First Week
The next morning, I heard Mistress wandering around upstairs for a few minutes before I heard the door to the basement open and Her steps descending the stairs. Then the glow of light for just a moment before She pulled aside the cover of my cage, opened the lock, and without even a greeting said simply and sleepily, “shit, shower, and shave, tup … then get your butt to the kitchen.”
“Yes, Mistress,” I replied as I crawled from my cage and kissed Her bare feet as i'd been trained yesterday, right foot then left. She said not another word to me, but headed back upstairs. I hastened to the bathroom, all too eager to empty my full bladder. But knowing I couldn't afford to linger, I quickly shaved and showered. As I hurried up the stairs to the main floor, I didn't realize I should have been more thoughtful and careful about my ablutions.
Mistress was sitting at the kitchen table, still in Her robe, reading something on Her tablet computer. Unsure exactly what was expected of me, I melted to my knees beside Her. Mistress didn't acknowledge my presence at first, but after a long moment reached down and ran a hand along my cheek. Then, She raised Her fingers and smelled them. At that moment, as She glared down at me, I realized what I had forgotten, just as She put the question to me. “What did you forget, tup?”
“My scent, Mistress.”
As I said these words, She slapped my cheek, correcting me. “Your perfume, boy.”
“Yes, Mistress, my perfume.”
“Didn't I tell you yesterday that I wanted to smell that on you at all times, to smell my scent on you, marking you?”
“Yes, Mistress, You did.”
She let me stew for a moment before continuing. “And do You think I was just talking to hear myself talk, tup?”
“No, Mistress,” I assured Her.
“Then why haven't I heard an apology from you, boy?”
Flustered, I began to blurt out an apology, but She stopped me and ordered me into a posture of obeisance, forehead kissed to the floor. “Now, tup, begin again.”
“Yes, Mistress. Please forgive me, Mistress, I was sloppy and inattentive … and I will do better, Mistress.”
She let my words hang heavily in the air for a moment before saying, “Yes, tup, you certainly will. You're still learning, but I expect you to learn quickly. On your feet.”
When I had risen back to my feet, Her voice softened. “Go back downstairs and prepare yourself properly, tup. Every time you come upstairs, I want you smelling like my boy. And” – She cupped my scrotum in Her hand, running Her thumb along the nearly smooth flesh, but noting a bit of stubble – “when you shave, shave down here, too. I want you silky as a baby's bottom to my touch. Get going.” She dismissed me with a squeeze to my balls.
But as I began to descend back to the basement, She stopped me with a kind word. “And, tup … you were good last night. Thank you.”
“Thank You, Mistress,” I responded with true – and somewhat unexpected – gratitude for Her words before proceeding downstairs.
When I re-emerged some 15 minutes later, Mistress gave me a quick inspection, approving of my scent and smoothness. “Now, breakfast,” She said pleasantly. “I'll have a quarter of that melon there and some lightly buttered toast.”
“Of course, Mistress,” I replied, moving quickly to slice and scoop the melon, then to begin toasting Her bread … hoping that the sooner She ate, the sooner my growling tummy would be given something, at least the scoop of kibble that was in my bowl. When I served Her at the table, She signaled for me to kneel at Her side as She ate and continued to read the news from Her tablet. As She finished Her light breakfast, She reached down and gave me a small corner of the toast, which I ate from Her fingers, whispering “Thank You, Mistress.” “Good boy, tup. You ALWAYS thank Me … or any Woman … when given a treat,” She reinforced a lesson from yesterday.
Then She rose, set the plate with the melon rind down on the floor beside my dish, and continued. “You may gnaw out whatever is left of the melon, tup, then eat your breakfast. You may use your hands for the melon, but NOT for the kibble. After you've cleaned the kitchen, come find me.” Thanking Her, I obeyed, savoring the sweet, rich taste of the few small bites of melon I was able to get from the rind, then devouring my kibble like a dog. I was getting better at eating this way, spilling less of the small, hard bits of food.
As I was almost finished, I heard Mistress's heels approaching, re-entering the kitchen. Instinctively, I stopped eating and knelt up, keeping my head bowed. “Good boy,” Mistress said, petting my head as She passed by on the way to the counter. “I almost forgot something.” I heard Her open a bottle, shake something out, and then saw Her drop two large pills into what was left of my kibble. When I looked up, with what i'm sure was a quizzical look on my face, She frowned and shook Her head. “You don't need to know, boy. You simply eat whatever I put in your bowl. Finish up now, clean up, and come find me.” (I was to learn later that these pills, which I was given every morning, were neuro-stimulaters, marginally but appreciably increasing the endorphins my brain released in response to humiliation and, to a lesser degree, pain. Another method the Women of Gynesis had designed to make it easier for nicks to accept, even embrace, our roles in this new environment.)
Obediently, I choked down the large pills, which required some water, and naturally wondered what they were for as I finished the last few bites of kibble. After I had carefully cleaned the kitchen, taking longer than usual since I was still learning my way around, I found Mistress in the den, where She was writing out a list. When I had knelt, She tore the sheet from the pad and handed it to me.
