Imagine Alexander’s surprise the day she pulled him close by his waist and caressed him under her sun umbrella. “Lots o’ cute boys, just as purdy as a peach, much like ya’self, lookin’ for a fiiiine opportunity. And most of ’em’s got hands as soft as butta!” Her hands and eyes wandered over him. “I still put ’em to good use. Butcha gotta teach em rightly, and some of ’em got the manners of a danged mule ‘cuz they ain’t had a momma to teach ’em how to respect a woman.”
His confusion was palpable. Her intentions were either maternal, salacious, or raptorial, but none of those possibilities sat right with him. The uncertainty was heavy like a soaked coat. He would have run off if not for temptation and curiosity.
“I got my ways of trainin’ ’em though, you bet I do! I tell ya, once ya train ’em right, they shore do make better maiiids than they would ever make for husbands. It ain’t a bad thang neither, I s’pose every one’s got a station.”
The astute woman sized him up and took his hand. “How about chew? I can plainly see ya ain’t married, sweetie. Cain’t imagine much’a lady lookin’ you up n’ down. Well, except me, of course. In fact, I reckon you’re just the kinda type I’m lookin’ for…”
—-
It was a cool spring morning at the Dickinson Estate, and Miss Dickinson sat on a floral sofa with her legs stretched out and a long cigarette held between her fingers. She thumbed through a novel, overdressed as usual: a dark, front laced corset embroidered with detailed feathers hugging her figure into an hourglass shape, her bountiful and powdered breasts nigh pouring over the top; snowy hair crunched into waves and curls like withering pedals; heavy, sable granny boots under lace leggings which resonated with an authoritative clomp with each feline step; black and slick and tight-fitting gloves that rode halfway up her lean forearms like hands dipped in tar; gaudy necklaces glittering gold and green above the cleavage of her pillowy breasts; a riding crop resting in a holster strapped above her hips; an hour worth of creams and makeup highlighting, shadowing, blushing, and blending features into carved porcelain. Everything about her look was a gesture to abundance and tradition.
Beside her was her newest toy, sat curled up on the couch beside her where she she read to him. He was lean and nubile, of middling height and figure so slight; attentive blue eyes and soft hands that hardly knew work. In contrast to the perfect artifice of his Mistresses’ form, he appeared perfectly elemental. Like some cherub summoned from myth, his skin was pale, softened by the oils and milks she bathed him with and the careful razor she plied against him. A perceptible lack of masculinity in his speech and frame and mannerisms such that he could be mistaken for a woman from behind or afar. What hair he did have was primarily on his head, made of the finest spun gold which graced his narrow shoulders. He was naked of course, except for the leather choker at his throat and the steel clasp locked around his penis, keeping it small and enclosed with his sack tight against his buttery thighs. His name was Alexander, but Miss Dickinson never called him that.
This angelic boy laid out in languid repose like an ornament, his naked body perched comfortably on the soft cushions upon which he’d been ensconced for the better part of an hour, listening to Miss Dickinson read to him. His heart wasn’t truly in the story, but his presence was required so he had little choice in the matter – in truth he’d rather be resting, and more than once his eyelids grew heavy and he found himself dozing…
The doorbell rang as the grandfather clock chimed nine. “Oh! That mus’ be Miss Maybell, punctual as always. Stay,” she instructed him in her thick Southern drawl and with a wag of her finger as she discarded the cigarette and book.
“Mmm…” he stirred, mind swirling through the fog of his nap. He vaguely recalled some mention of a doctor visit but couldn’t be sure. The ladies greeted excitedly at the large wooden doors on the far and opposite side of the room. Not until they made their entrance into the foyer, carrying their informal chatter with them, did Maybell’s voice and appearance become clear. She was blonde and tall and dressed in white: a ruffled dress, a stiff, rounded hat, and shoes that looked like polished slippers. She seemed some years younger than Miss Dickinson and spoke in a Transatlantic accent with a condescending inflection, some mixture of Boston and Oxford in her background.
“I’ll say you’re quite perceptive Miss Dickinson, perceptive indeed,” Maybell complimented as they approached. “Is this the one?” she asked with her eyes fixed upon him.
“Oh this lil’ doe-eyed daisy?” Hazel replied as she pinched his cheek. “It’s the only one I got now, jus’ got em! And ain’t he just adorable? He’s just so darned cute, why, I ain’t been able to help muh-self but to get to trainin’ his sweet little behind every night, ain’t that right pumpkin?” Hazel gesticulated with every other vowel.
Both women were now staring down at him as he sat on the couch, Hazel grinning with delight while Maybell glared at him like a hawk stalking a rabbit. “How often would’ya say we been fuckin’ your pretty little butt? Twice a day?” she asked him as she affectionately rubbed his ear like a dog.
“No ma’am,” he replied softly. “Three times yesterday…” He might have had more to say, but held his tongue. Truthfully, Hazel allowed him little rest, obsessed as she was with training his ‘pretty little butt’ at all hours of the night. He waited, seated gracefully, to see what the women wanted from him. Though he paid especial attention to this new woman, who he’d never met before… something told him she wasn’t here to help him.
Miss Maybell seemed unimpressed with him as she turned and placed her bag on the table. A click, a clack, and a single motion, and the bag folded open into a tray splayed out with instruments of all types. The first were simple: a stethoscope for his chest and back, a thermometer for his ear, a stopwatch for his heart rate, a clipboard to record his vitals. She inspected his mouth for cavities, his reflexes for neurological problems, his hair for lice, and his hands for deformities. Miss Maybell was quiet unless she instructed him to open wide, take a deep breath, cough, relax.
He felt something like a horse being inspected at auction. He was a perfectly healthy horse, of course – lovely white teeth, strong tongue, normal temperature, a valiant little heart. Miss Dickinson, meanwhile, was sharing too many details.