Saturday, March 31, 2012

'To Serve Intact' V

Totally obedient, Master spares the crop. Some taps, to inspire speed and such are curiously welcomed, but otherwise there is no need to inflict outright pain. I know to run and respond to the reins.

One mile, two, rushing air whistles through my bit. Knees pump, my feet pound the soil, my balls slap against thighs moving in fervor, my erection, somewhat softening, waggles left then right. In passing the occasional native islander I am quite the sight, quite the symbol of a woman’s governance.

In time, Master’s impressive abode, another token of the Emperor’s appreciation, comes into sight. I feel the reins draw and know to slow. There begins the ritual of arrival, my Master knowing that the extensive exertion has brought softness... undesired softness.

My pace is brought to a stroll. I feel fingers brush my sweat laden back. She grasps the cord, that connecting anal hook and yoke. She pulls both tightening the cord and stirring the hook, causing the bulbous tip to knead and abrade. I feel a brisance of joy... odd gratitude... feeling my Master’s touch so deep within.

Months of forced chastity, never ever to again sense the joy of orgasm, Master’s tendance has vicariously become a form of ecstatic relief.

Yes, as she desires... as she demands... my stiffness renews. When she pulls firmly on the reins before the stable building, I know to stop. A smiling naked Brandi steps out to greet a well bound human pony fully erect, the diamond studded tip of my penis reaching skyward.

Master dismounts, stepping back into view. She looks down at the tribute I offer, the symbol of male virility now transformed to a symbol of thorough feminine governance and control. She smiles.

"Good boy," the simple words bringing a surge of pride as she continues peering downward at a massive phallus, engorged at her behest. I no longer experience chagrin in being so exposed and displayed. There is the pride of the meek, the well tamed. I know it pleases... and therefore I am pleased.

"Milk him, Brandi. I won’t be running him again for a few days," a finger playfully tapping my nose.

To be milked... such humiliation... but such distant ephemeral joy.

"And do be sure to ice him well," her words offered in warning.

I am never to experience pleasure in being expunged of male essence.

Master departs. I am now under the authority of Brandi... young Brandi... neutered Brandi... effeminate Brandi.

The waist belt making me one with the cart is unbuckled and allowed to fall to the soil, the cart’s prongs landing with a thud. The bridle is likewise unbuckled and the bit slipped away. The yoke remains as always and the diminutive Brandi reaches up and slips a tiny finger through my nose ring.

"Master is happy," a girlish voice notes with a cute smile.

She turns. Though the arm reaches up, still I must walk somewhat stooped, knowing to carefully follow the finger. The intensity of the pain when the nostril ring is stressed cannot be described. It is instant and complete.

Into the stable, to the grooming table, I know to step up and kneel on the low platform, bending at the waist. Brackets left and right secure my yoke. My ankle bands are attached to waiting chains. I am immobilized. Such no longer brings distress. I am well worn, running with alacrity, pulling my Master with energy depleting zeal. I need the respite.

Brandi steps behind. I feel soft caring fingers... perhaps too caring... cradle my balls. Another moment of adulation... hers long ago dropping, no doubt becoming feed for the Emperor’s hogs. The cord at my yoke is untied. Knowing hands work the anal hook. The specially shaped tip is stout. I am grateful to feel it coaxed from my sphincter with circumspection. It exits with a plop. Next the horrid urethral agitator is pressed to retract the spikes holding it in place. It is slipped out... to be returned when Master next chooses to run me and have my penis stand for her.

Then begins a cleansing. Sprayed with warm water, laved in soap, I become a pampered pet... Master’s prized pony. As I kneel, my only task, my sole responsibility completed, the care of my body ceded to the effeminate castrate Brandi, my mind wanders... back to the modification chamber...

Saturday, March 24, 2012

'The Entrapped' released

Finally 'The Entrapped' has been released by the Erotic Book Network.

Female dominant/male sub. I believe the story line will entertain.

'To Serve Intact' IV

I am yoked just as are the newly castrated.

