The Homecoming

Elizabeth had suffered a massive heart attack, but she had lived. The doctors called it a miracle. Eamon called it a curse. She was weak, frail, her once formidable presence diminished to a small figure in a hospital bed. But her mind, as sharp and cruel as ever, was already working.

She and Miriam decided Eamon wasn't man enough to care for his mother on his own. He was too broken, too obedient. They needed a firm hand, a new kind of control. And so, they reached out to an old acquaintance, a solution from across the world.

Two weeks later, a black cab pulled up outside the house. Two women stepped out. Eamon, who was cleaning the hall windows, froze, the cleaning cloth slipping from his hand. It was them. Lilian and Amara. The women who had broken him in Manila, who had set him on this path. They smiled when they saw him, a slow, knowing smile that made his blood run cold.

They moved into the house with effortless grace, taking over the running of the household and the care of Elizabeth. They were efficient, capable, and utterly terrifying. They decided that their "little bitch," as they called him, should look like one. They slowly began transforming him into a serving wench. They brought in frilly aprons, sheer black stockings, and ridiculously high heels. They taught him to curtsy and serve with a deferential simper. Elizabeth, watching from her armchair, was vastly amused.

Elizabeth herself wasn't up to much physically, but she enjoyed the show. She particularly enjoyed it when Amara, her beautiful, enormous cock proudly on display, would fuck him. Amara would take him from behind, her powerful hips driving into him, her hands gripping his shoulders, her breath hot on his neck. Eamon, despite himself, would respond, his body betraying his mind.

Every now and then, Elizabeth would have Amara stand beside her chair. She would lean forward, her wrinkled hands surprisingly steady, and take Amara's cock in her mouth, her lips moving expertly over the shaft. She would bring her to the brink, her own eyes dark with a renewed power. Then, just as Amara was about to explode, Elizabeth would point the twitching, slick cock at the kneeling Eamon and command him to "Wank it." Eamon would wrap his hand around the thick shaft, stroking it until it erupted, spurting hot, thick come all over his face and hair. He was forbidden to clean himself afterward and had to spend the rest of the day with the drying, flaking come on his face, a public mark of his submission.

As time went on, Elizabeth grew weaker. Her body, once so full and commanding, began to fail her. She eventually succumbed to a bout of pneumonia, her last breath a quiet rattle in the stillness of her room.

With Elizabeth gone, the house's future became a legal battleground. Miriam, now Jeremy's submissive wife, saw it as her inheritance. But Lilian, ever practical, had other plans. Eamon was forced to marry Lilian in a quiet, civil ceremony. The marriage was a sham, a transaction to secure her citizenship and, more importantly, her position as the new head of the household.

The legal dispute between Eamon and Miriam about the house was settled in the most unexpected way. A will was produced, made by his father near the end of his life. In it, he left the house and a small fortune to his son. One final finger up to the wife and daughter who broke him. Miriam and Elizabeth, in their arrogance and cruelty, had never known about it. It was discovered upon Elizabeth's death. His father's personal accountant, a man Eamon hadn't seen in years, turned up at the residence one day, will in hand, a somber look on his face.

Eamon was now, legally, the master of the house. But in reality, he was anything but. His life under Lilian and Amara descended into a new kind of hell. They owned him, body and soul. They began a new regime: physical transformation. He was given hormones, daily injections that softened his skin, rounded his hips, and made his chest swell with tender, sensitive breasts. His voice, already high from fear, became a breathy soprano.

Their plan, they explained with chilling cheerfulness, was to make him a sister for Amara. A pretty, docile, feminine companion. Even though he/she would still be the house slave. They dressed him in silk and lace, filling his days with lessons in deportment and makeup application. His body was being changed, remolded into their ideal image. He was no longer Eamon, the broken sailor. He was being erased, replaced by a creature of their design, a pretty doll in a gilded cage, a sister for his tormentor, forever.