'Podded', Segment III

“Welcome to St. Sappho, Joan. Did you have a nice flight?”

A middle aged woman by the name of Vasiliki greets me at the airstrip of the small tropical isle of St. Sappho. No surname, I am to learn such is neither used nor inquired about on the island.

“Very nice. I have not been on a small plane before.”

My comment spurs pleasant laughter.

“You may consider it small, but our Gulfstream flies higher, further and faster than almost every commercial jet airliner. We were fulfilling a placement... of one of our well molded beneficiaries placed in a New York home. No point in returning empty. You stepping on board for the return flight saves time and money.”

I am led to a small electrical vehicle, I guess termed a golf cart, later to learn such is the main mode of transportation on the island. The Vasiliki woman speaks with a Greek accent as I gather in the beauteous surroundings.

“As you’re aware, our school of nursing, though not well known, is fully accredited, licensing boards of over fifty countries acknowledging our credentials and therefore our graduates. If you find the elements here to be acceptable... the environment... the ambiance... St. Sappho will be your home for the next few years. You’ll leave here well educated, well trained and ready for employment in any medical facility in the world.”

It’s a sales pitch. The Vasiliki woman is talking me into accepting free schooling in paradise!

What gives?

And then comes a clue. Planned... inadvertent... an accidental encounter?

“A little early in the tour I had planned, but so be it,” Vasiliki somewhat apologetic in seeing my eyes glued. “That’s Monica with one of our beneficiaries.”

I am shocked to see a young white unformed woman of my approximate age strolling hand in hand with a boy. Blond, blued eyed... and completely naked. More shocking... his not fully developed penis is erect and unabashedly standing! Beneath dangles a pink hairless ball sac flopping about with each step.

“Good afternoon, Monica,” pulling the cart to stop. “Cute... and a nice stiffie. Orally inclined?”

“Not fully, Vasiliki. But there’s time. A recent arrival.” 

“Well, stage one... you know the procedures.”

“Oh, yes. He’s due for a lingual frenectomy tomorrow morning. Tongue work to begin in a few days.”

The boy remains silent... in obedience... in fear... in awe? Vasiliki pulls away.

“May as well dive into it, Joan... now that you’ve come across your first beneficiary. The boy is from Scandinavia... my guess would be Norway. An orphan... possibly a run away... or abandoned. Hate to think he was kidnaped. Whatever, he’s now safe here with us... to receive the best, most attentive medical care possible.”

My mind churns. With the weather most temperate in the tropics, clothing can be... I’d say optional on most days. Yet the nurse was fully clothed in uniform and the beneficiary sporting a firm erection seemed to be more than acceptable to her... in a way encouraged.

Still, as my mind settles, my thoughts go to the financial equation. I am to receive a free education... four years of tuition, room and board. Then comes along a ‘beneficiary’... a boy with no apparent financial means... who is to receive medical care... and presumably room and board.

Again comes the question... what gives?

“He seems... ah... excited.”

“Oh, the beneficiaries are encouraged to show off... in the early stage of induction. Monica probably had him stroking himself... break the ice so to speak. In a few days time that boy will be trained not to touch himself. That pleasure is to be shared... with other boys. Then comes... well... I’m getting ahead of myself.”

I turn to silence as the cart pulls again to a stop before a low cinder block building of white. 

“The training facility... and my office,” stepping from the cart.

“I have a question, Ms. Vasiliki.”

“That’s just Vasilki. And we’ll talk in my office. Would you consider yourself a woman of discipline, Joan?”

“Oh yes. I study very hard, am a good student. I so much want to learn, if that’s what you mean.”

“Not entirely, my girl. I mean assuring beneficiaries in your charge... ah... tow the line.”

 “Well... ah... I have no beneficiaries.”

“You will. Soon, assuming you find the St. Sappho School of Nursing meets your needs. And you’ll find within yourself the need to exact discipline... all the handlers come around to that... some sooner than others. Your question?” 

“All this... this generosity... comes from where... the source?”

“A group of men... don’t be alarmed, there are no males here on the island other than some simple native islanders,” her aside comment suggesting the financial aid advisor who recommended me passed on her suspicion concerning my sexual preference, “with common interests... shall we say eccentric interests... keeps our facility well funded. Other than that, there is nothing more to be divulged. Which brings me to a document which needs to reviewed and signed. A very strong legal document.”

