A Woman's Servant 2

Chapter Five

Chapter Five

Emails from the Gentlemen’s Club

It’s Sunday. Christy has finished her exercise, scurrying about the corral in the cold January air. She was quite happy to be bathed, the application of warm soapy water finally loosening a scrotal sac that comically appeared to be trying to snuggle into the body heat of her inguinal canals. The control ring of the CB-6000 obviously averted complete disappearance and her little testicles eventually returned to full view.

So we lounge in the den, a naked Christy working on schoolwork while I peck away at the computer.

“You meet with the Dean tomorrow. Remember to ask Miss Evers to dinner. Any night but Thursdays when you work at the club.”

Christy ruefully nods. Though accustomed to performing and displaying herself naked before women, Miss Evers seems to push her buttons. Since I like to see naked young girly boys have their buttons pushed, it should be quite entertaining.

I have an email, from Dr. Powers and his so termed ‘gentlemen’s club’. Christy worked her shift there on Thursday. In arriving home late there was no discussion concerning the antics. Friday was a full day of classes and on Saturdays we focus on the beauty parlor. So I have had no feedback and Christy is always reticent concerning her labors, not offering anything unless I inquire.

Dr. Powers includes a brief note, but mainly the email is comprised of photo attachments.

Nurse Cummings,

Having Christy back with us gave rise to quite the entertaining evening. The members very much appreciate her efforts.

Enjoy the photos,

Dr. Powers

My having to offer Christy... and her servitude... to the gentlemen’s club members is nothing more than extortion. Yet other than having to arrange my own dinner once per week, the rendezvous results in very little inconvenience on my part. Plus it does broaden Christy’s training... not to mention delightfully grating her homophobia.

I open the first photo and laugh, quickly concluding that Christy will need to be fully debriefed on her night of subjugation. I have a hand of ginger in the refrigerator and have trained her to carve a proper sized anal plug. Thus anything but the full story... and such must correlate with the photos I am viewing... will result in a figging.

The first photo is of a completely naked Christy as someone... hands in the photograph, no facial features... is applying red body paint. The shade is alarmingly bright, that of a stop sign glowing in bright headlights.

I click away, opening photo after photo, as Christy is adorned. From her neck to her ankles she is painted, but for entertainment purposes I am sure, her bare flesh shows within circles about her breasts, if such is the proper term, and those buttocks I have pridefully shaped.

A loin cloth, matching crimson, encircles her waist and dips between her thighs to cloak her CB-6000; I am sure evidence of maleness being deemed offensive to the ‘gentlemen’ members. I note that it does not attach at the back of the waist but instead splits and the ends tie off just below the buttocks at the top of the thighs, leaving Christy’s crevice unimpaired.

The cheap ear studs have been removed and replaced with stunning diamond pendants, scintillating with the camera flash. A matching pair dangles from where the n****e tassels are normally attached.

As a woman I must wonder whether the sparkling jewelry is real. Based on the size of the cash envelope I receive every Monday after her servitude, I must guess yes. The members of the club are both affluent and generous.

Lastly, the wrists and ankles are once again circled with thin cloth straps, this time white, loose strands flopping about and flashing with more diamonds.

The faux restraints are useless for real bondage, nothing more than for show, reminding all of Christy’s status as serving slave. Once again the image of a bacchanalia with toga bearing Roman elite and naked boys comes to mind. Yet, the photos are either carefully angled or cropped to reveal no other identifiable person, the secretive club most clandestine.

“So, Christy, tell me about your servitude at the club on Thursday...” unaware that I am peering at telling photos.

As I prompt Christy to speak, I view the final photo. Christy is on a small stage, perched on heels, offering a profile to the camera. The backdrop is red. The above lighting is also red as is a spotlight. The resulting image appears that, below Christy’s prettified face, there are only diamond tipped breasts and buttocks, under the special lighting her red coated flesh blending with the back drop.

She becomes an erotic symbol, a thing, a set of faux female organs, sparkling jewelry grabbing the eye and diverting the viewer’s gaze from all except n*****s and buttocks.

With digital photography, it is facile to zoom inward. And on close examination, I detect tears of humiliation. I have no conception of the size of the crowd of ‘gentlemen’ for whom Christy was forced to perform. But it is evident that the objectification of her feminized body brought an intense feeling of degradation.

Delightful!

“They made me dance,” Christy sadly proclaims. “On a stage... with lots of makeup.”

“Did you enjoy that? Showing yourself naked to all those men?”

“No.”

“How many. What did you do?”

“Dozens, I guess. They made me twirl things attached to my n*****s. Made me practice and practice.”

I smile with the irony, Christy forced to replicate a burlesque act, normally performed by a well breasted woman who, with diligent shoulder motion, could make n****e adornments rotate like small propellers.

Obviously with the gender preference of the members, having a girly boy perform the deed is much more enticing. And as stated, with the body paint and lighting, Christy appears to be all buttocks and breasts. I am sure her face remained unpainted so that the emotional strain of her exhibition could be well viewed... women of my ilk not the only assemblage to be amused by intense male humiliation.

No, they found great recreation in Christy’s plight, the devastation of her psyche.

“What else? That couldn’t have occupied your entire evening.”

“They made me jiggle my fanny,” Christy girlishly reports.

There are no photos evidencing that, apparently the cameraman too occupied with Christy’s show to record the ongoing debasement. So I make her tell every detail.

Christy, having learned to twirl her n****e jewelry to satisfaction, was instructed to turn her back to the audience and saucily rotate her hips, gyrate her thighs, to luridly make the soft flesh of her buttocks flap in invitation.

Later she was made to bend at the waist, forehead nearly to the floor, obscenely spread her thighs, hands parting her cheeks to fully display what the ‘gentlemen’ described as her ‘p***y’. And I suppose for males of their gender preference, such a term is probably apt.

“Well, it seems you had an exciting evening. You will learn to enjoy stimulating men, it’s part of the process of altering you. First your looks, your body, then your mind.”

Christy is forlorn, not fully understanding the transformation and the contrasting feelings... the aversion... the enjoyment.

“May I get Mr. Feeldoe, Ma’am?”

The question brings a knowing smirk and a sense of progress. Christy finds psychological comfort in my governance, manifested most evidently by being penetrated.

“No. I’ll decide when you get fanny f****d. It’s study time.”