The Predator

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Nearing the camp, Luda turns in the saddle to check on her captive. Max is walking briskly to stay apace and minimize tension where he’d least like to feel it. The sharp predator’s eyes lower to spy in the fading light that which Max would prefer to cloak. The jostling rope has stirred his manhood. The tip of his uncircumcised p***s faintly glistens. Max is erect and Luda smiles again. Doodie will be greatly entertained, having unfettered access to that which Luda’s knife has long denied him.

A controlling hand cannot help amusing itself. Luda reaches to the makeshift towline and jostles.

“Come, Max,” she taunts. “Steel needs his feed and you need to be fixed.”

The words, chosen to be obscure, cause consternation. Max inadvertently pauses only to yelp and lurch forward as Steel rambles onward and the rope relentlessly tugs. Luda laughs.

She has a different definition of the term ‘fix’ than that envisioned by Max. But such is equally emasculating for the male.

As Luda turns back, she spies in the distance the sizable welcoming fire Doodie has graciously stoked. September nights on the desolate plains can be chilly as the sun’s rays dissipate. And though a naked Max may soon shiver, Luda will warm him. Doodie has the piercing irons cleaned and ready. The fire will heat to a searing hotness. Max will prefer the cold of night by the end of his ordeal.

The giant steed reaches camp. A smiling Doodie awaits, attired in similar animal skins, but naked from the waist down as Luda insists. He smiles and prances forth to greet his idol, the woman who forever changed his life.

“Got one, Doodie. Young and strong. Rather saucy, but I doubt he will withstand the metal work.”

Luda loosens Max’s controlling rope and hands it to the diminutive page.

“Hogtie him belly down and don’t feed him. I’ll do him tonight. There’s enough moonlight and no point in delaying. He’ll heal sooner. Shave him if you want.”

Doodie’s smile scintillates as he takes the controlling rope, gives it a brisk snap to establish control and leads away a yelping Max.

‘There’s something about affording a castrate complete authority over the intact male that excites,’ muses Luda. ‘There’s an unspoken revenge that both entertains the altered male and soothes the psyche of the dominant female.’

Meanwhile, Luda tends to Steel. The trusty steed needs water and feed. He has labored well, bringing Max under thumb without mishap or extended effort. Such a horse needs relief from the drudgery of conveying hundreds of pounds of equipment the many miles to Luda’s southern campsite. That will now be Max’s task, one that will be most challenging for him.

But every challenge can be overcome with the proper inspiration. And Max will be imbued with such tonight.

Equestrienne chores completed, Luda returns from Steel’s tie down. The smell of nutritious stew draws her attention, a sizable iron pot hanging over the dancing flames of the fire.

Doodie knows to retrieve the metal serving bowl and wooden spoon. He heaps piles of potatoes, turnips and deer meat into the vessel as Luda sits on a log facing the fire. Doodie wordlessly offers the sustenance and sits before her. His naked flesh greets the soft prairie grass as he stretches out his legs then spreads to prop his feet well out to the left and right. He places his hands on the back of his head and waits. The humble pose is mandated by Luda who, though seated, towers above him.

“This one will get us south, but probably not much further. His concept of labor has been to lift nothing heavier than jewelry.”

Luda reaches to her waist belt and shows Doodie the confiscated stash.

“At least he won’t be too eager to be rescued.”

Luda partakes and chews, making the subjugated male watch in hunger.

“I think the fire is warm enough,” Luda hints.

Doodie’s arms lower and his sole fur garment is shed. He now sits entirely naked, legs split to his sides. His hands return to the back of his head and Luda smiles with the sight, the castrated male in full display of his nakedness.

His girlish n*****s crinkle and the flickering flames reflect from the smooth, hairless flesh of his effeminate thighs. Though limited, there is enough light for Luda to see her handiwork, the tiny p***s which after castration she sutured to his abdomen. Yes, with the aid of a red hot knife and some cat gut, the skin on the top of his p***s and a patch of flesh on his lower abdomen were cruelly cut open and then cauterized together with some rudimentary stitches. But not before slipping a crude wrought iron ring around his organ which now permanently dangles over the site of his pubes, trapped in the opening formed by the base and tip of his cauterized phallus.

Luda calls it his handle. And though the lower testosterone level has made him much more docile, and Doodie rarely requires restraint, Luda feels its presence is necessarily symbolic, a constant reminder of his subjugated status.

After two more heaping spoonfuls, Luda leans forward and reaches to Doodie’s altered privates. A knowing finger diddles the remnants of his empty sac, bringing an ironic smile from the object of her cruelty. There is something within the psyche of every castrate which induces a strange sense of comfort when the hands of his castratrix return.

‘Does he think my touch can spur something to grow back?’ Luda muses to herself in observing the typical reaction.

Her fingers rise and smooth along the sensitive flesh of the underside of his upturned p***s. Doodie giggles like a girl, squirming with the ephemeral pleasure. The teasing is necessary, as Luda knows. Her touch and proximity bring odd aspiration, as if somehow her altering hands can also stimulate a lasting erection and the s****l climax she long ago permanently denied him.

“We’re going to fix this one just like the last, Doodie. You enjoyed that, didn’t you?” referencing Max.

Doodie nods. Discernible speech has long been obviated due to Luda’s exuberance and her fondness for oral pleasure. Inside of Doodie’s mouth are numerous tongue piercings, all designed to enhance the delight dispensed by Doodie’s oral endeavors.

As a result all Doodie’s verbal efforts are slurred. Thus Luda long ago denied him permission to speak.

“Steel does not speak. Neither will you,” she summarily declared.

Not a word has been uttered since. Doodie knows all too well that her commands are to be obeyed.

Though Doodie cannot vocalize such, Max’s plight is of equal interest to the playful castrate. His cruel alteration changed more than his physique. It has demented his psyche, causing him to greatly enjoy observing Luda bring suffering to other males. His demeanor is one of joy in witnessing the coalescence of other males joining him in enduring the wickedness of the fierce giantess. He must live a life of forced chastity and denial. Why not others?

Luda feels Doodie’s p***s engorge. The ever so slight swelling would be meaningless to the intact male. But its futility brings a smile to Luda. She enjoys knowing that her touch can bring desire, desire never to be fulfilled in the normal sense.

No, Doodie will forever pine for that which she took from him.

Luda withdraws her hands. There will be plenty of time for teasing later. With two more heaping spoonfuls the bowl is nearly empty. She gathers a final spoonful and offers it to Doodie. He gratefully opens and Luda holds the spoon as Doodie’s metal filled mouth labors to partake. At slightly more than one half of Luda’s one hundred and eighty pounds, Doodie’s required caloric intake is nominal by comparison. And Luda is very much aware of the propensity for castrates to put on weight, to fatten like steers. Thus his diet is strictly controlled and she runs him at least twice per week.

The spoon empties and Luda places the bowl on the ground. Doodie knows to obediently keep his hands on his head as he leans to lick it clean.

“My little pet,” Luda encourages, tousling his long blond hair.

It’s the golden locks that have made the strange duo acceptable to the Sioux. That and Doodie’s missing testicles. In the interpretation of the natives, Doodie is not a male. Therefore, though not homophiles, the male Sioux are attracted to his girlish form and long blond locks.

As a result, Doodie has been used many times, with the Sioux often offering to Luda a male prisoner from a neighboring tribe which she can torture in exchange for Doodie’s services. In keeping the young warriors satisfied, Luda’s commanding presence in Sioux territory is overlooked.

Doodie’s head rises to signal that the bowl is licked clean.

“Heat the irons. Let’s not keep Max waiting.”