Saturday, August 19, 2017

Neuroplasticity, Segment Six

This will be the last posted segment. Hope you enjoy the full story.



Has it been a week?

I ponder as for exercise a nurse walks me about the institute. I receive many looks. Holding hands, led about like a child, I tend to amuse and for some reason it no longer disturbs, not as much when first led to the doctor’s office.

Over my bed, if the padded strap-laden platform can be so termed, a mirror has been mounted on the ceiling. Thus for many hours per day, before lights out, I lie immobile in my Segufix bonds peering at myself. This therapy, the need to acclimate to my forced transformation, includes not only changing my appearance, but ensuring that I am mentally, emotionally aware.

Augmenting the permanent make up... tattooed lips and eyes... the grooming of my hair has continued. Longer, it’s in the style of a page boy, squarely trimmed at the jaw line. Balls remaining harnessed there is only my colored stubby penis to be seen at my pubes. So small, so insensitive. It now merely serves to drain my bladder.

And my body hair... where is it? When bathed, whatever lotion is used to cleanse does smell harsh and gives rise to strong tingling. Is such a depilatory?

So I am aware, my appearance growing more effeminate daily.

There is concern. But ah, there’s the feather and the nurse’s unending short and teasing strokes. In the tedium, the interminable intervals of being in bondage, awaiting morning ablutions, I think of how good her attention feels. And it seems to feel better each day.

During this morning’s session... impelling neuroplasticity... a second nurse joined us. A woman of color, tall, shapely but more in an athletic sense than womanly, she stood before my nakedness as I knelt on all fours, the feather working scrotum and anus. She smiled with my initial moan of delight, seeming to take pride... like having accomplished something. Then her hands extended, lowering to my chest. Her fingers began toying with my nipples. For some reason such have grown puffy, somewhat protruding. Yes she fondled, and with the added delight I moaned anew. Then I felt some twinges, about my sphincter, that being so tantalizingly feathered. With that, the free hand of the feathering nurse went to the purple of my penis stub, quickly and most evanescently exploring.

I looked down, between the hands and tweaking black fingers at my chest. There was ooze, creamy white streaming from the purple tattooing.

‘How do you feel, Mr. Wells?’ the black nurse gently inquired with a beaming smile.

I just nodded, gasping for breath. Something was happening, my loins giving. Slowly I became tranquil, quiescent. Oddly, I began to feel like I had just run a fast mile, been well exercised. Exhaustion was looming.

For many moments the feathering continued, the fingers toying my nipples. Then all energy just drained away and I slumped to the stainless steel surface, unable to remain on all fours.

‘Your first anal orgasm, Mr. Wells.’

Did I hear properly when the black nurse added the exclamation ‘good girl’?

Friday, August 18, 2017

Neuroplasticity published

I have published the referenced story.

Female dominant, male submissive, what I believe is a unique story line.

46,900 words. $9.00


Saturday, August 12, 2017

Neuroplasticity, Segment Five

“Do you like your new garment, Mr. Wells? Or do you prefer to be completely naked?”

I sit in the straight backed chair rather gingerly, enduring the endless questions of Dr. Rebecca Stackhouse.

“It’s... it’s okay. Difficult to sit,” for some reason my voice meek.

“Yes, you do have to be careful. It’s a drawback. But the harness nicely tucks away your testicles... your remnants of maleness... don’t you think?”

It does. My sole garment can only be described as a jockstrap... but worn backwards, tightly cradling my scrotum and precious balls and pulling back such that they nest in the crevice of my buttocks. Thus I carefully sit upright, not wishing to crush what were given leniency by the Syariah Court.

But of more concern, the straps at the front, splitting to form a ‘V’, serve to highlight my purple... violet... appendage, forcing the tiny stub to thrust forward. As I am walked about the institute, hand in hand with a supervising nurse, onlookers cannot doubt that I have been altered. Balls not to be seen, only that left behind by the doctor’s scalpel.

