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The struggling maid reaches our table and curtsies with the precision of a well-trained serving girl. The Director orders coffee. I cannot resist partaking in the rich, hot chocolate so ubiquitous to the region.
The Director calls to one of the behavior specialists at the other table. She instantly arises and moves to our table. Young, strong, pretty. The woman cannot be more than 4 or 5 years older than Pat. Her blue eyes and golden hair imply a Teutonic ancestry. Her straight, firm posture suggests an advanced degree of athleticism. It is interesting to think someone so young and pretty is imbued with such control and power.
“Greta, I want Pat to serve us naked, plugged, erect and weighted. Two pounds should provide enough amusement for our visitor.”
Greta follows Pat to a screened area. The Director explains.
“It is important to instill composure. We constantly change the circumstances and conditions of service. Your presence should present a challenge.”
Within minutes Pat approaches holding pots of hot brew. He is naked and amazingly erect. The high heels and black fishnet stockings remain as do the maids cap. A smiling Greta follows. In her right hand is some type of electrical device. In her left is the scanty maid’s uniform.
Over the weeks of research, I thought I had become jaded concerning the typical length and girth of the clinic’s protégé’s. But Pat is huge, and the bulbous, purple tip brushes against his belly with each strained step. The testicles swing exaggeratedly with a modest sized weight attached, and it is evident he is losing his composure in trying to maintain the dainty sashay which Josephine had displayed.
“As you can see, the candidates react nicely to the opportunity to tumefy for their trainer. He’s very proud to show off for Greta. And with a nice sized butt plug, he’ll stay firm for quite a while. But he’ll have to learn to walk better to earn Greta’s touch.”
Pat finally arrives. The Director diddles the underside of the penis with her index finger and coos words of support. Then she reaches down and pulls the weight and the testicles to the side.
“This is new since Lady Constance visited the clinic years ago. We term it a control ring.”
At the upper portion of the scrotal sac, just below the penis, is a metal ring. It snugly encircles the sac and it is to this ring that the weight is attached.
“It’s made out of a very expensive alloy. Slipped over the sac and then crimped, it cannot be removed except with heavy wire cutters.
“The metal reacts to electro-magnetic fields. Depending on the strength of the electrical charge, the ring will heat as a warning then zap the wearer with a significant shock. Every doorway in the building is wired. You may have noticed the red and green lights above. When red, the field is charged and should Pat or any of the other boys attempt to go through, the results can be painful.
“Windows and doors leading to the outside are heavily charged. No boy has maintained consciousness after attempting to go through them. The internal doorways are more forgiving.
“The technology was developed for controlling dogs. We’ve adapted it and replaced the collar worn by the dog with a more appropriate device and higher power settings.
“We also have a hand held device which will create an electrical charge. Greta has one in her hand. Should Pat display an urge to touch himself, she’ll give him a little reminder of who controls his genitals.”
The Director finishes her explanations and nods. Pat, standing perfectly still on his high heels, is flushed, but otherwise his comportment in appearing naked, erect and feminized before a stranger is amazingly controlled. He pours my chocolate, moves daintily to the left, and pours the Director’s coffee. As we sit, the massive stiff manhood is at eye level and the right side of his smooth, hairless buttock reveals the painted number of a clinic protégé, 1535.
The Director again affectionately diddles the sensitive exposed underside. She then moves her fingers to the scrotum, lifts and gently kneads the left testicle.
“Pat’s been stretching slowly. We’ll make him presentable over time. But it’s interesting how the flesh differs from male to male. On some it takes only weeks, on others it requires months.”
When she releases the sizable egg, the weight causes t
he sac to swing heavily. Pat’s penis wags upwards in what seems to be a rather interesting salute to his superior. The Director smiles.
“Within a few months, Pat will be a cute serving girl for a wealthy lesbian writer. It’s very interesting how much she disdains the male but enjoys controlling them. Right now, Greta masturbates Pat for good performance, but I’m told his new owner will want him kept permanently chaste.
“Therefore, next week Pat will begin to wear a rather severe chastity belt. By the time he’s ready to leave, he’ll be very docile and be constantly pining for the gratification of the firm grip of a soft, feminine hand. But he will not receive it. I believe Lady Constance has similar views toward the male orgasm.”
I nod as Pat dejectedly withdraws. Apparently the realization, that soon Greta’s firm but soft fingers will no longer be wrapped around his formidable shaft while he’s slowly drained of his seed, saddens the youth. It is obvious he has come to enjoy displaying his massive phallus for the enjoyment of the female, and the notion of Greta’s ownership and control of his genitals has become more than acceptable.
Our conversation continues with Pat stepping forward to occasionally refill our cups. His penis remains tumefied, and he occasionally looks to Greta for a sign of approval. He is indeed doing his best to perform for her.
We finish our refreshments. The tour resumes with the Director showing me the remainder of the third floor. There is a complete beauty parlor and various protégés are undergoing cosmetic changes to the hair, skin and nails. It is impressive how docilely they sit and stare into the mirror. It is interesting that the lower the number displayed on the buttocks, the prouder they seem of their status, the number providing evidence as to the relative length of their stay at the clinic.
The elevator next takes us to the second floor. The scene in the exercise room could be straight from a standard gymnasium except the participants are naked and restrained. Here is the clinic I expected to see. The thick, leather collars. Wrist cuffs. Well-infibulated phalli flopping about on the various equipment. Specialists holding the small electrical device. And an occasional wince of pain, from a youngster whose performance is less than exceptional.
An adjoining room is large and open. A specialist in jodhpurs and knee-high boots stands in the middle with a young male wearing bit, bridle, and harness circling about at the end of a long, lunge line held in her left hand. The small, circular, indoor track is some forty feet in diameter and is surfaced with slabs of heavy, flat stone. Ostensibly, the casual observer concludes that the hard surface precludes wear. But with bare footed human ponies, how much wear could there be?
The specialist holds in her right hand a long whip, which she snaps in the air. Welts are discernible.
“We rarely bruise or mark the flesh here, as you know Doctor. But pony training requires introduction to the whip, harness, bit and bridle. Lucretia is very good. This boy will learn to obediently react to a woman with a whip, and he won’t be scarred in the process. I can’t speak for the marks he’ll bare from his new owner. I understand she enjoys excoriating young buttocks.”
