About Eve, A Femdom Novel by Chris Bellows
Ever wonder what became of the bossy, precocious little girl from your neighborhood? The cute one who ordered the boys around, made trouble and, being the favorite of all the adults, always got away with it.
Chris Bellows tells the story of one girl named Eve, whose early experiences with boys, which included feminizing her younger brother and later having his privates belted in steel, formed the basis for a lifetime of domination. Yes, the subtle dominance practiced in Eve’s youth imbued her with the desire, aptitude and ability to later manage the world’s most exclusive resort, where wealthy dominant women frolic with carefully selected submissives and their licentious pursuits are only limited by the imagination.
With chastity, denial, CBT, oral servitude, bladder control, strap on play, humiliation, body modification (piercing), caning and more, Chris Bellows captures the essential psyche of the dominant woman..., that all the world is there to serve Her.
A push of a button and in response the door to my office quietly opens. A tall, mostly nude male servant enters with a pot of coffee. The morning is young and he knows what I need. I smile with licentious smugness. He may interpret my look as being polite gratitude, but actually it is his brief attire, which causes my reaction. A wide and stiff leather collar partially immobilizes his head, restricting his gaze to straight-ahead at me. A leather chest harness serves to hold his shoulders back and thrust forward his pierced nipples where a pair of baubles dangle from two inch rings. A specially designed crotch piece restrains his well shaven scrotum and projects his mammoth plums forward, causing them to bounce off his thighs with each step. His penis, long and flaccid, but beginning to engorge, is pierced by a standard Prince Albert ring and secured upwards to a narrow belt around his waist. I know that the unseen part of his crotch piece, holding in place a sizable butt plug, provides my server with quite the stimulating prostatic thrill with each step he takes.
I cannot help but admire my work. The Spa’s uniform for male servants is my design, highlighting to the observer the sensitive parts and transmitting with each of the servant’s movements reminders of his own subservience. And it is functional, inhibiting fellatio and intercourse with the female servants, unless the waist belt is unlocked and such antics are supervised.
How to address this servant slips my mind. There are so many, and they come and go with their one-year tours. Although one would think that his lengthy penis would impress me enough to recall his name, all the males at the Spa are selected for their size. This phallus is nicely shaped, but is otherwise unremarkable compared to the dozens of sizable organs displayed by the servants of the Spa.
While he pours, my right hand reaches out and caresses the soft hairless scrotal flesh. The loose supporting strap below, pushing the testicles outward, allows for examination and play. His penis stirs and I cannot help smiling again. The shiny engraved disk hanging from his right nipple indicates that his name is Matthew. Inscribed beneath that is the number ‘9’ indicating the shaft, which is humbly beginning to salute me, can rise to nine inches. A similar disk on his left nipple tells me he is masturbated on Thursdays. So tomorrow, unless of course a guest intervenes, a member of the professional staff will bring him to climax in a most humiliating manner, probably before a gathering of guests in the reception area. And as flushed and embarrassed as Matthew will be, he will thank her. What a wonderful place of employment!
I sugar my coffee and just let Matthew wait to be excused. Sure enough, he indeed begins to stand, the lengthy shaft slowly thickening and changing color. Serving and being exposed to a fully clothed Dominant woman has that effect on the naked submissive male and I cannot help but enjoy the moment.
I sit back, slowly stir my coffee and watch.
After a few moments the pleasure of viewing reluctantly concedes to the drudgery of the day’s work. I diddle the underside of the hardened shaft, watch it twitch, then excuse him.
Matthew bows courteously and silently retreats.
Coffee in hand I swivel in my deep, comfortable office chair and gaze out the window to gather my thoughts and take in the natural beauty of the snow covered terrain.
The Spa is North America’s most exclusive resort. Located in the Canadian Rockies, in the winter it is noted for the skiing. The summer season offers swimming, hiking, tennis and equestrian activities.
The Spa’s exclusivity is punctuated by its limited accessibility. There are no roads for automobiles. The only practical means of transportation are by private railway train which departs daily from Calgary, some hundred miles to the Southeast, runs through scenic yet desolate Canadian forests and enters the Spa property through a subterranean opening carved through a mountain of granite. One supposes that a hiker could conceivably stumble onto the Spa, but certainly not during the winter when the snow drifts to the level of the treetops. And in more moderate seasons, the imagined trek would have to commence at a logging road some twenty miles away and circumnavigate aggressive bears and impassable mountains.
Originally dug by the railroad to access a lush valley of timber, the rail tunnel is the only entrance to the bowl shaped terrain occupied by the Spa. Formidable ridges and peaks surround the facility and the main building sits at the bottom of the bowl on a lake which in Spring and Summer collects the rain and melting snow from the surrounding slopes. Due to the limestone beneath, the lake slowly drains into numerous underground caverns formed by thousands of years of erosion. Not fully explored, it is believed the collection of tunnels siphon water to the west to join the headwaters of the Columbia River.
The harvesting of timber ended at the turn of the century, but it provided for dozens of trails. In the hurly-burly economy of the 1920’s, a wealthy entrepreneur purchased the entire valley and built a large lodge as a ski resort, then promptly went broke.
After years of disuse a secretive wealthy woman, said to be the entrepreneur’s granddaughter, refurbished the facility adding several distinctive features. Now in her seventies, I met her during my initial interview for employment at the Spa. Since taking over as Manager, my only contact has been to transfer to her account the huge profits of the world’s most libidinous resort.
The skiing is better than average, with the curious attraction that no matter which trail is chosen, it ends at the lodge, situated at the lowest point in the valley. This provides an appreciably distinct advantage for the wealthy indolent enthusiast...no long trudge for a hot toddy at day’s end.
But it is not the skiing that brings so many women to the most private and secluded resort in the Western Hemisphere. It is the service.