Saturday, February 10, 2018

A Castration Tale IV

Nurse Donhoffer steps away and as best I can I look about. There are tubes, rubber bags, and finally I spy an enema nozzle. And there comes more concern as Nurse Donhoffer retrieves it from the wall hook.

“Ah... this... ah... was not...”

“Standard procedure, Mr. Carson. You’d not want me examining you there and soiling anything. And it’s good for you... a thorough purging for you.”

Is it the $300 investment that inhibits me from stronger protest? Enemas were not discussed. Still I remain kneeling... I suppose acquiescing. I must. I cannot free myself.  Though apprehensive, I try to calm, telling myself the woman is experienced... highly trained.

Gloves are donned, the right index finger well lubricated. I close my eyes in shame as a left hand grasps my scrotum, I suppose to mandate stillness, and the greased finger first smooths up and down my cleft then finds my rectum and slips inward. The digit then swirls about, the action more then what is required to lubricate. 

“You have nice testicles, Mr. Carson. A nice ripe scrotal sac. And you’re nicely tight here. That will change.”

The compliment comes as I look to my left, trying to distract myself from the ignominy of having a woman freely penetrate and explore there. Then comes irony. As the left hand maintains its grip on my balls and I feel the enema nozzle introducing itself to my sphincter, I see on the wall a curious device. There is familiarity, my hyperactive prurient mind exploring so many kinky websites.

It is an elastrator... a device resembling a set of pliers used for neutering farm animals... goats..... sheep... cattle. But it is a replica, fully bronzed, not operable. And the handle is encrusted with jewels. It hangs prominently, like a trophy or some commemorative artifact. As I feel the enema nozzle slowly slip inward... such unexpected care and tenderness... Nurse Donhoffer notes my stare of curiosity.

“It’s a gift, Mr. Carson, from his Excellency, expressing his gratitude for my service,” the explanation a proud proclamation. “My real elastrator is packed away.”    
Yes, as stated, irony... for the recipient of this prized neutering device now has in the grasp of her left hand that which the bronzed artifice is designed to plunder.

The enema nozzle is inflated and I feel deep within the graceful flow of warm liquid. It soothes. In contrast, though not operable, the bejeweled implement disturbs... yet it also intrigues. With my predisposition... attraction for authoritative women... I cannot help imaging her utilizing the device to encircle my scrotum and with a snap of a tight rubber band ending my masculinity. 

Dare I ask for more? The scintillating stones of the handle suggest something of true value, diamonds, emeralds and rubies. Should I start by inquiring of his Excellency and his generosity? 

“You’ve used it? An elastrator?”

My query prompts the woman in charge to reminisce, continuing to gently yet firmly hold my balls as my colon fills.

Her story... unfolding in her ascendant Teutonic accent...

Saturday, February 3, 2018

A Castration Tale III

There will be a final posting next Saturday 2/10.

For those who have purchased and read the complete story, let me know how Mr. Carson should respond to Nurse Donhoffer's email.


The nurse walks with military precision, not masculine but certainly not the gait of a runway model. To a door, down a flight of stairs, I am led to a windowless underground chamber, well lit, walls of white tile, flooring of concrete which I find surprisingly warm, cabinets, a gurney, much medical paraphernalia and most notably a large marble slab. At knee height, it is angled to drain at one end, at the other there is a stanchion of matching marble with three semi circles, the surfaces padded.

“For the neck and wrists,” Nurse Donhoffer explains in noting my visual examination. “In your next visit I will be here preparing for you. First I’ll want you to shower for me. Patients are to present themselves scrubbed,” leading to a corner area.

There is indeed a shower but no enclosure, just a slightly raised patch of flooring beveled to a drain and a showerhead above. I am chagrined when the nurse moves to the side and points to where I am to step up and bathe... for I am nearly completely stiff. It’s this thing...           

