Rosie - Loss And Redemption By Submission To A Lesbian Gynarchy free porn video

Rosie Rosie was my daughter's best friend from the age of six. They shared a birthday, and given her particular family circumstances, she came round to our house a great deal. She was always different. Elfin, very pretty, she had more energy than anyone I have ever known. She was funny, hyperactive and extremely intelligent. She loved gymnastics and riding her pony. When she cycled round to our house in her jodhpurs on her way back from the stables, which was next door (the Georgian estate had been split in two after the war- we had the house, Helene delaCroix had the stables and land), everything seemed to light up. And she was a terrible tease. She loved practical jokes, and when one of us was caught by her japes, her laugh was unstoppable. Her bad relationship with her bullying father meant that we developed a close relationship, she would hug me and sit on my lap, chattering excitedly about her day, and what she and her girlfriends had been up to at the stables. She liked to pretend that I was half-witted, and used a special voice when talking to me, like a mother talking to a child. "Keep up, Unka Dwoo" she used say (Unka or Nunka being her "slow voice" version of "Uncle Drew'). While this sometimes irritated me, I couldn't help being swept away by her energy, vivacity and beauty. She had an insatiable appetite, though she remained tiny, and was stick thin (a high metabolism, constant riding, and ballet and gymnastics meant she was super fit). She would often tease me about the contrast; me usually overweight and unable to resist food. "Maybe I should take charge of your diet," she would say, laughing, "you could be skinny, like me." She laughed, the whole house lit up, and everyone laughed with her. Sometimes, she would stay with us for longer periods after an argument with her father, and she would arrive in a different mood. Surly and withdrawn, she would only talk to my wife and daughter, quite deliberately ignoring me. Passionate, even at a young age, about fairness and justice, she would talk about how men were responsible for the world's problems. When I demurred, she would smile at me wistfully, and say "oh you don't count, Nunka Dwoo." Visibly cheering up, she would make her favourite joke. "But you probably CAN'T count!" And she would then return to her normal self, telling rambling and hilarious stories about Arabella's enormous bottom being the same as her pony's, or how Justine had friction burns on her "special place" from her nylon tutu. Miss Helene or "Madame" featured prominently in Rosie's discourse, as she ran the riding school and gave ballet lessons in her Orangery. Rosie managed to persuade a very swanky girls boarding school to give her a full scholarship, so we saw less of her as a teenager, although she and my daughter stayed in touch. She would sometimes pop in for tea after a visit to the stables, and would entertain us with stories of her progress at school, her gymnastics prizes, her dressage (which she loved, but had to give up because her father couldn't or wouldn't pay), her complex battles and victories over "the bitches" at school. Ultimately she became Head Girl, a huge achievement for a scholarship kid, and it was clear she had single-mindedly converted her teachers and classmates into a huge Rosie Fan Club. The day after leaving school she visited us to tell us about her upcoming University course, and some other family news. At eighteen, she had matured into a stunning beauty. Her elfin face, as beautiful as ever but a child's no longer, was still framed by unruly brown hair piled high on her head; her lovely brown eyes, still sparkling, somehow appeared knowing, worldly wise; and her body, tiny and taut, was augmented by exceptional curves. As my wife made tea in the kitchen, Rosie snuggled into my lap, in an echo of our easy earlier relationship. But, to my extreme embarrassment, the combination of her scent, the soft womanly feel of her bottom in my lap, and the curve of her large breast pressed against my arm caused my blood to surge, and I found myself with an erection. Rosie's reaction was unusual. She turned to look me full in the face, a mischievous smile on her lips, a sardonic raised eyebrow and a sparkle in her eyes. "What's up, Unka Dwoo?" she asked. Torn between excitement and deep shame, I was unable to speak. As my wife came in bearing the tea tray, Rosie turned back round to face her, snuggling up in my lap, for all the world as if she was an innocent child once more. But she knew what she was doing. Every time I thought I was regaining some semblance of self control, she would imperceptibly shift in my lap, or push a breast a little more firmly against me, immediately sending a fresh surge of blood downwards, reducing me once more to incoherence. Ostensibly, she was talking about her upcoming course at our nearby University; modules of the newly formed Law and Gender Studies faculty. My wife struggled to take in her descriptions of matriarchal law; alternative relationships and societal rebalancing; political and legal structures to enable and encourage alternative relationships; using social media to undermine the patriarchy; the use of role reversal in creating a new male iconography and other such rubbish. "That's nice, dear" said my wife, clearly meaning the opposite (my wife was very straight laced). Every now and then Rosie would include me in the conversation by making double entendres and piling on my discomfort. "Is it hard, Nunka?" she smirked, when at one point I confessed to not understanding what she was talking about. Of course it was! I lapsed back into a chaotic point half way between terror and ecstasy. My wife was putting up with the usual Rosie flow of excitement, jokes, stories and political discourse (and blissfully unaware of my distress) because she wanted to know about Rosie's family news. Her parents were divorcing. When asked why, Rosie stood up abruptly, her expression changed. "All men are brutes" she exclaimed. Waiting for her traditional coda, "not you Unky," I was disappointed. She looked straight at me, hard, and repeated herself. "All men are brutes. But they can be tamed." The years went by. I sold my accountancy business, and looked forward to a cosy, conventional if rather unexciting retirement. Rosie became a successful lawyer, constantly in the press for a number of high profile cases, covering human rights, conditions in women's prisons, eye watering divorce settlements and a host of other issues. She was kind enough to let my daughter stay in her house while completing her PhD in fine art, although we rarely saw her. Then tragedy struck. My wife and daughter were getting on badly. My wife longed for a grandchild, and my daughter seemed in no hurry. She brought home a succession of wispy young men, but no relationship seemed to endure. After a noisy row on the telephone my wife stormed out of the house, muttering something about ingratitude. I never saw her or my daughter again. A car smash on the M3. The driver and passenger, engaged in a heated discussion, were crushed by a lorry. Death was instantaneous for both. I went to pieces. I couldn't focus, felt unable to take decisions about the funeral or anything else. So Rosie stepped up. She had grown up with us. She was my daughter's best friend. She knew us. In the two weeks before the funeral, Rosie was amazing. She moved into my daughter's old bedroom (hers too, when she was staying with us ), and took charge lof everything. And she gradually nudged me into some action. She started each day with a visit to the stables, her old hunting ground. And even though I had no appetite, she persuaded me to make her breakfast. Every morning I would cook her a full breakfast, and she would emerge in full riding kit, jodhpurs, boots and immaculate make up and eat with gusto whatever I served her. "You must eat too, Nunky" she would say, and although