The TV Controller By Timothy Reisling Betticut

The TV Controller
By Timothy Reisling Betticut

“Ah! You’re awake Mrs. Liptz. So good.”

“Um. Yes. Ewww. What a nice rest and…… Mrs. Liptz? ” The redheaded
patient stirred and squirmed at the hospital restraints joining her
wrists and ankles to the raised bed frame. “Wha…. What’s this? What’re
these things. Hey. HEY!”

“Oh my,” the nurse rustled over to examine a wrist strap. “Come on Dear.
They’re loose enough. We had to keep you from scratching at your
incisions. Now just relax Mrs. Liptz, Doctor will be along soon and tell
us what to do.”

The dark haired beauty tried to sit up, then stared at her bonds,
struggled and pulled, but the things were implacable and in a few
moments she puffed back onto the pillows still whipping her head
incredulously, her long curls spilling in all directions. “How? Wha….
” Suddenly she fixed a steady stare on the nurse. “What did you just
call me?”

The girl in white looked oddly at her patient for a moment, the way an
accidental speeder might peer into a rear view mirror and suddenly spot
a pursuing cop, “What did I call you? Why, Mrs. Liptz. Mrs. Candi
Liptz….. Doctor Mitty’s sister? Are you…. Um…. Do you know who you
are, Mrs. Liptz?”

“NO! This is wrong. There’s been a terrible mistake here. I….” for the
first time, the patient looked down at her body, spotted the substantial
mounds jutting from her chest, raised her head farther to peer through
thick migrant curls at her groin, hidden by the shapeless white hospital
gown, and farther to the long bare legs recently uncovered in her
struggles. “Where’s Lylia? I’ve gotta’ talk with Lylia. Now. Get me
Lylia……. NOW!”

“You may go Kerry,” a woman with the face of a mature Brooke Shields but
tall as an NBA draftee, a white surgical coat over her expensive suit,
stethoscope dangling, dismissed the girl. “Shut that please, this
patient’s noise is annoying others along the hall.” The doctor high
heeled it to the bed and, as the door closed behind the departing nurse,
she looked directly into the blue green eyes of the hampered patient.
“Hello Tim. Comfy?”

“Just one thing first. Please, Lylia, please tell me that……” Her
worried voice trailed off. She looked first into the professional gaze
of the woman above, then down where the gown covered her crotch.

Doctor Lylia Mitty’s lips pulled together like a drawstring purse, but
her smiling eyes followed the patient’s gaze to the spot where the skirt
lie flat as a penny on a train track. “Lose something Tim? Down here?”
Her practiced hand reached to the crotch rubbing it gently smooth,
revealing an even surface.

“My God Lylia. It’s…. You’ve……. Oh NO! YOU DIDN’T? OH SHIT!” The
redhead yanked at her bonds flopping on the bed like a beached carp.

“Okay. Alright! Now stop. Stop it, or I’ll pump you so full of narcotics
the heads down town’ll get high on your breath. Stop it. All right. It’s
still there. It’s there. I just kind of hid it before I brought you in
last month.” Lylia smirked down at the incredulous look on the patient’s
pretty face. “Right after the drug in your wine took effect, I put a
kind of cap over your equipment before we brought you over here for the
little, uh, alterations.”

“Alterations! Last month? I’ve got a pair of double D’s dangling from my
chest, my hair’s a paid for shade of red and my buns feel like they’ve
been pumped up with jello. These aren’t alterations. Damnit Lylia,
you’ve rebuilt the whole house! How long have I….. Why? Wha… What’s
that?”

While the girl ranted, the doctor pulled a flat black plastic device
from her coat. “You recognize this don’t you Dear? Couldn’t get it out
of your hand at home. Here look closely.”

“The remote control? The television and PATS controller? Why do I need
that here? What’s going on? Yoooooooooo….. Ewwwwww…… Aaaaaaaaa.”

The doctor removed a long scarlet fingernail from one of the buttons on
the device she’d pointed at the writhing patient. “Nice eh? See, my
cosmetic surgery included a few implants in addition to the liposuction
that’s whittled your teeny waist. In fact, you’re a collection of new
ideas. New drugs raise your voice, kill off the male hair on your face,
body and arms while painting that luster into your gorgeous red mane.
They also induced it to grow like that. It’ll stabilize now, but the
nurses had a wonderful time giving you that dye, cut and perm Honey.
Please remember to thank them.”

