Short Story XXXI

There is the psychological relief that prolonged pain and suffering will end. But in addition there is the amazement that Miss Kendra’s diligent efforts offer little discomfort. Yes, the Queen’s booted foot indeed crushed the nerves. For as the Kingdom’s master torturess palms the squashed gonads and twists the sac to expose the left side to the laser scalpel, there is little to be felt.

Once Miss Kendra has decided to end amusing herself, the cat tiring of the mouse, she works with alacrity. The inmate hears a hum. From his stooped over position, belly resting on the castration bench, wrists secured to an above ceiling chain, feet widely parted, he can look upwards to partially observe.

Should he watch?

There is a slight burning sensation. Then, just as intolerance comes, it stops.

“Just a small incision. With the testicles crushed to the consistency of gelatin, such are easily slipped away and removed. You’ll have a nice smooth empty sac when finished... to be displayed to all. And the women of the Kingdom will search in amazement trying to locate my openings. The sac will heal perfectly and within weeks my openings will be unnoticeable.”

He hears soft laughter. Kendra so much enjoys her task.

Fingers pinch and squeeze. The inmate is aghast as he looks up to see one of his most precious balls exiting, expert fingers slipping it through a modest opening. It is pinkish gray and, after nearly an hour of pressure and eventually bearing the Queen’s full weight, horrifyingly shapeless. He closes his eyes in disbelief. Then he hears the shears. Yes, the sounds are aptly described as snips. And such an ironically meek sound. Too have one’s masculinity so timidly brought to an end...

The snips are followed by a metallic plunk. One reproductive organ lost, summarily plopped into a dish resembling a dog’s feeding bowl. The left is forever gone. The inmate opens his eyes to note the fingers carefully suture, tying off vessels, the vas deferens, the nerves. Then the opening is likewise sutured closed.

“In time, feeling here will return... though it will offer you no benefit.”

Kendra laughs in explaining the slow recovery from the trauma of being boarded. Yes, sensitivity will return. But only to frustrate... never again to bring joy.

The laser scalpel returns. The eyes close again, not able to bear the sight. The sac is twisted to expose the right side. More burning, yet too quick.

“I think I will pierce your tongue as well. A nice smooth protuberance at the tip. The ability to offer adequate cunnilingus and fellatio will help you beg for food.”

The fingers again pressing to coax a shapeless lump of pinkish gray from its nest. Then snip, snip, snip. A plunk. Some sutures. Tears begin to flow. The procedure is disconcertingly simple... and with so little to be felt.

Yes, there should instead be a glorious battle in giving up all masculinity. The testicles should be afforded an honorable end. To struggle... to engage in a manly joust... a duel. Instead, they merely drop... and plunk like falling fruit... to becomes trophies... for a woman... of unending wickedness... yet one of insurmountable will... of such admirable power.

“So... your name is Edwin,” Kendra comments in finally reading the inscribed disk. “I shall call you Edwina.”

As there comes the distant feel of a pin prick, a scrotal piercing to bear the bronze identification disk of the castrate, remorse overwhelms. There should be more to the end of one’s masculinity.

******************************************************************************

Edwina swoons, remaining secured to the castration bench. Despite the numbed scrotum, the Queen’s foot crushing the nerves to end most feeling, there is an amusing male systemic reaction to losing the testicles. In a startled state of denial, shock is the apt term, the psyche is overcome. Thus the head slumps as intense mental trauma ends consciousness. A smiling Kendra heats the branding iron. She has seen the reaction so often.

She’ll not imbue pain to the unconscious. What is the point? But she will allow rest while the last preparations are made. By royal edict, Edwina will bear the letter ‘C’, a three inch mark. Special colored powder will be applied to the open wound. Upon healing, not only will there be permanently keloided flesh, but it will appear to be bright pink, matching the color of the frilly effeminate skirt. Edwina’s altered state is never to be denied.

And so Kendra stokes the blazing coals to assure that the branding iron radiates terrifying hotness. She knows that the psychological element of succumbing to its scarring glow is as important as the physical burning of the flesh.

“Branding time...” Kendra proclaims in a pleasant matronly voice, as if awakening a child from an afternoon nap.

Yes, she coos. She finds that marking a man is as elating as removing his testicles... the permanence bringing soothing thoughts of power. Thus her workings bring forth another level of giddiness.

A left hand grasps the hair. Fingers entwine to acquire a firm grip. It is important that the forehead be immobilized for a three second count... and Kendra is known to count slowly. Fingers of the right hand apply special grease, better to transfer and conduct the heat. Edwina returns to full cognizance. Eyes widen in trepidation. The preparation gel is cool, renewing cerebral activity and with it the irony of renewed awareness as unconsciousness is best. The eyes roll to look about. A sense of reality returns.

His balls rest nearby in a metal dish!

“Please no.”

“But you do want to be released, Edwina. Just think, no more shackles. And I believe a man of your ilk will come to very much enjoy offering oral delectation. Neutering has that effect... the vicarious sensing of pleasure. You will only experience climactic ecstasy by offering such to others, never again for yourself. Yet there will be felt a strange level of joy. In offering fellatio, you will come to sense the male vitality I plucked from your scrotum. I have seen it often. Yes, the Queen has forbidden vile acts of oral sex to be performed by the women of the Kingdom. So when her breeders seek the foreplay of tongue and lips, it will be the miscreant castrates who submit.”

Kendra smiles in noting the horrified reaction to her words. She then assures there is full alertness and reaches with her right, her left hand maintaining its grip. The branding iron is retrieved. She holds it before the alarmed, saucer sized eyes of her castrate. It glows ominously.

“You will never deny your alteration, Edwina. Should you defy the Queen’s mandate of wearing the skirt, your forehead will continue to divulge your status.”

With that, the right hand slowly approaches. Kendra smiles in hearing the pitiful cry even before application. When she presses the hot iron to the flesh, the cry turns to a girlish scream. Powerful arm muscles flex, the grip tightens, the right hand presses with zeal despite the heartfelt protestations. She counts... a most disconcertingly slow... ‘one... two... three’.

The flesh burns. The odor is sickening. The voice box strains, a most comical screech. The head first attempts defiance, the neck muscles straining for release. But Kendra’s grip is strong. Then there comes once again capitulation... more like another swoon... as Kendra’s hand senses that it bears the full weight of the cranium. All muscling slackens. Edwina’s form becomes limp.

“Such a trying day for you, Edwina,” a jovial Kendra notes in finally pulling away the cooled iron.

The left hand releases. The head slumps again.

“Now some special pink powder for the wound, a nice tongue piercing and twenty four more hours in bondage while you heal. Then you’re a free man... or rather a free castrate.”