About Eve, Page 3

  And, what a control mechanism! As much fun as Bobby had dressing up for me, his look of terror when I announced that his school chums would find the photos ‘cute’ was unforgettable.

  So for Bobby, the camera assured there be would no second thoughts about performing for his older sister Eve. Yes, Bobby would dress as I liked him, unless I wanted him nude, and he would learn to perform the most demeaning tasks at my behest.

  Mother began to marvel over my ability to control him. As the years progressed, Bobby would not become the teenager given to delinquency, a prevalent problem among boys in his peer group. No discipline problems with Bobby. Not unless he wished to do so dressed as a girl!

  As with James, my relationship with Bobby became more sexual over time. There was nothing I could think of that Bobby would not obediently do for me. And on occasion, when I let him masturbate into the silk panties while my camera snapped away, he was ecstatic. I could feel his pleasure. It was palpable and I came to wet my own undergarments, particularly after I trained him to hold back until I gave the command to ejaculate.

  And with each stroke of his young hand, my controlling photo album grew. That was perhaps the preponderant source of my own excitement, Bobby’s forced humiliation, which more and more manifested my control.

  When puberty arrived, our busy working Mother conceded Bobby’s care to me. She never fully understood why Bobby rebelled against most authority except mine. But my ability was found to be convenient and a welcome relief, knowing that when she returned home after a day’s drudgery, the house was spotless, the kitchen immaculate, and the laundry neatly folded and stowed by our furtive maid. Little did Mother know how hard I worked Bobby and how eager he became to exhibit his feminine side to his older sister and her camera. And how dependent he was becoming on the need to perform for me.

  And whereas Bobby’s lengthy hairstyle was of concern, Mother took the position of ‘if it works, don’t fix it’, and his grooming was left to me.

  Mother never suspected that my grooming included a twice-weekly shaving of Bobby’s growing pubic hair.

  “We must not hide anything from the camera, Bobby,” I so many times reminded him, as my hand glided the razor over his well-lathered scrotum and penis.

  And he never objected, realizing that newly depilated flesh felt so cozy and wonderfully sensual when encased in silk. And I had surreptitiously assembled quite a collection for him.

  Those were halcyon days, flexing my youthful yet dominant mental muscles. I had complete control over the obeisant James and my effeminate little brother. I enjoyed it and let the power grow within me, unfettered and later to be unleashed onto a world of pusillanimous males.

  When I later went to college, I lost touch with James. And my brother became free to exercise his fetish without me, but only for a while.

  Mom and Dad died in a car accident just before my graduation. Thus at age 17, Bobby became mine again. I was his legal guardian.

  Having spent four years away from home, selling the family home was easier than it would have been had I still lived there. I had become very content in the New England town where I attended college and post graduation employment had already been lined up.

  The transition from student to working girl with the responsibility for my younger brother was difficult. But with the life insurance proceeds and money from the sale of the house, there were adequate funds to complete the last two years of my sister’s college education at a prestigious west coast school and more than enough to relocate Bobby and me to a sizable apartment.

  With Bobby graduating from high school, he was also prepared for a transition in life. Little did he realize how large a transition it would be.

  During my teenaged years at home, I’m not sure Bobby fully understood how much I enjoyed being served by my naked younger brother, or how sexually thrilling it had been to dress him up for after school escapades. Or how moist I became between my thighs while shaving him and applying make up to his angelic face.

  Well...he would find out.

  During my college years, I had not had much contact with Bobby. While home for vacations and semester breaks, I would notice certain garments missing from my room. Therefore I knew his proclivities had not changed. But since the items would reappear within days, neatly cleaned and folded as I had diligently trained him over the years, I decided to let his effeminate propensities grow and to permit him to fully explore has sexuality.

  After all, my photo album was safely stored away. I could easily rein him in whenever the urge developed. I knew that there was nothing like a candid, full color snapshot of a young male wearing mascara, shoulder length hair effeminately coifed, lavender panties pulled down to reveal a pair of hairless pink testicles dangling under a manicured hand gripping the cutest of erections, to obtain a boys attention.