“I'm going to spend the day painting, tup, or at least the morning. This is a list of chores for you to work on. Please do them in the order listed and don't worry about time. I'd rather you do them right, in a way that will please me, than that you get them done quickly. If you have any questions, come and find me. I'll likely be in the studio, which is at the very back of the house.” She paused for a moment to reach down and raise my chin. “I mean it, tup. If you don't know how to do anything listed, come and ask for further instructions. I'll likely appreciate the diversion. OK?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Good boy. Get to work.” As I rose and turned, She patted me on the bottom … and I set off to do my chores.
The list Mistress had prepared for me was long, filled with the kind of domestic chores that I would become used to performing in the coming days, weeks, and months. Dusting, vacuuming, cleaning the bathrooms, polishing wood furniture and silver, laundry, hand washing delicate garments and fragile pieces of kitchenware, sorting recyclables, taking out the garbage, and the like. For many of the tasks, Mistress had provided instructions about where to find such things at the vacuum cleaner (in a basement closet), cleaning supplies (under the sink in the guest bathroom), and laundry supplies (off the main basement room in a laundry room). As I began the list of chores (starting with sweeping and vacuuming the downstairs rooms), I had a chance to get the know the house a bit better. Though not as large as Her Mother's house, Mistress's home was very nice, of a size and furnished in such a way as to reflect on the family's wealth and Mistress's inspired and artistic tastes. I also got to enjoy some of the wonders of Gynesic technology, such as the various sensors that made the house respond to my moving from room to room, turning on lights automatically … the vacuum cleaner, which was amazingly almost silent. Also, I will admit, I simply got used to moving and working naked in the house. It would be a while before I became truly at home in my new role, but I made progress that morning, getting used to the feel of the hardwoods and rich carpets and smooth tiles beneath my bare feet, the warm air on my bare flesh as I went about my tasks, even the feel of my cock and scrotum swinging freely and naturally as I ran the vacuum cleaner and swept the downstairs.
The third item on the list was one I was not looking forward to … washing Mistress's car. That would take me from what I was coming to regard as the friendly confines and relative privacy of the house to the outside world, out into a neighborhood where I could tell from looking out the windows was alive with children playing, Women out running, boys out working in neighboring yards, and the like. I put the task off for as long as I thought I could, sweeping the floors a second time, stalling. Then, with a sense of resignation, I exited to the garage, from which Mistress had already backed out the vehicle, and began collecting the bucket, soap, wax, and hose necessary. Gulping in a breath of air, steeling myself, I stepped from the shadows of the garage out into the warm sunlight beside Mistress's large vehicle.
Feeling very vulnerable, very naked, very much on display, I focused on the task. Connecting the hose and turning on the water, I tried to shut out the young girls playing in the next yard, the Women chatting on the porch across the street, the boy mowing the lawn one house over. Instead, keeping my gaze lowered, I hosed down the car, squirted on the soap, and began to clean it with the large sponge. I could tell, even though I tried to shut such things out, that my presence had been noted. The girls playing next door had pointed at me; the Women across the street had cast assessing gazes my way, or at least so it seemed to me.
As I was finishing buffing on the wax on the hood, I heard the door open next door and noticed a young Woman, probably in Her late teens step across the porch, standing there, hands on hips, taking me in. Flushing and not knowing exactly what to do, I lowered the polishing cloth, bowed my head, and stepped back from the vehicle.
“Anyone tell you to stop working, boy?” She snapped at me.
“No, Ma'am.”
“Then don't.”
“Yes, Ma'am,” I said, rubbing in the wax, trying to control my breathing.
“you're Terry's new boy?”
“Yes, Ma'am,” still trying to concentrate on the waxing.
“you have a name?”
“Yes, Ma'am, Mistress has named me 'tup.'”
“Nice name for a cute boy, tup. Tell your Mistress She chose well.”
“Thank You, Ma'am, I will.”
Silence hung in the air between U/us for a long moment, as I sensed She was turning to head back inside. “you missed a big spot on the bumper there, tup. Best make sure you take care of that, Terry is VERY particular about Her car.”
“Yes, Ma'm, thank You.”
“Welcome, boy. See you around.”
With that, She went back inside and I could turn my full attention back to my chore, including polishing the smudged bumper. Some time later – and I was only slowly getting used to the fact that I was rarely able to know the time – Mistress came out. After giving Her car a careful look over and expressing satisfaction with how well i'd cleaned and waxed it, led me back inside. Casually dressed and smelling of the oil-based paints She used, She sat at the kitchen table, typing out some things on Her computer pad while I fixed Her lunch and W/we chatted.
At one lull in the conversation, I passed along the message from Her Neighbor. “The Woman next door said You chose well, Mistress.”
“Oh?” Mistress looked up from Her tablet. “Older Woman or younger?”
“Younger, Mistress.”
