'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.