The Entrapped

Chapter 3

For some reason I stared lengthily at the website. Intended for farmers, both the number and sizes of elastrators was disconcertingly impressive along with explicit instructions for use by the novice.

Guess I should be thankful to have something left there. Quite gracious of the doctor.

‘So if you want to be a smoothy, as some of my boys like to reference the removal of all this excess skin, just let me know,’ the smile beneath the surgical mask broadening with the suggestion.

Her eyes twinkled and I imagined her smile to match the gloating look of the nearby Nurse Sueann.

I shudder again thinking about the offer.

Tons of office paperwork can offer remedial distraction until one needs to use the men’s room. Then, like it or not, I must feel down there, my p***s indeed seeming to shrink.

Yes, along with the photos taken for my South American benefactor, Nurse Sueann measured my entire anatomy, chuckling in a most irritating manner as she stretched out my flaccid member and held a ruler.

‘Four and a half inches. The feminine world is not going to miss your prowess,’ she proclaimed.

And so the pre operation standard was set. I have subsequently not achieved such ‘robust’ length with any follow up visits to the doctor’s office. Though once I did become erect. Yes, a few days after the pain of the scrotal openings subsided, I awoke one morning with nocturnal penile tumescence. I stroked myself a bit, but knowing the ultimate result would be disappointingly anti climactic, I decided that endeavoring to arrive at work on schedule was a better use of my efforts.

I have since not again achieved full erection.

Friday arrives. My superiors know I have had recent surgery, no embarrassing details offered. So it’s facile to announce a need to depart at 3:30 p.m. for a doctor’s appointment. Not a complete prevarication, my counselor is a doctor... a PhD in psychology... and I will eventually be in her office.

But first it’s to the beauty salon to endure what I suspect will be a test of my remaining masculinity.

To be coifed!

My hair is somewhat curly. Thus its growing length is not overly noticeable. But my counselor wants it to be styled in the manner of that young trollop in the park. Parted in the middle, the simple styling hung straight down, cut straight about the neck an inch or two below her ears, bangs festooned her forehead about an inch above her eyebrows.

***

“Yes, Mr. Warren,” the young girl seeming to repress a giggle. “The back room. Your counselor has made the arrangements.”

I follow to the back of the bustling salon. I receive some questioning glances, but in New York it is not completely uncommon for a man to benefit from the offerings of a woman’s domain. The girl leads me into a small room with the expected adjustable swivel chair. She points.

“It’s probably best you get out of that nice suit, Mr. Warren. The various hair formulas can be quite powerful and will stain.”

Why is it I am not alarmed?

She closes the door. The room is well mirrored and I cannot help looking at my five foot two inch frame, lithe but rapidly plumping where a guy does not normally plump. My curly hair is frumpily gathered atop my head, styling not a coveted attribute in a stodgy accounting department. When I pull up and out to straighten, I note it has indeed become long, as my counselor suggested. I have not given it much thought, with all the physical and emotional trauma of late. Guess a hair cut has not been at the top of my agenda... or so I justify the neglect.

The door opens. As I hoped, in steps a woman of maturity, the receptionist I found to be too young to understand the intended proceedings.

“I am Molly, Mr. Warren. Were you not advised to remove your suit?”

The voice is husky. The tone forceful. The look disapproving. Her stance, arms akimbo, one of instant authority.

“Ah... yes... well I’m just here to get my hair done.”

“As is everyone else. Disrobe. To your skivvies. Hair dye can be destructive to good clothing.”

“Hair dye? I’m here for some styling.”

“And that you shall have as well. Your counselor suggested you be made into a blond. Something about a style and shade you noted in the park. Tell me what it looked like... the style. Any particular shade of blond?”

This brings alarm. My hair is brown... dark brown. I arrived thinking any untoward efforts today could be unraveled by the time Monday morning work beckoned. But dyed as a blond?

“Ah... well if my counselor insists,” I am demure and once again mentally recite to myself the long agreement which covered the cost of acute medical care and this subsequent ‘counseling’.

I unbutton my suit jacket. The woman takes it and hangs it as I step out of my shoes and unbuckle my belt. She watches with intensity. She is a no nonsense women of some forty years. I will once again be challenged... and lose.

“I assume it can be washed out... the dye?”

No answer. She just points to the chair as I hand her my trousers.

“What was the style? Describe it for me.”

I do. She nods, commenting that the style has been prevalent of late due to some up and coming movie starlet.

“Take off your undershirt too. We’ll need to straighten your hair and that can get sloppy. So you’ll see why I need you out of that suit Mr. Warren. Powerful ingredients. Otherwise it’s easily done.”

Molly glances downward.

“What happened to your body, Mr. Warren? No hair on the chest, arms or legs...”

It will be a long appointment. My transformation begins.

***

I cannot believe it’s me! I am incredulous. Molly proves to be a magician! I stare into the various mirrors in combined excitement and embarrassment. My hair is a gaudy shade of blond. I have bangs. The curls of hair are now exceptionally straight and precisely cut in a straight line from the right jaw bone to the left.

“It’s termed a ‘page boy’,” Molly informs, her gaze intense in assessing her own work.

I cannot help thinking how effeminate I appear, the style complementing Nurse Sueann’s depilating efforts.

