'Podded', Segment VIII

Not having to do kitchen work, I change out of my uniform directly into the sexy apparel Rhodi prefers. This evening a negligee... diaphanous... flashing both breasts and a well trimmed mons. There’s no point in dressing modestly in Bobbi’s presence... he’s seen, sniffed and tasted all... St. Sappho stage six training imbuing oral skills for not only Masters but for the satiation of handlers as well in order to acclimate to servicing prospective wives and girl friends.

Rhodi’s reaction will be one of surprise... pleasant surprise? Or horrifying surprise. Either way she’ll settle into acceptance I’m sure.

I return to the kitchen. Bobbi is at work, his domestic skills on display... as is his complete nakedness. I reach and squeeze his buttocks... smooth, soft, inviting. He protests not, my hands and fingers are free to poke, prod and pinch... for the most part owning every inch of his hairless form.

“I found some steaks, Miss Joan. Baked potato. Caesar salad okay? Any food allergies?” trained as would an accomplished chef.

Bobbi turns and notes my allure, immediately putting down his utensils and kneeling. I cradle his head, drawing his face to my mons. His hands reach, attempting to part the flimsy folds.

“No, no Bobbi. That’s for Rhodi,” I admonish.

But is it for Rhodi? As stated oral is not our thing, other than suckling nipples and breasts during foreplay. Will this work? I must give thought as Bobbi tenderly grasps my forearms, pulling away my hands. He begins to lick my palms as would a fawning puppy, that long, strong, broad tongue lapping, his trained mouth seeking to engulf my fingers in deference to his fellatio training.

The boy has such needs.

“Thank you, Miss Joan... for caring for me,” the words so obsequious. “I will please you.”

“Yes, you will, Bobbi. But I’ll need to have you tested. Draw some blood after dinner. And clean your pod. Good girlie boys get warm water,” my tone foreboding.

I feel Bobbi shudder, recalling the punishment meted to bad beneficiaries once podded. Any number of sauces can easily be injected into a beneficiary’s metal covered genitals. Freezing cold water itself is a simple, fast and a readily available deterrent for bad behavior. Bobbi well remembers.

“I’ll be good, Miss Joan.”

“Yes, you will. And as a reminder, my lover is Rhodi... Miss Rhodi to you. I plan to have her become your new Master.”

“You’ve explained to her... who I am... what I am?”

“For the most part. We’ll see if she chooses to step into the role of Mastering you.”

It will be interesting. On rare occasions, when Rhodi has had a trying day, we don’t trib... embrace and frottage pussy to pussy. Instead she digs out her Feeldoe double dildo... designed for women by women. In venting her frustration my role is to submit to her deep powerful thrusts, her athleticism evident.

It’s condescending for me. Yet we’re lovers. I cede for her. But as I said, it’s not often.

Will that change?

“How did your Master’s wife use you, Bobbi?” my hands slipping under his arms in encouraging him to rise and resume his kitchen duties.

“I cooked and cleaned.”

“Of course you did. Other tasks?”

“I bathed her, groomed her, helped with dressing.”

“Good. You’ll do that for us. And?..” I inquire knowing there’s more.

“Well... she... sought to be cleaned... after... you know... being with Master... and...” Bobbi becoming bashful.

“After toilet, I’m sure. You needn’t be shy about that, Bobbi. You were well trained for it.”

As was I. My own bashfulness about using a beneficiary in such a sordid manner had to be countered as well. But in time on St. Sappho it became second nature, using the likes of Bobbi as often as the bathroom.

“Rhodi may not seek to use you in that manner. Not initially.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

'Podded', Segment VII

My shift ends. Before leaving the hospital I call Bobbi’s number on my cell phone. He answers.

“Bobbi where are you?”

“Tenth avenue and forty seventh,” recognizing my voice.

It makes sense. The street walkers have migrated toward the river over the years, the City administration pressuring the girls in trying to clean up the Times Square area. But the fact that Bobbi is working alongside hookers makes getting him off the streets even more imminent. He’ll make a few bucks offering quick blow jobs... well trained for that... but if a john wants more he’ll be in trouble.

Hopefully he’s not been working the streets for long and is free of disease.

“Walk over to eighth avenue. I’ll meet you at the fiftieth street subway stop.”

“What’s this about Miss Joan?”

“A place to live... for a while. See if you can earn your keep,” explaining succinctly, knowing there’s plenty of time to talk later concerning details. 