“Mr. Carson, I can see why you’re here,” Nurse Donhoffer commenting on my arousal, her tone that of rebuking a toddler. “Do be careful washing yourself... there,” nodding to my rising appendage then leaning to turn on the taps. "No spillage."

And so I shower, finding odd comfort but also excitement, bathing under such exacting auspices with the nurse closely watching.

I soap myself, the piercing blue eyes observing all. The woman supervises with precision, the offered chamois to lave here... scrub there. The directives are sharp... not to be ignored.

“I’ll need to shave you, Mr. Carson. Body hair is not only unsightly but can be unsanitary as well.”

I nod, for some reason not mustering the fortitude to object.

Finally Nurse Donhoffer leans again, arms extend. The taps are twisted off, the shower deemed complete. She reaches for an oversized towel.

“Step down.”

To the concrete floor, once again the hands go to the back of her head, gesturing for me to obediently replicate.

So I stand before her wet and naked, the sensation of cleanliness... presenting myself for exhibition... abetting tumescence.

“Such a good boy,” the words of encouragement coming with what I must assume to be a rare smile.

She dries, the towel abrading and brushing everywhere. But she also assesses... palpates... examines. She comes to know me... not only physically but in some manner aware of my joy... the thrill of submission to a demanding governess.

“To the table. There’s more to be cleansed,” pointing to the knee high slab of marble. “I want you kneeling, neck and wrists on the stanchion, knees parted, buttocks up. Be good for me,” the words firm yet matronly.

I comply, concerned with the need for more cleansing. Then my concern grows as from beneath the raised slab the strong arms of Nurse Donhoffer lift a heavy plank. It’s smooth and in seeing the three padded semi circles I quickly know its function. Sure enough, it is placed over my neck and wrists then clamped in place. I become a prisoner, held immobile in a defacto set of stocks.

“No complaints, no resistance. Boys who reply to my Craig’s listing have needs. So I know that deep within, there is enjoyment. You’re supplicating to me... the woman in charge. And that thrills.”

Her words come as she steps behind and playfully diddles my erection, proving that she is correct, the bondage is oddly welcomed. I am hers, locked in place. Though there is much unknown, what is it she will do, there is indeed deep within a thrill.

Monday, January 29, 2018

A Castration Tale - Published

I have published on Lulu the referenced short story. 7,900 words. $3.00.

There will be another snippet posted on Saturday 2/3. 


Sunday, January 28, 2018

A Castration Tale II

A train to Ridgewood, New Jersey, Google maps indicates a two block walk to a large house just off the business district, a home converted to a professional office. Easily found, I ring the doorbell. When I hear a buzz I know to press open the door. 

And there to greet me stands the stunning Greta Donhoffer, indeed tall, indeed blonde, and the 175 pounds most impressively apportioned. Yes, her crisp white uniform does little to veil that the woman is shapely, and in an athletic manner. And those blue eyes...

“Mr. Carson, you’re late,” standing arms akimbo, the German accent thick but her English discernible.

Having emailed a photo, amongst other particulars, she knows who enters... her 11:00 a.m appointment has arrived.

“Ah, the train... some sort of signal failure,” for some reason my voice faltering.

“Take an earlier train for your next appointment,” her tone more commanding than suggesting.

I nod, hoping my gulp of concern is not evident.

“I will not be here to greet you in future visits. So listen carefully to the protocol. I am strict and demanding. A clear and precise regimen instills discipline.”

I nod, my voice lost.

“You will place my fee here on the desk, under the paperweight. You will then disrobe... entirely. Place your clothing on this table... neatly folded... shoes beneath. If there is someone in the reception area, just ignore them. This is a professional office and all are expected to comport themselves civilly and professionally.”

I again silently nod, seeing that the paperweight is a well sculpted depiction of a woman in uniform assuming an imposing stance of authority. Nurse Donhoffer notes my distraction.  

“A gift... when I retired from the armed services.”

There comes a pause... awkward silence.


