About Eve E-Book

Chris Bellows

• Herausgeber: pinkflamingo
• Kategorie: Erotik
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2003

Beschreibung

Ever wonder what became of the bossy, precocious little girl from your neighborhood? The cute one who ordered the boys around, made trouble and, being the favorite of all the adults, always got away with it.
Chris Bellows tells the story of one girl named Eve, whose early experiences with boys, which included feminizing her younger brother and later having his privates belted in steel, formed the basis for a lifetime of domination. Yes, the subtle dominance practiced in Eve’s youth imbued her with the desire, aptitude and ability to later manage the world’s most exclusive resort, where wealthy dominant women frolic with carefully selected submissives and their licentious pursuits are only limited by the imagination.

Leseprobe

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

About Eve

by Chris Bellows

ISBN 13: 978-1-935897-56-9

A Pink Flamingo Ebook Publication

Copyright 2003, All rights reserved

For information contact:

Pink Flamingo Publications

P.O. Box 632  Richland, MI 49083

USA

Cover Image © Tony Ryan www.beauty-reality.com

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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.

Cover Image © Tony Ryan www.beauty-reality.com

Author’s Note:

Many readers of ‘A Gift From James’ have inquired about the derivation of the character named ‘Eve’. No matter the age or gender of the reader, my reply is always the same.

            “You know Eve,” I suggest. “She is that sassy little girl from your childhood. The one whose courteous smile and feigned innocence bestowed her with a level of parental discretion you were never permitted, whose lively eyes and vivacity endeared her to every adult while she cunningly schemed and plotted against her unsuspecting cohorts and engaged with impunity in the most secretive of escapades. Her stature among grown ups was that of ‘child queen’, nauseating her peers, but imbuing her with alarming power.

            “She’s the pretty one upon whose remembrance you always ponder, ‘I wonder what ever happened to…?’ And contemplatively, with a perverse degree of self satisfaction, you answer yourself, ‘she has most likely become a powerful political ruler..., or an expensive whore’.”

            Despite my associative reply, the emails still arrive. So this book is...  About Eve

Chapter One

            A push of a button and in response the door to my office quietly opens. A tall, mostly nude male servant enters with a pot of coffee. The morning is young and he knows what I need. I smile with licentious smugness. He may interpret my look as being polite gratitude, but actually it is his brief attire, which causes my reaction. A wide and stiff leather collar partially immobilizes his head, restricting his gaze to straight-ahead at me. A leather chest harness serves to hold his shoulders back and thrust forward his pierced nipples where a pair of baubles dangle from two inch rings. A specially designed crotch piece restrains his well shaven scrotum and projects his mammoth plums forward, causing them to bounce off his thighs with each step. His penis, long and flaccid, but beginning to engorge, is pierced by a standard Prince Albert ring and secured upwards to a narrow belt around his waist. I know that the unseen part of his crotch piece, holding in place a sizable butt plug, provides my server with quite the stimulating prostatic thrill with each step he takes.

            I cannot help but admire my work. The Spa’s uniform for male servants is my design, highlighting to the observer the sensitive parts and transmitting with each of the servant’s movements reminders of his own subservience. And it is functional, inhibiting fellatio and intercourse with the female servants, unless the waist belt is unlocked and such antics are supervised.

            How to address this servant slips my mind. There are so many, and they come and go with their one-year tours. Although one would think that his lengthy penis would impress me enough to recall his name, all the males at the Spa are selected for their size. This phallus is nicely shaped, but is otherwise unremarkable compared to the dozens of sizable organs displayed by the servants of the Spa.

            While he pours, my right hand reaches out and caresses the soft hairless scrotal flesh. The loose supporting strap below, pushing the testicles outward, allows for examination and play. His penis stirs and I cannot help smiling again. The shiny engraved disk hanging from his right nipple indicates that his name is Matthew. Inscribed beneath that is the number ‘9’ indicating the shaft, which is humbly beginning to salute me, can rise to nine inches. A similar disk on his left nipple tells me he is masturbated on Thursdays. So tomorrow, unless of course a guest intervenes, a member of the professional staff will bring him to climax in a most humiliating manner, probably before a gathering of guests in the reception area. And as flushed and embarrassed as Matthew will be, he will thank her. What a wonderful place of employment!

            I sugar my coffee and just let Matthew wait to be excused. Sure enough, he indeed begins to stand, the lengthy shaft slowly thickening and changing color. Serving and being exposed to a fully clothed Dominant woman has that effect on the naked submissive male and I cannot help but enjoy the moment.

            I sit back, slowly stir my coffee and watch.

            After a few moments the pleasure of viewing reluctantly concedes to the drudgery of the day’s work. I diddle the underside of the hardened shaft, watch it twitch, then excuse him.

            “Good boy.”

            Matthew bows courteously and silently retreats.

            Coffee in hand I swivel in my deep, comfortable office chair and gaze out the window to gather my thoughts and take in the natural beauty of the snow covered terrain.

            The Spa is North America’s most exclusive resort. Located in the Canadian Rockies, in the winter it is noted for the skiing. The summer season offers swimming, hiking, tennis and equestrian activities.

            The Spa’s exclusivity is punctuated by its limited accessibility. There are no roads for automobiles. The only practical means of transportation are by private railway train which departs daily from Calgary, some hundred miles to the Southeast, runs through scenic yet desolate Canadian forests and enters the Spa property through a subterranean opening carved through a mountain of granite. One supposes that a hiker could conceivably stumble onto the Spa, but certainly not during the winter when the snow drifts to the level of the treetops. And in more moderate seasons, the imagined trek would have to commence at a logging road some twenty miles away and circumnavigate aggressive bears and impassable mountains. 

            Originally dug by the railroad to access a lush valley of timber, the rail tunnel is the only entrance to the bowl shaped terrain occupied by the Spa. Formidable ridges and peaks surround the facility and the main building sits at the bottom of the bowl on a lake which in Spring and Summer collects the rain and melting snow from the surrounding slopes. Due to the limestone beneath, the lake slowly drains into numerous underground caverns formed by thousands of years of erosion. Not fully explored, it is believed the collection of tunnels siphon water to the west to join the headwaters of the Columbia River. 