The broad length of steel rests on my shoulders, entrapping my neck and upturned hands. Ingeniously designed, the interior circumference of each opening is smooth and though my wrists are firmly encased, bearings encircling the openings permit me to twist about my hands to prevent cramps and offer the arm muscles some degree of mobility.

The neck opening is similarly comfortable, the opening generous in diameter and smoothness.

There is an initial reaction to appreciate the beneficence when so secured. But than comes the realization that, with the level of comfort, the restrained very, very rarely needs to be released. Thus is the irony of good long term bondage... it must offer comfort and some ability to stave cramping... and my yoke does just that.

Why would it ever need to be removed?

I am leashed, a length of leather attached to an eyelet in the front of the yoke. As the last of the executed is dragged from the dungeon a diminutive soldier leads me to the so termed modification chamber. Ankles remaining in shackles, I note that the feet of the banded castrates are free to frolic in some perverse protocol... lose your balls... gain some freedom.

I dare not resist. I meekly follow, I am sure the commutation of my death sentence to be quickly retracted with the slightest sign of truculence. My erection bobs but begins to waver. The soldier looks back and smiles... a smile of expectation... that of the hungry encountering a feast. As the engorged shaft softens he stops and turns. I am shocked when a hand lowers and enshrouds my ten plus inches. Then the thumb presses against the hyper sensitive underside of the tip and begins a circling motion... rubbing... frictioning with noted deftness. The soldier smiles and I curse myself as the stiffness renews. With the pause I can better observe the face. It is surprisingly feminine. There is a hint of unmilitary facial make up. There comes a girlish giggle, yet the chest is flat.

The touch is expert. He/she has masturbated the male organ before. But what is the gender?

We continue, my renewed erection again bobbing about. Uniformed passersby notice. I blush. My heart pounds. But I have no choice but to be exhibited.

Then, death eluded... the horror of living as a kept male begins.

We enter a more modern building and walk to a room, medically equipped. I am directed to sit and lie back in a chair seemingly intended for gynecology. My yoke fits precisely into waiting brackets to the sides where it is secured in place. My shackles are released and my calves strapped into waiting stirrups. Chair and I become one.

The leash is removed. Then the hermaphroditic soldier again lends his/her attention to my pubes, cupping my freely hanging scrotum. My vulnerability... my exposure... the gender of my fondler unknown... I shudder with homophobia.

The pretty eyes gaze in wonderment as my manhood remains engorged. Though the touch is sensuous and knowing it brings forth a sense of revulsion. It is too knowing.

"There’s inherent adulation. Something to which you will need to become accustomed."

The voice comes from the door. It is the Colonel, she who has spared my life. I turn my attention from the kneading hand... the examining eyes. The Colonel enters.

She has doffed the camouflaged uniform. She wears white... medical garb. She notes my inquisitive look.

"I no longer play with dolls. I instead now play with men," her remark flippant.

It becomes my turn to examine. As suspected, the brown canvas of her fatigues veiled a notably trim physique, shapely where a woman desires shape, yet invigorative where a man would prefer brawn. Yes, the breasts are of size but the lack of motion suggests toned muscling beneath. The hem of a white skirt yields to gams of strength yet with proportioning to allure. And then there is the face... handsome, confident, knowing... offering a look of authority. She is in charge.

"Get some ice then leave us, Brandi. And you know to remove your uniform in the building."

At last, the name suggests femininity. The hand retreats. There comes an utterance of ‘yes, ma’am’. The soldier departs.

"You remain erect. I find that attractive. And apparently something attracts you... excites you as well."

She speaks as she steps to a counter and begins rummaging through cabinets assembling assorted supplies. She nods to my raging hard on, the 500 pound gorilla in the room.

"Ever reflect on your reaction? To feminine authority?"

"No ma’am."

"I encounter it often. Most times the phenomenon ends when I castrate. The resulting hormonal change makes tumescence quite difficult. And over time almost impossible as the endocrine system adjusts."

The woman has medical training.

