Miss Elizabeth's Captive

by Chris Bellows

Laughing with such wickedness, she releases her arms and I gently swing away. As the motion slows and I reach apogee of the arc, she steps back. On the return swing of my pendulous body, she extends her right leg and an erect Little Sam momentarily rubs against an impressively muscled calf. As I again swing away, she pushes firmly, laughing more as she increases the arc of my swing.

  “Good night, Sam.”

  My teetering continues for many minutes after she leaves. Finally Jamie enters.

  “Sleep time,” her childish voice proclaims. Ears plugged and hooded, at last I stop swinging.

  Chapter Thirty

  With the examination room having been deemed too small, I find myself instead hanging from the cleverly disguised pulley in the living room. When not used, it draws up into a panel. Miss Elizabeth’s vanilla friends, if she has any, most probably questioning an industrial tool draped from the ceiling of an exquisitely decorated penthouse.

  My alteration has attracted quite the crowd. I recognize many voices, having been the centerpiece for half dozen of Miss Elizabeth’s cocktail parties. But the faces are new to me, except for Ms. Hobson or course. This is a ‘coffee klatsch’ of domineering women and the early morning smell of java and warmed Danish is pleasant.

  But I receive nothing and have not been fed or permitted to drink for well over twelve hours. Nurse Stenson began my day with her infamous enemas and a dose of ipecac, amusingly cleansing everything from my system. Then I was lead to the living room with a most symbolic leash hooked to my suspension harness.

  Though showered and well cleansed by Jamie, Nurse Stenson tenderly applies various solutions to Little Sam making the skin antiseptically clean. And of course the little turncoat obediently stands, readily accepting every smooth stroke of lotion-soaked gauze pads.

  Dr. Wilson enters, and all gather around. I flush with the humiliation, some dozen pair of eyes calmly gazing at my nakedness and Little Sam’s obliging tumescence.

  Then Nurse Stenson produces a rubber slapper and viciously swats my penis tip. Little Sam retreats like a kicked puppy, much to the amusement of the observing feminine eyes. And then with lighting speed, Nurse Stenson catheterizes me, smiling as I grunt when the tube passes through my prostate. She inflates the balloon end to hold the Foley in place then steps away.

  Surprisingly, Little Sam attempts to rise again, but Dr. Wilson approaches with a hypodermic needle and begins the fun.

  “Novocaine, Sam. I’m sure you’ll appreciate its use, despite the discomfort.”

  She attacks my appendage with zeal, quickly jabbing in numerous places and pressing the plunger as I spasm with the sharp pain.

  “This is termed a degloving, ladies,” Dr. Wilson lectures to the curious crowd. “Used quite effectively on priapic males, we’re just going to take the tip, where over 90% of a man’s pleasure is felt. Very effective treatment for bad boys.”

  Skilled fingers circle the base of my penis with a small elastic tube. It acts as a tourniquet, obviously restricting the flow of blood.

  “After removal, I’ll be covering the exposed surface by pulling the remaining epidermis down and suturing it around the urethral opening. The result will be a truncation, temporary difficulty in achieving erection until the remaining skin stretches, and tremendous loss of sensitivity, which of course is the desired result.”

  Such casualness, such insouciance as Little Sam limply hangs facing his executioner…and with such abject docility. I fantasize watching him stand for one last time and gushing semen like a fire hose, soaking his antagonist with potent male essence.

  But alas, he dangles so tamely.

  Nurse Stenson steps to my right side holding a stainless steel tray. Dr. Wilson flicks away at Little Sam, gauging the effect of the novocaine. There is no reaction and indeed I can feel nothing. Her gloved hand reaches to the tray.

  “A laser scalpel. Very accurate, but disappointingly quick.”

  The observing women snicker.

  Miss Elizabeth and Jamie, pretty bright-eyed Jamie, dressed beautifully as a little maid to serve the gathering of women, move to the front for better viewing. Dr. Wilson looks to my Mistress, my owner, and the raven-haired beauty, benefactress of all, simply nods.

  I look down to see a gloved hand grasp a meek Little Sam. He has shrunken to the point that he appears to be shyly trying to hide. Dr. Wilson draws him out. I can feel nothing and it’s as if I am watching a film. Yes, someone else’s penis is being expertly handled. It cannot be mine.

  But it is. And with the realization that Little Sam has probably felt the last stroke of pleasure as an intact phallus, tears form. A knowing Dr. Wilson had forewarned and yet the remorse overwhelms. Nurse Stenson dabs away the tears and there is mirthful murmuring from the observing crowd.

  “He cannot feel anything, ladies. The pitiful reaction is due to the realization that the vaunted symbol of false male pride is about to incur a great slight. It is about to succumb to the hand of a woman. To be arbitrarily reshaped as I see fit.”

  The light of the laser beams. Dr. Wilson begins opening the epidermis just behind the glans penis and cutting around. She knowingly holds the laser steady and slowly twists Little Sam to expose the skin to the cutting beam. Then she pauses and twists in the opposite direction to complete the circular incision. When finished, the fleshy penis tip is slid off and hangs from the catheter. Surprisingly, there is little bleeding.

  Nurse Stenson swiftly disconnects the tube from the collection bag, removes the tip and reconnects the tube. “A memento for Elizabeth,” she announces as the most sensitive remnant of male skin is carefully moved to the stainless steel tray.

