'Compassion' Snippet Three

This is the last snippet from 'Compassion'. The entire story is available from Lulu as noted in the November 11, 2018 post.

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Glass empty, I find myself curtailing further thoughts. More Scotch is required if I am to mentally relive the ringing of my nose... the sizable oval of steel thrust through a deep opening made in my septum.

The agony was quick but convincingly effective. And thereafter whenever leashed I found myself having to agree with the doctor... no male brawn was required to assure further capitulation. Restrained in such a manner, one tends to go where the leash leads.

Thoughts put aside, I call information and get the phone number for ‘The Raven’s Nest’. A reservation for 7:00 p.m. is accepted. Just before hanging up I remember to mention ‘Dr. Winton’.

“Oh yes, she’ll want the back booth,” the girl confirming with a snicker.

In cradling the phone, a deep breath brings more thoughts of Dr. Winton. Though the ring has been removed there is scar tissue within my nostrils, impeding the flow of air with every inhalation. Ironic that it is not only the hormonal thing that forces memories... frightening memories. After jamming a needle deep into the cartilage of my septum... done so deftly and so callously... my belligerence began to crumble... not only in being leashed within my cell, but in learning of the background of my captor... she with apparent medical training. 

It seems Dr. Rebecca Winton had a distinguished medical career, graduating top in a top notch medical school, developing a lucrative practice. But then service to her country beckoned. The Central Intelligence Agency was in need of a physician to supervise the interrogation... i.e. torture... of numerous captured terrorist suspects. Pain... duress... emotional stress... but never was such to end in the macabre. Dr. Winton assured no suspect ever succumbed to the grim reaper... that such would live and live and live... enduring more pain... more duress... more emotional stress.

In learning this, I regretted terming her Highness a bitch. 

Yet, what earns rewards in government service, can however earn the derision of one’s colleagues on the various medical licensing boards. When a noted terrorist finally got his day in court, defense counsel managed to unveil his client’s treatment... many, many months of literally having his balls squeezed.

How much under the direct supervision of Dr. Winton? Not revealed. But there was enough disclosure of her participation to have her barred from practicing medicine.

Shortly thereafter, for the jobless Dr. Winton, the Queen became a much needed benefactor. It seems her small island monarchy had become, under the guise of tourism, an attractive haven for pedophilia... conduct to be discouraged. And as I found out... vehemently discouraged. Yes, Dr. Rebecca Winton found employment. And when I think of her jail turned medical chamber, I must always wonder whether she was compensated by the testicle.

I cringe with visions of my cohort prisoners enduring not so much pain and physical duress but the emotional stress and the slow physical and mental transformation which comes with orchidectomy. I think of Sammy... and Dr. Winton... the masterful Dr. Winton.

And I need that second Scotch.

*****
Strolling to The Raven’s Nest the initial words of Dr. Winton come to mind, her voice, not heard in over a year, fomenting recollections, her choice of words provocative... revenge or compassion.

There was a preparation interval in my incarceration during which I was repeatedly secured on toes, wrist cuffs clipped high to the cells bars, my nose leash tied off to assure limited mobility.

I would watch when possible but most certainly listen as Dr. Winton interacted with the prisoners, all in different stages of punishment and forced rehabilitation.... in other words some had their balls... others were jailed in wait as was I.

She was both matronly but firm... tender yet calloused... understanding yet demanding. The prisoners arrived as men... deviant in their immoral desires of course... but left as boys. If not innocent and purged of depravity then at least harmless... and in dire need of what Dr. Winton suggested... compassion.

She lectured, she counseled and whereas I am sure the likes of her inmates had before undergone therapy... if not judicial warnings... when one’s testicles are to be sacrificed... have been sacrificed... there comes attentive listening... and begging.

‘I’ll never do this again’, was a typical entreaty. To which Dr. Winton would heartlessly reply... ‘I know’.

Moments later would come the ominous metallic ping of the steel basin followed by a second... neutering indeed as quick and simple as Dr. Winton suggested during the initial evaluation of my parts. 

I witnessed the emotional roller coaster that followed the orchidectomies, the tears, the despondency, the odd mania as an orally gifted Sammy would fellate to initially bring partial tumescence. Such was distressingly followed by anguishing limpness... demonstrating the onset of impotence... that normal male sexual function had been permanently plucked away... plundered by a woman of much resolve and moral righteousness. 

Standing arms akimbo, Dr. Winton would observe and supervise, her smug look of satisfaction not to be veiled. The effeminate Sammy filled the role of that sought by the visiting pedophiles. The irony was not lost on those sentenced... ‘be wary of that for which you wish’.

Days of softening me... my words not those of the doctor... hours of standing on toes... attention finally came to me.

“The frustrating life of perversion ends here for most, to be substituted by other needs and desires. But not for you, Mr. Henderson. The Queen, upon learning of your crass outburst, has approved my suggested transformation. Took a few days to have it crafted. Specially milled... and made of an expensive alloy... nickel cobalt... known to readily meld with human tissue.”

Dr. Winton held before me a hollow hemispherical lump of gray metal, appearing as a toadstool, the rounded surface notably craggy, a small rigid stem-like tube within leading to an opening at the apex. Slightly larger than my thumb, fingers of her left hand gripped the tube. There came a rare smile as the index finger of her right hand brushed over the surface and then quickly withdrew, feigning injury... as if pricked by a pin. 

“So scabrous, Mr. Henderson. You’re going to need to take care cleansing yourself.”