Neuroplasticity, Segment Three

Doctor Becky presses a button. A young nurse, white uniform, white cap and those white rubber soled shoes never seen outside a medical facility... wherever do they get them?.. enters. She takes a note from the doctor reads and smiles.

“Come with me, Mr. Wells,” her stern tone contrasting her refreshing vibrance.  

“I’ll want to know all the details of your penectomy. Next visit, Mr. Wells,” the doctor demanding more than informing.    

Institute protocol, ridiculous but rigorously applied, is that patients are led about by the hand. Thus I know to offer my left and she takes it in her right.

“You look very pretty for us, Mr. Wells.”

I somewhat blush, in my nakedness assuming she is referencing the purple... violet... whatever... coloring of my truncated phallus. In our stroll, passing nurses and other staff look at me and smile, the younger repressing laughter. Then we pass a display case and I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the glass. I have not seen my face since I was sedated a day or so ago, time difficult to judge in the windowless institute. I am shocked. Something about my eyes... more coloring. And my lips! What have they done to my lips?

I blurt an expletive. I am rebuked.

“No, no, Mr. Wells. No talking unless spoken to, you know that.”

I do. And with the annoying advisement I am looking forward to being returned to my room. No more questions, no more exhibiting myself... and my now limited tattooed organ... no more being led about like a toddler. Though there is no television, no computer, no radio, there are books to read, the selection small and all pulp... romance novellas. Still, I can be left to my thoughts.

But the nurse takes a different turn... and another. She opens a door. It is not my room. In place of a comfortable bed in the corner, there is a padded platform in the center. Thick nylon straps lie in wait... at the pillow end, in the middle, at the feet end.

“Please lie down, Mr. Wells. And I’ll tuck you in nice a safe.”

“What is this?” my words sharp.

“No talking. You’ve been naughty,” the nurse, at least ten years my junior speaking to me as if a child. “You’ll find the Segufix restraints to be very comfortable... in time. Safe, confining yet comfortable. And no masturbation.”

Ah, such which gave rise to the doctor’s note... the naughtiness of so feebly attempting masturbation.

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So I am introduced to the Segufix restraint system. Ankles, thighs, wrists and biceps are encircled in nylon, each restraint in turn attached to the broad straps tightly crossing my body and secured beneath the platform. The locking system is clever, magnetic. I can be quickly freed by anyone with the demagnetizing key. Meanwhile, I cannot move, other then my head. And the nurse forewarned that more naughtiness, more unauthorized speech earns head restraint, gag included. She showed me the gear, resting nearby and in wait for my next transgression.

In capitulation, I will be good. I will be silent. I never thought the ability to turn one’s head would become a luxury.    

Before departing... euphemistically referenced as tucking me in... the nurse produced a hand mirror, apparently in response to catching my refection and the resulting expletive.

“You may as well learn to accept compliments, Mr. Wells,” positioning such that my reflection is more than a glance. “You really are pretty.”

Shocked again, my lips are colored... matching the stub of my penis. And there is something which replicates make up, about the eyes, the lids. Like mascara or shadow... violet... and I am distressed to assume that... like my penis... the coloring is permanent.

What are they doing to me!

I divert my thoughts, the doctor’s parting words. The details of my penectomy...

Unlike the application of justice in the United States, wheels turning slowly, under the Syariah system, sentences are carried out swiftly, almost with immediacy. There must be an appeal system, I think to myself. But to what end? Can a penectomy be reversed? And if so, can my vaunted organ be located for reunion?

Stupid thoughts, indicating the trouble one has... with... with acceptance as Dr. Rebecca Stackhouse has rejoined.

Hustled from the court room, into a van, to a small island hospital. I am amazed to be greeted by a female doctor donning a hijab. She is becoming yet dour, apparently, as with the judge, buying into the girl’s story, the Gerakan Pramuka, that I am a rapist.

I am strapped to a Gurney, wheeled to an operating room, the guards disappeared, relegating me to the medical staff. I mentally try to prepare for the end, if that’s possible for a guy. To be anesthetized, then returned to conscientiousness to view the horror of my sentence, to see a bandaged pubes, after healing wonder of my reaction. Will the revulsion be stifled or controlled?    

But I am not. The doctor explains in accented English.

“Only local anesthesia, American. It’s cheaper, you’ll recover quicker, and you’ll be able to leave the island before there is more trouble.”

The words seem genuine, but there’s a look on her handsome face. Vengeance... the satisfaction thereof bringing Schadenfreude. Will I be made to watch?

