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?