            The harvesting of timber ended at the turn of the century, but it provided for dozens of trails. In the hurly-burly economy of the 1920’s, a wealthy entrepreneur purchased the entire valley and built a large lodge as a ski resort, then promptly went broke.

            After years of disuse a secretive wealthy woman, said to be the entrepreneur’s granddaughter, refurbished the facility adding several distinctive features. Now in her seventies, I met her during my initial interview for employment at the Spa. Since taking over as Manager, my only contact has been to transfer to her account the huge profits of the world’s most libidinous resort.

            The skiing is better than average, with the curious attraction that no matter which trail is chosen, it ends at the lodge, situated at the lowest point in the valley. This provides an appreciably distinct advantage for the wealthy indolent enthusiast...no long trudge for a hot toddy at day’s end.

            But it is not the skiing that brings so many women to the most private and secluded resort in the Western Hemisphere. It is the service.

            The facility’s service staff is comprised of the most obeisant males and females found. There is no sexual whim or request that goes unfulfilled at the spa, which, as one can imagine in a hidden and secluded valley, can become quite sordid and quite deviant in nature.

            When a service employee signs his or her one-year contract, their clothing is surrendered for the spa’s brief, revealing uniform. Thus, any decision to prematurely terminate service and depart involves a long walk in deep snow over impassable mountains...and without benefit of covering, not to mention the forfeit of compensation. Yes, all salary at the Spa is deferred until the end of the period of contract. And then, the quantity of the wired funds is generous. Not only is the base pay considerable, but wealthy women with unusual proclivities can be quite magnanimous. Thus, an employee with a high tolerance for pain, or an equally unusual penchant for deviant activities, can accumulate quite a level of gratuity income, not to mention the possibility of an offer of permanent employment with a Dominant woman.

            And so defections are rare at the Spa and none have occurred during my tenure. I have found the staff to be eager to serve and very appreciative of the demands of the Dominant female guests and the challenges they provide.       

            The submissive who comes to the Spa, confronts his or her propensity for servitude and learns to psychologically accept it, and usually moves on to a permanent arrangement with a satisfied guest. Those who do not learn to fully accept their status provide not only an interesting source of continuous staffing but also a source of wonderment.

            I term it submissive recidivism. He or she originally interviews with us convinced that their submissive tendencies are not real or somehow just fleeting. They serve their year, telling themselves that the daily groveling and constant degradation is tolerated only for the money. They prop up their esteem with visions of normality, of enjoying vanilla sex. They fantasize about how their vast earnings, easily amounting to the low six figures, will be spent...most commonly by rebuilding their pride after their tour. The hosting of huge welcome back parties in their hometowns is prevalent. I have also known the latent submissive to pay for long, expensive vacations with sycophantic and parasitic members of the opposite sex in order to engage in normal sexual relations.

            Such is futile.

            For reality eventually manifests itself. Two months. Three. Maybe after six, they begin to pine for the sting of the whip, the mental conflict of ceding control yet finding comfort in firm restraints. The pleasure of giving pleasure, the need to be of service, the strange psychological gratification of being denied physical gratification so a Dominant woman can best achieve hers. The peculiar inner glow fueled by the abject humiliation of serving naked, with their most intimate anatomical parts prominently displayed.          

            And, they apply to the Spa again. Yes, many, if not most, of our Spa servants have experienced more than one tour. And when they volunteer to be branded, finally accepting complete subjugation, the image of the permanently marked flesh makes my own skin tingle with the thought of the finality of their submission to submission. I have always enjoyed the sensation that comes with the contemplation of control and submission, for it is followed by a very familiar twinge and welcomed wetness between my thighs.

            I recall the first time it happened as a little girl...

Mother had just finished bathing my little brother. The telephone rang. She was expecting a long distance call from Grandma and rushed toward the kitchen to answer.

            “Eve, finish dressing Bobby.”

            Mother had permitted me to watch the process on many previous occasions. For a girl of some ten years, the sight of the little penis and puff of skin beneath serves to answer youthful questions concerning the difference in the sexes. So I suppose Mother intentionally let me observe, thus obviating the need to explain the curious difference which children wish to understand but instead consistently encounter a covering of clothing and a conspiracy of silence among adults.

            On this particular occasion, having me nearby saved her time.

            “His clothes are on the chair,” she hollered over her shoulder, as her feet thumped down the stairs.

            Yes. They were. But I could not help momentarily reveling in my appointed power, however brief.

            Bobby, age six if my recollections are accurate, was mine.

            Mother had dried him and there he stood without a stitch. Most times his exposure was brief and, with Mother working diligently in a continuous process of washing, toweling and adorning him with garments, my previous glimpses of his nudity were thus limited. And Mother’s actions were so quick that normally I don’t think Bobby ever thought about his older sister peering at him over a matronly shoulder.

            Now, my presence was obvious and I remember silently laughing when both hands slowly moved to his genitals in an amusing gesture of modesty. 

            My mind was devious, even then.

            “No Bobby. You need to be powdered.”

            Mother had not done that since he was potty-trained years before, but I wanted to gain proximity and access. Stepping into the bathroom I grabbed the powder and returned. When I had Bobby lay back on the bed and spread his thighs, that’s when I experienced the first twinge. Years later, in similar situations where a male was under my control, the arrival of puberty brought on the wetness.

            Mother’s voice in the kitchen was perceptible and the stages of her telephone conversation guided me in my interaction with Bobby. Yes, he would be dressed eventually, but not before I could fully avail myself of the time allotted, which was the length of the phone call.

            So Bobby was thoroughly powdered. Despite some initial protests, he began to enjoy my touch and was quick to obey when I instructed him to roll over and again spread his legs. I wanted to view the small pink scrotum peeking back between his boyish buttocks.

            It was a very good learning experience, for both of us. But what came next I later realized forever changed both our lives.

