Females of Vulvar Page 5

  After about ten minutes, there had been not a word directed at me by my owner. I wasn’t certain about the protocols, whether I was allowed to speak without first being spoken to. Around another ten minutes passed. Unable to resist, I stole a glance upwards at the woman. She reached out and grabbed my chin, directing my eyes to hers.

  “Dare you to look upon your mistress, slave?”

  While gripping my chin firmly, she slapped me hard on both sides of my face with her other open hand. Surprised, I bit the inside of my lip when she first struck me and tasted the blood in my mouth. It seemed we had gotten off to a rocky start. I averted my eyes. After a moment, she released my chin and turned away. I was careful not to look her way again for the rest of the ride.

  After what seemed a half hour or more, when the coach came to a stop, my owner stood up, gave the chain a tug, and started for the exit. I followed close behind. We stepped down to the pavement, and I followed her along a sidewalk. Here the city differed greatly from the area where I had lived previously in a tall building surrounded by other tall buildings. The houses in this area were all single, private dwellings, it appeared. Most of them were two stories.

  My owner turned into a gate, towing me along in her wake. We took a broad paved path up to the wide verandah of an impressive stone two-story house. Mounting the steps, she led me to the entrance. After opening the door, the woman entered. Once I entered behind her, she removed the leash from my collar.

  “Shut the door, slave,” she said.

  I did so.

  “Come, slave,” she said.

  I followed her down a corridor and into a room that appeared a home office or library. The woman turned to me. She reached beneath the hem of my tunic, grabbed the tube, and tugged it firmly. Then in Vulvarian, she began lecturing me about the horrific punishments that would be visited upon me if I even attempted to remove the device, though she added removing it without a key was quite impossible. She warned she would inspect it often for signs of damage or tampering. She held on tightly until she had finished the lecture. Things were feeling painful by the time she let go of the tube.

  “Do you understand, slave?” she said.

  “I understand, mistress,” I said.

  “Excellent, now I will instruct you on a few other rules you must be careful to observe and obey.”

  “Yes, mistress.”

  My owner leaned against a large wooden desk behind her. She pointed at the floor.

  “Kneel, slave.”

  I dropped slowly to my knees, looking up at her.

  Immediately, the woman began another lecture. This time warning me of the gruesome consequences visited upon slaves who attempted to run away. I picked up a common theme. It seemed a slow, painful death was always a popular punishment option for a slave who violated the rules of his mistress. She concluded the second lecture assuring me that escape was also impossible. Runaway slaves, she said, were always quickly found, captured, and appropriately punished.

  Next, my mistress covered the house rules. In summary, all were variations on the same theme. I was to do nothing, to say nothing without invitation or without her advance approval. She reminded me that “mistress” was the only appropriate name for me to use in addressing her. It was, in my case, irrelevant that she had an actual name because I’d best never use it if I somehow learned it. Not unless I enjoyed being severely and painfully punished.

  My new mistress ended our enlightening first chat by telling me she was a member of the Kohtuhree of Priestesses, the highest of all kohtuhrees. She told me I was very fortunate indeed to be owned by a woman such as her rather than a woman of a lower kohtuhree. She also informed me she knew my mother and considered her a valued acquaintance. But my mistress warned me that had no bearing on the treatment I’d receive as a part of her household. Treatment down to the size and quality of my daily food allotments and the comfort of my quarters would all rest solely upon the merits of my performance and whether I provided her with consistent, pleasing service.

  When the discussion ended, my mistress told me to stand. She gave me a tour of the house, the parts of it she considered it necessary for me to be familiar with. That included the kitchen, dining room, and laundry. Taking me to the back of the house, she opened a back door and pointed out a shed on the back lawn, telling me I could find there all the landscaping maintenance tools needed for the yard work I’d be responsible for.

