About Eve,

by Chris Bellows

I envision Jahn with his hands and arms helplessly encased in the white glove, aimlessly roaming from room to room with tiny bells dangling from the rings on his small penis. The sound not only announcing his whereabouts, but also drawing attention to his embarrassingly small phallus and the obscure status of his gonads. The native maids laugh in his presence, a blue-eyed, blond male relegated to the stature of pet. Perhaps the Princess is generous in sharing that wonderfully long and metal knobbed tongue. Or perhaps a maid will furtively direct the helpless and well-tamed beast into a storage room for a quick sampling of his oral skill.

  My examining eyes return. The ring nearest the tip, which I have used as a handle, does not have a ruby mounting. Instead a gold loop emanates from the lowest point of the ring, juts forward, bends back, and then disappears into the tip of the penis. It is penetrating Jahn’s urethra!

  It is no wonder he shivers in fear when I massage his perineum. Depending on what lies within his penis, the slightest degree of arousal could cause enormous pain. No randy thoughts for this supplicant. He has learned to subordinate all pleasure to the Princess, and from her comments, also to her dictator husband.

  I note that Jahn cannot urinate. Whatever impales his tiny tube must be removed to permit excretion. I know from controlling Lotus that such a condition keeps a subordinate wonderfully focussed on his or her role. I admire the simplicity of the device. I will inspect it and perhaps discuss designing a similar implement for use at the Spa.

  But now is not the time. I look up to see that Jahn’s lower belly is somewhat distended and experience tells me once the penis is cleared such a condition mandates relief. The dining room is not the appropriate place to explore further.

  Obtaining a full understanding of Jahn’s condition and the various items of restraint and control provides a clear picture of why the Princess brought him to the Spa.

  His designated role is to provide pleasure. Nothing else. His alteration and the various piercings are intended to make him absolutely asexual. Whoever performed the operation knew, or so informed the Princess, that castrated males could still attain an erection. The jewelry therefore is a decorative way of sealing Jahn’s fate. A forceful way of sending the message, ‘don’t even think about your own sexuality, pleasure or relief. Erections are denied’.

  Thus as discussed, the use of his tongue is to become his manner of sexual expression...and his backside, based on the Princess’s comments.

  I silently wonder whether the goal has been achieved. There was definitely a response to my caress.

  I look up to see the hands of the Princess grip the edge of the table. If Jahn’s oral efforts are indeed somewhat rudimentary, then the Princess will find Lotus to be without equal. As stated, I do not normally share Lotus or allow her to be engaged in the Spa’s nightly antics with the guests. But Jahn is special.

  When I look into his blue effeminate eyes and scan his short but girlish hairstyle, he in many ways reminds me of Bobbi.

  The thought jars me to a decision. Tonight I will make an exception. It is quite evident that the Princess will not miss his services.

  I casually remark that Jahn needs to visit the facilities. The Princess nods but reaches down. As instructed, she is tapping the top of Lotus’s head for a second or third helping of the Spa’s oral dessert. Now is the time.

  “Why not take Lotus back to your room, Princess? Jahn will be well cared for and Lotus needs to be reminded to remain walking on her toes. Some bastinado would be appreciated.”

  The Princess nods enthusiastically.

  The bait is taken. I have come to know so many Dominant women over the years that many times I can prognosticate at least one or two of their libidinous proclivities. For Lotus, the harsh application of a short quirt to the souls of her feet will occupy a good part of the remaining evening. And the Princess will be most amused with her polite but strained tolerance and pitiful cries.

  Matthew presents the Princess with a voucher. Food and drink at the Spa is included in the $1,000 plus per day room charges. But gratuities are welcomed and the Princess graciously assigns $500 to be apportioned by the concierge amongst those serving us.

  I cannot resist clipping my leash unto the most interesting ring attached to the tip of Jahn’s penis. He looks in horror at my controlling hand. When I give the leash a little shake to test the level of sensitivity he shouts loudly. In any other restaurant his reaction would draw attention. At the Spa it is not noticed, except by me. I am followed out of the dining room by one extremely obedient boy.