I wasn't hungry, she would fork scrambled egg and smoked salmon into my mouth, saying "eat up, Nunky Dwoo. You must do what Rosie tells you." And then she would leave me in a delirious state, with her scent all around me, and her sheer presence displacing the ghosts of my former family. So for a week I found some purpose. Shopping for food, cooking and washing up, keeping the house as spick and span as my wife used to. In the evenings we would discuss funeral arrangements, and then settled into a facsimile of domesticity, she working on her legal brief, me pottering about the house or fetching her tea. We would haltingly talk about my daughter, although I found it very painful. Rosie's self control amazed me. Although also distressed, she held it together much better than I could. She regained much of her former enjoyment of life at the stables, with endless gossip about the girls and their horses. While her conversation was indiscreet and hilarious, mixing innuendo, speculation, physical descriptions and stories, she maintained a marked physical reserve from me. There was no curling up in my lap. On the rare occasion that we touched, it was always at her instigation; her little game of feeding me, or gently laying a hand on my shoulder. Every time it was like being shocked by a bolt of lightning. After riding one day, Rosie had to go to London for work. In contrast to her immaculate turn out at all times, she was quite untidy, so I cleared up the various items she had left around the house. It was my wife's custom to change sheets every week (I love clean sheets) so steeling myself, I went into Rosie's room to change hers. It was a shock. Clothes were strewn everywhere. Her worn underwear lay on the floor and the bed, and her shoes were unlaced or unzipped and not cleaned or polished. I set to. I sorted and cleaned her boots and shoes, marvelling at the tiny size of her feet and the extreme height of her heeIs. Even her riding boots had heels. I think she felt she needed heels to compensate for her diminutive stature, although I always thought her personality did an excellent job of that. I washed, dried and ironed her shirts and other machine washable items and folded them into the empty drawers that we always kept for her. My heart pounding and, feeling more than a little sick, I went to hand wash her delicates. It was impossible to avoid the scent that emanated as I gingerly carried them to the laundry room. The scent of her soap and perfume mingled with her unmistakeable fragrance. The essence of Rosie! With a wrenching sense of guilt I held a pair of her briefs to my nose. Sick. Pervert. She's only a girl. Your daughters friend. How could you? Overcome with a complex tangle of emotions, I did the washing, replacing her hand pressed laundry in her chest of drawers. Keeping aside just one pair of silken panties, I went to my bedroom, and wearing them over my head, the heavily scented gusset pressed against my face, I masturbated. Oh God, oh God. What am I doing? I cleared up the mess, deeply ashamed of myself. Tucking the panties under my pillow, I showered, tried to pull myself together and awaited Rosie's return, a large glass of whisky in hand. When she returned, late, I was drunk. She was in one of her black moods. The judge had been patronising, and clearly favoured the other side in his summing up. As she always had when in that frame of mind, she ranted about how men were ruining the world. Feeling paralysed by my earlier actions, I could only feebly agree, offering her anything I could to help calm her down. A cup of tea? A bowl of soup? A whisky? A foot rub? A bath? She opted for the latter. Nearly an hour later, she reappeared, seemingly refreshed. She was wearing a dark silk kimono, her make up was perfect, her hair was piled up and held by chopsticks. She looked like a Japanese cartoon. She smiled at me, the twinkle back her eye. "Unky Dwoo, you've tidied my room for me. How kind. How embarrassing. I am a messy girl." She didn't look embarrassed. She certainly didn't look messy. I, on the other hand, could only mumble. "I'll take that whisky and foot rub now." For the next hour, I knelt on the carpet, kneading her diminutive feet. At first in silence, and then as she plowed through my whisky, she relaxed and began to talk. About the law, how she hated the way the system was created by men, for men, and how she was frustrated at every turn in her attempts to change it. How she was thinking about changing career. How she wanted to work with young women, to teach them to take power, to flood the system with so many strong empowered women that the system could be changed. She went further, developing the view that equality was no longer the aim, and the world would ultimately be a better place if women were to take charge. She started to talk about the ancient matriarchies of Mesopotamia, where goddesses were worshipped, and cunnilingus was a sacred rite. From my position on the floor, I could sense that Rosie was becoming excited. I stopped massaging her feet, and looked up at her. Her legs were apart, and her hands were inside her kimono, and she was gently playing with herself. She looked down at me through heavy lidded eyes. "Unky Dwoo. Would you like to worship me?." Utterly bewitched, I moved my face between her thighs, gently kissing her silk panties. She gripped the back of my head with both her hands, rubbing herself against my nose and lips. The movements became more frenzied, the gentle moans became louder, until she reached an orgasm. After a pause, she spoke. Quite steadily. "That's enough Nunky, I would like that soup now please. And pass me a cigarette, if you would." On later reflection, I realised that she didn't touch the soup. But my time in the kitchen gave her time to regroup. By the time I returned, she had regained her poise: calm, relaxed, and smoking a cigarette held in a very elegant jade cigarette holder. She immediately regained the upper hand. "Thank you, Nunky," she said, somewhat dismissively, "for the foot rub." And then adopting her "slow" voice, she dropped the bombshell. "Now I want you to talk to me about my underwear." Somehow, I managed to stumble through some (entirely bogus) explanation of how I had always hand washed my wife's underwear, and it felt natural to do hers, especially as I liked a tidy house. I don't know how, but I managed to avoid confessing to my theft of her one pair of panties and my self abuse. With a little smile, she looked deep into my eyes. "Well I think that's very sweet, Nunky. You can do it again sometime, if you really want to. But I think you ask me first, don't you?." Over the next few days, I never regained the initiative. In the run up to the funeral, I found that I had plenty to do. While never exactly issuing commands, I found that Rosie began to take it for granted that she took all the decisions, and my role was to follow instructions. She had decided that four of her favourite girls at the stables should be serving girls at the wake, and they were constantly in and out of the house as the preparations reached fever pitch. They all clearly adored Rosie, and I was bemused to find that they all followed her lead in addressing me as Unky Dwoo in their attempts at her "slow voice." I don't know what she had said to them, but every day one or more of them would say to me that Miss Rosie had some laundry that needed doing, and I soon learned that I then had to ask Rosie if I could do her laundry. She would make sure that one of the girls was in earshot, and ask me "do you mean that you would like to wash my panties?," to which the expected answer was "yes, please Rosie, may I wash your panties?." If I tried a less embarrassing formulation, she would stand silently, smiling at me while gently tapping her shoe, an unspoken "I'm waiting...." Each night was torment. If I tried to sleep without masturbating, I suffered erotic dreams all night. Needless to say all featured Rosie. If I