  So I didn’t expect any discipline problems with my little brother and his ability to adjust to his new status of ward. I would work and pay the bills. Bobby would clean, cook and serve, as any well trained maid would do.

  My recollection ends as I approach the medical section. The Spa has a full operating room, antiseptic, well lit, and equipped to deal with every imaginable procedure and emergency. Our guests are quite active, endeavoring to ski in winter and engage in a variety of potentially injurious activities in summer. Therefore the investment is needed for the mundane medical requirements of a resort. The fact that it is more commonly utilized for initiating or caring for members of the serving staff is serendipitous.

  Since piercings are performed sans anesthesia, the deep basement area serves to mitigate the earnest sounds of anguish, as sensitive skin is penetrated by heated needles.

  Yes, it’s a traditional welcome to the Spa. A ritualistic message to the newly contracted serving staff, communicating the notion ‘you will indeed earn your pay’.

  My arrival is well timed. As I approach the large window of the operating room, I spy our latest acquisition, a well-muscled lad who decided to take a leave of absence from college in order to accumulate funds for his senior year.

  The doctor has him well strapped to a specially designed chair, completely naked of course, and a member of our nursing staff has brought him to full tumescence. He is large, as with every male at the Spa, thus I am not overly impressed. But it is pleasant to know that a creature so well muscled and endowed can so easily be controlled.

  The doctor is heating her needle and her mirthful eyes reveal the lustful smile beneath the surgical mask.

  A Prince Albert piercing is simple and effective, allowing a ring to be inserted into the tip of the penis, penetrating the urethra and exiting the underside near that most sensitive of areas, the frenulum. It can be done quickly and relatively painlessly with novocaine. But not at the Spa. The doctor has her instructions. All piercings are to be as cathartic as possible, and our good medical professional accommodates most enthusiastically, with deliberative preparations and foreboding discussion with the nurse, thus maximizing the mental torment for our most recent supplicant.

  I cannot hear what is being said, but I suspect the doctor is graphically describing the pain which our young male is about to experience and also admonishing him to be particularly careful about subsequent care, lest infection mandate a complicated and humiliating truncation of his proud member.

  The perspiration and wide, rolling eyes indicate our boy is ready. Despite his fear and the degradation of being naked and well secured before two females, his penis is stiff, well-engorged and pointing straight up. Yes, he will enjoy his tour here at the Spa. We have seen his type so often...

  In a well-practiced choreography, our surgical nurse grasps the bottom of the penis shaft, the doctor encircles the purple head with her gloved left hand, and slowly...very slowly, works the red hot needle into the sensitive urethra.

  His scream can be heard. It is loud. It would curdle the blood of the unsuspecting onlooker. A passerby would run to assist, call the police, cry out in sympathy.

&nb
sp; At the Spa, no one is fazed. The nurse wafts smelling salts with her free hand. The doctor pauses to ensure our boy is alert and can feel the slowly paced penetration. After the nurse forces open his closed eyes and notes that he has not fainted, she nods and the doctor proceeds.

  ‘Welcome to the Spa’, I silently mouth to myself. With a diabolical smile, I note that the massive erection has not subsided one centimeter and the temporary stainless wire, which the doctor inserts into the bulbous purple head is a most attractive adornment to the submissive male organ.

  Chapter Four

  Watching the agony endured by the young, well muscled submissive has the curious effect of providing me with a glowing sense of pride. Ultimately, it is by my hand that his most sensitive anatomical parts have become mere pincushions for the insouciant enjoyment of nurse and doctor. And more importantly, our guests will use his newly acquired jewelry for the most sinister of pursuits. I can feel my wetness.

