The Entrapped

Chapter 2

“Can you raise it? Timely? Wait another month and you’ll have an 80 percent survival chance. Plus there is the cost of counseling.”

“Counseling?”

“It’s mandatory for men who lose their balls,” her choice of words becoming suddenly unprofessional in realizing she has a potential deadbeat patient.

I join her in silence. She relaxes and sits back, seemingly quite comfortable. Too many years in the medical profession, I conclude. Too many orchiectomies?

“I don’t have the resources,” I stammer, too stunned to elaborate.

“There is a possible alternative,” the doctor cautiously suggests. “But you’ll need to make certain... certain conciliations.”

I nod in preliminary agreement. Have I a choice?

“A woman of means, based in South America. She will offer financial assistance... even cover the cost of counseling... her choice of counseling,” she strangely enunciates in a provocative manner.

I nod again.

“I suppose I must agree.”

“Yes, you will... to everything she demands.”

More silence. Have I sold my soul?

“We’ll need photos to email to her for approval. Another reason for you to remain disrobed. Full nudity is required. Front, sides and rear. Nurse Sueann will accommodate. There need to be rather revealing poses. Nurse Sueann will also need measurements. But there are benefits for compliance. We know what she wants and I believe you’re the type.”

“What’s it like?” I must inquire, with my head spinning, ignoring the need for seedy photographs.

“Simple. Ironically, very simple. Two small incisions. Some snips. Nerves, vessels, vas deferens. I tie off. I suture. I close. And your testicles are gone... and with it the cancer. 90% recovery, if we act timely.”

“And then what? Life without my organs.”

“Without your balls?” again unprofessionally worded, now with a seemingly sardonic snort. “It will transform. In some regards you’ll be more free than ever. But your counselor will go into that more. There will be physical changes, emotional changes, and mental changes. But hormone treatment will help. And that’s what the woman in South America insists on monitoring to her satisfaction... the hormones.”

I should have asked more questions. I did not.

***

She insists that I watch. And my counselor suggests that I do as well.

‘You will develop comfort in being placed under the control of others... particularly women. It’s a common proclivity among neutered males.’

The counseling is blunt. Yet I do indeed find myself watching as Nurse Sueann plies her craft, patiently extracting pre ejaculatory fluid... the prostate gland secreting what is no longer needed.

“Yes, you boys all enjoy having your nurse work the diminishing softness,” she coos as I ooze, my p***s having the limpness of a well cooked strand of spaghetti.

The flow is slow but consistent. There is distant pleasure, but it feels both good yet frustrating. My counselor suggests it will feel like I am about to sneeze but cannot. And she is correct. Something within tells me to pull the trigger... but my revolver is uncocked and unloaded. The nurse’s taunting words... and she knows it... adding to the plunge of any remaining self esteem.

After many minutes she announces the flow has terminated and I agree. I am well milked, lying in the glow of incomplete coitus with a woman’s gloved hand. Such a very odd sensation.

Next comes a complete sponge bath of depilating lotion. It smells. It burns. And Nurse Sueann’s timing is superb as always. For within minutes, when she alacritously smoothes a cool wet towel over every inch of my flesh, all hair stubble glides away. Judging from the dwindling need for shaving my face, soon the caustic solution will be superfluous. I will not miss it.

She releases my feet, I want to thank her, but cannot find the words. Such a bizarre reaction.

Next come the required photos... front, sides, rear... my South American benefactor to monitor my ‘progress’ through email. When finished, Nurse Sueann pats the top of the padded examination table.

“Tummy down, butt up,” she gamely commands as if tending to a child.

As promised, there comes a hypodermic injection. Though I take the demanded pills, as per the rather thorough legal document I signed, I suppose the hormone injections are appropriate caution should I somehow, for some reason, become neglectful... certainly not disobedient.

It’s testosterone, I assume, stemming the effect of having my testicles excised.

I do not think such is working.

Nurse Sueann takes glee, slowly rubbing my softening buttock with alcohol, stabbing and injecting with deliberation.

I am then escorted, left hand in hers, with my right rubbing my wounded cheek. In being paraded through the reception area, the waiting woman now outright stares. Yes, I expose my empty scrotal sac for all to see as I am returned to the changing room, tiny p***s bobbing most comically. For some reason not only does it no longer matter, I instead feel an odd glow in exposing my now smooth and hairless form.

Yes, acclimatization.

***

Weekly counseling is like attending grade school. Though I don’t get my knuckles rapped, the psychologist is stern. Since I am not paying the bill, I am more ward than patient and treated as a potentially recalcitrant child.

“Have you gotten used to being naked with me?” her questions always so forthright.

“In a way I suppose,” as I disrobe before her.

She glares, visually examining my glabrous body, though it is more Nurse Sueann’s purview to do so. I think she is amused with the debasing deed of exposing myself.

“I have Nurse Sueann’s report. Physically you’re progressing nicely. You’re plumping.”

I blush, a reaction that happens more and more frequently of late.

“It seems the testosterone is not working as well as it should,” I suggest, knowing of the propensity for castrates to shed muscle and gain fat.

She smiles... that ‘I know something you don’t know’ look that I presume is acquired with the accumulation of so many advanced degrees.

“Nurse Sueann writes that there was an encounter in the park. Want to tell me about it?”