gave in to my weakness and did play with myself, I found myself reaching for the hidden panties. I was racked with guilt and lust. The night before the funeral, everything was ready. The girls had left for the evening. The mood was somber. We started to talk about my wife and daughter, our collective memories of trips to the beach, an art gallery visit to London, a family holiday in Cornwall. I noticed that Rosie was crying, something I had never seen before. However dark her mood, she had always reached for anger, not sorrow. "I loved her, you know. Really loved her. Her argument with her mother was about me. I killed them. It was my fault." I was struck dumb. It all made sense. "That's why I'm here. To look after you. To make up for the guilt." Before I could say anything she pressed on. "I'm sorry, and I know I have a funny way of showing it, but you are very dear to me. You're her father." With that she curled up in my lap, just as she used to. I suppose I should have been angry. Maybe I should have thrown Rosie out of the house there and then. My daughter had been having an affair with Rosie. My wife knew and was furious. That had directly led to their deaths. Strangely that was not my response. I was actually cross that my wife had kept it from me. She probably knew that I would be more accepting. And of course I was utterly besotted with Rosie. My instinct was to comfort her in her loss, rather than contemplate my own. Deep down, I knew, of course, that Rosie was a world class manipulator, and that she had engineered my emotional dependence on her. In just two weeks. Although in truth, she had had me in the palm of her hand for 20 years. I sat for an age with her curled up in my lap. At last, tears no longer flowing, but glistening on her cheek, she looked up at me, her brown eyes full of mischief. "So what do we do now?" she asked. "You tell me," I replied. .......................................... A year had passed. Rosie's last case as a lawyer had been to take apart the haulage firm whose driver been the other party in the M3 smash up. She won a massive settlement, of course. Throughout the lengthy trial Rosie moved back to London, while I mourned and moped and and occasionally compensated by intense bursts of housework. I also took refuge in comfort eating and drinking increasing amounts of Scotch. I had no desire to go out or rebuild my life. I was torn between my loss and my futile, illicit passion for Rosie. She, it seemed, was too busy chasing her revenge to spend time with me. However, the trial came to an end, with its spectacular result, and Rosie phoned to say she was coming for the weekend, and maybe a bit longer. I made a special effort, cooking a full roast, and breaking open one of my best bottles of claret. She arrived quite early in the morning, and after a quick peck on the cheek, she rushed to her room. "I'm meeting the girls for a ride" she said over her shoulder. "Can you squeeze them in for lunch too?" "How many?" I asked, trying hard to keep any resentment from my voice. I wanted a little bit of Rosie time to myself. "Just my four little helpers. You can thank them for all the work they did at the funeral." With a click of heels and the swish of jodhpurs, she was gone. "My luggage is in the boot. I'll be back at two." Of course, I rose to the challenge. I unloaded a surprising amount of luggage from Rosie's sports car, and then tackled the kitchen. More vegetables, Yorkshire pudding and a meringue would feed six. I did manage to polish off most of the first bottle of claret, though, and by the time the girls arrived, nearer three o'clock than two, I had been through an emotional kaleidoscope. I was also more than a little drunk. There was a lot of giggling when the five young ladies arrived at my door. Led by Rosie, they poured in through the hall. Jumping into my arms, Rosie gave me an enormous hug, followed by a big kiss on the lips. "Nunkie, I've missed you so much!" Flustered, I put her down, only to be surrounded by her four prot?g?es, all hugging and kissing. "Nunkie Dwoo! What have you been up to? Why haven't we seen you?" "Nunkie! How fat you are getting. Your bottom is nearly as big as Annabelle's!." "You naughty boy. How are you managing without Rosie to tell you what to do?." In some confusion, I retreated to the kitchen, leaving Rosie to pour out the wine and sit at the head of the dining table. Over lunch, while I quietly carved and served the roast, Rosie quizzed each of the girls about their "A" level exams, and plans for the future. Annabelle, a striking blonde, was five or six years older than the others. She was at least six foot, and although it was unfair to call her fat, she was of Amazonian build. Besides riding, she loved the Gym, and she had spent a year at Sandhurst, but had decided to become a Doctor in civilian life, not the Army. She was in her last year studying medicine at the local University. In the run up to the funeral, it was always Annabelle who took over when I couldn't lift something, and Rosie was proud that Annabelle was stronger than most men. It was a standing joke amongst the girls that she had a fat bottom, but in her tight jodhpurs it seemed to me that it was very firm, all muscle. I admit I found her intimidating, with her piercing blue eyes, impressive breasts and muscular physique. Georgie was a Romanian orphan, brought to the UK by a charity in the wake of Ceaucescu. Like Rosie, she was whip smart, and had the ambition to follow Rosie into the Law. She kept her black hair cropped very short. She very rarely spoke, lacking confidence in her English in amongst these chattering girls, but by herself she was very clear thinking. Having experienced the mess that men had had made of her native country, and experienced some of their most appalling excesses herself, she was the one who was most supportive of Rosie's strongest political views. She would talk passionately about the establishment of the Gynarchy, and theories about the elimination of masculinity. Maria's father had been the Brazilian ambassador to the UK, and she now lived with her divorced mother in our local town. A beguiling black/Hispanic mix, she came across as a feral party animal, with a reputation for breaking the hearts of all the local boys. She concealed a ferocious drive, with the ambition to be a psychotherapist. She was always kind to me, explaining that it wasn't my fault that I had been born a male, and comparing my kindness to Rosie with her and Rosie's fathers selfishness and egotism. "You always look after Rosie so well. You always do what she asks you to. I want to help men be like that," she said. In reality, she was so gorgeous, just about any man would do what she asked, psychotherapy training or not. Molly, unlike the other girls, had no academic ambitions. As a young girl she had experienced cancer, which led to the removal of her womb. The irony is that she was the most maternal of the girls, deeply caring and definitely the mother of the group. Irish born, she was the eldest of six sisters, and had a full time job helping her mother, who was the family breadwinner. Her father was no longer welcome at home, but was often seen on the streets of town, having been thrown out of yet another pub or betting shop. Molly was not a big fan of alcohol, and her Catholicism seemed more centred on Mother Mary than Jesus. Despite her tribulations, she was always cheerful, and her freckly Irish skin would light up when laughing at one of Rosie or Maria's outrageous jokes. As Rosie led the conversation towards one of her favourite themes, that of how women were gradually taking charge, and how her "girls" had the world at their feet (or "under our butts," as Maria laughingly put it), I sat quietly, mesmerised by Rosie's flashing brown eyes and animated gestures. Always caring, Molly chipped in. "But what about the men? What should we do with them, in this new world of yours?" "There will be no men," whispered Georgie. "The