  I am able to walk faster than with a chained Lotus in tow, though I am careful since Jahn cannot use his arms for balance. A fall would be most painful judging from his initial reaction to the leash. Once again leading a submissive male, or former male in Jahn’s case, causes the expected reaction between my thighs. Thus I don’t go directly to my apartment, choosing instead to exercise my power and take a leisurely stroll, allowing my arousal to build.

  It is definitely my mental comparison with Bobbi, my forcibly chastised brother, which has caused me to take an interest in Jahn. Another memory flashes to mind as I cruelly jiggle the leash and listen to Jahn’s anguished cry in response...

  Lucretia and Bobbi seemed to become even closer after that Saturday afternoon of dildo sodomy. The amount of time spent together remained the same. It was the manner in which they spent it. Bobbi was spared the drudgery of many chores. Lucretia’s kitchen floor was washed weekly instead of daily, the same with vacuuming and dusting. Each evening when I returned home from the Sperm Bank, Bobbi reported eating lunch in a lavish restaurant, or visiting a museum, or seeing a movie.

  All the time dressed as a teenaged girl of course. For it was some time in the second year at Lucretia’s apartment, while sorting through bills, that the invoice for the storage of Bobbi’s male clothing seemed to annoyingly return to the top of the pile. It was not a large sum, but when one receives so little benefit from a product or service, the materiality factor changes.

  I reluctantly wrote a check but cheerfully included a note, ‘Final Payment, please send all cartons to the Salvation Army’.

  And thus the remaining vestige of Bobbi’s life as a male was whisked away by my pen.

  So all of the afternoon excursions found Bobbi most effeminately attired. He did not own a stitch of male clothing.

  Meanwhile my life seemed to be going sideways. Bobbi’s nightly massage of my feet and his assistance with my morning shower were enjoyable. But it wasn’t sex and I was a young woman.

  The job at the Sperm Bank seemed to fill a void. Watching the firm and well-trained nurses from Miangas work Ms. Matilda’s ‘herd’ was quite an experience. Twice per day, if not more often, a harnessed male gave up a large sample to the knowing hands of his nurse. I had certain favorites, and the nurses knew to call me out of the office to observe when such were scheduled for an extraction. They even suggested that the humiliation of being watched by a pretty, fully clothed young female increased the sample size, though this was never scientifically proven.

  It was in my third year that a most interesting women stopped into the Sperm Bank’s office, while Ms. Matilda was on vacation. She introduced herself as Mrs. Bennington, and said she was an acquaintance of Ms. Matilda from many years before.

  Mrs. Bennington, at the time, was in her early sixties. Very well dressed, very trim, her grace and intellect were instantly communicated. Obviously she was a woman of substance with a good education.

  At first she was rather coy, suggesting she needed sperm for her farm. When I suggested that our facility was one dispensing sperm for humans rather than livestock, she nodded with a knowing smile.

  “Matilda and I go way back. I understand that she is not here today but years ago she took me on a most interesting tour of the operation here, and I have kept it in mind for my needs ever since.”

  Mrs. Bennington was hinting that she had full knowledge of the Sperm Bank’s unusual methods for procuring product.

  “
My farm is located in a small country in the Amazon. I have it stocked with the most nubile of young women. But you can imagine how difficult it is to obtain a suitable stud in such an area.

  “The isolation does have its advantages in terms of compliance with various laws and regulations. And I do prefer to inseminate the girls myself. Term it an old affectation.

  “So here I am...”

  We talked further. Mrs. Bennington wanted to explore the feasibility of air shipping frozen sperm to her farm from time to time. I took notes and our conversation concluded with me suggesting I would confer with Ms. Matilda.

  The next day Ms. Matilda called. She was sorry to have missed Mrs. Bennington but informed me that with her it would be a simple business arrangement.

  “Mrs. Bennington is notorious, Eve. She is not as active as she once was but her farm in the Amazon is for pony girls. Yes, Mrs. Bennington is quite the equestrienne. From what you’ve told me it seems she’s now more into breeding than whipping the posteriors of young girls pulling a cart.”