  With the conclusion of the penal piercing, the nurse prepares a new set of paraphernalia. The doctor removes her latex gloves, speaks and playfully tugs on the left ear of the well bound, naked male. Softly spoken words of comfort, intended to soothe, I’m sure. But most likely received as a taunt. The doctor is demonstrating her power, perhaps offering to insert a pair of scrotal rings which some Dominant women find both attractive and uniquely practical for discipline, and provide a constant reminder of status to the obsequious male. Or perhaps suggesting that the time will come when he will sit in the very same chair and endure an excruciating branding, the Spa’s symbol of permanent employment.

  Our new servant listens with newly acquired docile attentiveness. He is in no position to comment or object. Having watched the doctor callously skewer his most sensitive male organ with a searing hot needle, he fully comprehends the exchange of power. He has none and the nurse and doctor have all. Having relegated total control with the signing of a contract, what was thought to be a simple and lucrative employment tour, is now envisioned for what it is, a year of thorough degradation, pain and hard work.

  The nipples are next. Probably as agonizing as the penis piercing if not more so, I have seen so many that my time is better spent in the lobby bidding adieu to the parting guests. And besides, when it comes to nipples, observing the female recipients is much more entertaining.

  And so as the doctor again dons her gloves and begins to heat another needle utilizing the same deliberative, nerve racking pace, I turn to leave.

  On my way to the door, I peek at the medical chart to obtain the name of our newly ringed male. He is called ‘Jason’ and I make a mental note to later walk him at the end of a leash. I always enjoy being the first to introduce the subordinate male to the utility of the penis ring.

  As I head to the lobby my roving eye looks for maintenance problems and general cleanliness. As usual, the facility is disappointingly spotless and I’ll have to be quite creative in finding an infraction for tomorrow. After all, it is the policy of the Spa to have a daily display of discipline to greet the arriving guests. Someone will indeed transgress. After all, I make the rules.

  In traversing the stairs my thoughts return to Bobby. As stated, after enduring the tragic death of my parents, the period that followed returned the halcyon days of my teen years. Only now I had a job, a pile of money, and Bobby...totally under my command.

  During my four years away from home Bobby’s penchant for girl’s clothing had waned somewhat. He had few opportunities to obtain the preferred frilly silk or satin panties, for Mother’s were too large and Sis, being the meticulous individual she was, kept close inventory of her possessions. And I was most disappointed to find that Bobby had not bothered to shave himself!

  I realized that in my absence, his fetish had become somewhat transitory. He used the look and feel of colorful women’s undergarments as a masturbatory trigger. And indeed my photo album was full of old close up snapshots of his reddened, embarrassed face, taken after achieving the desired ecstatic relief and realizing how much he had humiliated himself in front of his older sister. With his gooey hand glistening under the bathroom lights, he would skulk to the towel rack, much more cognizant of my photographic efforts. And after his eruption I continued to the click away while clucking my tongue and admonishing him to ensure that the stained frilly panties were properly cleansed.

  Yes, Bobby felt the shame of the closet fetishist, knowing that his conduct was reprehensible but unable to help himself or keep his hand from his excited penis once big sister Eve gave him permission to frottage.

  I was the only stabilizing influence. Me and my photo collection. But for my interaction, I had no idea what would become of Bobby. Would he sneak about the neighborhood purloining feminine garments from nearby wash lines? Perhaps linger about at the bus station seeking to display his excited state to any women resembling his sister. And how far did this transsexual proclivity go? Would he develop the urge to exhibit his feminine side to men?

  He was mentally conflicted, and I was determined to end that. A choice had to be made concerning Bobby’s deportment and I was the only person qualified to make it.

  Yes, I decided Bobby would put aside any thoughts about living as and all evidence of being...a male.

  So upon moving to my apartment, restoration of my years of training became a priority. I decided that complete immersion was the best method.

  I had rented the top floor of a two story, two family house. Although there were two bedrooms, closet space was limited. There was no room for two sets of clothing for Bobby, and fully understanding his latent preference for feminine attire, upon arrival I sent all his male clothing to storage without unpacking a stitch. Bobby would be introduced to his new home as the cute girl he so enjoyed being.

  It was a logical decision. No one knew him in my college town. His friends were hundreds of miles away. Sis was even further away and I would have ample notice of any visit. All my neighbors and acquaintances would be introduced to my sister...Bobbi!