time for men is past. We will find things for males to do. But there will be no men!" Rosie favoured Georgie with her broadest smile. "Exactly, Gee-Gee, you are absolutely right." She turned to look at me. Four other faces swivelled in my direction. "Nunky Dwoo. That was a lovely lunch. So sweet of you. I need to talk to my girls about something private. When you have finished clearing up, perhaps you would like to bring the coffee through to the sitting room for us." I gaped like a fish. Rosie had always been a bit bossy with me, but never issued direct commands before. And in front of a bunch of eighteen year olds! "B-but," I stammered. "Chop-chop," she cut me short, "haven't got all day." And then she favoured me with her most dazzling smile, as if to say "it's just a game, just for my posse. Play along...." So of course I did. Half an hour later, when I took a coffee tray through, the sitting room was quite a sight. Georgie was curled up on the sofa, her head on Annabelle's lap. Annabelle was absent-mindedly stroking her short dark hair, like a cat. Maria and Molly were reading a Cosmo together, Maria's head leaning in on Molly's shoulder. Rosie sat in my large rocker, making notes on an iPad. "Ah Nunkie, there you are. What took you so long?" The girls all chimed in. "Poor Nunkie, so slow." "He can't help it. He's only a male." "He's so fat now, he can only move slowly." "It's his bottom, it's like a big anchor." "Come on now, girls, be kind." Rosie looked up at me. "Nunkie, I want you to sit down here on the rug." Clumsily, I sat down. My head was at the same level as Georgie's, and I could see her black eyes boring into me with an unreadable expression. Hatred? Excitement? Cruelty? I looked up from a forest of boots and jodhpurs, and above them the faces of Rosie's crew. I had fortified myself in the kitchen with brandy, and my head spun a little. Rosie's voice cut through the fog. "Nunkie, dear, we're worried about you. You need taking care of. So that's what we are going to do. We're going to take care of you." "Wha-what do you mean?" I stammered. "Well there are going to be some changes around here." Rosie smiled. "We're going to help you get into shape, and restore some purpose in your life." "We love you, Nunkie, and we want to help," Molly said. "Now come and give me a hug." I shuffled over to the sofa on my knees, and was enveloped in the warm embrace of Molly and Maria. While I was being overwhelmed by the girls, Rosie and Georgie had opened a briefcase on the bureau and pulled out a pile of legal documents. "We need you to sign these" Rosie said. "What am I signing?" "Oh, just a power of attorney for the court case." Molly pulled me tight against her generous breasts, while Maria whispered in my ear. "Don't do it, Nunkie. Don't leave us. Stay here. More cuddles. More Molly and Maria!" Groaning, I tore myself from their embrace. I didn't get up, largely because a straining erection would have been even more obvious, and shuffled over to the bureau on my knees. Behind me, Molly and Maria kept up a constant refrain. "Oh! Come back Nunkie. Come back to Mummy Molly. More cuddles for Dwoo" in voices blending schoolgirl teasing with motherly affection. I glanced over at Annabelle, who had a quizzical smile on her handsome Viking face. She raised an eyebrow at me, as if to say "what are you going to do now?." I knew what I was going to do. Do what Rosie wanted, sign the documents and get back to the comfort and excitement of the girls" embrace. As I signed the papers, without even looking at them, I once again noticed Georgie's enigmatic stare. She muttered something under her breath as she signed as witness. It sounded like "we've got you now..." "It's bedtime for you, Nunkie Dwoo," Rosie stated flatly. "Bella, would you do the honours?" Overriding the chorus of sighs and other expressions of disappointment, Rosie quieted the room. "You've got plenty of time to play with Nunkie later. To celebrate our new arrangements you can all kiss Nunkie good night when he's ready for bed." Annabelle brooked no argument, and I was marched to my rooms. "A nice shower, and then it's bedtime. We have a little present for you." I showered and brushed my teeth, coming back to my bedroom in my towelling robe. Annabelle was standing by the bed, and there was a large box waiting for me, wrapped in a pale blue ribbon. "Open it" she said. "It's from all of us." Inside was three pairs of pyjamas. Made of shimmering satin, there was something a bit strange about the cut. The chord fastened at the back, and ran not just around the waist, but also in a vee at the front running into a single line between the legs. I clumsily struggled to put a pair on while preserving my modesty, and eventually Annabelle ran out of patience. "Here, let me do it." She tutted. She pulled the trousers back down again, and gently taking hold of my erection, she slipped it in between two layers in the front of the gusset, a sort of internal sleeve. She then tightened the chords at the back. This had the effect of flattening the front so that my cock was clearly outlined straining upwards, while my balls were pushed up and outwards by some internal arrangement. The rear chord drew the material up tightly between my cheeks, stimulating the entire area, while increasing the apparent fullness of my buttocks. I felt ridiculous and very excited at the same time. Because it was Annabelle, matter-of-fact, no-nonsense Annabelle, treating this as a normal everyday event, I seemed to have no opportunity to protest. The matching top was very short, coming down to just below my chest, and leaving my back and tummy exposed. I felt ridiculous. They weren't pyjamas. They were harem pants! I felt absurd. But I could neither deny nor hide my excitement. Annabelle went to the bathroom to shower and change, handing me the Cosmo that Molly had been reading. Placing a pillow on the middle of the bed, Annabelle commanded me to lie face down, groin over the pillow. "Read this" she said. "Rosie will be testing you later." The magazine was headlined "Special Edition. Lavender Love," over a picture of a pouting Cara Delavigne. One article was titled "Sappho was right! 10 reasons why Males don't measure up." I lay on the bed, face down, reading the article, my satin pyjamas intensifying the erotic sensation. The drawstring of the trousers stimulated the nerves between my buttocks, so I found myself pushing my bottom slightly in the air to increase the feeling. Unable to resist the temptation, I gently started to hump, the silken sleeve built into the trousers caressing my aroused member. I tried to concentrate on the Cosmo article, but in my befuddled state, could only focus on a few phrases, which seemed to excite me further. "Why girls prefer cunnilingus to penetration." "The key statistic: more women cheat with women than men." "Women bosses: work and play." At this point, the bedroom door burst open, and the girls tumbled in, giggling and chattering. "So, Nunkie Dwoo, you like your present then" smirked Rosie. All at once I was surrounded, girlish hands stroking the fabric, accompanied by the usual mocking commentary about my weight and the size of my bottom. One finger traced the line of the chord between my cheeks. "So sweet, Nunkie, such a cute big girlish bottom you have." I couldn't prevent myself emitting a groan. "Oh he likes that. What a naughty little boy. What a naughty little botty boy!" "Turn over, Nunkie, we want to see the full ensemble." Reluctantly I rolled over, the pillow below me pushing my groin upwards. Immediately my satin-encased 'man'hood was the centre of attention, led by Rosie, who started to give a lecture about the origins of the male organ, and how controlling it was the key to female advancement. As she expounded the theory that males were imperfect because of their Y chromosome, and that the penis was a birth defect, a deformed and degraded version of the clitoris, she was lightly stroking