'Prominence - Part Three'

Not to preempt the story line, this will be the only segment from Part III.

Completed manuscript to be published by early January 2025

Merry Christmas

Part Three - Servitude at Benchmark Oil

Operant Conditioning

Body completely healed, Robert Probert is amazed looking at himself in the floor to ceiling mirrors of the prison bedroom of his Masters. Intended to further erode his male psyche... finely made up, hair coifed by the Queen’s castrated servant Bozuma... his feminized reflection serves well the intention. And he finds there is not a hint... not a trace... of the cruel whipping of Master Sodoma.

She is masterful, Robert reminds himself, her whip hand that of a surgeon... inflicting such intense pain... without damage. Yes, after the morning routine, seated upright in bondage, psychologist Satana schedules quiet time for thought, Robert to mull over the who and what of his being, marveling at the effectiveness of his governance.

He is a woman, his mind repeats. Yet there is such contrast, the priapism continuing, the swollen tip of his erection jutting forth beneath a smooth, hairless and well made up face... lipstick, plucked eyebrows, mascara, eyeliner. It is bizarre... yet the conditioning brings acceptance.

And there is more. His masters have found growing delight in watching him reward Bozuma, paying oral homage... fellatio, empty scrotum laved, analingus.   

Thus added to the morning regimen is more indoctrination, Robert to plunge further into his world of degradation.

“More operant conditioning, Mr. Probert... reward for desired behavior... punishment for undesired behavior,” Master Satana drawing from her learning, standing over the naked, bound and erect sceptre of the Queen.

Kneeling between his parted legs remains a smiling Bozuma. Beside Master Satana stands Master Sodoma.  He is horrified to see in her hand the simple yet daunting strip of metal, slipped from the wall collection of torture devices.

“The behavior,” Master Satana lectures. “As you’re aware watching you service Bozuma greatly amuses. I am going to condition you to offer more. As a reward, for every minute your lips and tongue suck her penis, lick her scrotum, tongue her sphincter, you will be rewarded... five minutes lying down, thumb cords slackened. Refusal, undesired behavior, and it’s the heretics fork,” Master Sodoma holding up the medieval replica.

Robert’s heart leaps. His homophobia finds the deed abhorrent. Yet, to lie down! Conversely  there is the threat... his mind jolted with the memory of the slowest most unrelenting torture endured.

“The fork... or do you wish to begin?”   

Bozuma rises, presenting his/her tiny penis.

“An additional twenty minutes if you make her hard for us,” Master Sodoma adds, giggling like a school girl in knowing of the challenge.

Bozuma shuffles forth. Has Robert a choice but to engulf? He justifies to himself... who is ever to know? He has decided on a life of servitude in the matriarchy of Zolanda. What person with meaningful influence in the outside world will ever know he has been induced to suck cock?

Operant conditioning begins, Robert hearing Bzouma squeal in delight as his tongue works the vestigial male organ. Master Satana steps forth. In further encouragement, she tenderly pats Robert’s long locks, master to dog, then makes a point of gesturing to one of several cameras high in the corners of the room.

The reminder stuns. Robert’s internal question... who will know... is answered. His video archive of subjugation grows.

He for sure will have no place in the world other than Zolanda.

Monotony

Not summoned by her Majesty, the days of the Queen’s sceptre become repetitive. Mornings a magnificently nude Master Satana rises from a long night of love making, pushing the low stool between Robert’s outstretched legs. She sits, teasingly presenting her mons, remaining moist and fragrant. Robert’s heart pounds, straining against his bonds, working in eagerness as the tip of his tongue begins to cleanse. After moments of tantalizing, his Master slowly slides forth, permitting Robert to fully savor. Finally it becomes time to be toileted, Robert’s tongue slipping inward to find the urethral opening, lips pursing. In silence Master Satana empties, hands grasping his ears. Her opening and Robert’s lips become one. There is neatness, no words exchanged, Robert knowing what is expected, opening his throat, her flow going directly to his gullet.

There comes another pat to his head. Master Satana rises, sliding in place a basin for Robert to in turn empty himself, the humiliation of so performing while stiff never to waver.

Spoon fed the tadafil laden mush, Robert cannot recall when last he was permitted to use his hands, the Royal directive that all mambo ne uume rely on feminine supervision for sustenance extending to her Caucasian meketa as well.

Typically the feared Master Sodoma rises, also displaying her charms in full. As Robert is fed she showers. In exiting from her shower nudity flashes, smiling in noting Robert flinches whenever she glances his way, the cruel whipping never to leave his subconscious.

Exercise is next, Robert’s state of constant priapism requiring the stamina, circulation, and blood oxygen level of an Olympic athlete. Treadmill work is extensive, Master Sodoma supervising, her nearby presence bringing quite the incentive, short length of rattan in hand.

Thereafter, Bozuma arrives. Massage, sponge bath, and makeup follow, Robert learning that he is always to appear effeminate whether summoned for exhibition or simply wiling away the hours in bondage.

The morning activity ends with operant conditioning... the required oral adoration... fellatio, scrotal sac, anus, Master Satana tracking the time. Heretic’s fork withheld, for good behavior reward comes in mid afternoon, a gleeful Robert Probert permitted to lie down for the requisite minutes. Such munificence... the stress relieved!    

He tries to bring Bozuma to full erection... earning Master Sodoma’s bonus of twenty minutes. His fervent efforts bring his Masters much amusement... yet most times he fails.

Within weeks of his whipping, Robert learns that oil has been struck, Master Satana reporting the strike at some twenty one hundred feet. Such excites, bringing gratification, his engineering prognostication accurate. Is he to once again visit the drilling site? What is the flow rate? Is the crude sweet or sour? Gas flowing as well? Natural gas liquids?

There is much upon which to advise.

“Tomorrow the Queen commands your presence,” Master Sodoma informs as she guides to the treadmill, “fully dressed... for the drilling site,” Robert knowing he will bear the high neck collar and restrictive anal hook enhancing the exhibition of his erection.

The words bring apprehension, to be once again exposed to his colleagues... former colleagues. Robert mollifies his concern, reminding himself that his former world is no more. There will be a lifetime of servitude to the Queen.... photos of his prettified and erect nakedness meaningless.

Leashed by his testicles as always, Master Sodoma begins the grueling morning workout, slowly working the dial to bring the rotating canvas to a challenging pace. Hands to his head, Robert’s circulation jumps, his breathing steady but heavy. And then it happens!     

'Prominence - Part Two', Segment II

Meeting Satana - Master Satana

“When not summoned for servitude by her majesty, you will be under our supervision. We have prepared a place for you in our room.”

Audience with the Queen over, Robert’s leash has been handed back to body guard Satana. He is once again walked by a governing woman, knowing to place his hands to the back of his head, sensing fear and concern, any motion of his leash to bring pain, dictating rapt attention to her words. 

“I am to be called Master Satana. You’ve met Master Sodoma.”

Logical... ‘Miss’ or ‘Mistress’ too effeminate for the women of size and obvious brute strength. As with the diction of the Queen, Robert notes that Master Satana’s spoken English is superb. There is no accent, no indication that English is her second language.  

“As stated you will be obedient to us and remain naked and erect. We have the recipe from the Clinic and will feed you the necessary nutrition and additive required to maintain your condition. We will exercise you, exhaustively. Bathing and grooming will be performed by Bozuma. He makes himself look pretty for the Queen... and will make you look pretty as well.”

Into a hallway, Robert is relieved the walk is short, the testicle rings messaging feminine control. Satana leads through a doorway.

“Our bedroom. Master Sodoma and I share a bed. You will use the floor.”

To a corner of the spacious yet drab living space, Robert is positioned sitting, back to where the walls meet. There comes an internal sigh of relief as the leash is removed.

“Legs straight out and parted. Display your balls at all times. Arms out to the sides, shoulder height, present your thumbs.”

Robert complies, noting a collection of bamboo, various lengths and thicknesses, hanging on a nearby wall. On another wall there is a assemblage of phalluses, oddly shaped, many sizes and colors, prominently displayed, a prized collection.

“In time you’ll feel the sting of everyone of them,” Satana nodding to the bamboo. “As her Majesty explained, we have disdain for the male... and affinity for rattan. And perhaps you’ll come to enjoy the feeling of having a woman inside you,” obviously referencing the dildos.