“Why?” my meekness bringing distress.

“Once again, Mr. Wells. You need to accept your status... no longer an intact man. The ball harness... as the girls like to term it... veils your male bits. You’d not want anyone to think you’re potent would you? That would be deceptive.”

There’s a pause, the doctor letting that thought percolate. I choose not to reply.

“You’re beginning to look pretty for us, Mr. Wells. What do you think of your hair style?”

In completing the morning feathering, I was bathed and groomed as the nurse suggested. But the grooming included effeminate styling of my hair, approaching shoulder length in not having visited the barber since beginning my terrorizing vacation. Parted in the middle, my locks fall straight down, evenly trimmed over my ears. I also have bangs and upon being offered a quick glimpse in the mirror I was shocked to see the reflection of a boyish looking girl, the coloring of my lips and eyes highlighted by my jet black hair.    

“It’s... well... girlish.”

The doctor just nods, letting me stew on the words.

“Let’s talk about your penectomy. I think it would be cathartic for you. Every detail please, though I’m sure with the anesthesia you can’t recall everything.”

Can’t recall after I passed out, anesthesia not offered other then some novocaine.

There is reluctance, bad enough that the Muslim doctor beckons me every night in my dreams... Gurney... straps... catheter... scalpel. Her stern yet attractive image has become a succubus. I try to forget, yet I must recollect... accede to the therapy... must avoid being listed as a sex offender, the equivalent of economic death in terms of my career as a financial consultant.

So I tell of my penectomy. And it seems it requires more time to relate the story than it took to separate me from my penis. 

Saturday, August 5, 2017

Neuroplasticity, Segment Four

I awaken. Is it morning? The room is pitch black. Thus I don’t know but am relieved that I no longer see the Muslin doctor... the hijab... hear her words... see her gesturing for me to lie again on the Gurney.

But my relief lasts not. It suddenly occurs to me... therapy completed... sex offender’s list avoided... how is it I will be able to interact with my clients? Lips a lurid violet, eye make permanently projecting... projecting what?

The concern is joined by the need to urinate. I dare not wet my bed, if that is what the platform is termed. Fortunately the door opens, the room alights.

“Good morning, Mr. Wells. Time for a toilet visit, some bathing, some grooming, some therapy.”

The nurse is cheery. I am cheered as well in noting a degree of maturity. Tall, no doubt seasoned, hand and fingers work to quickly release the magnetic locking posts, the straps folded away, the many encircling bands of nylon slipped off.

I slide from the table and stand, knowing to let her take my hand. It’s protocol... to be walked about.

Out the door, down the hall, there is urgency... for the bathroom. Yet I know it will not come... not a normal visit. There seems to be another institute protocol... I am to be handled. So it’s into this curious medical room, well stock with implements, devices, towels, tubing, plumbing, where I know to mount a stainless steel table used for examination and bathing, as suggested.

This being some fourth or fifth visit, I know to patiently kneel on all fours, waiting for permission to urinate... always waiting for permission to do anything. The nurse prepares.

“You’re becoming, Mr. Wells. The coloring... very... well... pretty,” the compliment if indeed a compliment coming as she grasps a basin and approaches.

I further part my knees, oddly relieved in feeling my remaining male bits swing about between my thighs, castration avoided. Then I feel the hands as the woman in white positions herself behind me, left hand cupping my scrotal sac to gently pull back, thumb and index finger of the right finding the tiny stub of a once proud, now gaily colored penis.

“Psst, psst,” she encourages.

I need no further inspiration, despite the ignominy instantly opening myself, chagrined to note the flow no longer to be a stream but a sloppy spray in need of direction... a woman’s direction.

Emptied, I am dried like a infant. Then as expected, a suppository is slipped into a well exposed anus, a finger remaining impaling me to assure... well... to assure a maximize sense of vulnerability and embarrassment I suppose. 

Why can I not have covering?

