Our First Domestic Part 2

Part 1

“You serve from the left side, not the right,” Mom groaned with exasperation. “How many times have I told you?”

He knew better than to talk back.

“You are setting yourself up for a long night,” she warned him, and that was before she found his secret stash. Crumbs, all over the floor of his kennel. “You only eat from your bowl, on the kitchen floor, when we’re done with your shit cooking,” she noted, “so why would there be crumbs in here?” The kennel was black on the bottom and the bits of snack showed bright as fool’s gold. “If you lie to me, I’ll know. Have you been sneaking food?”

Worse than any of the mistake he’d made this far, this was betrayal. Lying, thieving and cheating all in one. Mom got two toys I hadn’t seen before: a cane and a dildo at least an inch wider than the last, and several inches longer. His face welled up before the first blow had hit. Mom went off on him, telling him how lucky he was to be taken in, how we had trusted him and treated him kind, how personal this betrayal was, how many privileges he’d lose. Of course the majority of it was just Mom being Mom, but Boy didn’t know that. But after the waterworks started, the cane didn’t help. He was sobbing, deep, body heaves as the cane came down on his back, ass and legs. I wondered if the neighbors could hear.

She left him on all fours while she prepared to fuck him. Fucking as punishment seemed so odd to me. The noises he usually made were usually not of pain, although they were not exactly of pleasure either. It seemed unpleasant, if bearable, for him. The nature of the punishment seemed odd though. It wasn’t like spanking or caning or even humiliation punishment. This was singularly invasive, an ordeal, it seemed. And yet, when I slid things inside myself, starting with my little pen and eventually moving to larger conquests, it felt fantastic. Now, when I’ve been playing for a while, I invariably get this itch somewhere behind my ear, somewhere deep in the pit of me, that could use more, take more. It wants to be filled up. My fingers can only do so much. But here was Mom, filling up Boy against his will, as a punishment. It didn’t make sense.

She started with the old toy, jamming it unceremoniously up inside of him. She worked it quickly and evenly in and out, talking the whole time. “Do you know what it’s like to be violated? This is how it feels to be violated. To have your trust and your kindness taken advantage of.” The hypocrisy was unbearable. “A-huh, A-huh” was his only reply, the sound of the mechanistic thrusting, interpreted by his voice. Before long, he dropped his weight from his arms to his head, ass still high in the air. Now she moved into sharper, shorter jabs and Boy’s face contorted from a sigh to a grimace. “Ahh, ahh,” he grunted. She slapped his back and ass as she worked. “Don’t run away from me,” she warned.

Then it was time. She had been wearing the larger one the whole time. She flipped him on his back. “Were you a virgin when you got here?” she asked.

Through the tears he said, “We were given toys, near the end.”

Mom shot a glare at me. “Virgin,” she said disapprovingly. It seemed personal. After all, she

knew I was a virgin too. “Cringes at the sight of an extra small.” He cringed harder when the end pushed into him. Now I saw the pain. He grunted louder than ever before, the ends of the noises rising up to a scream. Then it was all screaming. “Shh, shh,” Mom yelled at him. She slowed her thrusting and he his crying. “There, there.” She slid her hips towards his. He made a sort of clicking sound in the back of his throat as she filled him up. And then something strange happened. His plastic cage hopped up three times all on its own, like a dancing bean, and then it coughed out some white phlegm through the pee hole.

“Ewww, what’s that??” I cried.

“That’s where boys come from,” said Mom, wiping it up with a long-fingernailed finger and depositing it in Boy’s mouth and nose. “Let’s get rid of all this trash,” she said.

It smelled disgusting and looked even grosser. It was viscous like snot and chunky like curdled milk. “I didn’t know that would happen,” I admitted.

“It’s okay,” she explained, “it’s just something their bodies do sometimes. The cage is supposed to help it, but they have accidents sometimes.”

Now here’s where the story gets weird- where I had my first major “lapse of awareness” as the school nurses termed it. It’s all because of Mom, really, the way she carried on in front of me, using Boy at every chance and never inviting me. That’s who I blame anyway.

I continued dreaming about waking us as Boy, but in all different situations. Always my boy self was uncaged while my girl-self was in chastity. Every time. An increasingly, after dreaming about his arrival and his spankings and house cleaning, I started dreaming about the penetration. The deep, hard assfucking that he received frequently from my mother.

As I’ve said, Mom didn’t get home until late most nights. Normally, I wouldn’t beat her by much, with all my clubs, and it being winter, baseball training. But one day, I wasn’t interested in practice. All day, and I mean all day, through every class and even during lunch, I was thinking about Boy. Specifically, I was thinking about the size of the tool Mom had punished him with, and imagining how far, if you could see it in outline from the outside of his body, it would go. Past the navel? Maybe. Probably not into the ribs. I thought about his face, the line between pleasure and agony. The resignation. And, of course, I replayed in my head the noises. Sweet music.

