by Pervert Savant

The Poignant Story of a Young Pre-Operative Transsexual Forced into a Life of Twisted Sex and Degradation in the Sordid Confines of America’s Penal System!

Chapter 1: Twisted Sex in the Prison Infirmary

 

Cherie inhaled languidly on her first Virginia Slim of the day and idly contemplated the hairy figure of the bleeding con that was strapped to the prison infirmary’s examination table. The scarlet wound in the con’s abdomen did not look good to Cherie.

 

“We found him in Block Seven with a shiv stuck in his gizzard," growled Biff, the statuesque female guard that had brought him in.  “You better patch him up quick before he meets his maker! The Warden isn’t gonna like this."

 

“Biff" wasn’t the guard’s real name, Cherie knew. Her first name was actually “Mary."  But Biff, like most of the female prison guards at West Texas Corrective Facility for Incorrigibles #8, was a bull dyke. You couldn’t be a card-carrying bull dyke at West Texas Corrective and have a first name like Mary.

 

Cherie took a last puff from her full-flavored Luxury Light 120 (her favorite!) and directed her attention to the con, who was struggling to put his strapped hands over his gushing wound while moaning prayers in Spanish.

 

“Santa Maria, Madre de Dios"

 

Cherie confidently reached for a bottle of antiseptic, noting, as she did so, that her long, artificial nails could use a new coat of polish. It was so HARD keeping her nails looking the way they should and still be a prison nurse. It was one of Cherie’s biggest regrets about her occupational status at West Texas Corrective. “It’s so sad," thought Cherie as she pulled on a pair of latex gloves. “At West Texas Corrective, fashion always seems to be a secondary consideration."

 

“There, there sugar. You just stop that nasty moaning!  We’ll have you as good as new in just a jiffy," Cherie chirped cheerily.  “Now hold still! I don’t need to break another nail!"

 

Biff snorted disparagingly at the groaning Hispanic, all the while admiring the lush contours of Cherie’s buttocks. These were prominently on display as Cherie bent over the leaking Mexican and expertly poured antiseptic into the crimson maw that had once been an intact stomach.  "Nice ass," mused Biff idly to herself.  “I wouldn’t mind having a crack at that crack!"

 

Biff pulled an unfiltered Camel from behind her left ear and ignited it with a nickel-plated Zippo lighter. The Zippo was a gift from one of Biff’s former lovers. The name “Biff" was prominently engraved on its side in Old English lettering.

 

“Yeah, Cherie’s one nice piece of fluff," Biff mused.  "It’s a shame that the Warden’s got designs on her. Otherwise, I might put a move on her myself!"

 

The brown antiseptic that Cherie had poured into the hole in his gut seemed to enliven Alejandro. His low moans quickly turned to screams and his twitching increased and became markedly more spasmodic. Cherie waved a long-nailed finger under Alejandro’s nose and said, firmly, “Now you just hush up, honey! I’m working as fast as I can!"

 

Cherie’s confident manner, coupled with his acute loss of blood, seemed to calm Alejandro. His screams gradually receded into muffled sobs and his twitching changed to merely an occasional spasm of jerks. Cherie’s well-intentioned ministrations were obviously having their designed effect.

 

While Alejandro continued to writhe on the examination table, Cherie minced over to a glass-paneled cabinet. Cherie’s movements continued to intrigue Biff, who took another opportunity to ogle Cherie’s tush  — the twin orbs of which, at that moment, were on prominent display beneath her flimsy cotton nurse’s uniform. Ignoring Biff, Cherie continued to rummage in the cabinet.

 

The guards at the prison had lately taken to selling the infirmary’s drugs to the cons for pocket money: something that made Cherie’s work occasionally difficult.

"It’s so unprofessional," thought Cherie.  “Just when you need something, you find out it’s gone."