Master Satana works as she talks. Right thumb and left are tethered, looped with silk rope. Such lead to strong elastic cords emanating from wall hooks. She tightens... and tightens... Robert’s arms pulled well out to the sides. With great effort he finds he can move... very slightly.

The big toes are next, silk rope, elastic, secured to hooks at the base of the walls right and left. And as expected, tightened to the maximum. Limited restraints to cover his nakedness... no cuffs, ankles or wrists. And to tease the mind, Robert notes the ropes securing his thumbs and toes are tied off with simple bow knots. Anyone... but him... can free him with the slightest tugs on the loose ends.   

Master Satana steps between the widely parted legs. The toe of her boot presses to the mass of pink flesh resting on the hard wooden floor. She jiggles the elongated sac, both threatening and playing.    

“You’ll rest and sleep sitting up. Stressful... as we want it to be... but in time you’ll acclimate. You’ll find it merciful to be permitted to lie down... a treat to be earned... and you will thank us. Such will keep you eager to be with the Queen and placed on exhibition. Otherwise it’s the stress position. 

“The rule of silence prevails here in our bedroom. There is no need for us to hear from you unless we want you to say something. You will urinate under very strict supervision and at our command. There will be a collection vessel. You will hit it with your flow. Sloppiness will not be tolerated,” hands going to the ears, inspecting the recent piercings. “You will perform your bowel movements for us every morning when guided to the bathroom, emptying upon our command. Bozuma will have jewelry for you in a day or two. You’re to be belled, as her Majesty stated. When not moving we do not want to hear you ringing. You will sit motionless until given permission to move. And as stated you will not speak unless spoken to.”

Robert is relieved when Master Satana tousles his hair and steps back. Ironically, he very much misses the supervision of Miss Rwanda... sightless, deafened but her hands kind. Even the frightening Miss Rehema and her sjambok are now a welcomed vision.

“Be forewarned, Master Sodoma and I are given to dispense with covering when off duty and alone. As I said we sleep together... and make love. You can watch and listen... probably abet that hard on her Majesty has procured. In time, if you’re a good boy, you may be permitted to prime us... and later bring neatness. But that is something to be earned.”    

Prettified

Robert is left alone to his thoughts, Master Satana departing presumably to resume duties guarding her Majesty.

He of course tests his new bonds. In appreciating the aural and visual input... no earplugs, no headset... he asks himself... does it matter when there is nothing to hear and only the drab decor of the dormitory-like room upon which to gaze?    

Arms tug, feet pull to the sides. The elastic is fiendish. In offering slight motion and challenging the muscling, Robert realizes the unique form of bondage permits a form of modest exercise... and obviates cramping. Thus the intervals of strict bondage can be endless.

He diverts his thoughts of forthcoming slow torment by returning to Master Satana’s final warning. He is to be exposed to female nudity! Curious that with all the oral servitude of recent weeks, his only glimpse of feminine charms has been by way of the  graphic videos, clinically detailing the anatomical complexity of the female genitalia. 

In a way the prospect excites. In another way he perceives the forthcoming frustration... becoming a well bound and naked voyeur.

The room door opens. Entering is the Queen’s naked oral servant Bozuma, tray in hand. He smiles, moving forth on tiptoes, kneeling between Robert’s well parted legs, in silence putting the tray aside. He leans forth, stirring Robert’s homophobia as he in feels the warmth of his naked body nearly touching his. There are no words as manicured hands reach to the nipples, toying with the temporary bars holding open Robert’s piercings. Bozuma giggles in hearing a grimace as fingers twist, assuring the openings heal without the skin adhering.

No words, as the hands rise and twist the ear studs, Robert concludes the same rule of silence applies to all in servitude to the Queen.

Next Bozuma reaches to the tray. Cream is applied to his face. It begins to burn, an all too familiar sensation. There come panicking thoughts. Robert realizes that in being prettified for her Majesty he will endure more hair removal. Then the panic subsides and turns to dejection.

How will he ever again appear as a man... a normal man?

Cream left in place, the softening of his looks, as her Majesty suggested, begins. Bozuma works about the eyes, plucking and shaping the eye brows. Robert futilely tugs at his arm bindings, the pain of the defoliant and the realization that his appearance is being transformed... to be less than masculine... brings distress.

Bozuma smiles and meticulously works, well aware of Robert’s helplessness. Robert looks into the youthful face, finding him to be cute, then shaking his head in shame and disgust.

It’s a guy! Or is it?

Still Bozuma notes Robert’s brief admiring look and playfully taps his nose then girlishly giggles. There comes mascara then lip gloss. Bozuma rises and steps back, surveying his work then reaching for a moist towel. Gratefully the harsh defoliant is tenderly wiped away... too tenderly for Robert’s comfort. Then comes a mirror, Robert to survey his appearance as well.    

He is appalled. As Master Satana informed, the Queen’s oral servant will be in charge of grooming... and the results embarrass... not overly effeminate but far from masculine. Thankfully the lip gloss is not excessively gaudy. Yet the fact that his body and appearance can be altered at another’s caprice disturbs. Then he comforts himself... no one will see him... no one of significance to his manly pride. He’s no longer in the oil business, doing manly work, trekking through desolate jungles and deserts with burly roustabouts. Why should he be concerned?   

He glances down to see that he not only remains erect, as both mentally and physically instilled, but his penis throbs.

Why?

The mirror is put aside. Bozuma opens a bottle of mineral oil. Slathering his hands, more embarrassment comes as he anoints, coating Robert’s nakedness, hands working the tiring muscles.

It feels good. Robert does not want it to feel good. Arms, shoulders, back, Bozuma is gifted, possibly professionally trained. He resumes kneeling between the spread legs, hands going to the feet, calves, thighs. Lastly comes the male package, Robert closing his eyes as his hairless scrotum is oiled and palpated. Bozuma is attentive, the fingers dancing, careful not to tension the testicle rings as he playfully pulls the thin, loose flesh, smiling in noting the extreme length. The boy... whatever... seems to handle with envy, his plums long ago snipped and sacrificed to the whims of Royalty.

The hands withdraw. There comes more dread as Bozuma leans forward. He kisses, Robert helpless to resist. Then Bozuma giggles and lowers his head.

“No!” Robert breaking the rule of silence as Bozuma engulfs the mushroom tip of his erection, tongue swirling about. 

As the unwanted ecstasy overwhelms, the room door opens. It is Master Sodoma.  

“He knows you can’t come in his mouth. And his envious attention comes from you having about the only free and fully standing penis in Zolanda,” Master Sodoma smug in her explanation. “Put your homophobia aside, Mr. Probert. I have a higher testosterone level than he does. Enjoy his attention. But did I hear you speak?”

“I’m sorry, Master Sodoma.”

“Enough, Bozuma. Mr. Probert needs to be caned. If you want to stay and watch, stand by the  door. Otherwise tend to her Majesty.”

'Prominence - Part Two', Segment I

Undecided whether to post more segments,

Anyone reading?

CB 

******

Part Two - Servitude to the Queen

Meeting the Queen

“Welcome to my palace, Mr. Probert. Quite the effort in preparing you, but I believe you will find it worthwhile, based on Dr. Humbert’s assessment of your innate needs.”

Maketa Robert Probert stands before her Majesty, Queen Yumna, naked, erect, hands behind his head. He quakes, in awe that his long sought audience has come about, though the circumstances are different than originally planned.

“You may speak. This is not the Clinic. But you will be respectful... at all times.”

“Thank you, your Majesty. I am honored.”

“Yes you are.”

Robert Probert is intrigued. The august woman is tall, broad shouldered as he learned from the videos of his headset, with handsome, even features, more becoming in person. Her colorful sarong attractively contrasts her dark complexion. What is not expected is her diction. The few words she has spoken is of the King’s English, no patois. He’s listening to Royalty, yes, but the accent that of Buckingham Palace... not the palace of an African matriarchy.

“You’ve met Sodoma, obviously.... leading you here on a leash,” gesturing to the African woman standing at his left, length of leather remaining in hand. “My other body guard in Satana,” the Queen nodding to a woman standing rigidly at attention in the corner of the huge, opulent entrance hall. “They will be tending to you. They will govern. You will be obedient to them... as with all women in Zolanda... but especially subservient to Sodoma and Satana. Their preferred instrument of correction is the cane. You don’t want that.”

