'To Serve Intact' VI

Happy Easter everyone!

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"You be a good boy. Open wide and stay still for me."

Of course I am a good boy. I am sure there is a hypodermic needle waiting for bad boys, the supply of fentanyl seeming endless and I am sure the Emperor’s swine never deemed overfed.

I open. The Colonel holds up a horizontal bar and presses it to my lips, forcing it well past my front teeth. She then makes marks on the exposed enamel with some indelible writing implement, the incisors... the bicuspids. My dentation is to be altered. I am to later learn it is so that a bit can be inserted and that no resistance, the gritting of teeth, is to be offered.

Yes, the bar is the shape and size of the hard rubber bit which is pressed between my lips with every excursion.

For the next hour, the Colonel files away with a scabrous tool of steel, cruelly smoothing my teeth to the gums. The molars remain untouched, but as stated the marked incisors and bicuspids, top and bottom, slowly and methodically disappear.

"You won’t need to smile. I will know you’re happy," she glibly informs.

At last she finishes.

"Close."

I obey.

I am shocked when a gloved finger is introduced to my lips and effortlessly slips past into my mouth. No barrier, no resistance to be offered by my lips, my filed teeth are no longer a defense for whatever anyone, anytime wishes to press into my oral cavity. She playfully wriggles her finger within to demonstrate the results of her vigorous filing. Despite clamping with my jaw, the molars prevent me from even gumming her digit!

Next she again presses the bar to my lips. I stay closed yet it presses well toward the back of my throat. I will never ever be able to challenge being bitted and bridled. One of the strongest sets of muscles in the body, the jaw muscles, has been rendered useless in defending my oral cavity from invasion.

The Colonel assesses, grasping the bar at the left and right, using it to turn my head.

"Just a little more to the left bicuspid."

The filing resumes.

I also realize one of the last remaining offensive capabilities of the well bound... the well restrained... has been abrogated. I will never again be able to bite in aggression or otherwise.

The Colonel has worked for hours, though time is immeasurable. But there is one last modification... a nose ring. Large, deeply set in the cartilage, it comes last and I quickly realize why.

The pain is unbearable, and the tears flow with abandon despite the quickness of the penetrating device. The prongs inserted well into the nostrils, just like a common stapler, with a squeeze of her hand and the sound of a snap, an opening is made in my septum. The introduction and closing of a heavily gauged ring of steel is a mere afterthought.

The Colonel applies astringent. The bleeding, however slight, curtails. She slips her index finger into the ring and hooks, her hand slowly drawing left then right then left. My face must follow and my head turns within the yoke. Any hesitation brings agony.

"There, that should offer you quite the sense of feminine control... that which excites you... which arouses you... that for which you crave..."

It does.

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Brandi finishes washing, his/her tiny tender hands palpating everywhere. Feeling well developed muscles, the elastrator long denying her normal masculine development, seems to bring a thrill. Initially ingrained homophobia suggested I resist her touch. But how? And to what end? I must urinate. Long excursions harnessed to Master’s cart, laboring under her crop, demand some form of ablutions. So Brandi has her way. There is no resisting... there is no benefit to resisting.

So I kneel, letting whatever happens happen. I control nothing.... so I try to think about nothing.

Brandi steps away. She returns with ice, prancing excitedly, her little penis flopping about, seemingly lonely without adjoining scrotum and testicles. She loves milking the intact, a chore to be relished. She thus steps behind and a small ice laden hand begins the long process of draining me of pent up male essence.

The procedure is most demeaning as intended, but offers lassitude, righting hormone levels forced out of sync by way of long term chastity.

I will feel very little, mainly Brandi’s penetrating hand... but I will sleep as though I had copulated for hours.

As the initial shock of extreme coldness wanes, my normally massive penis shriveling comically, I know to let my mind wander... letting whatever happens happen.

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Appointed as potentate for the small secluded island, Master quickly proclaimed simple dictates the effects of which are quite telling.

Inhabited by a few dozen of the Emperor’s subjects, the island economy is agrarian and for the most part self sustaining. But what is needed from the mainland comes by way of the Emperor... and through the Emperor’s potentate. Thus Master has control and the people of the island... for the most part the women of the island... know where their bread is buttered.

These simple dictates have over time turned the island into a modest gynecocracy, engendering a female led relationship in every household.

Dictate number one. Males are not to wear covering. Ever!

Such a simple and subtle form of power exchange. All males, young and old, are naked at all times. Growing up constantly exposed while the opposite gender benefits from clothing instills a sense of vulnerability and curiously effects the will, if the male psyche ever truly develops such.

Dictate number two. Males are not to masturbate.

Alas, what male specimen can exist without satisfying the basic need of sexual gratification? Yet with this rule in place such must always come at the behest of a woman, or in a gracious gesture of condescension, Master permits male on male fellatio. Few willingly choose the latter. And the women take glee in enforcing the rule, spying, laying traps and quickly informing Master of offenders, those furtively stroking in frustrated defiance.

The punishment... for the first offense, the public performance of fellatio in the village square. For the second offense, an appointment with Master’s elastrator. Thus there are no third offenses

And so as the women of the island begin to better understand their empowerment, over time this gynecocracy slowly grows stronger. Sexual denial is commonplace. Without any outlet other than coercing fellatio from another male, desire smolders and very obedient naked males jump to the snap of feminine fingers, beseeching for carnal embrace but most often settling for an exchange... long interludes of cunnilingus for quick demeaning hand jobs. Control the male libido... control the male.

Overall, a fascinating social experiment plays out. The males of the island are commendably polite and docile, particularly with me on display, a massive well muscled Caucasian completely under Master’s tutelage, physically... mentally... emotionally.