A Woman's Servant

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Protocol

Nurse Devon departs. I am heartened that my professional deportment can now be stowed. Though my proclivities have been well vented during the interview process... obviously no vanilla types to be employed at the Institute... there is shyness which I suppose any new hire displays. But now it is just me and my underlings... four castrated caregivers... a dozen well restrained naked helpless donors.

Pattie completes the cleansing of her first donor, pats every inch of flesh dry with noted teasing tenderness then carefully plugs the ears and slips a thick dark hood over the hairless head. Lastly, after Pattie offers a sultry kiss to the lips, the donor is cruelly gagged, a firm rubber bar slipped between the lips and secured at the back of the hood.

Sensory deprivation – all sight, sound and touch comes at the behest of the caregiver. Though I have read of this in the Institute manuals, the severity is driven home. Yes, cleaning time is to be welcomed, the feel of those soft hands... weakened by way of Nurse Devon’s scalpel and female hormones... quite the thrill.

Next a bowl of special solution is prepared and Pattie takes the time to place such on the small table between the thighs, assuring the massive scrotum of the donor is well immersed.

“What temperature?” I inquire.

“They’re all different, as you may have read, Ma’am. Teddy Bear produces best at 95 degrees.”

I smile with the childish sobriquet bestowed on such a well endowed beast and find the information is not surprising. The testicles reside outside the body in order to be cooled for better sperm production, normal body temperature of 98.6 degrees too warm for ideal production. As Pattie has learned, every set of balls is a little different for some reason. I suppose after many weeks of experimentation and measurement, ‘Teddy Bear’s’ output, in varying the temperature, has been optimized at 95 degrees. In being constantly immersed in the special solution, Teddy Bear will ooze sperm like the runny nose of a flu victim.

The cleansing process has required some thirty minutes, with the other naked castrated caregivers working almost in unison with three other donors. Pattie then steps to the next Gurney where a similar gag is released, another sultry wet kiss on the lips is offered, and this donor is relieved of what must seem like endless sensory deprivation for his cleansing.

“Sugar Plum has not moved in ages. One of our most senior donors... though he still produces well.” Pattie seems obligated to explain.

Yes, I imagine after many, many months of strict immobility, the mental desire to move depletes. And indeed ‘Sugar Plum’ barely blinks an eye.

Still the care seems welcomed, the prostrate form revealing its glee as Pattie slips away the bowl of special solution and the p***s begins to swell. I move most proximate, stand to the front, arms akimbo in an imposing and authoritative pose, introducing myself as the new supreme leader of the ward... at least during the afternoon shift.

Sugar Plum blushes, such divine reaction to the presence of a governing female.

For me... this brings more exhilaration. I veil the tantalization of my proclivity by picking up ‘Sugar Plum’s’ chart.

“You produce well, 629,” the use of the Institute’s donor number deemed more professional than ‘Sugar Plum’. “Do you enjoy being handled by another male?”

My question brings more evident consternation. I do believe 629 tries to squirm. But after all the months held in amazingly severe restraint, he knows it is futile. I obviously bring frustration... my fully clothed presence... his nakedness... perhaps my taunting question.

Yes, the homophobia can be delightfully tormenting. Is it indeed a naked male which so sensually palpates every inch of his flesh? Or is Pattie thought of as female as, by morning’s end, the feminized castrate will slowly deplete his reproductive organs of every drop of ‘precious’ seed. And do so without any possibility of ejaculatory relief.

Since my initial interview at the Institute, I often have wondered about the psychological reaction to the milkings... akin to being bled I imagine.

“You’re going to need a Botox injection soon,” I further taunt, noting the date of the previous dose. “Can’t have you exploding in ecstasy, can we?” laughing demonically.

Just the slightest dose to those tiny male muscles injected at the perineum, for six months, 629 will experience every normal form of priapism. The glands will react to stimulus, the erectile chambers flooding, the sperm ducts overflowing, there will come overwhelming need to expunge himself of semen with all organs primed and ready to go... except no explosion... the ejaculatory muscles rendered useless by less than a tear drop of the noted acetylcholinesterase inhibitor.

629 will instead drool... and drool... and drool. Male nirvana denied. Sperm production maximized, Pattie dutifully coaxing every drop into a specimen vessel.

“Did you want to say something? You may speak,” knowing that the donors remain silent unless prompted to respond.

“Please no more, Ma’am. I will perform for you without the injection. I need... I need...”

“Yes, you need to be jerked off,” with a smirk truncating what few words I permit. “Stroked and brought to ejaculation like every other horny guy. Well that’s not going to happen. Not under my tutelage. I’m in charge. I will decide when you will next have the pleasure of climax. And in the meanwhile... you will indeed perform for me.”

I reach forth and tap the nose of 629, then press a finger to his lips, signaling a return to silence, the privilege of speech withdrawn. Pattie smiles, working diligently to cleanse, expressing subtle approval with my draconian proclamation.

Yes the castrated male takes such delight in controlling that which has been denied him. And for women of my ilk, the interaction is sublime.