Robert cannot take issue with that. Both women are some six feet in height and muscular. Young but well past adolescence their dour facial expressions suggest seriousness of purpose and determination.

Yes, they would cane him... there is no doubt. Robert envisions a pair of sinister smiles in so doing. In being walked from the Clinic, leashed by his scrotum, there was no consideration given for the agony to be brought by the barbed testicle rings. The tugs were frequent and painful.

“Come, let’s talk. We need to discuss the paradigm of your servitude,” Sodoma knowing to hand over the leash.

The Queen leads, Robert follows, noting that her Majesty is circumspect with her guiding hand. Does she know, Robert questions, of the possible intense suffering a simple snap could bring?

She must. It is by her edict that his male bits have been rearranged. Yet she seems so thoughtful.

“Nipples sore? The piercings were a bit of an afterthought. Make you look pretty for me. Dr. Humbert said it required not much of an effort.”

Yes, scheduled for an afternoon departure, finally deemed fully trained and broken, this morning Robert’s nipples and ears were callously jabbed, temporary bars inserted while the openings heal. There was pain, but nothing compared to what Robert has endured during his many weeks in four point restraint.        

“Yes, your Majesty. But it is for you,” Robert knowing to be humble in his words.

“A truthful and very tactful response,” Queen Yumna muses. 

Entering a smaller room, lavishly decorated, her Majesty sits in a large comfortable chair, pointing to the floor before her. Robert knows to kneel at her feet, the leash going slack.

“When we’re alone you may speak freely... and respectfully. When you are with me in the company of my subjects you will be silent. You’re a symbol, Mr. Probert, of Royal authority. That an African monarch keeps a  Caucasian male naked, erect and at the end of a leash lends prestige. As my mother, during her reign, taught me, such is imperative. Think of this as a sceptre,” Robert shocked as the Queen leans forth and taps the rock hard swollen tip of his penis. “Traditionally such is described as a decorative stick carried by a monarch as a symbol of authority. This sceptre you’ll be transporting on my behalf. And of course you are never ever to touch it. Essentially this in now mine, Royal property.”

The Queen sits back, pausing, her edicts setting in.

“Prominence, Mr. Probert. Your phallus... now my phallus... gives rise to prominence... emanating to me.”

Robert’s awe is renewed. The videos of native Zolandan men, naked, penises caged, comes to mind, kneeling, kissing and licking Royal feet. He leans forth in respectful expectation, elongated and indefatigable tongue eager to serve. In lowering his head the Queen laughs, pushing at his forehead. 

“That is not part of your role in serving me. If you’re curious about the Clinic’s extensive oral efforts, I had you trained for Satana and Sodoma. They enjoy male subjugation and as an accommodation for their loyal service they shall have you... use you... when not on display.”

Why is there such a sense of disappointment? 

“Yes, Mr. Probert, I am more esoteric in pursuing my pleasure. I’ve found that the tongue of the emasculated male can be quite sensuous. My preference is not a secret, but not widely disseminated either.”

The Queen gestures. Robert turns his head, unaware that Sodoma... perhaps Satana... the manly rugged guards appearing as twins... quietly followed the duo into the room. A meaty hand pushes open a well disguised door in the ornate paneling. Into the room prances a native being, appearing androgynous but for a tiny penis flopping about. Yes, emasculated, Robert notes... and hairless, head included. Being glabrous, age is indeterminate. The gender is further obfuscated by makeup, shaped eyebrows, eyeliner.... not appearing outright effeminate, but far from masculine. His/her presentation teases the eye... as no doubt intended. 

The Queen draws up the hem of her long sarong. As in the videos, the naked form steps to the side of Robert, falls to his knees with noted grace, lowers at the waist and begins licking... first the Royal footwear then rising to the Royal ankles.

There is no shiny penis cage, Robert notes as the knees are widely parted, seemingly as a mandate. But there are no male plums either and such is well exhibited, the required pose proclaiming his alteration.    

“Snipped at the right age, they never seem to grow old,” the Queen edifies. “He was born Bozumi... altered to become Bozuma, ha, ha, ha,” hands going to affectionately cradle and smooth over the bald head. “So meek, so docile, Bozuma tends to my carnal needs. I sleep with his head between my thighs... if not behind me.”

Weeks of oral training and servitude, having tasted what Robert assumes has been every nurse working at the clinic, he is saddened. With his warped transformed desires he was strangely hoping to bring pleasure to Royalty.

“More things to keep in mind. When in my presence your hands will be kept free, for now. Restraints bring covering. I want you completely naked at all times. So you will be fed and bathed, as you were in training. But a nasty length of rattan awaits any self touching or abuse. My body guards will also supervise your exercise. Yes, that will continue. You are to remain erect for me and that requires exemplary circulation, strong heart rate, expanded lung capacity, high blood oxygen levels... as I am sure Dr. Humbert explained. 

“I want your look softened. The only masculinity to be exhibited will be your erect penis. Otherwise I want you appearing gender neutral. And you’re to be belled, The sound comforts... like having a palace feline. And over time the Royal sceptre will be bejeweled... the Royal symbol of authority should be decorative... don’t you think?”

Bejeweled?

“In terms of prostatic discharge, I instructed Dr. Humbert to forgo the urethral reroute. If you become sloppy with prostatic fluid, I’ll have it done. So keep things tidy and have Satana and Sodoma tend to it. I’ve seen the videos of you relieving yourself under strict feminine supervision. Such amuses. It will continue. So as long as you perform for me you’ll remain urinating like a man... under feminine direction. A fair exchange?”

Robert finds he must nod in agreement, the prospects of such an urethral alteration daunting.

“You’ll be taken to the Clinic for prostate milking, I can be gracious in that respect. Once a month. Or perhaps you’d prefer a good brisk caning. I am told that relieves the jitters as well. In the male, such offers a cathartic release similar to the resetting of hormone levels by way of expunging semen. But that would result in marks, Sodoma and Satana too much enjoy male suffering. And Royal property is best exhibited unblemished. But do keep that in mind.”

Robert is shocked to silence.

“No response? Well, I’ll let Sodoma and Satana decide... Clinic or caning.”     

'Prominence - Part One', Segment III

Day One Comes to an End

Robert Probert lies in the silent darkness brought by large goggles strapped about his head and deafening plugs inserted into his ears. He tries to sleep, the day indeed long. Yet his restraints make such difficult... not to mention the arching of his spine. And he realizes the pillow propped beneath does seem to foster continuing firmness... no doubt something to do with tension on his spinal cord. Sleep deprived, he cannot help mulling over his circumstances. Within hours his status... his self esteem... tumbling. From an oil god... a hero to bring vast riches to an impoverished African nation... to defacto puppet... led about on a leash... led about naked and bound on a leash! 

Would the powers that be at employer Benchmark Oil really trade his well being for billions in oil revenue? With his self imposed question he snickers to himself.

Of course they would!   

As the doctor pointed out he is merely one of dozens of petroleum engineers... talented or not. And he is sequestered in a monarchy... the Queen ruling all!

He recalls the copilot’s words with regard to the Queen... ‘she’s powerful... knows how to use her power... and enjoys using it’. So prophetic. 

Yet why is he being incarcerated in a such a singular manner... so much interest in his male  organ... and its ability to tumefy?

Then more words come to mind... again those of the copilot..  ‘no one calls her old’.

So, the woman is young and apparently concupiscent, Robert concludes. Perhaps having a thing for Caucasian males. Yet if so, is such to be gratified by way of cameras... the only contact possibly to be had at this point in his imprisonment?    

He thinks of the interlude with the doctor, bringing him to erection... encouraging... measuring... recording... and his testicles as well. Objectified, he... his body... becoming a piece of machinery under evaluation.

Emotions waver. He brings himself to calm... the words of his physical therapist Rwanda... that he is to be bathed, fed, and massaged... the latter to be welcomed as the four point restraint slowly strains the muscles. But then tension renews in thinking that he will be subjected to the whims of a disciplinarian! Disobedience! There is to be none. Do not unnecessarily irk your disciplinarian! 

Finally he slumbers. He dreams... of adulation... being cheered by a bevy of Zolanda natives... the man who lifts them out of poverty.  

