Saturday, December 24, 2011

'Power, Succumbing to It' (Part Two of Two)

Naked on a train!

Madam sits proximate. In hindsight the lack of clothing adds to her ability to control and my inability to run off. And in the tropical heat and abject poverty of the region, the young are commonly afforded limited covering.

Still I am older than a toddler and am quite conscience of my nakedness.

We share a cabin with a Caucasian woman. Haughty, older, prim, proper, she visually inspects and I have no manner of hindering her gaze.

"You’ve had him fixed. I so often wished I had that option," the woman striking up a conversation with Madam Kaishek.

Madam Kaishek detects my discomfort and smiles.

"Sit back and show the woman," she commands.

I remain trembling with the trauma, the pain, the callous doctor’s incisions and snips. Mentally and emotionally I am overwhelmed. I meekly sit back and draw my knees to my chest. Madam Kaishek reaches, her hands parting my inner thighs and buttocks.

"I want her smooth" she explains. "In my work it is best."

Having popped the gonads from their nest, the doctor gathered the fleshy folds of my empty scrotum and pinched with a device appearing to be a set of pliers. She termed it an elastrator. And when she withdrew the device I felt tightness... down there. A taut rubber band enshrouds that which once held my testicles. I can still feel the tightness.

So the Caucasian woman is offered an unfettered view of my transformation, the reddened pouch of banded epidermis gathered into a withering soon to drop clump... appearing to be the waddle of a turkey.

"With the circulation cut off, in a few days this excess skin will topple off and she’ll be very smooth for me. The only hint of maleness remaining will be a cute little penis... rendered useless of course."

In hearing the pronoun ‘she’, the woman smiles in agreement.

"Ran a boy’s reform school for many years. I caned... I feminized often... but this ultimate modification for undesired behavior was not an option, unfortunately."

The woman proves to be bold in matters concerning boys. She leans forward and extends her hand. Fingers caress and knead the small gathering of banded flesh. I am shocked to feel almost nothing. She pinches and in noting there is little reaction, smiles in satisfaction.

"All gone. Her behavior will be quite acceptable now."

Her hand lowers and a finger smooths about my anus, circling to bring a brief brisance of delight to an otherwise mortifying encounter.

"I also figged. You may wish to consider should the behavior indeed not improve."

I would later learn... and feel the results... of the effective English custom... inserting ginger root into the rectum. It burns without producing a scintilla of physical harm and the insertion purportedly assures that buttocks awaiting a brisk caning are properly presented.

"I understand castrated boys make good servants... the removal of the testicles bringing focus to young minds that would otherwise be addled by the flow of hormones."

Madam Kaishek nods in agreement.

"She will serve, but not as a servant. I have clients with... shall we say exotic tastes. She will be trained to please... orally and anally. They tell me that the backside of the male... former male... is naturally tighter. And that fellatio is better learned... and more quickly."

The woman’s smile turns to a look of Schadenfreude, apparently visualizing the intensity of the degradation.

"And there’s the curious phenomenon of aging... snipped before any significant flow of hormones, she’ll always be young."

The train begins to slow. Madam withdraws her hands. The woman leans back to return to sitting upright.

"The border crossing. I hope you don’t mind... err... Miss..."

"Hartsdale... Miss Penelope Hartsdale."

"I am Madam Kaishek. I hope Miss Hartsdale that you don’t mind being present as we sort things out with the Thailand customs and immigration. My girl has no papers and there is a certain protocol to be followed."

As the train slows to a stop, I am given instructions... to be obedient... very obedient. In my nakedness, flushed with embarrassment as the two women talked about me, inspected my privates, my vulnerability has been made quite apparent. Have I a choice?

I nod concurrence, my altered vocal cords mandating silence.

There comes commotion as the many doors of the adjoining cabins open and the numerous passengers offer documents, agents shouting instructions. Miss Hartsdale reaches to her purse as does Madam Chang. Our cabin door opens and up steps a uniformed woman of authority. She is homely, somewhat past middle aged and evidently in charge. In her arms... shackles and a collection of chains.

