This will be the last posted segment. Hope you enjoy the full story.
CB
*********************************************************************************
Has it been a week?
I ponder as for exercise a nurse walks me about the institute. I receive many looks. Holding hands, led about like a child, I tend to amuse and for some reason it no longer disturbs, not as much when first led to the doctor’s office.
Over my bed, if the padded strap-laden platform can be so termed, a mirror has been mounted on the ceiling. Thus for many hours per day, before lights out, I lie immobile in my Segufix bonds peering at myself. This therapy, the need to acclimate to my forced transformation, includes not only changing my appearance, but ensuring that I am mentally, emotionally aware.
Augmenting the permanent make up... tattooed lips and eyes... the grooming of my hair has continued. Longer, it’s in the style of a page boy, squarely trimmed at the jaw line. Balls remaining harnessed there is only my colored stubby penis to be seen at my pubes. So small, so insensitive. It now merely serves to drain my bladder.
And my body hair... where is it? When bathed, whatever lotion is used to cleanse does smell harsh and gives rise to strong tingling. Is such a depilatory?
So I am aware, my appearance growing more effeminate daily.
There is concern. But ah, there’s the feather and the nurse’s unending short and teasing strokes. In the tedium, the interminable intervals of being in bondage, awaiting morning ablutions, I think of how good her attention feels. And it seems to feel better each day.
During this morning’s session... impelling neuroplasticity... a second nurse joined us. A woman of color, tall, shapely but more in an athletic sense than womanly, she stood before my nakedness as I knelt on all fours, the feather working scrotum and anus. She smiled with my initial moan of delight, seeming to take pride... like having accomplished something. Then her hands extended, lowering to my chest. Her fingers began toying with my nipples. For some reason such have grown puffy, somewhat protruding. Yes she fondled, and with the added delight I moaned anew. Then I felt some twinges, about my sphincter, that being so tantalizingly feathered. With that, the free hand of the feathering nurse went to the purple of my penis stub, quickly and most evanescently exploring.
I looked down, between the hands and tweaking black fingers at my chest. There was ooze, creamy white streaming from the purple tattooing.
‘How do you feel, Mr. Wells?’ the black nurse gently inquired with a beaming smile.
I just nodded, gasping for breath. Something was happening, my loins giving. Slowly I became tranquil, quiescent. Oddly, I began to feel like I had just run a fast mile, been well exercised. Exhaustion was looming.
For many moments the feathering continued, the fingers toying my nipples. Then all energy just drained away and I slumped to the stainless steel surface, unable to remain on all fours.
‘Your first anal orgasm, Mr. Wells.’
Did I hear properly when the black nurse added the exclamation ‘good girl’?
Saturday, August 19, 2017
Friday, August 18, 2017
Neuroplasticity published
I have published the referenced story.
Female dominant, male submissive, what I believe is a unique story line.
46,900 words. $9.00
Enjoy
Female dominant, male submissive, what I believe is a unique story line.
46,900 words. $9.00
Enjoy
http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/neuroplasticity/21322152
Saturday, August 12, 2017
Neuroplasticity, Segment Five
“Do you like your new garment, Mr. Wells? Or do you prefer to be completely naked?”
I sit in the straight backed chair rather gingerly, enduring the endless questions of Dr. Rebecca Stackhouse.
“It’s... it’s okay. Difficult to sit,” for some reason my voice meek.
“Yes, you do have to be careful. It’s a drawback. But the harness nicely tucks away your testicles... your remnants of maleness... don’t you think?”
It does. My sole garment can only be described as a jockstrap... but worn backwards, tightly cradling my scrotum and precious balls and pulling back such that they nest in the crevice of my buttocks. Thus I carefully sit upright, not wishing to crush what were given leniency by the Syariah Court.
But of more concern, the straps at the front, splitting to form a ‘V’, serve to highlight my purple... violet... appendage, forcing the tiny stub to thrust forward. As I am walked about the institute, hand in hand with a supervising nurse, onlookers cannot doubt that I have been altered. Balls not to be seen, only that left behind by the doctor’s scalpel.
“Why?” my meekness bringing distress.
