When finished the invisible bar resided within my nose with comparatively little discomfort. The bridle had been intolerable.
I was prettied up by the young cosmetician and pictures were taken from the neck up. Someone mentioned the pho
tos were to be emailed to Mrs. Dalton.
Then my testicle rings were cut off. Apparently with my scrotum hanging just above my knees, no further stretching was deemed necessary. My masturbation mittens were removed. With Dr. Reinhold’s alteration I was invited to touch, stroke, rub, twist my locked penis all I wished.
“You will find that it just adds to your frustration,” Dr. Corrothers chided me. “But it may be entertaining to watch if you care to try for one last orgasm.”
Her point was punctuated by a wicked laugh.
For the next few weeks I continued to serve as a maid. Learning to walk in heels was difficult but on occasion I was permitted clothing! Frilly silk. Brief and very revealing but it felt wonderful!
The most demeaning change, however, was squatting to relieve myself...and being forced to do so while being supervised.
Yes, Dr. Reinhold’s alteration was amazingly successful. And depending on who supervised me, sometimes I was permitted to hold my dangling testicles out of the way...sometimes it was my handler who insisted on cradling my long pink sac. It is something to which no male can ever become accustomed.
My penis remained locked to my waist band and Lady Constance found great amusement in diddling the well exposed under side and watching it engorge...particularly while I served refreshments.
Meanwhile my prostate gland, constantly manipulated by the urethral insertion, caused fluid to leak from my new opening. Thus while I served during the dinner meal, I wore a Kotex between my thighs to absorb the embarrassing secretions.
My spare time, while not serving, was spent in what was effectively a charm school and learning the fine art of cunnilingus. Every male thinks he is accomplished. But until he lies beneath the naked form of a demanding female with his head firmly ensconced between smooth thighs...and he acquires proper breath control and learns to find and satisfy every feminine erogenous nook and cranny, he cannot possibly be of proper service.
Sumani, the stable mistress, and Motamba, the head housekeeper, proved to be insatiable in receiving the tongue and lips of the subjugated male. And with Dr. Reinhold’s operation it felt like I had another penis, this one in my mouth. I was taught to use it as such.
Speaking was still a demanding task. The beads inserted under the surface of my tongue and the incised ligaments made it difficult to formulate words. They were unintelligible. But as Lady Constance readily pointed out, I was to be seen and felt...not heard.
Still, as I sit before the mirror to beautify myself as trained, there is the question of future employment.
I appear to be a woman. My facial hair is gone...possibly forever. I have been trained, indoctrinated really, to think like the most obsequious of maids...and to be of service. I cannot really speak.
Yet, I am happy to be leaving. I believe I can truly make Mrs. Dalton happy. That is all I think about.
Nurse Jasmine and Motamba enter forcing me to end my reflections. The huge nurse has brought the Dremel tool. She smiles has her fingers work about my nipples, pushing and poking the badges to expose the deeply penetrating bar that serves to hold the badge on my chest. The small circular blade cuts. Once again the heat causes pain. I can bear it. It is the last physical vestige of Constancia Island. The right is cut through and removed, then the left. Without a word the nurse leaves.
Then it is time to get dressed. For the first time in months I will truly be clothed...not the revealing frilly garments intended to amuse Lady Constance’s guests. But instead real clothing so that I can walk through airports.
“A little gift from Lady Constance,” she announces.
She holds up a collection of leather straps. It is a scrotal parachute similar to the one Mrs. Dalton used to torment me.
It is curious that I no longer have any compunction about having my most intimate anatomy handled by the female gender. It is really no longer mine.
Her dark-skinned, knowing hands gather up my well-stretched scrotal sac. She speaks as my gonads are entrapped within the parachute and she pulls it back between my thighs.
“You will need to be very careful when sitting down. You’re not to have any undergarments and therefore something must be done to keep these useless balls of yours out of sight.”
The large single strap, which serves to gather together the eight or ten smaller straps squeezing my testicles, is pulled between my buttocks. She attaches it to the back of my waistband and locks it in place. With all the stretching, I am shocked to feel that my once precious gonads have been forced back between my thighs to a point where I will indeed have to sit on them.
“You’ll find that it’s best to sit on the very edge of your seat and maintain proper posture,” a laughing Motamba suggests.
Yes, she is correct. Otherwise I would crush my testicles!
“Don’t worry about airport security. You’ll be strip searched of course. But the guards have been alerted as to your newly found status in life.
“And the attendant on your flight is a very active member of the ASBM. She has been given a key to your strap. Should you need to visit the ladies room during the trip, she’ll release the parachute so you can go.”
A precaution of which I had not thought. I cannot squat and relieve myself while my scrotum is so secured.