Feminizing The Belligerent Male

Chapter Five

Chapter Five

Time for work. My reminiscing ends as Sammy clears away the dishes.

“I’ll want you standing on toes today, Sammy.”

“Oh, please no, Dr. Dawson. I tire so quickly when you secure me like that.”

The plea brings a smile to my face... but nothing more... no mercy. One must be firm in dealing with the psychologically meek. Entreaties are to be ignored... always.

“Bring the stool.”

A reluctant Sammy obeys, placing the familiar low stool against the wall under a series of sturdy wall hooks. His attitude quickly becomes more pleasant in knowing that my commanding hands will be binding him. He accepts such as a tribute... as he does all my tendance.

With so many chains and hooks it is a simple matter to make ‘poor’ Sammy one with the wall. I start of course with the rear vertical chain strung from neck collar to waist band. A high link between his shoulder blades is easily attached to a perfectly positioned wall hook. Next, both right and left hooks graciously accept his arm chains. I have him raise his hands then hook links near his elbows. Then it’s the chains linking his waist band to his thigh and ankle shackles. Links near mid thigh I attach to lower hooks placed well out to his sides.

“Ready, pretty girl?”

With that, it’s most facile to slide the stool out from under his dainty feet. As his body lowers his weight shifts and the chains tighten to most comically force his arms up and out. The tension holds him motionless. When I replace the stool I can easily release the links. Meanwhile he is helpless to unhook himself until I return.

He must shift to stand on the very tips of his toes. The tightening chains force his legs to move outward to assume a split position, putting the tiny emaciated p***s on better display. As the smooth broad neck collar takes a portion of his weight and tensions his spinal cord, I am amused to see that floppy male appendage stir a bit.

A normal male would completely harden for me. Sammy’s ability to do so with any degree of usefulness is long past. Instead, the insignificant strip of flesh engorges somewhat and amusingly quivers.

Since Sammy will spend most of the day so restrained I retrieve his bottle. Prepared by the nurses in the infirmary, the formula within is a gelatinous mass of fattening glop mixed with hormones that assure that the slow feminization process continues. With the deluge of anti androgens, the endocrinology of the male will better accede to the effect of the estrogen and various progesterones in the bottle. Such will serve to transform my charge both physically and mentally.

Though Sammy is fully aware of the liquid’s deleterious effect on his maleness, he must imbibe and ingest. It’s his only real meal.

“Drink it all down like a good girl, Sammy. It will help your breasts grow. Make you fat and cuddly... just the way I want you.”

If there is reluctance, it is no longer detectable. I raise the bottle and turn it upside down with my left hand. Like a hamster, Sammy cranes his neck, well secured by the collar, to take the straw tip into his mouth and suck. I am a mother feeding her needy infant.

As he partakes, my free right hand lowers to toy with the empty scrotal sac. Sammy’s lips turn up with the delight of me inspecting there. The fleshy pouch has come to resemble the labia of a young girl, and he indeed has been caught naughtily playing with himself there on occasion. But perhaps his action is more satisfying a curiosity... toying in wonderment as to what happened to his balls.

“All gone,” I teasingly remind. “No more testicles.”

Reinforcement is important. Sammy must learn to accept his forced transformation.

The bottle empties. I tweak his n*****s and receive a throaty gurgle of joy in response. Lastly, I slide a basin between his well parted feet.

“Do try to pee in the basin, Sammy. It will make clean up much easier for you.”

Yes, I will return at day’s end and hopefully find the results of nature’s call waiting to be flushed away by my maid servant.

I stroll to the steel door separating my modest apartment from the cell blocks and labyrinthine hallways of Hempstead Penitentiary. I punch my code into the electronic combination lock and hear the latch release. In stepping from the warmth of a cozy home to the cold stone and concrete of a penal institution, another day begins.

Walking amongst the hundreds of priapic prisoners can be entertaining for a woman of my penchants. As a psychologist I am well aware of my own paraphilia – one element of which is control and governance. And what better place to assuage such then in a facility where so many males are tucked away and subject to my whim. Since I am one of the few women to be seen without the austerity of a uniform, the younger, inexperienced inmates gawk. My blouse is tight, my breasts large. My skirt ends at mid thigh showing a couple of inches of smooth but firm flesh above my striking black leather boots. The shining footwear projects authority. That is what I offer... and that is what most of society’s dregs need.

Occasionally there is a whistle or a catcall. Such bring a smile, but most are quickly curtailed as a more experienced prisoner will instantly advise such miscreants that I am not one with whom to trifle.

Still, if there is a particularly objectionable outburst I mentally record the cell number and there will be vengeance wreaked at some opportunity. There is no inmate with immunity.

My boots tap out a steady cadence, the sound bringing woeful male faces to the thick steel bars. Those I have ‘interviewed’ look out with fear and apprehension. Those I have not peer with concern. Those newly arrived have looks of lust, mistakenly believing there may be an opportunity for some form of licentiousness.

A rather robust young Caucasian inmate calls out with an indecent proposition. His cellmate quickly pulls him back from the bars. I pause and step to the cell door, glowering but remaining pleasant.

“He didn’t mean anything, Dr. Dawson. He’s new and doesn’t know any better,” an old timer explains in panic.

“Then we’ll provide some guidance,” I smile wickedly with my ominous suggestion.

Block H, cell 224. As stated, I make mental note and move onwards to the disciplinary cells.

In descending the stairs to my chamber I am always reminded of Sammy and his initial visit to my den...