the front of my pyjama pants. She continued to talk fluently about the use of feminine fabrics as a training aid, about "feminizing" the penis. She lightly gripped my testicles, and talked about how sensitive they are, and how vulnerable they made males. As she squeezed, she spoke about the control of genitalia, about the relative merits of confinement, chastity and castration. She encouraged the girls to feel me, the shape of my throbbing organ in its satin prison. And of course, notwithstanding the extreme nonsense she was spouting, the physical effects of her manipulation had their inevitable result. With my hips forced upwards by the pillow underneath me, the drawstring around my genitals and between my buttocks, the feeling of drowning in a sea of feminine beauty and, of course, the gentle stroking of my member by the young lady I adored, with a series of explosive convulsions, I came. ......................................................... My shame was boundless. I struggled to flee. "I'm so sorry. I can't do this. It's wrong. Let me go!" Annabelle gently me held me down, while Rosie hushed me with a finger to my lips. "Shush, Nunkie. You're only doing what I want. And I want the girls to see this. Settle down. That's it. That's a good boy." Her calmness, her reassuring but commanding tone drove all the fight out of me. I sank back onto the bed, sinking into post orgasmic languor, while my pyjama bottoms were removed and various hands cleaned away my spendings with baby wipes. "That's the nasty thing that males want to put inside us. And that's the nasty goo that comes out when they get excited. You'll find that they will say and do anything for that." "Have you ever done that, Rosie?" asked Molly, shyly. "My mother says it can be a laugh." "Never have, never will" replied Rosie. "and look at the trouble it got your mother into!." "Well I thought it was very disappointing" chimed in Maria. "So icky. I prefer being kissed. And girls are so much better at that than boys." She shot a knowing glance at Molly, who flushed bright red and tossed her fiery ringlets in a mix of embarrassment and pride. "I killed the last male who did that to me" spat Georgie. "I would do it again." At this Annabelle got up from the bed - I was no longer resisting - and enveloped Georgia in an enormous, consoling hug. "Don't worry, Gee Gee. No male is going to touch you again. I swear it." "Girls, girls! You're missing the point. Hardly any woman likes to have those things inside them. More and more women have realised that they prefer other women, and that means males need to be trained for a different purpose." With that, Rosie fixed me with a lingering look and an elusive smile. "To serve." "Now, Nunkie, you need to do something for me. The girls are going to start helping you to your new life, and that means removing your hair." "My hair? Why? What?" I spluttered. "Shhh, Nunkie Dwoo. Things always go better when you do what I want, don't they? Well, I want to get rid of your nasty male hair. Think of it as a process of rebirth. A new life." I was ushered off the bed, and told to take off my pyjama top. Annabelle wheeled a large massage table into the room, and covered it with a pink latex sheet. She handed out surgical gloves to each of the girls, who helped each other into latex aprons. Annabelle took charge. "Now remember girls, this is powerful stuff. It's a mixture of depilatory and moisturiser. A regular programme of applications will mean the hair removal is permanent, while the skin will be much softer. So don't get it on yourselves." She moved to the head of the table, where she carefully put tape over my eyebrows. "We'll keep those," she chuckled. "Don't want Nunkie looking like an alien!" I lay on my back in an ecstatic state while the four young ladies covered me with a pink lotion, which smelled strongly of roses. "Roses for Rosie" quipped Molly. Meanwhile Rosie stood at the foot of the bed, watching intently. When my arms, torso, legs and head had been well covered, she leaned forward, taking my balls in a rubber gloved hand full of the cream. As she rolled them in the lotion, Annabelle whispered something that I couldn't quite hear, but could have been "it's a medical plug containing an aphrodisiac and hormones." "Oh Nunkle, you are a lucky boy" giggled Maria. "Time to turn over now." By now the cream was starting to smart a little, and every nerve ending seemed to be sending a mixed message of pleasure and pain. Once again the girls smothered me with the depilatory cream on my back and legs. Rosie leaned in and applied copious quantities between my legs and around my rosette. Very gently she probed a finger inside me. "Dear Unka, you have been so down lately. We all want to help you get better. I'm going to put something inside you that will improve your life so much." Slithering face down on a rubber sheet, covered in rose scented cream, my naked bottom in the air, I was not in a position to argue. But I tried. "Rosie, I really don't feel comfortable with..." "Shhh." Once again she used her "slow" voice, that I was so conditioned to obeying. "It's for your own good. Now be a good boy and open wide for Rosie." With that, she slid her finger in and out several times, then slowly but insistently pushed a rubbery object into my rectum. Unused to such an invasion, I found myself resisting. I was surrounded by the chorus of young beauties encouraging me and Rosie. "Go on, you can do it!" "Open up, open up." "Push harder, Miss Rosie." "Get Bella to do it." This last injunction, from Georgie, caused me to wiggle in a surge of fear. And that wiggle did the trick. The plug smoothly slid into its resting place, a flange at the end holding it firmly in the slot. The cheers surrounding me made me feel encouraged, turning something deeply shameful into a perverse source of pride. Annabelle started to talk to me while Rosie was enjoying the high fiving and back slapping of the other girls. "This plug is an applicator for your treatment. It contains a cocktail of drugs to help with your depression. You should feel both happier and maybe a bit sexier. I or one of the other girls will change it every day. It also contains a digestor drug, which means you will no longer need to go to the lavatory, at least for your bowels, provided that you eat exactly the diet that I shall prescribe for you. Do you understand?" I was utterly overcome with physical sensations. The drugs in the plug had already started their fiendish work, and I was feeling mildly euphoric. My member, pressed into the pink latex sheet, was engorged to what felt like double size, while my chemical-covered skin seemed to have many more nerve endings. I could only nod weakly, barely conscious of some drool slipping from the corner of my slack mouth. "Good. Let's get you into the shower and ready for bed. You've got a long day ahead of you tomorrow." The rest of the night passed in a daze. Annabelle took me to the shower while the others cleared away the massage table. Dressed in a second pair of my slinky pyjamas, my still engorged member once again inserted into its silky sheath by Annabelle, I was tucked up by the girls, each kissing me on the lips to say good night. Rosie was last. With a big smile, she leant over me to deliver a huge kiss. "So proud of you Unky. Annabelle's going to look after you tonight." With that she was gone, with Maria and Molly on each arm. Annabelle joined me in bed, curling around me with her massive breasts pressed into my back and her hand lightly resting on the silky front of my pyjama pants. Within seconds, Annabelle was asleep, gently breathing in my ear. I lay there, blood coursing through my veins, stiffly erect, despite my recent embarrassment, trying in a thick fog to navigate through what had happened to me in the last few hours, and completely unable to sleep. I gently tried to rub myself against Annabelle's hand without waking her, in the hope of bringing myself off and then