'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.