'Podded', Segment II

A walk to the subway station then a thirty minute ride to our upper west side coop gives time for thought. My past... the present... the future.

Aspiring for a nursing career, poverty gave rise to reality. Broke, one can obtain student loans and further impoverish oneself. But to eat? Pay rent? To do that requires employment and thus brings constraints on time needed for study.

So in applying to a prominent New York nursing school the financial aid counselor sensed something, my stress in struggling through the numbers... tuition... room... board.

‘So, Joan, you’re not married. Boyfriend to help? At least maybe buy you a meal from time to time.’

She was searching... hinting... her drab pantsuit and short slicked back hair leaving no doubt as to which side of the plate she swung.

I shook my head. But perhaps there was this certain look, my disdain at the mention of the male gender that prompted her to lean back, assume a relaxed maternal pose, and reflect.

‘You have your heart set on New York. But perhaps some study abroad would be of interest. There’s a very discerning school of nursing seeking women with... let’s say... a quaint view point... in relation to males.’

Males... not men. Why did her phraseology engender my attention? 

‘Accredited, located in a wonderful climate... two hour flight from New York...’

And so began an overview of the St. Sappho School of Nursing on a small island in the Caribbean for which the facility was eponymously named. 

The financial counselor described the location and climate as idyllic. But when she mentioned the word ‘free’, my ears began to burn.

‘Free tuition?’ 

‘Free everything, my dear. But it’s not for every girl.’

It certainly was not!

*****

A short walk from the subway station and I am home. Roommate, companion, lover Rhodi... Rhodesia Cunumba... is not yet home. She works nine to five, sometimes later. My nursing shift ends at three. Thus I play housewife in this evolving relationship, preparing an evening meal. I don’t mind cooking, and it absolves me of more tedious housework like cleaning. We split laundry duty. And with Rhodi’s growing aversion for using weekend leisure time on such matters, she has talked of household help. She can afford it, well into a fast rising career in marketing.  

Yes, such distaste for housekeeping may give rise to an opening. At least a trial.

Rhodi knows something of my nursing school education... yet not all the details. One evening, describing the level of care afforded the nursing school’s young male beneficiaries, she became flustered, ending any and all discussion concerning the attention given sensitive anatomical areas.

‘You touched them... there!’

Spoken as some faint hearted vestal virgin, aghast that a male has a penis.

There was thereafter little talk about my years at the St. Sappho school. With her revulsion and the confidentiality agreement... I let the matter go.

Bottle opened, wine breathing, I move to the bedroom, making myself presentable for Rhodi’s arrival. She likes me sexy... and scantily clad... apparel not fit for working over the stove.

Key rattling the lock, I pour a glass of wine and step to the door. She likes sharing with me, one glass, she sips, I sip, we kiss, we hug, she likes feeling my soft full rounded boobies pressing to her firm athletic breasts.

“Good evening, pretty girl,” Rhodi preferring the more masculine role, taking another sip as I present the large glass, holding to her lips.  

Rhodi is a woman of color. A track start in high school and college she is strong with muscular legs and very kissable well sculpted buttocks. I know to draw back the glass, let her put her arms around me to hug and kiss.

“Busy day, Joanie?”

“The usual. No code blue,” patients in cardiac arrest, “but an interesting encounter on the way home. You?”

“Had to lecture a couple of my boys. Shoddy work. Sometimes I think they want a spanking.”

Rhodi tends to hire submissive males as underlings. I tease her about it. She says she does not enjoy the dominant role... just chooses to avoid ‘cat fights’ in employing women... and that her ‘boys’ more readily accept their place. She’s rising fast in a very large and financially successful firm. I advise that if it works, roll with it. Perhaps the more submissive the better in terms of hiring criteria.

Hands retract. I offer another sip. She partakes. I am then permitted a sip of my own.

“I’ll change. Dinner? Something smells good.”

“Roast chicken. Seasoned just as you like.”

Rhodi nods her approval and heads for the bedroom. I go to the kitchen, toss the salad and present.      

“So an encounter,” Rhodi exiting the bedroom, tight black leather slacks highlighting her amazing form.

“An old... ah... acquaintance,” sitting as Rhodi chivalrously holds the chair for me.

