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We both sip at our ‘old fashions’ gazing at the rapidly darkening panorama.
“Well, he’ll no longer be a bad boy,” she suggests in open thought. “A bad girl maybe...but not a bad boy.”
I join her in laughter.
“How far did you go with the modifications?” I feel myself forced to ask.
She explains. She takes her time. I learn more about the ASBM and Constancia Island.
“Deep psychological counseling...physical capitulation to the Dominant female…some necessary physical alterations.”
A second round of drinks arrives.
“When the sun goes down, there comes an immediate chill off the river,” she suggests as maid Teddie steps back into the living room.
We follow him inside and she slides closed the door.
“So he’s impotent?” my curiosity persists in me asking.
Mrs. D laughs.
“Quite the opposite. His penis swells and stands firmer than ever. He just can’t use it for anything. And with the psychological modification, the hormonal buildup is transmogrified to this incredible propensity to be of service.”
I know maid Teddie can hear us talking. The effects of his alteration are apparently a topic for open discussion. Plus there is the embarrassment factor to which Mrs. D alluded.
“He has the most marvelous need to be subjugated. And his oral service is unsurpassed...come here Teddie.”
Our effeminate maid immediately approaches.
“Your tongue.”
It seems to be a familiar command. The wet and pink length of flesh protrudes well beyond his lips. It juts forth as if it is not attached to anything and there are grotesque bumps in places that a single and concupiscent girl like me considers to be obscene. I feel a twinge within my loins just imagining to what good use such an appendage could be put.
I cannot help but laugh.
“And he’s so eager to use it,” Mrs. D suggests as she playfully diddles the wet surface with her finger and then gracefully pushes up on his chin to signal withdrawal.
“Let’s eat.”
Teddie has set a very elaborate table and we feast. His effeminate walk and struggles to remain perched on the highest of heels brings smiles, but his service is superb. When he returns from the kitchen to clean the table of plates, which once embraced slabs of thick prime rib, Mrs. D tenderly caresses the bulge under his apron front.
There is no doubt as to what is beneath. Teddie blushes but shows no resistance. The bulge grows.
We converse. Teddie works. Coffee is served and as our maid pours for Mrs. D he leans and mumbles something in her ear. She smiles and speaks loudly, as if admonishing him for his hushed tone.
“Well, I am sure Matilda can assist. I’m getting a little tired of the routine.”
A key is pushed my way. Mrs. D has had it around her wrist attached to a cute charm bracelet. It is small, precisely crafted and appears to of a very strong alloy.
“It’s nothing really. He’ll show you what needs to be done.”
There is a look of panic on Teddie’s face but he wordlessly turns and steps to the arched dining room entranceway. There he humbly stands in wait with his arms positioned unnaturally straight at his sides. He is repressing any body motion. Mrs. D nods to me then picks up her coffee to sip, indicating a pause in our conversation.
I arise. Teddie turns, enters the living room and I follow him, continuing to the bathroom.
There I receive a most pleasant but curious shock. Teddie Dalton raises the tiny maid’s skirt with the apron attached. Beneath, as I suspected, there are no undergarments. But what startles is the sight of his phallus. It is somewhat engorged and locked in an upright position with nothing below. He notices my consternation and turns to display his finely tanned and hairless buttocks. Between the globes, at the apex of the curve, rests his scrotum entrapped by numerous thin strands of leather all coming together to form a single strap which is connected to this band of metal around his waist.
He slurs some words and points and I see the object of his communication. It is a tiny padlock that holds the strap up and forces his testicles to rest in such an unnatural configuration.