I fumble for the fee, $300 in cash, more than I am accustomed to paying for a session of kink. But the exchange of emails and the forthright, explicit descriptions of services to be offered is too... too... enticing?

I lift the statue...heavy... not a cheap hunk of tin... and dispense the small pile of greenbacks. I then pause... I always do... momentarily questioning my sexual penchant.

“Mr. Carson, we’re already running late!” the accented words sharp and commanding.

So I disrobe, stepping to the small table, shoes beneath, jacket peeled away, slacks drawn down and folded followed by shirt, socks and underwear.

“And we like our patients to place their hands on their head when moving about in the sanitarium,” Nurse Donhoffer’s hands demonstrably going to the back of her white cap.

With arms raised, the firm breasts thrust forth. I try not to stare while complying, sensing the somatic reaction of presenting myself nude in the presence of a fully clothed woman... a fully clothed woman of authority. My penis begins to firm.

“To the basement. Follow me,” grateful to move about before I completely stiffen.

Saturday, January 27, 2018

A Castration Tale I

A short story. Not sure if I will post in its entirety or publish on Lulu.

Since this is a short post, look for more tomorrow


A Castration Tale

Copyright 2018

by Chris Bellows

    Licensed, highly experienced nurse available for males needing to acquiesce to special procedures   and  examinations. 

The Craig’s listing was brief but intriguing. After many hours of thought, I replied with an email. There is something about the anonymity of the process which emboldens, words which I would rarely speak pouring forth from my word processor.

Age, ethnicity, height, weight, location, marital status... single... the usual disclosure... but when contemplating how to phrase my ‘special request’, the word acquiesce came to haunt. Why not ‘needing to undergo’, ‘engage in’?

Perhaps the writer of the short missive intended to titillate the kinky mind... perhaps not. Any way, I wrote, expressing concerns over my prostate, suggesting an examination, a ‘go for it’ reply. If the author of the Craig’s listing did not intend to attract the paraphillic mind, so be it.

Within a day... bingo! A very explicit response... even bolder than my introductory reply.

Nurse Greta Donhoffer wrote back, describing herself as age 38, blonde, an impressive 6 ft. and some 175 lbs. The prostate gland of the single male, she emphasized, requires much attention. Thus a special examination was highly recommended... and more than one.      

My penis swelled in reading the words.

Phone number, office hours, approximate location, somewhat inconvenient in the suburbs, but near a train station, the completeness of the contact information assuaged any concerns over the authenticity of the prospective services. I concluded Nurse Greta Donhoffer was for real.

Saturday, December 30, 2017

The Trophy, Segment Nine

This will be the final posted segment. As noted, the full story is available from Lulu.

Happy New Year

Not sure what is next or when.


A slumbering Mrs. Casperson is awakened, the lock of the cage door clicking. After watching the steamy love making for nearly an hour, the forceful woman of color offered a high pitched shriek of ecstasy and a convincing squeeze of her thighs. Master Arlen grunted, no doubt spending copiously.

A weary Mrs. Grayson rose from the bed, quickly slipped the hood over the bald head then returned to where the copulating duo seemed to both pass out, Mrs. Grayson slumping to lie at Master Arlen’s side.

It was only then that Mrs. Casperson allowed herself to close her eyes, another night of observing her husband and Master revel in continuous carnal delight finally concluding.  

Shaking her head as best as the Rigid Stock allowed, her welling tears were absorbed by the thick black cloth. Then Mrs. Casperson let sleep overcome, the emotionally and physically exhausting day finally ending.

But now the cage door lowers, the design such that a portion of the top folds away as well. The hood is slipped away. Eyes adjust. In the dimness she notes it is Master Arlen, propping up the lowered section of the cage such that it forms a low seat.

“Thought you’d like a little taste, dear,” Master Arlen whispers in seating himself.

“Please no, Arlen... ah... sir.”

“Oh but you must. I insist on you sharing in the joy. Mrs. Grayson is an accomplished lover and there is so much for you to partake.”

