Saturday, February 9, 2019

'Transformed', Snippet Four

This will be the last snippet.

The timing of the sequel is open.




“Catheter out, Max,” Dr. Gehorchen proclaims, no compunction in employing my first name while I must be more formal in addressing her.

She again holds up the sheet, blocking any view I may have of my privates.

“And I’ll want a semen sample.”

She tugs at the tube, bringing agony, on this occasion sustained and burning until finally the tip exits my urethral opening. She smiles with my yelp of pain. Yes, it brings that look of Schadenfreude.

“I will send in the masturbation nurse. Meanwhile, do not wet the bed. You’re to relieve yourself under the supervision of a nurse into a penis receptacle.”

For an experienced medical professional, the bedside manner of Dr. Gehorchen is rather abrupt. Hopefully, being relieved of the catheter signaling progress, I will not need to become accustomed to her brusque tutelage. 

“Masturbation nurse?” I cannot help inquiring.

The smile returns, this one uncharacteristically warm.

“We can extract a sample utilizing more... ah... extreme methods. But we’ve found that obediently being relieved of male essence better acclimates our gir... ah... patients to their new role.”

Bed sheet lowered then pushed to the side, I once again become a pin cushion, my daily injection. I cannot help recalling Taylor’s words concerning my testosterone levels. The stab, the slow glowing warmth, in not wanting the imposing doctor to know of the odd subtle joy, I suppress a moan of pleasure as whatever flows brings instant tranquility.

Yet she does know, tenderly patting my face, mother to child.

“Very pretty, Max,” my make up apparently remaining in place over night. “The psychiatrist will be in later. And in having been injected then jerked off, you’ll be very calm and complacent for her.”

I seethe with her touch, so condescending. And her choice of words, once again so unprofessional.

She scribbles on my chart, departing to leave me to my thoughts.

A steak knife, to my groin, a drug induced attempt at self mutilation... or so it was described by wife Taylor Phipps. And the ultimate damage? Not to be divulged... not to me.

It is strangely heartening... though ignominious... that I will be rendering a sperm sample. Thus there cannot be complete devastation... down there. But my masculine pride? Well bound and made up in lavender... nails, lipstick, rouge and eye shadow... such is being decimated.

The photos! I cringe with the thought... in the hands of my estranged wife!

What is this place? What kind of clinic?.. for boys who want to be girls! Why has Taylor threatened me should I not resign from my job? And I must assume my divorce attempt is suspended... sidelined if not forever terminated. Will attorney Pamela Harrison also receive the photos if I do not cease her services?

My burdened mind is distracted when the room door opens. In comes a woman of maturity, her appearance that of a great aunt, gray hair, fully sized though not obese, smiling jovially. She carries a tray, setting it down on the table beside my bed.

“Very pretty, today... Max... or do you prefer Maxine?”

Something about the injection that inhibits a forceful reply. For some reason I find myself modestly whispering ‘Max’.

“Well, I am your masturbation nurse. And you’re going to give me a nice semen sample like a good girl.”

There! She said it... girl... not correcting herself ala Dr. Gehorchen. And that smile... such confidence in her ability.

With that she steps to my side and whisks the sheet from my body, baring me completely to her view but taking the time to tuck the rumpled cloth up about my chin, again veiling from my eyes my naked flesh, wounded groin included.

“My goodness, Maxine. It’s good that you’re with us,” I must assume surveying my wounds. “Tsk, tsk. Well you’re much older than most here. A lot like to sit straddling my lap as I milk a sample. But being well bound... and fully sized... I’ll just do you just like this.”

Hands reach to the tray, arranging and gathering things as she speaks.

“First a specimen pouch,” producing a small bag of clear plastic. “And we tie it about your little peepee. Such a tiny thing,” her words reminiscent of wife Taylor. “So cute.”

Deed done, next comes a vibrator, also reminiscent of wife Taylor... a frustrated wife Taylor... used before she began her afternoon dalliances. The nurse lubricates, holding the phallic shaped apparatus before my eyes as if it is an object to be coveted.  

“And we begin,” her hand lowering.

I feel her work the tip between my thighs, then under. It rubs about at my perineum, gliding lower within my gluteal cleft then finds my rectum with accomplished ease. As it slips inward, I lurch against my bounds. She smiles.

“Bingo. Lots of little fannies penetrated over the years. Lots of happy little girls.”

With the daunting words, her free hand flips a switch. There comes a hum and a most pleasant sensation, the woman keenly finding my prostate.

I blush. There come goose bumps. I cannot deny the delight. Neither can I deny the humiliation.

“The art is in finding the appropriate velocity of vibration. Every little girl has a different level of enjoyment... slight... but so meaningful in having them give up what I want from them. Some object... at first... but in time they all want to release for me... to please their masturbation nurse.”

