Our First Domestic Part 3

Part 1

Part 2

They put me in pervert school. I’d like to say I wasn’t embarrassed, but I was. My mother, the proud, stern woman who could never ask for help, who always insisted the schools were run by idiots and nepotists, who was flagrantly and shamelessly abusing the hired help in front of me daily, sent me to pervert school. The hypocrisy was almost too much to bear. The sessions happened after school, twice a week in a classroom with the other unfortunates, and once a week alone with Mrs. Lamley, the gym teacher and guidance counselor. Lamley wasn’t exactly a model of sexual function either, since rumors had surfaced about extra-late volleyball practices with less-than-normal dress code. In fact, she’d only started the program after they removed her from the coaching staff. She was pretty much your typical grown-up jock, shorter and angrier than she’d like to be, and probably a female supremacist, although she couldn’t acknowledge it publicly.

I tried to cover my tracks by leaving with the girls at the end of the day and then walking back to the mandatory meetings, but that only bought me a week at most. I bet it was one of the conniving bitches from the class. The slags in the scum will pull you down with them for no other reason than jealousy, and this class had its share of slags. Sabrina was a serial masturbator, the creepy fat chick who sat in the back of class. She’d been socially dead since middle school. Aimee was a former “hot chick” who had gone painfully anorexic. I heard she’d been raped by some hick boys after a party. They did that sometimes, the wild boys who lived out in the country, beyond modern society. Alex was openly gay. She claimed to have a boyfriend in the next town over, but everyone knew she just hated her Supremacist mother. Margaret came sometimes too, even though she’d graduated from the program. As a senior and a reformed homosexual, she was supposed to be our role model. No one had ever seen her girlfriend either.

And then there was me, the talk of the school. One week envied, the next despised. Lamley made me explain the incident in front of the whole group, and I know that the fags were actually getting off to it. I mean, I have nothing against them personally, but I didn’t really want them schlicking off to my personal history. The whole thing was embarrassing, what else can I say.

In one-on-one, I told Lamley what she wanted to hear. He wasn’t the object, he was only a prop. Boy could have been any of my school friends (she liked that), but he was the only thing around. Hormones. Angst. Acting out. The usual. But not a case for therapy. Please, not a long-term commitment. Lamley wanted to keep me in group discussions for a while before making up her mind.

There was an introductory video featuring a tall brunette in a lab coat and a short blonde who looked vaguely familiar standing in an empty classroom. “Welcome to the Intergender Education program, brought to you by The Council for Sexual Health and Gender Relations. You are enrolled in this program because you are a young woman between the ages of twelve and eighteen, and you have acted inappropriately with a member of the male gender. First of all, don’t worry! Every individual is different, and she must decide for herself how to interact with the males in her life. We are here to help you decide for yourself what changes you’d like to make to life a happier, healthier life. We will be exploring the basic causes and results of various behaviors common in young women of your age, but first let me introduce myself. I’m TV’s Michelle Bagley. You’ve probably seen me on Hardly Matters or other daytime programs.” That sitcom was over 20 years old.

The camera zoomed in and followed the taller woman to the blackboard. “And I’m Dr. Tabitha Grey. Did you know that many women who act out with boys are searching for an outlet for their own sexual insecurities? Do you ever think about sex and feel insecure? Maybe you’re unsure about the shape of your body. Maybe your nose is too big or your hair is too flat. Or maybe you don’t think you’ll be good at sex, that you’ll disappoint your partner. By identifying these insecurities, we can start to understand why we behave the way that we do.

“For example:” She looked at the blackboard and it became an animated graphic, “Janie over here gets made fun of because she’s not as tall or thin as the other girls. Janie gets very angry but she doesn’t know how to express that anger. So Janie doesn’t let her boy eat so he gets very skinny and sad. She had her boy taken away from her because she doesn’t treat him right.