            Mother had laid out his clothing. And for whatever reason, I concluded it was not appropriate. I ran to my room and got a pair of my frilly, pink satin panties that Mother had purchased during one of our ‘girls only’ shopping trips. Under the guise of assisting him, I slipped the openings over his feet and slid the smooth garments up his legs.

            Yes, Bobby began to protest, and I shushed him, making some sisterly threat, which the helpless six year old took very seriously.

            But I could tell that despite his ostensible reluctance, he enjoyed being touched by his sister’s small feminine hands and I detected a slight smile when the cool, smooth fabric so gently caressed his privates.

            He spent the day in my undergarments never commenting to Mother or suggesting a need to change, thus indicating some degree of secretive enjoyment. And Mother wondered throughout the day why I broke into numerous smiles, for every time I looked at Bobby and thought about him wearing girls underwear at my behest, the twinge between my thighs returned.

Chapter Two

            My reverie ends with the last gulp of coffee. The day’s paper work needs my attention and I have found that it is best to complete it in the morning. The train from Calgary arrives in the early afternoon and as Manager, I have found that the arriving guests like being greeted by the person in charge.

            I also bid adieu to the departing guests, which the train will return to Calgary.

            Going over invoices I often find it fortunate to be located so close to cattle country. The incoming stream of required leather supplies is endless. Whips, cuffs, harnesses, are constantly ordered and I often wonder if it would be a suitable investment for the Spa to purchase its own herd of cattle.

            Medical supply bills can also be material. The Spa has a full time nursing staff with a doctor visiting once per week, arriving on the Tuesday train and leaving on Wednesday. Some of our guests can become quite exuberant with a whip or other instrument of correction and abrasions need attention no matter how minor. Then there is the process of piercing the newly hired servants. And of course all the members of the serving staff are checked biweekly. One week for the males, the following week for the females.

            Performed in a windowed room, the examinations can be quite amusing for the guests. There is no level of humiliation comparable to being observed by onlookers as the doctor works between well spread thighs, particularly if the patient is young and unaccustomed to gynecological and rectal exams.

            And biweekly prostate exams are also mandatory. The doctor is very thorough with some guests wagering on the largest erection resulting from her aggressive digital intrusion.

            Food is handled by the catering staff. I just sign the checks and, of course, such are well piled up since our guests eat royally and no expense is spared in satiating their appetites, for sustenance and otherwise. 

            Moving to a quick review of the prior month’s financial statements, such reveals that the Spa is once again incredibly profitable. The fifty guestrooms were 95% filled, the vacancy rate resulting from rooms remaining unoccupied is due to guests failing to make the train connection from Calgary.

            Since a majority of the Spa’s guests own jet aircraft, the owner had discussed installing a private airstrip to mitigate the possibility of late arrival. But this idea encountered numerous problems. The first being that the peaks surrounding the valley were too steep for safe landing approaches and a noisy strip would ruin the ambiance of seclusion. The second being that the territory outside the valley is mostly owned by the Canadian government, thus making the prospect of acquiring suitable land there a formidable obstacle. And lastly, applying for the needed permits to operate a small airport would serve to draw attention to the Spa. This would not do.

            With all the hurdles outlined, an informal survey of regular guests revealed that, although somewhat unwieldy, the three-hour train ride from Calgary was deemed to be a most relaxing beginning to exhausting days and nights of sexual debauchery. And most were adamant that the return trip was even more restful, sleep being deemed somewhat mandatory after endless sordid escapades.  

            And so the train remains the only means of arrival and departure, making the Spa a most exclusive destination but also saddling it with an unwarranted vacancy rate. Unwarranted since the waiting list for a reservation is at times over one year, with a week’s stay at the Spa being deemed a very appropriate birthday gift for a woman with a penchant for the whip.

            With the paperwork done, I am free to make my rounds. The attributes that make the Spa attractive to the wealthy, Dominant woman also burden me and the professional staff with the responsibility of impeccably maintaining the facility. Fortunately, there is adequate help. Every member of the serving staff has a daily chore. No matter their anguished individual circumstances in perhaps spending a long night in bondage or at the receiving end of a thin strand of leather, every day between the hours 8:00 a.m. and 9:30 a.m. every inch of the lodge is vacuumed, dusted, scrubbed or washed as deemed appropriate. When I first arrived at the Spa, it was most fascinating to watch the dozens and dozens of naked servants working diligently to clean their assigned section of hallway or common area. The results are more than satisfactory and my practiced eye has learned to quickly ascertain who is applying themselves to the mandated task and who is going through the motions in order to hasten their rest.

            Yes, mornings are when the serving staff is permitted a few hours of sleep, most having spent wakeful nights servicing a guest. After the cleaning hour, the servants shuffle to the dormitory area where a few hours of supervised rest are permitted.

            In order to ensure that high standards are maintained, each day the efforts of one servant I deem to be inadequate. He or she subsequently finds their rest period to be anything but restful.

            My watch indicates it is almost 10:00. Having signed my last check, I arise and retrieve my discipline stick from the rarely used coat rack.

            It’s unfair. It’s mendacious. But I already know whose tidiness will be deemed inadequate. It will be that of a newly arrived female from Southern California. A ‘valley girl’ who ostensibly came to us just for the money, during her interview I saw in her eyes more than just the quest for financial freedom.

            Yes, Muffin or Binky, whatever the little strumpet gave as her name, blushed wonderfully when she was stripped for committee inspection. And her twenty-one year old thighs and buttocks begged for attention, which I can assure the reader they shall receive.         

            The duty roster hangs on the bulletin board outside my office. My eyes scan the list and find that it is the girl calling herself Nickie that I want. Over the years, the names mean so little. But after this morning she will be more memorable.

            She has been assigned to clean the second floor hallway. Perceived to be an easy vacuuming task, the newly arrived always neglect to dust. Upon climbing the stairs I turn and stroll to the decorative table and chairs occupying a nook in the hallway. Sure enough, there lies a thin gray layer of unsightly powder. I cannot help but to smile and my devious mind begins to ruminate on what infraction I can find for Nickie tomorrow morning.  

            I pick up the house phone and dial the Dormitory.

            “Latricia, has the new girl Nickie been strapped in yet.”