"I like the well endowed. Plus we don’t get many Caucasians in this region of Africa. You’re quite the trophy. With the Emperor’s concurrence I am going to keep you."

She pushes a stool between my well parted feet and places a tray on a nearby low table.

The door opens. This Brandi returns, childishly scampering in with a bowl of ice. I gawk. As firmly suggested, clothing is not to be worn in the building. Brandi is naked, not a stitch... not even shoes.

He/she places the bowl on the low table. It is then I note the comically small penis flopping about between smooth hairless thighs. There are no testicles, the elastrator and the resulting snap of rubber apparently have ended masculinity. The Colonel smiles, really a smirk of satisfaction, enjoying the intensity of the power exchange. She reaches and pinches a smooth effeminate buttock. Soldier Brandi squeals like a little girl.

"Leave us. I have work."

Brandi pouts like the child he/she appears to be, turns and prances out, shutting the door behind her.

"Something about being in the presence of the intact male that allures. Curious, don’t you think?"

I merely nod, or attempt to do so, my neck encased in steel.

The Colonel snaps on latex gloves then her hand rattles in the bowl of ice.

"You’ll come to enjoy serving me... pleasing me. Life will become quite simple. I find that the bigger and stronger the man the more a life of servitude becomes acceptable."

She sits. An ice filled hand approaches my pubes. I lurch as the cold wetness is summarily applied to my perineum and scrotum.

"For now I need you flaccid. Some modifications are required. Anesthetics are sparse in this region," the words seeming to be uttered from afar as my attention is greatly diverted.

My penis indeed softens, the woman smiling patiently as the application of freezing wet takes affect.

"You are to be trained. Such will be grueling, both physically and mentally. But in the end, you will learn to serve and serve well. And you will also enjoy. Life simplified to single goal. No responsibilities, no more concerns about having your macho pride challenged. No more brawny encounters with other men. You will just react to commands and gestures of control."

My penis droops, dangling to become the so termed wet noodle. The hand shifts to apply the ice to the tip. I lurch again.

"I am going to infibulate you. An ancient custom, dating to Greek times when masturbation was to be discouraged for athletes, and Roman times when male slaves were denied release... accept when the governess of the house required satiation. Hence you will only become erect when I want you erect... and then you will do so with flourish."

As she speaks her free hand cruelly pinches the most sensitive flesh of my penis tip. Noting no reaction, I am deemed adequately numbed.

"You’ll be pampered. Treated as well as a prized breeding animal. I noticed that look concerning Brandi. That will change."

The woman turns to the table. The ice is stowed. I am horrified when a sizable curved needle is retrieved from the tray. Her attention returns. The fingers of the left hand gently toy with my penis tip. Shriveled, the skin is loose, the folds most pliable. She pinches and slowly tugs toward the floor to stretch. I am then shocked to see the curved needle slowly and firmly pressed through the foreskin left to right.

I yelp, more in surprise then pain, the flesh well numbed indeed.

How calloused!

"It’s best to infibulate tightly, the clasp to be pressed as close as possible to the tip. That will discourage even the slightest thought unauthorized stiffening. You will learn to not even think about erection."

My ordeal is not over. The needle is pressed through the foreskin four more times. As in the clock face, the one o’clock, five o’clock, seven o’clock and eleven o’clock positions. The bleeding is minor, the droplets of crimson gingerly dabbed away, not inhibiting her handiwork for a moment.

"Yes you’ll learn to remain flaccid for me... and learn to harden when I want to be amused."

The words are casually offered as the diamond tipped studs are introduced to the four openings. I wince, for even in numbness I can feel the sharp inner terminus of each abrading my hidden penis tip.

Lastly through the initial duel openings left and right, at the three o’clock and nine o’clock positions, there is threaded the most fiendish yet small morsel of metal the male can bear. U shaped, it appears to be nothing more then a deformed paper clip. Yet it will change my life. The Colonel presses one end through the left opening then across to exit the right. She withdraws her hands and observes. It hangs from my foreskin, now an upside down ‘U’.

"And this is where and how you will forever feel my control," she lectures.