“Now Carla over here is a different sort. She reads all the fashion magazines, especially the explicit columns. Her big sister always tells her how important it is that she please her wife one day if she wants to be a good wife. Carla wants to learn about sex but she’s too afraid to approach any of her classmates or teachers. Instead Carla acts out sexually towards her boy. How her boy is in re-education for five years and Carla has to clean up her own room.”

It was as condescending as it was unrealistic. I watched as the boiled the incredible complexity of human relationships into five archetypes and recommended a simple fix for each. “Finding out which type of woman you are can be your key to appropriate intergender relations.”

Mrs. Lamley insisted at the end, “Just think about it and talk to me. Don’t worry, I won’t let you go gay like Alex.” Because everyone knew you could “go gay” just by interacting with boys too much. Antiquated bullshit thinking.

When word of my new extracurricular got out, my friends were less than understanding. I certainly didn’t think a person could “go gay”, but being treated like a fag day after day certainly wasn’t helping. Even my most understanding friends would get weird when the topic of cute girls came up in conversation. There was an unspoken, “not that you would be interested in that,” and a condescending disbelief when I joined in. The less understanding ones called me names: Taker, Boy-slut, Rape-starter, Pole Licker, Cock Slut, and of course the more perennial Queer, Whore, and Unlocker. Never mention that I didn’t actually have sex with him, that I never unlocked him, that I never put that weird appendage in my mouth or any other part. No one cared about the details.

There were weirder side effects of my new reputation. I had never really believed Aimee’s story about the boys from the woods riding up on her at the end of a hike and taking her roughly in the grass. I had touched myself a couple of times to the idea, but never considered it credible. Wild boys were an old husband’s tale, something mothers tell wayward girls to get them home before curfew. But if Aimee was faking, she knew how to act the part. The way she looked at me, not just the intense coldness that was becoming commonplace, but the sneer with which she spoke to me, the sudden hate. She never used the words “Rape-starter” but her implications were clear: she blamed me for something. Her abuse? She would have everyone believe so. Some people, not reasonable people, but some people, believed that arousing, or even worse, fucking boys, set off rape binges. That a “taste for pussy” could send any boy on an unstoppable rampage.

Even if the idea were the last bit credible, my event with Boy happened long after her assault. If it even happened. Such a drama queen.

I got the opposite reaction from Alex. “What was it like?” she asked me after class one day as we got a slushy from the corner store together. Two weeks before, I wouldn’t have been caught dead with her, but now she was the only one who wanted to get a slushy.

“What do you mean?” I asked. “You’ve been with plenty of boys.”

“Well sure,” she nodded, “but what was it like for you?”

Alex was a bit shorter than me, but otherwise my white doppelganger. She had my straight, brown hair, my wide-set eyes and full lips, even some of my ass (for a white girl). I had a few pounds on her, no doubt my Mom’s genes at work. Alex was pretty cute.

“I liked it,” I said. “I’m probably not supposed to say that, but I did. Don’t tell anyone.”

“Who am I going to tell?” she asked with a pitifully weak smile.

“Sure,” I agreed. “He was really surprised. I was acting like I wanted to stick it in him, but then I had him wear the strap-on. His eyes were bulging out of his head. He probably could have died of a heart attack, he looked so excited. That was pretty fun.”

“Oh,” she said. “You didn’t get his thing out?”

“No. I didn’t really think about it,” I admitted. “I don’t know where his key is anyway. I don’t know if my mom bought it.”

“Sure. But how did it feel? Was he thrusting into you really hard or what?” She stared at me like a slice of moist cake. She was getting off on this, I could tell.

“Nah, I was riding on top of him. I don’t know, I wasn’t really paying attention to him. It just felt good and I could feel him sort of moving and squirming around under me. It just felt good to get it really deep inside of me.”

Alex laughed, “You really are a boy-slut, aren’t you.”

The spell was broken. She didn’t understand me any better than my shitty friends. “Yeah, whatever,” I replied.

“I wasn’t being mean,” she explained. “That’s just something gay people say. It’s endearing.”

“Well I’m not a gay person.”