Yes, Rhodi has agreed to house Bobbi... temporarily... on an experimental basis. I have therefore purloined some medical supplies from the hospital. Hypodermic needles won’t be missed. But I had to be very cautious in stuffing my oversized handbag with Posey restraints and straps. Indeed I grabbed wrist and ankle cuffs. Auxiliary stuff like neck collar, thigh, arm bands and waist belt will need to wait for another foray into the supply room tomorrow.

Bobbi is docile and obedient, really not in need of restraint. It’s for Rhodi’s peace of mind.

Yes, the tipping point in last night’s long discussion... disclosing details of my sojourn on St. Sappho island... was when I pointed out that the second bedroom in our spacious apartment goes unused. Rhodi and I sleep together, typically tightly entwined. Thus should Bobbi’s presence become intolerable for Rhodi... a ‘thing with a penis’ prancing about the abode... the spare bedroom can become a makeshift jail cell. With the Posey restraint system at the ready, Rhodi will feel more comfortable.

And it will make Bobbi feel welcomed. Much time spent in bondage on St. Sappho. Beneficiaries were to always know their place. 

Bobbi and I meet, he’s there waiting. I take his hand and guide down the subway stairs, his high heels ungainly. With his short baby doll dress, page boy hair style, we appear to be mother and daughter. Not that I am ancient at age twenty eight. It’s that Bobbi has been trained, laboring cosmetically to look pubescent. Masters like that.  

“You suck any cock today, Bobbi?”

“No Miss Joan... the other girls. They’re nasty and either chase away a client or tell them they’ll do it for free... just to spite me.”

“Just as well. You’ve not been trained for that. You’re more special, Bobbi,” going through the subway turnstile.

“Where are you taking me, Miss Joan?”

“Well, I’m not kidnaping you. Home. A coop apartment. Probably not as grand as that of your rich Master... but it’s shelter.”

“Your friend, she’ll understand that...”

“That you have special needs,” interrupting, “yes. It’s an experiment. Bobbi. Back to being a house girl.”

“I’ll take care of you, Miss Joan. Just like...”

“You’ll not need to concern yourself with pleasing me. It’s Rhodi... friend, companion, lover. You have a penis, Bobbi. She finds things with a penis to be useful in the workplace... otherwise a source of annoyance. Understand?” stepping onto an arriving ‘C’ train. 

“Then I will please her.”

With that, in a comical gesture, Bobbi extends his tongue. With the frenectomy, special exercises and many months of St. Sappho training, the length of wet pink licks much of his nose... nearly up to the eyebrows.

“We’ll see,” looking about to ascertain if any fellow passengers noticed what may be considered an obscene gesture. “Cooking, cleaning, laundry for now Bobbi.”

“Clothing? This is all Master permitted me when he pushed me out,” Bobbi’s free hand brushing over the folds of his short flimsy dress, jonesing for better apparel.

The observation gives rise to thought. During the many stages of training, transformation and indoctrination on St. Sappho beneficiaries went naked... at all times. In the tropics, such 24/7 exposure mandated meticulous applications of sun block. It brings pleasant memories, my hands and fingers working every inch of my beneficiary’s body. It empowered... and I enjoyed being so empowered at a young age. And now... well... here we are.

“You’ll not need any,” my voice firm.

Bobbi’s glum reaction is telling. Apparently, though being penniless and homeless has been stressful, being permitted clothing for the few days of his emancipation has been enlivening. That will change.

We arrive at our stop and I remain with Bobbi’s hand in mine. 

“You’re my niece, Bobbi. The building has a doorman and the apartments are owned by very upscale people. Naked sex slaves would not be considered appropriate,” I lecture in exiting the subway station.

Reaching the lobby of my building, Bobbi plays along, calling me Aunt Joan. Into the elevator we resume speaking... explicitly.

“Your pod, keeping it clean?”

As I described to Rhodi, the metal piece encapsulating Bobbi’s genitals is not to be removed. Thus at the top is a pin hole opening where all types of liquids can be introduced, immersing penis and scrotum in whatever.

“No Ma’am. I can’t... well nothing fits the opening.”

“We’ll get you cleaned. I have hypodermic needles. Vinegar and water should suffice for now. Rhodi may be amused in watching. I will have to get some sauce though.”

Exiting the elevator on our floor, I note the hallway is empty in the middle of the afternoon, no neighbors. I become brazen as the garbage chute is right there, the entrance to our apartment three doors down. I release Bobbi’s hand and grasp the straps to his baby doll dress at the shoulders, yanking the garment over his head. I turn and toss his only covering down the garbage chute. Yes, as suspected, he is without undergarments. He will enter his new world sans covering.