The fingers return. The dangling ends of the bent thin strip of metal are twisted, and in so doing I feel tightness, my penis tip firmly ensheathed within the foreskin, not to free itself, not to revel in tumescence, not to ever again engorge in pride, in expectation of carnal embrace. Only when my Master is to be amused will it again appear in vigor.

"Your penis has two functions. I will control both."

A stern proclamation and one in which I cannot take issue.

Physically daunting, psychologically terrorizing... yet the modifications do not end.

Sunday, March 18, 2012

Is Collarme Doomed?

While writing ‘The Clinic’, I went on Collarme and searched female profiles listing ‘lactation’, ‘milk/milking’ and ‘hucow’ as an interest. The following message was sent to 34 women...

You may find interest in a story I am working on. 'The Clinic'. Forced lactation. See my blog   Enjoy, CB

Curious to note that after six weeks, only 13 women read the message... less than half. One responded. noting ‘Thanks’.

What does that say about Collarme as a medium for potential social intercourse?

Their inability/refusal to monitor and police the site has placed it in ruins. And in the beginning it was so vigorous. Now, how much time and effort is spent by participants determining who is and who is not fake?

And I as learned, over half the profiles are either inactive or the originator has no intention of participating in anything.

I assume others have the same reaction. Just wonder when the advertisers are going to conclude as to the site's uselessness.


Saturday, March 17, 2012

'To Serve Intact' III

With every rebel soldier knowing his fate, the lack of pleas, of vocal resistance is telling. The dungeon becomes funereal as the injections continue, the diminutive soldier applying the hose. There comes the occasional snap of the elastrator, another death sentence commuted to a life of neutered servitude.

The Colonel completes her executions of the opposing row of prostrate bound nakedness then turns and begins to one by one jab the buttocks of my row.

Meanwhile, limp lifeless forms across the way are unlocked and another pair of uniformed soldiers, slight and effeminate, slides away the executed remains, now feed for the Emperor’s hogs.

I turn and gawk. The woman works without compunction, ignoring last words whether politely whispered or stridently gasped. Her occasional smile, deemed to be charming at a candlelight dinner, is hauntingly wicked. On occasion she snickers, I am sure in reaction to some desperate threat which she knows to be fruitless.

Why I am staring? Why have I hardened, my penis throbbing?

There is strange admiration, the Colonel performing so dutifully, not a moment’s delay other then when the elastrator needs to be properly aligned, the scrotal sac to be excised with precision. Such a demonstration of power... feminine power.

Finally her focus comes to me. I begin to tremble. The end is near. No one has received mercy. There has been not even a moment of pause for last words. She works with the resolute pace of slaughterhouse machinery.

In desperation, I fantasize, envisioning myself castrated, serving in a dress. This seems to be the only quarter offered. Yes, there are flashes of hallucinations, of delusions, picturing myself in a tight black skirt, white apron, curtsying with the frilly cap of a French maid perched on effeminate locks. The self image is ridiculous.

I look to see there are three young rebel prisoners freed of the shackles and now standing about, hideously discolored scrotums banded by the elastrator. There are looks of denial, of disbelief, such forlorn faces on boys not quite men.... and now never to become men. Wrists encumbered, hands useless, the simple band of castrating rubber, so easily dispensed by knife bearing mobile hands, must be endured, must be borne until the end of maleness... when the pubescent puffs of purplish black flesh will so meekly drop to the floor or the soil... to be more fodder for the Emperor’s hogs.

The swine shall be well fed, I cannot help thinking.

Alas, the Colonel pauses over me. Well endowed, stiff as a steel pipe, my priapic state brings the same wry smile as when she castrates. My nakedness, her authoritative military decor brings odd arousal. She is not surprised, instead enthralled.

"So, we have one of these. Curious reaction to women of authority," proclaimed with a wicked knowing grin, the toe of her boot jostling my scrotum.

"Not a bad package for a white boy, though we see so few."

The tray is offered. She selects a hypodermic needle. The end is near.

