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- Herausgeber: pinkflamingo
- Kategorie: Erotik
- Sprache: Englisch
A woman should supervise her simpering submissives and be served and tended to in order to satisfy her every wish and command, at least that is so in the world of Chris Bellows. Nurse Cummings works hard at the Institute, overseeing the production of sperm from fecund donors. It is the most productive facility in the country, the methods bizarre, harsh, yet amazingly effective. So should a woman of such authority clean her own house... cook her own meals? Of course not. Nurse Cummings acquires a servant and finds that her need to govern extends well beyond the walls of the Institute. As with all Chris Bellows novels, we warn the readers that this book is not for the timid, firsttimer to Female Domination. Mr. Bellows has the gift of description in his books; so much so, that you feel every snip, every slit and every, single ounce of pain the poor servant is put through.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty One
Chapter Thirty Two
Chapter Thirty Three
Chapter Thirty Four
Chapter Thirty Five
Chapter Thirty Six
Chapter Thirty Seven
Chapter Thirty Eight
Chapter Thirty Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty One
Chapter Forty Two
Chapter Forty Three
Chapter Forty Four
Chapter Forty Five
Chapter Forty Six
Chapter Forty Seven
Chapter Forty Eight
Chapter Forty Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty One
Chapter Fifty Two
Chapter Fifty Three
Chapter Fifty Four
Chapter Fifty Five
Chapter Fifty Six
Chapter Fifty Seven
Chapter Fifty Eight
Chapter Fifty Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty One
Chapter Sixty Two
Chapter Sixty Three
Chapter Sixty Four
Chapter Sixty Five
Chapter Sixty Six
Chapter Sixty Seven
Chapter Sixty Eight
A Woman’s Servant
by Chris Bellows
ISBN: 978-1-939916-85-3
A Pink Flamingo Ebook Publication
Copyright © 2014, All rights reserved
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopying recording or otherwise without prior written permission of the publishers.
For information contact:
Pink Flamingo Publications
www.pinkflamingo.com
P.O. Box 632 Richland, MI 49083
USA
Email Comments: [email protected]
Chapter One
My Introduction
“No covering for the castrates either?”
I endeavor to make the sound of my voice clinical... professional... in no manner expressing surprise or concern. I do have considerable experience in medical care. But it’s my first day at the Institute and as I tour with the head nurse I need information. I have learned that such is best obtained without hint of naïveté. With my question, Nurse Devon smiles warmly, suggesting that she finds comfort with the otherwise unusual quartet of naked neutered males.
Yes, as she nods I detect a certain smugness, ‘boys without balls’, as she earlier referenced the busy naked forms, foster neither shock nor sympathy.
“Nakedness ingrains a sense of great vulnerability,” Nurse Devon offers, rather pedantically, wriggling her finger in a gesture of ‘come hither’.
A naked form instantly responds to the casual motion and steps forth, perched on high heels, the sole covering for otherwise complete nakedness. Though I have subtly been examining as we stroll through the sizable ward, with the lad more formally introduced, my gaze is free to assess without politely feigning inhibition.
“This is Pattie. You’ll get to know their names over time. But meanwhile they’re all tattooed for identification.”
Free to now visually examine, I note the complete absence of body hair, pubes included. What a male normally exhibits between the thighs is almost imperceptible, one almost expecting to spy the slit of a young girl.
By rote, Pattie gracefully pirouettes a quarter turn, quite the feat considering the precarious height of the footwear. He palms a soft smooth right buttock, rolling the thick epidermis upwards for better display. The smooth and well rounded cheek is most effeminate and the name ‘Pattie’ is emblazoned in bright pink. He... she? proudly presents a permanent gaily colored moniker which would fluster the intact male.