I feel sanguine, the injection bringing such abeyance. Head restrained, rumpled sheet piled under my chin I cannot see, as always staring at the ceiling. Am I erect for her? The vibrations mask any sensation of ejaculation. Will I spurt... have I spurted? Her allusion to being milked seems most apropos.

Minutes pass, the vibration level is adjusted, a little faster... a little slower. Then her free hand goes to my chest, fingers sensuously toying with right nipple then left. There comes an inadvertent sigh of pleasure... not to be repressed. I don’t want her to know she is pleasing me against my will. Yet she is... and her smile suggests she knows. She plays my nakedness like a musical instrument.

“Pay dirt, little girl,” a prideful exclamation.

The vibrator retracts. Am I disappointed? Do I want more? Then the little specimen bag is slipped away.

“Nice and clear, Maxine,” the appellation known to taunt.

As she gathers up her things, I find myself in a stupor. I did not ejaculate... I felt nothing close to the manly surge of a normal orgasm. Yet there comes a pleasant delirium. And I yielded for her... with that there is no doubt.

“You have a nice talk with the psychiatrist, Maxine. And maybe I’ll have you sitting on my lap if your days of self harm are deemed behind you and you’re released from the Segufix straps. As I said so many girls like it that way... riding and slowly secreting for their nurse.”

The notion both horrifies and is strangely enticing.

Do I want to perform for her?

Saturday, February 2, 2019

'Transformed', Snippet Three

The girl departs, her annoyance not diminished by her beauty. Manicure, pedicure, in my peripheral vision I catch glimpses of the gaudy coloring, fingers not within the scope of vision but my toes in view as I wriggle out from beneath the covering sheet. My feet appear to be ridiculously effeminate.

Worse, what did she do to my lips... my eyes... my cheeks?

Her efforts required over an hour I am sure. And whatever this Dr. Gehorchen injects seems to suppress any inclination to protest. I have just laid there and let her do whatever!

Needing distraction, countering the stress of the unknown, my thoughts return to that dinner, my last recollection before regaining consciousness in this hospital... clinic room.

We consumed our meal, Taylor as always ordering in moderation, such untoward attention to her figure... her allure. Yet such exquisite results. Still the wine flowed abundantly as planned. I wanted to woo her... not into bed... but into an amicable separation.

I explained to her my infatuation... my attraction to her... my affection. Divulged that my love, now distant, is strong enough that I had been forcing myself to overlook her transgressions... soiled cocktail glasses when there were no alleged visitors... bed sheets astray after attentive morning tidiness. I told her after many months of unrequited oral servitude that her message was received. Love life over... but for the convenience of my tongue.

I further explained that like possessing a beautiful creature of the wild... ultimately nature calls for freedom. She should be free. In a way intimating that she should be liberated to fuck whom she wants... when she wants. Of course not using such crass language. 

She just smiled and nodded... to me... but also to the nearby owner, Yvette... many years a friend.

‘That drink, Yvette. The special one for Max.’ 

Returning her attention to me, she suggested she had the bartender make a very tasty after dinner beverage.

‘Consider it to be in celebration, Max. For I agree. I should be free. But so should you.’

Had we come to agreement?

Owner Yvette seemed to be particularly enthusiastic, eagerly returning with the special cocktail. Thinking a no fault divorce, no exchange of income or assets, would be forthcoming, we toasted... my special drink... Taylor her Chablis.

She sipped, I swigged heartily, over a year of confrontation coming to an end. But then something happened... lightheadedness. And there came her final words. In not having heard her voice since... such haunt the recesses of my mind.

‘You will not have the balls to leave me Max.’  

Darkness consumed. And that was it. And here I lie, contemplating the tense of her utterance... not ‘do not have the balls’... but ‘will not have the balls’.

She is to visit, wife Taylor, so said Dr. Gehorchen. In wait, I wonder if the tone and graceful ambiance of that dinner will be renewed. I really thought there was agreement. But now I lie strapped down, seeming to be in wait of execution... yet with this perplexing visit from a bubbly cosmetician.

Room absent anything which reflects an image... what do I look like? The girl exited giggling. 


My room door is pressed open with vigor. When wife Taylor Phipps enters one expects a royal entourage to be preceding her... she is that ravishing... her suavity illuminating the drabness.

“Well Max, I see my girl has stopped in... very becoming. Always wondered what you’d look like in lavender... those blue puppy dog eyes are aglow.”

Slim where a girl should be slim, curves where a guy likes curves, the thrice weekly gym workouts... which I pay for... are evident as she effortlessly pushes a heavy chair to my bedside, ignoring the less pretentious hard wood chair intended for limited visitation.

