A Woman's Servant

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Hands and Feet

It is with impressive diligence that the donors are refused the slightest motion. I suppose if possible, the ability to blink an eye would be denied.

As I stand before 629, I inspect the hands. Such are enveloped in what can only be described as a cage of steel wires, about the gauge of clothing hangers. Attached are a myriad of clamps, tightly squeezing the digits at the tips and between the knuckles. Designed for those with extensive hand injuries, every finger, thumb included, suffers immobility to an astonishingly restrictive level.

It is psychologically important, I know in having read the Institute’s protocol manual. With nothing under the command of the donor, the wriggling of toes and fingers included, over time the mind accepts and the body transforms. Yes, there is nothing upon which to expend energy other than the production of urine, excrement and precious male seed.

I am reminded of livestock, cattle fattened for slaughter, cows well tethered for milking, cooped chickens with no other function than to lay eggs. Yes, in time as the mentality cedes so does the physical.

Indeed, they want to produce... for us... for the castrated caregivers. It becomes the only manner in which they can please, though thoughts of someday ejaculating never really expire in the male psyche... those that have been castrated included.

And so as 629... ‘Sugar Plum’... is bathed, the limbs become putty in the soft hands of Pattie. 629 has long capitulated, exchanging sperm for food, water and the only delight to be had... doted upon by a castrated male.

“You have a nice sized p***s, 629. When did you last stroke it... jerk off?” again tapping his nose in demonstrating my authority and his helplessness.

“I do not know, Ma’am, but I will gladly jerk off for you.”

Ah, the male psyche. So delusional when s****l performance is discussed.

“You’re not to move... not ever here at the Institute. You know that. You’re to be forever denied. And besides what would happen, given a freed hand. You’re well aware by now of the effectiveness of the Botox. You’ll get nice and hard for me but never ever spurt.”

“I will try for you, Ma’am...”

I smile with sangfroid, knowing that in imbuing such thoughts my words so much heighten the frustration of the kept male.

Pattie finishes the sensuous sponge bath, having released, tenderly washed and returned each limb to ineluctable restraint.

“He likes licking me, if you will give permission,” Pattie politely beseeches.

Being my first interlude of governance, I know not the proper response.

“Just for a moment,” I cautiously grant, reminding myself to seek Nurse Devon’s counsel.

I am pleased with my concurrence. What more diabolically charming scene can be offered to a woman of my ilk? Pattie moves to the head of the Gurney, turns, bends, and parts her cheeks, offering her altered tidbits, the sutured p***s, the fleshy folds of former maleness, to the mouth and lips of the prostrate 629. He licks with care and I realize over the years there has formed another bond... akin to that of castrated and castratrix.

Yes, Pattie is rewarded for her loving care, being orally teased by the well bound, well cared for producers of sperm.

And I am in charge, my loins warming with the quaint male upon male interaction. Such power!

“Do her anus as well, 629,” I command, sensing the heady rush of my complete authority. There comes a grimace of distaste. But my castrated servant receives a just reward.

“Enough. Hood him.”

A chagrined 629 is returned to sensory deprivation, the silencing gag slipped between the lips. Letting him move his tongue has been quite the treat.