Neuroplasticity, Segment Six

This will be the last posted segment. Hope you enjoy the full story.

CB

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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’?