“Get you emptied... number one and number two. Then we’ll stimulate some synaptic response... impel some neuroplasticity,” the nurse lectures.

The suppository works, I am sure of clinical strength, not of the home use variety. Plus the inserted finger wriggles about, further assuring the need to defecate. Within moments the nurse detects contractions. The basin is repositioned and I again relieve myself... number two... under close supervision. It’s daunting.

To a waiting toilet, the basin is emptied, excretions flushed, the nurse returning with a tray. A moist towelette cleanses me, its use normally for infants. Then comes the stimulation I both crave and detest.

The left hand palms the front of my scrotum drawing it back towards my nurse. The right hand, thumb and index finger grasping a feather, begins to work the sensitive thin pink flesh, ever so teasingly grazing, then smoothing upward to likewise graze my perineum then my sphincter, flesh there of equal sensitivity. The fingers work, mechanically, relentlessly, applying the feather, on occasion withdrawing as I take gulps of air then lowly moan with the comparative ecstasy. Many weeks of chastity, my altered sex thirsts for attention. The feather it’s... it’s so devilish yet so welcomed.

The joy is so distant yet feels so good. I am essentially being masturbated, yet there is no ultimate reaction... can be no ultimate reaction. The doctor explaining that the ejaculatory muscles have been squelched, Botox obviating contraction.  

Still there is neuroplasticity... at least it is assumed... it is hoped. Priming the brain to form and reorganize synaptic connections, in response to or following injury. And I have certainly been injured, my instrument of sexual prowess incised, last seen being slipped away, down a catheter tube.

I take deep breaths. I pull with my PC muscles, that which normally gives rise to many wads of thick white spunk.

Nothing happens... other than soft laughter emanating from she in control.

“Such effort... so little results, Mr. Wells. But give it time. Your brain will rewire. Anal stimulation will bring pleasure... ecstatic pleasure with enough daily therapy. Anal orgasms... you’ll come to so much enjoy and savor. And the pituitary injections will help.”

Pituitary injections?

Saturday, July 29, 2017

Neuroplasticity, Segment Three

Doctor Becky presses a button. A young nurse, white uniform, white cap and those white rubber soled shoes never seen outside a medical facility... wherever do they get them?.. enters. She takes a note from the doctor reads and smiles.

“Come with me, Mr. Wells,” her stern tone contrasting her refreshing vibrance.  

“I’ll want to know all the details of your penectomy. Next visit, Mr. Wells,” the doctor demanding more than informing.    

Institute protocol, ridiculous but rigorously applied, is that patients are led about by the hand. Thus I know to offer my left and she takes it in her right.

“You look very pretty for us, Mr. Wells.”

I somewhat blush, in my nakedness assuming she is referencing the purple... violet... whatever... coloring of my truncated phallus. In our stroll, passing nurses and other staff look at me and smile, the younger repressing laughter. Then we pass a display case and I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the glass. I have not seen my face since I was sedated a day or so ago, time difficult to judge in the windowless institute. I am shocked. Something about my eyes... more coloring. And my lips! What have they done to my lips?

I blurt an expletive. I am rebuked.

“No, no, Mr. Wells. No talking unless spoken to, you know that.”

I do. And with the annoying advisement I am looking forward to being returned to my room. No more questions, no more exhibiting myself... and my now limited tattooed organ... no more being led about like a toddler. Though there is no television, no computer, no radio, there are books to read, the selection small and all pulp... romance novellas. Still, I can be left to my thoughts.

But the nurse takes a different turn... and another. She opens a door. It is not my room. In place of a comfortable bed in the corner, there is a padded platform in the center. Thick nylon straps lie in wait... at the pillow end, in the middle, at the feet end.

“Please lie down, Mr. Wells. And I’ll tuck you in nice a safe.”

“What is this?” my words sharp.

“No talking. You’ve been naughty,” the nurse, at least ten years my junior speaking to me as if a child. “You’ll find the Segufix restraints to be very comfortable... in time. Safe, confining yet comfortable. And no masturbation.”