Day Two

Robert Probert awakens feeling fingers working about his male bits. Something encases his penis. Then he is shocked as the room alights. But he sees not the white walls and ceiling, instead the goggles present a video. Then as his eyes focus there comes sound. It is the voice of Dr. Martha Humbert. Her form comes into view... handsome, calm, confident.

“Good morning, Mr. Probert. You have slept well. Miss Rwanda will be feeding you shortly. What you’re seeing is presented to your eyes by way of a high tech wireless headset. Essentially over the next few days you will be seeing and hearing what we want you to see and hear... little else. Later will come exercise... extensive exercise... directed by your disciplinarian. What you’re feeling is an inflatable cuff encasing your penis for a plethysmograph test. You’ll be subjected to stimuli through the headset and the blood flow to your penis will be measured. It’s very sensitive and the slightest reaction can be and will be recorded. There are things we need to know about you. And plethysmography doesn’t lie. Enjoy.”

Darkness returns. The sound of the doctor’s voice turns to static assuring that in addition to the deafening ear plugs he will not detect any sounds emanating from within his chamber. Within moments he feels something pressed to his mouth. Smooth metal parts his lips. Mush is introduced, smelling repulsive. He grits his teeth in denial. There comes sound.

“Breakfast, Mr. Probert. You will eat. It is mandatory,” the voice of therapist Rwanda blaring through his ear pieces. “I assure you it is highly nutritious. And I assure you further resistance to being fed will earn a visit from the disciplinarian. This is the last time I will need to talk to you,” the tone becoming ominous.

Hungry, Robert Probert concedes. He partakes. If the goal were to poison him, in being helplessly bound, such would happen.

As he masticates he feels whatever surrounds his penis tighten. The doctor termed it an inflatable cuff. It is inflating.

Another spoonful, then another, the taste is not totally offensive, but nothing he would voluntarily choose to eat. Then the headset again alights. What would be described as mild pornography flashes, women in various stages of undress... sultry and young. The viewing is pleasant. With his penis encased he asks himself if he is firming, a continuation of yesterday’s unending embarrassment.

Yet he further questions himself... does it matter? Made to expose himself to how many women?.. and meticulously measured... is the ignominy to be endured of significance?   

Thus, he enjoys, as the doctor suggested. As the feeding ends, so does the video. There is a degree of disappointment but then comes onto the small screens of the headset another video. A regal women of color standing on a low stage before a throng of onlookers. Colorful kimonos, a multitude of women cheer, African women. The video camera zooms in, the face dark, features even. The woman is royalty, Robert Probert concludes, being adulated by her subjects... but all are women. Could it be the Queen of Zolanda? It must be. And the absence of male subjects?

The words of Dr. Humbert... Miss Martha... are recalled. ‘Zolanda is a monarchy... a matriarchal monarchy. The Queen rules’.

Then the camera pans back. Within the crowd, male subjects come into view, each kneeling at the feet of one of the colorfully dressed women admirers. The scene is momentary, the video instantly switching to more pornography. This snippet is more graphic, not only female nudity but sexual acts unfold. Robert feels twinges,. If he was not hard before his penis is now certainly swelling. Many minutes of what could be termed semi hard corp porn come into view. Then the sordid scene instantly fades. It is again the Queen. She is ravishing, Robert finding attraction. And judging from nearby onlookers in the video, the woman is tall. Festooned in a sarong, such does little to veil strong shoulders... broad strong shoulders. And what is this? Another glimpse of a male, crawling onto the stage where the smiling Queen waves to her cheering subjects. As opposed to the throng of women, he has little covering.

Again the words of the doctor come to mind... ‘in the stifling head of equatorial Africa covering can be considered optional’.

Has that male subject chosen limited attire?

Before Robert can ascertain if the man has any attire at all, the view again changes. More porn. 

And so the morning progresses... Robert assuming it is morning. Salacious videos interrupted by the Queen being adulated. Porn... the Queen... porn... the Queen.

Well into the series, Robert realizes he is firmly erect... must be firmly erect. And who in the room is observing? Again it matters not. As the doctor explained, the plethysmography device is measuring. He penile response cannot be hidden.

After several montages, the pornographic scenes change, The content... homoerotic... men with men. Robert closes his eyes in disgust. He feels an electrical charge, his head is shocked, tolerable but there come more shocks... and stronger. The pain grows... until he opens his eyes. Message received, the clever device forces him to watch. And watch he does, in horror. Finally this homosexual dalliance ends with the Queen, her feet being licked as she stands on stage waving to her cheering subjects. More horror comes, the camera shifts, moving to zoom in on the kneeling man. Tongue laboring in earnest, his complete nakedness comes into view but for one shocking element. There is the glint of metal about his pubes!

The video ends before Robert can further focus. And it is the last video.

In attempting to determine if someone is in the room, Robert calls out. The electrical jolt returns.

Another lesson learned. He is to remain silent.  

'Forced Retention'

My latest effort for Pink Flamingo has been released.

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CB

'Prominence - Part Two' published

 'Prominence  - Part Two' has been published.

45,000 words. $4.88

Enjoy,

CB

https://www.lulu.com/shop/chris-bellows/prominence-part-two/ebook/product-w4ejrqp.html?page=1&pageSize=4

'Prominence' Part One Segment II

Continuing Day One

“What are you going to do to me?” Robert finds his words to be shamefully humble.

“In general, anything the Queen wants,” the palming hand closing to gently grasp the long and firming length of male flesh.

The fingers of the hand begins to gyrate and ripple, the touch sensuous but mechanical. The woman knows the male anatomy, both clinically and sexually.

“I... I... I’m going to...”

“Embarrass yourself. Yes, you’re going to achieve an erection for me. And yes, it’s embarrassing. But in a way you will acclimate to this. Then again, in a way you never will,” the woman’s unwavering eyes glued to his. 

There comes a steady rhythm, the doctor handling the stiffening appendage as a maestro with a favored musical instrument. With the continuing eye contact, Robert Probert’s look softens, mentally yielding to the woman’s touch, noting her even features. Given makeup, modest jewelry, she would be ravishing. Within moments he finds himself looking down in shame, mental capitulation complete. He cedes. Because he has no choice? He berates himself in finding unwanted enjoyment.    

Semi engorged, Dr. Humbert finally glances down to assess. She smiles, her deft hand action changing to delicate strokes. Thoughts running wild, Robert cannot help thinking how purposeful are the woman’s actions. Then the free hand reaches forth, palming his scrotum, fingers slipping beneath to the perineum, there demonstrating more expertise in massaging to enhance the flow of circulation to his pubes.

“Nice and firm for me, Mr. Probert. Good boy. The erectile chambers are flooding nicely.”

With that, the woman steps back, leaving the erection to comically bob about. More humiliation as she goes to a cabinet of white metal, Robert Probert looking about. The room is sizable but austere. White ceiling, white floor and white walls. It is a medical facility, supplies and various apparatuses those of a hospital or doctor’s office.       

“Do not ejaculate. I’ll need some measurements. Keep yourself nice and stiff.”

With that, the woman begins an assessment, utilizing a tape measure... length, girth at various points along the swollen shaft... jotting on a clipboard.

Robert blushes, sensing his heart pound. The doctor notes.

“Yes, keep your circulation strong... you’ll stay nice and hard for me,” measuring the testicles.

She encircles with the tap measure then gently squeezes each plum, nodding in satisfaction.

“Nice and firm,” giving a slight tug on the scrotal sac. “Your penis is of size, the body scan at the airport never lies. But you’ll probably need some modification here,” giving a firmer tug, “for her majesty. She’ll make the decision of course.”

“You can’t do this... do that!”

The doctor releases her hands, stepping back, letting her charge broil in continuing embarrassment.

“You’re the Queen’s mateka,” the doctor finally advises. “In English that means captive. But don’t be too distraught. You’ll have the best of care... nutritious food... exercise... special exercise... and the opportunity to perform and please her majesty.” 

“This can’t happen. You know why I’m here. Oil... lots of oil. For the Queen...  for her subjects... for Zolanda. I’ll please the Queen with money... oil money. And Benchmark Oil won’t put up with this.”

“You aren’t going anywhere and the oil isn’t going anywhere. And Benchmark Oil is aware of your circumstances.”

