'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."

"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.

"Lick."

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...