I must smile graciously as she assumes the role of a gentleman suitor. Taking up my own wine glass, I let her lead the conversation, yielding to her predominance.

“Well, it’s apparent you want to talk about it,” Rhodi diving into her salad.

“It involves... the telling... of my time in the Caribbean. Which appalls you.”

“Yes, it’s a reviling thing... touching men... you touching men. Condescending... debasing yourself.”

“You may frame it that way, not knowing... not wanting to know... of the details of my extensive... and free... medical education. But I came across a beneficiary today... perhaps better phrased as he coming across me... from years past.”

“So he’s called a beneficiary. And?”

“He’s in need. And as always with the boys relegated to the island... when in need he turns to a handler.”

“Is that what you term your function... your responsibilities... handling... things with a penis!”

“Sip your wine, Rhodi... take a breath. Let me tell the story... the whole story from the beginning. You know the part where I could not afford... as a practical matter... the New York school I initially preferred...”

“Yes, the bull dyke financial aid counselor.”

“So I’ll start from there.”    

New Story. 'Podded'. Segment I

A new story. Female Dominant/male submissive.

I have no idea where this will be going, but feel an obligation to keep you readers entertained. And hopefully in a mindset to buy a story!

*****

Podded

Copyright 2024

by Chis Bellows

*****

“Do you remember me, Miss Joan?”

In New York City... especially in Times Square... a girl is given to walk quickly, eyes straight ahead, ignore the nefarious characters... the homeless, slicksters, perverts, Jehovah’s Witnesses... in general slip past all the riff raff that for some reason collect about what should be the most presentable place in Manhattan. 

But I find I must stop. First the girl steps directly into my path. Normally such would be considered overly aggressive, but in being young, blonde, well made up with large flashy earrings there is limited concern. And second, I indeed remember her... though not naked. Now she wears a one piece dress, convenient for the months of summer in that one can simply toss over the head, assure the straps catch the shoulders, slip into flip flops and go. But this girl wears heels, ludicrously high, and notably impractical for walking the craggy sidewalks of New York... subway ventilation gratings aside. 

“I’m Bobbi,” a girlish voice exuberantly exclaims.

“Yes, yes I do remember,” looking about for onlookers, chiding myself for the nervous reaction.

Bobbi wishes to have a conversation. I do not. I resume walking, She moves with me on my right side, heels tapping to bring even more notice... unwanted notice.

“Not the time to have a conversation Bobbi. Not the place.”

“But I’m in trouble, Miss Joan. And you’ve been very kind to me in the past. You know... on the...”

“Sush, Bobbi,” now having good reason to be nervous. “I no longer do that... do what I did. I cannot help you.”

As I speak I head to a small open enclave... like a little park, in exchange for construction permits the City mandating that the developer of some high rise office building provide public space. There are tables and chairs where in warmer whether office flunkies can eat a sandwich during their lunch hour. I spy a table in the far corner. Being past the lunch hour, and also being prime time for panhandling on the streets, no one is using and it is isolated enough to have a quiet talk. 

I point. Bobbi sits. She embarrasses by lifting the hem of her short dress, panties to greet the seat. It’s an ingrained motion. And I know there are most likely no panties, bare butt to the cold iron.

“Where is your Master?” my tone scolding. “You must have one.”

“He... he... turned me out.”

“Why? You must have served him for many years. I have not worked the... well you know the place... in five years. If I recall when I graduated you were near... ah... placement.”

“Yes, five years. But Master got married. And his wife... well... things were okay for a while. Then she said no more fellatio. So I then served her... intimately... as I was trained. But then she got pregnant... and... well... raising a child meant as a servant I would have to be clothed... and then Master sort of lost all interest... no fellatio... no exhibition of...”

“So you’re out. Place to live?” interrupting.

“Master has paid for a hotel room. But yesterday said ‘that’s enough’. He’ll even cut off my cell phone by the end of the month,” a manicured finger of petite hand tapping a small purse which presumably holds Bobbi’s remaining lifeline.

“You have money?”

“It’s running out, Miss Joan. I’m trained for...”

“I know your skill set, Bobbi. Remember what I do... used to do. No need to mention the name of the place or your training... not here.”

“Yes, I know... the confidentiality thing.”