  Ms. Matilda laughed with her observation.

  “I guess we’re all slowing down a little. But her credit is exceptional. In her business she wants no lingering problems and will pay timely.

  “Ship whatever she needs upon her verbal orders.”

  I hung up the phone somewhat mesmerized by my own vision of Mrs. Bennington in jodhpurs and wielding a riding crop.

  Two days later, Mrs. Bennington returned to the office.

  “I’m returning to my farm, Eve. Anything from Matilda.”

  I related the relevant parts of our phone conversation. Mrs. Bennington seemed pleased and gave me an initial order that was the largest I had ever taken.

  “Just make sure each sample is accompanied by the donor’s profile. There are so many pony girls I can mix and match as I see fit. We try to breed one a month, but will do more in the rainy season when the girls spend more time indoors and become bored.”

  With our business concluded, I engaged Mrs. Bennington in small talk. She descriptively took me through the insemination process; a naked girl, lying prostate with thighs spread, secured to a table which angles downward from feet to head, an assistant feathering the genitalia, and Mrs. Bennington standing ready with a semen filled, rubber bulbed turkey baster.

  “When orgasm is imminent, that’s when you insert and squeeze the bulb. The vaginal contractions associated with the orgasm pull the sperm right into the womb. It is amazing to watch. When properly scheduled to coincide with ovulation, and properly timed to inject the sperm at the precise moment of climax, the success rate is impressively positive. Of course afterwards suspending the pony girl upside down for a time helps. And it not only increases the rate of insemination, it’s rather amusing.”

  Mrs. Bennington smiled with her comment and took note of my interest. I suppose my natural dominance oozed out with the telling of the story, imagining the boredom of a young girl broken by the act of insemination. She told me more about herself. Then asked about me.

  “The women who work here prefer the domination of males,” she noted.

  It was a comment begging for a response and indicating it was my turn to talk.

  I did.

  Jahn and I have toured most of the lodge. He is a very obedient boy and I coo words of encouragement when an inadvertent pull on the leash causes pain.

  “Almost there,” I urge. And indeed the door to my apartment is in sight.

  His bulging lower stomach indicates where we will stop first. Lotus’s bidet can be utilized for the relief and examination of the male also.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jahn is able to sit on the bidet easier than Lotus since his ankles are not chained. Once again I have to ensure he is balanced. I remove the leash, bend slightly from the waist and lift the tiny penis. As described, there is a series of rings piercing the underside of the short phallus. The one nearest the tip has attached at the bottom a loop of gold thrusting forward than bending back in a curve where it enters the urethra.

  Whatever is attached to it obviously not only inhibits tumescence but always makes urination impossible.

  When my left hand gently holds the appendage and the fingers of my right begin to slide out the curious gold insertion, Jahn winces and then cries out. I continue working, after years of managing the Spa I am anything but sympathetic to the discomfort of males.

  The implement is of simple but ingenious design. Removal simply requires pushing back on the bottom portion of the penis ring with the top portion piercing the penis acting as a hinge. This action draws the gold loop out and but for Jahn’s grunts of anguish, the procedure would only take a second. Because of his protestations I work slowly.

  After a moment I spy the cause of Jahn’s pain. As more of the penetrating gold bar comes into sight, so does a diamond mounted on the bar. It is sizable compared to the opening of the urethra and with its extreme cut, leaving many acute angles on the outermost surface, I begin to comprehend Jahn’s discomfort. But there is more.

  The diamond is fully in view and the end of the bar is not.

  I continue pulling and another diamond appears. It is the same size and cut. Then a third appears. Finally, having pulled the ring down and back as far as possible, a fourth diamond exits. It is slightly larger then the others and is mounted on the end of the clever gold bar. Its cut is also evil with many sharp edges, the design of which is for no other reason then to abrade the urethra.

  It is no wonder that Jahn becomes so concerned with the potential of erection. For him to tumefy would mean having the diamonds deeply score the sensitive tissue of his urethra.