"You, must be the mercenary. The Emperor should consider a special fate for you... perhaps fed to the hogs alive. But I have no orders... one way or the other."

I expect an injection of death. I receive instead sardonic words, her gaze focusing on my penis.

I close my eyes in both shame and expectation of the final pin prick of pain followed by the ironic nirvana of fentanyl. Then I feel rubbing... where my excited state has drawn her attention.

I open to see the Colonel standing closer, between my forcibly parted knees, her booted right foot lifted to press the penis tip, her left grazing my inner thigh.

I shudder... in fear?.. in joy of what would normally be welcomed female attention?

The booted touch transforms. The sole draws back towards her then slowly lowers, forcing my stiffness to bend toward the concrete. I wince, my organ needing to stand upright. Yet despite the aggravating motion, I feel the twinges which normally foster further tumescence. This physical reaction to the painful stress is perplexing and the boot presses downward with deliberation.

Will I die with my manhood under her foot? Such ignominy.

"Speak! What will you do... what will you offer in order to avoid certain death."

"I fight. I train," my response so desperately weak, the choice of words so inappropriate.

Yet, what is a soldier to say?

"Fight? For whom? I don’t think your loyalty can be trusted. It seems to be for sale. But training... you train... but can you be trained?"

Have I a choice but to search for the expedient reply?

Gasping as the boot presses, I humbly nod. The needle looms, the Colonel holding it up to the light to examine the contents, clear but lethal. 


"Yes what?"

"Yes, ma’am."

She lips away her boot and my penis snaps upwards, thumping my belly.

"I’ll bet you’re ten inches if not a foot," the toe again pressing against my testicles. "I like to be served by well endowed males. It empowers. Can you be trained to serve?"

"Yes ma’am," my reply meek with an undisguised smidgeon of eagerness. Will I live?

Despite the naked bodies being dragged about, despite the smell of excrement and death, my heart leaps in anticipation. The Colonel has spent more time with me then any other prisoner... injected or castrated. Yet perhaps it is a ploy, mentally tormenting before the needle plunges.

She steps over my left thigh to position herself over my face. She stands astride my head, the leather of her boots most proximate, abrading my ears, left and right.


I turn my head and extend my tongue, laving the right boot.

"Don’t stop. And waggle your penis for me."

I pull in desperation, contracting the muscles used for urination. I feel my mammoth rock hardness waggle indeed... for her. She laughs.

"Have this one yoked and brought to the modification chamber."


The directing tugs on my reins are unnecessary. I know we are returning to the impressive abode of my Master and I know the way. Still, to her directing hands she enjoys watching the response of a well restrained male. And of course the paroxysmal lurches as well when she snaps the crop, encourages more speed.

My balls flop about, my erect penis bobs, I am quite the display of feminine governance. Yet I live. And I please. And I adore. And I am intact.

Having served the Emperor well, putting down the uninspired rebellion of disorganized zealots, Master was well rewarded. Her own island, proximate to the African coast, she reigns power over a smattering of locals, anointed as potentate for the Emperor. She also reigns over me... and a bevy of castrates gifted to her.

‘Castrated males make wonderful servants,’ Master once quipped. ‘Their needs are truncated.’

By that I assumed complete diversion of the normal sexual drive... to be transformed to devoted servitude.
Sweat beads and begins to stream to my elbows and ankles. These are times when complete nakedness is appreciated. The rush of air cools, and I have become somewhat accustomed to being presented to the locals... not only exposed but erect as well. Master enjoys displaying my well tamed virility.

I feel my tumescence begin to wane with the exertion, the circulation required for the erectile chambers diverted to muscles demanding oxygen. Still the deeply penetrating anal hook abets firming and forestalls complete flaccidity. And in not being infibulated, my penis celebrates, freedom only permitted when serving under Master’s directing hands and encouraging crop.

Yes, infibulation, such an ancient yet effective form of forced chastity...