With a thoughtful look, the doctor grabbed a small shank of the
redhead’s locks, “Although, you know, maybe this do is a little young
for a thirty nine year old?” Lylia raised a quizzical eyebrow. “That’s
the risk of giving young girls a sleeping Barbi Doll to play with.
Still, with your new lips and the chiseling I did to your face, you look
about twenty-two anyway.”

“Chiseling?” Tim murmured, “Implants?” The titian beauty shook her head,
a dull gloss fading from her eyes, “Did you say implants? The hell you
mean these boobs are permanent?” The bound patient stared at the flowing
peaks on her chest like a coed in a slasher movie seeing Freddy’s
fingernails swipe at her.

Lylia gave him a nod the size of a fingernail, “Nine implants actually,
and yes, they are permanent, all of them,” she dropped the plastic
device onto the bedstand and wound a blood pressure belt around the
patient’s upper arm, smoothing the velcro tightly. “You now have two new
breasts, two new buns and two new lips.”

“So what does that remote controller do to me?” The redhead’s voice was
quiet, resigned. She sighed deeply as the belt pumped about her arm.
“What are the other, uh, three implants? Where exactly are they?” It was
a statement more than a question. The patient felt the tingles when her
doctor stabbed that button. She knew where they came from, knew where
the other three implants lie.

“Hmmmm. Vital signs are normal and the scars are minimal after just
three weeks. I think you’re ready to come home,” Lylia untapped the
pressure cock and it ‘spsssed’ it’s air free letting the belt go limp.
“The other implants are state of the art, micro-miniaturized circuitry
that actually connect to nerve bundles here, here and…… here,” again
that smirk as her fingers brushed against each of the patient’s nipples
and then her crotch. “They’re powered by the same sort of batteries used
in pacemakers so they’ll run for about 24 months. Wonderful technology.
Tiny receivers pick up signals from an ordinary TV remote controller
that’s been properly tuned and they can take up to 99 different kinds of
directions. Ninety nine at the push of the buttons! Can you imagine? And
it’s set on the very lowest volume right now. Think about that.”

Tim’s hands in voluntarily balled against his bonds, tugging and working
them nervously, “What……. what kind of directions? What sort of
things will they do to…….. AHHHHHHHHH! Aeiiiii! Uhhhhhhh!”

Lylia’s fingers had darted to the controller device on the table,
stabbing at two buttons, “Now don’t pull at your bindings Timmie, you’ll
break one of your lovely long nails. And the girls worked so hard to do
a french manicure.”

“Godamn that hurt worse than anything,” Tim lay limp on the sheets
gasping and sweating like a runner at the end of a marathon. “My god
don’t ever….. Please don’t ever do that to me again. Oh shit! Why
Lylia? Why’ve you done this to me? I don’t want to be a….. a woman!”

“Oh you’re not a woman Tim. Your apparatus is intact under that cap and
wig. Incidentally, while you can urinate and wash through the openings,
it’ll accept a full ten inches of meat. And wait’ll you feel how
anything going in there rubs up against you. Remember the expression
‘anatomically correct’? You’ll love it.” She reached down and and
massaged the flexible covering disguising Tim so effectively. But I
didn’t operate on you to make you into something that even looked like a
woman.”

“Ohhh. It’s pretty sensitive down there Lylia after those shocks. Ahhh.
How can you say that I don’t look like a woman? Long red hair, small
waist, big boobs and buns, you told me that my face is redesigned. The
hell do I look like?”

“A girl my sweets. A fornicating, randy, sensual sexpot of a fully in
heat – girl ! Oh you don’t look like a minor, too old for jail bait, but
nobody’s going to confuse you with a woman baby. You’re a cockteasing
pneumatic – and very sexy girl! With the face that all America’s come to
know and love. The look every girl in this country’s been forced to
aspire to, ever since your stupid decision.”

The patient’s voice was very soft, almost imperceptible, “Omigod. You
really hate me over the PATS don’t you? I said I was sorry. It was just
a mindless joke. Camellia never meant anything to me. You and I have
been married for fifteen years Lylia. Camellia invented the things, she
deserved the recognition. Okay, she came on so strong and you and I just
weren’t doing it enough, our sex was too sporadic. I needed some
recognition. I’m a man, not some kind of pansy. But we never did
anything. Please Lylia, I should have made them look like you. This is
awful. Oh hell. HELL!” The squealing redhead tugged at her bindings,
wracking the bed, vibrating the floor.