Yes, not only did I sign such an agreement upon arrival but also renewed before my graduation and departure. As a result, I remain receiving a monthly stipend... as long as I remain silent. Such is not enough to support me, but makes for upscale clothing and an occasional good meal which would otherwise be a strain.    

“Well, I now have a job, Bobbi... in the vanilla world... just as I am sure your Master has one. And I have a lover, we share an apartment. It would be difficult for me to help you. She’s... ah... not into... what you are... who you are.”     

“You’re with... a girl?”

“Yes, Bobbi, I am a lesbian. And whereas things with a penis I find tolerable, Rhodi does not.”

“But I’m... you know... podded.”

“Still in place?”

“You know, Miss Joan... it’s forever,” Bobbi turning glum.

I again look about... for anyone within hearing range. The use of the term brings a slew of emotions... concern... fear... even arousal... but for some reason little sympathy. In fact I inwardly smile. There come thoughts. No one would ascertain Bobbi’s birth gender in looking at him. In fact, but for expecting a baby, a wife would find Bobbi to be convenient... alleviating the need to suffer the drudgery of housework. Yes, marriage alone would not be a reason to preclude Bobbi from serving as his Master’s housemaid and sex slave. After all in being podded... along with other refinements... he is sexually harmless... androgynous. Perhaps I can have a talk with Rhodi. This thing... called Bobbi... has a penis... but... well... perhaps Rhodi can endure that which is not to be seen.

“Give me your phone number, Bobbi. Perhaps there is something I can do. But what about... ah... the placement people. Do you have a phone number?”

“Master called them. I am old... that’s what they said... and...well... they make more money placing new beneficiaries.”

Yes, I realize. Having graduated and left the island five years ago, that would presumably place Bobbi at about age 23 or 24. In the eyes of the clandestine group of wealthy Black Masters having a predilection for young Caucasian males, he is ancient.

“I have to move on. If you’re sucking cock to earn money, be careful Bobbi. There’s the police... any number of diseases... guys getting nasty if they... you know... find out,” nodding to Bobbi’s crotch. “You’ve got no tits to speak of,” too aware that horny guys like to grope even while receiving a quick and simple blow job. 

'Retribution', Segment XII

This is the last segment to be posted. The full story has been published on Lulu.

Enjoy,

CB 

*****

Guangdong Penitentiary (two years past)

“You’ll need to acclimate. Just sit up. Let your circulation settle.”

The kuxing zhe releases the thumb rings. Other than brief interludes to cleanse and massage, inhibiting bedsores, qiufan Marcia Clark has not been released from the death bed in three weeks. She requires help. A few moments to stabilize, circulation pulsating, next the toe rings are released, the kuxing zhe pushing and prodding the qiufan’s nakedness such that she turns, remaining sitting upright, bare feet to the concrete floor of the cell.  

“To the torture chamber... the xingxun shi... shou ren zunjing kuxing zhe?” Marcia humbly inquires.

“If you’d like. I must walk you, hands to your head... unless a guard wants to see you smile.”

Yes the qiufan has broken... bonding with her torturer. She is somewhat in a quandary, not outright requesting a visit. But she certainly is not refusing. Pain... she must have it... it is her narcotic.

The qiufan feebly rises to her feet. Unsteady, she needs more moments to find her balance. Her kuxing zhe waits. There is no rush. She is not to stumble. A healthy qiufan is needed in order to maximum the torture.

Finally her hands obediently go to the back of her head. The kuxing zhe grasps her right breast, firmly but gently, a symbol of her control.

“Come. There is much to show you... so many ways to torture you. And you’ll please me. You want to please me. The torture chamber is private.”   

The qiufan is not to know that there are cameras, her benefactor to be apprized of the daily torment... that her screams, shrieks and howls will be for more than the kuxing zhe’s ears.

Out the cell door. Ironically it is not locked. The qiufan is always under supervision... and well restrained. As trusty, the kuxing zhe not deemed in need of close confinement.

To the hall. The kuxing is pleased that her qiufan can walk, her bandaged toes not impeding movement. Her fingers have healed, no bandages, no infection, the daily agony behind her. Until of course the nails grow back. Then the torture of removal will begin again.

