A Castration Tale II

A train to Ridgewood, New Jersey, Google maps indicates a two block walk to a large house just off the business district, a home converted to a professional office. Easily found, I ring the doorbell. When I hear a buzz I know to press open the door. 

And there to greet me stands the stunning Greta Donhoffer, indeed tall, indeed blonde, and the 175 pounds most impressively apportioned. Yes, her crisp white uniform does little to veil that the woman is shapely, and in an athletic manner. And those blue eyes...

“Mr. Carson, you’re late,” standing arms akimbo, the German accent thick but her English discernible.

Having emailed a photo, amongst other particulars, she knows who enters... her 11:00 a.m appointment has arrived.

“Ah, the train... some sort of signal failure,” for some reason my voice faltering.

“Take an earlier train for your next appointment,” her tone more commanding than suggesting.

I nod, hoping my gulp of concern is not evident.

“I will not be here to greet you in future visits. So listen carefully to the protocol. I am strict and demanding. A clear and precise regimen instills discipline.”

I nod, my voice lost.

“You will place my fee here on the desk, under the paperweight. You will then disrobe... entirely. Place your clothing on this table... neatly folded... shoes beneath. If there is someone in the reception area, just ignore them. This is a professional office and all are expected to comport themselves civilly and professionally.”

I again silently nod, seeing that the paperweight is a well sculpted depiction of a woman in uniform assuming an imposing stance of authority. Nurse Donhoffer notes my distraction.  

“A gift... when I retired from the armed services.”

There comes a pause... awkward silence.

“Well!..”

I fumble for the fee, $300 in cash, more than I am accustomed to paying for a session of kink. But the exchange of emails and the forthright, explicit descriptions of services to be offered is too... too... enticing?

I lift the statue...heavy... not a cheap hunk of tin... and dispense the small pile of greenbacks. I then pause... I always do... momentarily questioning my sexual penchant.

“Mr. Carson, we’re already running late!” the accented words sharp and commanding.

So I disrobe, stepping to the small table, shoes beneath, jacket peeled away, slacks drawn down and folded followed by shirt, socks and underwear.

“And we like our patients to place their hands on their head when moving about in the sanitarium,” Nurse Donhoffer’s hands demonstrably going to the back of her white cap.

With arms raised, the firm breasts thrust forth. I try not to stare while complying, sensing the somatic reaction of presenting myself nude in the presence of a fully clothed woman... a fully clothed woman of authority. My penis begins to firm.

“To the basement. Follow me,” grateful to move about before I completely stiffen.