She drops the bindings and checks the passports, oddly ignoring me. It becomes evident that she is familiar with Madam Kaishek as the passport is returned and the woman officer is offered a tube of unguent. She accepts and looks at this Miss Hartsdale with concern.

"It’s not a problem. Miss Hartsdale seems to be one of us and I think will be entertained," Madam Kaishek seeming to read the officer’s mind.

The uniformed woman nods then sits next to Miss Hartsdale. For the first time she looks at me and I shiver in fear. She is aloof, calloused and wickedly gazes at my nakedness as something to be savored... prey to be eaten. She opens the tube and lubricates her hands. Then she wriggles her finger, gesturing for me to come to her lap. My shiver transforms to outright trembling.

I look to Madam Kaishek and she nods. I meekly slide my nakedness from the seat and step towards her. The woman brusquely grabs my arm and rapidly positions me sitting on her lap.

"We all have our curious little penchants, Miss Hartsdale," the woman proclaims. "I trust you can be tolerant of mine. Castrated boys offer such a thrill... the loss of virility... potential virility... such brings stimulation. I so much revel in both the physical and emotional comeuppance."

As she speaks, her left hand works at my bottom. I am horrified to feel a greased finger penetrate my anus. It slips inward locating my opening with ease. Mine is not the first aperture she has impaled.

Then the fingers of the right hand smooth up my thigh to playfully toy with the gathering of banded flesh.

"Something’s missing here. You have a tiny penis but are closer to being a little girl," the voice sarcastic.

Then the fingers move and begin to caress my penis. I am chagrined to find it feels good. I sense a certain throbbing. There come twinges. The woman is expert, smiling so evilly as she works to bring me to erection.

"You won’t have too many more of these... little girl," she taunts, as we both sense the organ begin to firm.

She knows the male anatomy... the former male anatomy. I feel the penetrating finger score a bull’s eye on the prostate gland. I lurch. The evil smile broadens. The humiliation is intense. I am to be masturbated before three women! And I am amazed when I am brought to full erection, something I have experimented in doing but mainly experienced only nocturnally, a full bladder abetting tumescence. Puberty just approaching... self pleasure limited.

Ejaculation is not possible. The woman seems to know and also seems to know how to prolong my odd state of arousal... arousal never ever to be satiated. And I sense the power exchange, feel the woman robbing me of what little virility and maleness that remains. She is draining me of male essence which can ever again be produced. Some fluid begins to ooze, the woman quick to mockingly point such out to Miss Hartsdale and Madam Kaishek. In having been neutered she knows she depletes the remnants of maleness... the last vestige... the final trace of virility. I can sense her feeling of empowerment.

"It’s your last... enjoy..." spoken as the penetrating finger wriggles about and the right hand oh so sensuously strokes.

Then I feel something... something joyous... but faint... distant. And the woman feels it too, the triggering of the ejaculatory muscles. But there is nothing to be expelled. It is a feeble orgasm... dry... incomplete... and it brings me both delight and frustration... and the woman knows it.

"I so much adore the forlorn look, don’t you ladies? It comes with the realization that hence... pleasure is solely for others..."

Yes, a curious penchant indeed... masturbating the castrated male. And what is most irksome... she is aware...she so much enjoys the transfer of power.... my loss... her gain.

With the incomplete orgasm past, the sensuous joy of her continuing strokes turns to irritation. I soften. Nothing manly has spurted, my penis tip merely drooling prostatic fluid. The women are greatly amused, my look of chagrin... of dread... serving to entertain.

"Be sure to let me know when you have another one snipped," the woman abruptly pushing me from her lap.

She picks up the shackles.

"Let’s get you properly dressed for entry into Thailand."

Wrists and ankles, I am tethered and hobbled, the woman gleefully snapping closed the locks and handing Madam Kaishek a key.

"Little girly boys always look so cute in irons."

The woman next hands Madam Kaishek some papers. I am to later learn such identify me as a criminal juvenile delinquent with Madam Kaishek serving as my guardian, a subterfuge for the remaining journey to Bangkok. Then as the woman arises, the train begins to move, the acceleration slow. She steps out.

I shall not forget her... nor the frustratingly muted feel of my last orgasm. The sound of her cackle shall forever remain...

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