The extent to which Vincent’s testicles filled her cupped palm told Kate he was ready. In the face of her certainty, she still thought it best to await Amanda’s call with the results of the last sample. Kate had extracted it from him before she sent him to bed. Now in a Petri dish, the specimen’s properties were being remotely studied by way of the electron microscope in Kate’s study, the images from which she had emailed as attachments. It wouldn’t be long, Amanda had assured her, before this kind of thing would be done in real time, when something she referred to as the ‘broadband revolution’ was underway. In the meantime, Kate would have to apply dial-modem patience whilst waiting for the phone to ring. With nothing but the far from gratifying feel of her husband’s balls to amuse her, waiting for permission to proceed was taking on the tedium of a dentist’s waiting room.

     The silk of Vincent’s nightdress moved with her investigative hand, rubbing against the delicate fabric of his rose-print panties. Their ribbon-tie hips, near to unravelling, were the last fragile restraint of his pulsating penis. The strain of knicker elastic came ever closer to containment failure as Kate explored the growing enormity of his excitement.

     Since the night of his crucifixion, under watchful eyes, Vincent had been kept in a perpetual state of pre-orgasmic arousal. A strict high-ecstasy, low-fulfilment regime was required for this. This was immediately apparent when, as Amanda had promised that night, his listless, inverted body was eventually taken down. The unanimous consensus that he had been thrashed to within an inch of his life was rather late in coming. Nonetheless, come it did. The contrast of being washed and entombed by Amanda and Claire was, without doubt, the most formative time of his life. Claire had nursed his wounds as he bathed. With the healing touch of an angel, she restored him whilst Amanda’s soft hands gently washed his throbbing penis for an eternity. Endless ecstasy, without release, became agony which became ecstasy which became agony. Trapped by love, in a cycle of enslavement to its unrelenting influence, Vincent was free only to follow an orbital path set by an undeniable power. Ever since the touch of Amanda’s magical hands, his penis had remained erect for every minute of every day and night. Not for a moment had he been spared by the relief of any bent towards comfortable flaccidity. His three-day entombment in the room Claire had prepared for him had done nothing to alleviate the situation. Amanda and Claire’s enforcement of his complete feminisation had, to his utter astonishment, turned him on like nothing he had ever experienced. By the time he was returned home, he was, in every way, a ‘woman’, in every way, that is, but name. There was, of course, a bewildering tumescence that left a ‘woman’ wondering if ‘she’ would ever be complete or would remain, forever more, the butt of fun and ridicule to the women ‘she’ served and adored.

     Vincent’s perpetual excitement at becoming a woman was, ironically, his final obstacle to completing his desired journey. Until his permanent arousal waned, he knew he had no right to anything in life but servitude to women. If blessed by an act of female kindness, he-she might be permitted a minor role in the provision of a woman’s pleasure.

     Weeks passed when he had to carry out his domestic duties in this debilitating delirium, constantly on the edge of climax yet cognisant of the terrifying fate Kate assured would be awaiting him, should he lose control and actually come. In these days of endless, agonising ecstasy, Vincent would be inspected, sometimes hourly. As he and his penis stood to attention, upon Kate’s command, he would lift the hem of his dress to allow her to draw down his panties. She would hold his penis and take a small test-tube sample of the unremitting, clear, pre-orgasmic semen weeping from its bulbous, moist tip.

     On one occasion, Vincent had reported for inspection to find Kate holding a glass honeypot. This was, for Vincent, the first sign that very soon the affliction of his pent-up suffering might soon be over as Kate employed her free hand to gently bring him to the brink of explosive release. With protracted ease she could keep him there for what seemed like an eternity of torment. More than words could say, the lesson was implicit. In the corrective education of everyman, a vital part of the curriculum was the understanding that he was nothing until he had learned that patience was the first virtue to acquire on the path to ecstasy. Instant gratification could only be entrusted to women, who knew this all too well. Only when Kate was content with her tutelage, had she allowed Vincent to come forth, triggering weeks worth of accumulated, restrained, humiliated and cuckolded sperm. To the last fluid ounce of semen, his copious outpourings were collected in the carefully aimed honeypot for immediate analysis.