“Once again, Mr. Wells. You need to accept your status... no longer an intact man. The ball harness... as the girls like to term it... veils your male bits. You’d not want anyone to think you’re potent would you? That would be deceptive.”
There’s a pause, the doctor letting that thought percolate. I choose not to reply.
“You’re beginning to look pretty for us, Mr. Wells. What do you think of your hair style?”
In completing the morning feathering, I was bathed and groomed as the nurse suggested. But the grooming included effeminate styling of my hair, approaching shoulder length in not having visited the barber since beginning my terrorizing vacation. Parted in the middle, my locks fall straight down, evenly trimmed over my ears. I also have bangs and upon being offered a quick glimpse in the mirror I was shocked to see the reflection of a boyish looking girl, the coloring of my lips and eyes highlighted by my jet black hair.
“It’s... well... girlish.”
The doctor just nods, letting me stew on the words.
“Let’s talk about your penectomy. I think it would be cathartic for you. Every detail please, though I’m sure with the anesthesia you can’t recall everything.”
Can’t recall after I passed out, anesthesia not offered other then some novocaine.
There is reluctance, bad enough that the Muslim doctor beckons me every night in my dreams... Gurney... straps... catheter... scalpel. Her stern yet attractive image has become a succubus. I try to forget, yet I must recollect... accede to the therapy... must avoid being listed as a sex offender, the equivalent of economic death in terms of my career as a financial consultant.
So I tell of my penectomy. And it seems it requires more time to relate the story than it took to separate me from my penis.
I sit in the straight backed chair rather gingerly, enduring the endless questions of Dr. Rebecca Stackhouse.
“It’s... it’s okay. Difficult to sit,” for some reason my voice meek.
“Yes, you do have to be careful. It’s a drawback. But the harness nicely tucks away your testicles... your remnants of maleness... don’t you think?”
It does. My sole garment can only be described as a jockstrap... but worn backwards, tightly cradling my scrotum and precious balls and pulling back such that they nest in the crevice of my buttocks. Thus I carefully sit upright, not wishing to crush what were given leniency by the Syariah Court.
But of more concern, the straps at the front, splitting to form a ‘V’, serve to highlight my purple... violet... appendage, forcing the tiny stub to thrust forward. As I am walked about the institute, hand in hand with a supervising nurse, onlookers cannot doubt that I have been altered. Balls not to be seen, only that left behind by the doctor’s scalpel.
“Why?” my meekness bringing distress.
“Once again, Mr. Wells. You need to accept your status... no longer an intact man. The ball harness... as the girls like to term it... veils your male bits. You’d not want anyone to think you’re potent would you? That would be deceptive.”
There’s a pause, the doctor letting that thought percolate. I choose not to reply.
“You’re beginning to look pretty for us, Mr. Wells. What do you think of your hair style?”
In completing the morning feathering, I was bathed and groomed as the nurse suggested. But the grooming included effeminate styling of my hair, approaching shoulder length in not having visited the barber since beginning my terrorizing vacation. Parted in the middle, my locks fall straight down, evenly trimmed over my ears. I also have bangs and upon being offered a quick glimpse in the mirror I was shocked to see the reflection of a boyish looking girl, the coloring of my lips and eyes highlighted by my jet black hair.
“It’s... well... girlish.”
The doctor just nods, letting me stew on the words.
“Let’s talk about your penectomy. I think it would be cathartic for you. Every detail please, though I’m sure with the anesthesia you can’t recall everything.”
Can’t recall after I passed out, anesthesia not offered other then some novocaine.
There is reluctance, bad enough that the Muslim doctor beckons me every night in my dreams... Gurney... straps... catheter... scalpel. Her stern yet attractive image has become a succubus. I try to forget, yet I must recollect... accede to the therapy... must avoid being listed as a sex offender, the equivalent of economic death in terms of my career as a financial consultant.
So I tell of my penectomy. And it seems it requires more time to relate the story than it took to separate me from my penis.
Saturday, August 5, 2017
Neuroplasticity, Segment Four
I awaken. Is it morning? The room is pitch black. Thus I don’t know but am relieved that I no longer see the Muslin doctor... the hijab... hear her words... see her gesturing for me to lie again on the Gurney.
