A Dilemma
Some how I sleep. Then in arising early, I reach for my pills. Gone.
Madam!
She went through my pockets, ostensibly to obtain new credit card information. For some reason the pills were not returned.
It is too early to make phone calls. I must wait in apprehension. Did Madam intentionally withhold the hormones? Getting them back on a timely basis means returning to her. For some reason the thought is bothersome.
There is traumatic catharsis in visiting the staid Victorian homestead... particularly now that I am aware of the details... a naked, marked and caged castrate in the basement.
By 9:00 a.m. I decide to call the doctor’s office.
“It’s Mr. Grieves. I’ve lost the pills the doctor prescribed for me and will need a replacement.”
The nurse receptionist puts me on hold, returning after several minutes.
“Oh, Mr. Grieves. That compound is now on the controlled substances list. A potential performance enhancing drug... you’ve probably read about the controversy. Legally the doctor cannot give you a refill until the original prescription expires in two weeks. The regulations obstruct possible blackmarket sale.”
“But I don’t have any to take or to sell. They’re lost.”
“Well, I will talk to the doctor and see what we can do. Lots of paperwork to explain what would appear like an over prescription. We must avoid fines and possible sanctions...”
“Please see what you can do.”
She’s young... either unaware of the dire need for hormones or aloof to my plight. I am not comfortable putting my fate in her hands. Then that unprofessional snicker comes to mind when the doctor described the slow transformation in absence of hormone treatment.
Will she go out on a limb for me and re prescribe?
I panic, envisioning myself visiting her office in two weeks for the permitted refill prescription... shrunken penis, puffy nipples, experiencing the mood swings of a pubescent girl.
By midmorning there is no call from the doctor’s office. I am jittery. Too much coffee? Too much concern? I begin to doubt my own judgement. How quickly does a diminished level of hormones affect the capacity to reason?
Finally the phone rings. It is the nurse receptionist.
“The doctor is preparing to leave for a conference. She’s taking the paperwork with her and will fax it here when completed. Then you can come in for a new prescription.”
“How long?”
“Well a couple days, Mr. Grieves. She’s traveling to the west coast, expected to speak at the conference and the required government forms are considerable. A very busy time.”
Too long. I can already feel changes. Psychosomatic?
“Please let me know as soon as possible.”
I hang up, my hand shaking. I cannot wait. Gaping at my discolored scrotum is distressing enough. Now I must live in wonder as to whether my penis is shrinking!
I conclude I have no choice but to phone Madam. Could it be she’s expecting my call?
Saturday, October 27, 2012
Saturday, October 20, 2012
'Madam, Me and It' - Part XII - Reflections
Reflections on the Caging of It
I return home and decide to soak, that dull ache returning. I run the bath water, strip and inspect below as the doctor recommended. No discernible change.
Is that good or bad?
The tub fills. I step within, the soothing heat calming to engender thoughts.
Before departing the basement, Madam poured from a large industrial looking metal can a most insalubrious sludge. Cloudy and thick the oozing mass proved to be the lard, Its mainstay nutrition. It slithered into the funnel, gravity to eventually forcefully introduce the mass to Its stomach. Just as with the touching of his altered penis, It lurched in his bonds, a silent and feeble protest, despite knowing that Madam’s plumping efforts are without end... and to be administered without compunction.
Daunting was her invitation, the hint of being likewise caged. The thought cannot be put aside.
‘I have clients, other than those in need of strict feminine guidance,’ Madam suggested. ‘It accommodates. But they would welcome fresh... opportunity...’ enunciating the term most ominously.
She noted my look of intrigue.
‘Yes, one is a policewoman. Ironically she knows all about It and his financial peccadilloes. It is not aware that when I tire of him, I’ll have him taken into custody in a whisker. Meanwhile the policewoman enjoys caning him. As stated, It still can squeal. And his plump softened flesh can be quite inviting for a woman of certain tastes.’
How can my anger with It possibly overcome my thoughts of pity? It will live a life of abject obedience, bonding with the woman who castrated, only in the end to serve the prison time he has so wantonly tried to avoid. And in the interim be regularly caned to boot.