“They won’t tolerate this!”

“How many petroleum engineers does Benchmark Oil employ?”

“I don’t know precisely.”

“Twenty-seven,” Dr. Humbert answers her own question with a smirk. “You’re easily replaced. In fact I am told another engineer is in transit.”

“It’s kidnaping!”

“More like an exchange. Your performance for the opportunity for Benchmark to complete the find and begin drilling.”

“Perform? I’m not some entertainer. I don’t perform!”

“You’re performing now,” Dr. Humbert smiling in nodding to the mammoth unwavering erection. “And over the next few weeks you will be conditioned to perform at the snap of a woman’s fingers... mine, your disciplinarian’s, your physical therapist and of course... the Queen’s.”   

There comes silent thought, Robert Probert finding no further words. Would his employer agree to this so termed ‘exchange’? He asks himself. Then comes to mind the billions, the geological surveys suggesting not only one of the biggest fossil fuel deposits in decades, but readily accessible. The answer brings distress. Of course the greedy execs would so concur.

And his mind works forward... his disciplinarian? His physical therapist? Penis to harden at the snap of their fingers? 

“I’ve got more comfortable restraints for you,” Dr. Humbert finally breaking the silence in a pleasantly inviting voice. “And a leash. You may as well begin acclimating to feminine control. Stay nice and hard for me and I’ll get you out of those nasty steel bracelets.”

Such are the first heartening words he has heard. The restraints of the security guards at the airfield designed for convincing immobilization rather than long term wear. Yet to remain erect?    

“I... I... don’t know if I can do that.”

“Of course you can.”

Robert Probert... maketa Robert Probert... does not realize it, but he is undergoing the first step of conditioning... rigorous conditioning... as the doctor’s team humorously refers to the process.  

“Just close your eyes and think of something stimulating... sexually stimulating.”

Dr. Martha Humbert reaches nearby and holds up a pair of soft nylon restraints lined in foam. Under the circumstances such are inviting. He needs to be relieved. In closing his eyes, envisioning the erotic scenes of some tawdry movies, he questions his ready compliance. Yet the cuffs are tight, irritating the skin of his wrists, the tendons of his left bringing cramps. 

“Good boy,” the doctor noting the appendage renews its firmness. “Now waggle for me.”

Stepping behind, Robert realizes how close he is to relative emancipation. He waggles, berating himself, yet pulls on his pubo coccygeus muscle with gusto while feeling his wrists being encircled in softness. Next comes the click, click in releasing the tight wrist cuffs.

There comes a humble ‘thank you’, Robert not understanding his own obeisance.

“There will be much counseling to come. I’ll want you to fully describe your thoughts... that which your imagination conjured to bring such firmness,” Robert feeling a finger pressing downward at the very tip of his erection, demonstrating the rigidness of the shaft of steel.  

Eyes remaining closed, Robert questions his reaction... was it solely recalling the tawdry movie scenes?  Or was it his circumstances, being completely naked and helplessly bound in the presence of the handsome and erudite doctor? 

Sensing the doctor step to his front he opens his eyes to note her hands working about his scrotum. He surprises himself with his silence... stunned silence... as a ribbon of pink is alacritously tied about his sac at the base of his standing penis.

“Rwanda... Miss Rwanda... your physical therapist, will take you to your chamber,” the words coming as a length of leather is hooked to the ribbon. “Have you been led about on a leash before, Mr. Probert?” the question coming with a pleasant yet provocative smile.

“No, of course not.”

“Well it’s protocol. Be obedient and follow your therapist’s lead... and the hand and arm of any woman controlling your leash for that matter.”    

More Day One

A young woman of apparent African ethnicity speaks as she leads down the hall of a surprisingly modern building. As Robert Probert steps in ignominy... and carefully... needing to keep the length of leather slack, he peers about. He could be in some office building in America, brightly lit, temperature well controlled in the African heat. Though held in restraint, he is certainly not in a prison. 

“I’m your physical therapist,” the girl turning back with a triumphant smile, no doubt reveling in her authority, “as Dr. Humbert probably mentioned. For the most part, I am in charge of your body... from your neck down.”

The words come as a doorway is reached, free hand going to twist the knob and open.

“Your chamber,” playfully giving the leash a snap, giggling as the entrapped male plums jiggle and a penis remaining semi engorged bobs about.

The girl leads within and shuts the door. Robert looks about. The windowless room is sizable, walls of white, flooring tiled in brown. In the center is a platform at knee height, a white sheet covering what appears to be a slim mattress. Whomever lies thereon will be the center of attention, Robert quickly concludes, and will be in bondage, similar foam lined cuffs at the corners of one end, presumably for the ankles, straps lying in wait to secure the wrist cuffs at the other. More ominously, from the ceiling a horizontal bar hangs above the platform, straps dangling in invitation to restrained limbs.

“I am to feed, bath and massage you. You’re to be pampered, Mr. Probert, assuming you’re a good boy for me. If not, you’ll be engaged by the disciplinarian. You’re best to avoid that... though she will be exercising you.”

As the girl speaks Robert further peers about. There are two cameras mounted high at the corners. There are cabinets... and many devices... appearing medical... clinical... and sophisticated. He focuses on a shower head with plumbing fixtures on one wall, the floor drained beneath. Whomever is to bathe... be bathed... will do so without privacy... the area centered in the lens of one camera.

“You’ve had a long day. You’re to rest. I want you to lie down for me, supine, feet at this end. Be obedient... as I said you don’t want to unnecessarily irk your disciplinarian.”

Robert complies, sitting on the platform, then turning to present his feet at the end where the girl pats the mattress. With the foam lined strips of nylon, she encircles his ankles... with noted dexterity, Robert concluding she has before placed men in bondage. The girl next unclips the wrist cuffs and quickly guides the left to a waiting strap at the top corner. The right follows.

“Lie back,” her voice firm. “You’ll learn tight bondage will bring comfort. You’ll feel safe and secure under a woman’s direction. As I said, you’re to be pampered. As long as you obey no harm will come to you,” the words coming as the girl strolls about the platform zealously tightening each of the four straps.

Tightly spread eagled, she unties the ribbon from Robert’s ball sac, leash removed.

“There, safely bound. You’ve not much body hair... but it’s to be removed. And I think it’s best to get you a pillow. May as well begin acclimating now.” 

Robert silently concurs, head low on the thin mattress. Yet the girl reaches to a cabinet and returns to push the thick fluffiness under his hips, pubes pressed to the ceiling.

“It makes your male bits feel very conspicuous, does it not Mr. Probert?.. like you’re all penis and balls,” the girl tittering.

The therapist steps back assessing in silence, a wry smile coming in seeing the semi engorged male appendage begin to firm anew.

What is happening? Robert asks himself as for the first time he can study the pretty young face of she in charge. Yes, the girl is barely out of her teens. Shapely, her white uniform doing little to cloak a fine athletic form of medium height. How is it that at such a young age she can so facilely assume authority over a grown Caucasian man some ten years her senior?  

“I’ll get you goggles, so you can sleep. Forgot to mention the lights always stay on... you’re to be under constant surveillance,” an arm lifting, fingers pointing to one of the cameras.  

'Prominence' Part One Segment I

Prominence

Copyright 2024

by Chris Bellows

Part One - Abduction - Indoctrination 

“You can’t hold me... like this!”

A forceful tone, more of a demand than a plea.

“But yes we can, Mr. Probert. You’re not in the United States,” a woman of some thirty years calmly responds, exuding confidence in standing before the exasperated form of the captive. “You’re in Zolanda.”

“I know that!”

“Then I should remind you that Zolanda is a monarchy... a matriarchal monarchy. The Queen rules. And the Queen has... well... taken an interest in you.”

“Well, she should. There’s oil... lots of oil... and I’m here to make her... make Zolanda... rich.”

“Your skills are noted. A petroleum engineer... for Benchmark Oil... a very venturous exploration and production company. I am Dr. Martha Humbert. You may call me Miss Martha. My staff and I will be taking care of you on behalf of the Queen.”

“I’m fine. I don’t need a doctor. I need my clothes,” the tone of aggravation somewhat tempering in standing completely naked before the handsome woman, attired in the white smock of the medical profession, 

The male bravado begins to erode.