Cherie explored the depleted inventory that had once been the infirmary’s well-stocked medicine cabinet, pushing aside, in the process, her own ample supply of Estradiol Valerate and Progesterone.  As usual, Cherie emerged from her search dismayed.

 

“Oh great," Cherie groaned.  “First the Demerol disappears, then the Morphine, and now even the Tylenol’s gone! Biff, did you take the last of that too?" Cherie intoned, eyeing the burly lesbian guard accusingly.  “How can I be an angel of mercy when you and your friends keep taking all of my tools?"

 

Biff shifted her massive form uncomfortably and did her best to ignore Cherie’s question. Rather than answering, Biff opted to take another long draw on her Camel. Then, affecting an attitude of injured innocence, Biff responded, “You know I’m a degreed criminal science professional," Biff replied.  “I wouldn’t do nothin’ as unprofessional as that."  Hoping to change the subject, Biff then began humming “T for Texas," thinking that her accuser might be distracted by the bouncy C & W tune — one of Biff’s favorites.

 

“Hey, you like Ernest Tubb, honey?" Biff asked. “I got all his records."

 

Cherie ignored Biff’s question. She preferred Disco to the pervasive C & W that seemed to be the prison preference. Instead of pursuing the matter further with Biff, she shook out two aspirins from the green bottle and then poured some water into a paper cup. Cherie then popped both aspirins into her own mouth and chased them with water. Alejandro’s groaning had given her a splitting headache.

 

Her own medical problems attended to, Cherie then shook out two more tablets and refilled the cup for her patient

 

“Here, Alejandro. Bottoms up, honey! You just take a couple of these and I promise it won’t hurt so much. These little thingies are buffered. They shouldn’t hurt your tummy one bit. But even if they do, it serves you right! You boys in Block Seven are always playing such silly games."

 

Alejandro sat up to choke down the pills, swallowed some water, and then fell back onto the table, his eyes rolling in obvious pain.

 

“When’s the Warden coming back from that conference in Waco?" Biff asked, trying her best to make conversation with Cherie while simultaneously changing the subject from the missing Tylenol.  “I thought he was s’posed ta be back here yesterday."

 

“He stayed over to do some shopping,” Cherie smiled. “They have better malls in Waco than they do here.”

Cherie spoke about the Waco malls from experience. She was intimately familiar with all of the malls in West, and most of those in East, Texas. She’d given the Warden a long shopping list and particularly hoped that he would be returning from his trip with a lilac peignoir that she had picked out for herself from her latest Victoria’s Secret catalogue. But one could never be sure about the Warden. Cherie knew that his lingerie preferences ran to bullet bras and girdles and his favorite color was fire-engine red.

 

While waiting for the aspirin to take effect with Alejandro, Cherie took the opportunity to refresh her pulse points with a few liberal spritzes of Opium. Opium was Cherie’s favorite fragrance. She preferred it to the smell of denatured alcohol that ordinarily permeated the infirmary. It was also the closest thing to a real opiate left in the infirmary’s depleted medicine cabinet.

 

Biff sniffed the odor of the Opium, grunted approvingly, and then stubbed out the remains of her Camel on the infirmary’s tile floor. Meanwhile, Cherie – now suitably refreshed — removed a fistful of gauze from a plastic jar and began stuffing antiseptic-soaked wads of it into Alejandro’s wound.

 

Biff watched the process admiringly. “This little cunt’s pretty good at her work, “Biff mused. “I think she likes me. The next time the Warden’s gone, I may have to have a little chat with her.”

 

Cherie then raised one end of the examination table, ignored Alejandro’s answering wails, and began shimmying around the table with a roll of adhesive tape. Cherie wound the tape around Alejandro’s midsection and that seemed to stop most of his bleeding.

 

“There, sweetie! That ought to keep you safe and sound until Dr. Lumley comes in.”

 

Cherie eyed her finished work proudly, choosing to ignore a small red spot — slowly becoming larger — that stubbornly seeped through the gauze. “If Doc Lumley stayed sober last night, he ought to be in here to see you in a couple of hours. So stop worrying!”