            The dormitory supervisor, a seasoned member of the professional staff, indicates that she is being showered. Another smile arises with the thought of the little California blond undergoing the indignity of being scrubbed and washed before the male servants.

            “Send her to the reception area, Latricia, she’s done a sloppy cleaning job and is going to have her first pony ride.”

            I feel the familiar twinge between my thighs. The sensation of power brings it on and I have learned to welcome and enjoy it.

            With a second call, the discipline staff is told to retrieve Nickie from the Dorm.

            “Two hours on the pony, Mona. Allow her liberal rest periods as required for a new girl, but tack on the time.”

            I hang up and resume inspecting. There is room in the reception area to display a male offender also, but I prefer to spread out the punishments, therefore my demanding eye overlooks some minor infractions as I roam about the building, casually swinging the discipline stick like a cop on patrol. Those doing borderline work will be chastised on another day. Perhaps tomorrow morning a male servant will find himself spending time on his toes and fingertips, as a soft but tight cloth, carefully wrapped about his scrotum pulls his precious testicles toward the ceiling of the reception area.

            Some guests have arisen for morning skiing and they receive my professional smile and polite greetings. Most times no one would guess that they have spent the night flogging one of the serving staff or being brought to multiple orgasms by the assiduous oral efforts of one our experienced cunnilinguists. The typical guest has learned to live a life of subterfuge, creating complex facades for the benefit of the vanilla world of business, employment and social exchange. Thus, it is not surprising that it takes a few days at the Spa for their thin walls of normality to crumble. Over time every guest learns to enjoy publicly humiliating the Spa’s subservient staff. Rarely does a dinner hour pass where the CEO of a major corporation or the likes of a very influential Hollywood film producer finds her hands firmly tugging the well exposed scrotal sac of a dining room waiter, or gently coaxing a well endowed servant to fully stand for the benefit of the other dining guests, or deeply exploring the hairless, wet and pink genitalia of a strumpet such as Nickie.                   

            The Spa is where the Dominant women of the world can engage in and display their proclivities with impunity. No cameras are permitted and if a guest so chooses, she will be addressed utilizing a nom de guerre for her entire visit.

            And so I am careful greeting the guests. Some are well known, having their photos splashed over the covers of society magazines or business journals. But at the Spa, referring to a beautiful and prestigious actress by her pseudonym, such as ‘Madame Cravache’, not only serves to add an element of mystique but places the guest in the proper frame of mind for her stay.

            My inspection brings me to the reception area. In many respects it appears to be that of an ordinary hotel with members of the professional staff manning the check-in desk and the concierge arranging for certain guests what we term ‘matinee visits’ from the serving staff. After a morning of skiing or exercise, many enjoy a four handed, two tongued massage, and it’s easily arranged at the Spa. 

            Then Mona arrives with a naked and cuffed Nickie in tow. Her dour demeanor and the nasty quirt hanging at the ready from her waist belt evidence her role in meting out discipline at the Spa. And a tearful Nickie, so wonderfully cute and innocent with her recently cropped blond hair and lively blue eyes, appears marvelously frightened. With her wrists secured behind her, her breasts thrust out and invite attention.

            She arrived on Sunday and watching her display her nakedness in public for the first time was delicious. I watched through the large windows of the examination room as the Spa’s nurses soaped her body and gave her a good taste of the humiliation which she would face daily. And when they shaved her, one would have thought she was being executed.

            Yes, Nickie not only has a look of young innocence but also possesses buttocks with the rounded perkiness that begs for the attention of the flagellatrix. And after her pudendum was completely exposed, I was pleasantly surprised to see her inner labia peeking out nicely between plump outer lips. So much viewing pleasure for our guests.

            Well, it’s the wooden pony for Nickie. And I can comfortably say that, although there will be no dust found tomorrow on the second floor hallway, there will be many more opportunities for Nickie to ride and expose her most intimate parts, and I will make sure she avails herself regularly.

            I stand and watch Mona begin the punishment.

            A simple device, described by many as a Chinese torture, the wooden pony is actually a simple wooden plank, which hangs from the ceiling of the reception area by two ropes. One rope supports the plank at the end, the other in the middle. One edge of the plank points toward the ceiling, the other, of course, to the floor. The height of the plank is adjusted by lengthening or shortening the rope fastened in the middle. The free end of the plank is reserved for the likes of Nickie or another recalcitrant servant girl.

            Mona has Nickie straddle the plank then stand on toes on small wooden blocks. The middle rope is adjusted to raise the edge until it meets Nickie’s pubes. Experienced fingers then carefully drape those wonderfully exposed pink lips down each side of the plank. Mona steps back to survey her work and satisfied that Nickie is properly placed slowly slides the blocks from under her toes. The resulting pressure and irritation on the genitalia is incredibly painful. Known as ‘riding the wooden pony’, no girl ever withstands it for more than 30 minutes and Mona will carefully supervise to ensure that Nickie gets occasional respites.

            The sessions on the pony serve to quickly build up the calf muscles as the rider struggles to relieve as much weight as possible from pressing her luscious pink parts against the coarse wooden plank. And I insist on a little added feature. Once in place, Nickie’s wrists are pulled up behind her back. This forces her head down to nicely display her hanging breasts and changes her posture so that the gluteus maximus muscles are also worked. Yes, those perky buttocks will become even rounder and firmer during Nickie’s stay at the Spa and she’ll find herself spending many evenings restrained to an ‘A’ frame as a result.

            Mona finishes adjusting Nickie’s wrists and steps away. Now it is my turn and I move to Nickie’s front. Her bowed head is just below my shoulders and I can see tears already forming.

            Nickie is naked, on display not only for the first time, but in the busiest area of the Spa. Within an hour the activity will increase with departing guests checking out. When the train from Calgary arrives, new guests will be greeted with the delicious sight of a young, naked and innocent serving girl enduring the slowest of torments, laboring to prevent her own weight from painfully squeezing her little bud against the coarse plank. It is a wonderful mental and physical punishment, for with properly conditioned legs, Nickie can minimize her pain. But of course I can also lengthen her ride, so mentally she knows she will lose.

