About Eve, A Femdom Novel

Chapter One 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 n*****s 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 p***s, 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 p***s 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 p***s stirs and I cannot help smiling again. The shiny engraved disk hanging from his right n****e 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 n****e tells me he is m*********d 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. “Good boy.” 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. The facility’s service staff is comprised of the most obeisant males and females found. There is no s****l whim or request that goes unfulfilled at the spa, which, as one can imagine in a hidden and secluded valley, can become quite sordid and quite deviant in nature. When a service employee signs his or her one-year contract, their clothing is surrendered for the spa’s brief, revealing uniform. Thus, any decision to prematurely terminate service and depart involves a long walk in deep snow over impassable mountains...and without benefit of covering, not to mention the forfeit of compensation. Yes, all salary at the Spa is deferred until the end of the period of contract. And then, the quantity of the wired funds is generous. Not only is the base pay considerable, but wealthy women with unusual proclivities can be quite magnanimous. Thus, an employee with a high tolerance for pain, or an equally unusual penchant for deviant activities, can accumulate quite a level of gratuity income, not to mention the possibility of an offer of permanent employment with a Dominant woman. And so defections are rare at the Spa and none have occurred during my tenure. I have found the staff to be eager to serve and very appreciative of the demands of the Dominant female guests and the challenges they provide. The submissive who comes to the Spa, confronts his or her propensity for servitude and learns to psychologically accept it, and usually moves on to a permanent arrangement with a satisfied guest. Those who do not learn to fully accept their status provide not only an interesting source of continuous staffing but also a source of wonderment. I term it submissive recidivism. He or she originally interviews with us convinced that their submissive tendencies are not real or somehow just fleeting. They serve their year, telling themselves that the daily groveling and constant degradation is tolerated only for the money. They prop up their esteem with visions of normality, of enjoying vanilla s*x. They fantasize about how their vast earnings, easily amounting to the low six figures, will be spent...most commonly by rebuilding their pride after their tour. The hosting of huge welcome back parties in their hometowns is prevalent. I have also known the latent submissive to pay for long, expensive vacations with sycophantic and parasitic members of the opposite s*x in order to engage in normal s****l relations. Such is futile. For reality eventually manifests itself. Two months. Three. Maybe after six, they begin to pine for the sting of the whip, the mental conflict of ceding control yet finding comfort in firm restraints. The pleasure of giving pleasure, the need to be of service, the strange psychological gratification of being denied physical gratification so a Dominant woman can best achieve hers. The peculiar inner glow fueled by the abject humiliation of serving naked, with their most intimate anatomical parts prominently displayed. And, they apply to the Spa again. Yes, many, if not most, of our Spa servants have experienced more than one tour. And when they volunteer to be branded, finally accepting complete subjugation, the image of the permanently marked flesh makes my own skin tingle with the thought of the finality of their submission to submission. I have always enjoyed the sensation that comes with the contemplation of control and submission, for it is followed by a very familiar twinge and welcomed wetness between my thighs. I recall the first time it happened as a little girl... Mother had just finished bathing my little brother. The telephone rang. She was expecting a long distance call from Grandma and rushed toward the kitchen to answer. “Eve, finish dressing Bobby.” Mother had permitted me to watch the process on many previous occasions. For a girl of some ten years, the sight of the little p***s and puff of skin beneath serves to answer youthful questions concerning the difference in the sexes. So I suppose Mother intentionally let me observe, thus obviating the need to explain the curious difference which children wish to understand but instead consistently encounter a covering of clothing and a conspiracy of silence among adults. On this particular occasion, having me nearby saved her time. “His clothes are on the chair,” she hollered over her shoulder, as her feet thumped down the stairs. Yes. They were. But I could not help momentarily reveling in my appointed power, however brief. Bobby, age six if my recollections are accurate, was mine. Mother had dried him and there he stood without a stitch. Most times his exposure was brief and, with Mother working diligently in a continuous process of washing, toweling and adorning him with garments, my previous glimpses of his nudity were thus limited. And Mother’s actions were so quick that normally I don’t think Bobby ever thought about his older sister peering at him over a matronly shoulder. Now, my presence was obvious and I remember silently laughing when both hands slowly moved to his genitals in an amusing gesture of modesty. My mind was devious, even then. “No Bobby. You need to be powdered.” Mother had not done that since he was potty-trained years before, but I wanted to gain proximity and access. Stepping into the bathroom I grabbed the powder and returned. When I had Bobby lay back on the bed and spread his thighs, that’s when I experienced the first twinge. Years later, in similar situations where a male was under my control, the arrival of puberty brought on the wetness. Mother’s voice in the kitchen was perceptible and the stages of her telephone conversation guided me in my interaction with Bobby. Yes, he would be dressed eventually, but not before I could fully avail myself of the time allotted, which was the length of the phone call. So Bobby was thoroughly powdered. Despite some initial protests, he began to enjoy my touch and was quick to obey when I instructed him to roll over and again spread his legs. I wanted to view the small pink scrotum peeking back between his boyish buttocks. It was a very good learning experience, for both of us. But what came next I later realized forever changed both our lives. Mother had laid out his clothing. And for whatever reason, I concluded it was not appropriate. I ran to my room and got a pair of my frilly, pink satin panties that Mother had purchased during one of our ‘girls only’ shopping trips. Under the guise of assisting him, I slipped the openings over his feet and slid the smooth garments up his legs. Yes, Bobby began to protest, and I shushed him, making some sisterly threat, which the helpless six year old took very seriously. But I could tell that despite his ostensible reluctance, he enjoyed being touched by his sister’s small feminine hands and I detected a slight smile when the cool, smooth fabric so gently caressed his privates. He spent the day in my undergarments never commenting to Mother or suggesting a need to change, thus indicating some degree of secretive enjoyment. And Mother wondered throughout the day why I broke into numerous smiles, for every time I looked at Bobby and thought about him wearing girls underwear at my behest, the twinge between my thighs returned.