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?..
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