A Sadist's Story

Chapter 1

Ms. Monique

“Are you going to cane Miss Julie?” my naked hermaphroditic toy inquires.

“Of course, Danny Boy, that’s what I do.”

Sitting on my workout bench, I reach out and palm the lad’s empty scrotum, pressing upwards on his perineum with my middle finger to pressure the urethral passage beneath. I also gently knead his withered p***s with my thumb. He smiles and giggles, the simple pleasures of the castrated male can be so easily orchestrated and be so amusing for a woman like me. It’s a wonderfully ironic contrast, the vulnerable fleshy pink being manipulated by my forceful black fingers. To me, the power, and the reminiscence of the night I put it to ultimate use on Danny Boy, brings a grin of my own, one of contented wickedness.

“What happened here, Danny Boy? Something’s missing.”

Though the lips remain upturned, the smile turns somewhat forlorn. He’d rather not recall the loss of his precious little gonads, but it is something I constantly force to the forefront of his cerebrum; term it mental exercise for the subservient male.

I feel the little p***s stir, trying to rise in a futile resurrection of his male pride. I know very little will happen, Danny Boy has had his last stand as an intact male. But watching the tiny tube struggle to engorge and reinforcing his emasculation is psychologically important. He serves so much better in being made constantly aware of his altered state and of the implacability of the woman who manifested it.

He steps forward. I withdraw my hand and he presses his little organ against my left thigh, sweaty and overheated from vigorous exercise. Now I laugh. To me it’s a mirthful laugh, but to Danny Boy I am sure it sounds so evil, and perhaps it is. The frustration—his frustration—so delights.

While he subtly grinds his hips, small pearl white hands extend to offer the warm, fluffy towel mandated after every workout. Danny Boy gently dabs perspiration from my forehead. Though sitting, I look directly into his clear blue eyes. I stand six foot two. Danny’s growth was truncated when I placed his hormonal balance into disarray. He’s a little over five feet.

I place my hands to my sides on the workout bench and let Danny Boy tend to his task. After pumping hundreds of pounds for many repetitions, I need pampering. I have a full night of work ahead; therefore it is time for a massage and a nap. Danny Boy, my defacto maid, begins with a toweling while I catch my breath.

Keeping about a castrated male—one long denied of clothing—keeps me in the proper frame of mind. I am a sadist...a very stern and exacting sadist...and I make my living dispensing pain, physical pain. Therefore I need to be well conditioned, which daily workouts imbue, and my demented libido needs to be kept honed, which interaction with Danny Boy provides. Yes, watching Danny Boy’s cute buttocks prance about my living quarters, knowing that between those rounded girlish cheeks is an opening kept well lubricated at my behest, spurs my own proclivities.

I am given to deep anal penetration, reveling in both Danny Boy’s heartfelt pleas and the feel of his soft body, altered by my hands, as it squirms and shudders with every thrust of my strap on dildo.

After all, I am a sadist...that’s what I do.

Danny Boy lowers the towel to dry my shoulders then smoothes it down my left arm. It is apparent that he is marveling at the size and potency of both forearm and biceps. In lacking such strength, he envies mine. And I often imagine his thoughts... that the proximity to my sculpted muscling constantly brings awareness that any possibility for achieving equivalent strength was plucked from his little pink pouch by my cruel fingers.

No, Danny Boy, I sentenced you to a lifetime of pusillanimous servitude. You will forever be weak and servile, a mind and body crafted to suit my needs.

Grimly, he must step away, depriving his p***s of the faint pleasure of my warm flesh, to fulfill his task on my right arm. He tries to press against my right thigh and I playfully deny him, instead reaching to pinch the once ball laden empty sac. I smile once again in feeling and pulling on the little warm puff, which I so callously emptied years ago. Using my grip to steady my hand, Danny Boy towels my arm as the loose flesh unfurls and reminds of my marauding fingers. Thereafter I turn to straddle the bench and move my hands to lean back. The towel passes over the Spandex sports bra, which seals my firm and massive breasts to my torso. It glides over the ripples of my abdominal muscles, drying there and then to my thighs, described by some as tree trunks.

Here Danny Boy’s innate maleness becomes apparent, the snips to his testicles not completely stripping him of the instinctive enjoyment of the feminine sheath. Yes, I exercise nearly naked. Only the utility of the sports bra is required. I forgo all other covering. There is no need for modesty. Danny Boy’s been fixed and appearing before him in complete dishabille is akin to taking off my clothes before a dog... a neutered dog.

Any truly male physical reaction has been denied him. I’ve rendered him harmless. Let his eyes feast.

He reverently pats thighs and calves. Then he also straddles the bench to sit facing me. His hands move to my well-trimmed pubes and I spread, advancing the tantalization. I know my odoriferous scent fills the room. It imbues such a wonderful tease, also adding to his frustration. My open thighs completely expose the dark brown and pink of my outer labia and my c******l hood. Danny Boy’s hands work there gently, reverently. There is also moisture, and not entirely from perspiration.

“You take such good care of me, Danny Boy. So attentive to my needs. Do you think if I had left you intact you’d be so heedful to my demands?”