And what about Mom? That stupid tyrant who ruined my whole social life? She couldn’t be bothered to talk to me and try to raise me like a real parent. No, she stuck to punishing defenseless Boy and let the school deal with the real problem, namely me. Mom was merciless. You would think he really had raped me the way she talked to him while giving it to him roughly.

“You disgusting pervert,” she would say, “you dirty, nasty creature. Looking at my daughter that way, disrespecting me in my own house. You sneaky animal. Accepting my hospitality while harboring nasty urges towards my daughter. You disgust me.” All the while rutting his ass like there’s no tomorrow. It was embarrassing, both the over-the-top scolding from Mom and the less-and-less stoic grunting (squealing) from Boy. You would think he had taken his enforcer off and was walking around with a swinging dick. You would think he was a wild boy, the way she treated him.

I must admit that I felt bad. Boy didn’t deserve to be punished. And yet, if I made that clear to Mom, what would she do to me? Would she even believe that it was my idea? I was scared to find out.

For her part, Mom wasn’t exactly a model of propriety. The wide, mad eyes, her violent thrusting and pumping, even the stream of hateful vulgarity coming from her mouth, it all pointed to an experience more intense than a simple punishment. I mean, Mom would fly off the handle at me from time to time, but there was a clear pleasure she took in punishing Boy, an animalistic pleasure. Which is not to mention her actual method: sex, essentially. She was fucking him, ramming her rod up his ass, taking him roughly. Call it punishment, call it effective, but it was still a kind of sex. It left Boy shaking and sweaty, and occasionally Mom as well. And if it was really punishment, why did I want it so bad? Poor, poor, Boy, I thought to myself as my hand made its journey southwards. Poor, panting, punished Boy.

“How can you do this to him?” I confronted her one night.

“This is how you teach boys. Everyone knows that. It’s the only thing they understand.”

“But it’s illegal!” I insisted in a loud whisper, hushing my voice for no reason.

“And that’s how the world works, baby girl. Not everything that’s right is legal, that’s the way of things. Boy could buy his freedom tomorrow and walk out of here, that would be legal, but it wouldn’t be right. He wouldn’t have an owner to teach and guide him. If we stopped him, what jury in the world would say we’d done wrong?”

It was a surprisingly direct answer from my usually wrathful Mom. She must have sensed my growing empathy because she started involving me more and more in the nightly punishments. Mind you, the jealous bitch would never let me touch him, but she insisted I watch his spanking and had him kiss my feet while she did the rutting, insisting he apologize to me directly. It nearly broke my heart.

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

Week 1

The first week of what I hope is the rest of my life is now over. It's incredible how years and years of working towards and hinting at this sort of a relationship have gotten me nowhere, but one week of Goddess deciding to take control has changed everything. It relaxes me for two reasons: 1) I wasn't doing anything wrong in the past, aside from the usual mistakes people make in relationships. A sub can't make a D/s relationship happen by him/herself. 2) She said she had her change of heart from reading something on this blog. After great consternation and heartache on my part, last week I sent her the link for this blog for the first time. I was deeply concerned about what she would think about my stories, but that night she delivered her list of rules. I've purposely kept this blog hidden from all the people in my life so that I will feel free to write anything I want. She had seen me working on stories many times, but this was the first time I let her read one. But it wasn't a story that triggered her. She said one of the personal posts told her what she needed to know. And that's me being me. And she likes me!

Things have been different. I haven't gotten to touch myself. We both agree that wearing chastity around the office is a bit weird (and unwieldy. I don't understand why guys I read online don't have bulge issues.), but as soon as I get home I lock up and hand over the key. Even when I have gone on self-enforced stints, I would generally cheat here and there to feel at least the pleasure of an erection. There's no cheating now, and it's a different beast of desire altogether.