Doctor Lylia Mitty sneered at her titian haired husband, struggling and
flinging his lush new body in a futile effort to pull free, revelling in
his superhuman panic for a moment. Then with an insolent sigh, she poked
at the small black remote TV controller waiting aside the bed.

*** ** ***

Amazing how much can happen in just three weeks of training. Once home,
Tim returned to work immediately, and nobody noticed the changes. Not
one person, even though he put in a good nine hours most days. Not
surprising. None of Lylia’s plans could have been accomplished without
Tim’s special profession that made them both so wealthy.

As successful as her cosmetic surgery practice became, Tim’s computer
software company was the cash cow. He founded SoftMit, built it to the
nation’s second largest, then passed all managership to specialists best
trained to pilot SoftMit to corporate heights.

Still SoftMit’s leading stock holder, Tim retreated back to their
sumptuous country home deep in the Northern mountains surrounded by all
of the electronic gee-gaws of modern technology. A ‘Computer-Commuter’,
Tim contributed exotic designs to SoftMit by satellite uplink and
telephone conferences where necessary. But he worked his own hours,
leaving materials and messages in elaborate electronic mailboxes and
billboards letting him work as inspiration moved him, most times in the
middle of the night, on weekends or somewhere beyond the normal workday
hours.

As he approached forty, Tim’s total creative genius dimmed, but his
editing abilities were still the strongest. So young SoftMit programmers
mailed him their best algorithms for elegant comments and iterations.
Camellia’s one of those programmers, a twenty two year old mathematician
who’d made the multi-dimensional break-throughs in robotic control that
produced Personal Android Technologies or PATS, as the pop press dubbed
them. SoftMit’s marketing people weren’t blind to the percent of sales
controlled by women in America. They realized the Personal Computer
revolution was largely targetted at men. So PATS were aimed at a well
defined market – the overworked, upwardly mobile, young, affluent female
executive. Camellia’s invention’s the ultimate lady’s maid.

Tim was captivated by Camellia. Her easy humor, her obvious respect for
his accomplishments, her incredible body. In a weak moment he decided to
make each PAT her double; slim, long-legged with blue-green eyes and
perfect mellon sized breasts that bulged a sweater in a way that
shouldn’t happen to pure virgin wool. Every PAT had a cascade of flaming
red hair framing a tanned pretty face in a tumble of soft waves. And
overcome by a giddy instant of genius, he’d ordered them to be
anatomically correct – the feature the Religious Right jumped on like a
sailor on a streetwalker. PATS vibrate the chord which wet young men’s
dreams and fill most divorce courts.

They also vibrate a chord that drove the beautiful Mrs. Tim Mitty,
successful doctor of cosmetic surgery, to revenge.

Tim was Candi now. Daytimes he wore an official PATS uniform, the black
satiny number, cut to make men stand on tiptoes. It started with a pair
of lacy cups, then smoothed down around his generous buns, and fell in a
short puffy cascade of black over layers of short white crinolines.
Underneath he stood on long legs encased in thigh high black nylons that
ended in twin pumps so tall Candi minced on brightly painted toes. The
lacy white cap pinned into the red curls matched a short pinafore apron.
Candi was indistinguishable in line with the household’s three real
PATS.

“Again Dear, you’ve got to know a 37 from a 72,” Lylia sat on a large
divan, her tight red skirt bundled up to let her legs cross high and
tight. The TV controller dangled in her right hand, a cigarette in the
other. She sat back, relaxed as she punched in another pair of numbers.

“Ahh…. ahhh,” Candi’s big blue green eyes went out of focus filled
with a look of surprise, fear and total helplessness. On either side of
her the PATS gently reached for their skirts and primly lifted them high
to reveal open crotched panties. Quickly Candi’s bright red nails fell
to her hems, too late.”Yahhhhhhh!” Again she sunk to her knees, one hand
over her ample breasts the other at her crotch. The PATS smiled,
dropping their skirts.

Days passed, filled with training and work. Tim was torn in half, one
part the computer wiz, working on SoftMit business, the other the supple
Candi, learning the non verbal language of the TV Controller that probed
deeply within his sexual core. Pleasure/Pain, Punishment/Reward. Lylia
was ingenious. His implants were tuned to the sensitivity of any
controller. So specific was their design that he couldn’t actually touch
one of the devices without it setting off Code 1 – the most primal pain.

