Converted: Part 2: Trained to SERVE
This is the second part of the story (which began with Converted Pt 1: Trained to WORSHIP), and continues the tale til its conclusion.
To his own utter astonishment, against everything that he had thought true and proper, Eliot Bonham had been broken and trained to grovel and WORSHIP Her in a matter of a few days. It seemed to him that he was no longer living in a world he recognised at all. He didn’t realise that this was just the beginning. He had already been made to KNEEL. Now he would be made to SERVE.
Elliot hoped that he wouldn’t meet any of his acquaintances on his way to the library, and he was lucky in that respect. He was very self conscious in his chastity device. It was even difficult to watch his usual pornography in between visitors because the swelling of his cock was all the more noticeable. The improvised replacement for the missing book was still as he had left it the day before. As She had left it. No one said anything. Surely it would be noticed eventually?
It did seem to take an age for the morning to go by, and he was feeling very tired by the time Miss Alberts came in. The sight of her made him start. The old arrogance and pity for her was gone. He was terrified that she might notice the bulge in his trousers, but her wide lipsticked smile was just the same as always. He found that he could hardly summon up a smile in reply, he just nodded and fled. He had considered avoiding his usual coffee circle, but decided against it in the end, wanting everything to seem as usual as possible.
They were in their usual places in the little cafe and if they noticed something odd about Elliot as he came in, they didn’t let on. They were actually far too busy being about their usual game, he realised, as he sat down. It was a relief to be seated, and have the table hide his crotch. He had been very conscious of it as he approached the table.
“Well, I’ll be doing bugger all,” said Tom, the gardener, “bloody stupid. If ya want to give to charity, give to charity, on the quiet, like. Why all this ‘look at me’ tomfoolery?”
“Oh, come on,” said James, laughing, “get into the spirit of it. Make a fool of yourself for a good cause. It’ll be fun!”
“What are you doing then?”
“Oh, me and my classmates are dressing up as the Prime Minister and doing a ‘Boris Dance’.”
“Kuh!” Said Tom, unimpressed. “Bring back birching.”
“That should be good,” said Desmond, the Stockbroker, “the Boris Dance, I mean, not the birching.”
The gardener shook his head and they all looked at Elliot. He realised with a flare of panic that it was his turn to play.
“You doing anything for the fundraiser, Elliot?” Asked Desmond, in the suddenly awkward silence.
“No…” he repled with a nervous laugh. “Lot of rubbish.”
“You’re right there,” said Tom, nodding.
“I mean, it’s the indignity of it.”
At that moment, the waitress put the tea down for them on the table and they waited for her to finish.
“Well, the boss has always liked it,” said Desmond. “Miss Templeton. Full of all sorts of new ideas. We’ll have to watch our step. I think there’s a ‘Black History Lecture’ going to be put on in the entrance hall shortly. It is rather an uncomfortable truth about the people who built this house.”
“Winchester Cathedral was largely funded by the proceeds of prostitution in London,” said Elliot, glad to have found something to come back with, trumping the other man’s history aside. History was often something that they used to try and outdo each other. “No one cares about that now when they look at the building.”
“You doing anything, Desmond?” Asked James, trying to get the conversation back round to something he felt superior to the others about.
“Oh, I expect the kids will probably want to rope me into something,” chuckled the stockbroker, playing the doting father and successful family man. “They normally do.”
None of the other men had children. Desmond smiled slightly as he took a sip of his tea.
“No one ever upstages Miss Alberts, anyway,” said the gardener with a sudden chuckle.
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