I managed to milk myself for the first time, something I've been trying for a while. I was given permission to masturbate, but not the key to my device. I was using my dildos like I sometimes do but this time I realized it was for real: I could not get out. So I just kept working and working at it, not particularly harder than any other time, but now with the knowledge that it was my only option. Sure enough I got a fair amount of white stuff out. Have to admit, it just felt like peeing. I have had something I could class as an "orgasm" (a sort of all-over nerve tingling) while playing with my ass, but this was not one of those.

Goddess has allowed me to lick her ass in the past, particularly on my birthday or when we've been drinking. This past week she has been much more amenable to sitting on my face. Not only that but she's really working it, seriously going for pleasure. Not only that but she's been forcing my face into her ass as well, usually giving me a nice compliment for hitting the spot. Probably the sexiest thing she's done this week is after letting me up from a hard ass grinding session she said, "You did a very good job." It made me feel so sub.

I've been trying to be good but it's a learning curve for me as well as her. One night I failed to keep her wine glass filled as specified in the rules. The next morning she started fooling around with me. After I had worked her up, when I asked to please fuck her, as I usually do, she told me I had to use my "big cock," the strapon. It's always slightly awkward because the strapon doesn't sit in exactly the same position as my biological cock and obviously I can't feel it firsthand. Still, I think I was fucking her well, and she guided my movements with a hand of my back and ass, like she usually does. After she came, that was it. At first I didn't know what to do with my frustration. I went down on her and licked the lube from her beautiful pussy, but that didn't help me and she was clearly over it. So I just lay there and let my erection slowly fade. It's always a slightly sad feeling to lose an erection, as you instruct your body to relax and all your nerve endings quiet down. I felt angsty, frustrated, but undeniably excited and happy. At work afterwards, I kept that quiet frustration, and it continued to build.

Even after I finally came on Friday, the first time all week aside from the milking, I was still horny. I managed another encounter on Sunday, and only then did I really feel better. But in the meantime, I felt like a college kid again. In my very first "honeymoon" period of a sexual relationship, right at the start of college, it felt like I was hard 24/7 and I literally could not stop thinking about sex. All this week, especially the last few days, I felt like that, and even better, Goddess felt it too. For the first time ever while I was driving, she grabbed on to my stiffening cock. I love those casual encounters, and Goddess had never seemed particularly interested in exploring my body, at least not in that virgin discovery kind of way. Now she seemed genuinely interested in my arousal as an object of curiosity. Score.

One last report: it has supercharged ordinary experience with sexual tension, at least for me. I don't know yet if Goddess shares this. Last week I got up to fill her glass. As I was opening the wine bottle, I got hard (insofar as that's possible in a chastity device). Suddenly the mundane task of opening wine felt like a sexual act, because I was working towards a possible release, because I was playing the game that Goddess had set out, because I was pleasing her. Yesterday, in a reefer frenzy, I was searching for some candy to eat. Earlier in the week, Goddess had given me some of my favorite candy the day after I kept her rules. She noticed that I wanted candy and gave me several pieces from the secret stash. I got hard. Eating candy became a sexual act. All because the rules of the game have changed.

That's it. That's my first report from the other side.

Yissss

Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah and yeah. Had a couple of talks over the holiday week about what each of us wanted in this relationship. Well I need to step up my game because Godess has stepped up hers. She delivered to me a list of December rules, signed off with the ominous note, "follow these rules and your rewards will exceed your punishments." Shivers down my spine. She texted me at work that she wanted to fuck my ass. I think she understood me when I said I didn't want to feel humored. The first day I earned a reward in the form of delicious corn starch pumped with corn syrup: my favorite candies. However, that night I failed to keep Godess' wine cup filled, so this morning I got a punishment. She let me wake her up with sexy times, but when I asked to fuck her, she instructed me to use the strap-on dildo (don't worry, we keep separate toys). Happily and gave her her pleasure, and at the end, nothing for me. It's the first time she's denied me, or really any woman has straight up told me know when at that point. It felt... interesting. I felt truly submissive, like I'd performed a service and that service was done.

This woman is amazing. And so quiet to the outside world. She has rarely pushed dominance on me aside from a few special occasions. Her taking this step to bring it out of the bedroom and into our relationship and daily life is more than I could have hoped for. I have felt more fulfilled in this last week than I have in any relationship ever.