 

Alejandro groaned gratefully.

 

“Take him away, Biff. But not back to Block Seven. Move him to the side room and let him get some sleep. The Doc will be all over me if Alejandro gets knifed again before he gets a chance to look at him.”

 

Biff nudged the still moaning Alejandro with her nightstick. “C’mon amigo. Time ta move!”

 

Alejandro struggled to his feet, his knees buckling as he slid off the table. Biff grabbed the con under his armpits and steered him to a wheelchair that Cherie had thoughtfully provided. At 6’ 1” and weighing 250 pounds, maneuvering the Mexican into the wheelchair was easy work for Biff. Biff hoped that this womanly display of strength and professionalism wasn’t lost on Cherie.

 

“See ya later, cupcake. Maybe we can talk a little bit more sometime soon,” Biff winked. Biff then took the opportunity to pinch Cherie’s left nipple between the ends of her stubby fingers. “Ha, ha! Titty twister!” Biff chuckled, hoping Cherie would appreciate her attentions.

 

“You quit that, Biff. It isn’t funny!” said Cherie, wincing uncomfortably at Biff’s touch.

 

“Sorry, baby. Just a little joke!” said Biff, not one bit unrepentant.

 

“Why does everyone have to twist my left nipple?” Cherie wondered to herself. “No one ever does that to my right one.” She continued to speculate on this strange phenomenon as Biff, somewhat chastened, turned and wheeled the now comatose Alejandro from the examination room.

 

“I guess it’s just all in a day’s work at West Texas Correctional,” Cherie sighed to herself as she rubbed her now-swollen left nipple. Then, seeing that Biff was finally gone, Cherie removed her latex gloves, opened her compact and, eyeing its mirror, deftly began retouching her mascara.

 

Today we finish up Richard’s piece which he’s so generously shared with Zen Fetish.

If you haven’t done so already, be sure to read Part I and Part II before continuing. It’s been interesting reading commentary/reaction to the first two parts, which seems to reflect a bit of confusion regarding Richard’s purpose in writing this bit of “specualtive D/s Fiction.”

But it really isn’t that complicated. As Richard explains (click link to read more): “I wrote it many years ago to give dominant women that I met online a picture of my perception of Femdom relationships.” Anyway, let’s see how this “Imaginary Femdom Encounter” turns out:

Fantasy Mistress: Part III

As I went up the walkway I wondered how she’d test me today. And what the tests proved. And when they’d end. We actually exchanged a fair amount of email before she’d agreed to see me. We shared complimentary appetites: she like to do to men what I wanted done to me (or at least I thought: since I’d never done any of it I didn’t really know).

The door opened for the third time.

“Go to the back yard and wait for me.”

As I did so I wondered if she was going to have me mow or lawn. The fear of something like that dampened my enthusiasm but I couldn’t bring myself to stop now.

She walked out. Dressed in a pullover top, cut-off jeans, and cheap rubber sandals, “flip flops” my mother used to call them. She’d always been dressed casually before but I’d been too hyped up to really notice the actual clothes.

She went over to a pick-nick table made of greenish wood.

“Sit here. Put your right hand’s palm down on the table.”

As I complied I noticed a wooden ruler in her hand.

“You are to keep your hand flat. I’m going to give you ten strokes. If that is too much for you leave and don’t come back.”

I barely had time to steel myself before the first slap hit. But it wasn’t that bad. At first. By the fifth stroke it really stung. My fingers felt like I might not be doing much with them tomorrow but it was almost over. I thought. An eleventh stroke hit me. A twelfth. With the thirteenth she turned the ruler so the edge cut into my fingers.

I yanked my hand away.

When I realized what I’d done I wanted to cry. I’d failed and would have to leave. But when I looked at her she looked pretty pleased.