“In the stifling heat of equatorial Africa, covering can be considered optional... for some. For you a privilege to be denied, Mr. Probert.”

The revelation shocks, stunned to momentary silence.

“Well at least get me out of these cuffs,” Robert Probert turning his head, dipping his chin to gesture where his hands are secured behind his back.

“No. For now it’s best that you acclimate to bondage. And being under constant feminine control... convincing feminine control. It begins by always keeping your knees and feet parted in the presence of a woman.”

With the plainly spoken words, the matter-of-fact tone, the bravado completely fades, the realization of his vulnerability daunting. And subconsciously, Robert Probert finds himself indeed parting his feet.

“What’s this all about?” a pleadful quest.

Dr. Martha Humbert, unfolds her arms from her stance of authority. She steps forth, a hand lowering. She brazenly palms then lifts the male appendage. It is flaccid, yet beginning to engorge. And it is long... and thick.

“This.”    

Earlier in the Day

“You boys staying the night?” Robert Probert inquires as he steps from the gleaming Falcon jet of the Benchmark Oil Company, shouting over the noise of the spooling engines.

“No. We need fuel and have to ferry to Lagos. It’s less than hour, but the facility shuts down shortly after dark,” the copilot explains dropping to the tarmac the two light travel bags of the only passenger.

 “We’ve already filed and need to get going. Good luck with the find.” 

“It’s been found... and lots of it. Just need to tidy up details with the old broad running this banana farm.”

“If you’re talking about the Queen, take care. The guys who regularly fly in and out of here are cautious. She’s powerful... knows how to use her power... and enjoys using it. And no one calls her old.” 

With that, the copilot ascends the few steps to the jet’s cabin and hastily pulls shut the door, leaving petroleum engineer Robert Probert alone on an airfield of limited activity. 

Though age twenty-eight, he has risen quickly in the hierarchy of Benchmark Oil. Success has emboldened and, though alone in a foreign country of limited culture, euphemistically referring to such as a banana farm, there is self confidence. Yes, the monarchy is ruled autocratically, but he has the power of knowledge, not only possessing the details of the energy resources but how to extract such and bring to market.       

He is omnipotent.

Spotting a large sign, ‘Customs’, with the term translated below in some half dozen languages, he picks up his bags and begins the trek of legally entering Zolanda, an impoverished backwater monarchy geographically wedged amongst more notable Western African fiefdoms.

Landlocked, there isn’t even a beach for recreation which would attract free spending tourists, Robert reminds himself. Thus he is a godsend for the Zolanda economy... the Zeus of oil riches. He is to become the difference between a nation of abject poverty and a nation of unfathomable wealth.

Such a welcome sight he will make. He is sure to be feted by Zolanda royalty.

Into an makeshift shed, Robert cannot help envisioning the stately terminal building that is sure to be constructed with the prospective oil funds. He has too often visited similar but more mature oil commonwealths. There will be much infrastructure... modern roads and bridges ironically traversed by barefooted locals leading donkey carts. There are few instances of the oil wealth trickling down to benefit the masses. But such is the way of the world.

Dictators and monarchs are corruptible... and oil money corrupts.

Entering the customs shed Robert Probert is surprised to see state of the art security equipment. Two burly uniformed women of color, appearing bored, greet. One takes his proffered passport and points to a conveyor where his luggage is to be scanned, the other beckons and speaks brusquely in accented English.

“Here boy,” Robert to step through a metal detector.

‘Boy’!... not the salutation this ‘oil god’ expects. Apparently decades of colonialization remain staining cultural relations. Robert chooses to remain silent, smiling smugly. As he steps forth he notes that whereas most scanners he has been subjected to on his many travels are arches, with this device it appears he is to pass through a tunnel. Indeed when he alacritously glides through, a pair of meaty black hands greet his chest, pushing him back into the small cave.      

“You stay, boy. Be good for me. Stand still. You be scanned. I tell you when. Hands on head.”

It is a command, sharply uttered, and with compliance thereafter earns a more kindly ‘good boy’.

Robert hears hums and bleeps. He is mindful of an MRI scan... magnetic resonance imaging...  taken years ago after a knee injury. After many minutes he notes the security guard looking at a monitor. She smiles, gesturing to security guard number two as she begins typing into a keyboard. The second guard joins her at the screen. She smiles not, instead outright giggling.

“His name is Robert Probert,” English heavily accented.

The women begin speaking in their native tongue, security guard one picking up a phone and speaking more unintelligible words. After a few moments she smiles, nods and places down the receiver.

“Probert, mahn, the boss lady, she wants confirmation.”   

“‘Confirmation? I don’t understand.”

“Drop your pants,” the words of security guard one coming as another brusque command.

“You’re a big boy,” security guard two more graciously offers. “The boss lady wants photos,” pulling a cell phone from her pocket. ‘The scans... always accurate... but never as welcoming.”   

'Prominence' - Part One

 I have published the first part of a three part story 'Prominence', available on Lulu.com, (be sure to give yourself access to explicit content).

Female Dominant, male submissive. 28,000 words. $4.88.

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Enjoy

'Podded', Segment X

Shift beginning at 7:00 a.m., Bobbi served me breakfast and I assured my lover Rhodi, showering as I exited the coop, was to receive a surprise breakfast of her own. Being a woman of color, eggs benedict humbly served by a naked white boy should suffice.

I smile with the thought as I stroll to the subway entrance. Rhodi was enthralled by last night’s  prostate massage. Kneeling on all fours I had Bobbi prop his left knee and calve on the side of the bathtub. Crevice inviting and well exposed I then impaled his anus with first one gloved finger then a second, finding his neglected male gland with aplomb, digits wriggling about vigorously. The resulting flow of pent up prostatic fluid was instantaneous, evidencing what I suspected... that the marriage of his Master resulted in limited if not curtailed anal penetration.

Not good.

‘She’s coming,” Rhodi blurted in seeing the ooze eke to the bottom of the tub.

‘He’s secreting,” I corrected. ‘No creamy white therefore probably no semen. But I will have it tested as well,” gathering a small dollop in a specimen jar.  

Stepping onto the ‘A’ train I mentally pat myself on the back for my cleverness, slowly immersing my soul mate Rhodi into the world of feminine dominance. My final instructions to Bobbi were, after serving breakfast and quickly cleaning up, to return to the spare bedroom lie supine and restrain himself in the Posey cuffs, adhering right ankle cuff, left, then left wrist cuff, the Velcro strips making self bondage facile. My final instruction to Rhodi was, before stepping out the door, to close the right wrist cuff. Simple... fast... yet most empowering, committing our house boy... house girl... to an entire day of immobility until I return mid afternoon. But more importantly making Rhodi take a step... a baby step... in realizing ‘a thing with a penis’ can be made most servile, tethered for hour after hour at a woman’s whim.

I took the time to enter the contact number for Director Vasiliki at St. Sappho into my smart phone. Another chore for the day, after getting Bobbi’s blood and glandular secretions tested, is to call, update her on Bobbi’s status and for sure obtain more special sauce. Rhodi seemed intrigued with the notion of so slowly and efficiently... and permanently... emasculating a male. Watching me infuse the pod and listening to Bobbi suffer at the hand of a governing woman is going to be another step.

*****

“Hello, Joan. We have not spoken in a while. How are things in New York?”

“Fine Director. I assume you’re enjoying the sunshine and warm, gentle breezes.”

“Weather never seems to change here on St. Sappho. Because it’s so accommodating we’ve added some outdoor training. Seems using boys as beasts of burden is a growing thing in the Master/sex slave genre. We now have a stable... Stage Six beneficiaries trained to pull carts... like  human horses. It’s termed pony play. The handlers have come to revel in it.”

End of the day, I await in the hospital’s employee lounge, expecting the test results for Bobbi’s blood and prostatic fluid. A good time to speak with Director Vasiliki. Her words bring me to reflect on my days on the island. Most beneficiaries, like Bobbi were on the diminutive size, readily emasculated and feminized. Conversely transition for the larger boys was difficult and therefore resulted limited in marketability. Leave it to the Director to solve that issue.

I put aside thoughts of a boy in harness, cropping sweat coated buttocks and plunge into the purpose of the call before any of my colleagues enter the room.