BTW, there is a new story coming. It's half finished. I've decided to return to my rule: don't post part 1 until the whole thing's done. I hate an abandoned story, and I have abandoned many. More to come.

The Price of Admission Part 4

When Roberts finally returned a week later, we took things slow. He looked haggard, tired, even though he’d only been gone for two weeks total. His normally tight-fitting clothes looked a little baggy on his skinny frame. He was sitting on my stoop as I pulled into the driveway after work. I gave him tea and sandwiches. He didn’t say much, except to ask, in the sweetest, little voice, for me to remove his enforcer before he showered. I made dinner too, and when we went to bed, I touched him only to hold him close and cuddle.

He woke hard as iron, unconsciously rubbing against the bedsheets. With slender, delicate fingers, I teased his head while my other fingers raked softly through his hair. “Did you miss me?” I asked. When he gave me the right answer, I brought him to climax in seconds.

For the next few days he was very quiet. His youthful excitement had been dampened, I could see. Something in me felt guilty, though I don’t know why. It seems that my involvement, as slight as it was, burned in my head every time I looked at his expressionless face. I never meant for him to get hurt, not really, but of course I couldn’t tell him about my involvement now. It would only hurt our relationship with no benefit to anyone. There was no sense in lingering on the past, so I focused on the future. I took a few days off of work so that we could spend time together. I took him to the department store and spent hours dressing him up and showering him with compliments. As we shopped, I got into the cheerful spirit as well. I saw that a few well-chosen words of encouragement could shape his tastes twice as effectively as months of admonishment. I restrained myself, only buying him a few new outfits, but I realized that I could have his whole skater boy wardrobe in the trash in just a few months. That night I helped him cook dinner and the next morning I helped him clean the house. It wasn’t work I enjoyed, or felt obligated to perform, but spending time in his world seemed to make him happy. By mid-day he was back to his usual self, asking stupid questions, making silly jokes.

I took him out for a date that night, a proper date. Not to a fancy establishment where he would blush at the pretty waitresses, but a rustic-style smokehouse. Roberts felt more comfortable here, where he could make snide jokes about the trashy patrons and tell stories from his childhood. I guess his mom loved this sort of place even though his dad hated eating with his fingers. The more he talked, the more comfortable he became, until he was heatedly recounting all of his childhood fears and aspirations. He wanted to be an astronaut, I learned, and then after that a hair dresser. Eventually he settled on research assistant, but didn’t have the grades or drive for college. I realized that, for all my desire to shape and improve him, I had spent little time inside his head. In truth, he only wanted to be useful, like most boys. I couldn’t, and shouldn’t, continue this game of whack-a-mole, where I was trying to quash each of his pesky vices. I needed to work with his natural inclinations, use his wonder and naivette to both of our betterment.

When we got home, Roberts was flush with laughter and red meat. He was singing the songs he sang in choir, dancing around the room, whipping around the curtains, first like a sash on a beauty queen, then a bullfighter’s cape. “I am Fernanda, the fastest lance in the west,” he explained, whipping the curtain back and forth.

I gave him a look that startled him for a moment before he let out a giggle. I put my forefingers to my forehead and let out a snort, scraping the carpet with my feet. Him being behind the sofa, I had to vault the furniture to charge, hitting him in the middle with my shoulder as I wrapped my arms around him. The force drove him into the wall, where he let out an involuntary “oof.” I pulled him to the ground with my weight on top of him.

Roberts laughed, “You need to be careful. I just ate.”

I snorted again and licked his face. “I don’t do careful. I’m a bull,” I explained, my hand traveling the length of his body from his sensitive armpit to his more sensitive ass. I shifted a little to get my hand under my body, feeling for his already-hard cock trapped up against me. I felt it up and down. It wasn’t a large cock, or a wide one. In fact, it wasn’t particularly superlative in any way except for hardness. “I like it when you wear skirts for me,” I said. “They make your legs look great. And there’s easy access.” His panties were new too, with tight, snappy elastic and bright, vibrant colors. His partially freed cock pulsed in my hand. “Good boy,” I whispered. He closed his eyes and smiled.