Saturday, March 10, 2012

'To Serve Intact' II

My Master approaches, her visit concluded. I marvel at the purposeful stroll, her gait both masculine and feminine. Sizeable yet firm breasts somewhat jostle, thigh muscles ripple beneath tight jodhpurs, well polished knee high leather boots glisten.

I am now completely erect, just as she desires. She will be pleased. And bit and bridle veil my smile of satisfaction. My only goal is to please.

"Such a nice stiff penis to greet me" she coos.

I can now see the tip, the many accouterments glinting in the tropical sun. I am well endowed and uncircumcised. Thus my foreskin bares my Master’s many modifications. Openings for my infibulation clasp at the right and left. Four studs, tipped by sparkling diamonds pierce the outer circumference of the foreskin. The inside terminus of each slim penetrating post is sharp, devilishly shaped to scrape and abrade the sensitive glans penis whenever the foreskin retracts in arousal.

Thus, as stated, erections hurt.

Plus, should I ever be freed, not only is normal copulation obviated, I cannot comfortably masturbate as well.

Yet such thoughts are superfluous as I am never ever freed.

"Run well for me and I’ll have you milked," my Master graciously encourages, noting the ooze of a neglected prostate.

She stoops. Her left hand lowers to cup my ponderous scrotum, seemingly burgeoned with male seed never to be expunged. The index finger of her right hand taps my urethral agitator, the smallest but most incredibly controlling implement imaginable.

Inserted into my penis tip, it blocks, precluding urination until removed. And that can only be achieved by she with hands freed.

"Want to show off for me?"

Yes, as noted, my bladder is well filled. Before every excursion I am copiously watered in the tropical climate. I thus nod, feeling the anal hook move and increase the urgency of the deed.

My Master smiles. She tenderly grips my stiff shaft with her left hand. A finger of the right hand gently presses inward to retract the inner spikes of the clever agitator, allowing the cylinder of well crafted steel to be slipped out with ease.

Master knows to step aside. Though thoroughly turgid, I have been trained. Like a circus animal, I perform on cue, even urinate despite having a massive hard on. I press. There comes the expected sting as a formidable arch of yellow presses skyward then splatters to the sandy soil. Master laughs, never tiring of my obedient performance, exhibited upon demand.

Finished, there comes more burn as the agitator is returned.

Control... always control... thorough in every aspect.

"Do you want to bear some clamps for me?"

The question is not disingenuous. Though tiny, offering a relatively innocuous bite when applied to most of the anatomy, Master will apply such to the thinnest most sensitive flesh of the nipples or scrotum, perhaps even both. The resulting pain is unbearable. And the irony boggles the mind, so much agony to be endured from such small implements... and so simply applied... the gentle feminine fingers working up a tiny tuft, squeezing to open, then releasing with disconcerting aloofness. The resulting anguish is both instant and intense, the cerebral cortex flooded. And it spurs, for some reason the somatic reaction being to run... run like the wind... to somehow escape the intensity... to leave it behind.

Yes, I perform admirably when clamped... and Master inquires because she knows I want to run and perform for her... and do so admirably.

I shake my entrapped head as best I can. Yet the reminder is implanted... to run... to serve... to please.

"I’ll keep them at the ready," Master responds in forewarning, reaching to her blouse where a half dozen of the shiny bits of metal adorn the lapels, releasing one to demonstrably suggest ease of application.

She is a woman of purpose and resolve. Having observed her insouciantly execute and castrate, I have no doubt I will be quickly clamped with the slightest misstep... even the most undetectable slack in performance.

She smiles with my look of concern, returns the clamp to its place, so ironically appearing as decorative jewelry, then playfully taps my nose.

"Up," she commands, untying the simple hobbling cord connecting my steel ankle bands.

I arise feeling the burden of the cart surge as Master steps aboard. There comes tension on the reins, my bit irritating the wet pink flesh of my mouth. The obligatory command of ‘giddup’ is accompanied by snaps of the crop, right cheek and then left.

I am afforded another opportunity to please. My bare feet dig into the compact arid soil. I am now in my element, laboring for my Master... she with such munificence... sparing my life... sparing my balls... to better serve. I do believe I further stiffen.