            Within minutes Nickie’s exertion will cause her to perspire. Her wet, naked and struggling form will greet every arriving guest and provide for a memorable concluding scene for those departing. Thus, a proper atmosphere in maintained.

            Meanwhile, it is my turn with Nickie and I find her firm breasts, hanging so helplessly, to be irresistible. The fingers of my right hand toy with a nipple, ensuring that her attention is on me and not her abraded labia.

            “Nickie, you must learn to dust better, naughty girl.”

            Despite the agony, the nipple erects to my touch and my nose detects the faint aroma of feminine arousal as the wooden plank soaks up the moisture of her anguished yet stimulated sex. Yes, we have once again chosen correctly. Nickie will experience much pain and humiliation over the coming months. And she will furtively enjoy every moment. At the Spa, we understand the submissive psyche better than the submissive.

            “On your next ride, Mona may just assure that your bladder is brimming. You may notice the floor drain under your toes. We’ve had so many girls shame themselves here in the lobby that it was installed as a necessary precaution. The effect is to sharpen the concentration and that can be even further honed with a quick stop at the infirmary. There you may be provided with something else to think about during your next ride, clenching those nicely shaped cheeks to hold in one of the Spa’s infamous enemas.”

            I laugh with the mental image formed by my own words and Nickie’s stunned reaction. Yes, we’ve had recalcitrant girls soil the plank, along with their own thighs and calves. Mona is relentless in her supervision and has never considered a biological urge to be a suitable reason for respite. Thus, I had the drain installed to mitigate wear and tear in cleansing the carpet and informed Mona to utilize whatever technique she found to be effective in punishing poor performance or bad behavior. It was her idea to include an enema for particularly belligerent girls. And with the thought of Nickie struggling to work the muscles of her nicely formed globes to hold in a sloshy quantity of liquid, I make a mental note to thoroughly inspect her work daily.       

            Nickie remains silent, as mandated by Spa rules, but I know she’ll soon be vocalizing her pain as weary thighs and buttocks cave and surrender her clitoris to the plank’s ‘slings and arrows’ of misfortune. And although not watered beforehand, there is the possibility that she will need to relieve herself.

            “No gag, Mona. If she wishes to serenade our guests, so be it.”

            Nickie will be more comfortable without being gagged. My merciful command induces a sense of tranquility. I move onward reflecting on how the infliction of humiliation can be so calming for me.

Chapter Three

            Since it is Wednesday, the doctor will be working in the infirmary. Yesterday she checked the female serving staff and I stopped in to view the endless stream of spread thighs parading through the windowed examination room. So much soft, pink flesh...

            Today the doctor will be piercing and along with numerous required labia rings a particularly well-endowed male is scheduled for his Prince Albert ring. I like to be present for that procedure so I stroll toward the stairs, which will take me to the basement.

            Breaking males has been a lifelong pursuit and as I negotiate the steps I think back to some of my earliest encounters.

            Sometime after introducing my little brother to the delights of feminine undergarments, I was playing with a neighborhood girl. Her older brother was my age and sometimes joined us. He seemed to enjoy being told what to do by those of the opposite sex, and even at such a young age, I pounced on the opportunity. I remember thinking up all these games to play, all of which had this boy named James acting out some obsequious role.

            Over time I learned to control him and when I reflect back, my perspicacity at some ten or eleven years of age was amazing. There was something in James that coaxed unusual urges from me. And though occurring before puberty, the urges flourished. Thus my desire to control did not begin as a sexual thing. I didn’t know what sex was. But controlling a boy, now that seemed like such fun.

            With James I did not have to be overly discreet as with my younger brother. We were permitted to play in the neighborhood without supervision and I certainly learned to take advantage of that.   And thinking back to those days, my interactions with James during play time and little brother Bobby during those precious intervals when our busy mother left me in charge, provided quite the training for my life’s role.       

            The youthful curiosity, which spurred my pre-pubescent antics, developed into a very satisfying dominion. As adolescence progressed, I found I could use my ingratiating smile and sweet girlish charms to rein in any number of males. Having James at my beck and call, and Bobby under my thumb at home, emboldened me with boys. To befriend me they had to obey me. If not, my attention would merely return to my two more truckling supplicants.

            Some time in my mid-teens, Mother got a job. This left me at home with my younger sister and Bobby. I knew Sis to be a blabbermouth, so I always excluded her from any activities involving Bobby. But luckily, she was also naive, and never fully understood why almost every afternoon Bobby would find himself with soiled trousers or a stained shirt that required changing.

            And Sis never inquired as to why a smiling ‘Big Sister Eve’ commanded him to step into the bathroom, or why at Bobby’s age of some nine or ten years, sister Eve had to assist him in removing the offending garments.

            She never caught on that there, in the large, turn-of-the-century, tiled wash room, awaited a pair of girl’s panties, to be donned only after Bobby was thoroughly cleansed and inspected.

            And what a curious but pleasant reaction from little brother Bobby. After a number of spilling ‘incidents’, his penis would be standing before I could even close the bathroom door. The anticipation of the feel of cool, smooth silk on his tiny penis and testicles excited him. And after a time he also came to enjoy the touch of sister Eve’s exploring fingers.

            “It’s a good thing these panties fit snugly,” I used to admonish him, “otherwise I wouldn’t be able to slide your trousers over that standing little peepee.”

            Yes, one of my duties became not only squeezing him into the tight frilly panties, but also toying and adjusting the stiffened young penis, so it comfortably rested within the tight crouch, designed for the plumbing of young girls and allowing very little room, even for a tiny stiffened penis such as Bobby’s.

            And in so doing, Bobby became even more excited and even at his young age the small but engorged penis stretched the thin silk to form a tent where one would least expect it in a girl’s intimate apparel.

            Bobby came to enjoy those times with his older sister. So much so that I no longer had to spill food or drink on him or summon him for inspection. He did it himself, and in humbly approaching and pointing to a soiled area of clothing, I would feign concern.

            “We’d better get you changed before Mother comes home from work.”