“Sit back, Mr. Warren. Just a little more tidy work and I think you’ll be ready to show off.”

I am compliant of course, my thoughts running wild, fearfully imagining my return to the accounting ‘cave’ on Monday. So as I sit back and Molly begins working my eyebrows it does not occur to me to protest. The small and limited strips of hair are also trimmed, plucked then dyed as well.

“This will wash out,” my words coming across more as a plea than a question.

“Your counselor gave instructions for permanent dye. It will grow out in time, but you’ll look rather silly if you don’t continuously color the undergrowth. I have you down for a follow up appointment in two weeks.”

I am sickened, but my thoughts are diverted as Molly finishes plying her craft at my eyebrows and playfully but brazenly tweaks my left n****e.

“You look cute. And I think your counselor wants you to look cute. You will please her.”

Spoken with the assumption that pleasing my counselor is my only goal, Molly steps away and tosses me my undershirt.

“Two weeks. And the advantage of permanent coloring is that for the most part you can shampoo normally. I’ll give you a bottle of mild formula on the way out. The bill has been taken care of.”

***

My counselor greets me with all the expected superlatives.

“My, my how pretty you look, Mr. Warren!”

I enter her inner sanctum, already disgruntled by the cute and knowing smile of her secretary receptionist, endured as I waited to be summoned.

I wonder if she knows I am ‘counseled’ while completely nude.

The short walk from the salon was tough for me, strolling rapidly through midtown at rush hour, not knowing how to counter the riveting questioning stares... man with girlish hair?.. or girl wearing men’s attire? I just gazed straight ahead and tried to ignore.

But there was a reaction... down there. And I do not understand it. I felt twinges. The attention brought some form of ‘pre arousal’ for want of a better term. I do believe that had I been intact I would have stiffened. But then if I had been intact would all the stares... some rather adoring... have given rise to the twinge?

I am confused by my own reaction.... physical and emotional. My mind is in a dither. And oddly I am glad to finally be in the seclusion of my counselor’s office.

By rote I begin to remove my clothing very much aware of how the counselor insists that I present myself to her.

“Very alluring. Very effeminate. And I think you like it!” my counselor begins with the psychological barrage.

Before I step to lie on her couch, she grasps my right hand, just as Nurse Sueann is wont to do.

“Come let’s look at you.”

She guides me to a closet door and opens it. On the back is a full length mirror, apparently used between appointments and at the end of the day to assure her presentment. She pushes me to her front and stands behind. My eyes widen in shock... and I must confess rather pleasant shock. My denuded, hairless form is indeed alluring, disgustingly alluring unless one is a pedophile. At age 24, I have the appearance of a prepubescent boy... with testicles excised more likely a prepubescent girl. But for some reason I take joy... and she knows!

“You look cute as a blond.”

I do indeed... and I am both ashamed and yet oddly stimulated.

“How do you feel?”

And this is when I begin to understand the need for counseling. I know how I feel, but cannot express it... perhaps dare not express it.

What is happening to me!

My right hand goes to my pubes. The twinge has returned and in the privacy of my counselor’s office, everything most confidential, I cannot ignore it. I caress myself... unable to do so while walking the streets of New York. And then for the first time my left hand goes to my n*****s. I caress there as well. Such are crinkled...like the girl in the park! Oh, the irony!

My counselor smiles... projecting that ‘I know something you don’t know’ look. She seems satiated, in guy’s parlance as if she just scored a major league run to win a game.

“You’re discovering yourself anew, Mr. Warren. Perhaps it would be better if we used another moniker for you if you’re going to be a naughty girl.”

She grasps my hand. I am infatuated by my reflection and she must tug firmly.

“Come. Let’s talk, Renee. We have much to cover. Tomorrow you have an appointment with a woman who will be taking you shopping and teaching you deportment. And I think you will enjoy yourself. Your skin is becoming tender as I am sure you can feel. You’ll need silk and satin. There are not many girls who get to go shopping on a wealthy benefactress...”

Lying on the couch I spy a dildo. I am to play with it, to simulate m**********n.

But am I to simulate m**********g myself... or another male?

“Picture that boy on the park bench...”

I do. And I find my hand to be disturbingly tender and dainty.

***

It’s Saturday. I have an appointment. I shower, my soapy hands gliding about my shorn pubes, spurring both remorse and a degree of distant joy. I gently pull on my p***s and feel a twinge of pleasure... and disappointment, having stroked away the prior night on a sizable faux phallus to seemingly amuse my counselor.

I dry. I dress. For some reason I spend extra time before the mirror, care taken to assure my hair is properly combed and set as Molly showed me. The blond locks stun... unnaturally golden... but attractive.

Almost out the door, I remember to grab the hand bag my counselor gave me.

‘You’ll carry this at all times,’ she instructed, making me leave behind my brief bag.

No loss. The brief bag was not much more than an attempt to project importance. I really never carried anything in it other than the morning paper and a sandwich.

Stepping to the elevator I assess the fine over the shoulder bag offered in its place. Smooth and shiny black leather, not effeminate, not masculine; I realize it will further serve to obfuscate my gender as I walk the streets. The brief bag, I suppose, has been deemed too conclusively masculine.