Trained to exactitude, I merely react. My blank mind returns to the most momentous day of my life...

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

No comments?

Well, we changed genres. The site has gotten strong hits on Sunday and Monday (Saturday was a little light because I posted late I am sure), and still no comments.

Nothing provokes thought?

Saturday, March 3, 2012

'To Serve Intact' I

A degree of macabre. Must incite the fear factor, so bear with me.

OK, switching genres, this is a theme I have incorporated into past stories, don't remember which. It's been a while.

Male infibulation


To Serve Intact

Copyright 2012

by Chris Bellows

Erections hurt!

Still I labor to achieve. It will please. And I so much want to please.

Therefore I internally pull on my pubo coccygeus muscles and begin a nodding motion with my entrapped head. This serves to tension a cord strung vertically from the back of my yoke to my gluteal cleft. There the cord is attached to an anal hook. Curved and well shaped, it penetrates of course, the bulbous tip abrading my prostate and facilitating my need to harden.

As I kneel in wait, my eyes strain to peer downward. I can feel my bejeweled foreskin begin to retract as the glans penis engorges, the devious small but sharp shards of silver scraping, painfully abrading the most sensitive male anatomy. The sunlight brings a gleam to the moisture of pre ejaculatory fluid as such begins to ooze in abundance.

Still, with bladder brimming, with my Master signaling from afar to prepare myself, the deed is as desired.
Yes, I stiffen most firmly, the pain more than acceptable... it brings strange pride.

In constant bondage, I think very little. My servitude not requiring judgement or cogitation, I merely react... to stimulus... to prompts.

Yet in these intervals of respite, awaiting Master’s return, there comes reflection...


"You have rebelled against the Emperor. There is a price to be paid. For most of you... the ultimate price."

As a mercenary, a soldier of fortune, one lives in danger... perhaps lives for danger. But never are there thoughts of this... the ultimate sacrifice for a cause not engendered within the soul.

I just train and fight for money. And I have been well paid. But now the pecuniary rewards are of no matter. Captured with dozens of the Emperor’s rebellious subjects, I lie naked and shackled along with those I trained. Due to betrayal, the futility is now apparent. Bad ammunition. In every box purchased on the black market, the top few layers of bullets were functional. Beneath were hundreds of still shots... no powder charge. The only thing worse than running out of ammunition, is having unreliable ammunition. In addition, those who fought were miserably under equipped and misinformed as to the strength and numbers of the Emperor’s forces.

The skirmish was brief. In the end, the Emperor’s royal guard merely walked into our makeshift redoubt and, to the sound of clicking rifles failing to discharge, stripped us naked and put us in chains.

"Fentanyl with powerful muscle relaxers. The Emperor is merciful. For most, your death will be as painless as possible. You will merely stop breathing in numbness."

The woman is impressively insouciant. Tall, broad shouldered, powerfully built, even in her drab military uniform, quite the aura of authority, she has a certain allure. Her deep chocolate complexion serves to highlight the whites of her lively eyes as she holds up a hypodermic needle.

I am amazed that she, her epaulets suggesting the rank of colonel, will personally administer the coup d’ grace.

Behind the woman of power is a diminutive figure, the limited stature enhancing the Colonel’s imposing size. He/she holds a tray. It is stacked with the implements of death... and more.

The Colonel stoops at the nearest prisoner, pinches a large tuft of skin at the side of the left buttock and jabs. There comes a flinch, a meek word of protest and then... nothing. With the fentanyl, an incredibly powerful narcotic, instant nirvana ensues. Yet as a soldier I know death comes never quickly, the muscle relaxant, probably curare, will stop the lungs. A heart starved of oxygen will eventually cease as well.

"You should be enlightened to know most of you will be fed to the palace’s hogs. So in death your remains will loyally serve the Emperor... though you have not done so in life."