Bobbi looks at me wide eyed. I smile and point. He prances, following my finger. I take my time joining him at my door, key in hand. 

“Welcome, Bobbi. Hopefully this will be home for you,” reaching to pinch an inviting nipple.

He squeals... like a little girl. I can read his thoughts. A new Master.

Into our apartment I point to the kitchen and follow Bobbi, his cute hairless little girl buttocks rolling about. 

“Inspection time, Bobbi. Up on a chair.”

The bright florescent lighting reveals all, making every inch of Bobbi’s hairless skin seem to glow. I take the bag from my shoulder, step back and simply gaze. Despite the many years of exposure to governing women, Bobbi blushes, his entire nakedness turning pink. I must suppose it’s something to which even the most submissive and masochistic boy has trouble acclimating. In being perched on the chair, his shiny pod is nearly at eye level. 

“Still trying to harden? Twinges?” extending my hand.

Fingers press the pod. I then begin a gentle circular motion. Such stimulates the male organs beneath... what remains.

“Please, Miss Joan,” Bobbi closing his eyes and gasping with the sensuous finger work.

“Please stop... or please more?”

Silence.

“Did Master milk you... have you milked?”

Bobbi shakes his head.

“Not good for your prostate, Bobbi, And you certainly can’t do it yourself. Did he take you anally? Make you come?”

“After Master married, well, I was only to serve his bride.”

“So no fellatio, no pegging. And an unknowing woman would certainly not lend attention to your needs. Well, I’ll add that to your pod cleaning. I’d not want you drooling about the apartment. Rhodi would not understand. You’d be out the door before dinner.”

My hand retracts from the pod, fingers slipping between smooth girlishly plumped thighs. Bobbi knows to part his feet, offering access. My index finger knowingly finds his altered urethral opening at the perineum. There is  moisture.

“Yes, you need milking. Rhodi may find it amusing to watch. But it also means you need more sauce... enzymes... despite the many years.”

“Please no. Miss Joan.”

“Yes, the male testicles don’t surrender quickly... nor easily. Your Master has been negligent. We’ll have to make up for that.”

I withdraw, my hand going to his to assist in stepping down from the chair.

“Must you Miss Joan? I... I...”

“Yes, you’d like to keep what’s left, I know. But it’s useless to you, Bobbi. You can’t play with it... can’t even see it. And you’ll be more comfortable making it smaller and smaller. Erections are painful for you.”

The sauce... the enzyme sauce... slowly shrinks what’s beneath the pod. Thoughts of such slow emasculation bring twinges. I am becoming wet.

“Dinner. Rhodi will be home sometime before six. Check the refrigerator. Make something nice for us. Your welcome here depends on it.”

'Podded', Segment VI

Director Vasiliki calls me into her office.

“Joan, kudos on your academic work. You’re progressing nicely in your studies.”

“Thank you, Vasiliki.”

“I always say a girl with few worries... and well satiated... can excel to great heights. You’re focused. And your work with the beneficiaries is exemplary as well. They like performing for you.”

“Thank you, Vasiliki.”

“After some three years, it may be time to expand your duties and experience as a handler. You’ve not worked with the stage five and six beneficiaries.”

“No Director, I have not.”

“We keep them separate as I’m sure you’ve come to realize. On the far side of the island. Don’t want to bring concern to the early stage boys, as you’ll come to understand. Stage five in our program involves denial. Draconian but necessary to assure dedication and devotion... that the many skills we imbue are put to good use. And stage six... well... such a treat for a governing woman.”

Vasiliki reaches into a drawer and places an object of shiny metal on her desk.

“It’s termed a ‘pod’. Specially crafted for a beneficiary named Bobbi. He completed his training in terms of household and sexual skills. It’s time for stage five... this.”

Vasiliki turns to silence pushing the object toward me, fingers gesturing to pick it up and examine. It’s smooth, shiny and elliptical in shape, very much like a protective cup warn about the genitals of athletes participating in various contact sports. As her finger gestures again, a turning motion, I flip it over. The opposing side is concave, rough, with many spikes and crags.

“Machine milled, using Bobbi’s body scan such that it will perfectly encapsulate his penis and scrotum.”        

I brush my finger on the scabrous inside surface, quickly retracting with the pain. It scrapes.

“A boy can’t wear this... it’s too small... too rough.. it will hurt!”

“All good things come to an end, Joan. The early stage boys have climaxed daily... if not more often... masturbating each other... sucking each other off... pegging. You yourself have offered prostate manipulation. They all have such fun in performing for their handlers. Well it ends... with stage five and the pod.”