“I’m calling about a trainee named Bobbi, placed about the time I graduated. My last trainee.”

“Oh yes. I am aware of his situation. His Master turned him out. I cannot do much to help. We don’t have much demand for older boys. We don’t really handle retreads.”

“Well he found me. And I... ah... for now... am giving him shelter. But in being podded... well... you know the requirements. And I need to assure he’s... ah... well emasculated. I have a roommate... really a lover... who has a high disregard...”

“For the male gender,” Vasiliki completes my thought. “Yes you’ll need some sauce... special sauce. Still at the address we have on record?”

“Yes,” heartened that the conversation is going my way.

“I’ll send out a batch. No need to explain to you the frequency and the dosage. And may I assume punishment sauce is not required?”

Punishment sauce... really nothing more than Tabasco or it’s equivalent... such is a readily available in any grocery store.

“Correct, Not needed, Director. But if there comes a time amuse my roommate, I sure I can find something  in the kitchen cabinet,” both of us chuckling with the thought.

“You must miss hearing a boy cry and beg. It becomes ingrained. Power can be addictive. Do stop in and visit sometime, Joan. We don’t walk about the island any more. I think you’d like holding a set of reins and bringing a beneficiary to a lather with a good run.”

“It’s... ah... an enticing thought, Director,” wondering if the woman can envision my smile.

“So I’ll send some special sauce. And I also have a thought. We get a call from a New York club from time to time. Seems they’re looking for boys in need of a gig... like a weekend in servitude. I keep explaining that we aren’t a temporary help agency... that our placements are permanent... at least so intended. But they still reach out. Called ‘Club Femmes Mechantes’. Maybe your Bobbi can earn his keep.”

A technician enters the lounge, lab report in hand. I must curtail the conversation.

“Director I need to go. Thank you.”

“Always good to speak with an accomplished alumna. And I’d hate to think one of our beneficiaries attempting to display masculinity. Erections can hurt, ha, ha, ha.”

We both know the special sauce will forestall tumescence. With the pod measured and fabricated for minimal volume beneath, regular applications will relieve the suffering of spontaneous eruptions of vestigial maleness.

For Bobbi, no hard ons, unseen and useless notwithstanding. 

In clicking off, I glance at the lab report. Thankfully no diseases. The remaining results I will need to interpret for Rhodi. But basically it’s a sure bet that her testosterone even is higher than that of our houseboy. And that fluid milked from his prostate... a mouse produces more spermatozoa.      

I pick up my large hand bag, filled with the remaining restraint gear for Bobbi. I find myself eager to return to our upper westside coop. Though I should visit the restroom before departing, I hold off, sensing a need to resume another element of Stage Six training. Rhodi will be aghast... initially. But she will acclimate. Though we have ‘a thing with a penis’ my lover will find first convenience and in time joy.    

'Podded', Segment XI

The big moment. I lead from the bedroom where I have been heartened to see Rhodi doff her staid attire and slip into a flimsy robe... and nothing else. It’s to the kitchen, knowing that Rhodi is most likely ogling the well rounded cheeks she is given to latch onto during our lovemaking.

“Bobbi, this is Miss Rhodi. While here you will treat her as your Master,” my tone firm and forthright.

I step to the side, not to impede Rhodi’s disapproving imperious glare. Bobbi respectfully lowers his face and head, though sans dress, dipping in a curtsy-like motion... hands moving out to his sides, left knee bending, right foot slipping back.

“Good evening, Miss Rhodi.”

In silence Rhodi assesses. The blond hair, neatly styled, parted in the middle, most effeminately covers the ears in a page boy. He’s made himself up well, apparently wanting to allure johns on Tenth Avenue. His nipples are crinkled, either in being chilled in stepping from the grill or with embarrassment in presenting his naked form to a stranger. Then I see Rhodi’s gaze lower, first noting the ungainly high heels, toenails pedicured with garish red polish, then to the shiny pod covering evidence of maleness.

“He’s wearing a maxi pad... made of metal,” Rhodi finally blurts with a chuckle.

And indeed the elliptical shape and placement of the pod spurs thoughts of women’s sanitary protection.

Straightening from his curtsy, Bobbi parts his feet, hands going to the back of his head, seeming to invite further inspection.

“He’ll not only welcome your touch, but thank you for the attention,” I encourage noting the sly look of wonderment in Rhodi’s eyes. 

“There’s a tiny hole. It can’t be where he pisses,” the opening being at the top of the pod.

“For cleansing, for sauce, for punishment. He relieves himself through an opening at his perineum... near his rectum,” I remind Rhodi. “Requires much training to control the bladder. But as you know, his penis has been rendered useless... and untouchable.”

“But it remains,” Rhodi harping on her ‘thing with a penis’ objection.

“What’s left of it. I’ll be contacting the Director at St. Sappho, telling her of Bobbi’s change in circumstances. And arranging for a supply of sauce... transformation sauce.”

“Please no, Miss Joan,” Bobbi quite cognizant concerning the enzymes and the purpose thereof.     

“Sush, Bobbi. Speak when spoken to. And if you’re going to be in service to us your emasculation must continue. Though I doubt there’s much remaining... little possible function... Miss Rhodi will feel better about it... your presence.”

I am heartened when Rhodi takes me up on my invitation, a hand reaching, fingers tweaking right nipple then left, amusing herself in seeing the nubs further harden. She’s touching ‘a thing with a penis’. A good step in acclimating. And Bobbi smiles and squeals, welcoming his new Master’s touch. Then I am further comforted, Rhodi directing our house girl. 

“Serve the steaks,” her voice commanding.

*****

Is it the wine or is Rhodi finding joy... however much she tries to suppress it... in watching Bobbi’s effeminate nakedness prance about our kitchen on precariously high heels?

This is working, Rhodi pretending to be interested in desert... apple pie... in which she rarely partakes. Thus extending her time in gazing.

“Bobbi needs to be prepared for bed, Rhodi. Care to watch? Also Bobbi, I’ll need that blood sample.”

Bobbi bends to pour another cup of decafe. Rhodi is indeed feeling empowered, reaching to pinch a plumped cheek.

“She needs more exercise,” Rhodi’s gender confusion noted.

Yes, gifted athlete Rhodesia Cunumba keeps herself in shape, jogging in Central Park, weather permitting, otherwise enduring lengthy jaunts on the treadmill. In her mind the entire populace should so endeavor, even encouraging her bootlicking underlings at work to keep the waist lines limited and to eat healthy.  

“Bobbi cannot run or jog in heels. And as I explained, without the special footwear he... she,” not wanting to burst Rhodi’s illusion, “must crawl.”

“Oh, so cruel,” the words of sympathy coming with a snicker. 

“So when finished cleaning up, Bobbi, leave your shoes and go to the bathroom. I want you in the tub. Bath and douching.”

Bobbi nods and turns from the table, tending to the stove.

“Douching?” Rhodi inquires now with a giggle.

“His pod. Needs the same hygienic attention as your snatch.”

“Then I must watch,”   

Coffee imbibed, stove cleaned, Bobbi clears the table then lowers himself to the floor, unraveling the straps for his shoes, entwined about his calves to lend support. Slipped away, I grab the heels, taking control. It was a quick and simple procedure on St. Sappho to assure feminine governance over Stage Six beneficiaries. No heels, no mobility. May as well establish the same protocol here.

Going to all fours to crawl, Rhodi watches, appearing to be mesmerized. Whereas ‘things with a penis’ have brought repugnance in the past I must assume, since there is no visible male appendage flopping about, she is sanguine. 

“I can see her little pee hole,” Rhodi exclaims.

“The doctors on St. Sappho do good work,” rising from the table to follow, stooping, hands lowering, my turn to fondle the rolling buttocks.

“But there’s wet. Is she peeing?”

“No, Bobbi needs some attention. Males held in strict chastity have a gland that requires stimulation. His Master apparently became neglectful after marriage. So we’ll need to tend to it.” 

Bobbi proceeds to the bathroom, knowing to position himself... herself?.. in the tub. I grab a bottle of vinegar then retrieve one of the hypodermic needles purloined from the hospital. To the bathroom, Rhodi follows. I note she is not overly attentive in holding closed the folds of her robe. Yes, she somewhat flashes her charms. Purely the alcohol... or is she becoming more and more at ease with ‘a thing with a penis’ in our home?