I nod as Nurse Devon lowers her right hand, reaching forth palm upwards. Pattie knows to release her cheek, hands moving to the back of her head. She then steps forth and parts her feet, meekly presenting her pubes for a humiliating inspection, apparently to be ceded upon demand. Instead of shy resistance, there comes a coy smile, followed by a girlish giggle, suggesting the offered hand is welcomed, readily accepted as a curious form of greeting.
“Yes, with the vulnerability of constant nakedness comes obedience,” the lecture continuing as the index finger of the left hand reaches to Pattie’s head to playfully jostle a wisp of hair.
The hair style is simple... little girlish... parted in the middle, hanging straight down, cut at the jaw line with bangs evenly festooning the forehead. I note that more than Pattie’s right cheek has been tattooed. The eyes have been permanently touched up, ever so slight coloring at the corners to augment the aura of femininity brought by the simple coiffure.
As Nurse Devon diddles with the fingers of her right hand, I note the puffy nipples crinkle to points. Her touch is found to be sensuous, in any other medical environment a most taboo palpation of... of what? Pattie has been castrated! of male remnants?
“This is Nurse Cummings, Pattie. She’ll be supervising the afternoon shift.”
Balanced on high heels, Pattie awkwardly curtsies! Obedience indeed!
The duo peer into each other’s eyes in unspoken communication. Pattie is in awe, her look one of wonderment and admiration. Emotionally she yields. Nurse Devon’s more relaxed gaze is one of insouciance, one of power, her hand free to roam the entire nakedness. Of this Pattie is very much aware. Yes, she yields, not only physically capitulating but mentally as well.
“They all like having their empty scrotums caressed,” Nurse Devon explains, “especially by their castratrix. Something the psychologists try to construe, but really cannot fully explain. In neutering a boy, the intensity of the exchange of power cannot be adequately described. And ironically... it’s so quick and so easy. I offered to snip one of the shrinks to demonstrate the wondrous dynamics of gender modification. Strangely... he declined.”
Nurse Devon cackles with her own words, her offer obviously in jest.
“Your penis is trying to get hard for me, Pattie. We’ll need to increase your estrogen.”
The diddling fingers are withdrawn. Pattie instantly pouts like the little girl he appears to be.
“Turn and bend, show Nurse Cummings.”
Whereas the touch of his castratrix is indeed strangely welcomed, showing himself to an unknown fully clothed woman mentally challenges. Pattie turns with glumness, more than adequately communicating her reluctance. Then I am pleasantly surprised when the heels part to amazing width and with hands remaining at the back of the head, Pattie bends at the waist, back arching with a suppleness exceeding that of any male, lowering such that the bangs of her forehead nearly greet the floor.
I quickly understand the reluctance. When so displayed, Pattie’s modified, once male organs, are open to full visual inspection. A tiny penis tip points backwards, the most modest shaft appears sutured, I assume not only precluding a standing erection, but to force the ingénue to squat when peeing. To the right and left of the vestigial male organ are floppy puffs of sensitive pink flesh, obviously where Nurse Devon plundered... where she snipped.
“Pattie... and the others... like being handled here,” Nurse Devon now more brazenly diddling the flaps of former maleness.
I note Pattie presents herself in perfect stillness, obedience ingrained. I quickly conclude, when a controlling woman desires access, Pattie will cede, no matter the level of degradation.
There is no visible scar of his alteration, just folds of thin scrotal flesh loosely flopping right and left of the sutured penis shaft. I imagine both the quickness and the callousness by which Pattie was forcibly transformed. And, medically the procedure is so simple, only local anesthesia required. I smile in recalling that Roman slaves were neutered utilizing two bricks, the gonads crushed between, maleness ended quickly but with an incredible burst of pain.
Comforting to know society has advanced.
“Psychologically we want any pleasure to be slight and evanescent... faint reminders of being formerly virile. It abets their handling of the donors... bestows a form of penis envy, so to speak.”
Nurse Devon’s index finger ceases its expert caresses, knowing precisely how to indeed bring slight and evanescent joy to the altered genitals.
