The Adventures Of Astoria Morgan Ch 01

Chapter 1 - Morning in the Garden

Astoria Morgan squatted in her garden planting bluebells and pansies. Her straw blond locks spilled out from under her wide-brimmed hat, which she always wore when gardening because, while the sun loved her hair as kindred gold, it was less kind to her delicate ivory skin. Astoria therefore prudently covered up with a pair of dirty, faded jeans and a practical denim work-shirt, though the buttons of the latter were hard pressed to keep her gloriously betitted torso from bursting out into the fresh spring air.

"You can put them down there," she said to her pet boy Giorgio, who had appeared carrying two big bags of mulch, one on each of his broad, tanned shoulders. "And just one at a time, dear. I don't want you to hurt yourself." "That's my job," she added silently to herself. "Yes ma'am, yes ma'am," Giorgio replied, with a face as open and beautiful as one of her prize-winning begonias.

She had plucked Giorgio last summer while vacationing on the Dalmatian coast. It was the little-boy-lost look in his eyes that first attracted her. That those eyes were directed to the business of rifling the contents of her purse, which he believed unattended, was no matter. Even when interrupted, he did not run, but simply looked up with those big, begging eyes, begging her to reveal her treasures to him. A lost boy, curious and hungry, without fear or shame. Definitely hungry. One large, steaming bowl of Fiš Paprikaš later and he was hers. Dommes are notorious animal lovers, and Astoria was no exception. She would adopt this stray, she decided, as a testament to both her superior nature and good heart.

Pleasingly docile from the beginning, Giorgio lived to make her happy. And happiness it was to watch him laboring in the garden, the sweat glistening on his muscular frame. He definitely had curves in all the right places, mused Astoria, as she enjoyed the sweet luxury of watching a well-built man working for her, and knowing that his efforts were driven by pure love and devotion. The sight just made her want to tie him up and do things to him.

Astoria had had many opportunities to live out these desires over the past year. She took things slowly at first. Giorgio, while naturally submissive, was also rather unsophisticated, and she did not want to scare away her find by any too outrageous acts of perverted lust, not at first. There would be time for that. But as a good gardener, Astoria knew that the soil of submission must be carefully cultivated. The harvest of dominant debauchery would come later as the reward of patient virtue.

It helped that she had taken Giorgio far from his native land, far from any family or friends he might have had. Their identity and number remained unknown, as Giorgio proved remarkably reticent when Astoria probed him about his past. His English, never strong, always seemed to break down completely under her questioning on this topic. Odd, she thought, but of no present moment. No one had come to claim him and so she enjoyed undisputed possession. Giorgio, for his part, did not appear to miss his old life at all. There was nothing to miss when he had his mistress, and he clung to Astoria with the ardor typically felt by the recent immigrant for his new homeland.

His greatest joy came at the end of the day when Astoria tucked him into the little bed on the floor at the foot of her own. As she attached the chain that ran from the bedpost to his collar, he would look up at her pleadingly and say, "Giorgio is a good boy, yes?" And she would invariably reply, "Giorgio is a very good boy," and give him a kiss good night.

Not that he did not spend plenty of time in her bed, learning how to please her. Being a young man, energy and stamina were in ample supply. It was finesse and technique that required some work, and Giorgio blossomed under her tutelage.

When Astoria had explained to him that, if he wanted to stay with her as her lover, he must give himself completely and unconditionally to her, he quickly replied, "Giorgio, he is your lover please yes." That premise established, she made him agree that his body belonged to her and that her domain extended to his genitalia. There was a bit of a language barrier to surmount on this issue, but a few demonstrative gestures and squeezes soon made the point. "Yes, yes, ma'am, Giorgio's wee-wee, he is yours." "Not just the wee-wee, Giorgio, also what is inside." "You mean the pee, ma'am?" "I do mean that, Giorgio. You must not go to the bathroom without my permission." "OK, ma'am. No problem. Giorgio can hold long time." "Good Giorgio, but not just your pee. Also your seed." "Seed, ma'am?" "Yes, Giorgio. You know, what comes out . . ." and with a few strokes, Giorgio understood. He lowered his eyes and blushed. "Yes ma'am. Seed too." "Say it, Giorgio. Tell me what is mine." "Wee-wee yours, ma'am. Pee yours, seed yours, Giorgio yours." And with that he fell to his knees and pressed his lips against her foot. "Good boy."

Despite the urgings of many of her friends, who insisted on keeping their boys in cock cages, Astoria left Giorgio's penis in its natural state. She loved to watch things grow, and there was no sight more pleasing than her man's manhood lustily swelling for her, at all sorts of unexpected and possibly even inconvenient moments. She would never deprive herself of these delights by putting her pet in a cage. Anyway, she had read somewhere that men could often slip out of these little prisons if they tried hard enough. Psychic shackles were always the strongest and most reliable.

No, all she insisted that he wear was a modest collar of red leather around his neck and a small sunburst tattoo on his left buttock. The image was taken from the Morgan family crest. Given the prominence of the Morgan family, this symbol would clearly mark her property to anyone seeing it. A simple precaution against her pet going astray, in one way or another.

Just as her mind was beginning to turn to the yearly conundrums posed by the impatiens, her thoughts were interrupted by the voice of her butler James, who asked where she wished luncheon to be served. "Serve it on the south terrace," she replied. "The day is pleasant enough for us to dare a bit of al fresco."

