'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.

https://www.lulu.com/shop/chris-bellows/prominence-part-one/ebook/product-rm8pgmm.html?q=chris+bellows&page=1&pageSize=4

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.