Helplessly bound, unable to move her head other than to slightly twist, Mrs. Casperson has no manner of resisting as the moist well worn appendage is presented to waiting lips.

“Clean me... it’s your wifely responsibility... in fact it’s about the only responsibility you have.... other than to pose for me.”

The notion... the deed... disgusts. Mrs. Casperson’s nose detects the scent of vaginal essence, the musky odor of perspiration. The penis remains coated... semen, sweat, the spendings of the concupiscent Mrs. Grayson as well.

“You know I don’t like to...”

“To orally gratify, yes. I learned that on our wedding night, remember, dear. Matter of fact you don’t much like engaging in any sexual frolicking, do you? I married a Princess... to be pampered and adored. And I do... do I not? Lots of time and effort assuring my beautiful mate is properly displayed... properly cared for... never to be sullied by being put under the penis.

“But I think you’ll accommodate your husband... just a little.”

Mrs. Casperson feels the manly plums of her husband press to her forehead. A hand reaches pinching closed her nostrils. When she next draws a breath, forced to take air through her mouth, an odorous semi engorged penis greets her lips, thrusting inward.        

“No biting, dear, otherwise you’ll lose that pretty smile. It’s best not to make any dental modifications necessary,” the ominous words pleasantly proclaimed.

‘Have I a choice?’ Mrs. Casperson quickly concludes ‘no’.

“Good girl. Such a kindness,“ the mocking words coming as the lips purse, the tongue swishes. “This could be your only household chore, my dear. And it may be that Mrs. Grayson could use some attention as well. You may well enjoy her taste too. She takes care of you... would you not want to take care of her?”

The thought brings more disgust. Particularly alarming is Mrs. Grayson’s overt bisexuality, relishing every moment in the basement salon... bathing, massaging naked female flesh.... then feathering a neglected quim... bringing to the very edge of orgasm.

Yes, there is no doubt that, given the opportunity, Mrs. Grayson would also lower the cage door and sit. 

The penis stiffens, an engorging tip pressing to the back of the throat. Mrs. Casperson, well aware of her husband’s endowment, begins to panic. Not orally accomplished, she slightly gags, quickly realizing a fully erect Master Arlen would choke her if not offering some refuge. She shakes her head as best she can, murmuring indiscernible words, beseeching mercy.

Arlen Jacobs Casperson intuitively understands, slightly retreating.

“We will have to better acclimate you my dear. It’s... well... a required skill set for a woman of your ilk.”

There comes a thrust... as a demonstration of his power, her vulnerability... followed by choking. Then a hand reaches and the organ is withdrawn. Mrs. Casperson closes her eyes in shame. Once again becoming an object, on this occasion a receptacle for the remnants of love making.

Still she feels a distant sense of feminine satiation. Having watched as husband and lover brought each other intense gratification, attention at last comes to her. She tries to buck her hips, frottage against the replicas of her husband’s penis so deeply penetrating her.  


It is futile, her chastity belt so tightly secured. Still she wants more... desperately needs more.

As the cage door is lifted, there comes a need to know as well.

“Why Arlen? Why does it have to be like this?”

“How else am I to adore you, dear? You’re to be on a pedestal... to be shown. Such beauty is to be idolized.”

“But I so much need... you know... attention... full attention. And I’m getting fatter... and my nipples! It feels like... well... someone is pinching them. They’re going to be horribly shaped. The cones... they’re too tight! Why are you doing this?”

“Because I can. And there are some practicalities to your... ah... enhancements. And in terms of the attention you think you so desperately need, you’ll have that when I breed you... utilize more of Mrs. Grayson’s skills.”

Monday, December 25, 2017

The Trophy - Published

I have completed the referenced short story. Male/Female Dominant, female submissive. Available from Lulu. 19,000 words. $5.50.

Now you know how demented minds spend the holidays. Merry Christmas again.