A Castration Tale III

There will be a final posting next Saturday 2/10.

For those who have purchased and read the complete story, let me know how Mr. Carson should respond to Nurse Donhoffer's email.

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The nurse walks with military precision, not masculine but certainly not the gait of a runway model. To a door, down a flight of stairs, I am led to a windowless underground chamber, well lit, walls of white tile, flooring of concrete which I find surprisingly warm, cabinets, a gurney, much medical paraphernalia and most notably a large marble slab. At knee height, it is angled to drain at one end, at the other there is a stanchion of matching marble with three semi circles, the surfaces padded.

“For the neck and wrists,” Nurse Donhoffer explains in noting my visual examination. “In your next visit I will be here preparing for you. First I’ll want you to shower for me. Patients are to present themselves scrubbed,” leading to a corner area.

There is indeed a shower but no enclosure, just a slightly raised patch of flooring beveled to a drain and a showerhead above. I am chagrined when the nurse moves to the side and points to where I am to step up and bathe... for I am nearly completely stiff. It’s this thing...           

“Mr. Carson, I can see why you’re here,” Nurse Donhoffer commenting on my arousal, her tone that of rebuking a toddler. “Do be careful washing yourself... there,” nodding to my rising appendage then leaning to turn on the taps. "No spillage."

And so I shower, finding odd comfort but also excitement, bathing under such exacting auspices with the nurse closely watching.

I soap myself, the piercing blue eyes observing all. The woman supervises with precision, the offered chamois to lave here... scrub there. The directives are sharp... not to be ignored.

“I’ll need to shave you, Mr. Carson. Body hair is not only unsightly but can be unsanitary as well.”

I nod, for some reason not mustering the fortitude to object.

Finally Nurse Donhoffer leans again, arms extend. The taps are twisted off, the shower deemed complete. She reaches for an oversized towel.

“Step down.”

To the concrete floor, once again the hands go to the back of her head, gesturing for me to obediently replicate.

So I stand before her wet and naked, the sensation of cleanliness... presenting myself for exhibition... abetting tumescence.

“Such a good boy,” the words of encouragement coming with what I must assume to be a rare smile.

She dries, the towel abrading and brushing everywhere. But she also assesses... palpates... examines. She comes to know me... not only physically but in some manner aware of my joy... the thrill of submission to a demanding governess.

“To the table. There’s more to be cleansed,” pointing to the knee high slab of marble. “I want you kneeling, neck and wrists on the stanchion, knees parted, buttocks up. Be good for me,” the words firm yet matronly.

I comply, concerned with the need for more cleansing. Then my concern grows as from beneath the raised slab the strong arms of Nurse Donhoffer lift a heavy plank. It’s smooth and in seeing the three padded semi circles I quickly know its function. Sure enough, it is placed over my neck and wrists then clamped in place. I become a prisoner, held immobile in a defacto set of stocks.

“No complaints, no resistance. Boys who reply to my Craig’s listing have needs. So I know that deep within, there is enjoyment. You’re supplicating to me... the woman in charge. And that thrills.”

Her words come as she steps behind and playfully diddles my erection, proving that she is correct, the bondage is oddly welcomed. I am hers, locked in place. Though there is much unknown, what is it she will do, there is indeed deep within a thrill.