Dear reader—
Let's see. Mind control, femdom, transvestism, autofellatio, cum-eating, mild homophobia, and some late autumn cleaning. Also, no violence. If such things float your boat, then enjoy. If not, best to move on.
The characters appear my stories Adam at the Arcade, Doggies Don't Wear Clothes, and Drilled by Desmond. The events of this story take place some months prior to Drilled by Desmond.
*****
Lily and Jill breezed into Jill's home, feeling great after three hours of hard leisure: yoga class, spin class, showering, and coffeehouse chat. It was a bright, sunny, cool Saturday morning. A slanted autumn sunlight streamed through tall windows. Lily loved Jill's home: Tall ceilings, plush carpet, and a vast, clean living room opening into a kitchen of chrome appliances and spice racks and heated tile flooring.
They sipped coffee on Jill's enormous white couch, talking happily. Jill sported a black tank top that showed off her stringy, alabaster-white yoga-trained arms. Her calloused feet poked from beneath a flowing hippie skirt of blue, red, and white swirls. Lily was comfy as always, happy to be in sweatpants, T-shirt, and footies. From downstairs came occasional sounds of cleaning: spraying, flushing, vacuuming, sweeping. Lily had dropped off Adam earlier and set him loose in Jill's basement.
"Thanks again for the loaner," said Jill. She tied her blonde dreadlocks behind her head. "It's been forever since the basement got really cleaned. You're sure he doesn't mind?"
"He can't mind if there's nothing there to mind with," said Lily.
Jill laughed. "I just don't have the time, and we don't have the cash for a cleaning service."
Jill taught yoga six days a week, sometimes twice a day. There wasn't much money in it. She just loved the exercise, how it trained her body, and the people she taught—mostly middle-aged white ladies with leisure time. The rest of her time, Jill worked on art. Painting, sculpture, pottery, mixed media—whatever struck her fancy.
"No Desmond today," Lily noted. Jill's husband.
"He's out working. A construction job, I think. Or maybe it's his landscaping business. Not that he tells me."
"So he's in a 'noncommunicative place,'" said Lily.
"God, please, no more 'marriage counselor' jargon. He's not in a 'place,' he's being a dick. He won't talk, won't do anything around the house. Works all day for other people but won't do anything for us."
"He works for money," Lily pointed out. A ton of money. She couldn't understand how Desmond could make so much but they couldn't afford a cleaning service. "I still think it's a cultural thing. You know."
"Yeah, cultural. 'I'm a black man. We're not like white men. You can't be in our business all the time.' Fine. But he married a white girl. I've changed for him. I pry less, I give him space, I don't ask what he's thinking all the time. But he's not giving me anything. He's just angry." She sipped, then said, "Sometimes I want to do to him what you do to Adam. To get him talking."
"It doesn't work that way. He wouldn't get Desmond's memories. The man cleaning your basement doesn't know anything about Adam."
"'Man' in my basement?" said Jill. "You mean 'doggie.'"
"Sure," said Lily. She didn't him that unless she was playing with him directly. "Anyway, there's just something wrong about turning a black man into a slave."
"He wouldn't be my slave," said Jill. "He'd be my lover. My occasional lover. I mean . . . well, you know. We're not doing well. We haven't had sex in weeks. What you do to Adam . . . can we do it to Desmond?"
Lily considered. "It takes a lot of time and patience. A lot of late nights. You have to be careful not to wake him while the training's going on. Then he'll know, and he might not appreciate it."
"Couldn't we do it to him while he's awake?"
Lily shook her head. "The waking mind isn't as pliable. You'd have to force so much into his brain at once that you'd damage his daylight mind. It's best to build from below, in dreams, than it is to enforce from above."
Jill pouted. "If he keeps up being such a pain in the ass, enforcing from above might not be a bad thing."
Then came a heavy clonking up the basement steps—20 steps, Lily counted. Adam entered the living room and towered over them, dazed, trusting, attentive.
Adam was pimped out in full French-maid fantasy garb. Three-inch black pumps, black thigh-highs, garters, black corset, choker, maid's cap. His short pageboy hair framed his heavily made-up face: ruby lips, purple eyelids, blue eyelashes. His knees were coated in the filth of an unfinished basement. He'd been on all fours a long time. Scrub, scrub, scrub.
"Goddamn, Lily," said Jill. "Your hubby is a cute guy, but he's a fucking ugly tranny. I don't think even Balthazar would fuck him."
Adam's panties swelled, and a wet, fleshy mushroom poked over the rim. "Oh, look," said Jill. "He gets off on being insulted."
"He gets off on pretty much anything. I'm not selfish. I want it to be fun for him, too."
"How can it be fun if he doesn't remember anything?"
"It's fun at the time. Doggie, you're having fun, right?"
"Yes Ma'am. Doggie has fun serving you and Jill."
"That's hot. Like he's a Barbie doll or a bimbo."
"Goth Barbie," suggested Lily.
"Ugliest fucking Barbie doll ever," said Jill. They laughed, and the mushroom poked out more and sprouted a clear bead of liquid, making them laugh harder.
Jill said, "Doggie, you've been working so hard—you must be thirsty and hungry. Kneel on the floor. Good boy. Now go to Balthazar's bowls in the kitchen. Don't worry, Balthazar's outside. Finish them all up. Lick them clean. Then come back." Adam crawled away. Soon they heard lapping water and crunching kibbles.
"It's been about four hours, now," said Jill. "Won't he notice the lost time?"
