Nusquam Beckons

Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

“I couldn’t hold it any longer, Miss Rhonda. I’m sorry,” the words faltering, the youth in near tears.

“Of course you couldn’t. Little boys like you have no determination... no resolve... no perseverance. If you did, you wouldn’t put yourself under the tutelage of a woman. How bad... number one or number two?”

“Both.”

“Yuk. Well stop blubbering and go to your shower stall. It’s late and little boys need to go beddy bye... so be quick.”

The youthful male trots with fervor, bare feet padding the carpeting. Meanwhile Rhonda’s hand goes to the holster of her Glock. Within, a small pouch yields a key. She smiles in grasping it, sensing empowerment. Then she follows.

“Chores finished? Coffee maker ready for tomorrow morning?” she calls out ahead.

“Yes Ma’am.”

“Good boy.”

Rhonda steps in to the large specially modified second floor bathroom. She notes her charge stands on a low stool within a huge shower stall, designed for locker rooms, his arms raised to an overhead bar. In wait, he has snapped a dangling padded cuff about his left wrist. Rhonda joins him, encircles the right wrist and snaps closed a second cuff.

Naked but for thick, canvas diaper, metal strips inserted to preclude cutting, Rhonda aligns her key with a sizable padlock at the small of the back. Secured under incredible tension, the locking strap springs free, the relief from the constant pressure on loins and scrotum giving rise to a loud rush of lung emptying air.

“Thank you. Thank you. Must it always be so tight Miss Rhonda?”

“Yes. You need to feel maternal control. You need to know that your p***s outside of my presence is not to be seen... and certainly not something with which to toy.”

Loosening the sole garment, the canvas falls to the shower floor. An assisting hand peels at the cloth liner, odorous, the wetness causing the soiled cloth to cling to the skin. Fingers carefully avoiding foul sludge, the mess likewise falls to the shower floor.

“Disgusting, Matthew. You really are a big baby... soiling your diaper like that.”

“I’m sorry Ma’am.”

“Well bring yourself up for me. Put on a nice show.”

With that, the soiled diaper and canvas covering are kicked aside. Then the foot slowly pushes the low stool from under scrambling feet. With a suppressed grunt, Matthew’s naked form lowers, his arms and wrists accepting the stress of hanging, toes some three to four inches over the shower drain.

Penis always locked away when not under a woman’s supervision... the interval of chastity not recalled... Matthew indeed hardens. Rhonda smiles as she steps away for the spray hose, the nightly exhibit bringing great cheer.

“Had an interesting dinner meeting. Seems one of my deputies is a woman of governance. Has a houseboy serving her... neutered... balls long gone.”

Rhonda speaks as she turns on the hose and adjusts the temperature. She smiles in seeing her servant Matthew shudder in concern with the topic. Satisfied with the tepid flow she approaches. Beginning at the arms then neck, she slowly begins the nightly ritual, dousing with warm water, a teasing comforting sponge bath to follow... and more. As her hand works the spray downward... back, chest then stomach... there comes a feeling of feminine power, Matthew, of notable size, hardening under her maternal care.

“You babies always get so excited when Mommy offers attention. Whatever are you going to do when you graduate?”

“I don’t know, Mommy,” Matthew’s psyche joining in the nightly ritual.

Rhonda Flamboise has long catered to the curious penchant of males desiring to be treated as infants... the so termed adult baby syndrome. She understands, she nurtures, installing a nursery in her home and offering free room and board to a deserving college student.

Matthew is the latest in a long string of... conquests? Rhonda always questions if the term is apropos when there really is no adversarial engagement.

In so doing, she pampers her own penchant as well, specifying male organs of size, able to stiffen but only under her supervision. With her maternal stewardship comes chastity... strict chastity. Matthew cannot remember his last normal orgasm... and he’s in the final semester of a four year degree.

Plus there is oral servitude. Initial proficiency not required, it’s fun for Rhonda to instruct... part of the ABS is to firmly lecture and teach. And as with all things new.... practice... practice... practice... makes perfect.

The spray further lowers, about the buttocks and groin finally attacking remnants of the excretions, sludge and urine directed to the drain to freshen the room air. When the rinse is completed, Rhonda represses all indications of her delight as her free hand goes to the upstanding penis... rigid, purple, seeming to stand in salute to her authority.

Matthew is well endowed. Such a shame that his warped sexuality will forever obviate normal s****l relations, Rhonda sometimes thinks. But then again, under her auspices, she will assure that normal is not only never attained... but never desired.

Index and middle finger gently press at the top of the engorged p***s tip then slowly push downward, the angle known to bring discomfort. Matthew grunts.

“What’s happening here Mattie? Your little peepee has grown. Momma’s little boy is showing off.”

“Please, no more Mommy. It hurts.”

“Well that’s what happens to bad little boys who think their p***s is something that should grow and be displayed. If you so much want that, little Mattie, I’ll get you a nice high prosthetic collar. With a little tension on your spinal cord, you may be able to show off even more.”

Planting the thought, Rhonda releases, satisfied in seeing the p***s tip snap upwards. Such virility... such feminine empowerment.

The hose is put aside. A soft chamois is soaped. Little Mattie receives a soothing cleansing... everywhere. Rhonda knows the ABS psyche, the infant needing to feel maternal hands and fingers... unfettered access. Thus a soapy finger slides into the rectum, Rhonda noting that the feet and knees part to offer access... welcoming. She wriggles about freely.

“Mattie needs to control his poopy hole. Bad things happen here,” the words cooed in a humiliatingly lecture. “And you need to be shaved. Little baby boys don’t have hair... not here,” the free hand kneading and caressing the scrotal sac.

“Yes, Mommie.”