“Just a douche this evening Bobbi,” forewarning as I fill the large barrel of a syringe with vinegar then add warm water.

Bobbi kneels upright, hands to the back of his head, careful not to mess his pretty hair. The ritual of cleansing and rinsing his pod came nightly on St. Sappho. He learned it was for the best. He also learned that the special sauce which was introduced each morning and left to both moisten and gnaw away at his male bits was to be endured, a combination of burning pain physically and mentally the daunting awareness that the enzymes oh so slowly brought emasculation. 

Rhodi smiles in noting the obsequious pose of our house girl, knees well parted, hips slightly thrust forth to present the gleaming metal encapsulating his pubes.

“Nice and warm for a good girly boy,” stepping to the side of the tub, syringe in hand.

I bend at the waist. My left arms reaches, hand going to gently grasp the right cheek to assure stillness. My right hand goes to the pod, slipping the needle into the tiny opening at the top. I press. The cleansing solution flows. Bobbi squeals with delight. Within moments the excess fluid begins streaming from the bottom of the pod, down the thighs and to the drain.

“See, our boy is being douched,” looking up to see Rhodi observing with fascination.

“So the pod... it’s like... forever,” Rhodi amazed.

“It’s part of him... as would be an artificial knee or hip.”

The barrel empties. I step to the sink and refill with plain warm water to rinse.  

“Blood sample then a nice prostate massage, Bobbi.”

The process repeats for the rinse, water dribbling down the inside of the thighs to the drain. Then Bobbi knows to present his arm for the blood sample. Ostensibly I will have it tested for disease. But of more interest is to learn of his testosterone level. I assume it’s been many weeks since he’s endured the special sauce. The long, slow march to androgyny has thus been stalled.

That won’t do. 

'Podded', Segment X

I signal to Bobbi to begin grilling the steaks while I pour a large goblet of Merlot. This is a big moment. I need to learn of Rhodi’s mood and mind set before presenting our naked house girl.

“Welcome home, lover,” stepping to the livingroom and holding the large glass to her lips as a sacred offering. “Steak dinner tonight with caesar salad and baked potato,” Rhodi lowering her head to sip.

She smiles faintly. Then hearing motion in the kitchen, an eyebrow rises to wordlessly inquire.

“Chef Bobbi,” I succinctly explain. “You’ll find his St. Sappho kitchen skills to be exemplary,” putting the best light on things, thinking upbeat.

“So we agreed to experiment and the very next day I have a stranger in my kitchen,” the words calm yet rebuking.

“I didn’t want him working the streets too long, Rhodi. We made a decision and I acted on it before... you know... bad things could happen.”

Rhodi nods, understanding my thinking. I present the goblet again. She sips. I am encouraged to see her again smile. Acceptance? Or finding the alcohol welcomed.

“So the negligee,” finally acknowledging my attire, noting it veils little of my charms. “For me... or you teasing the chastised house boy... house girl...whatever?”

“For you my love. But it also makes a statement. Thought I’d demonstrate that as a servant... a naked servant... we need not be modest with Bobbi about... ah... how we... you know. He’s harmless. You’ll see. Nothing needs to change concerning...”

“Fucking,” Rhodi completing my thoughts most coarsely.

“We need not be furtive, that’s all. Come let me show you. I’ve brought some stuff from the hospital.”

I decide it is best to further assuage Rhodi’s concerns before formally introducing Bobbi. I lead to the spare bedroom, designated as mine early in our relationship.

“He’ll stay here.”

I have laid out the purloined Posey gear, the long straps slipped under the bedroom’s mattress and attached to waiting wrist and ankle cuffs. The restraints lie at the four corners, at day’s end Bobbi to lie supine, held just as he spent every night under my tutelage at St. Sappho. 

“It’s termed four point restraint. While not being of use, he’ll not move about, disturb... you know... while we’re sleeping.”

“Fucking,” Rhodi again brashly corrects. “He’ll let you do that?”

“Oh, yes. He’s obedient. He knows that... well... the many months of being a handler sort of... ah... brings a girl to enjoy...”

“Fucking with his mind,” Rhodi again explicitly completes my thought.

“There’s more to the system... the restraint system. Couldn’t slip all the stuff in my hand bag. But what I brought will suffice for tonight.”

“More?” 

“Very restrictive neck collar... prosthetic in immobilizing the head... and more straps... at the thighs, waist and biceps.”

I am heartened to see Rhodi suppressing a smile. It would seem that although Bobbi has a penis, strict bondage counters any concerns over displays of male superiority. Plus her latent propensity for dominance shows from time to time. Is this one of them?

“You know how to do this? Strap a boy down? Safely?”

I smile and nod, vigorously. Immediately realizing that with my enthusiastic response I am exposing my own propensity.

“Nursing school, Rhodi. There are patients who need to be prevented from injuring themselves. Part of the training,” probably a futile cover.

“Steaks, Miss Joan,” Bobbi calls out from the kitchen, gratefully ending the awkward exchange.

“Give me one second to get out of this business suit,” Rhodi needing to be more comfortable.

And I need her to be comfortable as well.

'Podded', Segment IX

Having been podded in Stage Five training... calloused doctors adhering the smooth metallic ellipse, rerouting the urethra, reshaping the feet... there came Stage Six. For that it was Bobbi and I. No more masturbation, solo or mutual. No fellatio. No frolicking with other naked boys. Denial, the beneficiary’s genitals inaccessible and encased in metal. The change was swift and dramatic, from climaxing two sometimes more times per day to strict chastity. Nothing. No more climactic relief. For the beneficiary... emotional turmoil, the hormones levels quickly burgeoning.

Nursing skills were put to use, assuring the pod was twice daily basked in what was termed special sauce... enzymes stimulating the skin cells... assuring the flesh was receptive to binding with the crags and micro fissures in the precisely engineered metal of the pod. After many agonizing minutes, there came cleaning sauce and rinsing sauce.

We bonded, Bobbi and me. I was his only source of care and relief. Yet no sexual relief of course.

Yes, Stage Six beneficiaries, many years invested in training and bestowing skills, are indeed treated as prized show horses. Assigned our own cabin... Bobbi and I spent afternoons and nights together. I fed, bathed, supervised his appearance, his toilet and bedded him. The latter required four point restraint, another nursing skill in assuring both complete immobility and comfort.

Feet transformed, he had to learn to walk in unmanly heels... I held his hand in guiding and comforting. Without the footwear he had to crawl for me. To forgo moving about on hands and knees, he had to learn acceptance, willingly strapping his heels in place.

Mornings, while I attended nursing school, he attended lectures... advanced cooking... household skills... etiquette. Most importantly... cosmetology. One of my duties was to assure that he always looked effeminate. I encouraged... assuring such skills were not only put to use but became a source of pride for him. Stage Six beneficiaries learned to look not only pretty... but youthfully so. Masters were known to have a thing... their predilections acknowledged... the astute staff of St. Sappho knowing what pleased... and therefore what maximized a beneficiary’s value.

‘You look very pretty for me today, Bobbi... like a cute little girl,’ learning to reward by diddling with a nipple, the sensitivity there growing each day, hormones building.

Fellatio training was more focused in Stage Six. No more haphazardly licking and sucking the tiny hard ons of his compatriots. Engaging in oral sex became more regimented... a ritual was taught.

‘May I suck your penis, Sir?’ the question ingrained before each role play session.

Prospective Masters were men of size, well endowed, demanding discipline... no gagging. Thus more medical training came to be used. After the mandatory question was posed, faux phalli of size... large and larger by the day... were pushed to the back of the throat, gag reflex to be suppressed.

‘Just relax... Bobbi. Let the penis tip slide in deeper and deeper.’

And then came anal training, butt plugs, dildos... both growing in size. Required for that was the administration of a daily enema and abundant lubrication. A beneficiary learned his girlish cheeks were to be readily split for anal penetration at all times... at the whim of his handler.

In bonding, the beneficiary learned not only to please... but became wanting to please. Such desire would later transition to pleasing a Master.

A key rattles in the front door lock, ending my revery. My heart thumps. My lover Rhodi returns home from a stressful day in the world of big business. Hopefully such stress is to be tempered... ‘a thing with a penis’ not to further aggravate it.