“Don’t worry, you weren’t supposed to be able to take the last one. Once you got past the first ten you’d passed the test. The others were to teach you that no matter what I say I’m going to do I can still do whatever I want.”

“You have one last test. Come with me.” Shortly we were back in the room whose corner I’d knelt in. This time there was a big wicker plantation style chain in the center. She sat in it.

“Come here, may kneel in front of me. Remember you still aren’t to speak.”

So excited I was trembling I did.

“You have no idea how many men want to be where you are now. But they don’t really want it badly enough. They don’t really want to serve.

“The first day you proved you were willing to work for you place in my service. Yesterday you showed enough determination to withstand boredom which was a much harder test. Today you had your first taste of pain. I like hurting men. If you hadn’t been able to take it you wouldn’t be suitable for me. This is your last test.

“You won’t think it hard when I tell you but it will take all of your willingness work work and to keep on even if you get bored or tired.

“I am very, very slow to orgasm. Your last test is to satisfy me with your tongue. You probably think this is a big treat.” She was right about that.

“But it will take longer than you think. If you manage it we’ll do all the things we wrote to each other about. Otherwise, you won’t have made the grade.”

Standing up she pulled off her top and dropped her shorts. She sat back down. Gesturing at her cunt she said “Get to work, slave.”

She was right. It was long. It was wonderful at first. Then it took all my determination to keep going. At the end it was wonderful again. And then I was hers.

***

What this story says to me more than anything is that Richard is most definitely not a wannabe sub. He is the REAL DEAL. And it also tells me that he is truly deserving of the title, Submissive Savant.

In the very near future I will be featuring another “fantasy” penned by Richard. A bit different than this one. Quite intriguing and of interest to more than a few of my callers and readers.

xo, Angela

By Richard,

Submissive Savant to the Stars (er, one Super Nova).

Read Part I

My First Mistress: Part II

She opened the door and put her fingers to her lips to indicate that I wasn’t to speak.

“Follow me.”

We went through mildly snazzy but pretty conventional living room to a side room that I suspected had been a breakfast room. It was completely empty.

She looked me in the eye and I felt a mild shiver pass up my spine.

“Go in the corner,” she pointed, “and get on your knees facing the corner and keep your hands at your sides.”

I complied getting very exciting wonder what she was going to do to me.

“You will stay there until told otherwise. Keep your eyes facing the corner, your arms where they are and your mouth shut. If you decide to stop before told you just leave the house and do not come back.”

I heard her leave the room.

A few minutes passed. Then several. Then I couldn’t guess how long I’d been there. Minutes started to seem awfully long. Sometimes I thought I saw the wall move. My knees were hurting and my ankles were sore.

I started to get mad. This was awfully boring. But I didn’t dare move. I’d hungered to be trained for a long time and she was the first who ever offered to do so.

I might as well have been chained there even if the chains were only in my mind and of my own making.

Finally after an eternity that I later was told was only 90 minutes she was back in the room.

“Get up and face me.” I almost fell and legs were wobbly but I was up in a flash.

Her expression was unreadable. It couldn’t decide if she looked grim, amused or maybe even mildly approving.

“Go but you may come back tomorrow at the same time.”

I left softly shutting her front door.

I’d washed her car. I’d been bored almost to tears. None of it had been even faintly erotic. I could not guess what tomorrow would bring. But looking inside myself I knew that having been forced to conform to another’s arbitrary commands had given me some satisfaction.

But I did wonder how many more tests I’d have to pass.

***

Now this is starting to get interesting, dontcha think? I can’t wait to see what happens next.

Stay tuned for Part III.

Oh. FYI: Richard has yet another up & coming website breaching the waters of WebTopia: BDSM Reference. While still in its embryonic stage, I do believe it will grow up to be quite an interesting addition to the BDSM community. And remember, folks. You heard it here first.

xo, Angela

So Richard, cherished Savant and venerated Web-Chronicler of all things submissive, shared with me a few days back that he has occasionally dabbled in the fine art of writing fantasy. He says it’s not erotica (“This isn’t erotica. I wrote it many years ago to give dominant women that I met online a picture of my perception of Femdom relationships.”), but….

