The Entrapped

“There was too much silliness at the shop, Renee. You will learn to walk in heels... and learn to do so most temptingly.”

I will... and I do.

***

No welts. Some evidence of bruising, I endure the exacting tutelage of Miss Lalique, learning indeed to not only walk in heels, but to do so in that ‘come hither and fuck me manner’. Many hours, many corrective ‘taps’, I learn that placing one foot directly in front of the other swings... sways... the hips. Suggestive... lascivious... for some reason I buy into it.

I learn to walk like a young girl... and one on the prowl!

How else can I describe the resulting gait!

Sunday, as Miss Lalique suggested, I am left alone. Me and my wardrobe... a girl and her clothes.

The weather is temperate... but where is it I can go? I have blouses... I have skirts... I have heels... some more modest than the devilish four inch pumps in which I have been trained... but I am a guy!

Or am I?

Showering on Sunday morning, the fingers of a soapy hand once again gently scour that which the doctor plundered. There comes a certain degree of arousal.... a distant pleasure. The palpation of the loose flesh stirs certain nerves. I recall the doctor’s countenance... ‘left lots of puffy skin for you. Some girls... ah, rather boys... enjoy playing’.

Quite prescient, I assume that as the physical trauma of excising my balls dissipates, the relative sensitivity returns... slowly. I recall Nurse Sueann observing that anatomically the flesh of the male scrotum has the same sensitivity as the female labia.

I suppose I will be determining that for sure.

Missing from the sizable collection of new garments is casual wear... that worn when just sitting about the apartment watching television or playing computer games. So with the dozens of pink silk and satin panties, none completely covering my cheeks, such becomes by default that which I don while lounging about.

For some reason there comes this propensity to sit before a mirror... not so much staring at my radically transformed appearance, but absorbing... reflecting in a puny way. At first there are tears... coifed hair... pierced ears... yet I am a guy. But then realization sets in... I am a guy without balls. Then the emotional roller coaster begins a slow ascent... I am a guy without balls who is somewhat cute. This brings a smile... and not an irritating smile as that of Nurse Sueann... but a rather fresh ‘girl next door’ smile. Yes, innocent, wholesome, and attractive.

I practice... girlishly feminine facial expressions. My appearance is so different... so much better? I twist the shards penetrating my ears, assuring as instructed that the openings properly heal. The studs are ungainly... the practicality of unsightly stainless steel required only during the healing process. And then I think to myself... earrings.

How will I be decorated? I find myself fantasizing about sparkling diamonds and glimmering gold.

But how can a girl... a guy... afford such?

My benefactress was certainly forthcoming enough yesterday. Will jewelry be next?

The thought brings a strange thrill, envisioning magnificent baubles, teasingly dangling just below the cut of my page boy. Such brings a smile... that cute, wholesome ‘girl next door’ smile.

And then it comes to mind that only moments ago I was crying, my tears flowing to smear the remnants of yesterday’s make up.

What is happening to me?

Nearing noon, the self adulation bringing a degree of ennui, Miss Lalique having tossed most computer games, there comes a need for diversion... and for lunch, food never overly stocked in my bachelor’s pad... bachelorette pad.

But how do I leave? I have only girl’s clothing... and not even a pair of sneakers. To leave I will have to be in blouse, skirt and heels... fortunately the latter is available with a more modest pair than those worn during last night’s training.

Like it or not I must continue the subterfuge... or sit in boredom and starvation. Besides, tomorrow, Monday morning, I must work, forced to face the dilemma in earnest.

So I shower, dry, comb and style my hair, for some reason taking excessive time. Then I pause attempting to foretell the reaction of those who will see me. If I must wear blouse and skirt, I don’t want people to think it is boy in drag.

My predicament broadens. Like it or not, to avoid undue attention, I must go all in on this subterfuge... if being forced to present myself as a girl can indeed be so termed. After all there are the missing organs which define gender...

So more time is spent on makeup. Somewhat sloppy, but I oddly console myself by convincing myself I shall get better.

With pink panties there comes that distant thrill... smooth satin on re-sensitized scrotum and unused penis. Then a yellow silk blouse and skirt of brown. It tantalizingly rubs against the uncovered portion of my buttocks and augments the wonderful frottaging of the satin. As I move about, my nipples become perky, celebrating being encased in silk.

By the time I don platform shoes, the most practical of my new collection, my cerebral cortex is deluged with newly felt input... so much soft smoothness where I had before felt so little.

A simple walk can stimulate.