“Go. It’s bath time,” a flustered but somewhat gleeful Pattie instantly righting herself after receiving a playful smack to a girlish right cheek.
As Pattie prances away, I note some sullenness with the rejection. Embarrassed, humiliated with my presence and being made to exhibit all things private, yet there is a degree of masochistic acceptance. I watch as the pretty cheeks roll, the high heels of the castrate forcing a most sultry gait.
“Could they really otherwise achieve erection?” I tried to cloak the incredulous nature of my question.
Nurse Devon snickers.
“Pattie’s little clitoris can swell, but full erection can never again be achieved. In fact, if the swelling continues she’ll bring herself pain as my sutures deny tumescence. After the orchiectomies, I suture the shaft of the penis to the perineum forcing our boys to squat to pee. It further drives home the alteration. But yes, there can be a modicum of swelling. There remains sensitivity after neutering, both the empty sac as you witnessed and the penis tip craving attention. It’s what makes castration so divinely frustrating. Lots of sensation, no climactic relief. That’s why we use them to harvest sperm. Vicariously, they sense the expungement of semen that they can no longer achieve. Thus they become relentless with the donors, conspiring with us to deny them pleasure as well. You’ll be quite amused, Nurse Cummings.”
With the enlightening introduction to the castrates, focus turns to the Institute’s main function, the procurement and sale of sperm.
It is indeed cleansing time and Nurse Devon wordlessly permits me to monitor the naked castrates... her boys without balls... as they work the ward. Some dozen intact male forms lie prostrate, not only equally naked but absolutely glabrous as well, cranium devoid of hair. Strapped to special Gurneys, I note the lower surfaces split at the waist. Each donor rests legs parted, penis exposed, testicles dangling in a trough of warm solution on a small table beneath. Within the split, there may stand a tending castrate, and sure enough I observe as Pattie is so positioned. She releases the thigh strap of one donor and gently washes, laving with a soft soapy cloth, the tenderness of mother to infant.
Bathing the donors requires much time and patience I conclude. There are straps for the ankles, calves, thighs, waist, biceps and wrists. Each must be temporarily released for bathing. There is a thick neck collar to thoroughly immobilize the head. But most bizarre, only before seen by me in orthopedic critical care wards, there are frames of steel rods encumbering the hands and feet, rendering each and every finger and toe immobile as well.
The donors cannot move!
“They breathe. They swallow. They secrete,” Nurse Devon observes. “All other motion is denied. All energy is to be expended in the production of sperm. Here at the Institute, our donors yield more than at any other facility.”
Nurse Devon gushes with pride, a vane farmer who has consistently produced the most prodigious crop.
“I trust, Nurse Cummings, that you are as experienced with the hypodermic needle as your resume suggests. It’s not only estrogen to be infused into those cute buttocks. Botox injections are de rigueur. We can’t have the donors ejaculating now, can we?”
I nod, having read the briefing papers. Years of experimentation have shown the effluent of the male reproductive system is not maximized in climactic release, but instead is best slowly harvested... ‘milked’ as Nurse Devon crassly suggests. And further study suggests that the most knowledgeable ‘milker’ is a male... or former male as here at the Institute. They know the proper erogenous areas, indeed vicariously feel the pleasure, and psychologically come to zealously maximize production. Plus there is an incentive system, instituted ad hoc by Nurse Devon.
Among the castrates, the top producer obtains fellatio from the one with the least results. Performed before the entire nursing staff, the male on male oral sodomy can be joyously humiliating. And thus indeed offers great incentive.
Pattie’s donor becomes tumescent, a penis of great length and girth slowly swelling. Interesting that even the normally homophobic male would so react, the offered care quite sensuous. And I suppose any interruption of the constant restraint is welcomed, joy expressed with just about the only motion permitted. Nurse Devon notes my gaze.