     This had been the only complete orgasm Vincent had experienced since his meeting with his former employer, Ms. Walker. At no time had he experienced any flaccidity, whatsoever; a debilitating condition. For so long, this had come to be, very nearly, the totality of Vincent’s sex life. His fading memory of sexual intercourse had become something he observed with rare, tantalising glimpses and Kate experienced with both Alasdair and Adam. He took comfort in his faith. Kate’s assurance that he would, one day, experience penetrative sex like he never believed possible, had offered him hope, not to mention a mixture of trepidation and anticipatory delight.

     “Jane and I have decided,” Kate announced, out of the blue, sliding her fingers inside the lace hemline of his nightdress and onwards to an insubstantial gusset of diaphanous roses.

     Vincent was at something of a disadvantage. Not yet a confidant in this closest of friendships, he was unsure of precisely what had been decided. Prior to coming to bed, he had picked up snippets of their conversation over the dinner he had cooked and served. Making any sense of what he had heard them say eluded him. In the delirium of Kate’s capable handling of his panty-interned arousal, the mention of Jane conjured up the vivid memory of coming home again to a new intimacy that now existed between Kate and her. There was also a new dynamic between Jane and him that stirred him deeply. His excitement earlier that evening had been evident, even through his apron-fronted skirt and petticoats. The fear and regard he now had for Lady Jane left his knees weak within their nylon stockings. She was, to Vincent, quite simply, sex on legs. A beautiful, comely woman, she distinguished herself from Kate by the kindness and understanding she had shown him since his return home. Unperturbed by his new-found transvestism, she often complimented his choice of dress which, at Kate’s insistence that evening, had been formal maid service.

     Formal address was now the order of the day. Fearful that familiarity might breed contempt, Kate had been steadily nurturing what she considered to be a healthy reserve with her husband. When it came to loving relationships, she was an advocate of allowing the winds of heaven to dance between each another. The fact that those heavenly winds inevitably danced around her did not elude Kate. It was, however, something she was coming to take for granted. In time, informal, first-name address had become virtually obsolete. So, to the one whose desire for her was strictly controlled and increasingly courtly, Kate was known simply as ‘my Lady’.

     It hadn’t escaped Kate’s notice what a positive boon this had been to her sex life. The deeper Vincent’s betrothal, the freer her promiscuity had become. Love, Kate was learning, like desire, took many manifestations, quite apart from one’s cross-dressing, subservient, cuckolded spouse. In this hedonistic climate of female emancipation, Vincent’s sexual frustration was to become a constant, character-forming companion, challenging the progress of his pilgrimage to chastity. Sexual fulfilment was something he was required to observe more than experience. Sometimes, Kate’s beauty could reduce him to tears as, with every blatant, sexual liaison with Adam and Alasdair, her loveliness grew. Gradually, Vincent was to endure indignity and longing in equal measure as Adam enjoyed delights he could only remember. In time, he learned to be grateful when she expressed a preference to employ the countenance of his face as either a sex toy or, on occasions, luxury, toilet tissue.

     Picasso’s division of women into goddesses and doormats had left Kate reasoning that the life of a goddess could be exalted only by the love of the gods whilst wiping her feet on the doormat of mortal, ass-kissing men. So it came as something of a surprise to Vincent, to find his wife, dressed as she had been for dinner, sat upon the bed with a hand beneath the duvet, pleasuring him gently. He had been sent to bed early, having completed his tasks to the satisfaction of the ladies of the house, leaving the two women to talk late into the night, as was often the case. Joining the ladies for after-dinner coffee and brandy had become, for Vincent, a highlight of these evenings. Somewhat disappointingly, an invitation had not been extended to him on this occasion. He had washed and dried the dishes, served another round of brandies and fresh coffee then, when dismissed, had gone to bed as instructed.

