Alena loved boiled eggs, and she had a huge collection of egg cups shaped like anything but egg cups. She cracked an egg open. She looked at the clock; it was 5:00 on Saturday morning. Lots of time. She was pensive.
Neil was a puzzle to her, intelligent, sensible, attractive, strong...but also indescribably weak. She had done a full investigation of Neil Webber in the past week. He was thirty-one, unmarried, no children, no siblings, deceased parents, worked for a small junior oil company as a senior geologist, enjoyed golf and skiing, chess and some running. There was a text on her phone from Paulie that said Neil's address was 230 - Eau Claire, Suite 1150, and the emails and phone numbers of all his work associates were all on his cell phone. In his wallet there were miscellaneous pieces of paper with odd combinations of numbers and letters that were almost certainly his various passwords and usernames. She had enough. And yet she was unsure, unsure that she should do this to him. It could be a moot point she thought, as she ate, but she was for the first time in years unsure of herself.
She liked him. If she broke him, he wouldn't be Neil; he would be someone or some thing else. Was it worth it? Yes, she needed a maid for C2, but she could afford to hire one; that was not the issue. If she broke him and fully feminized him, making him her maid, was that what she actually wanted for him? She knew she had the means and the power, but something seemed to be missing in the whole equation that was her life. She had abandoned love as an option in life long ago, but was that correct? Should she take this toy and break it like all the others? Paulie, for example; he was absurdly addicted to being an adult baby. God, she hated that, but the DVD of him in diapers had been extremely useful and lucrative. He was such a creep. She knew it, and he knew it. The blackmail was perfect.
But Neil. He didn't even know or begin to understand himself...so naïve and vulnerable...and, well, so nice. Yes, she wanted him dressed as a woman; that was her not so secret fantasy, but he was so green, a baby in the realm of fantasy. Did she really want to convert him to her reality?
The morning had awakened with sunshine and frost. She stared eastward over the city at the pink and orange haze of sunrise. One by one the lights blinked out and day time ruled. Alena finished her coffee and descended the stairs to the dungeon. It was time to feed him.
He was sitting on the toilet again rocking back and forth, holding his head like it was a basketball. The sounds he made had changed; they were like someone with a tick, erratic, loud, and sharp, sometimes several in a row followed by long silence. He pulled at his hood and moaned.
Although she was not sure she should, she felt she had to push as the original plan had dictated. She had made a mistake freeing his hands. All external stimuli should be received from her, not from any other source, including himself. He could not be allowed to masturbate again. She entered the cell and approached him cautiously. Her hand gently cupped the side of his hooded head. He became silent and immediately put his hand over hers and pushed it against his head, whining like a puppy. Taking his hand, she positioned his wrist near the D-ring on his collar and locked it in place. She did the same with his other hand. Then she stood him up and tightened his corset yet again. His waist was impossibly thin, his stomach vacant of food and water.
For the first time in perhaps 10 hours, she tried to communicate with him verbally by yelling into his padded ears, "I am going to give you something to eat and drink now. You have to control your throat or you will cough and gag. I will start slowly with water. Are you ready slave?"
Some other world had contacted him. He stiffened. Water. Yes, water. He nodded his head.
Alena attached a funnel to the breathing tube and held it up above his mouth while she poured small amounts of water into it. Initially, he coughed, but he slowly learned to alternate between breaths of air and squirts of water. He learned fast. He drank voraciously for about five minutes. She then told him she was going to give him a protein drink. He nodded okay and she started, again the same result, a five minute splurge of intake followed by intermittent regurgitation out of his breathing tube. It was like feeding a baby. Life or death hung in the balance.
He groaned in soothing gratification. He did not know who was feeding him; he only knew he was being fed. Then hands pushed him off the toilet onto the cold concrete floor to lie on his back. Suddenly his breath was removed from him by her mouth over his breathing tube. She was sucking his air out of him and he bucked helplessly on the floor as she mounted him. Yes, he was hard, and she made good use of it. It was the first time that he had actually penetrated her. She was so warm, tight, and moist. He thrust upward to meet her, screaming into his gag for air. She controlled everything; his breathing, his orgasm, his very existence as a living human. The slow rhythm of her mount caused him to moan a continuous moan despite the lack of oxygen. He came without breathing, his head light, an anoxic orgasm, with light from the tunnel a blaze of heat diminishing toward death.
As she came, she released his breathing tube, not to keep him alive, but to allow her to scream in ecstasy. The feeling of power and control was overwhelming; he was dying beneath her, all for her pleasure.
She pulled herself off and felt his semen gush from her. Instinctively she cupped her hand over her vagina and created a puddle of him and then placed it over his breathing tube so that he had to drink himself to achieve oxygen. It was only fair that he had to share the mess, she thought, as she cupped another handful and repeated the gesture.
This was power. This was absolute power, and she shivered in the potency of it.
The moments passed as she quivered and shook. Suddenly her face developed a panicked look and she pulled herself away saying, "Oh my God! Oh my God, are you okay?"
