'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.