Ah, such which gave rise to the doctor’s note... the naughtiness of so feebly attempting masturbation.

So I am introduced to the Segufix restraint system. Ankles, thighs, wrists and biceps are encircled in nylon, each restraint in turn attached to the broad straps tightly crossing my body and secured beneath the platform. The locking system is clever, magnetic. I can be quickly freed by anyone with the demagnetizing key. Meanwhile, I cannot move, other then my head. And the nurse forewarned that more naughtiness, more unauthorized speech earns head restraint, gag included. She showed me the gear, resting nearby and in wait for my next transgression.

In capitulation, I will be good. I will be silent. I never thought the ability to turn one’s head would become a luxury.    

Before departing... euphemistically referenced as tucking me in... the nurse produced a hand mirror, apparently in response to catching my refection and the resulting expletive.

“You may as well learn to accept compliments, Mr. Wells,” positioning such that my reflection is more than a glance. “You really are pretty.”

Shocked again, my lips are colored... matching the stub of my penis. And there is something which replicates make up, about the eyes, the lids. Like mascara or shadow... violet... and I am distressed to assume that... like my penis... the coloring is permanent.

What are they doing to me!

I divert my thoughts, the doctor’s parting words. The details of my penectomy...

Unlike the application of justice in the United States, wheels turning slowly, under the Syariah system, sentences are carried out swiftly, almost with immediacy. There must be an appeal system, I think to myself. But to what end? Can a penectomy be reversed? And if so, can my vaunted organ be located for reunion?

Stupid thoughts, indicating the trouble one has... with... with acceptance as Dr. Rebecca Stackhouse has rejoined.

Hustled from the court room, into a van, to a small island hospital. I am amazed to be greeted by a female doctor donning a hijab. She is becoming yet dour, apparently, as with the judge, buying into the girl’s story, the Gerakan Pramuka, that I am a rapist.

I am strapped to a Gurney, wheeled to an operating room, the guards disappeared, relegating me to the medical staff. I mentally try to prepare for the end, if that’s possible for a guy. To be anesthetized, then returned to conscientiousness to view the horror of my sentence, to see a bandaged pubes, after healing wonder of my reaction. Will the revulsion be stifled or controlled?    

But I am not. The doctor explains in accented English.

“Only local anesthesia, American. It’s cheaper, you’ll recover quicker, and you’ll be able to leave the island before there is more trouble.”

The words seem genuine, but there’s a look on her handsome face. Vengeance... the satisfaction thereof bringing Schadenfreude. Will I be made to watch?

And so I depantsed. I am catheterized. The Gurney is adjusted. Cruelly I am forced to sit upright, yes watching as a nurse marks my appendage, ink circling just below the penis tip as the doctor prepares a hypodermic needle. 

Gloved hands lower, fondling in a mocking manner, the doctor seeming to know that normally such palpation gives rise to male gratification. And yes, normally I would enjoy. And indeed I find odd attraction. Why now, with the woman who is about to bring penile carnage? And she’s joyed by the irony, I have no doubt.

I am injected, I am numbed. But then comes spite. The doctor takes the marking pen from the nurse circling my penis again, on this occasion near the base. My eyes widen, there will be little remaining.

“No more sex for you... no more rape for you, American... not here... not anywhere.”

Scalpel in hand she begins, slowly, the deliberation notable, the nurse attentively swabbing the blood. Moments later, when I see the incised penis tip and shaft slip down the catheter tube, the doctor offered needle and sutures, I faint. There is no more to tell, the doctor augmenting Sharia law with a level of punishment of her own, forcing me to observe my alteration... my transformation to a being other than male.

As sleep overcomes, I fear I will dream. It’s always the same... the doctor, in her hijab... she beckons to a waiting Gurney... her words repeat... seemingly throughout every night... ‘no more sex for you, American.’