  Next, she took me to my quarters, at which time I discovered the house had three levels rather than only two. My quarters were down a flight of wooden stairs that ended in a basement. The room did not compare favorably to the apartment I’d been living in, but it seemed dry and warm. There was also a small en-suite bathroom for my use. That completed the tour.

  “Wash yourself, slave,” my mistress said. “Then dress in a clean tunic.”

  “Yes, mistress.”

  Pointing toward the small bed, she said, “You will find a set of new tunics there. Toss those you brought with you in the refuse bin in the kitchen once you’ve changed. Those I provide are the only ones I permit you to wear from now on.”

  “Yes, mistress.”

  “Come upstairs to the kitchen once you are washed and changed,” she said. “If I am not in the kitchen when you arrive, kneel on the floor beside the entry door and wait.”

  “Yes, mistress.”

  Satisfied, she nodded and took the stairs back up, leaving me to carry out her instructions. I stripped off the tunic I was wearing and dropped it on the floor. Then I went into the bathroom and washed. After drying myself, I went to the bed to get a clean tunic. The tunics were purple rather than white like those I’d been wearing. I had no idea what the color signified. After slipping on a tunic, I tied it at the waist with a woven rope belt of matching color I’d found on the bed. After putting my sandals back on, I collected the two white tunics and headed upstairs to the kitchen.

  ◆◆◆

  The kitchen was empty when I arrived. After a brief search, I located a refuse bin and tossed the white tunics inside. I then walked to the entry door and knelt on the floor to wait.

  Perhaps twenty minutes later, my mistress appeared.

  “Did you discard the old tunics as I instructed, slave?”

  “Yes, mistress.”

  “Good.”

  The woman turned and walked to the sink. She drew water from the faucet into a large bowl. Next, she placed the bowl on a stone countertop along with a bar of soap and a rag. Opening a drawer, she withdrew a leather thong.

  “Come, slave.”

  I rose to my feet and walked over to stand beside the counter.

  “Turn away from me, slave.”

  I turned. The woman grasped both of my wrists and pulled them behind my back. I felt the leather on my wrists as she bound them together. Then with a hand on my upper arm, she spun me around to face her.

  “Tomorrow morning, we will go to the reproductive services clinic to register you,” my mistress said. “I must clean you.”

  “Yes, mistress,” I said uneasily.

  The woman removed a chain from her neck. On it was a small silver disk. Grabbing hold of the hem of my tunic, she pulled it up to expose the tube between my legs. She touched the small silver disk to the tube. It separated from the ring that connected it to my body. The tube slipped down, exposing the small ring through the piercing at the tip of my penis. The woman disconnected the ring from its attachment point inside the tube, and then she removed the tube completely and placed it on the counter. I now stood before her, my manhood exposed.

  I tried to clean the inside of the tube as best I could when washing, but given the foul smell that assaulted my nose once the cage had been removed, it seemed I hadn’t been entirely successful. With a look of disgust, the woman wet the rag with the water from the bowl and set about washing me. After scouring my penis with soap, she repeated the process with the wet rag.

  It had been many weeks since I had touched my penis. Naturally, the woman’s t
ouch provoked it to do what penises do. It swelled.

  “Stop that immediately, slave!” the woman said angrily.

  Instead of stopping, my penis continued growing erect.

  “I order you to stop this instant!” she said.

  When she realized I was not stopping anything, she lunged for a large wooden spoon. Before I could react, she delivered a sharp blow to my offending member before I could dance away from her. As I tried to back away from her, the woman pursued me until she trapped me in the corner of the room. She reared back with the spoon to prepare for delivering another blow.

  “Mistress, please!” I begged. “I have no control over it. It is not subject to my will.”

  “What?” she said, pausing in mid-swing with the spoon.

  The look of anger transformed into one of bewilderment as she struggled to decide whether I’d spoken the truth.

  “You cannot make it soft again?” she said suspiciously.

  “No, mistress,” I said. “It does not respond to my will at all. It becomes as you see when it is stimulated. In time it will return to the former state once the stimulation ends.”