‘How are you in taking a strap on, Mr. Grieves? You’d be surprised how prevalent is the craving of some women to vanquish anally...’
Teasing words... taunting words, Madam is so cognizant of the needs of males of my ilk. And in having castrated It, she is much attuned... actually more attuned... to what I am facing. The doctor’s advice... more akin to a lecture... most likely only scratches the surface of the life I face without functioning balls. Yet Madam knows.
In returning to Madam’s dining-room-turned-dungeon she cleverly stood most proximate, her leash hand lifting well over my head, tugging at the broad neck collar, forcing up my face. Looking straight up into my eyes as I had to rise to my toes, she inquired...
‘Do you feel anything, Mr. Grieves?’
I replied yes, the tension on my neck not to be ignored.
‘Anything else?’
I shook my head as best I could.
Her action with the leash was a diversion. With her free hand she was grasping my testicles, apparently gripping quite firmly... and I felt nothing!
Failing her test... perhaps in her mind passing her test... brought an outright cackle.
‘They’re dead... dead and useless. You’ll succumb. Perhaps in a month... if not less. You’re a man of special needs, Mr. Grieves. I know, I make a bountiful living catering to such. And trust me when I say... your needs will now become stronger... and more deviant.’
She lowered the leash allowing me to look downward at her clenched hand.
‘Curious what happens when a man loses these. Enlightening for a woman of my propensities... and entertaining...’
Despite the warmth of the bath water, I shudder again in recalling her... her threat?.. her prognostication?..
I return home and decide to soak, that dull ache returning. I run the bath water, strip and inspect below as the doctor recommended. No discernible change.
Is that good or bad?
The tub fills. I step within, the soothing heat calming to engender thoughts.
Before departing the basement, Madam poured from a large industrial looking metal can a most insalubrious sludge. Cloudy and thick the oozing mass proved to be the lard, Its mainstay nutrition. It slithered into the funnel, gravity to eventually forcefully introduce the mass to Its stomach. Just as with the touching of his altered penis, It lurched in his bonds, a silent and feeble protest, despite knowing that Madam’s plumping efforts are without end... and to be administered without compunction.
Daunting was her invitation, the hint of being likewise caged. The thought cannot be put aside.
‘I have clients, other than those in need of strict feminine guidance,’ Madam suggested. ‘It accommodates. But they would welcome fresh... opportunity...’ enunciating the term most ominously.
She noted my look of intrigue.
‘Yes, one is a policewoman. Ironically she knows all about It and his financial peccadilloes. It is not aware that when I tire of him, I’ll have him taken into custody in a whisker. Meanwhile the policewoman enjoys caning him. As stated, It still can squeal. And his plump softened flesh can be quite inviting for a woman of certain tastes.’
How can my anger with It possibly overcome my thoughts of pity? It will live a life of abject obedience, bonding with the woman who castrated, only in the end to serve the prison time he has so wantonly tried to avoid. And in the interim be regularly caned to boot.
‘How are you in taking a strap on, Mr. Grieves? You’d be surprised how prevalent is the craving of some women to vanquish anally...’
Teasing words... taunting words, Madam is so cognizant of the needs of males of my ilk. And in having castrated It, she is much attuned... actually more attuned... to what I am facing. The doctor’s advice... more akin to a lecture... most likely only scratches the surface of the life I face without functioning balls. Yet Madam knows.
In returning to Madam’s dining-room-turned-dungeon she cleverly stood most proximate, her leash hand lifting well over my head, tugging at the broad neck collar, forcing up my face. Looking straight up into my eyes as I had to rise to my toes, she inquired...
‘Do you feel anything, Mr. Grieves?’
I replied yes, the tension on my neck not to be ignored.
‘Anything else?’
I shook my head as best I could.
Her action with the leash was a diversion. With her free hand she was grasping my testicles, apparently gripping quite firmly... and I felt nothing!
Failing her test... perhaps in her mind passing her test... brought an outright cackle.
‘They’re dead... dead and useless. You’ll succumb. Perhaps in a month... if not less. You’re a man of special needs, Mr. Grieves. I know, I make a bountiful living catering to such. And trust me when I say... your needs will now become stronger... and more deviant.’