            With that suggestion, Bobby would scamper to the bathroom and strip naked. Sometimes I paused before entering, letting the anticipation grow. Then I would enter and announce the color he’d be wearing for me for the remainder of the day and express astonishment at his excited state.

            When Sis was not home, our games became much less discreet. There were times when I’d just have him run about the house without any clothing. Later, I’d think of various things for him to do for me while naked and partially or fully erect, such as shining my shoes or, as a treat, letting him inspect and feel my dresser drawer full of underwear.

            And then there was my camera.

            Yes, I had a growing photo collection, Mother having bought me a rather expensive instant camera. And little did she know to what deviant uses a teenaged girl could put such a device.

            I started with my neighbor James, demanding that he pose for me in the most humiliating of positions and later performing the most sordid of acts for the benefit of my collection.

            Later I introduced Bobby to the camera lens. When I suggested that some make up would highlight the pretty girly underwear in which he so proudly liked to prance, he patiently sat as I applied rouge, mascara and eyeliner.

            I still have many of the photographs of his first sitting.

            And, what a control mechanism! As much fun as Bobby had dressing up for me, his look of terror when I announced that his school chums would find the photos ‘cute’ was unforgettable.

            So for Bobby, the camera assured there be would no second thoughts about performing for his older sister Eve. Yes, Bobby would dress as I liked him, unless I wanted him nude, and he would learn to perform the most demeaning tasks at my behest.

            Mother began to marvel over my ability to control him. As the years progressed, Bobby would not become the teenager given to delinquency, a prevalent problem among boys in his peer group. No discipline problems with Bobby. Not unless he wished to do so dressed as a girl!     

            As with James, my relationship with Bobby became more sexual over time. There was nothing I could think of that Bobby would not obediently do for me. And on occasion, when I let him masturbate into the silk panties while my camera snapped away, he was ecstatic. I could feel his pleasure. It was palpable and I came to wet my own undergarments, particularly after I trained him to hold back until I gave the command to ejaculate.                

            And with each stroke of his young hand, my controlling photo album grew. That was perhaps the preponderant source of my own excitement, Bobby’s forced humiliation, which more and more manifested my control. 

            When puberty arrived, our busy working Mother conceded Bobby’s care to me. She never fully understood why Bobby rebelled against most authority except mine. But my ability was found to be convenient and a welcome relief, knowing that when she returned home after a day’s drudgery, the house was spotless, the kitchen immaculate, and the laundry neatly folded and stowed by our furtive maid. Little did Mother know how hard I worked Bobby and how eager he became to exhibit his feminine side to his older sister and her camera. And how dependent he was becoming on the need to perform for me.

            And whereas Bobby’s lengthy hairstyle was of concern, Mother took the position of ‘if it works, don’t fix it’, and his grooming was left to me.

            Mother never suspected that my grooming included a twice-weekly shaving of Bobby’s growing pubic hair.

            “We must not hide anything from the camera, Bobby,” I so many times reminded him, as my hand glided the razor over his well-lathered scrotum and penis.

            And he never objected, realizing that newly depilated flesh felt so cozy and wonderfully sensual when encased in silk. And I had surreptitiously assembled quite a collection for him.     

            Those were halcyon days, flexing my youthful yet dominant mental muscles. I had complete control over the obeisant James and my effeminate little brother. I enjoyed it and let the power grow within me, unfettered and later to be unleashed onto a world of pusillanimous males.

            When I later went to college, I lost touch with James. And my brother became free to exercise his fetish without me, but only for a while.

            Mom and Dad died in a car accident just before my graduation. Thus at age 17, Bobby became mine again. I was his legal guardian.

            Having spent four years away from home, selling the family home was easier than it would have been had I still lived there. I had become very content in the New England town where I attended college and post graduation employment had already been lined up.

            The transition from student to working girl with the responsibility for my younger brother was difficult. But with the life insurance proceeds and money from the sale of the house, there were adequate funds to complete the last two years of my sister’s college education at a prestigious west coast school and more than enough to relocate Bobby and me to a sizable apartment.

            With Bobby graduating from high school, he was also prepared for a transition in life. Little did he realize how large a transition it would be.

            During my teenaged years at home, I’m not sure Bobby fully understood how much I enjoyed being served by my naked younger brother, or how sexually thrilling it had been to dress him up for after school escapades.  Or how moist I became between my thighs while shaving him and applying make up to his angelic face.

            Well...he would find out.  

            During my college years, I had not had much contact with Bobby. While home for vacations and semester breaks, I would notice certain garments missing from my room. Therefore I knew his proclivities had not changed. But since the items would reappear within days, neatly cleaned and folded as I had diligently trained him over the years, I decided to let his effeminate propensities grow and to permit him to fully explore has sexuality.

            After all, my photo album was safely stored away. I could easily rein him in whenever the urge developed. I knew that there was nothing like a candid, full color snapshot of a young male wearing mascara, shoulder length hair effeminately coifed, lavender panties pulled down to reveal a pair of hairless pink testicles dangling under a manicured hand gripping the cutest of erections, to obtain a boys attention.

            So I didn’t expect any discipline problems with my little brother and his ability to adjust to his new status of ward. I would work and pay the bills. Bobby would clean, cook and serve, as any well trained maid would do.    

            My recollection ends as I approach the medical section. The Spa has a full operating room, antiseptic, well lit, and equipped to deal with every imaginable procedure and emergency. Our guests are quite active, endeavoring to ski in winter and engage in a variety of potentially injurious activities in summer. Therefore the investment is needed for the mundane medical requirements of a resort. The fact that it is more commonly utilized for initiating or caring for members of the serving staff is serendipitous.

            Since piercings are performed sans anesthesia, the deep basement area serves to mitigate the earnest sounds of anguish, as sensitive skin is penetrated by heated needles.

            Yes, it’s a traditional welcome to the Spa. A ritualistic message to the newly contracted serving staff, communicating the notion ‘you will indeed earn your pay’.

            My arrival is well timed. As I approach the large window of the operating room, I spy our latest acquisition, a well-muscled lad who decided to take a leave of absence from college in order to accumulate funds for his senior year.