“The doctor says you’re doing well. She’s expecting a full recovery... ah... almost.”

I clear my throat, prefacing speech. But even that slight gesture comes across so meekly  

“Good to see you Taylor. Thanks for stopping by. There’s... ah... well... a lot...”

“To be discussed, yes. Starting with your divorce petition. Under the circumstances... with your... ah... condition, I’m sure you’ll give serious consideration to withdrawing it. Pamela Harrison is a great attorney but... ah... expensive.”

“But if we have an agreement, Taylor... remember my suggestion that you be freed... she’ll be wrapping things up. Not much more time to be billed.”

“I think you misunderstood, Max. I agreed that I should be free. Suggested you be free as well... of your... well... let’s term it shortcomings. But not free due to divorce. I’m a Phipps, Max. Generation after generation of dignity and wealth. A Phipps does not consent to divorce... does not get dumped like some unwanted trash. A Phipps reigns,” her tone pedantic.

She reaches forth, an extravagantly bejeweled hand smoothing along my left cheek. Her presumptuousness annoys but there is nothing I can do to avoid her touch.

“So pretty.... anyway, how would it look if I in turn dumped you... in your hour of need?”

There is a pause... silence. I know not how to respond... my so termed need unknown.

“Guess we need to back up, Taylor. My need? Other than to get out of these bindings and get dressed, I’m not sure what needs I have.”

“Max, you’ve had a breakdown... beginning at Yvette’s. I’ve spoken to the psychiatrist. She says since you’re well restrained I can speak frankly... no further harm to come.”

The words are serious, spoken with great drama... akin to those of a soap opera. But Taylor smiles coyly... at first. Then snickers.

“At least that’s the story to be told outside the clinic... like to your boss. Your special drink... at Yvette’s? Well I laced it with a psychokinetic drug. Somewhat like LSD. I’m sure you’ve read where folks under the influence of stuff like that convince themselves of having abnormal power... like they can fly... you know... things like that.”

The notion frightens. Did I attempt to fly? Benumbed to silence, I merely nod.

“Well I got you to the car, and then... you in such an amenable mental state... on the drive home we discussed your castration complex.”

“I don’t have a castration complex!”

Words of objection yes, but coming across as so frail. What are these injections?

“And your gender obfuscation,” Taylor ignoring my protest.

What am I to say? What am I to do? I am helplessly strapped down, forced to listen as Taylor reaches into her pocketbook, retrieving a hand mirror. 

“It’s a bit of a ruse, yes Max. But when one has a few hundred million, one gains influence... and respect... with the various authorities. It was a simple matter for me to hand you a steak knife in the kitchen and command you... no... really just suggest... that the end of your masculinity would set you free... augmenting that silly sermon you gave me at Yvette’s. And when your aggrieved wife phoned the police and EMT squad, who was to doubt my version of events? You bleeding profusely and being incoherent.”

With her soliloquy, she holds before me the mirror, positioning such that my face reflects back to me. I shudder, she smiles. I find the annoying cosmetician to be talented beyond her years. I am in full make up, eye brows trimmed, mascara, rouge, eyeliner... the coloring so astoundingly complementing my blue eyes. 

And I do look... well... I cannot bring myself to use the word.

“Becoming, Max... as I said.”

I close my eyes. In shame? In anger? In disbelief? Please not in wonder!

“And the bleeding? The steak knife?” I must understand the end.

“Oh Max, I tried so hard to stop you,” the words intoned with such mockery. “But you’ll need to talk to the doctor about that. The clinic here specializes in this type of thing... boys who want to be girls.” 

I lurch, somehow finding the resolve to fight my bonds... futilely fight my bonds. My paroxysmal efforts bring laughter. The departing words of Dr. Gehorchen come to mind ... ‘you be a good gir... boy for us’.

Taylor’s hand retracts, the mirror returned to her pocketbook, her cell phone retrieved.

“Think you need another injection, Maxine... ah... Max. The testosterone... it seems to still be flowing. I’ll came back again... make sure all your needs are addressed. No point in being disgustingly rich if you can’t put the money to a good cause.”

With that, the cell phone is positioned within a foot of my face... my heavily made up face. I don’t want to be photographed... but there is nothing I can do. There come clicks and flashes.

“For your boss, Maxine. Should you decide not to resign your job, some nice photos of you in full make up will surely enhance your career. And I really think you should have Pamela Harrison tally up her final bill. Since you’re to be unemployed, I’ll pay it on your behalf.”

“Unemployed?” I sputter.

“You’re not leaving here until there is a full and satisfactory evaluation, Max. And I think you will enjoy finding out what that entails. I know I will.”