And so I depantsed. I am catheterized. The Gurney is adjusted. Cruelly I am forced to sit upright, yes watching as a nurse marks my appendage, ink circling just below the penis tip as the doctor prepares a hypodermic needle. 

Gloved hands lower, fondling in a mocking manner, the doctor seeming to know that normally such palpation gives rise to male gratification. And yes, normally I would enjoy. And indeed I find odd attraction. Why now, with the woman who is about to bring penile carnage? And she’s joyed by the irony, I have no doubt.

I am injected, I am numbed. But then comes spite. The doctor takes the marking pen from the nurse circling my penis again, on this occasion near the base. My eyes widen, there will be little remaining.

“No more sex for you... no more rape for you, American... not here... not anywhere.”

Scalpel in hand she begins, slowly, the deliberation notable, the nurse attentively swabbing the blood. Moments later, when I see the incised penis tip and shaft slip down the catheter tube, the doctor offered needle and sutures, I faint. There is no more to tell, the doctor augmenting Sharia law with a level of punishment of her own, forcing me to observe my alteration... my transformation to a being other than male.

As sleep overcomes, I fear I will dream. It’s always the same... the doctor, in her hijab... she beckons to a waiting Gurney... her words repeat... seemingly throughout every night... ‘no more sex for you, American.’

Neuroplasticity, Segment Two

“It was done quite professionally, Mr. Wells,” Dr. Becky interrupting my discourse. “If there is any consolation, years ago I read you would have been publicly mutilated, chopped by a sword in the town square... possibly bleeding to death.”

Perhaps a better fate, I think but dare not say. Thoughts of death dare not be communicated. I am sure the institute having harsh confinement for those considering self harm... a nicely padded room.

“Plus you were free to leave the country and fly home,” the words curiously suggesting I was offered leniency.

“And was dragged from U.S. Customs and Immigration at the airport and brought before a judge,” I blurt in frustration.

“You are a sex offender. And became the recipient of more leniency. Not yet listed,” the doctor smugly points out.

As long as I pass muster here at the institute, I think to myself. That was the deal, seek professional help or be so listed and placed on probation. Upon entering the institute, even a rudimentary physical revealed the consequences of my Sharia punishment. My penis, now a stub, can harden, but for what purpose? It has the sensitivity of the heel of my foot. And it’s useless for penetrative sex.

“Does your organ harden... during therapy? Any response yet? Neuroplasticity, Mr. Wells, we’re counting on it to bring you back a healthy sex life.”    

Is this therapy pseudo science? I have read that neuroplasticity is the ability of the brain to form and reorganize synaptic connections, especially in response to learning or experience or following injury.

Following injury, yes. To my manhood... to my male pride... to my libido.

Still, how does a guy get himself off with less than half a dick? To crassly state my dilemma!

So, without the frictioning and fondling of my penis tip, the removed underside being where the male receives most if his sensual pleasure, there is no release... no climax... no eruption... no ecstacy. And compounding the dilemma, the hormones build and build, the ostensible leniency in sparing full castration instead bringing a pinnacle of frustration.

“It seems to swell a bit, yes,” I offer, not wishing to seem fully skeptical.

“Good, it’s a start. You’ll find your tending nurses to be quite patient and understanding if you’ll work with them. We’ll soon have you secreting.”

Secreting? Yes, the institute’s euphemism for being depleted of male essence... that which formerly spurted with blissful zeal.

“Why cannot I ejaculate?” I bluntly inquire. “And why is my penis colored? Purple of all shades!”

I was sedated days ago. They did things. I need to understand.

“Calm yourself Mr. Wells, it’s for the best. And it’s really a pretty shade of violet, meant to be attractive.”

“Attractive? Why attractive... there!”

“You need to accept your state, Mr. Wells. The tattooing announces for all to see that you’ve been altered. You’ll not be denying it... not hiding it... and you shouldn’t. The coloring proclaims your alteration and that will mean you must accept it. The self denial ends. You’ve had a penectomy and will no longer function as a normal man.”

Tattooing! I am sickened with the words. My penis stub permanently colored... so gaily!

“And for now we don’t want you ejaculating. We’ve ended that... with Botox injections to your ejaculatory muscles. As I said, you will now secrete. There is no point in erupting. Normal penetrative sex is over. Curious that you’ve attempted masturbation. We have found that such leads to depression and is therefore against institute policy. We know of these things. Let us guide you, begin the process of neuroplasticity.”