A male guard approaches. The kuxing zhe stops. Hand remaining at the qiufan’s breast she stops as well. The male guards in particular like to see a prisoner smile... the naked Caucasian prisoners. The humiliation entertains as much as the display of feminine flesh. This guard is no different. He nods. The kuxing zhe respectfully greets. The hand slips from the breast. The qiufan lowers her arms, hands to her mons, pinching the lips, tugging aside, to display her most intimate pink flesh.

The kuxing zhe smiles inwardly. The qiufan so obedient, so eager to please. Broken. Her will... her pride extinguished.

The male guard laughs, heightening the embarrassment, offers a compliment on the skills of the kuxing zhe then finally moves onward. 

The duo resume, grasping the breast, hands of the qiufan to her head. It is a short walk to the torture chamber but daunting. The qiufan is apprehensive. The kuxing zhe can feel her quivering as they come to a door of solid steel. A code is punched into an electric key pad. With the sound of a click the door is pushed open. They enter.

“There is a death bed in here as well, qiufan... specially shaped. But I think you’d like the laohudeng... tiger bench. If you’re confined in a Chinese prison you must experience the tiger bench. It’s like visiting the Great Wall,” the humor not appreciated.

There is also a fubu muban... belly board... a tiger chair... and an entire wall arrayed with rope and other items needed for bondage and restraint. As stated, no whips, canes, tawses and other items of corporal punishment. Painful yes, but so quick. It is not the Chinese way. But curiously there is one wall of shelves which are stacked with bottles... varying shapes and sizes.

The door shuts behind, only to reopen with the code entered into the keypad. The qiufan looks about. There are no windows. Does that bring some comfort? That the qiufan’s torture will be private? No viewers. Her hairless, naked and most vulnerable form only for the eyes of her kuxing zhe? Her agony to be shared intimately.

The breast is released. The kuxing zhe lowers her hands and grips the bottom hem of her one piece gray uniform. She pulls it up, over her head, denuding herself. There are no undergarments permitted in a Chinese women’s prison.

“It can be warm in the torture chamber,” she explains to the surprised qiufan.

She gazes at nakedness. The kuxing zhe is trim, well muscled though shapely. Though exposed, the power exchange is not interrupted. The qiufan is hairless, bald, with no eyebrows appearing freakish. The kuxing zhe is attractive. It is apparent from the look of envy that the qiufan is most aware. In fact she lowers, going to her knees to supplicate.

“Are you going to torture me,  shou ren zunjing kuxing zhe?”

“Yes. That is what I do. And in the torture chamber you can properly thank me for my attention and your care. Some time on the tiger bench. Then the death bed. Come.”      

'Retribution', Segment XI

The New Jersey mansion of David Clark (the present)

A satiated chauffeur Gentry turns into the long drive leading to the vast mansion of David Clark. He looks in the rear view mirror to see his naked passenger kneeling between the opposing rear seats of the limo, hands as always obediently folded to the back of her head. He smiles, thinking of the training, to be able to facilely take his entire length, no annoying choking. He can’t help thinking, wife Trudy is not the only member of the family hesitant to offer head. He as well finds reluctance in oral sex. Marcia Clark is like a marital aid, he laughs to himself.

Pulling to the porte cochere, he stops the car, exiting to open and hold the door for the shamed faux chatelaine of the Clark mansion. A totally naked Marcia Clark steps from the back. With the sun setting, the evening air is cool. Gentry notes the crinkled nipples.

“Thank you for letting me suck your penis, Sir,” the voice docile and sincere.

“You’re welcome. Are you going to smile for me?” Gentry made aware of the libidinous protocol of her imprisonment. “Thought it would be untoward on Fifth Avenue. But David likes to you offer an appropriate greeting.”

The hands lower, the feet part, the thighs open. Fingers go to the smooth hairless pubes, pinching the outer labia and tugging left and right. In the gloaming of dusk, Marcia exposes her most intimate anatomy, flashing the pink of her inner labia and vagina.

“Good girl. Go to the kitchen. Trudy will feed you. Your Master David is entertaining. She may  stay for dinner.”

Indeed, Marcia looks to see a familiar Mercedes parked in the near distance. It rankles, her one time best friend regularly visiting. It further disturbs that before the evening is out she will probably be requested to pose for the woman... though ‘requested’ may not be the appropriate term.

Gentry grabs the shoes, coat and wig. Marcia knows to return her hands to her head, enter and proceed to the kitchen. She is indeed hungry.    