I say it is. What do you guys think?

My First Mistress – Part 1

When I came to her house I was a little surprised by the size. She lived alone but it was large enough for a largish family. Big yard too. Otherwise it was a plain suburban west Durham house.

When I got to the door I tightened my stomach muscles trying to tame the partying butterflies that had moved in there. As instructed I knocked three times. About half a minute later the door opened. For a split second I thought I’d faint.

She was wearing sunglasses. I couldn’t see her eyes and my feelings of intimidation took another jump. Not wanting to look like a gawking fool (probably already too late) I started to introduce yourself.

“I -.”

“I know who you are.” She sounded impatient but out of habit than actually annoyed. “Don’t speak, just nod. You saw my car as you came in.” It was under a carport. I nodded. “Go wash it. If you aren’t going to do a good job you might as well leave now. When you’re done come back and knock at the door.” She shut the door.

She’d told me I’d have to pass a few tests. I’d been expecting something more exciting. It was probably proof of my desperate need that without hesitating I went over to the car.

There was a hose, clothes car wash and wax. I don’t own a car so I was a little lost at first. But my father used to make me wash his car when I was a teen. I hated doing that with a passion. I could almost believe that, Joan – that was her name, had read my memories when she picked this chore.

I scrubbed the car twice, including the hubcaps and tag areas. It was hot and it was tiring. But waxing was even worse. I was so afraid it wouldn’t look right I kept buffing and buffing until my arms ached. Finally it was as good as I could do and I hoped good enough.

Back at the door I waited a couple of minutes until she answered my knock. She wasn’t wearing the shades so I could see her very intelligent intense looking dark eyes. She had a few worry lines etched into her forehead but they only added to her look of smart competence. She was tall probably about five inches less than my 6’3″. She was skinny, almost boney but I don’t know that her body could’ve matter I was so sucked in by her eyes.

But she was only there for a moment. “Come back tomorrow at the same time.” The door shut.

I felt like I should be disappointed but I wasn’t. But I sure hoped tomorrows test would be less strenuous.

***

Stay tuned for Part II.

xo, Angela

Pervert Savant sends the following email.

Subject: Pulp Fiction for the Jaded

Dearest Angela:

I’ve been thinking.

My contribution to “Pulp Porn” would be an elaboration on a new idea that has been percolating in my fevered brain. “Phone Sex Pimp Daddy” — a bare-knuckled tell-all expose about a middle-aged white office worker who, one day, decides to become a PPP (“Phone Sex Pimp).

Follow him as he gathers his stable of phone sex whores — preying on innocent intellectual women, corrupting them, buying their bifocals, encouraging them to read books, forcing them to speak in grammatical sentences and then, when they have nothing left, requiring them to slave away at phone banks in dingy offices, dingier apartments, and still dingier trailer parks, plying their trade until they’re used up and hoarse — enslaved and willing to give all their hard earned profits to their pimp, (a man who is known on the avenue as “NiteFlirt”).

He’s their “Phone Sex Daddy!” You can do the screenplay. I’d want a percentage of the take from the movie, of course.

Sincerely,

Pervert Q. Savant

What do you think? Should I go for it? Write that screenplay and share the wealth with this rascal of a guy? I think he has the talent. Certainly the gumption. Or maybe I should write the book and the screenplay. Reap the bounty myself?

Or maybe I’ll just ignore this silliness and buy a membership to Tit-Elation.

Which reminds me: One of my stories, Tying up Amy was featured via Tit-Elation at Samarel Erotic Art.

And for those who emailed and/or commented on yesterday’s entry, I am fine. I really am. Just rolling with the punches. Thanks so much.

xo, Angela