     With only a favourite, long, silk nightdress for company, Vincent had undressed and adorned himself in its soothing comfort. He had slipped between his wife’s perfectly-pressed, cotton bed-sheets. With mounting anticipation, he reflected upon why it was she had told him he was sleeping in her bed that night. On his return from his induction at Lady Claire’s, he had been shown his new quarters, formerly the spare room. His visit to the bedroom in which he used to sleep was a reminder of a marriage that was once a loving partnership of equals. The room no longer carried any trace of his former residence, the walls alone witness to his wife’s more salacious activities with his betters. When he had gone to bed in his Lady’s boudoir, he had settled down to a silence which might have brought peace but for the muffled tones of conversation coming from the dining room. Increasingly raucous laughter, in concert with an awareness of being talked about, brought him little solace.

     Had he known what plans were afoot for his throbbing penis, he might have gladly endured any indignity. Now beside himself, writhing in his nightdress, in response to his Lady’s dexterous manipulation of his sexual organs, he thanked the gods for this good fortune. Now that his wife was preoccupied by other sexual liaisons, such indulgences were rare. An ever-present jealousy, day after day of his life, normally accompanied an eternity of unfulfilled, dripping arousal. As a virtual celibate and humiliated cuckold, he had learned to be grateful for such merciful moments. He even dared to hope to catch sight of honeypot heaven but all Kate held in her left hand was her mobile phone.

     “As I said,” Kate began, after a long pause dispensing right-handed mercy, “Lady Jane approves.”

     She continued stroking and teasing Vincent, who was trapped in a spiral of begging and thanking.

     “She was most impressed with what you showed her.”

     Vincent shuddered at the memory. As he recalled, the show was quite involuntary. It wasn’t by his invitation that Lady Jane felt free to take a look. His hands had been full, serving coffee to the seated ladies when, at Kate’s incorrigible insistence, Jane had felt sufficiently free to take the liberty of lifting Vincent’s apron, skirt and petticoats, whereupon she tugged at the front of his panties.

     “What do you think, Jane?” Kate had enquired. “Will he do?”

     Lady Jane had gazed upon the rigid power of his being. In an act of deliverance, she allowed it to burst forth from the containment of his stretched knickers and swing to attention.

     “Pleasing..” Jane had mused, “to the eye, that is.. I don’t suppose..?”

     “You know you can,” Kate had said, reassuringly.

     “Ah,” Jane had cooed, beginning her multi-sensory exploration. “So pretty, lovely to the touch. Not so large but a girl can’t have everything.”

     With his hands tied to a serving tray and high heels rooted to the spot, Vincent had felt utterly exposed. Jane’s advance beneath the front of his raised petticoat had caused the heels of his court shoes to leave the ground as his weight shifted to his toes. His knees had come together with his bottom retreating like a damsel in distress. In his vulnerability, he had found true modesty. Despite the thrill of it all, he had been preoccupied with a fear that the dew of all his excitement was accumulating into a pre-orgasmic droplet of semen, unable to defy gravity a moment longer. The thought of any precipitation upon Lady Jane’s enquiring countenance had filled him with an irrational dread. Whatever the reasons for his modesty, Vincent knew them to be genuine. In his rigidity of both fear and desire, the impact of Lady Jane’s touch had felt truly shocking.

     “And so shy too,” Lady Jane had said, continuing her gourmet critique of this most accessible of male genitalia which, by kind invitation, she had continued to watch, touch and taste with kisses.

     “Relax, Vincent, darling,” Kate had commanded. “Don’t be such a prude.”

     “So, so pretty,” Jane had reflected.

     “How is it possible?” she had then wondered out loud. “A feminine penis!”

     “I told you,” Kate had reminded her.

     “You really are full of girl, aren’t you,” Jane had concluded, looking up at Vincent.

     “Oh,” she had then panted at Kate, noticing his obvious mortification. “He blushes divinely.”

     Vincent had maintained his sanity by sufferance. However much his philandering wife erred, he had drawn comfort from his own, hard-learned fidelity. Lady Jane’s covetous groping had left him feeling violated yet he loved it. He couldn’t help himself. Naked to her tactile scrutiny, he had dared to realise he had been cast into a lifelong fantasy which, until that moment, had remained beyond his wildest dreams. He had let himself enjoy what he knew would be short-lived ecstasy. Knowing Lady Kate as he did, he could have predicted with certainty, that at any moment, the sheer joy of Lady Jane’s exquisite touch would cease. In a life now devoted to his Lady’s measured cruelty, Vincent’s expectations rarely came to anything more than the alleviation of a consuming jealousy or, at best, the frustrated disappointment of eternal teasing.