“Yes, they bond. Donor and castrated caregiver learn to please each other... the donor obtaining food and cleansing in the only manner possible... the castrate obtaining the juices she can no longer excrete. We nurses never touch the donors, as you’re aware, other than to inject the ejaculatory muscles with Botox. All sensory input comes from she who will harvest... milk the donor of what we relish and sell. Fascinating how the naked presence of a former male can become so sexually provocative, don’t you think, Nurse Cummings? Within weeks of indoctrination, the donor responds to his caregiver like a lonely puppy – so eager to oblige, so eager to be milked.”
I listen but turn not my head. The sense of feminine power is exhilarating in realizing the virile but helpless male hardens... ultimately under the strict supervision of a woman.
“Look at the erection on that one. You’d never guess he’s drained twice daily, would you?”
Yes, it is quite impressive, if indeed sperm so freely and regularly flows.
“I have some calls to make. Stay and observe. After cleansing, you’ll supervise the afternoon milkings. Learn all you can. Bare bottom spankings are the preferred form of discipline here. If needed, apply such slowly, firmly and with utmost humiliation... otherwise they come to enjoy...”
Chapter Two
Protocol
Nurse Devon departs. I am heartened that my professional deportment can now be stowed. Though my proclivities have been well vented during the interview process... obviously no vanilla types to be employed at the Institute... there is shyness which I suppose any new hire displays. But now it is just me and my underlings... four castrated caregivers... a dozen well restrained naked helpless donors.
Pattie completes the cleansing of her first donor, pats every inch of flesh dry with noted teasing tenderness then carefully plugs the ears and slips a thick dark hood over the hairless head. Lastly, after Pattie offers a sultry kiss to the lips, the donor is cruelly gagged, a firm rubber bar slipped between the lips and secured at the back of the hood.
Sensory deprivation – all sight, sound and touch comes at the behest of the caregiver. Though I have read of this in the Institute manuals, the severity is driven home. Yes, cleaning time is to be welcomed, the feel of those soft hands... weakened by way of Nurse Devon’s scalpel and female hormones... quite the thrill.
Next a bowl of special solution is prepared and Pattie takes the time to place such on the small table between the thighs, assuring the massive scrotum of the donor is well immersed.
“What temperature?” I inquire.
“They’re all different, as you may have read, Ma’am. Teddy Bear produces best at 95 degrees.”
I smile with the childish sobriquet bestowed on such a well endowed beast and find the information is not surprising. The testicles reside outside the body in order to be cooled for better sperm production, normal body temperature of 98.6 degrees too warm for ideal production. As Pattie has learned, every set of balls is a little different for some reason. I suppose after many weeks of experimentation and measurement, ‘Teddy Bear’s’ output, in varying the temperature, has been optimized at 95 degrees. In being constantly immersed in the special solution, Teddy Bear will ooze sperm like the runny nose of a flu victim.
The cleansing process has required some thirty minutes, with the other naked castrated caregivers working almost in unison with three other donors. Pattie then steps to the next Gurney where a similar gag is released, another sultry wet kiss on the lips is offered, and this donor is relieved of what must seem like endless sensory deprivation for his cleansing.
“Sugar Plum has not moved in ages. One of our most senior donors... though he still produces well.” Pattie seems obligated to explain.
Yes, I imagine after many, many months of strict immobility, the mental desire to move depletes. And indeed ‘Sugar Plum’ barely blinks an eye.
Still the care seems welcomed, the prostrate form revealing its glee as Pattie slips away the bowl of special solution and the penis begins to swell. I move most proximate, stand to the front, arms akimbo in an imposing and authoritative pose, introducing myself as the new supreme leader of the ward... at least during the afternoon shift.
Sugar Plum blushes, such divine reaction to the presence of a governing female.
For me... this brings more exhilaration. I veil the tantalization of my proclivity by picking up ‘Sugar Plum’s’ chart.