getting some sleep. "I don't think so, naughty boy," whispered Georgie as she climbed into the bed. "Onto the floor with you." I rolled onto the thick rug next to the bed, and as Georgie settled to sleep, it also did for me. I was woken during the night by the unmistakable sounds of lovemaking, but I lay stock still, terrified of what might happen if either Georgie or Annabelle realised that I was listening, and when they had finished, with sweet sounds of affection and passion, I too drifted off to a world of troubling but erotic dreams. It was the first night of my new life. More was to follow. ...................................................................... I woke the next morning with a series of unusual sensations. I had slept on a shaggy rug in a silky garment designed to stimulate and torment me. My skin felt as if it were new, smooth and highly sensitive. My bed was occupied by two beautiful young ladies who had spent the night in a passionate embrace, and lay now asleep, entangled and spent. My erection, which had persisted through the night, was trapped in a silken cage, while my back passage was penetrated by a constant reminder that my will was no longer my own. I put on a dressing gown and went downstairs to the sitting room. It was chucking it down outside, one of those late August reminders that winter was around the corner. No one would be riding today. Still somewhat dazed, I pottered about, clearing away riding boots, the glasses from the evening's drinks and Rosie's jade cigarette holder. I had done the dishes the night before while Rosie was having her private chat with the girls. I began to wonder what that was all about, but the effect of my silky pyjamas on my newly sensitised skin and the ever present stimulation of the plug made it hard to gather my wits. I made a pot of tea, knowing that Rosie would appreciate the gesture. On further thought, I added two more cups, and went up to Rosie's room. I knocked on the door, and was answered with a curt "Wait!" I waited for several minutes outside, feeling increasingly foolish. I could hear some giggles and squeaks and eventually a further command, "Enter!." Rosie's room was in a state of disarray. Rosie's suitcase was half unpacked and various items of lingerie were strewn around. Some objects that looked like sex toys were also lying about, with some sinister looking leather harnesses. Handcuffs drooped from each corner of the four poster bed, which contained Molly and Maria hiding, giggling, under the duvet. Rosie was standing by the window in a diaphanous robe which barely concealed her basque, suspenders and stockings, all emerald green, and a pair of immensely high heeled red shoes. She was smoking through another lengthy cigarette holder, and had already made her face up. She was so beautiful. "I brought you some tea, Rosie." "That's Miss Rosie to you, naughty Nunkie," giggled Molly from under the bed. "Spunky Nunkie" countered Maria, with another peal of laughter. "Miss Rosie," I stammered. Rosie showed no sign of being amused. She curled her lip. "That will do Dwoo. Laundry duties this morning." The giggles from the bed increased, as Molly and Maria both started singing a doowop harmony: "doo dwoo, doo dwoo duties," Rosie continue to look at me, eyebrows raised, her six inch tapping the floor in impatience. I remembered the game. Flustered, I managed to blurt out the old refrain. "Please Miss Rosie, may I wash your panties?" "Oh Unka Dwoo, if you must," Rosie sighed, "if you must. But I think you must ask Miss Molly and Miss Maria too. Miss Annabelle and Miss Georgia as well, I suppose," This was a shock. I was now expected to call all the ladies in the house "Miss." They had been promoted. My position in the house had taken a lurch downwards. "Please Miss Molly, may I wash your panties?," I muttered. "Sorry, Dwooty, you'll have to speak up" Molly giggled. "Please Miss Molly, may I wash your panties?," I tried again. Molly affected the same bored accent as Rosie, but couldn't carry it off, once again breaking into a peal of giggles. "But I'm still wearing them. Better come here and get them. Still wearing them. No, not with your hands. Your mouth. Still wearing them. That's it. Made it. Maid it." Maria was openly laughing when I emerged from the bed with Molly's panties in my mouth. "My turn now, Nunkle" she laughed. "Where are you, maid?" Flushed and breathless, I tottered round to Maria's side of the bed, Molly's panties still in my mouth. "What's wrong, Dwoofus, why are you panting?." Maria and Molly both exploded with laughter. Gently, Maria removed the panties from my mouth, held them to her nose and inhaled a deep breath. "Ah! Mollyscent." By now even Rosie was laughing. "Panting! Mollyscent!" And then once again the tapping shoe. Stumblingly, I once again tried to say the humiliating line. "Please, Maria, please may I wear your panties?." Molly was now stuffing her face into the pillow, she was laughing so hard. "Of course, of course you may." Maria took her juice- drenched panties and fitted them snugly over my face, my eyes peering desperately though the legholes, the scented gusset pressed against my nose. "You may WEAR my panties. And because you forgot to call me Miss Maria, you must wear them all day." Rosie's face lit up with a broad smile. "Very good, Maria. Very good indeed. Now Dwoo, I think you need to pay a visit to Miss Georgie and Miss Annabelle." ...................................................................... I turned to leave, my gut churning with the thought of how I could approach Annabelle and Georgia with Maria's panties over my face and my 15 hour erection outlined clearly in my silky pyjama bottoms. I felt a combination of fear and excitement, and it was only the fact that Rosie had commanded me that it made it possible to go through with it. "Wait!," Rosie's voice drifted languidly to the door, like the smoke from her cigarette. "I've got another present for you." It was another clothes box, with the same pale blue ribbon. I could see the maker's logo, "Silken Domination." "Open it," Rosie ordered. "I want you to try this on for size." Inside the box was a curious garment. It was made of a stretchy rubber- like material in black. It was somewhat like a girl's swimsuit, with shoulder straps, although the back had a tightening lace, and there was a white rubber ruff all around the waist. As I struggled to put it on, I realised that the rear shape had a thong back, so my buttocks were completely exposed, while the thong exerted pressure on my plug. While I had, to some extent, become used to my anal intruder, this somehow managed to re-emphasise its presence. Worse still, there was a rubber-reinforced circular hole at the front, through which Molly threaded my rampant erection and aching hairless balls. The latex ruff flopped above my erection, without providing enough cover to hide it. As Molly tightened the corset arrangement at the back, trimming my waist, I noticed that the front was somewhat shaped, giving me the appearance of a modest bust. "Let me look at you." Rosie clicked round me on her sky high stilettos; inspecting the tight lacing, gently brushing a hand over my smooth hairless buttocks. She came round to stand in front of me. As her hand reached over to stroke my cheek, I noticed that her long nails were immaculately polished in the same emerald green as her bustier. "Unka Dwoo, this becomes you." She dragged a nail gently, slowly over my erection. "This becomes you well. This is your standard daily uniform from now on, at least when no one else is in the house." She fixed me with a long stare, forestalling my protests. She lightly encircled my member with her hand, and, gentler than a butterfly's kiss, masturbated me. Just three strokes. Not enough for anything. Enough to seal my lifelong devotion. Moving her hand down to cup my balls, she squeezed them. "It pleases me to do this. You please me," she whispered. In another of her abrupt