     As the two women had continued to discuss him as if he wasn’t present, Vincent had little doubt that, like Cinderella at the stroke of midnight, his journey from heavenly desire to domestic drudgery would be swift and brutal.

     “So, Jane, what do you think?” Kate had enquired once again. “The test results are highly favourable. We’ll get another update shortly. Fancy a test flight?”

     Jane had paused, biting her lip, considering her options. Vincent had started trembling when her hand withdrew to pull the ribbon hip ties of his panties. He would never forget the exhilaration he had felt as they brushed his nylon stockings on their decent towards his knees.

     “May I think about it a little longer?” Jane had deliberated.

     “Why, of course, Jane,” Kate had assured her. “Let your biological clock find the rhythm of your soul. We have all the time in the world.”

     Vincent’s knocked knees had parted suddenly when Kate spanked his bottom with the palm of her hand.

     “Turn around and lift your skirts again,” Kate had instructed.

     The disturbance had set his panties on the final leg of their descent, towards his hen toes. Kate had then held a test tube to the glistening, premature discharge coming from the apex of his cantilevered cock. It had taken only a moment for her to extract her micro-sample of his more impulsive, pre-orgasmic semen.

     “When you have finished the dishes, bring us more coffee and brandy,” Lady Kate had then instructed. “After that, you may retire to bed. Oh! Did I say? You’re sleeping in my bed tonight.”

     Holding onto the serving tray, Vincent had curtsied and withdrawn backwards for several steps, eyes fixed to the floor. He was juggling the tray in one hand whilst opening the door with the other, when Lady Kate had felt the need to point out his oversight.

     “Haven’t you forgotten something?”

     At a backward glance, Vincent could see the damp, pastel shades of his fallen lingerie polluting an otherwise uncluttered carpet. He had approached the bouquet of chiffon roses adorned in lace and ribbon. Still balancing the serving tray, he had bent down to retrieve his sullied panties from the floor. As gracefully as he could, he had then made his apologies, curtsied once more and prayed that he might leave the room without further incident.

     By the time he had gone to his Lady’s empty bed that evening, Vincent had lost any confidence in an incident-free night. On occasions, Lady Kate had tolerated his presence in her bed, if only for a moment. On one occasion, when feeling kind, she had even offered him a breast to suckle. On another occasion, his wife had allowed him to stay with her for a whole night. Oh, the joy he had felt, waking in her arms, his lips pursed around the nipple of her nearest breast. When he had served coffee that morning, Vincent had been unable to believe his luck when her benevolence had extended to permitting him once more, beneath the bedcovers. The thrill at being allowed to resume his fervent breast-lust, whilst his wife imbibed her libation of caffeine, would remain with him to the grave.

     Such comforts, on these rare occasions, had become the limits of desire to which Vincent dare aspire. However, it was now beginning to dawn on him that he might, at last, dare to dream. His Lady wife’s exquisite hand, beneath his nightdress, was doing goodness knows what to a pulsating erection he felt certain was about to explode from his aching balls. His ability to listen to her words phased in and out of his cognisance.

     “Lady Jane is somewhat concerned that time is getting on. She has been so focused on her career and, well.. shall we say, somewhat particular in her choice of a man to sire her child?”

     Vincent sighed at the sudden absence of her divine touch as Kate threw her hands up, in a gesture of mild exasperation.

     “Without being overbearing, I’ve tried to tell her she can be too fussy but she could never shake off the illusion of ‘Mr. Right’.”

     Her empty, right hand fell to her side, leaving the left poised, clinging doggedly to her mobile phone. Vincent winced with the pain of loss, his gonads fit to burst.

     “Well, when she told me she was looking into IVF with anonymous donation, I couldn’t listen to another word,” she said, clasping her phone in her palms. “Now, Lady Jane would like a girl. No amount of IVF can offer that choice, at least, not legally, which is where you come in, sweetheart. Like no other, you, of all men, can favour our desire for female chromosomes.”