“You produce well, 629,” the use of the Institute’s donor number deemed more professional than ‘Sugar Plum’. “Do you enjoy being handled by another male?”
My question brings more evident consternation. I do believe 629 tries to squirm. But after all the months held in amazingly severe restraint, he knows it is futile. I obviously bring frustration... my fully clothed presence... his nakedness... perhaps my taunting question.
Yes, the homophobia can be delightfully tormenting. Is it indeed a naked male which so sensually palpates every inch of his flesh? Or is Pattie thought of as female as, by morning’s end, the feminized castrate will slowly deplete his reproductive organs of every drop of ‘precious’ seed. And do so without any possibility of ejaculatory relief.
Since my initial interview at the Institute, I often have wondered about the psychological reaction to the milkings... akin to being bled I imagine.
“You’re going to need a Botox injection soon,” I further taunt, noting the date of the previous dose. “Can’t have you exploding in ecstasy, can we?” laughing demonically.
Just the slightest dose to those tiny male muscles injected at the perineum, for six months, 629 will experience every normal form of priapism. The glands will react to stimulus, the erectile chambers flooding, the sperm ducts overflowing, there will come overwhelming need to expunge himself of semen with all organs primed and ready to go... except no explosion... the ejaculatory muscles rendered useless by less than a tear drop of the noted acetylcholinesterase inhibitor.
629 will instead drool... and drool... and drool. Male nirvana denied. Sperm production maximized, Pattie dutifully coaxing every drop into a specimen vessel.
“Did you want to say something? You may speak,” knowing that the donors remain silent unless prompted to respond.
“Please no more, Ma’am. I will perform for you without the injection. I need... I need...”
“Yes, you need to be jerked off,” with a smirk truncating what few words I permit. “Stroked and brought to ejaculation like every other horny guy. Well that’s not going to happen. Not under my tutelage. I’m in charge. I will decide when you will next have the pleasure of climax. And in the meanwhile... you will indeed perform for me.”
I reach forth and tap the nose of 629, then press a finger to his lips, signaling a return to silence, the privilege of speech withdrawn. Pattie smiles, working diligently to cleanse, expressing subtle approval with my draconian proclamation.
Yes the castrated male takes such delight in controlling that which has been denied him. And for women of my ilk, the interaction is sublime.
Chapter Three
Hands and Feet
It is with impressive diligence that the donors are refused the slightest motion. I suppose if possible, the ability to blink an eye would be denied.
As I stand before 629, I inspect the hands. Such are enveloped in what can only be described as a cage of steel wires, about the gauge of clothing hangers. Attached are a myriad of clamps, tightly squeezing the digits at the tips and between the knuckles. Designed for those with extensive hand injuries, every finger, thumb included, suffers immobility to an astonishingly restrictive level.
It is psychologically important, I know in having read the Institute’s protocol manual. With nothing under the command of the donor, the wriggling of toes and fingers included, over time the mind accepts and the body transforms. Yes, there is nothing upon which to expend energy other than the production of urine, excrement and precious male seed.
I am reminded of livestock, cattle fattened for slaughter, cows well tethered for milking, cooped chickens with no other function than to lay eggs. Yes, in time as the mentality cedes so does the physical.
Indeed, they want to produce... for us... for the castrated caregivers. It becomes the only manner in which they can please, though thoughts of someday ejaculating never really expire in the male psyche... those that have been castrated included.
And so as 629... ‘Sugar Plum’... is bathed, the limbs become putty in the soft hands of Pattie. 629 has long capitulated, exchanging sperm for food, water and the only delight to be had... doted upon by a castrated male.
“You have a nice sized penis, 629. When did you last stroke it... jerk off?” again tapping his nose in demonstrating my authority and his helplessness.
“I do not know, Ma’am, but I will gladly jerk off for you.”
Ah, the male psyche. So delusional when sexual performance is discussed.
