Boy was my first domestic. Mom’s too, actually. You would think that after so many years of wanting her own domestic she would have come up with a better name. I could have gone with either Munch or Appleblossom, but Mom never shared my love of fiction or my flair. He was the first domestic in our neighborhood and one of the first in my whole school. But unlike the grizzled, hairy, balding creatures that most households were stuck with, we got a new one. Barely eighteen and completely fresh, other than four years at the academy. He was only a few years older than me and honestly pretty cute. I had a strange affection for him from the first day.
How could we afford such an extravagant expense? The truth is, I don’t know. I never knew what Mom did for work, only that she usually worked late and left me with many hours to myself. As a kid I thought she was a rocket scientist, but as I grew up I wondered if it was something worse.
Mom wasn’t impressed the first time she saw him, in his little suit that fit him so well. “He’s not very big,” she complained. “He doesn’t look durable.” I knew that was a jab at me, since I’d convinced her to go so young. What can I say? I wanted a fresh one.
“Well let him come in before you start criticizing,” I shot back.
“What if I want to take him back. I mean, how is he going to take care of this whole house if he isn’t big enough to move a chair? I get the aesthetics, darling, but…”
“He graduated from the academy, didn’t he? Come in, please come in.”
Mom had always been stern, serious. She only cared about utility. She had extremely specific ideas about discipline and behavior. I’ll probably need to see a psychologist one day to figure out all the terrible shit she did to my head when I was growing up. Boy didn’t know what he was in for. But for all that, he was admirably stoic.
Of course, he could move a chair, even the big sofa that separated the kitchen from the family room, with a little effort. I didn’t mind watching him trying, especially when mom had him change into his maid outfit. I’m not going to say that it was porn level, but the thing didn’t leave much covered. Let’s just say, none of my friends complained.
He did all the normal things a domestic should: he cleaned the house, vacuumed the floors, washed the windows, cooked our meals, woke us in the morning, and even played us some lovely songs on the keyboard in the front room. Unfortunately for him, his cooking was not as nice as his playing. On the first night he delivered a very strange plate of fettuccine alfredo. The sauce was completely separated and tasted funny. “What is this?” asked Mom when he laid it in front of her.
When he didn’t respond, she demanded, “Well, say something.”
“Sorry ma’am,” were the first words he said in our house. “This is your noodle dish.”
“Our fettuccine?” I helped. Mom shot me a look.
She said, “This is nothing like alfredo sauce. Where did you get this.”
“I had a recipe from school,” he explained.
“From cooking class?”
“There’s no way you took a cooking class.”
“Sorry-” he offered, but Mom snapped at him “Get under the table and wait.”
The accompanying salad and steamed vegetables were actually pretty good, but that didn’t spare him any pain. Over the knee he went on that great big sofa, and we all got to see how small his ass was in comparison to Mom’s long, ringed fingers. He stayed silent for four, but started whimpering, and by ten was yelping like a puppy. After twenty, he was crying. “When you don’t know how to do something, you ask!” she instructed between spanks.
“Sorry. Sorry. Sorry,” he yelped on repeat until she slapped his face and told him quiet.
“Not very durable,” she said as he wiped the tears from his eyes.
On the second night of Boy’s new life with us, he was preparing himself for a spanking for failing to pull out Mom’s chair when she sat at the kitchen table. I innocently suggested that I might punish him, not showing my hand at all—not commenting on the tightness of his twin globe cheeks or the delightful noises he would make.
She spanked him hard and often. Greedily. Every time he tried to hold back his tears. I could see his face, an angle that Mom never saw. First his face would scrunch up, almost in disgust. He would start breathing heavily and eventually his eyebrows would release. The relaxation was only temporary, however, because before long his face would scrunch back up and tears would begin to roll down his cheeks, gathering at the upturned corners of his mouth. “Uh-huh, Eh-huh,” it would begin, his small, piteous noises. But eventually it always progressed to outright agony and bellowing tears. Still, he never complained or begged. He only cried.
Of course Becky wanted to see him; everyone wanted to see him. However, my mom, the paranoid weirdo, refused to let me have anyone over to the house. Ever. Imagine trying to have a social life in those conditions! As if. So I had to resort to other methods. After her second drink, and after having calmed down from Boy’s beating, I approached Mom with a bag of her favorite chocolates. “Hey what do you think about taking Boy for a walk?”
