A Woman's Servant by Chris Bellows
A woman should supervise her simpering submissives and be served and tended to in order to satisfy her every wish and command, at least that is so in the world of Chris Bellows.
Nurse Cummings works hard at the Institute, overseeing the production of sperm from fecund donors. It is the most productive facility in the country, the methods bizarre, harsh, yet amazingly effective.
So should a woman of such authority clean her own house... cook her own meals? Of course not. Nurse Cummings acquires a servant and finds that her need to govern extends well beyond the walls of the Institute.
As with all Chris Bellows novels, we warn the readers that this book is not for the timid, first-timer to Female Domination. Mr. Bellows has the gift of description in his books; so much so, that you feel every snip, every slit and every, single ounce of pain the poor servant is put through.
Feminization, bondage, crossdressing, humiliation, a smattering of forced male on male intertwining and Nurse Cummings molds... A Woman’s Servant.
“No covering for the castrates either?”
I endeavor to make the sound of my voice clinical... professional... in no manner expressing surprise or concern. I do have considerable experience in medical care. But it’s my first day at the Institute and as I tour with the head nurse I need information. I have learned that such is best obtained without hint of naïveté. With my question, Nurse Devon smiles warmly, suggesting that she finds comfort with the otherwise unusual quartet of naked neutered males.
Yes, as she nods I detect a certain smugness, ‘boys without balls’, as she earlier referenced the busy naked forms, foster neither shock nor sympathy.
“Nakedness ingrains a sense of great vulnerability,” Nurse Devon offers, rather pedantically, wriggling her finger in a gesture of ‘come hither’.
A naked form instantly responds to the casual motion and steps forth, perched on high heels, the sole covering for otherwise complete nakedness. Though I have subtly been examining as we stroll through the sizable ward, with the lad more formally introduced, my gaze is free to assess without politely feigning inhibition.
“This is Pattie. You’ll get to know their names over time. But meanwhile they’re all tattooed for identification.”
Free to now visually examine, I note the complete absence of body hair, pubes included. What a male normally exhibits between the thighs is almost imperceptible, one almost expecting to spy the slit of a young girl.
By rote, Pattie gracefully pirouettes a quarter turn, quite the feat considering the precarious height of the footwear. He palms a soft smooth right buttock, rolling the thick epidermis upwards for better display. The smooth and well rounded cheek is most effeminate and the name ‘Pattie’ is emblazoned in bright pink. He... she? proudly presents a permanent gaily colored moniker which would fluster the intact male.
I nod as Nurse Devon lowers her right hand, reaching forth palm upwards. Pattie knows to release her cheek, hands moving to the back of her head. She then steps forth and parts her feet, meekly presenting her pubes for a humiliating inspection, apparently to be ceded upon demand. Instead of shy resistance, there comes a coy smile, followed by a girlish giggle, suggesting the offered hand is welcomed, readily accepted as a curious form of greeting.
“Yes, with the vulnerability of constant nakedness comes obedience,” the lecture continuing as the index finger of the left hand reaches to Pattie’s head to playfully jostle a wisp of hair.
The hair style is simple... little girlish... parted in the middle, hanging straight down, cut at the jaw line with bangs evenly festooning the forehead. I note that more than Pattie’s right cheek has been tattooed. The eyes have been permanently touched up, ever so slight coloring at the corners to augment the aura of femininity brought by the simple coiffure.
As Nurse Devon diddles with the fingers of her right hand, I note the puffy nipples crinkle to points. Her touch is found to be sensuous, in any other medical environment a most taboo palpation of... of what? Pattie has been castrated! of male remnants?
“This is Nurse Cummings, Pattie. She’ll be supervising the afternoon shift.”
Balanced on high heels, Pattie awkwardly curtsies! Obedience indeed!
The duo peer into each other’s eyes in unspoken communication. Pattie is in awe, her look one of wonderment and admiration. Emotionally she yields. Nurse Devon’s more relaxed gaze is one of insouciance, one of power, her hand free to roam the entire nakedness. Of this Pattie is very much aware. Yes, she yields, not only physically capitulating but mentally as well.
“They all like having their empty scrotums caressed,” Nurse Devon explains, “especially by their castratrix. Something the psychologists try to construe, but really cannot fully explain. In neutering a boy, the intensity of the exchange of power cannot be adequately described. And ironically... it’s so quick and so easy. I offered to snip one of the shrinks to demonstrate the wondrous dynamics of gender modification. Strangely... he declined.”
Nurse Devon cackles with her own words, her offer obviously in jest.
“Your penis is trying to get hard for me, Pattie. We’ll need to increase your estrogen.”
The diddling fingers are withdrawn. Pattie instantly pouts like the little girl he appears to be.
“Turn and bend, show Nurse Cummings.”
Whereas the touch of his castratrix is indeed strangely welcomed, showing himself to an unknown fully clothed woman mentally challenges. Pattie turns with glumness, more than adequately communicating her reluctance. Then I am pleasantly surprised when the heels part to amazing width and with hands remaining at the back of the head, Pattie bends at the waist, back arching with a suppleness exceeding that of any male, lowering such that the bangs of her forehead nearly greet the floor.
I quickly understand the reluctance. When so displayed, Pattie’s modified, once male organs, are open to full visual inspection. A tiny penis tip points backwards, the most modest shaft appears sutured, I assume not only precluding a standing erection, but to force the ingénue to squat when peeing. To the right and left of the vestigial male organ are floppy puffs of sensitive pink flesh, obviously where Nurse Devon plundered... where she snipped.
“Pattie... and the others... like being handled here,” Nurse Devon now more brazenly diddling the flaps of former maleness.
I note Pattie presents herself in perfect stillness, obedience ingrained. I quickly conclude, when a controlling woman desires access, Pattie will cede, no matter the level of degradation.
There is no visible scar of his alteration, just folds of thin scrotal flesh loosely flopping right and left of the sutured penis shaft. I imagine both the quickness and the callousness by which Pattie was forcibly transformed. And, medically the procedure is so simple, only local anesthesia required. I smile in recalling that Roman slaves were neutered utilizing two bricks, the gonads crushed between, maleness ended quickly but with an incredible burst of pain.
Comforting to know society has advanced.
“Psychologically we want any pleasure to be slight and evanescent... faint reminders of being formerly virile. It abets their handling of the donors... bestows a form of penis envy, so to speak.”
Nurse Devon’s index finger ceases its expert caresses, knowing precisely how to indeed bring slight and evanescent joy to the altered genitals.
“Go. It’s bath time,” a flustered but somewhat gleeful Pattie instantly righting herself after receiving a playful smack to a girlish right cheek.
As Pattie prances away, I note some sullenness with the rejection. Embarrassed, humiliated with my presence and being made to exhibit all things private, yet there is a degree of masochistic acceptance. I watch as the pretty cheeks roll, the high heels of the castrate forcing a most sultry gait.