But my relief lasts not. It suddenly occurs to me... therapy completed... sex offender’s list avoided... how is it I will be able to interact with my clients? Lips a lurid violet, eye make permanently projecting... projecting what?
The concern is joined by the need to urinate. I dare not wet my bed, if that is what the platform is termed. Fortunately the door opens, the room alights.
“Good morning, Mr. Wells. Time for a toilet visit, some bathing, some grooming, some therapy.”
The nurse is cheery. I am cheered as well in noting a degree of maturity. Tall, no doubt seasoned, hand and fingers work to quickly release the magnetic locking posts, the straps folded away, the many encircling bands of nylon slipped off.
I slide from the table and stand, knowing to let her take my hand. It’s protocol... to be walked about.
Out the door, down the hall, there is urgency... for the bathroom. Yet I know it will not come... not a normal visit. There seems to be another institute protocol... I am to be handled. So it’s into this curious medical room, well stock with implements, devices, towels, tubing, plumbing, where I know to mount a stainless steel table used for examination and bathing, as suggested.
This being some fourth or fifth visit, I know to patiently kneel on all fours, waiting for permission to urinate... always waiting for permission to do anything. The nurse prepares.
“You’re becoming, Mr. Wells. The coloring... very... well... pretty,” the compliment if indeed a compliment coming as she grasps a basin and approaches.
I further part my knees, oddly relieved in feeling my remaining male bits swing about between my thighs, castration avoided. Then I feel the hands as the woman in white positions herself behind me, left hand cupping my scrotal sac to gently pull back, thumb and index finger of the right finding the tiny stub of a once proud, now gaily colored penis.
“Psst, psst,” she encourages.
I need no further inspiration, despite the ignominy instantly opening myself, chagrined to note the flow no longer to be a stream but a sloppy spray in need of direction... a woman’s direction.
Emptied, I am dried like a infant. Then as expected, a suppository is slipped into a well exposed anus, a finger remaining impaling me to assure... well... to assure a maximize sense of vulnerability and embarrassment I suppose.
Why can I not have covering?
“Get you emptied... number one and number two. Then we’ll stimulate some synaptic response... impel some neuroplasticity,” the nurse lectures.
The suppository works, I am sure of clinical strength, not of the home use variety. Plus the inserted finger wriggles about, further assuring the need to defecate. Within moments the nurse detects contractions. The basin is repositioned and I again relieve myself... number two... under close supervision. It’s daunting.
To a waiting toilet, the basin is emptied, excretions flushed, the nurse returning with a tray. A moist towelette cleanses me, its use normally for infants. Then comes the stimulation I both crave and detest.
The left hand palms the front of my scrotum drawing it back towards my nurse. The right hand, thumb and index finger grasping a feather, begins to work the sensitive thin pink flesh, ever so teasingly grazing, then smoothing upward to likewise graze my perineum then my sphincter, flesh there of equal sensitivity. The fingers work, mechanically, relentlessly, applying the feather, on occasion withdrawing as I take gulps of air then lowly moan with the comparative ecstasy. Many weeks of chastity, my altered sex thirsts for attention. The feather it’s... it’s so devilish yet so welcomed.
The joy is so distant yet feels so good. I am essentially being masturbated, yet there is no ultimate reaction... can be no ultimate reaction. The doctor explaining that the ejaculatory muscles have been squelched, Botox obviating contraction.
Still there is neuroplasticity... at least it is assumed... it is hoped. Priming the brain to form and reorganize synaptic connections, in response to or following injury. And I have certainly been injured, my instrument of sexual prowess incised, last seen being slipped away, down a catheter tube.
I take deep breaths. I pull with my PC muscles, that which normally gives rise to many wads of thick white spunk.
Nothing happens... other than soft laughter emanating from she in control.
“Such effort... so little results, Mr. Wells. But give it time. Your brain will rewire. Anal stimulation will bring pleasure... ecstatic pleasure with enough daily therapy. Anal orgasms... you’ll come to so much enjoy and savor. And the pituitary injections will help.”