changes of mood, she turned away, towards the bed. "Maria, enough lazing about. Time to teach Dwoo to curtsey." While I was stammering a protest, Maria emerged from the four poster, completely naked. "Yes, curtesy," Rosie stated flatly, brooking no argument. "You must curtesy on entering and leaving a room. And to each female in the room. Is that understood? I wish it. I command it." There followed a completely surreal half hour, Rosie and Molly sat in the four poster bed, sipping tea and carrying on a running commentary, while an overweight, now completely bald, middle-aged man dressed in a rubberised maid/swimsuit/corset with his buttocks and erect member on full display and a pair of used panties over his face was schooled in the niceties of the curtsey by a totally naked Brazilian goddess. When at last Maria was happy that I had mastered the art, I was instructed to demonstrate. I faced the bed, lightly put one foot in front of the other, brought both hands up to my ruff, which I held between thumb and forefinger, and bobbed. "Good morning Miss Rosie. How may I serve you? Good morning Miss Molly, how may I serve you?" "Good morning, Dwoosila. I'm busy. But Maria needs your service." And Rosie was busy. From the glazed look on Molly's face, and the small movements under the sheets, I deduced that Rosie was busy indeed, frotting the redheaded girl. "Good morning Miss Maria, how may I serve you?" Something had clearly excited the Brazilian beauty. Whether it was the sight of her girlfriend being pleasured by her mentor, or the thrill of commanding and humiliating an older male, I do not know, but Maria glistened. Her nipples stood erect on her wonderful breasts, while a telltale trail traced a path from her shaven pussy down her golden thighs. "Well, pantymaid, I would like you to lie down on this rug. I am going to sit on your face." Being queened by a Brazilian princess was unlike how I imagined it would be. I was wearing Maria's panties over my face, so I was familiar with her wonderful scent. But it also meant that I could not participate very actively. I could push my tongue against its silken cage, but not directly contact her flesh. And despite her panther looks, she was surprisingly restrained, controlling the pressure on her most sensitive parts by small circular motions of her hips and thighs, using my chin and nose to provide stimulation. She was considerate, too, allowing me the opportunity to breathe, although this became more and more difficult as she slowly increased the pressure as she worked up to orgasm. This was an experienced rider, and the lessons she had learned in the stables had translated well to more advanced erotic adventures. To my surprise, after she had peaked, she continued to ride my face, the pace slowing as she enjoyed a series of diminishing aftershocks. And while she was still softly grinding away, I felt other hands touching my organ, not to stimulate, but to add a new garment, another humiliation. At last Maria rolled away, sated. As she crawled towards the bed, she whispered in my ear. "Very good, my pantymaid. We will do that again very soon." I looked up through the glistening haze of Maria's fluids to see Molly and Rosie kneeling on the rug, grinning. "Ah there you are, Nunkie. You took your time," Rosie said in her haughtiest tone. "I'd like to introduce you to little Drusilla." I looked down to see my genitals dressed in a miniature version of my outfit. A rubberised corset sleeve encased my penis, with a rubber ring holding it firm below the head. My balls were lifted and separated by holes in the rubber, giving an appearance like my thong-backed buttocks, and a white rubber ruff ran the around the base, above the balls, partially but not completely covering them. Underneath and around the root was a strong rubber ring, which held the entire sheath in place. It also appeared to prevent my erection from going down. "Isn't she sweet!" exclaimed, chuckling. "Two little rubber maids." "Mini maid," added Rosie, clearly delighted. "She won't be bothering anyone. Even Georgie is going to like her." I shrank back. Georgie! Molly and Maria were lovely to me. Rosie, although very volatile, was often kind to me; besides I adored her. But Annabelle intimidated me, and Georgie scared me. I was trying to gather my scattered wits. To find some way of pushing back against the avalanche that was taking away my control. But I was too weak, crushed by my own self pity, the overwhelming lust that coursed through my body and the indomitable will of Rosie and her girls. I also knew that chemicals were being steadily released into me by the accursed drug plug, which I suspected were contributing to my fear, confusion and heightened sexual excitement. "I think you are ready to serve Miss Annabelle and Miss Georgie now," Rosie commanded, again using her haughtiest tone. Once again I was given no opportunity to protest. "Bella will take white tea, strong, while Gee Gee will have a strong black coffee. After you have served them, you have an hour to complete laundry duties. We will all meet up at 12:00 for a house meeting. Dismissed!" Without a further glance, Rosie turned back to the bed, where Maria and Molly were cuddled up in a post orgasmic haze. As I remembered to curtsey at the door, unnoticed, I heard Rosie's voice. "My turn now. Who's first?" ...................................................................... I will not dwell overlong on my experience with Annabelle and Georgie after leaving Rosie's room. To my relief, their response to my knock, entry, curtsey to the room, curtsey to Annabelle, reading at the desk, and Georgie, luxuriating in the bed, together with the prescribed greeting, was laughter. Annabelle's greeting was a question as to why I was wearing a pair of soaked panties over my face. I burbled an explanation about how it was my fault, that I had asked Miss Maria to wear her panties rather than wash them, and that I had to wear them all day because I had failed to call Miss Maria "Miss." Annabelle thought it intriguing. "A Freudian slip, maybe," she mused. When I tried to explain that I was confused by Miss Maria and Miss Molly and Miss Rosie using the word "where" a lot, she cut me short. "I may need to alter the drug mix a little" she mused. Annabelle then gave me a medical lecture on hygiene, the operation of the medical plug and the need to be thoroughly cleansed by an enema every week. The drug delivery and the waste disposal features of the plug were both very new, not to say experimental, and I would need daily medical checks to ensure that there were no problems. Further depilation would also take place daily until the correct skin tone was achieved and permanent hair removal established. Medical checks were to take place at 6 every evening. "But why?" I asked, and felt ashamed of the whine in my voice. "Why are you doing this?" "Because it's good for you. And because Rosie wants it." Georgie was fascinated by my outlandish costume, and quietly muttered to herself that maybe this was the solution, the way to permanently subjugate males, to "eliminate men." She also seemed to have overcome her aversion to physical contact, telling me to bend over so she could feel my buttocks. The skin treatment had already had an effect, and she commented on how soft my skin was. After repeatedly running her hands over my cheeks, sometimes softly, sometimes using her sharp nails to scratch, she lightly tapped the base of my plug, held firmly as it was under the rubberised thong back. "Can you feel that?" she asked, not really paying attention to my stammered "yes, Miss Georgie." She repeated the gesture, tapping out a drumbeat on the plug's base with increasing intensity. I failed to stifle a moan. Annabelle looked up from the manual she was reading. "It's interesting," she said, "the male anus has significantly more nerve endings than the female. Nobody knows why. Nothing like as many as the clitoris, of course. It's almost