     The first few bars of Kate’s ‘Ave Maria’ ringtone were permitted to ring before she answered the call. Vincent was struggling to keep up.

     “Amanda, how good of you to call,” she greeted. “I hope we haven’t upset your plans tonight.”

     Vincent gazed at his wife, hanging on the phone to every word Amanda was saying. He used the silence of her attentive listening to reflect on everything she had told him.

     “How lovely for you,” Kate declared down the phone in congratulatory tones.

     “The two of them at once? In front of Chris?” she blurted, naughtily, unable to constrain a desire to outdo Amanda’s cock-fest.

     “Out of this world,” she said, rating a recent liaison with Adam, followed by a night in bed with Alasdair. “My legs still quiver at the thought of it. I’ll be doing it again, as soon as it can be arranged.”

     Vincent was desperately trying to recall the salient points regarding Lady Jane’s career and abandonment of the ‘Mr. Right’ myth.

     “Anyway,” Kate said down the phone, “to the matter in hand. What are the initial results of our last sample?”

     In the silent pause of the answer to her question, Vincent wondered what proclivity of his was conducive to Lady Jane’s needs.

     “Good grief!” Kate responded suddenly. “We’ve never had gender-aspect ratios this distorted. These hormone levels are anarchic. His oestrogenic output is through the roof.”

     Vincent appreciated that a girl would be best but how it was he who could favour such desires, eluded him.

     “Alpha-sperm levels are now being dominated by proto-feminist inseminators. The time is ripe.”

     In these recent times of strict semen-control and measured extraction of sperm samples, Vincent had foolishly assumed this to be a ritualistic embellishment of his sexual drama, carried out by his wife and her friends. Until this moment, he thought it was all a game to tease him. It had never occurred to him that there was a serious purpose behind his humiliating orgasm-denial and the objective handling and display of his genitalia. The horrific realisation that he was the unwitting subject of a macabre experiment was only just dawning.

     “Thank you so much, Amanda. I’ll let you get back to filling your hands. Give my love to John and Mark, oh.. and Chris too. Lucky girl, options can be so sexy.”

     Only now was the purpose of the experiment beginning to dawn on Vincent. The coerced cross-dressing, subservience, restraint, sexual frustration, humiliation and cuckoldry had eventually led to this, his reason for being.

     “Congratulations, Vincent, darling, you’re going to have a baby.”

     Relinquishing control had been a lesson Vincent had learned well but he was far from sure if he was ready to let others decide his parental destiny.

     “You have a busy night ahead of you, Vincent. Over the coming days, Lady Jane is going to need all the semen she can extract from you. You will deliver this on demand, daily, by means of in-situ orgasm.”

     “I don’t think I’m ready for the responsibility of parenthood,” Vincent protested in frank tones, forgetting completely his station and observation of address.

     “Don’t be a silly goose,” Kate reprimanded. “Nobody is interested in your parental virtues. It’s your paternity that matters.”

     Her hand returned beneath his nightdress.

     “Goodness, if our calculations are correct, you are going to be far too busy to be a parent.”

     Vincent looked both puzzled and alarmed.

     “If Lady Jane becomes pregnant with a girl, you will be in demand, inseminating many expectant mothers-to-be with your magic, gender-biased semen.”

     She squeezed his congested testicles.

     “Lady Jane wishes to make a withdrawal from our living sperm bank which, of course, is you, darling. She will arrive shortly for her first insemination. To begin with, I shall be on hand to nurture optimum semen production.”

     Vincent wanted more time, a chance to negotiate terms. He felt like the victim of a conspiracy to design his life. Kate, sensing his concerns, tightened her clutch. Defiance waned. When Lady Jane entered the room, his will was completely defeated by desire. She stood, for a moment, framed by the doorway. Light from the hallway penetrated the sheer, ivory silk of her long, empire-line nightdress, silhouetting and demystifying the curves of her voluptuous form. Its delayed motion clung and let go of her approaching body. Off-the-shoulder, puff sleeves drew a gathered, silk bust gently around her exulted breasts. Ribbon bows strained beneath her advancing cleavage until the kiss of Vincent’s lips unravelled them as, for the first time since he was wedded to Kate, another woman offered him the bounty of her bosom.

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