James had been with her for several years now. In his former life, he had been the owner of a rather substantial English biscuit company that had become the target of one of Astoria's predatory take-over binges. When negotiations bogged down in a morass of niggling lawyers, Astoria invited James to visit her at High Hold, where they could speak owner to owner. The shy and retiring James was at first disinclined to accept, but the prospect of a quick resolution to this tiresome transaction was appealing. The deftly wielded tawse of his overly strict mother had also instilled in him the principle that the wishes of a lady were not to be lightly disregarded. He accepted Astoria's kind invitation.

From the first moment it was clear to Astoria that this heir to the family business wanted nothing better than to give the family business the air. Astoria was fully prepared to discuss the details of profit and loss statements, debt to asset ratios and expected rates of return. James's vague and evasive responses to her questions on these topics rapidly made clear that he was completely out of his depth. Rather than examining accounting records, James seemed much more keen on stealing glances at her painted toenails. As the negotiation threatened to founder on the rocks of her interlocutor's apathy and ignorance, Astoria decided to test an hypothesis. She crossed her legs and watched James's head sway in rhythm as she hypnotically rocked her foot back and forth. Having taken the measure of the man, it was time to close the deal. "Perhaps I might offer you some tea?" she suggested. "You English are so fond of it." "Yes, of course," came the distracted reply.

Astoria poured a cup of fine Darjeeling without informing her guest that the brew had the benefit of an herbal infusion gathered from a local grove that Astoria knew well. A little skullroot had such a salutary effect on the male mind, clearing away all sorts of pointless distractions and permitting it to focus on what was truly important. By the end of the third cup that his hostess had pressed on him, James had accepted her gracious offer to take the troublesome company off his hands. And best of all, in return James would be allowed to become her personal servant with particular charge over the care and maintenance of her extensive collection of footwear and delicate undergarments. He could hardly believe his good fortune.

"Oh, and James, after you have served lunch, do check on the commissioner. He may need new candles."

Commissioner Barton's involvement with the Morgan family dated back to Astoria's mother Elizabeth, or more particularly, to Elizabeth's husband Marvin. The two had been friends and Commissioner Barton took it upon himself to investigate Marvin's death after a small gargoyle fell from the otherwise perfectly intact facade of High Hold directly onto Marvin's bowler-covered head. There was no evidence suggesting that Elizabeth, who was out horseback riding at the time, was in any way responsible for the unfortunate incident. Commissioner Barton, however, discovered in the course of his researches that Mrs. Morgan's marital fidelity was not above reproach. The affair he uncovered had other salacious details which, while not necessarily raising any legal issues, would certainly have been embarrassing to a lady of honor had they been revealed. Instead of exercising a gentlemanly discretion and keeping the discovery to himself, he sought to blackmail Elizabeth with this information.

The attempt miscarried. Former police commissioner Barton now resides in a secluded room in the estate's labyrinthine basement, nourished by a cocktail of exotic life-extending drugs and drippings from an enema bag. Chained to the floor in a manner that never allows him to rise from his knees, a thick iron collar keeps his chin up and eyes fixed on a life-size portrait of the now deceased Elizabeth Morgan. Her dutiful daughter is always careful to assure that the candles remain lit on either side of her image. Without light, what would the poor commissioner have to occupy his mind?

Whether the small gargoyle was pushed or jumped of its own accord, Astoria was convinced that Marvin only got what was coming to him. For some reason he had become completely unmanageable in the last weeks of his life, full of ill humor and back talk and at times even leaving the grounds of the estate without permission or explanation. Indeed, it was upon returning from one of these forays that he met his untimely demise. Perhaps the mansion itself had rebelled at his transgressions against the house rules. Everyone knew that it was the Morgan women who had long ruled the roost and the roosters in the family.

This had been the case going back to the days of the Puritan settlers. The first clan matriarch, Prudence Morgan, had been accused of practicing witchcraft by the Right Reverend Danvers Glanville. Instead of publicly denying the charges, she meekly asked for a private audience with the holy man in order to bare her soul to him. Whatever she may have bared behind closed doors, the upshot was complete exoneration followed soon thereafter by marriage between the minister and his penitent, who seemed far less contrite once her social position was secured.

Since that day, the family traditionally had been blessed with only a single daughter, who inevitably was given the middle name of Morgan upon which to balance and center her life. Suitors were always attracted to the Morgan girls not only for their beauty, but also the prospect of marrying their way into the steadily mounting family fortune. Yet as bold and brash they all may have started, each was brought under the heel of his wife. In the more enlightened times of today, Astoria found that she could dispense with a patriarchal figurehead and surname altogether. Already having so many men under her heel, there simply wasn't room to squeeze in a husband.

Clips of this family history played through her head as Astoria enjoyed her lunch while looking out from the veranda over the grounds of the estate with Chatham City in the distance. The sun shone down on from a cloudless sky upon all her domain - her garden, her city.

Giorgio had cleaned up and now joined his mistress. "You must be starving, dear," exclaimed Astoria, and generously scraped several pieces of quiche from her plate into a silver bowl set beside her chair. The bowl was engraved with the name "Gigi" as Astoria anticipated that her pet was due for neutering before too long. No need to rush though, the transformation would come when s/he was ripe and ready to receive the full blessings of feminization. Fortunately, Giorgio unquestioningly accepted his mistress's explanation that the inscription on the bowl was just an affectionate nickname and so the surprise was not spoiled.

"Eat up, Gigi," she urged as he dutifully licked the last crumbs from the bowl. "I need to send you on a little errand to town this afternoon."