            The doctor has him well strapped to a specially designed chair, completely naked of course, and a member of our nursing staff has brought him to full tumescence. He is large, as with every male at the Spa, thus I am not overly impressed. But it is pleasant to know that a creature so well muscled and endowed can so easily be controlled.

            The doctor is heating her needle and her mirthful eyes reveal the lustful smile beneath the surgical mask.

            A Prince Albert piercing is simple and effective, allowing a ring to be inserted into the tip of the penis, penetrating the urethra and exiting the underside near that most sensitive of areas, the frenulum. It can be done quickly and relatively painlessly with novocaine. But not at the Spa. The doctor has her instructions. All piercings are to be as cathartic as possible, and our good medical professional accommodates most enthusiastically, with deliberative preparations and foreboding discussion with the nurse, thus maximizing the mental torment for our most recent supplicant.  

            I cannot hear what is being said, but I suspect the doctor is graphically describing the pain which our young male is about to experience and also admonishing him to be particularly careful about subsequent care, lest infection mandate a complicated and humiliating truncation of his proud member.

            The perspiration and wide, rolling eyes indicate our boy is ready. Despite his fear and the degradation of being naked and well secured before two females, his penis is stiff, well-engorged and pointing straight up. Yes, he will enjoy his tour here at the Spa. We have seen his type so often...

            In a well-practiced choreography, our surgical nurse grasps the bottom of the penis shaft, the doctor encircles the purple head with her gloved left hand, and slowly...very slowly, works the red hot needle into the sensitive urethra.

            His scream can be heard. It is loud. It would curdle the blood of the unsuspecting onlooker. A passerby would run to assist, call the police, cry out in sympathy.

            At the Spa, no one is fazed. The nurse wafts smelling salts with her free hand. The doctor pauses to ensure our boy is alert and can feel the slowly paced penetration. After the nurse forces open his closed eyes and notes that he has not fainted, she nods and the doctor proceeds.

            ‘Welcome to the Spa’, I silently mouth to myself. With a diabolical smile, I note that the massive erection has not subsided one centimeter and the temporary stainless wire, which the doctor inserts into the bulbous purple head is a most attractive adornment to the submissive male organ.

Chapter Four

            Watching the agony endured by the young, well muscled submissive has the curious effect of providing me with a glowing sense of pride. Ultimately, it is by my hand that his most sensitive anatomical parts have become mere pincushions for the insouciant enjoyment of nurse and doctor. And more importantly, our guests will use his newly acquired jewelry for the most sinister of pursuits. I can feel my wetness.

            With the conclusion of the penal piercing, the nurse prepares a new set of paraphernalia. The doctor removes her latex gloves, speaks and playfully tugs on the left ear of the well bound, naked male. Softly spoken words of comfort, intended to soothe, I’m sure. But most likely received as a taunt. The doctor is demonstrating her power, perhaps offering to insert a pair of scrotal rings which some Dominant women find both attractive and uniquely practical for discipline, and provide a constant reminder of status to the obsequious male. Or perhaps suggesting that the time will come when he will sit in the very same chair and endure an excruciating branding, the Spa’s symbol of permanent employment.

            Our new servant listens with newly acquired docile attentiveness. He is in no position to comment or object. Having watched the doctor callously skewer his most sensitive male organ with a searing hot needle, he fully comprehends the exchange of power. He has none and the nurse and doctor have all. Having relegated total control with the signing of a contract, what was thought to be a simple and lucrative employment tour, is now envisioned for what it is, a year of thorough degradation, pain and hard work.

            The nipples are next. Probably as agonizing as the penis piercing if not more so, I have seen so many that my time is better spent in the lobby bidding adieu to the parting guests. And besides, when it comes to nipples, observing the female recipients is much more entertaining.     

            And so as the doctor again dons her gloves and begins to heat another needle utilizing the same deliberative, nerve racking pace, I turn to leave.

            On my way to the door, I peek at the medical chart to obtain the name of our newly ringed male. He is called ‘Jason’ and I make a mental note to later walk him at the end of a leash. I always enjoy being the first to introduce the subordinate male to the utility of the penis ring.

            As I head to the lobby my roving eye looks for maintenance problems and general cleanliness. As usual, the facility is disappointingly spotless and I’ll have to be quite creative in finding an infraction for tomorrow. After all, it is the policy of the Spa to have a daily display of discipline to greet the arriving guests. Someone will indeed transgress. After all, I make the rules.

            In traversing the stairs my thoughts return to Bobby. As stated, after enduring the tragic death of my parents, the period that followed returned the halcyon days of my teen years. Only now I had a job, a pile of money, and Bobby...totally under my command.

            During my four years away from home Bobby’s penchant for girl’s clothing had waned somewhat. He had few opportunities to obtain the preferred frilly silk or satin panties, for Mother’s were too large and Sis, being the meticulous individual she was, kept close inventory of her possessions. And I was most disappointed to find that Bobby had not bothered to shave himself!

            I realized that in my absence, his fetish had become somewhat transitory. He used the look and feel of colorful women’s undergarments as a masturbatory trigger. And indeed my photo album was full of old close up snapshots of his reddened, embarrassed face, taken after achieving the desired ecstatic relief and realizing how much he had humiliated himself in front of his older sister. With his gooey hand glistening under the bathroom lights, he would skulk to the towel rack, much more cognizant of my photographic efforts. And after his eruption I continued to the click away while clucking my tongue and admonishing him to ensure that the stained frilly panties were properly cleansed.

            Yes, Bobby felt the shame of the closet fetishist, knowing that his conduct was reprehensible but unable to help himself or keep his hand from his excited penis once big sister Eve gave him permission to frottage.

            I was the only stabilizing influence. Me and my photo collection. But for my interaction, I had no idea what would become of Bobby. Would he sneak about the neighborhood purloining feminine garments from nearby wash lines? Perhaps linger about at the bus station seeking to display his excited state to any women resembling his sister. And how far did this transsexual proclivity go? Would he develop the urge to exhibit his feminine side to men? 