She lowered the leash allowing me to look downward at her clenched hand.
‘Curious what happens when a man loses these. Enlightening for a woman of my propensities... and entertaining...’
Despite the warmth of the bath water, I shudder again in recalling her... her threat?.. her prognostication?..
Saturday, October 13, 2012
'Madam, Me and It' - Part XI - Visiting It
Visiting It
I remain silent in thought as Madam ends her monologue, watching her move to the wall of torment. She selects a thick leather collar and cuffs.
“I assume you’ll enjoy being walked on a leash,” lifting my head to buckle on the neck collar.
Next my wrists are released from the straps of the table and matching cuffs are buckled in place. Then the waist strap is released, the forearm straps and I am directed to sit up.
“Some day I will walk you... outside. Public nudity can offer quite the degrading thrill,” spoken as my wrists are drawn behind me and secured together.
Her words indeed thrill. But it is different, a peculiar emotional reaction not felt during the many visits... when intact. There is no sexual rush, so to speak. Instead more like that of a neglected child being returned to the comforting arms of his/her mother.
A leash is retrieved, quickly snapping onto my neck collar. Lastly the thigh and ankle straps are released, freeing me from the straps.
“Come,” the simple command offered with a brief controlling tug.
I step from the jerking table and follow, gazing at Madam with adulation. Curious that over the many months I have had rare opportunity to visually indulge. As stated, quite athletically shaped, Madam is a handsome woman. She forgoes glamor, but is professionally attired... white silk blouse, a dark blue skirt which suggests but does not overly reveal. Hair neatly coiffed, she wears limited jewelry, expensive but not ostentatious.
Led outdoors, she would appear to be a successful attorney walking her pet... with the sole element of kink being the latter is naked and human.
Down a set of stairs, as suggested It is kept caged in the basement.
“With It being wanted by the authorities, I am sure you understand the precautions. He is revealed to very few clients. And only to those with whom I have a long relationship.”
The basement is high ceilinged. We step past the pulley, that which I assume hoisted It by his nuts. In a distant alcove I spy the gleam of shining metal. Polished stainless steel, bars, vertical and thick. Such form cages, a little higher than the waist. In one kneels the shocking and hideous form of It.
Madam directs to the front, wordlessly permitting me to visually partake.
I feel a degree of anger, facing the cannibalistic beast that so direly altered. But then comes a sense pity.
On all fours, the first thing that impresses is the stout tube emanating from Its mouth. The thick rubber ends in the shape of an upturned funnel. It suggests caprice... wicked feminine caprice... in that anything introduced to the funnel immediately flows downward into the mouth and, if I properly surmise Madam’s resolve, further into the stomach.
“A gastric tube?” I must inquire.
“It sometimes has trouble with his diet. The tube facilitates his feeding. Early on he resisted... foolishly resisted... when I decided to fatten him. Now the lard just glides into his stomach. Lots of lard... and anything else I decide he is to ingest.”
It peers through the bars. The eyes beseech, the glow of the whites pierce the dimness as the face and bald head have been tattooed dark shades of red and blue. I note the ears are pierced, not only cheap little girl earrings dangle from the lobes, but the cartilage at the top, left and right, have thickly gauged loops. Slim chains are strung from the loops to the top bars constantly holding up Its head. The wrists are tethered to the side bars with nylon straps similar to those on the jerking table as are the ankles as well.
It is evident that though the restraints are simple, It and the cage are one, the ear chains mandating that he at all times kneel upright... never to rest prostrate or supine.
“He does not lie down... to sleep?”
“Sleep is a privilege to be meted by his owner. Makes him eager to see me. Isn’t that right It?” Madam extending a free hand through the bars.
She cups the right breast. The gland, as with the left, remains uncolored and diverts attention to a meaty globe topped by a puffy effeminate nipple. Madam playfully caresses, completing her manipulation with a gentle milking motion. A sigh of delight erupts from somewhere in Its altered and intubated throat.
“Amazing the hormonal transition. His mammary glands have the sensitivity of a young girl.”
I am chagrined to understand it is true, the doctor’s words concerning undesirable effects coming to mind.