“Welcome home, Marcia,” cook Trudy greets with enthusiasm as Marcia’s bare feet pad the tile floor of the kitchen. “You must be hungry. David said you’d be having a busy afternoon.”

Marcia nods, immediately knowing to go to her knees. As Trudy presents her food bowl Marcia further lowers and kisses her shoes.

“Good girl. I’ve got lots of scraps for you. A full bowl.” 

It’s telling that being fed like a dog is cook Trudy’s paradigm. Husband David simply laughed when first hearing of the deviant protocol his cook demands. He does not intercede. In his mind, wife Marcia must show respect for all.

Trudy withdraws her foot, bends and places the bowl on the floor. Marcia knows to partake, shifting and lowering her face to the bowl. Hands returned to the back of her bald head, using fingers to eat is not permitted. Trudy smiles in hearing the human canine take in the slop, water poured over the mess to make it appear insalubrious.

“I suppose you fellated, Gentry.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” mouth full, Marcia garbling the words.

“Yes, see cock... suck cock. Amazing what they did to you in that Chinese prison... that magical tongue... wrapping those lips around anything and everything. Showing your cunt. Tsk, tsk, tsk.”

'Retribution', Segment X

New York (the present)

Marcia Clark exits the penthouse of her kuxing zhe, stepping to the foyer to dress. She dons the long overcoat and flats, her only attire. Exhausted, she crudely covers her head with the wig of raven hair, too tired to prink and preen. She no longer gives consideration to her appearance, the wig simply to avoid attracting attention, conscious that her bald head combined with missing eyebrows brings an alien look. 

The limousine of husband David Clark is parked nearby. In approaching, the driver exits and  opens the rear door. As Marcia lowers herself to enter, the driver pushes the door partially closed, denying entry.

“Please no games, Gentry. It’s been a long afternoon.”

“Your Master’s orders, Marcia.”

“But we’re in the middle of Manhattan!” the protest coming as the enormous black hand of the driver reaches and grabs the wig. 

“Then you should make it quick. Coat and shoes... now.”

Marcia looks about. Though the sidewalks are busy, there is no one directly looking. She kicks off her flats. Then in a well coordinated move slips off the long coat, ungainly in that the weather is warm, tossing to driver Gentry and reaching for the partially opened rear door. A smiling Gentry yields not, still denying entry. Marcia Clark, having spent two years completely naked in Guangdong Penitentiary, is again exposed to all.

“You have something to ask me?” Gentry’s voice low and sultry.

“Here?”

“In the back. I’ve never had a blow job on Fifth Avenue. Ask and I’ll join you in the back.”     

Marcia looks down, by rote her hands going to the back of her bald head, caution abandoned.

“May I suck your penis, Sir?”

She consoles herself. If there is trouble, detained for indecent exposure, wealthy husband David will post bail... eventually.

Gentry responds... waiting a moment... a long moment in Marcia’s racing mind... silently opening the limousine door in full then stepping behind as Marcia scrambles from view.

In entering Marcia knows to kneel on the floor. Gentry joins her, casting aside the wig, coat and shoes then seating himself.

“When your husband made arrangements for your escape and return, he told me you like big black cock. Asked me to accommodate. ‘Consider it a perquisite of employment’ he said,” Gentry laughing as he unzips. “And I told him... I’m married. I lose my wife, David, and you lose the best cook you’ve had. And that’s when I learned how a rich man like David becomes rich. ‘You’re covered’, he said. ‘I already spoke to Trudy. Seems you’ve not been taking full care of her, Gentry.’ And he’s right. Trudy enjoys... and deserves... good head... something I’m not given to do. And now she’s taken care of as well. Marcia, you’ve got busy lips,” pulling an enormous penis from the confines of his uniform slacks.

Marcia knows to lean forth, obediently engulfing, tongue swishing and swirling.

“Take your time, Marcia. It’s rush hour. May as well let the traffic pass. You decide... in your mouth... or down your throat. Makes no matter to me.”  

'Retribution' published

 I have published the referenced story on Lulu.

36,700 words, $4.32.

December 16 will be the last posted segment here on the blog.

Enjoy,

CB

Be sure to give yourself access to explicit content.

https://www.lulu.com/shop/chris-bellows/retribution/ebook/product-844kr2n.html?q=retribution&page=1&pageSize=4