as if males evolved a second sexual centre as an alternative to the penis. And it's designed to receive rather than penetrate. Plenty of scope for reconditioning the male psyche to eliminate a tendency to dominance. Rosie's definitely onto something there." Georgie stopped tapping on the base of the plug, to my relief, and delivered a fine slap to my proffered bum. "I like it," Georgie declared. "I want to be involved in this plugging and enema thing." As Annabelle replied in the affirmative, Georgie moved around to my front. "Stand up" she ordered. Again she examined me, this time running her fingers and nails over my corseted cock and balls. Again she and Annabelle talked about the subject in hand. "Bound up like this she is rather sweet," said Georgie. "Not a threat at all. And I think these are very sensitive to pain, no?" So saying, she took my balls in her hand and squeezed, but not as gently as Rosie had. Annabelle replied. "Yes it's fascinating that they are much more sensitised to pain than pleasure. Almost as if Mother Nature was handing us another mechanism for control. There's an old expression "hold a man by the balls, and his heart and mind will follow". "I like that too," concluded Georgie. "An instrument for control by women, not repression by men." With a final squeeze, she let go. As I grunted at the pain, Georgie looked me in the face, her black eyes dancing with mischief. "You may go. Do your chores. But this is something I will investigate further." It was difficult to curtsey laden down with the tea tray and the girls" washing, but I managed it, and scurried away rapidly to the relative safety of the laundry room. I had hoped for some peace to gather my thoughts, but I only had three quarters of an hour to put the jodhpurs and blouses in the washing machine, and to hand wash, blow dry and iron the five bras and four pairs of panties (I bravely took Maria's off while I set about my work, hoping that no one would be interested enough to come down and check). I finished all the ironing with ten minutes to spare. I thought about relieving myself. I had had an erection for many hours, and I could feel a constant pain in my swollen balls. Despite the massive sensual pleasure, my clothes, my genital bondage, the plug nagging away inside me, the erotic scent of Maria lingering over my face, and the intense erotic stimulation I had received, I had other, conflicting emotions. I was hungry. I hadn't eaten since lunchtime yesterday. But more than that, I was nearly overcome by a sense of dread. What was happening to me? Why couldn't I fight back against this? I felt weak, helpless. I felt fear. I started to cry. The minutes ticked by, and I somehow found the strength to replace Maria's panties on my face and totter back up the stairs to the sitting room. I stood quietly outside for the first chime of twelve o'clock, listening at the door. Annabelle's reasonable tones could just be heard. "Remember the hormones will be cranking up the emotions...." "Just the moment to cement our permanent control" hissed Georgie. At the first bell struck, I knocked and entered the room, curtseyed, then curtseyed to each in order. "Good afternoon, Miss Rosie," and so on round the room. Rosie was in the big chair (mine no longer, I guessed), while the two pairs sat on the two sofas. The others had adopted similar clothing to Rosie: basque, suspenders, stockings, very high heels and a diaphanous robe. Each had chosen a different colour, black for Molly, red for Maria, purple for Georgie. Annabelle wore a white doctors coat over a similar white ensemble. She stood up and walked over to me, carrying a clipboard. Even with shorter heels than the others, Annabelle towered over me. She reached over, and plucked Maria's panties from my face. Panic stricken, I looked to Rosie and then Maria for approval. Rosie nodded a rather grim yes, while Maria flashed me a friendly smile. Whatever was going to happen next, I knew I had a friend there. Annabelle led me over to a small round stool that had been placed in the middle of the room and motioned for me to sit. I sat at a lower level than everyone in the room. Enough the tiny Rosie and Georgie looked down on me. This was the first time I had sat down since yesterday, since the plug had been inserted. The little hard stool pressed at the plug's base, stimulating the nerves, and causing me to emit a little whimper. The act of sitting also pulled on my rubberised clothes, and for a moment I blissed out. I felt as if I was going to ejaculate, there and then. I pulled myself together, looking around to see the five beautiful women looking intently at me. Rosie started to speak. "Nunkie Dwoo. I promised you that we are going to take care of you. And we will. But that also means that we take charge of you. I promised you that we would give you a purpose. That purpose should now be pretty clear to you. It is to serve me. To serve me and the girls. To be a part of our bigger project." "This is my plan," Rosie went on, "I have accepted the position of head of the Law and Gender Studies department at the University, here in town. Assuming they get the grades, which they will," here Rosie cast a stern look at Maria and Georgie, "they will all go to the University here too, to read Psychology and Law." Annabelle has one more year here to complete her Medical training, as you know. I have offered Molly a paid job as my personal assistant, which she has accepted." At this point, Rosie stood up and walked round the room, stopping at each of the girls in turn, stroking their cheeks, and giving each a meaningful glance. Their eyes glistened. "I am proud of you all. You have been my posse. You are my team. You will be my cadre." Rosie came to stand over me. She lightly rested her hand on my bald head. I looked up at her. She was so beautiful, and the passion in her eyes was sparkling. I would have done anything for her at that point. "Nunkie, I have asked each of the girls if they would like to move in here to live. They have all accepted. There will need to be some changes to the living arrangements, which we'll discuss later." "Secondly, I have agreed terms with Miss delaCroix to buy the stables. Since the settlement, we are in a position to reunite the Estate, and that is what I intend to do. Helene will continue to live in her flat and run her ballet school in the Orangery, but will give up the riding school. Molly's mother has agreed to run the stables, and we will be doing up the Keeper's cottage for Mrs Mooney and Molly's sisters to move in. Won't that be fun!" Molly was beaming. She loved her family, and the idea of her sisters living nearby was a joy to her. Rosie continued. "My idea is to develop the Estate into a beacon for the world, showing the benefits of a female led community. The riding and ballet schools will enable us to foster promising girls, teaching them empowerment and independence. This will feed into my work at the University, influencing political and social policy. In due course Bella and Maria can work on the medical and psychological aspects. Georgie can be my legal assistant until she qualifies. Maybe in the future we will set up a school here. Let's see how it goes." "Which brings me to you, Nunkie. This is to be a Female led community, not a female only one. But the only males here will always be subservient to the females. As Georgie says, the end of Men!" Rosie smiled at Georgie, who dazzled back. "Thank you," she mouthed. "I had thought of asking you to do the accounts for the two schools and the estate, as you used to be an accountant. But I promised you a new life. And numbers was your old life. So your new life will be to blaze a trail for males. A model, if you will, for the new way." At that there was some chuckling. "Nunkie Dwoo, a model!" laughed Maria. "I also thought of offering you the job of Housekeeper, as you seem to enjoy tidying up after us, cooking and so on." She paused. "And because you seem to love