“How does it stay on,” amazed with myself in quickly putting aside concerns about size and discomfort.

“That’s the ingenious part of the design. You see that tiny opening at the top?”

I nod.

“That’s where what we term ‘sauce’ will be injected while the pod is temporarily held in place by straps. The mixture of the initial injection contains enzymes which chemically chafe and irritate, making the skin nice and soft... like putty. The epidermis becomes receptive... more or less malleable. Thereafter penis and scrotum will heal and grow in those many micro openings milled into the metal... with the help of healing sauce. In time the beneficiary and the pod become one. Thereafter cleaning sauce is injected from time to time for hygiene. And of course there’s punishment sauce for bad little beneficiaries. That’s not an overly complicated mixture... for the most part akin to edible hot sauce,” Vasiliki offering a rare chuckle. “The boys learn quickly to avoid punishment sauce.”

“But... but... to urinate?”

“Ah, we do a urethral reroute. They squat to pee through an opening at the perineum. Stage five is involved, as you can imagine, from a medical standpoint. And there’s great opportunity for bonding... handler and beneficiary. Which leads to Stage six.”

“Stage six?”

“Transitioning from daily ejaculation to total chastity and denial is daunting for the male beast. The male appendage is no longer accessible... for masturbation, fellatio, copulation... any touching at all. In actuality it’s never to be seen again. Stage six addresses the mental and emotional side of the transformation. The beneficiary learns that pleasure... so abundantly meted through the years of stages one through four... is sparsely portioned... and not readily achieved. Through counseling and encouragement there comes an alternative to past ecstasy. Learning to obtain sexual pleasure through that of others. Initially that of his handler... later once placed, by way of pleasing a Master. You’ve attained substantial knowledge in your psychology courses, Joan. You’ll need to apply it.”

I have no words but one.

“Draconian,” finding myself agreeing with the director.

“The beneficiary’s oral skills need to be challenged and put to use, Joan... refined. Years have been spent strengthening and lengthening the tongue... including a lingual frenectomy. You must understand that stage six is also about perfecting such... applied to all genders which a beneficiary is to serve. We realize most of our handlers have no affinity for beings with a penis. But it’s part of your responsibilities. And in stages five and six you’ll not have to touch it... not even look at it. In stage six come the finishing touches of servitude. You’ll toilet him. I need not become scatological in detailing that task. Nor suggest you refrain from bonding with your beneficiary during your monthly cycle.

“Draconian,” not realizing I am repeating myself.    

*****

Rhodi looks silly with a spoon in her mouth, my story bringing stunned stillness... ice cream consumed but for a final spoonful remaining in the bowl.

“You’ve never told me about this,” her tone quiet and reserved.

“You chose not to hear, remember? That I tended to ‘things with a penis’ repulsed you. Details not to be forthcoming.”

“So ending his sex life. This beneficiary named ‘Bobbi’... how can he seek to speak with you again? Without attempting to choke you?”

 I cannot help laughing with the melodrama.

“Sorry, Rhodi. But you fail to fully perceive the relationship. His sex life did not end. It was a new beginning. Currently Bobbi is emotionally traumatized, being turned out, penniless other than limited cash, a cell phone about to be shut off, and his only shelter at a cheap hotel to be terminated. To whom do you think he would turn in a crisis?”

“To the woman who... what’s it called... podded him?”

“As I said... as director Vasiliki explained... stage six involves bonding.”

“He still has it... the pod?”   

“It’s permanent, Rhodi. The epidermis of his penis and balls... what’s left... have migrated into the interior surface of the pod... special metal... intricate design... diabolical in its fabrication. To attempt to remove would be to tear away that which is most sensitive... and most precious.”

Rhodi’s caring questions are unbelievable to me. Do I detect empathy? The spoon gathers up the final dollop of ice cream.

“So no penis, no balls, just a lump of steel?”

“Not steel. Actually a rather pretty, shiny covering of special alloy. Anatomically accepted by the endocrine system... like with artificial joints.”

“And he’s pretty?”

I have her!

“As stated, blonde hair well coifed, otherwise glabrous, made up like a child movie star. And in heels. Can’t walk without them. Very presentable.”

“Clothing? Dresses well?”

“I’m sure clothing chafes his skin. At times necessary... but otherwise annoying. So probably a very limited wardrobe.”

Rhodi pushes forth her empty bowl, expecting table service. I must chide.

“I’ll be the valet once again,” cleaning the table. “But there are alternatives.”

“You have a suggestion?” Rhodi being coy in knowing the answer.

'Podded', Segment V

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