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.
No comments:
Post a Comment