I teasingly flick Danny Boy’s right n****e as he ruefully shakes his head. The tactility of the tender pink nub brings forth the reaction of a little girl, a childish giggle erupting as the areola crinkles and sits up in quest for more attention.

Meanwhile, Danny Boy knows to gently part my lips and press the towel within the opening to my v****a. I taught him that... for no other reason than for the enjoyment of watching the castrated male pay homage to my superior genitalia... organs that not only fully function, but mock his inability to achieve gratification. He also enjoys pressing upward on my mons, lifting my c******l hood to reveal my oversized c******s. To his feeble mind, with the hormonal balance greatly affecting his thought processes, he must think it’s bigger than his male appendage, as he exhibits an expression of awe.

Whether my aroused bud is in fact able to achieve more girth than his tiny p***s is questionable. But in Danny Boy’s mind, it is large and potent; that’s more important than what any actual measurement would unveil. Term it a reverse p***s envy.

Still his tender hands provide pleasure. And in compen-sation thereof, I sit up and entwine my arms around his naked alabaster form... hugging most strongly and drawing him against me. It is important that all physical contact with Danny Boy seem to overpower. It is part of the subjugation process and I squeeze until I hear the rush of air from his lungs. Then my hands lower to palm his cute buttocks, smooth as a baby’s.

“I want a warm wash, rub down and then a rinse,” I decree.

And to emphasize the firmness of my demand, index and middle finger slip within his gluteal cleft and find that well-lubricated opening. My digits glide in facilely, Danny Boy having been so often sodomized, and I find his little prostate. The walnut-sized gland is his last vestige of maleness; the withered p***s so comically small that it is troublesome to describe it as evidence of his gender.

He smiles. Another brief moment of pleasure brought to him by the woman who forever changed his life. Meanwhile my free hand moves to his front. I begin a m**********g motion, knowing that the remote sensation will do little more than humiliate as the tiny p***s meekly attempts to firm. Still I work both hands, pumping the prostate gland to build frustration and bring fluid oozing forth.

Then having brought him as far toward climax as he will ever get, I withdraw and abruptly stand.

“The table.”

As a dejected Danny Boy swings his leg over the bench I firmly smack his rounded globes, knowing that the peculiar pleasure of stroking the withered p***s and the stinging pain to his backside is all he can receive in s****l fulfillment; that, and my strap-on manipulating his prostate, but that’s for another time.

He prances, as I have taught him to do. Danny Boy never walks, and I follow watching the cute posterior roll with each quick and dainty footfall. Connected to my small but adequate workout room is a sizable bathroom with special rubber-padded massage table. Soft, comfortable, waterproof, I will be doused with tranquilizing warm water and Danny Boy’s trained hands will knead every muscle.

As he begins to adjust the temperature and flow of the water, I peel off the sports bra. We are now equally naked, but my puissance overwhelms... just under two hundred pounds of sinewy muscle, with the only hint of feminine fat being huge but firm breasts visually enhanced by a limited waistline.

Though it is a daily ritual, Danny Boy gawks. The envy of the castrated male... so charming; so soothing to my Dominant psyche...he tells himself that it is a privilege to be in my service... and it is.

I lay prostrate, arms at my sides, feet slightly parted, the padding seeming to swallow my weight. I feel the gentle spray begin and close my eyes as Danny Boy offers his servile attendance. The moist pink of my genitalia deliberately peeks back below muscled buttocks, an inviting gesture to the intact male; a message of feminine power to that which has been cruelly altered.

Let him look. Let him fantasize. Let him try to masturbate over that which he must so fervently service.

With the tranquility I think about the evening I castrated Danny Boy. I promised I would make it memorable for him, and I did... the recollection of his beseeching cries having a becalming effect as a very soft chamois begins swabbing my back with fragrant soapy water.

Yes, the male is easily altered. The difficulty is in performing the deed in such a way that it not only affects the physical but also the mind. The male must not only know that he has been forced into nature’s most significant transformation but also that a woman has been the catalyst.

And so with Danny Boy I looped thin strands of steel wire around each little gonad and secured the ends most tightly to the bottom of my bed frame. And then I took him doggie style with the largest strap on he could physically accommodate. My end of the double dildo was most comforting. Danny Boy’s seemed to abrade his tight little aperture, judging from his pleas. Or were such as a result of my thrusts, each one serving to tighten the loops of wire around his testicles just a little more?

Yes, I slowly deprived the little organs of circulation, the wires eventually crushing the nerves and unfortunately relieving him of the final agony. But after a long night of anal penetration, plundering his backside again and again, his testicles were rendered useless through my sodomizing of his anus. I climaxed numerous times and let Danny Boy play with himself for one last ejaculation. It was pathetically weak.

Later I opened up his sac and snipped away to avoid gangrene. But that procedure was anticlimactic. No, it was the forceful thrusts of my thighs and hips that did in Danny Boy’s life as a male. And I smile in pleasant reverie as the hands of the very male I castrated now pay homage by bathing, kneading and massaging those very thighs.