  She continued to look at me doubtfully, then at my member, which had grown to its normal length of 7 inches.

  “That’s disgusting,” the woman said with annoyance. “It’s a hideous thing.”

  “I’m sorry, mistress,” I said, unsure what I was apologizing for.

  “Then come,” she said, with a look of defeat. “I wish to finish this unpleasant task.”

  I followed her back to the counter, my penis bobbing beneath the hem of the tunic. It was still smarting from the direct hit from earlier but seemed determined to make the most of its freedom from the confinement of the tube.

  Back beside the counter, the woman quickly finished washing me. Then she took the tube to the sink and thoroughly washed and dried it. By the time she had finished, things were headed back towards the flaccid state.

  The woman alternated between giving me and my manhood withering stares until the erection fully subsided. Once it was again flaccid, she attached the ring through the piercing to the interior of the tube. Then she reconnected the tube to the large base ring. This time the silver disk was not needed. The device seemed to lock in place automatically. I speculated the locking mechanism must have included some kind of magnetic component. I found it shocking that women of Vulvar had not even the slightest understanding of the workings of the male genitals.

  Once the tube was back in place, the woman ordered me to turn. She removed the bindings from my wrists. Then she ordered me to kneel. It seemed her curiosity had gotten the best of her as she seemed in the mood for a chat.

  “Must the thing harden like that to discharge the seminal fluid?” she said.

  “Yes, mistress,” I said.

  She nodded thoughtfully.

  “And for copulation with a female?”

  “Yes, mistress.”

  “Did you copulate with females on Earth?”

  “Sometimes, mistress,” I said. “With women, I dated.”

  “That is such a loathsome ritual,” my mistress said flatly. “I find it incredible that even Earth females would submit to such a repulsive act. Allowing a male to penetrate their bodies with the disgusting male appendage.”

  “They find it pleasurable, mistress,” I said. “As do males when women allow it.”

  The woman looked at me with surprise. “You mean to say males must ask permission of females to do the act?”

  “Yes, mistress,” I said. “I mean to say it isn’t usually negotiated formally, but yes, it only occurs with the consent of the female. And, if the male misunderstands the circumstances, and she does not wish to do the act, she is free to say no.”

  “I see,” my mistress said. “That is not what we were taught in school. We’re told males on Earth force women to submit to it, as they once did here on Vulvar during the time of males, before the great war.”

  “It isn’t like that on Earth, mistress,” I said.

  “Never?”

  “Well, unfortunately, sometimes there are men that force the act on women without their consent. But, we consider it a serious crime called rape. Any man who does so is punished by imprisonment.”

  “Copulation between females and males is prohibited here on this world,” the woman said. “It is always a crime for which the male would be severely punished. But, he would not be imprisoned. He would be immediately castrated and then put to death.”

  “Yes, mistress,” I said. “Is there punishment for a female if she consents to the act?”

  The woman slapped me hard across the face.

  “No Vulvarian female would ever willingly consent to such a vile, despicable act, slave,” she said.

  “Yes, mistress,” I said.

  “Why do you think we put the tube on breeders like you and make eunuchs of all the rest of the males given the privilege of serving females on Vulvar?”

  “To prevent copulation, mistress,” I said.

  “Exactly, slave. I find it improbable that even Earth females receive pleasure from such a filthy act.”

  “Yet, it seems so, mistress.”

  “How could that be, slave?”

  “Perhaps the friction, mistress,” I said. “Between the male part and the female part.”

  “It’s a revolting idea, slave. I do not wish to discuss it further.”

  “As you wish, mistress.”

  After we had finished the discussion of sex, my mistress prepared a stew and the brown bread I had eaten daily while living in the apartment. It seemed the bread was a Vulvarian mealtime staple.

