‘He’s of the wrong gender’, I kept telling myself. But Little Sam was not so quick to make that distinction. And Liz knew it, and worse, she knew that my extreme arousal was forcing me to come to the same conclusion.
“It’s one of the attributes that attracted me to Jamie, Sam. At the clinic a very young Jamie offered quite the fellatio. I thought such affection could be expanded.”
Leaving me sitting naked on the couch, Little Sam expressing my desires for Liz’s voluptuous form, the story of the clinic resumed.
Chapter Nine
Knowing I had to make a choice, I began scanning the
data on the boys. Page after page of physical data, photographs all taken without benefit of clothing of course, and the results of a battery of psychological testing, most of which I did not know how to interpret at the time. Except for each boy there was a summary expressing the opinion of the lead psychologist, who over the years was renowned for her prognostications, which indicated a predicted success ratio for each boy and a suggestion as to his useful role.
Even at my young age I gave the matter a lot of consideration. Knowing that I would be arriving in a strange country, living in a somewhat urban environment, and not aware of the forthcoming constraints concerning the ownership of a servant, I knew that I needed a very controllable boy.
For a few of the other clients, some level of disobedience could be tolerated since such would then require discipline...delightfully applied discipline. But I knew that Brown University would not have a whipping platform such as that at the Palace. And a good flogging could not be executed in the confines of an apartment. So I needed docility. Plus, as a young college student, American propriety would bring scorn upon a female living with an obvious male. So I thought about those times in the Palace’s infirmary and watching all those male plums being snipped and tossed into a waiting pan. And then I recalled a particularly enlightening comment made by the doctor.
Having once been attacked in an attempted rape, she reveled in her duties and casually hummed a tune and smiled as she neutered. Some of the condemned were more alert than others after the flogging, and on occasion, when the shears snipped and a vaunted pink testicle departed, there would be quite the amusing vocal reaction.
“They come in here roaring like a lion,” the doctor would whimsically comment, “but leave purring like a kitten.”
It was not until my later years, when I took biology, that I fully understood her quip...that the castration changes the hormone levels, thus not only rendering the male physically incapable of inseminating the female, but also altering the psyche, the drive, as well.
I concluded that whatever my selection and the level of devotion imparted, I required a boy of complete docility. One who, if not passing as female, could at least appear to be a young nephew. And that’s when Jamie’s photo and data drew my attention. Even as he approached puberty, he appeared more youthful than he was. And there were very telling notes from the psychologists with corroborating observations from the attending counselors who tended to the boys day to day.
‘A proclivity for oral service,’ was the official evaluation, supported by recounts of several instances where he was found gleefully fellating one of his cohorts and had to be disciplined for his efforts.
Though the hands were immobilized, the boys could still be naughty with their tongues and lips. And though gags were a possibility, clinic personnel decided to allow a level of homoerotic play, and utilized such in not only evaluating a prospect, but also in a system of rewards and punishments. Unsupervised climatic relief was always denied of course, but adding a layer of humiliation to a boy’s forced nakedness could achieve results. And over my two month stay at the clinic I daily observed encounters where a reluctant boy was forced to service another while his giggling colleagues watched and a counselor lectured on technique and patiently pointed out the transgression and the need for correction.
The interesting facet with Jamie was that he learned to revel in oral interaction more than the others.
‘Gag reflex well controlled,’ the file noted. And when I looked at his picture, those blue eyes, the blonde hair...I knew in effeminate attire his presence could be cloaked from the potential scorn of neighbors. I had the right candidate.
And the prognostication..? 99%. And in bold letters: ‘Maid’.
Thus, I made my selection and the Stockholm process began.
The packet suggested that the first face-to-face meeting was the most important, bringing forth the cascade of psychological bonding and devotion. Thus after notifying the clinic staff of my choice, Jamie’s clamps were tightened in preparation for an initial meeting. Nipples pinched, ankles pressured to the point that he could barely walk, his wrists were held high with arms extended to the limit, the staff were without mercy in beginning a process which so often led to success.
No explanation was given to the boy for his torment. Part of the process was that he suffer randomly, never knowing when, where or why a supervising woman would choose to place him in agony. Thus after an hour of enduring the slow building pain, I visited him in his dormitory cubicle. It resembled a telephone booth, enclosed on three sides, but with no door.
And there was Jamie, lying partially reclined in the resting position on a firm board tilted back at the head. That’s how the boys rest, almost standing and at all times exposing themselves to the clinic staff who constantly stroll the dormitory area. Tears were streaming, and yet he was partially erect, as I had seen so many times during a flogging. And I instinctively palmed his tiny testicles in my left hand and ever so gently stroked his partial erection with my right. Everything in his file was accurate. The natural effeminate looks, his expected reaction to the pain, his most obsequious plea when I held his genitals.
We talked. I introduced myself. I asked him why he was in pain and why his penis was hard. The packet was so helpful in supplying words the that began our bonding.
“I think we can be friends, Jamie. If I do something nice for you, maybe you can do something nice for me.”
He agreed of course. What choice did he have? His situation could not worsen, at least in his mind. So after acknowledging his nod, I produced the strange little key, inserted it into the left nipple clamp and turned. Not much of a twist, just enough so he could feel a modicum of relief. Then we talked some more, allowing to set in my level of control, and then I repeated the maneuver with the right nipple.
“Now Jamie, Can you be a good boy and waggle your penis for me?”
By then it was standing straight up, small but stiff...uncircumcised. The resting board positioned his ankles well apart, thus Jamie’s pubes was well displayed. And so when he complied there was no doubt that the movement was in following my request.
“Such a good boy. Why would anyone tighten your clamps so firmly?”
Our conversation continued. The tone of my voice became like that of a caring older sister or perhaps akin to a stern aunt. I donned rubber gloves and explored. With an index finger in his rectum I asked him to squeeze it for me. That earned just the slightest turn of an ankle clamp, providing just enough relief to receive a ‘thank you’; a very sincere ‘thank you’.
And so the morning meeting continued. Jamie getting to know my voice and my touch and learning gratitude. It was my hand, perceived as being such a kindness, that relieved the slow building agony. I also explored ‘the goods’ so to speak, examining Jamie as I would a piece of fruit in the market place.
Thereafter, twice per day, Jamie and I spent time together. Sometimes I walked him on a leash hooked to his neck constraint. Casual conversation ensued in which he would beg to have the key used. I would hesitate of course, always extracting something in return. He agreed to take certain classes... learning to cook, care for a woman’s clothing, master the application of make up.