Miss Elizabeth's Captive

“I’ll be here every week. We’ll talk. I treat many altered males, some with complete penectomies. In their cases we try to lower the libido. But for you, I’m afraid the testosterone therapy is mandatory. Ms. Mouquoud insists.

“Hands down.”

With that command, I know that my checkup is over. Nurse Stenson tenderly pats my testicles and turns to pack her things leaving me in frustration and confusion.

I stroke Little Sam in celebration of my new freedom. But it feels as if I am touching someone else’s manhood.

“Don’t wear out your palm,” Nurse Stenson sarcastically remarks as she reaches for the door to leave.

“Want to get out?”

Chapter Thirty Two

With bandage removed, achieving an erection became less and less painful each day, as Nurse Stenson suggested. And that is good, for as Miss Elizabeth promised I am permitted to sleep in her bedroom without being hooded. But my neck collar is chained and I find myself with limited mobility lying on the shag rug which I had so often soiled.

Since moving into Miss Elizabeth’s penthouse, Jamie has over the past weeks been clothed, sometimes in alluringly scanty garb, but disappointingly covered all the same. But Miss Elizabeth insists that Jamie frolic about stripped of all clothing in the bedroom and I find joy in watching her fine smooth and hairless child-like body strutting about. Sometimes Jamie will don a pair of Miss Elizabeth’s high heels and, just as a little girl would mimic a grown up, she’ll parade about as if in a fashion show. Except shoes are all she wears.

With the deluge of estrogen and progesterone, Jamie’s little breasts are slowly enhancing and it is not only the puffy nipples which appear effeminate. The mammary glands are beginning to develop form and the hormones indeed have placed the castrate into a time warp of seeming to be constantly in puberty.

And so, with hands free and Little Sam stiffening in salute to the naked hermaphrodite, I am free to stroke. And I do, with a gracious Jamie laughingly supplying a dollop of soft lotion from Miss Elizabeth’s bathroom. She too enjoys having Little Sam erect. But Jamie’s envy has changed. There is no longer an adoring reverence for my altered shaft, but instead a snickering ridicule. For Jamie, watching me attempt to masturbate is like a child watching a cartoon on television, childish laughter erupting as the cruelest episodes affect the animated characters.

And I have my own level of disregard, for though I stroke with eagerness, there is very little pleasure. And as the frustration rises and it feels indeed as if I will wear out my palm, Jamie laughs and laughs and begins to tease, posing in the most lascivious ways, bending with divine buttocks spread and asking whether Little Sam would once again like to penetrate.

And then Miss Elizabeth will enter and disrobe completely...in full light, and I finally gaze at what I so greatly worked to conquest: a body sculpted by a master, perfectly formed, remaining bronzed from the Middle Eastern sun, so curiously contrasting Jamie’s girlish alabaster.

She ignores me and the sight of her pulchritude sets my palm stroking anew.

But nothing happens. There is little to be felt and certainl

y no ejaculation, no climactic relief. The frustration grows and grows and I think of Miss Elizabeth’s words describing Jamie’s attempts to achieve orgasm, like having to sneeze but not being able to do so.

Then Jamie so beautifully yields to Miss Elizabeth’s carnal desires. In what I found to be a nightly ritual, Jamie begins to service his Mistress, applying licks and kisses, caressing amazingly firm and rounded breasts with tongue and gliding it slowly down to her closely trimmed pubes. Miss Elizabeth smiles, guiding the blond coifed head with her hands as Jamie works her fine genitalia. On the first night Miss Elizabeth looked to me as I helplessly remained chained on the shag rug.

“Jamie so nicely returns my kindnesses, don’t you think Sam?”

Yes, the Stockholm Syndrome. And from that point I just watched in awe as Miss Elizabeth was brought to orgasm after orgasm by the indefatigable tongue and lips of the neutered Jamie. He is so assiduous, truly drawing pleasure from bestowing such on Miss Elizabeth.

And I? I just sit on my rug...I listen…I watch...I stroke...but nothing happens.

Jamie sleeps between Miss Elizabeth’s thighs and, as I had learned during past weekends while bound and hooded, she is insatiable, wakening in the middle of the night and demanding more... and she receives it.

One night after climaxing with particular zest, Miss Elizabeth arose and on the way to the bathroom approached. Noticing that I remained awake and had watched and listened to every moment of the torrid lovemaking, she smiled. A dainty finger slipped between wet and reddened labia and gathered some of her copious essence.

She leaned down and her muskiness, perfume mixing deliciously with the aroma of her sex, excited me even more.

“For you, Sam. And think about visiting with Ms. Hobson sometime. I think you’re just about ready.”

As she spoke, her wet finger coated my nose and upper lip with moisture from her love pouch.

“Your special room awaits. And she’ll be very good to you.”

I did not sleep that night, every breath of air brought a lung full of her enticing scent. And stroking Little Sam, what was left, was like gripping a piece of leather. The abundance of testosterone had him standing firmly, but there was no pulling the trigger. I needed climactic relief. I needed to rid myself of my male juices. And with Miss Elizabeth’s reminder, Ms. Hobson’s words haunted me... ‘there will shortly be a time when you will develop the urge to feel pain...cathartic pain.’

Chapter Thirty Three

I became Jamie’s defacto assistant. I learned to clean first. Miss Elizabeth was quite demanding about keeping the penthouse spotless. And obviously in having the feminized Jamie running about, me, naked with my unruly and comical pencil-point penis firming constantly and requiring permission to use the bathroom and move from room to room, plus the examination room with its bizarre hospital-like accouterments, all served to obviate the engagement of outside domestic help or a cleaning service. So, for a large living, dining room, kitchen, examination room and some half dozen bedrooms, each with its own bath, Jamie and I were designated as the cleaning staff. And with Jamie in charge, it really became just me.

I was also learning kitchen and serving skills, and after a week was permitted to serve breakfast, deemed to be the easiest meal.