Much to learn. The 99 codes could be combined, like sentences and their
volumes mediated. All so ingenious, to order the PATS about their
chores. And of course second party vendors came along to provide special
combinations that poked the sexy creatures to humiliating acts never
imagined by SoftMit designers. Candi learned it all, everything for
Lylia’s big party.

*** ** ***

Two girls worked over a helpless third. The two were PATS in their full
maid costumes their panties showing as they bent over their subject. The
other, apparently a PATS as well, but dressed so differently, like a
fairy princess all in sparkling white, Cinderella’s gown, even a tiara
glittered in her lush red curls. But the costume’s bust was different
from anything Disney would allow. It was thin, transparent, a gossamer
veil barely covering the large twin mounds thrust wantonly outward by a
satiny white nipple bra’d corset, laced outrageously taught. Both
nipples peeked free, caked in glossy red lipstick, exposed to anything
that came, a perfect match to the girl’s thick crimson lips.

Men stood around Lylia as she worked the controls, watching the maids
twirl the blue nylon rope about Cinderella’s gloved elbows and yank them
together so harshly behind her. Still the girl in the princess gown
smiled sweetly and as Lylia pushed buttons, she mouthed a silent kiss at
the shortest guy in the group who turned redder than the girl’s nipples.

“Mortimer, come on,” Lylia laughed at the pale blond man whose eyes were
fixed on the cherry red nipples poking from the brazen bust of the
redheaded princess. “Here, let’s fix you up with Cindy.” She fingered a
couple of buttons and the smiling Cinderella drifted like a cloud toward
the little man backing him toward the divan where he fell into a heap.
Laughter and giggles poured over him as he struggled up, only to find
the girl in white asprawl on his lap, her gloved hands falling under
her, grasping at his manhood. So close, Mortimer could see her smiling
red lips open, her pink tongue dart out to glisten them. But deep inside
those blue green eyes, Mortimer swore he saw something no android could
fake. Was that fear? Panic?

“Where’s Tim?” Camellia entered the room. Everyone noticed how this
woman resembled so many hundreds of thousands of household appliances.
Hers was the most famous face in the country, maybe the world. There was
no face or body more requested of cosmetic surgeons. Every wife’s
nightmare or jealous dream.

“He’s around Dear. So good you could come. Here, put Cindy through her
paces with Mortimer would you while I find him,” Lylia handed off the TV
Controller to the young redhead who turned to stare at the couple on the
sofa. “You’ll find she puts on an outrageous show, especially if you
combine 99 with 69. Careful Dear, too much fun might wear out little
Morty. Have fun…….”

Cinderella tried to turn on Mortimer’s lap. Tried to get out some
signal. But entwined so snugly in Mort’s arms, the dense bundle of
skirts, the viciously taught elbows and corset all kept her rigidly
against him. The towering heels gave her no purchase. Tim knew this
might be his last chance at freedom. This was the first time Lylia’d let
go of the TV Controller. If he could only tell Camellia before she
combined those numbers that would drop him to his knees, pulling Mort’s
penis free with his thick red lips, then sucking it deeply, gagging him
so effectively. He had to break away. Had to let her know that he wasn’t
this bondage Cinderella, wasn’t one of her mincing PATS, wasn’t a
skirted and bound girl thing. He squirmed back. Fought his way around.
Wipped his copper curls free and started to mouth the scream when
Camellia’s finger punched at the code………

It was a long party. Most of it Tim spent gagged on male meat, or spread
eagled and splayed in the middle of the dinner table his skin deeply
indented by the harshest ropes, or impaled upon thick spurting rods. But
it wasn’t really indecent, just a ribald joke. Just a dumb android doll,
dreamt up by the most famous girl in America and responding to the
slightest touch of the TV Controller.

2 thoughts on “The TV Controller By Timothy Reisling Betticut

    1. Yes, TRB sets up wonderfully erotic fantasies that feel as if they will exist forever.

      And, Throne, may I offer you a heartfelt thank you for your wonderful, sexy nightmares where ‘perfectly deserving’ guys also get their just deserts at the hands of laid back, horny women. Love the way you often play more than one sissy and his mistress off against each other. beautiful.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.