Pituitary injections?
But my relief lasts not. It suddenly occurs to me... therapy completed... sex offender’s list avoided... how is it I will be able to interact with my clients? Lips a lurid violet, eye make permanently projecting... projecting what?
The concern is joined by the need to urinate. I dare not wet my bed, if that is what the platform is termed. Fortunately the door opens, the room alights.
“Good morning, Mr. Wells. Time for a toilet visit, some bathing, some grooming, some therapy.”
The nurse is cheery. I am cheered as well in noting a degree of maturity. Tall, no doubt seasoned, hand and fingers work to quickly release the magnetic locking posts, the straps folded away, the many encircling bands of nylon slipped off.
I slide from the table and stand, knowing to let her take my hand. It’s protocol... to be walked about.
Out the door, down the hall, there is urgency... for the bathroom. Yet I know it will not come... not a normal visit. There seems to be another institute protocol... I am to be handled. So it’s into this curious medical room, well stock with implements, devices, towels, tubing, plumbing, where I know to mount a stainless steel table used for examination and bathing, as suggested.
This being some fourth or fifth visit, I know to patiently kneel on all fours, waiting for permission to urinate... always waiting for permission to do anything. The nurse prepares.
“You’re becoming, Mr. Wells. The coloring... very... well... pretty,” the compliment if indeed a compliment coming as she grasps a basin and approaches.
I further part my knees, oddly relieved in feeling my remaining male bits swing about between my thighs, castration avoided. Then I feel the hands as the woman in white positions herself behind me, left hand cupping my scrotal sac to gently pull back, thumb and index finger of the right finding the tiny stub of a once proud, now gaily colored penis.
“Psst, psst,” she encourages.
I need no further inspiration, despite the ignominy instantly opening myself, chagrined to note the flow no longer to be a stream but a sloppy spray in need of direction... a woman’s direction.
Emptied, I am dried like a infant. Then as expected, a suppository is slipped into a well exposed anus, a finger remaining impaling me to assure... well... to assure a maximize sense of vulnerability and embarrassment I suppose.
Why can I not have covering?
“Get you emptied... number one and number two. Then we’ll stimulate some synaptic response... impel some neuroplasticity,” the nurse lectures.
The suppository works, I am sure of clinical strength, not of the home use variety. Plus the inserted finger wriggles about, further assuring the need to defecate. Within moments the nurse detects contractions. The basin is repositioned and I again relieve myself... number two... under close supervision. It’s daunting.
To a waiting toilet, the basin is emptied, excretions flushed, the nurse returning with a tray. A moist towelette cleanses me, its use normally for infants. Then comes the stimulation I both crave and detest.
The left hand palms the front of my scrotum drawing it back towards my nurse. The right hand, thumb and index finger grasping a feather, begins to work the sensitive thin pink flesh, ever so teasingly grazing, then smoothing upward to likewise graze my perineum then my sphincter, flesh there of equal sensitivity. The fingers work, mechanically, relentlessly, applying the feather, on occasion withdrawing as I take gulps of air then lowly moan with the comparative ecstasy. Many weeks of chastity, my altered sex thirsts for attention. The feather it’s... it’s so devilish yet so welcomed.
The joy is so distant yet feels so good. I am essentially being masturbated, yet there is no ultimate reaction... can be no ultimate reaction. The doctor explaining that the ejaculatory muscles have been squelched, Botox obviating contraction.
Still there is neuroplasticity... at least it is assumed... it is hoped. Priming the brain to form and reorganize synaptic connections, in response to or following injury. And I have certainly been injured, my instrument of sexual prowess incised, last seen being slipped away, down a catheter tube.
I take deep breaths. I pull with my PC muscles, that which normally gives rise to many wads of thick white spunk.
Nothing happens... other than soft laughter emanating from she in control.
“Such effort... so little results, Mr. Wells. But give it time. Your brain will rewire. Anal stimulation will bring pleasure... ecstatic pleasure with enough daily therapy. Anal orgasms... you’ll come to so much enjoy and savor. And the pituitary injections will help.”
Pituitary injections?
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