Wednesday, June 27, 2012

'To Serve Intact' XXII Final

The novelty has worn. Master, appearing to be a conquering gladiator in cropping the muscled buttocks of this mammoth human steed, seeks to otherwise impress the islanders with her power.

There is procured an ornate chariot, large, somewhat ostentatious, to be pulled by castrates. Yes, with the depleted strength of the hormone impaired former male, an entire trio is required. And the display of the well trussed naked male, scrotal sac emptied at a woman’s behest... by a woman’s hand... sends an equally vigorous message of gynecocracy... of land under the authority of a determined governess. 

Balls plundered by her hand, kept hooded in an amazing display of training and unfettered trust in their Master, the blinded trio labor in lockstep, feet thundering in unison, without sight most attentively responding to the lightest directing tug on the reins.

In achieving such exacting acquiescence, I am sure their training has been arduous and unending.

Costumed, briefly of course, coifed and bejeweled to appear identical, the Emperor mercifully gave the boys a reprieve from harsh incarceration, known to eventually either bring death or foster suicide. Yes, the local prison system is not designed or intended to rehabilitate... only serve as a symbol for deterrence. Perhaps even more aptly described as an orchard. Yes, plums ripening for Master to pluck.

In the African empire, crime is meted slow death... unless the Emperor relents and permits Master to ‘mercifully’ castrate and train. 

And so... what is to become of me?  

Not fettered in harness but kept exercised, I wile about and fantasize. First comes the illogical... release from the island... a return to society... free to roam... never again to feel the tightness of a leash... the constant constraint of bondage. Hands mobile. Able to touch... where the chaste male most desires to touch. Able to make love... to allure... to seduce.

But then come realistic thoughts. Freedom brings the awkwardness of disclosure for the Emperor and Master. I am a kept male... Caucasian... western... educated... such imprisonment not to be tolerated... not to be accepted among the nations of the cultured world.  

No, the Emperor is never to be in a position to have to explain. Thus, I will never leave the island.

But then, with my forced chastity no longer symbolic, perhaps a hand will be freed. My milkings have offered abundant seed. I remain fecund. Perhaps I will be permitted to spew... in climactic ecstasy rather then meekly coating Brandi’s dish in freezing numbness. Yes, a symbolic end to Master’s diabolic mastery! Orgasm!

Alas, why would she bother?

In my nirvana I conveniently forget about Miss Genevieve, her home completed, visiting on occasion. Mostly her time spent tormenting the local naked males while she languishes on the island between shadowy arms deals.

How could I forget her... her promise to own me?


“Remember, Genevieve, you now own... but he only stands for me,” Master’s tone is pleasant but firm, flexing the potency of her rule.

“Of course, Colonel. You know my thoughts on the wasteful vitality of the virile male.”

I am scared. I should be. For the past month or more, being held in reserve, so to speak, Master has come to be enamored by her castrates, the team seeming to proudly display the evidence of a woman’s ultimate governance over the male... neutering.

‘They crop marvelously,’ Master has quipped, uniform sets of stripes and welts adorning the effeminate flesh of well rounded cheeks. ‘And in not utilizing the elastrator the empty sacs nicely project my emasculation.’

It is true. The trio are not the ‘smoothies’ Master prefers as servants. The former gender of these castrates is apparent... as intended... tiny empty sacs flopping about with every well directed footstep. Though I have noted the penises tend to shrink, Master has countered that with some flamboyant jewelry which tends to draw both the eye... and the viewer’s quick conclusion as to her cruel alteration. Yes, the former male appendages are more bejeweled than mine!

At last I am to be run. Brandi harnesses me to a light riding cart. Miss Genevieve demands the anal hook, one of size, and as Brandi works it well within, I feel the twinges, the beginning of tumescence, the full achievement of which I suspect will not be permitted. Only in Master’s presence and at her whim.    

So I stand in the tacking area as Master and Miss Genevieve exchange thoughts. Bitted and bridled, I cannot offer words of farewell and the discomfort of my infibulated manhood futilely fighting its binding is diminished by my sense of loss and longing.

I will never again feel the security of Master’s controlling hand... in being exhibited, the sense of being needed... of pleasing... of proudly standing and displaying myself for her... the comfort of being owned... the simplicity of life with purpose well defined... the stability of having all needs fulfilled... humble needs... but needs never in want.

I am fed... bathed... exercised... and bedded. And in return I simply need to obey.

I am the wild beast that finds sanguineness in captivity... relieved of the unknown... the unexpected.     

Tears form... not of pain... but remorse. I shall miss Master. She saved me... protected me... graciously trained me to fulfill... a woman’s desires. Yet, there is more reason for remorse.

Master notes my lachrymal state and graciously steps to my side. A familiar sun blackened hand rises, a finger playfully tapping my nose for one last time. I whine into my bit. Master knows I want to speak and this final moment of frustration brings a smile.

I shall not.

“You’ve served well... and will continue to serve well. Miss Genevieve will end your frustration. It is best for you,” her index finger smoothing my left cheek to gather a long stream of moisture, her left thigh pressing forth to wondrously frottage against my penis and scrotum.

Her nearness, her touch, excites! Always!

But my heart throbs otherwise. I am to be neutered. Master knows this. After graciously offering a reprieve years ago, it has been deemed time.

“You’ll have your final moment of male pleasure. Then you will be trained to embrace the curious narcotic of pain. It can be addictive for those forever deprived of ecstasy... almost as addictive as for we who dispense it.”

I feel my waist belt tighten, bearing the stress of a laden cart. Mistress Genevieve has mounted. The reins are gathered. The woman I most despise returns to being in control, now permanently. Master steps away, her smile wry. She knows my testicles are doomed. Hog feed.

There comes a tug, a crisp expertly placed snap of the crop, a throaty ‘giddup’ and without thought I react. Muscles contracting, feet digging, I must labor, my training ingrained despite my abhorrence. Miss Genevieve quickly brings me to a demanding pace... to her new home... to my new life.

As I labor, I cannot help thinking of her words... ‘They all need thoroughness, men like this. They come to appreciate it. And that’s when I enjoy bringing the ultimate capitulation... slow castration. It sends a message... one never to be forgotten.’

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