I do not, but can just about recite verbatim my contract, that which upon signing saved me from cancer, and earned me the cost of this rather extensive counseling. I must cooperate or am legally obligated to repay the thousands upon thousands of dollars. My mother co-signed, putting her home at risk. She is too old to lose it.

So I tell her about it. Crinkled n*****s. Bulging trousers. A virile young male apparently benefitting from the attentive hand of an alluring blonde.

“It aroused you... to the extent you can feel arousal after a woman removed your testicles,” blatantly forcing the reminiscence of the recent procedure.

The gender reference is constant. There is an immersion process to all this, the observations and questions always leading to pointedly one sided exchanges of s****l power. I am becoming accustomed, indeed realizing how with such quick simplicity the male can be physically altered. And now psychologically transformed as well. Powerlessness is being imbued. Weak... I am becoming weaker.

“In what role did you envision yourself... in the park? In being aroused, you must have imagined portraying either the girl or the boy. Which?”

As she questions, she signals me to lie on the obligatory couch. I do.

“I guess I was imagining what it is like to once again achieve erection.”

“But you cannot. You saw the doctor’s handiwork. You just laid on the table while a woman plundered your scrotum. A rather helpless feeling. The vulnerability is rather compelling, don’t you think? Nurse Sueann writes that you watched as instructed. You can feel your empty scrotum every time you shower. You are more than aware of your castration by a woman. Why would you think you can ever again be potent?”

Yes, in the contract, it was demanded that local anesthetic be administered and that I be made to observe as the pretty doctor plundered indeed. It may have been my imagination, but the operating room reeked of perfume rather than sanitizing chemicals. Intentional?

Strangely, I was emotionally ‘with it’, so to speak, until I heard the first plunk, the sound made as my left testicle was squeezed through a deliberately tiny incision at the side to minimize scarring. With the various connecting cords snipped it fell to a waiting basin and I detected a smile behind the surgical mask. I know the gleeful look of Nurse Sueann did not fade with my loss. And that is when I began to blubber like the little girl I was about to become.

“Perhaps you would like to feel an erection. Since you cannot have one of your own, a woman permanently depriving you, perhaps deep within you visualize that it was your little hand on the boy’s trousers?”

The thought horrifies. But that is what the woman does, constantly testing my emotional and psychological reaction... challenging my psyche... my gender identification. There is never a conclusion, only the implantation of licentious gender obfuscating thoughts.

“I don’t think so.”

“That’s not a bold denial.”

She is correct. What is happening?

“Your hair. It’s getting long. You like long hair.”

“I never had long hair.”

“But now you do.”

The psychological challenges and riveting questions go on and on for an hour. Finally, mentally worn, the counselor notably smug, I am given my instructions for the week.

“Same time next Friday. Go to a beauty parlor first. Have your hair coifed. A nice effeminate style. Then we’ll talk about it. How you think you look. How it makes you feel. I want you to make it look like that girl in the park.”

She hands me a business card for a nearby salon.

“In case you need support, the girls there are very good with neutered boys like you. It amuses.”

***

I like to say I am an accountant, but am really just a clerk. Four years of college and I shuffle paper. If I work hard and show myself to be promotable, at some point I’ll shuffle receivables in place of the humdrum shuffling of payables.

So as my body transforms and for some reason I decide to let my hair grow, no one notices in the ‘cave’ of the accounting department. Still, my counselor’s demand that my hair be styled can turn heads... probably will turn heads.

So I decide to make the required appointment for late in the week, offering the weekend to counter any undue presentation which can potentially affect employment status. I call the salon and attempt to make an arrangement for late Friday afternoon... in the world of beauty and fashion apparently the busiest time of the week.

“I’m sorry, sir, all booked for Friday.”

I mention my counselor’s name and the tone immediately shifts.

“Warren, did you say? Yes, the doctor had us put a note in our scheduling calendar. Possible special treatment. The back room has been made available that afternoon at her request. 3:30 p.m. don’t be late.”

My counselor seems to wield some authority at the salon. So I spend the week doing my shuffle, and in not having a doctor’s appointment the only comparative mental, emotional trauma is showering in the morning... when I wash... down there.

Something about the combined sensation of soaping/kneading the empty scrotum plus the complete hairlessness that drives home my alteration. I so often recall the doctor’s words as she sutured the small openings, my testicles resting in a metal dish.

‘Left lots of puffy skin for you. Some girls... ah, rather boys... enjoy playing. If you find it distracts, is found to be counter to your desired presentment, it’s easily removed. We can gather the skin, band it to curtail the circulation and within ten days to two weeks it will merely drop off. It’s how they do cattle,’ she pedantically explained.

Having piqued my curiosity I later did an internet search. The device is termed an elastrator and I was quite chagrined to see such available for as low as $12.00. I sat mesmerized. The models used on smaller livestock such as goats or lambs could perfectly circle the scrotum of a human male.

I can just about recite every word of instructions as to its use...

Restrain the kid.

With the prongs of the elastrator facing the kid, expand the band by squeezing the elastrator.

Place the band over the scrotum and testes, close to the body, making sure that both testes are below the ring.

Release the elastrator and pull it from the band, making sure that the band is close to the body and that the teats are not trapped in the band.

The scrotum and testes dry up and drop off in about two weeks. Check them regularly after that if they have not fallen off. Check them for infection and spray with antiseptic, if needed. In a few cases, they may be hanging by a small amount of tissue, and you can cut them off with a clean scalpel or sharp knife.