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.

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