Madam steps to the side pulling on my leash, permitting a profile view. The body art is crude and without form or substance. One may as well have painted the flesh with a broad brush to attain the results. There the buttocks are natural in color but with terrifying brands as noted... the letter ‘M’ emblazoned on keloided flesh at the apex of each hillock.
It is catheterized, the tube clamped shut. Madam heeds my stare.
“Yes, I control what goes into him... and when it comes out as well. It is best for him.”
My heart sinks with the full cognition of Its plight, of the unfathomable level of control and governance ceded to a woman who not only has such incredible power... but utilizes it with such glee.
Permanently colored, appearing like a jungle bird, Its fate is sealed. Continued existence is either under Madam’s exacting tutelage or in jail.
Madam again thrusts her free hand through the bars, palming the perineum where the intact male proudly exhibits his virility.
“All gone,” she mocks, the digits apparently freely tantalizing.
Then she grasps the catheter and draws into view as best she can the penis of a toddler.
“I had him partially degloved after I read somewhere that castrated males can still achieve an element of pleasure by way of the penis tip. Simple to remove that oversensitive patch of flesh. Not much larger than a thumb nail. A couple weeks of daily acid baths for the remaining shaft sealed the transition. He no longer has any desire to play here... instead he’d rather play with the likes of yours, Mr. Grieves,” Madam’s chuckle particularly venomous.
Yes, the penis tip is deformed indeed and I note that It stirs, tugging in anguish against his bonds. When Madam releases the tiny organ, It resumes his pose of obedient supplication. The shrunken strip of flesh is sore to the touch.
“So there you have it, Mr. Grieves. We bond... castrated and castratrix. Everything It has... everything It needs... comes from me,” explaining as she steps to the adjacent cage.
It is identical. Empty, nylon straps at the four corners await some miscreant occupant. Madam’s free hand pats the top bars as if to invite.
“A rather benumbing existence... for the intact. But as I alluded, think of the capon. The once virile creature merely sits about, abundantly fed, awaiting slaughter. For some it’s appropriate. For the emasculated male, life’s needs are quite diminished.”
Madam looks me straight in the eye. Her stare disconcerts as much as her words.
“You will find the comfort of sleep to be greatly enhanced when it becomes a privilege... one granted by a superior woman. Yes, it will be one of life’s diminished needs which I will ration... closely.”
I shudder.
I remain silent in thought as Madam ends her monologue, watching her move to the wall of torment. She selects a thick leather collar and cuffs.
“I assume you’ll enjoy being walked on a leash,” lifting my head to buckle on the neck collar.
Next my wrists are released from the straps of the table and matching cuffs are buckled in place. Then the waist strap is released, the forearm straps and I am directed to sit up.
“Some day I will walk you... outside. Public nudity can offer quite the degrading thrill,” spoken as my wrists are drawn behind me and secured together.
Her words indeed thrill. But it is different, a peculiar emotional reaction not felt during the many visits... when intact. There is no sexual rush, so to speak. Instead more like that of a neglected child being returned to the comforting arms of his/her mother.
A leash is retrieved, quickly snapping onto my neck collar. Lastly the thigh and ankle straps are released, freeing me from the straps.
“Come,” the simple command offered with a brief controlling tug.
I step from the jerking table and follow, gazing at Madam with adulation. Curious that over the many months I have had rare opportunity to visually indulge. As stated, quite athletically shaped, Madam is a handsome woman. She forgoes glamor, but is professionally attired... white silk blouse, a dark blue skirt which suggests but does not overly reveal. Hair neatly coiffed, she wears limited jewelry, expensive but not ostentatious.
Led outdoors, she would appear to be a successful attorney walking her pet... with the sole element of kink being the latter is naked and human.
Down a set of stairs, as suggested It is kept caged in the basement.
“With It being wanted by the authorities, I am sure you understand the precautions. He is revealed to very few clients. And only to those with whom I have a long relationship.”
The basement is high ceilinged. We step past the pulley, that which I assume hoisted It by his nuts. In a distant alcove I spy the gleam of shining metal. Polished stainless steel, bars, vertical and thick. Such form cages, a little higher than the waist. In one kneels the shocking and hideous form of It.