I fished the pre-lubricated condom out of my pocket and pulled it over my fingers, my nails longer than what’s probably ideal, but it was too late now. I dragged the latex down his cock, over and under the scrotum, down his perineum, to the warm hole they wanted to invade. “Hey,” he breathed, but did nothing to stop me. He gasped when I entered him, his inflating ribcage outlined by his tight, clingy green shirt. I worked my fingers in and out, probing a little deeper each time, until I settled on a certain trajectory that brushed past his swelling prostate. He felt warm in my hand. “Oh!” he gasped when I rubbed his little prostate. “Nnng,” came from deeper in his throat.

“That’s good,” I told him, “you look so hot when I’m fingering you. I like how you move your body.”

He was breathing hard now, almost to the point of hyperventilation. His hips rose and fell with my fingers, his legs pulsing with the effort. And then, the most beautiful thing happened. A bead of clear liquid formed at the tip of his penis. Then some white joined it and the first bead dropped like a diver off the end of his pink head. Something deep in me melted watching that. It was just so incredibly hot. I couldn’t help but sink a hand down the front of my jeans as I kept up the pressure with my other hand. Sure enough, his cock kept going, sputtering out (not with much force) his lovely little boy cum. Roberts was now moaning audibly, driving his hips up and down such that I was barely moving my hand. “Good boy,” I exclaimed, “Very good.”

That night, when he fucked me, he lasted longer than ever before. His cock felt great for the first while, although, I was so wet that he was hardly making any friction. I rode him for a while, but after his cock slipped out for the third time, I just about lost my patience. Nor could he get me off when I leaned over the side of the bed and he stood on tip-toes. I could feel him trying to drive his cock deep into me, but his hips just bounced off my ass before he got very deep. Then the bitch had the temerity to slap my ass. I looked at him sternly. “You like that, baby,” he asked. His face fell a little and he broke my gaze to return to staring at my ass.

“That’s enough,” I told him. His little boner faded quickly as we sat on the edge of the bed. “You’re going back in chastity,” I announced, “but I just got the best idea.” I had him pay for it, although he had to take out debt from me. Only $50 or so, but it was still significant to the relationship. Now he had a contractual obligation to me. I picked out the dildo, an eight-incher with nice girth, plus a vibrating head. I got a second one too, but I paid for it. The second one was smaller, smaller than any of the toys I already owned. I even had Roberts explain to the woman at the register that he was buying a new cock to fuck his girlfriend because his wasn’t good enough. She seemed to understand.

“Get pretty for me,” I instructed as I made myself a drink. He made the right choice, the choice I hoped he’d make, and came back in his manliest pink skirt and sheer white crop top, all over black fishnets- both stockings and sleeves.  I could just imagine what his skater boy friends would think seeing him all dressed up like that. He had put on make-up too, some nice blush and lipstick. “You look gorgeous,” I told him, which seemed to make him happy. Next came the harness, which I helped him into, over the fishnets but under the skirt. His own small package tucked neatly into a pocket of the harness. Then I put the cock on. It was black and ribbed, probably twice the size of his own pitiful erection. “And now look,” I exclaimed, “you’re looking just like a man. Anyone who didn’t know you would think it’s your own.” The hanging cock tented his pink skirt in the most delicious way. “You want to get me ready, baby?” I asked, sitting in the living room and taking a sip of my drink. Roberts sat in front of me, big obedient eyes staring up into mine. “You can start with my feet.” I watched his skinny ass as he rubbed and the suckled on my feet, first the left and then the right. I was ready for his mouth, which he offered generously, sucking and licking my steaming sex greedily, lapping up my folds and suckling my button. As I’ve said, what he lacked in ability he made up for in enthusiasm. I had him sit in the chair as I straddled him, working the new toy inside, cold against my aching cunt, but only for a moment. Soon the dildo was glistening with Roberts’ spit and my own juices, sliding in and out of me with greater ease. This was what fucking is supposed to feel like. I lowered myself down slowly, with great determination, until my cunt was filled completely. “Yes,” I moaned, lips on Roberts’ ear, fingers holding tight to his hair. “Yes, that’s how I want it. Finally a proper fuck out of you.” He was thrusting with all the force of a timid doormouse, but I’ll be damned if it didn’t fill me up just the way it should. “Fuck, fuck,” I grinded up and down his abdomen, jamming my clit against his body as I rode the surrogate cock, listening to the hushed panting he made as I pushed the air from his lungs. “Harder, harder!” I insisted, for all the good it did me, but in the end, I brought myself to a pretty decent orgasm, the best I’d had with Roberts’ assistance.