  I was fortunate to have a landlady willing to assist. Lucretia Palmero was the owner of the house and she lived on the first floor. Lucretia was in her early forties, a handsome women with very dark but silver streaked hair, piercing eyes and a no nonsense demeanor. She was twice widowed. Local rumor intimating that she worked her first two husbands to death, I never learned whether the gossip suggested a figurative or literal demise.

  But I did learn of her disdain for the male sex, and prominently exhibited in her ‘study’ were numerous instruments of correction, which she made no effort to hide from her acquaintances and kept from the view of the rare casual visitor by merely closing the study door.

  Lucretia became my confidant. Initially she was the only person who knew Bobbi’s true gender. She took such delight in his forced effeminate status that she not only conspired with me on developing Bobbi’s regimen but also served as a needed observer, should an inexplicable urge to revert to maleness overtake Bobbi in my absence.

  And so each morning after a naked Bobbi served me an impeccably prepared breakfast, I supervised his grooming and assured that his stiff little manhood was properly tucked away under the briefest of panties. Then he would put on his maid’s costume and present himself for final inspection.

  In the first few weeks, with his exaggerated high heels, I had to assist as he awkwardly negotiated the stairs to Lucretia’s apartment. Later, with Lucretia’s strict tutelage, he seemed to glide down the stairs where he limp wristedly tapped on Lucretia’s door to begin his day of servitude.

  I would leave for a busy day at the clinic, sanguine with the realization that Bobbi was receiving the best discipline and training a teenaged girl could obtain.

  A few months went by without event. Bobbi followed all the rules and both mine and Lucretia’s apartment were neatly kept, with Lucretia humorously commenting that her kitchen floor had been washed and waxed so often that the linoleum would soon need replacement.

  And Bobbi was becoming a very good cook. S
atisfying every woman’s dream of staying out of the kitchen, he learned to provide both Lucretia and me with tastefully prepared meals. No frozen dinners for this working girl.

  I resumed the responsibility for Bobbi’s grooming. In teaching him all the tricks of makeup and other cosmetics, he enthusiastically began to apply it himself. And to my amusement he spent much time plucking his eyebrows and was constantly distraught over facial hair.

  My role evolved mainly to that of critic, commenting on how pretty my cute brother looked with his short black uniform and shoulder length blond hair carefully tucked under the obligatory maid’s cap. Standing before me at attention, I would occasionally point out a smudge of rouge or a stubborn strand of hair dangling outside the frilly cap. But otherwise, Bobbi became quite fastidious about his girlish appearance.

  Twice weekly, I continued the chore of having Bobbi strip and soak himself in our large tub so that I could manifest my control by way of full body inspection. Evidence of Lucretia’s ‘encouragement’ was usually found on Bobbi’s buttocks, and this always brought a smile, picturing Bobbi, short skirt lifted, panties down, receiving a few brisk strokes in Lucretia’s study.

  After the bath I shaved his privates. It was then that I allowed Bobbi to stroke himself for me, his smooth, hairless penis and scrotum providing quite the catalyst for masturbation. Beforehand, I was careful to place him in the most humiliating and obsequious of positions in preparation for my camera.

  My favorite was having him slip into his highest shoes, don the maid’s cap, then stand naked before a full-length mirror. He would tumefy looking at his own reflection. Then, granting permission, he would stroke himself to gratification staring at his own feminine image. Trying to stay perched on the ridiculously extreme heels was a challenge and most times, upon my command to ejaculate, he fell over when his eyes closed with ecstasy. A most amusing sight.

  Within a few months, things got busy at work. I guess I skipped one or two masturbation sessions, arriving home late and being in no mood to frolic. I did notice that Bobbi was getting fidgety. He spilled things. His movements in the heels again became strained and reverted to clumsiness. I did not relate this change to a hormonal build up. I too was young and did not realize that although Bobbi’s appearance was completely feminine, his male hormones still percolated.