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?

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