I went home right after school, after very seriously considering skipping math. He was eating when I got home. Can you believe that? He wore a skimpy maid’s outfit, the third new outfit Mom had bought him (no concern for my wardrobe of course). He looked like a porcelain doll, white lace on his shaven legs.

The dildos were in a box in Mom’s headboard. I didn’t often venture into her room. It smelled like her and her disgusting perfume. I wasn’t allowed in Mom’s room. I had suffered enough spankings to learn that one. The box held three dildos, one I hadn’t seen before. I was only concerned with the big one. I held it. It was heavy. Serious material. Held up next to my hand, it reached well past my wrist. I moved the dildo and strapon to my room, and returned downstairs.

He was under the table when I got there, awaiting his punishment, ass in the air. “Mom won’t be home for a few hours,” I told him. “We can do what we want.”

I had him pose up in my room, balancing in different positions in the late light coming through my white curtain. “Hands above your head.” You could count every rib and see the bending muscles of his abdomen as he breathed. Not a trace of fat. No trace of the latin love handles I had already begun to grow into. Every day my body reminded me more of my mom’s and I hated it, the tacky pig. She had no idea how to dress. Even in her best evening wear she looked like a pig in a girdle. Clueless about makeup too. “Bend over.” He rested his hands on the end of my bed. His plastic cage hung from his crotch like a tiny pinata. I rested the dildo on his back, right between his ass cheeks. It looked big. A hand slipped into my pants. “Is it big?” I asked him.

Uh-huh.

“Did it hurt when she used it?”

Uh-huh.

“Did they ever fuck you at the academy?”

“No, but they gave us toys.”

Well that set off a whole new world of ideas, boys bunked 10-12 to a room, all furiously diddling their asses, their white cotton panties a pile on the floor. All those sweaty boy bodies.

The dildo rolled off his back and hit the ground with a noticeable thump. Boy breathed in like he’d been struck.

“Are you scared?”

Uh-huh.

I eased the dildo into the harness- it stretched the elastic ring to the limit. “Step in,” I told him, lifting his feet through the straps. The harness was more complicated than expected. I pulled it up to height and started pulling every strap in sight. It seemed secure enough.

“Now how do you feel?” I asked.

He looked ridiculous. Instead of that little cage, now he had an absurd appendage. “Does your real penis look like this?” I asked.

He didn’t know.

When he walked it slapped comically from one thigh to the other. Slap, slap, slap. When he held it, his fingers didn’t quite go all the way around. “Imagine if you had something like that?” I asked with a laugh. I meant it as a joke, but my laugh betrayed me. It was a hot idea. I laid him down at the top of my bed so he was almost sitting up.

It wouldn’t go in at first. I pushed against it painfully a few times before I remembered an important step. I retrieved the tub of thick jelly from the box of dildos. “Gross,” I said as I smeared it up the length of my chosen dildo. That time, when I sat down on it, it resisted and bent like before, but with a little more pressure, it popped deep into me. “Ah!” I exclaimed under my breath. I’d never tried something of that size before. “Oh.” It was cold at first, but soon it started to warm, as did I. Boy started kissing me instinctively, kissing my chest through my blouse. I grabbed on to his head for stability as I pushed further down, letting the punishment cock fill me up. It was exactly what I wanted, exactly where I wanted. I could feel Boy writhing beneath me. The tingling had already begun in my fingers and toes and radiating out from the middle of me. “Uh, uh,” I was gasping for air as I thrust up, up and settled back down. I pushed against Boy’s chest for purchase as my eyes rolled back. “Hannie.” “Uh, uh,” I was still gasping. It felt right, right where I needed it. “Hannie,” “Stop moving,” I begged Boy, but he wriggled harder and harder, like he was fighting me. Then Mom’s hand came down on my head.

“Hannie, what in the world do you think you’re doing?”

I kept moving. The release was so close, right there, if I could just.

“Hannie!” She cried again, and shoved me off of Boy. “What are you doing?”

My void tingled with pain. The pain of loss. Of regret. God, it hurt.

Part 3

Our First Domestic Part 1

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?”

Yes.

“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.

Mom had none of it. “Don't get any ideas,” she snarled. At me! Her only daughter!

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.”

“Oh, we’re fine,” Mom responded, but couldn’t stop the inspector barging through the door, over her feet.

“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?”

Of course.

“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?”

Of course.

“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.

Part 2
Part 3