When I was ready, I dismounted and pulled the cock from its holster. “Now it’s your turn,” I explained. Of course, naive dear he was, looked to his crotch. I shook my head, trying hard to suppress the smile. “You’re going to cum the way that I did,” I told him. “I’ll help.”

Roberts was suddenly serious, the playfulness gone from his tone. “I really d-d-uh-don’t please I de-duh-don’t want to d-d-do that. I’m not r-re-uh-really feeling-”

“Oh please, baby,” I insisted. “Please. It’s just so hot. I love watching you like that.”

His voice was low and desperate. “I don’t want to.”

“No fun,” I sighed. I took the harness off of him and inserted my own dildo anyway. When I pulled up the harness, the small dildo’s other end sank into my pussy, significantly smaller than the previous delight, but enough to get purchase inside of me. I walked around the room, admiring my new cock. I even gave it a stroke or two, which manipulated the other end in a most… interesting way. “Are you sure you don’t want this,” I asked, looking down at myself. “I mean, I look like a sex goddess. Look at me.” He looked, but his face did not change. “Okay, that’s fine,” I said. “That’s fine.”

“Are you still going to let me out?” he asked, meek as a schoolboy.

“Still?”

SCUM highlights

No new fiction for you beautiful people yet. I was just perusing the SCUM manifesto today for some man-hate inspiration. So, in the tradition of violent dismemberment, here's the one part of the SCUM manifesto that interested me as a disgusting chauvinistic pig

.SCUM will couple-bust -- barge into mixed (male-female) couples, wherever they are, and bust them up.

Men in the Men's Auxiliary are those men who are working diligently to eliminate themselves, men who, regardless of their motives, do good, men who are playing pall with SCUM. A few examples of the men in the Men's Auxiliary are: men who kill men; biological scientists who are working on constructive programs, as opposed to biological warfare; journalists, writers, editors, publishers and producers who disseminate and promote ideas that will lead to the achievement of SCUM's goals; faggots who, by their shimmering, flaming example, encourage other men to de-man themselves and thereby make themselves relatively inoffensive; men who consistently give things away -- money, things, services; men who tell it like it is (so far not one ever has), who put women straight, who reveal the truth about themselves, who give the mindless male females correct sentences to parrot, who tell them a woman's primary goal in life should be to squash the male sex (to aid men in this endeavor SCUM will conduct Turd Sessions, at which every male present will give a speech beginning with the sentence: `I am a turd, a lowly abject turd', then proceed to list all the ways in which he is. His reward for doing so will be the opportunity to fraternize after the session for a whole, solid hour with the SCUM who will be present. Nice, clean-living male women will be invited to the sessions to help clarify any doubts and misunderstandings they may have about the male sex; makers and promoters of sex books and movies, etc., who are hastening the day when all that will be shown on the screen will be Suck and Fuck (males, like the rats following the Pied Piper, will be lured by Pussy to their doom, will be overcome and submerged by and will eventually drown in the passive flesh that they are); drug pushers and advocates, who are hastening the dropping out of men.

Good on you, Valerie Solanas, you crazy person.