“You’re not to move... not ever here at the Institute. You know that. You’re to be forever denied. And besides what would happen, given a freed hand. You’re well aware by now of the effectiveness of the Botox. You’ll get nice and hard for me but never ever spurt.”
“I will try for you, Ma’am...”
I smile with sangfroid, knowing that in imbuing such thoughts my words so much heighten the frustration of the kept male.
Pattie finishes the sensuous sponge bath, having released, tenderly washed and returned each limb to ineluctable restraint.
“He likes licking me, if you will give permission,” Pattie politely beseeches.
Being my first interlude of governance, I know not the proper response.
“Just for a moment,” I cautiously grant, reminding myself to seek Nurse Devon’s counsel.
I am pleased with my concurrence. What more diabolically charming scene can be offered to a woman of my ilk? Pattie moves to the head of the Gurney, turns, bends, and parts her cheeks, offering her altered tidbits, the sutured penis, the fleshy folds of former maleness, to the mouth and lips of the prostrate 629. He licks with care and I realize over the years there has formed another bond... akin to that of castrated and castratrix.
Yes, Pattie is rewarded for her loving care, being orally teased by the well bound, well cared for producers of sperm.
And I am in charge, my loins warming with the quaint male upon male interaction. Such power!
“Do her anus as well, 629,” I command, sensing the heady rush of my complete authority. There comes a grimace of distaste. But my castrated servant receives a just reward.
“Enough. Hood him.”
A chagrined 629 is returned to sensory deprivation, the silencing gag slipped between the lips. Letting him move his tongue has been quite the treat.
Chapter Four
Welcomed Advice
Over lunch, a sandwich with Nurse Devon, there come brief reminders before my formal duty shift beings.
“Though they are boys without balls, there may remain untoward male behavior to be discouraged, Nurse Cummings. On occasion, apply outright punishment if necessary. For example, they are not to touch themselves... just as intact males are to want to play there can remain some strange urge... like the amputee who needs to scratch a missing limb. Yes, despite being snipped, they’ll attempt to toy from time to time. If it happens, first there should come a reminder that only play with the penis of the donors is permitted... or if you deem it appropriate the penis of another castrate. We obviously encourage homoerotic passion here. It’s delightfully humiliating for them... and quite entertaining for us.
“If your warning is ignored, or you feel the transgression is severe enough, spanking is the preferred punishment for such an offense. A hand spanking, we deem it a ‘fanny spanking’ to foster the ‘little girl’ aura we cultivate, should be offered, in full view of the other caregivers, over your lap. And do not spare the frottaging... I like to hike up my uniform and have their little penis and fleshy scrotal remains rub and rub the tops of my bare thighs. You’d be amazed what the combination of faint pleasure and pain does for the once male psyche. The frustration is divine. They’ll want more... they’ll want less. And with enough fanny spankings there will come a bond. Not as strong as with me, the woman who ended their virility... but a respectful bond all the same.”
I nod, repressing a wicked smile. I am in my element.
“Sperm collection should be carefully measured and recorded. As you know we monitor very closely, adjusting the diet and testicle temperature for those with waning production. And of course, there will come the monthly tally, at which time the champion caregiver will receive just desserts...and those lagging caregivers offered appropriate incentive to improve.”
Nurse Devon neglects to more fully detail the events of the monthly tally. But I remain listening, knowing full well I shall learn in time.
“The afternoon shift ends with feeding. The caregivers feed the donors then feed each other. Also as you are aware, they are to assist each other with toilet needs. A caregiver is never to hold his/her own penis... never to wipe himself/herself. We promote intimacy here... much male on male intimacy if such is the proper term for interaction amongst castrates,” added with a whimsical chuckle.
I note the look of Schadenfreude. Nurse Devon, appearing to approach age fifty, is stern and matronly... and so much enjoys her dominion. A dozen helpless donors, bound in such thorough restraints, a quartet of former males, trimmed at her whim... with the dispassion of a veterinarian... it all amuses.