  Once the food was ready, the woman took her dinner into the dining room to eat while I ate mine in the kitchen. The stew was made of some sort of meat and vegetables in a thick broth. I found it tasty and filling. After the meal, I cleaned the dishes and kitchen. Once I’d finished my chores, and my mistress had inspected my work and deemed it satisfactory, I was told to return to my quarters for the evening.

  Chapter 6

  The First Collection

  I woke the next morning near dawn. It was the day I would go to the reproductive services clinic for the first time. I felt less anxious about it than I had expected. It would be yet another humiliation among the others I’d suffered during my captivity, but the knowledge of something from my past gave me hope what I faced at the clinic would be bearable.

  While attending Princeton during my undergraduate years, I had a roommate named Chad, who had applied to be a sperm donor to earn spending money. Once he had been accepted by a clinic, he shared his experiences with me.

  Chad told me that donating sperm was a quick and easy process. He had even encouraged me to apply to become a donor, though I’d declined to do so. He revealed that when he went to the sperm bank, they gave him a private room where he deposited his donation into a sterile container. Afterward, he handed the container over to a staff member. In return, he received a check in payment. It had seemed straightforward and stress-free. The process would likely be different on Vulvar. But it seemed likely my experience would be no worse than that my former roommate had described.

  Minutes after I’d bathed and dressed in a clean tunic, my mistress burst into the room without knocking. She seemed pleased that I was up and dressed for the day. She took me to the kitchen where she served me leftover brown bread and a bowl of bland gruel made from grain boiled in the milk of the Boluar. Boluars, the rough equivalent of dairy cattle on Earth, is the bovine species from which Vulvarians get milk and dairy products. After breakfast, we departed for the clinic.

  Two city blocks from my mistress’ house, we again boarded the animal-drawn streetcar for the trip downtown. This time as my owner sat down and arranged herself on a bench, I knelt on the floor beside her. The fact I had done so without prompting seemed to please her. She had chosen not to leash me for the outing for which I was grateful.

  The ride on the public coach provided me glimpses of unseen pa
rts of the city. I admired the efficient municipal public transportation system. Though the technology was primitive compared to that found on Earth, it accomplished the purpose of allowing the citizens of Thiva to move about their city with relative speed and comfort. It seemed the designers had built a narrow-gauge track system that reached every part of the metropolis.

  Around a quarter-hour, after we boarded the car, my mistress stood up when the vehicle made a scheduled stop. She instructed me to come along, and we disembarked from the coach. After walking for perhaps three city blocks, we turned into a long, gray, one-story building. A sign in front identified it as the reproductive services clinic.

  Inside a reception area, my mistress pointed to a spot on the floor near a bench. She told me to kneel there and to wait. She moved to a counter and spoke with a woman sitting behind it. After their brief conversation, she joined me again and sat down on the bench beside me.

  Some ten minutes later, another woman wearing a lab coat over her long tunic with shoulder-length chestnut hair and bright green eyes approached us. She greeted my mistress and identified herself as Kiall, a lab specialist. Kiall then escorted us down a long corridor into the interior of the building, and then into a private room. She closed the door behind her after we had entered.

  Looking about the room, it seemed much like medical examination rooms I’d seen back on Earth. There was a padded examination table along one wall, a sink, and white painted cabinets with glass doors that contained various supplies. There was one chair in the room and what appeared to be an ergonomic kneeling stool like one I’d once seen back at Princeton. My mistress sat on the chair while I knelt on the tiled floor beside her.

  Kiall explained the procedure to my mistress. She said she would perform a short examination and then would take a collection.

  “From this initial collection, we will take and analyze a sample to make certain there are no problems with the sperm,” Kiall said, addressing herself to my mistress. “This analysis will determine sperm count, motility, or how well the spermatozoa move, and morphology, or the overall health of the sperm. Assuming we find no problems, we will schedule the next collection with you when we notify you of the results of the analysis. Please note that we will not pay you for this first collection until we have analyzed the sample and have determined no issues exist.”