A Woman's Servant 2

Chapter One

Chapter One

Returning to Servitude

Christy’s flight has landed. The glowing information board suggests luggage will come to conveyor 6. So I stroll and wait, knowing that Christy will have difficulty lifting and that with the bag packed with attire she will never wear while in servitude to me, it is best to quickly renew my governance.

Lots of travelers, the flight I am sure was packed with others returning from the holidays and semester break. Finally, my little serving girl descends the escalator, both excited to see me and apprehensive.

I note the Rhinestone ear studs remain. Christy faithfully emailed me a picture each day with the cheap jewelry dutifully remaining in place. There was also emailed a close up photo of her entrapped penis... draped over the daily newspaper to ensure it was timely taken.

Yes, the teeth bracelet remained in place, holding Christy in chastity during her entire visit home. Extremely difficult to remove, she might have been able to displace and replace it once with a tolerable level of suffering, but thereafter the resulting abrasions of the hyper sensitive p***s tip would certainly preclude the rigors of fervent m**********n.

“Good afternoon, Ma’am,” the voice timid.

It excites.

“Come with me to the lady’s room now, Christy. We’ll get your luggage in a moment.”

“But what if someone steals it?”

“It will not matter.”

I take Christy’s hand, leading her like a little girl. She wears a loose satin shirt, appearing more like a blouse, tight white slacks outlining those cheeks I have worked so hard to make roundly effeminate. Yes, her gender is not apparent, the ear studs sparkling. But the hair, long for a boy, short for a girl, is combed to one side, the part on the left suggesting maleness. That will not do.

I have clothing for her, her CB-6000 and a little ointment to assure she is quickly re-immersed into the world of effeminate servitude.

“Any problems getting through security?” knowing that the circle of steel enforcing chastity will never pass the metal detector, thus mandating closer examination.

“Yes, they strip searched me.”

“Entirely? Completely naked? You requested a woman, I hope. You don’t like exhibiting yourself to men.”

“Yes.”

“But why did she make you take off all your clothing? You explained your m**********n problem and divulged the region bearing the metal?”

“She said I was listed... from the flight out last month.”

Christy, I know, likewise did not make it through security on the departing flight to her parents. In an email she explained that an electronic wand was used to localize the questionable metal and she had to lower her zipper and show her laden p***s to the female uniformed officer.

I am sure for security the experience was considered one of the more mirthful escapades of an otherwise tedious job. So word must have been forwarded and a sister security agent was alerted to the fun of examining a chastised and feminized male.

Stripped naked! I can picture my trembling little girl as the security guard calls for assistance.

Into the lady’s room, we become an object of attention, Christy not appearing as feminine as desired. But since I am with her, the other women are not overly alarmed and I quickly take my serving girl into a large handicapped stall, close and latch the door.

“Remove everything. I won’t be seen with you looking like that.”

An obedient Christy strips for the second time of her journey as I remove a comb from my large purse and redo her hair, parting in the middle. Some bangs, a spritz of hair spray and now with the scintillating ear studs her gender of transformation becomes more apparent. Next comes her CB-6000, long sharp steel points of intrigue included, not only locking my girl in double chastity, but assuring the slightest twinge, just a modicum of swelling will bring instant pain.

I step back and admire. I have missed governing her nakedness. Some four months of applying strong depilation lotion have decimated the follicles of normal male body hair. The n*****s remain pubescently puffy, despite not ingesting prolactin over the past four weeks. The result of my special diet remains, the buttocks quite round and soft.

I smile and cannot resist tenderly pinching then rolling a n****e. Christy squeals like the little girl I am transforming her into.

I have brought her n****e tassels. Thin strips of elastic cord which entwine about the base of protruding n*****s, serving to lengthen and stretch, leaving the tips exposed. Fuzzy baubles are attached, freely bobbing about to bring tantalizing pangs of delight. As my fingers work, Christy smiles coyly, the constant sensation well remembered.

Heels are next. Christy slips them on but her right ankle yields and she nearly topples. I laugh and open the jar of unguent I months ago used to great effect. I coat the exposed portion of her n*****s then twirl my finger. Christy knows to turn.

“Bend and spread like a good girl.”

Accustomed to my authority over her body... over everything for that matter... Christy complies and I liberally smear her anus and leave an abundance within her gluteal cleft.

When finished Christy rights herself. I stow the unguent. Then withdraw a very short baby doll dress which I simply toss over her head, straps catching at the shoulders, the hem barely covering the plastic of the CB-6000.

This always brings distress. With certain movements Christy will be made to show her encapsulated privates to overly curious eyes. But that is how I like her... on the edge.

As Christy struggles in heels, normal footwear worn during her sojourn home, I retrieve lipstick from my purse. Not having time for more elaborate makeup, I quickly smear her lips, the shade of red that of a trollop.

“Pick up your stuff and let’s get your luggage.”

On the way out I pause and carefully wash my hands. The unguent is the itching compound I cleverly formulated... cetyl alcohol... harmless... and rose hips... incredibly irritating but also otherwise harmless. Applied to parts pink, the tiny hairs of the rose hips will unmercifully tease the sensitive erogenous zones.

Welcome home, Christy.

On the way to the luggage carousel, I direct Christy, footfalls comically awkward, to dump her former apparel into the trash.

Enough of that, I think to myself. Male appearance can imbue false pride and lead to recalcitrance.