. Maxine’s attention has been most accomplished, her tongue and lips seeming to adore the firmness of the intact male. Such apparent envy. 

“You will be used weekdays, returning to your owner on weekends.”

There! She said it! Owner! Without correcting herself, Dr. Rosen continues...

“While here you will abide by our strict protocol. For failure you will be disciplined,” Dr. Rosen nodding to the young nurse behind me.

“Abby, just a reminder jolt please.”

Young nurse Abby steps before me smirking. Her right arm makes a rapid motion, the baton flipping into her hand as one would draw a pistol. She then lowers the tip, aligns and with a press of her index finger I am jolted, an electrical charge to my well exposed scrotal sac. The pain is sudden and unbearable. I lurch and shudder, nearly falling off the stool. 

“A cattle prod, Mr. Richards. We don’t us the cane here... it leaves marks. We don’t blemish the property of the owners,” Dr. Rosen succinctly explains. “That was the lowest setting, by the way. Just an inkling of what can be expected for disobedience.

“Thank you Abby,” the nurse returning behind me.

“You’ll be well tended, bathed, internally cleansed just as you are at the Phipps estate. Days you’ll spend having your penis licked and sucked by our aspiring girly boys. Nights you will be strapped down in thorough bondage.”

“What if I come? I... I... can’t retain forever with that much... ah... attention,” I meekly interrupt.

“I will explain that in a moment. The masturbation nurse reports that you were incapable of ejaculating for her... yes?”

I nod. Dr. Rosen smiles knowingly then continues.

“In addition to your duties, as stated certain attributes potentially detrimental to your standing at the Phipps Estate will be addressed. Taylor Phipps has insisted. We will instill in you a complete dependence on supervising women. You will not move without guidance... not do anything without permission. Right down to the most basic needs... eating, relieving yourself and at times...”

Dr. Rosen pauses, taking from her desk drawer a strangely shaped open tube. Slim and rounded at one end it curves to where the opposing end forms a lump similar to that which gags me. From there another slim tube protrudes.

“Breathing. This is an endotracheal tube for intubation... normally used to assure breathing while sedated for medical procedures... surgical operations... or during prolonged illness. We’ve modified it here at the clinic.”

Dr. Rosen gestures to the young nurse. Returning into vision this Nurse Abby takes the tube, stepping between my thighs. Her youthful look of innocence slowly transcends, a wicked smile coming as the fingers of her left hand pinch to close my nostrils. She patiently waits, the smile growing, and as I open my lips to take another breath, the slim end is brusquely stuffed into my mouth. The hand pushes, gruffly... more gruffly than medically regimented. The lump fills my mouth. The pushing stops. Despite the many days of enduring the penis gag, I somewhat choke. And the smile... it grows... and it frightens. 

“The nurses here... I should explain... they are selected for certain attributes. One of which is a noted lust for sadism,” Dr. Rosen offers with a pleasant laugh. “Now you’ll find you can exhale, Redmond, but not inhale. We’ve had installed a one way valve in the wicked little tubes.”

Left hand remaining pinching my nose, I learn first hand of the described alteration. For when I attempt to draw a breath, the tube yields not... and the pinching fingers of Nurse Abby’s left hand relinquish not as well.

I panic. No air!  Dr. Rosen smiles anew, noting my struggle. Hands restrained, the grip on my nose firm, my legs locked, folded under me, my lungs suck paroxysmally. Nothing! But what is more telling is that Nurse Abby steps even more proximate, the folds of her starched white skirt pressing my scrotum and upturned penis. And in contrast, her nearness, the cloth brushing my penis tip... it feels good. Her controlling presence excites!

“Calm yourself, Redmond. This is just a little demonstration... of feminine control... and how you will learn to cede to it. Yield even more than you have at the Phipps Estate. For I will decide when you draw your next breath. You cannot expel the tube, as I’m sure you’re aware. And the hand of the woman in control will not release your nostrils. You’ll just have to calmly and meekly wait, accept the ultimate in feminine governance... that the essence of life is ours to bestow... not yours to take.”

There comes a pause... no words... and no air. Finally Dr. Rosen breaks the silence.

“Ok, Abby, half a breath.”

Should I be grateful when the young pretty nurse leans even closer, taking the open end of the tube into her mouth and gently blowing? The one way valve opens, restoring much needed air into lungs desperate for resuscitation.

But then she stops, lips withdrawing, leaning back, her nirvanic look so wicked... so terrifying!

“Getting the feel for it, Redmond? It’s best to stay still. Motion uses up the oxygen which will only be partialled to you. You’ll have another gulp of air... in time.”