Madam directs to the front, wordlessly permitting me to visually partake.
I feel a degree of anger, facing the cannibalistic beast that so direly altered. But then comes a sense pity.
On all fours, the first thing that impresses is the stout tube emanating from Its mouth. The thick rubber ends in the shape of an upturned funnel. It suggests caprice... wicked feminine caprice... in that anything introduced to the funnel immediately flows downward into the mouth and, if I properly surmise Madam’s resolve, further into the stomach.
“A gastric tube?” I must inquire.
“It sometimes has trouble with his diet. The tube facilitates his feeding. Early on he resisted... foolishly resisted... when I decided to fatten him. Now the lard just glides into his stomach. Lots of lard... and anything else I decide he is to ingest.”
It peers through the bars. The eyes beseech, the glow of the whites pierce the dimness as the face and bald head have been tattooed dark shades of red and blue. I note the ears are pierced, not only cheap little girl earrings dangle from the lobes, but the cartilage at the top, left and right, have thickly gauged loops. Slim chains are strung from the loops to the top bars constantly holding up Its head. The wrists are tethered to the side bars with nylon straps similar to those on the jerking table as are the ankles as well.
It is evident that though the restraints are simple, It and the cage are one, the ear chains mandating that he at all times kneel upright... never to rest prostrate or supine.
“He does not lie down... to sleep?”
“Sleep is a privilege to be meted by his owner. Makes him eager to see me. Isn’t that right It?” Madam extending a free hand through the bars.
She cups the right breast. The gland, as with the left, remains uncolored and diverts attention to a meaty globe topped by a puffy effeminate nipple. Madam playfully caresses, completing her manipulation with a gentle milking motion. A sigh of delight erupts from somewhere in Its altered and intubated throat.
“Amazing the hormonal transition. His mammary glands have the sensitivity of a young girl.”
I am chagrined to understand it is true, the doctor’s words concerning undesirable effects coming to mind.
Madam steps to the side pulling on my leash, permitting a profile view. The body art is crude and without form or substance. One may as well have painted the flesh with a broad brush to attain the results. There the buttocks are natural in color but with terrifying brands as noted... the letter ‘M’ emblazoned on keloided flesh at the apex of each hillock.
It is catheterized, the tube clamped shut. Madam heeds my stare.
“Yes, I control what goes into him... and when it comes out as well. It is best for him.”
My heart sinks with the full cognition of Its plight, of the unfathomable level of control and governance ceded to a woman who not only has such incredible power... but utilizes it with such glee.
Permanently colored, appearing like a jungle bird, Its fate is sealed. Continued existence is either under Madam’s exacting tutelage or in jail.
Madam again thrusts her free hand through the bars, palming the perineum where the intact male proudly exhibits his virility.
“All gone,” she mocks, the digits apparently freely tantalizing.
Then she grasps the catheter and draws into view as best she can the penis of a toddler.
“I had him partially degloved after I read somewhere that castrated males can still achieve an element of pleasure by way of the penis tip. Simple to remove that oversensitive patch of flesh. Not much larger than a thumb nail. A couple weeks of daily acid baths for the remaining shaft sealed the transition. He no longer has any desire to play here... instead he’d rather play with the likes of yours, Mr. Grieves,” Madam’s chuckle particularly venomous.
Yes, the penis tip is deformed indeed and I note that It stirs, tugging in anguish against his bonds. When Madam releases the tiny organ, It resumes his pose of obedient supplication. The shrunken strip of flesh is sore to the touch.
“So there you have it, Mr. Grieves. We bond... castrated and castratrix. Everything It has... everything It needs... comes from me,” explaining as she steps to the adjacent cage.
It is identical. Empty, nylon straps at the four corners await some miscreant occupant. Madam’s free hand pats the top bars as if to invite.
“A rather benumbing existence... for the intact. But as I alluded, think of the capon. The once virile creature merely sits about, abundantly fed, awaiting slaughter. For some it’s appropriate. For the emasculated male, life’s needs are quite diminished.”
Madam looks me straight in the eye. Her stare disconcerts as much as her words.