Saturday, July 22, 2017

Neuroplasticity, Segment Two

“It was done quite professionally, Mr. Wells,” Dr. Becky interrupting my discourse. “If there is any consolation, years ago I read you would have been publicly mutilated, chopped by a sword in the town square... possibly bleeding to death.”

Perhaps a better fate, I think but dare not say. Thoughts of death dare not be communicated. I am sure the institute having harsh confinement for those considering self harm... a nicely padded room.

“Plus you were free to leave the country and fly home,” the words curiously suggesting I was offered leniency.

“And was dragged from U.S. Customs and Immigration at the airport and brought before a judge,” I blurt in frustration.

“You are a sex offender. And became the recipient of more leniency. Not yet listed,” the doctor smugly points out.

As long as I pass muster here at the institute, I think to myself. That was the deal, seek professional help or be so listed and placed on probation. Upon entering the institute, even a rudimentary physical revealed the consequences of my Sharia punishment. My penis, now a stub, can harden, but for what purpose? It has the sensitivity of the heel of my foot. And it’s useless for penetrative sex.

“Does your organ harden... during therapy? Any response yet? Neuroplasticity, Mr. Wells, we’re counting on it to bring you back a healthy sex life.”    

Is this therapy pseudo science? I have read that neuroplasticity is the ability of the brain to form and reorganize synaptic connections, especially in response to learning or experience or following injury.

Following injury, yes. To my manhood... to my male pride... to my libido.

Still, how does a guy get himself off with less than half a dick? To crassly state my dilemma!

So, without the frictioning and fondling of my penis tip, the removed underside being where the male receives most if his sensual pleasure, there is no release... no climax... no eruption... no ecstacy. And compounding the dilemma, the hormones build and build, the ostensible leniency in sparing full castration instead bringing a pinnacle of frustration.

“It seems to swell a bit, yes,” I offer, not wishing to seem fully skeptical.

“Good, it’s a start. You’ll find your tending nurses to be quite patient and understanding if you’ll work with them. We’ll soon have you secreting.”

Secreting? Yes, the institute’s euphemism for being depleted of male essence... that which formerly spurted with blissful zeal.

“Why cannot I ejaculate?” I bluntly inquire. “And why is my penis colored? Purple of all shades!”

I was sedated days ago. They did things. I need to understand.

“Calm yourself Mr. Wells, it’s for the best. And it’s really a pretty shade of violet, meant to be attractive.”

“Attractive? Why attractive... there!”

“You need to accept your state, Mr. Wells. The tattooing announces for all to see that you’ve been altered. You’ll not be denying it... not hiding it... and you shouldn’t. The coloring proclaims your alteration and that will mean you must accept it. The self denial ends. You’ve had a penectomy and will no longer function as a normal man.”

Tattooing! I am sickened with the words. My penis stub permanently colored... so gaily!

“And for now we don’t want you ejaculating. We’ve ended that... with Botox injections to your ejaculatory muscles. As I said, you will now secrete. There is no point in erupting. Normal penetrative sex is over. Curious that you’ve attempted masturbation. We have found that such leads to depression and is therefore against institute policy. We know of these things. Let us guide you, begin the process of neuroplasticity.”

Dr. Becky pauses to write on a pad. In exasperation I turn to silence, trying to convince myself that they know best. Besides, it’s my only chance to stay off the sex offenders list and maintain my living as a trustworthy financial consultant. The judge so specified. I am in the hands of Dr. Rebecca Stackhouse. Voluntarily?

Saturday, July 15, 2017

Neuroplasticity, Segment One

New Story. Back to female dominant/ male submissive.

Not much feedback on the Nusquam story.



Copyright 2017

by Chris Bellows

Part One - The Institute

“How do you feel Mr. Wells? Are you becoming comfortable with your therapy?”

A smiling and unctuous Dr. Rebecca Stackhouse inquires, sitting in her huge black leather desk chair. For some reason it seems she’s looking down at me, though I sit at eye level in a straight backed chair.