“A walk?” She asked, snatching the bag from me.
“Yeah, just around the neighborhood, maybe.”
She looked over at him. “Some exercise wouldn’t hurt,” she mused, popping a handful of the chocolates into her mouth. “Hmm. I don’t know. We’d have to find him some clothes. Why don’t you just take him around the back yard?”
“Well then what if I took him shopping? We could get clothes...maybe some cute accessories.”
She was on to me. I could see it in her eyes. “What’s this about, Hannie?”
“Oh, nothing. I just want to show him off a little.”
“No,” she said. A fleck of brown sat nestled between her front teeth. “He’s not your toy to show off to your friends. He’s a domestic. And he’ll stay that way. Right here. Do you understand me young lady?”
I touched myself, alone in my bed, thinking about Boy. His face played through my mind all night, from joy to agony and back to joy. A grimace that could have been a smile. His eyes, fluttering open and shut. Only, in my dream, my mother wasn’t spanking him. Instead, I was behind him, my hips pumping furiously, hands on his hips. I was watching myself from the floor in front of my bed, watching Boy, his eyes fluttering and his tongue flitting out of his mouth. He wasn’t crying in my dream, he was moaning soft, happy moans.
Of course Becky wanted to see him. She couldn’t stop asking questions about him in first period. I could barely hear what Mrs. Conning was saying about the Mascing Massacre and the test was on Friday. By lunchtime, everyone had heard him and half the school was clamoring for a spot at our table. Unfortunately for them, they weren’t members of the Lucky Seven, the hottest and wealthiest girls at Carbondale High: Becky, Mattie, Stacey, Carlie, Annie, Chloe, and me, Hannie. I had to be Hannie because they already had an Annie when I moved out there, but that cunt can jam a fork in her vagina because all she had was an old, fat manservant and I had a beautiful young boy. The fugly girls liked to call us the Carbondale Copies, but you better believe those bitches knew our names. They certainly did when homecoming and prom rolled around. “Yeah, I totally touched his dick,” I insisted, “it was squishy and wet like a slug.
On Saturday I woke to the sound of Boy’s noises, panting, groaning, even an occasional yelp. It sent jealous seething to the core of me and then back out to every nerve. Mom’s door was open just a crack, wide enough to see everything. Boy cowered on all fours on the edge of her bed, and Mom, her wide body with its disgusting folds and dimpled fat wobbling with each stroke. She moaned louder and deeper, almost overwhelming his grunts except for the high squeaking at the end of each outburst. The creaking of the bed soon overcame even that. I watched in horror: my beautiful boy was deflowered. I watched his face for a long while, but he never looked up from the floor. Eventually his voice overcame the noise again as Mom plunged deeper, her hands gripped around his hips. The portrait of the Holy Mother fell off the wall with a crash. “Yes, yes!” she cried.
Even I knew it was illegal. Even boys have rights. I know it was mean of me, but I reported her. I used the phone in the basement, whispering to the indignant woman at the number in the welcome pamphlet, “Sexual abuse. Big time. Barely a week in to his service.”
A welfare inspector arrived the next day. “Mangenic prides itself on the high quality of life that their domestic placements enjoy,” she explained, a short, blonde woman with long, pointy glasses. “This is a purely routine checkup, to make sure everything is working out.”
“A coffee would be great,” the woman suggested.
Mom wordlessly sat at the kitchen table
The inspector started, “We’ve received certain reports. Nothing serious, but a few points that perhaps could be clarified.” After a pause, “I trust you read the entire contract that you signed with Mangenic?”
“Then you understand our desire to keep our service above board. Strictly legal, you see? We would hate to run afoul the law, or worse, become the sort of organization you see exposed in the news, with no standards and no ethics. You see?”
“Then you understand why I need to take custody of your hire. He doesn’t feel that he’s in a safe place.”
Mom’s eyes flashed with anger. “Not safe…” she murmured.
“It’s really more of a check-up than anything. I would certainly love to see the hire, if he’s around here somewhere.”
“Let’s go for a walk,” Mom suggested, leading her out back.
I watched them from the back window. Their body language said nothing until the inspector turned tail and marched out through the gate. I never saw her again.
“She’s right. It says in the terms and conditions,” I told Mom, leafing through the manual. “‘No subjection to sexually degrading work.’”