            He was mentally conflicted, and I was determined to end that. A choice had to be made concerning Bobby’s deportment and I was the only person qualified to make it.

            Yes, I decided Bobby would put aside any thoughts about living as and all evidence of being...a male.    

            So upon moving to my apartment, restoration of my years of training became a priority. I decided that complete immersion was the best method.

            I had rented the top floor of a two story, two family house. Although there were two bedrooms, closet space was limited. There was no room for two sets of clothing for Bobby, and fully understanding his latent preference for feminine attire, upon arrival I sent all his male clothing to storage without unpacking a stitch. Bobby would be introduced to his new home as the cute girl he so enjoyed being. 

            It was a logical decision. No one knew him in my college town. His friends were hundreds of miles away. Sis was even further away and I would have ample notice of any visit. All my neighbors and acquaintances would be introduced to my sister...Bobbi!

            I was fortunate to have a landlady willing to assist. Lucretia Palmero was the owner of the house and she lived on the first floor. Lucretia was in her early forties, a handsome women with very dark but silver streaked hair, piercing eyes and a no nonsense demeanor. She was twice widowed. Local rumor intimating that she worked her first two husbands to death, I never learned whether the gossip suggested a figurative or literal demise.

            But I did learn of her disdain for the male sex, and prominently exhibited in her ‘study’ were numerous instruments of correction, which she made no effort to hide from her acquaintances and kept from the view of the rare casual visitor by merely closing the study door.

            Lucretia became my confidant. Initially she was the only person who knew Bobbi’s true gender. She took such delight in his forced effeminate status that she not only conspired with me on developing Bobbi’s regimen but also served as a needed observer, should an inexplicable urge to revert to maleness overtake Bobbi in my absence.

            And so each morning after a naked Bobbi served me an impeccably prepared breakfast, I supervised his grooming and assured that his stiff little manhood was properly tucked away under the briefest of panties. Then he would put on his maid’s costume and present himself for final inspection.

            In the first few weeks, with his exaggerated high heels, I had to assist as he awkwardly negotiated the stairs to Lucretia’s apartment. Later, with Lucretia’s strict tutelage, he seemed to glide down the stairs where he limp wristedly tapped on Lucretia’s door to begin his day of servitude.

            I would leave for a busy day at the clinic, sanguine with the realization that Bobbi was receiving the best discipline and training a teenaged girl could obtain. 

            A few months went by without event. Bobbi followed all the rules and both mine and Lucretia’s apartment were neatly kept, with Lucretia humorously commenting that her kitchen floor had been washed and waxed so often that the linoleum would soon need replacement.

            And Bobbi was becoming a very good cook. Satisfying every woman’s dream of staying out of the kitchen, he learned to provide both Lucretia and me with tastefully prepared meals. No frozen dinners for this working girl.

            I resumed the responsibility for Bobbi’s grooming. In teaching him all the tricks of makeup and other cosmetics, he enthusiastically began to apply it himself. And to my amusement he spent much time plucking his eyebrows and was constantly distraught over facial hair.

            My role evolved mainly to that of critic, commenting on how pretty my cute brother looked with his short black uniform and shoulder length blond hair carefully tucked under the obligatory maid’s cap. Standing before me at attention, I would occasionally point out a smudge of rouge or a stubborn strand of hair dangling outside the frilly cap. But otherwise, Bobbi became quite fastidious about his girlish appearance.

            Twice weekly, I continued the chore of having Bobbi strip and soak himself in our large tub so that I could manifest my control by way of full body inspection. Evidence of Lucretia’s ‘encouragement’ was usually found on Bobbi’s buttocks, and this always brought a smile, picturing Bobbi, short skirt lifted, panties down, receiving a few brisk strokes in Lucretia’s study.

            After the bath I shaved his privates. It was then that I allowed Bobbi to stroke himself for me, his smooth, hairless penis and scrotum providing quite the catalyst for masturbation. Beforehand, I was careful to place him in the most humiliating and obsequious of positions in preparation for my camera.

            My favorite was having him slip into his highest shoes, don the maid’s cap, then stand naked before a full-length mirror. He would tumefy looking at his own reflection. Then, granting permission, he would stroke himself to gratification staring at his own feminine image. Trying to stay perched on the ridiculously extreme heels was a challenge and most times, upon my command to ejaculate, he fell over when his eyes closed with ecstasy. A most amusing sight.

            Within a few months, things got busy at work. I guess I skipped one or two masturbation sessions, arriving home late and being in no mood to frolic. I did notice that Bobbi was getting fidgety. He spilled things. His movements in the heels again became strained and reverted to clumsiness. I did not relate this change to a hormonal build up. I too was young and did not realize that although Bobbi’s appearance was completely feminine, his male hormones still percolated.

            And so one evening I arrived home and instead of being greeted at the door with a glass of wine and a polite but labored curtsy from my pretty maid, instead there was a note from Lucretia on the door summoning me to her apartment.

            I stepped down the stairs into the foyer and knocked expecting Bobbi to answer as trained. Instead Lucretia opened the door with a smile and a look of pointed determination.

            “Not to be alarmed, Eve. Bobbi’s been delayed. Seems he’s picked up a nasty habit that needs attention.”

            She beckoned me to step inside and I followed her into the foreboding study. There was Bobbi, stripped of his maid’s uniform and standing in this amazingly clever ‘A’ frame.

            “I stepped out to the store and when I returned he was masturbating! A nasty habit. Luckily I returned in time to stop him before he soiled anything. My second husband was given to the same weakness but I cured him.”

            I had been in the study before but never realized that the two vertical posts resting against opposite walls were hinged at the bottom and could be pulled toward each other and connected at the tops to form an apex over the center of the rug. Once done, restraining ankles, wrists and neck was a simple matter of securing cuffs and collar to the leaning posts.

            In Bobbi’s case, Lucretia and placed him in a broad fur lined neck collar which was chained high above near the apex. His wrists were secured behind his back and ankle cuffs tied to the bottom of each post ensured that he stood perfectly still, on toes with legs widely spread. It appeared that the neck collar bore much of Bobbi’s weight judging from his motionless form.