“And of course, those that were sentenced to penectomies, the most belligerent, need constant supervision... akin to a lifetime of being on parole. The hormones build without release and it’s like dealing with a nuclear reactor, constant monitoring is required.”
Am I stunned. Some gave up their penises!
“Penectomy?” I encourage more dialogue.
“Yes. Not by my hand. A very complicated procedure performed on the hospital floor. The Thai government was insistent that the most incorrigible be so modified. Seems it’s an old Chinese torment. The male sex drive remains but normal gratification is denied. It was reserved for those who would not cooperate, even after trips to the discipline room.”
With my examination concluded, Nurse Emma having inspected all, my appointment ends. But Nurse Emma’s comments provide much grist for the thought mill. Miss Denise’s seventh floor has many rooms I have not seen and the manner in which Nurse Emma referenced the collective ‘we’ and a ‘support group’ certainly hinted at a network involving more than her brownstone facility. Miss Denise is involved, I am certain.
An evilly fascinating and provocative speculation. With Miss Denise’s tour in Bangkok, she developed a permanent supply of patients... males whose sexual preferences have been transformed!
My walk home becomes more of a meandering search. In realizing how close I came to the surgical hand of the avenging female, I am benumbed. In viewing those pictures flashed onto the ceiling of my cell, penis enshrouded in an inflated cuff, only an appropriate response saved me from alteration.
Miss Denise’s power impresses more.
And Sunday’s final comment comes to mind... I’m going to have you ejaculate for me. Think about it during the week. Make up your mind that you want to please me.
In mentally juxtaposing her firm and suggestive words with renewed impressions of the Bangkok program, I indeed make up my mind.
Yes, I will please her.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Friday evening, I ascend the stairs to Miss Denise’s lair. Curiosity forces me to survey the names on the seventh floor doors. They have changed. Miss Denise is treating a different selection this weekend and I must wonder in total how many there are. Those whose penile reaction to the Bangkok slide show sealed their fate. How many sat in Nurse Emma’s chair or worse, in a more involved procedure, gave up their phallus.
I find my way to my weekend habitat and enter.
The written instructions awaiting me are more detailed. The neck collar, headphones and hood sit on the chair, and I am to align my bottom cheeks, sit and put them in place myself.
The hissing sound deafens me. The hood blinds and within moments someone enters and I feel hands strap me to the chair and snap in place the hood. Touch is the only contact. When fingers pinch my nose, I know it to be the signal to open my mouth. I comply and feel the rubber tube thrust to the back of my throat and ball gag press my teeth. My weekend ordeal begins with no other human intervention in terms of seeing, hearing or talking.
But as the cycles begin... the watering... bladder relief... temporary release from straps... I know it is Mae Lee. Over time, one becomes familiar with the idiosyncrasies of her touch.
There is still no acclimating to the slow build up of pain. I propose that a certain tolerance can be developed for the quick and searing pain of the cane. Probably more self control than tolerance. But the unending torment of the four point restraint slowly wears all resolve. I compare it to the ocean surf pounding against the most formidable of rock formations. Eventually all erodes, as does my fortitude. After many, many cycles, I find myself trying to kiss the hands that release the straps in a futile gesture seeking mercy.
But there is none. I must wait, knowing that as painful as the four point restraint can be, Mae Lee has even more horrid tortures.
It must be Saturday when wafting air and the smell of perfume tells me the room door has opened. My nose suggests that either Miss Denise has changed scents or someone unfamiliar has entered. Frustrating thoughts of the prior weekend return, where Miss Denise showed me off to a colleague as if I was a laboratory experiment. Curiosity rages as I feel my anal insertion expand and Mae Lee’s deft hand work to stiffen my unending erection.
Then the steady hissing diminishes. Words can be discerned.
“He cannot hear me?”
“No. He’s kept blinded and deafened. What we term sensory deprivation. It preps the mind, kind of like formatting a hard drive,” Miss Denise explains.
It is apparent that once again, I am to hear a conversation with one of the participants unaware of being overheard. And the voice is shockingly familiar.
“He’s larger than I recall,” the voice declares somewhat mockingly.
It is Sue, my stepsister! Her tone of voice and my male intuition tells me she is in a feminine discussion concerning my penis, obviously rather prominently displayed.
Her observation brings laughter from Miss Denise.
“He’s older, but it remains just as troublesome for him, as we discussed.”
“Well, he always enjoyed showing it off for me. And it’s difficult for me to understand the problem. He used to spout like a geyser... when I wanted.”
“It’s the conditioning. When he fell into my hands in Thailand, something within, probably provoked by our program of denial, triggered a need. A need which you fulfilled many years ago. One for which he has most likely searched for years since you departed.