Dr. Becky pauses to write on a pad. In exasperation I turn to silence, trying to convince myself that they know best. Besides, it’s my only chance to stay off the sex offenders list and maintain my living as a trustworthy financial consultant. The judge so specified. I am in the hands of Dr. Rebecca Stackhouse. Voluntarily?

Neuroplasticity, Segment One

New Story. Back to female dominant/ male submissive.

Not much feedback on the Nusquam story.

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Neuroplasticity

Copyright 2017

by Chris Bellows

Part One - The Institute

“How do you feel Mr. Wells? Are you becoming comfortable with your therapy?”

A smiling and unctuous Dr. Rebecca Stackhouse inquires, sitting in her huge black leather desk chair. For some reason it seems she’s looking down at me, though I sit at eye level in a straight backed chair.

Ironically I don’t think anyone could feel comfortable being presented naked before a fully clothed woman, hard wooden seat notwithstanding. Feeling spiteful, I ignore the questions, despite knowing there will be consequences.

“Why the markings? I don’t understand.”

“Acceptance. It will help you mentally acclimate to your... ah... your change.”

“It’s humiliating. Will the stuff wash off?”

Dr. Stackhouse... it’s been suggested that I collegially call her Dr. Becky... just mouths the word ‘no’ and smirks. At least that is how I would interpret her condescending response.

“Let’s talk about the events which led to your... ah... transformation, Mr. Wells.”

Again? This so termed therapy seems more like brain washing. Still, though irritating, merely sitting and talking is more acceptable than the more invasive procedures at the institute. And there does come a catharsis, like reflecting on the deceased at a wake.
 
So I talk, on occasion looking to my pubes, which in reaction brings forth despondency followed by a pause. 

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Vacation. I like warmth. I like sunshine. I like exotic. I like native girls. They always seem to like me, though a hundred dollar bill seems to most enhance my charm.

So my travel agent recommends this small island, one of hundreds comprising the country of Indonesia. A long airplane journey, then a boat ride of a few hours, and then I am in paradise... or so it seems.

Yes, I enjoy, initially. And it’s more than just beach and fishing. The native girls are many, young, friendly and conveniently impoverished. Dark hair and eyes, olive skin, the sun seems to make them glow. And once they learn a guy is staying at the only posh hotel within a hundred miles, there is attraction. Perhaps more for my wallet than me, but attraction. And besides, I’m not looking for marriage. It’s all about sex.

Being a thirty year old bachelor, making a good buck as a self employed financial consultant, I indulge. I’m not oversexed, but it’s vacation time, and the native girls seem to be fruit ripe for picking. 

So in the open aired outdoor hotel bar all it requires is one of those fruity rum drinks, a little whisper, the flash of a Benjamin Franklin and it’s to my room. Quick, neat, simple... no strings. After all I’m flying out within a week, and even if the girl could learn my real name and address, I will be thousands of miles from any possible repercussions.

We fuck. Young, tight but surprisingly knowledgeable, the girl certainly earns her portrait of Ben. But in the early morning, in attempting to surreptitiously exit my hotel room, there comes a problem. It seems that in being a significant portion of the small island’s economy, the hotel serves to attract more than well to do tourists. There are thieves, con artists, fake tour guides, hookers etc. And they in turn attract the authorities.

And that is what happens, my one night marriage comes to the attention of the police and the girl is arrested stepping from the elevator.

It is then that I receive an education in Sharia law. Indonesia is a Muslim country.

I am a protestant. The girl is of the Islamic faith. In having relations with a non Muslim under Sharia law she is to be lashed. Putting aside the horror and the agony of such barbaric corporal punishment, young and pretty, the girl knows that to earn more portraits of historical Americans that fine posterior needs not bear evidence of misdeeds, not to mention the grotesqueness of the scars.   

Solution... rape! she cries. I somehow envision her tearfulness while telling her contrived story, suggesting I spiked her fruit drink.

So they believe her, though I suspect the application of gifted tongue and lips to sensitive and welcoming male flesh gave her story more credence. It becomes me under arrest.

To Syariah Court. I have no representation, no access to the American consulate which is on another island hundreds of miles away. Things get worse. Word spreads... forced carnal relations. Dare I say the judge came under pressure? I also learn the term Gerakan Pramuka.

My hooker is a former member of Gerakan Pramuka... the Indonesian girl scouts!      

Such outrage! An upstanding local girl taken advantage of by a hedonistic tourist!

I am prosecuted, I am sentenced... under Sharia law, the judge offering a bizarre form of clemency. No jail time, no castration, I keep my testicles. But I am to be shortened, surgically, my penis to never again penetrate the portals of innocent young women.