This brings a calloused smile as the woman retrieves another hypodermic needle and stoops again. Quick, mechanical, without an iota of reservation another shackled prisoner meets his end. A third injection and the dungeon begins to reek of death. With the involuntary muscles no longer held in contraction, sphincters open, bladders empty. I note that another diminutive soldier, gender again indeterminate, begins to unravel a water hose. There are floor drains. The room is a chamber for death, well designed for quick and easy slaughter, neatness leaving no evidence of the horror undertaken.

With the fourth prostrate form, the Colonel pauses. Unlike the trio of condemned, this prisoner is young... dreadfully pulled into the conflict by desperate zealots... and now made to sacrifice for another’s folly.

"This one will serve. Give me the elastrator and make sure he is yoked."

The Colonel is handed a device resembling a large set of pliers. Again she stoops. The youthful shackled form fruitlessly protests in the local dialect as a coal block hand rummages about the pubes. I know the elastrator. I know its purpose. A lad barely out of puberty will make a different sacrifice.

Though I cannot observe the entire process, I know that the well leveraged tongs of the elastrator force open an extremely strong but small band of rubber. The testicles will be encircled, the tongs pressed to the perineum. Then will come the sharp snap as the tongs are slipped away and the ring of rubber instantly contracts, ending the flow of blood, mercifully truncating pain, the nerves crushed.

Emasculation. Efficient, neat, bloodlessly terminating masculinity, but disconcertingly slow. The scrotal sac deprived of circulation, within days the puff of withered flesh, remnants of maleness within, will meekly fall to the soil or concrete of the dungeon floor.

"You too will feed the hogs," the Colonel quips, the fate of the lad’s soon to be departing testicles made apparent.

The snap, an instant of unfathomable male pain, a yelp, a paroxysmal yet futile lurch against the iron bonds, and the deed is done.

A smiling Colonel arises.

"You’ll look cute in a serving dress, should you be permitted any covering at all."

The executions continue. The woman is heartless. And realization begins to overwhelm. My fate is sealed. At six foot four, 270 pounds, I will not look good in a serving dress, should the loss of my gonads even be considered. Mentally I prepare to die. Then I note that another is spared, only to endure the ignominy of emasculation. Yes, another snap, another pitiful yelp.

Given the choice, which of course is not offered, how would the intact male decide?

It is silly to contemplate, the deliberation not mine to consider. But such are the thoughts of the desperate.

Then comes the bizarre. I cannot help but focus on the executioner, she who brings either death or the end of maleness. Something about the power, she having all, the band of once brave men having none. Something about her physical aura... she controls... she is to be obeyed... and she enjoys.

Handsome, not beauteous, the loose folds of her dappled brown uniform fail to cloak feminine shapeliness as she moves about. And I feel my manhood begin to firm. Why... and why now?

The androgynous form with the hose begins to wash away the last offerings of the condemned. The hiss of the spray masks what little sound emanates from prisoners in shock. I note that a third uniformed genderless soldier approaches with a broad length of steel. Holes suggest the device is the yoke the Colonel demanded for he who faces slow castration. One large opening in the middle, two smaller at the ends, the neck of the prostrate prisoner is encircled in the center and the wrists are encumbered at shoulder height far to the right and left. I am surprised when the naked rebel is released from the shackles which make him one with the wall and the floor.

The youth is succinctly freed!

The Colonel stands having brought death to one more. She looks at he undergoing emasculation. She smiles noting the small scrotal sac is deep purple, and turning deeper. She wriggles her finger, a come hither gesture. Has the prisoner a choice but to comply?

"You’re free for now. Prance about. Enjoy your last days as a male. But remember you’ll soon be feeding the hogs as well."

She pinches his cheek in a manner most matronly, the smile transforming to one of warmth. Then her hand lowers and gruffly pinches the purple scrotum, her smile broadening in noting no reaction to what would otherwise be a most painful grasp. Numb already. She next points to her boots, well polished, I am sure a bevy of servants tending to her every need.

"Thank me properly."

The lad falls to his knees and for some reason knows to kiss her boots. When she remains silent he begins to lick as well.

"Good girl."

Observing the expression of gratitude for castration... I stiffen more.