“Good evening, Sam. I see I am expected,” she greets with a tinge of sarcasm, peering at my manhood.
Yes, Little Sam stands in wait. Apparently in viewing the room’s accouterments and swimming in a sea of testosterone, he has chosen to greet Ms. Hobson in a state of tumescence. In being surgically desensitized, sometimes I do not notice or feel his wanderings.
When not laboring at a task or under other instruction, I kneel as Jamie and Miss Elizabeth have taught me. Thus the woman of so many nightmares appears even larger standing over me in heels and full length baggy overcoat. She pats my head. This is a new Grace Hobson. She appears to have such compassion for the vanquished.
“Why not step up on the platform, Sam? Between the posts. Don’t be shy. You’re the center of attention in this room. It’s for you.”
I obey. The platform, reminding me of a small stage under the spotlights, is some eighteen inches above the floor.
“Hands on head. Give me good posture, now.”
She speaks crisply but politely as if to a potentially unruly child, verbally establishing control before mischievous hands stray. I do indeed have a desire to stroke Little Sam. But I part my feet, place my hands accordingly
and push my shoulders back at attention.
“Good boy,” Ms. Hobson graciously offers, extending a hand to palm my testicles.
Little Sam waggles with her touch, bringing laughter.
The height of the platform places my genitals at shoulder level. She smiles in viewing more closely Little Sam’s shortened and pointed tip. The wry look suggests that she knows all to well of the relative numbness compared to the thrilling sensitivity before Dr. Wilson’s altering procedure.
The huge form turns away and strolls to a tall cabinet. She produces a key, unlocks and swings open the double doors. She speaks as she removes her long coat.
“You know, Sam, amputees experience an interesting phenomenon where they claim to feel sensations from limbs surgically removed. You’ll probably undergo the same. Though your penis has little feeling, you will desire to stroke it or pine to thrust it into the warm and moist confines of the female sheath. You will experience limited satiation, if any. But you’ll get used to it over time. And when the need builds, there’s always sessions here which will serve to alleviate an urge.”
She hangs her coat while speaking. Beneath is more drab and baggy attire.., a dress which could serve as a tent. She moves to the right wall laden with cuffs and shackles. I gulp in realizing that I have placed myself at the mercy of the heartless woman who sent Samuel L. Winthrop, III for coffee, had revoked every one of my licenses and terminated my employment with such enjoyment.
There is a pause while she selects a collection of simple chains and returns to me. She bends and pulls from under the platform a small step stool, so low that its utility is questionable. She places it near my feet.
“Step up, please.”
I obey and resume my stance, every command seeming to add to Little Sam’s delight. She momentarily moves out of sight to my rear then with chains in hand she joins me on the platform.
“Keep your hands on your head at all times while in this room, Sam. It will always be the rule unless you are directed to do otherwise.”
Long fingers work about my neck collar. A chain is attached to the eye hook on the left side and strung to an iron ring on top of the left pole.
“My late husband encountered a challenge similar to yours. I married young and to a rather obstreperous and bold man. And whereas his boldness served me well, it also served other women. I tolerated it, biding my time, and then came a fateful night, an oil slicked section of road, and a powerful motorcycle which was as refractory as he was.”
She works the right side, continuing to recall her philandering husband.
“He skidded off the road into some construction equipment and was injured. And low and behold besides being knocked unconscious, his manhood suffered much trauma.”
The right side of my collar is chained. She adjusts to assure there is little slack then steps down.
“So after suffering the indignity of dozens of sordid trysts, I receive this phone call from the hospital. Trauma care can only be offered for so long and for so many steps without the consent of the patient or his next of kin. So with my husband in a coma, I rush to the emergency room and learn that only hours and hours of immediate and highly skilled surgery can save that which caused so much misery and interfered with a marriage of complete consecration.
“Yes, Dr. Wilson explained the procedure, the careful suturing of the various vessels, the grafting of skin, the painstaking care to ensure the erectile chambers remain expandable. She also emphasized the need for immediacy, holding before me the papers that needed to be signed.”
She moves to my front. A smaller chain is attached to my left testicle ring and strung to an iron ring on the middle of the left post. The right suffers a similar restraint on the right post. She adjusts to remove all slack.
“And so I calmly listened, Dr. Wilson plainly stated the obvious alternative to the risk. “‘He’ll lose it,’ was her blunt summation. ‘What’s left will have to be removed.’”
“I smiled and she seemed to detect something. She had obviously seen such thoughtful looks before emanating from women suddenly placed in a position of power over the vaunted male organ.
“‘Is there a coffee shop or cafeteria where I can think about this?’ I so pleasantly replied. And that’s where I stayed, Sam. Sipping coffee and contemplating.
“Step off the stool now, slowly and carefully,” she smoothly commanded in interrupting her story.