'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.

'Podded', Segment IX

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.

'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.”