Ironically I don’t think anyone could feel comfortable being presented naked before a fully clothed woman, hard wooden seat notwithstanding. Feeling spiteful, I ignore the questions, despite knowing there will be consequences.

“Why the markings? I don’t understand.”

“Acceptance. It will help you mentally acclimate to your... ah... your change.”

“It’s humiliating. Will the stuff wash off?”

Dr. Stackhouse... it’s been suggested that I collegially call her Dr. Becky... just mouths the word ‘no’ and smirks. At least that is how I would interpret her condescending response.

“Let’s talk about the events which led to your... ah... transformation, Mr. Wells.”

Again? This so termed therapy seems more like brain washing. Still, though irritating, merely sitting and talking is more acceptable than the more invasive procedures at the institute. And there does come a catharsis, like reflecting on the deceased at a wake.
So I talk, on occasion looking to my pubes, which in reaction brings forth despondency followed by a pause. 


Vacation. I like warmth. I like sunshine. I like exotic. I like native girls. They always seem to like me, though a hundred dollar bill seems to most enhance my charm.

So my travel agent recommends this small island, one of hundreds comprising the country of Indonesia. A long airplane journey, then a boat ride of a few hours, and then I am in paradise... or so it seems.

Yes, I enjoy, initially. And it’s more than just beach and fishing. The native girls are many, young, friendly and conveniently impoverished. Dark hair and eyes, olive skin, the sun seems to make them glow. And once they learn a guy is staying at the only posh hotel within a hundred miles, there is attraction. Perhaps more for my wallet than me, but attraction. And besides, I’m not looking for marriage. It’s all about sex.

Being a thirty year old bachelor, making a good buck as a self employed financial consultant, I indulge. I’m not oversexed, but it’s vacation time, and the native girls seem to be fruit ripe for picking. 

So in the open aired outdoor hotel bar all it requires is one of those fruity rum drinks, a little whisper, the flash of a Benjamin Franklin and it’s to my room. Quick, neat, simple... no strings. After all I’m flying out within a week, and even if the girl could learn my real name and address, I will be thousands of miles from any possible repercussions.

We fuck. Young, tight but surprisingly knowledgeable, the girl certainly earns her portrait of Ben. But in the early morning, in attempting to surreptitiously exit my hotel room, there comes a problem. It seems that in being a significant portion of the small island’s economy, the hotel serves to attract more than well to do tourists. There are thieves, con artists, fake tour guides, hookers etc. And they in turn attract the authorities.

And that is what happens, my one night marriage comes to the attention of the police and the girl is arrested stepping from the elevator.

It is then that I receive an education in Sharia law. Indonesia is a Muslim country.

I am a protestant. The girl is of the Islamic faith. In having relations with a non Muslim under Sharia law she is to be lashed. Putting aside the horror and the agony of such barbaric corporal punishment, young and pretty, the girl knows that to earn more portraits of historical Americans that fine posterior needs not bear evidence of misdeeds, not to mention the grotesqueness of the scars.   

Solution... rape! she cries. I somehow envision her tearfulness while telling her contrived story, suggesting I spiked her fruit drink.

So they believe her, though I suspect the application of gifted tongue and lips to sensitive and welcoming male flesh gave her story more credence. It becomes me under arrest.

To Syariah Court. I have no representation, no access to the American consulate which is on another island hundreds of miles away. Things get worse. Word spreads... forced carnal relations. Dare I say the judge came under pressure? I also learn the term Gerakan Pramuka.

My hooker is a former member of Gerakan Pramuka... the Indonesian girl scouts!      

Such outrage! An upstanding local girl taken advantage of by a hedonistic tourist!

I am prosecuted, I am sentenced... under Sharia law, the judge offering a bizarre form of clemency. No jail time, no castration, I keep my testicles. But I am to be shortened, surgically, my penis to never again penetrate the portals of innocent young women.