“You will find the comfort of sleep to be greatly enhanced when it becomes a privilege... one granted by a superior woman. Yes, it will be one of life’s diminished needs which I will ration... closely.”
I shudder.
Saturday, October 6, 2012
'Madam, Me and It' - Part X - Its Story II
Its Story... as related by Madam - Part II
My client, having lost use of his testicles, was not heard from... a few weeks as best as I can remember. Then, as discussed, there came this need to bond. But the need was more then psychological. It seems the generous tribute offered, compensation for week after week of long double sessions, was not entirely his to give.
Yes, my client was both deviant and devious. A crook. A very successful crook for a while, embezzling many thousands. One can offer conjecture about his slip up. Would his ill gotten gains be discovered had he remained intact?
I am sure they’ve made you aware of potential emotional changes. And I shall forever wonder whether the loss of male self esteem led to diminished reasoning. Perhaps there came a need to be exposed... so to speak.
Well, if so, the need was transient, for he called here in desperation. To be succinct he was wanted by the authorities... still is wanted... and had no place to go. All those years of theft and no back up plan... no arrangements for going on the lam.
‘I have money,’ he cautiously whispered over the phone.
Well, that proved riveting... ‘lots of money’ he added... further piquing my interest.
So I invited him to stay, demanding that he must earn his keep... though I must say the satchel of cash he brought was impressive. Quite the thief.
Well, obviously It cannot venture outside the home. And to assure his identity remained secret I forced him to agree to modifications. Not a very challenging decision for the neutered and the desperate. It had little choice... jail or my dominion. And with me holding his purloined cash, there was not much chance of hiring an accomplished attorney. Public defender’s are good at plea bargaining. It would serve much time but for my benevolence.
First thing, those useless gonads had to go. Though non functioning, they imbued a degree of male pride I deemed he should not have. An elastrator and a few days completed what my pulley and hoist had begun. Pitifully simple to remove.
Next I bought a tattoo machine. You’ve seen the results. I’m afraid I am not very skilled and probably should have begun learning the art somewhere other than his face and head. But so be it. And the tears... with the hormone imbalance It wept like a little girl... day after day. The verbal protests became annoying. So I had a doctor friend silence him... though It can still squeal like a little piglet.
My client, having lost use of his testicles, was not heard from... a few weeks as best as I can remember. Then, as discussed, there came this need to bond. But the need was more then psychological. It seems the generous tribute offered, compensation for week after week of long double sessions, was not entirely his to give.
Yes, my client was both deviant and devious. A crook. A very successful crook for a while, embezzling many thousands. One can offer conjecture about his slip up. Would his ill gotten gains be discovered had he remained intact?
I am sure they’ve made you aware of potential emotional changes. And I shall forever wonder whether the loss of male self esteem led to diminished reasoning. Perhaps there came a need to be exposed... so to speak.
Well, if so, the need was transient, for he called here in desperation. To be succinct he was wanted by the authorities... still is wanted... and had no place to go. All those years of theft and no back up plan... no arrangements for going on the lam.
‘I have money,’ he cautiously whispered over the phone.
Well, that proved riveting... ‘lots of money’ he added... further piquing my interest.
So I invited him to stay, demanding that he must earn his keep... though I must say the satchel of cash he brought was impressive. Quite the thief.
Well, obviously It cannot venture outside the home. And to assure his identity remained secret I forced him to agree to modifications. Not a very challenging decision for the neutered and the desperate. It had little choice... jail or my dominion. And with me holding his purloined cash, there was not much chance of hiring an accomplished attorney. Public defender’s are good at plea bargaining. It would serve much time but for my benevolence.
First thing, those useless gonads had to go. Though non functioning, they imbued a degree of male pride I deemed he should not have. An elastrator and a few days completed what my pulley and hoist had begun. Pitifully simple to remove.
Next I bought a tattoo machine. You’ve seen the results. I’m afraid I am not very skilled and probably should have begun learning the art somewhere other than his face and head. But so be it. And the tears... with the hormone imbalance It wept like a little girl... day after day. The verbal protests became annoying. So I had a doctor friend silence him... though It can still squeal like a little piglet.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