  With the implement removed, Jahn can now relieve himself. I gently toy with his nipples with one hand then prod his lower belly with the other. He seems accustomed to being so encouraged and supervised. Within a minute his bladder begins to empty. The pain in so doing is evident.

  I picture Jahn similarly seated in the Princess’s chateau. Two or three times per day a servant slides out the diabolical gold bar, finally allowing him some degree of bladder relief. And what enjoyment they must derive. For a lowly African maid, the feeling of power obtained from controlling an altered Caucasian male must be exhilarating. I think of the price Jahn must pay in order to be allowed to perform a normal body function. I envision a cat playing with a mouse. I consider the daily frustrations of a young nubile maid and, when given the opportunity to vent such frustration, what gratification she could extract from a blond, well bound male placed in her charge.

  His business done, I pull Jahn from the bidet using his small limp penis. With the probative bar removed I am now free to utilize Jahn as I see fit.

  As with Bobbi, there is no need for modesty. As an altered male, Jahn is closer to being one of us, I think to myself. Therefore I remove my clothing. I think I’ll find out what that knobbed tongue feels like...and finish my inspection.

  Moving about my apartment naked with Jahn brings back more memories of Bobbi.

  Mrs. Bennington had learned much about me on the afternoon when she placed her order. I guess I was somewhat concerned about Bobbi for I told her about his proclivities. The pictures of Bobbi I had shown to Nami were in my desk drawer and I showed them. Mrs. Bennington was impressed.

  “Very cute. Yes, a very effeminate young man. And he appears so bashfully proud...”

  Her comments spurred me to talk more. She was very clever in eliciting information without asking. I described the developing relationship with Lucretia. After an hour of talk she left to return to the Amazon.

  At the time, my belted brother had become quite the courtesan for Lucretia. On some nights I arrived home to find he and Lucretia were still out. When he did arrive home he looked both ravishing and tired. Bobbi took great pride in his effeminate appearance and it was evident his shyness was lapsing. Lucretia had introduced him to some very demanding women. I could only guess at the lurid activities in which they had him engaged, for the next morning he walked gingerly, and it
was apparent his young tight backside had been stretched to its limit.

  Mrs. Bennington returned to New England about a year later. Trim as ever, when she stepped into the Sperm Bank office, I could not help but envision her applying crisp strokes of a riding crop to the buttocks of some young girl harnessed and pulling a cart in the tropical heat. Such was the impression made by her firm deportment when mentally melded with Ms. Matilda’s description of her penchant for handling teenaged girls. And then there was that turkey baster...

  After giving me another order, enunciated sharply with precise shipping instructions, we again engaged in social conversation.

  I suppose it was the morning after one of Bobbi’s late evenings. Lucretia was a good friend but I was growing more and more concerned. In chatting with Mrs. Bennington, I guess my reservations shown through what I thought was an otherwise pleasant exchange.

  “Perhaps we can be of assistance to one another,” she coyly suggested.

  That was the first mention of the Spa.

  Yes. I came to learn that Mrs. Bennington owned this most interesting facility in the Canadian Rockies. And...she needed a manager!

  She described the Spa at length. Everything. Since she had full knowledge of the Sperm Bank operations, she knew I did not shy away from the firm and authoritative treatment of males. And it seemed that the stories I had told her about Bobbi encouraged her to boldly explain every detail.

  “I need someone with your talents, Eve. Dominant with good administrative skills. More likely to use her head before the whip.”

  She was offering me a job!

  I was grateful but in hindsight I suppose too astonished to clearly think. I gave her offer a moment’s thought then begged off.

  “Bobbi keeps me tied down, Mrs. Bennington. He’s still young and needs supervision.”

  I then learned how a woman of Mrs. Bennington’s substance came to be substantial.

  “I own a small island in Southern Greece, Eve. It’s a vacation resort. Very quiet. Very exclusive. From what you have told me, I think Bobbi would be very happy serving there. If it makes you feel comfortable, I will give you my personal guarantee concerning his chastity belt. With the preferred activities of the guests at the island, it will never need to be removed.”