“I’ve heard enough about that out of you.”
The phrase continued to echo through my head all night: sexually degrading work. What was sexually degrading work? There was the obvious, of course, the penetration of the “first hole” as they called it. I had learned about that before high school, in the musky, folded pages of the other girls’ dirty comics. But what else did it entail? “Eating out?” That phrase was thrown around sometimes. “Eat me,” tough girls would sometimes say, or “Suck my twat,” in a fit of anger. Of course, there’s the front part: the overgrown clitorous they call a penis. Boy’s was encased in a red plastic which secured around the base of his boy pillows. “You can never help a boy get his thing free,” they’d told me since I was a little girl. “It’s dangerous.” They said that if a boy was ever allowed to get himself free, his clit would grow to three, four times its size, and it would possess him to rape and rape, women and boys, indiscriminately, until his great lust was spent and he died.
That didn’t sound like Boy. Boy didn’t seem dangerous. He was always polite and gentle, bowing like a gentleman, helping me with my books after school, cleaning my room every day. When Mom yelled, he looked at the floor and apologized profusely. The only times he edged near to defiance were when Mom punished him hardest, usually after a drink or few, either with her bony hand or her harder-still prosthetic strapon, when he would try desperately to get away. The only noises he made were the sounds of acceptance, the hushed wailing of a hard spanking, or the softer, deeper sound of being plowed. “Uh, uh,” he sighed.
At first she only fucked him in the bedroom, but it didn’t take long for her to forget the modesty altogether and take him standing in the kitchen while he cooked. Then she’d punish him for burning the dinner, 10 smacks on the ass after he waited, face to the floor, for us to eat. Sexually degrading work. That must have been when Mom would dress him in lingerie and have him do a strip tease. That must have been when Mom slapped his ass while she walked by, virtually every time. That must have been when she jammed the cooking spoon so deep down his throat that he puked.
I mulled the words over in my head. Sexually degrading work. I thought about Protective Services, and how little they had done. Was that just the way of things? You get sold into a house, you try your best to obey, and your owners can still violate you with impunity. Sexually degrading work. I couldn’t help but touch myself, lying in bed, thinking about Boy in his kennel downstairs. Was this how it was everywhere? Did boys in other countries get raped by their owners? Those women in the headscarves on TV, did they own boys? You never saw boys on TV except for dating shows or competitions. Maybe a fussy old husband on a scripted show now and then. What were boys like? What were their inner lives like?
That night I dreamt I was a boy, or rather, Boy. Scared, alone, I showed up for my first day of work and looked up and up at the impossibly tall figure of Mom. I had the body of a boy. All my curves there gone- the curves I had waited so patiently for while all the other girls cruised through puberty. I had Boy’s thin shoulders, his dainty wrists and ankles, and I had his cock. Only, in the dream, I wasn’t caged. It grew out in front of me, long and thin and writhing like a snake. It sized up the women before me, and before I could do anything, it struck. First at Mom, snapping forward and the coiling back up, then at me. Only I didn’t pull back in horror, like Mom. I was smiling. The girl-me reached out and touched the snake, which made it grow even longer, longer than my arm. It sniffed around and worked its way up the girl-me’s dress, up to my special spot, where it clanged into metal. I couldn’t believe it: the girl version of me was locked in chastity! I started to cry. I didn’t notice that Mom had left until she returned with the meat cleaver. That’s when I woke up.
I remembered the dream, with all its twisting emotions, like it was real. I touched myself, my manicured tuft of pubic hair, and the soft warmth below, safe knowing it was free. I couldn’t imagine the sensation of being locked up, the lack of sensation. Ever since I’d first discovered myself in 6th grade, I couldn’t keep my hands off it. The idea of losing it chilled my veins. And yet I was still warm-blooded, still horny, always fucking horny. They always said to me “it’s your teenaged hormones. It’s a phase. It’ll pass.” Hormones. Sure. But then I remembered: four years at the academy. He would have been 14 at the oldest when they first enforced his chastity. All those hormones. Bottled up. Indefinitely. Maybe he was a powder keg. Did he touch his enforcer and wish it was free? Did he fantasize like me?
And what of the snake? What did a penis look like? I tried to imagine a giant, oversized clit, red and round and bouncing over a bi-globed sack, like a seed pod. Not a good look.