  The laser is put aside and my eyes tear up to the point that I cannot see the reminder of the procedure. I do know that the remaining penile skin was brusquely pulled toward the end and Dr. Wilson began to sew.

  “Dozens and dozens of sutures, ladies. I’m going to minimize the scarring and make Sam look as pretty as possible.”

  There is much laughter. Nurse Stenson dabs away more tears and I lose interest in watching the finale. I feel tightness despite all the novocaine. Dr. Wilson removed nearly an inch and one half of the tip, more of the underside than the top. She knows where naughty boys most like to rub, and that’s what she took from me.

  Finishing the delicate suturing, the gloved hands retrieve a very long hypodermic needle from the tray. I felt myself rising, apparently Nurse Stenson tugging on the pulley rope. When my knees are at the height of Dr. Wilson’s shoulder, the motion stops. I look down to see the good Doctor pushing aside my right knee with her free left hand. Nurse Stenson pulls away at my left knee, spreading apart my thighs.

  “Hold still, now. One last procedure.”

  Examining eyes find a point on my perineum and the needle is introduced. I yelp with the sudden jabbing pain where little is ever felt. She presses straight up as if to penetrate my bowels.

  “Steady.”

  The long needle slowly slides inward. The plunger is pressed. I feel burning deep within, very close to my prostate.

  “Just a little injection of the Botox I promised, Sam. It is a very stable and localized cholinasterase inhibitor. It will interfere with the synapse in the injected muscles and organs and deaden the ejaculatory ducts and the little ampulla that causes the semen to collect and then erupt. It lasts between four and six months.

  “You’ve had your last ejaculation, for a while. Miss Elizabeth insisted. And if she insists again, I’ll inject you again.”

  Chapter Thirty One

  Dr. Wilson’s operation resulted in freedom. I am no longer kept bound and suspended and the tears of remorse in losing so precious a section of skin turned to tears of joy in being able to move about.

  While recuperating there was much activity within Miss Elizabeth’s apartment. I was kept out of sight, lack of clothing precluding my presence, while electricians and carpenters arrived daily for an entire week.

  Wiring was routed to every door and special locks installed. T
he carpenters worked for hours in one of the spare bedrooms.

  Meanwhile, in being kept naked and donning a ridiculous bandage about the end of my penis, I was not able to ascertain the nature of their efforts. I remained catheterized, the flexible tube clamped at the end, and that also contributed to my shyness.

  Then all returned to quiet and Miss Elizabeth proudly slipped a rather sheik looking metal collar around my neck. It snapped shut with menacing finality. Highly polished steel with a key hole in the back and rings welded to the front, sides and back, it fit quite comfortably and obviously was custom made.

  “Just a little precaution,” she suggested as she tucked away the key.

  I found that the collar triggers locks on almost every door in the apartment, including the bathroom doors. Whenever I near, some kind of electronic signal latches the door to lock, barring entrance or preventing me from leaving, depending upon which side of the door I find myself. And of course, Miss Elizabeth and Jamie have card keys which countermand the mechanism.

  Thus, I can never get out to the foyer and the elevator. Permission and assistance is always needed for bathroom visits. And a bad little Sammie boy can merely be walked to a secluded room and the door closed behind to leave him imprisoned, just as one would tuck away a recalcitrant cat or dog. Tugs at doorknobs are futile. But if I step away, I can hear the click of the lock releasing. Frustratingly clever to watch others come and go as they please while I await permission to enter or exit or for someone to graciously hold the door open before I near. Thus my freedom within the apartment is relative. There is no sneaking about or accidentally encountering a scene where subservient male eyes are not wanted.

  Sleeping has been difficult, for Little Sam, now even littler, continues his habit of nocturnal erection. I awake in pain and patiently wait for flaccidity to return.

  Today is scheduled for the removal of the bandage. I have not seen my penis since the degloving ten days before.

  Nurse Stenson slowly unravels as I watch, hands on head, like a good boy. I am shocked at the resulting sight. Dr. Wilson indeed sutured tightly leaving me with a pencil point. The bulbous tip, formerly used to so please the feminine love pouch is gone. The underside, where my palm naughtily rubbed for furtive pleasure, has little sensitivity, the skin there replaced with much less sensitive flesh.

  Nurse Stenson inspects closely and smiles.

  “You won’t be making much mischief with that,” she observes with an irritating laugh.

  Then she retrieves a set of calipers and begins to take very careful measurements of my scrotum, which Jamie has dutifully kept shaven, and the plums within, turning each this way and that and recording her findings.

  “Ms. Mouquoud wants you ringed,” she explains which a simple smile.

  Next, her fingers tenderly feel about, caressing my scrotum. Then two fingers slip underneath and abrade my perineum. Nurse Stenson knows the male anatomy and knows the anatomy of the altered male best. Little Sam beings to tumefy. I marvel at her knowledgeable touch.

  She watches with calm expectation. Palming Little Sam while she works my perineum and wakes my prostate, I proudly feel myself stiffen and then comes pain. It feels as if my penis is trapped. I grimace.

  “The skin has not yet stretched. You’ll feel discomfort with attempts at erection for another week or two. But you’ll need to try, it is the only way the epidermis will regenerate and make up for what Dr. Wilson removed.

  “What do you feel? Would you like to masturbate for me?”

  A blunt question. I pause in reply and with my pierced tongue struggling to form the words.

  “It’s as if my penis belongs to someone else. Like a sausage has been attached,” I finally slur.

  “Yes, it will also take time to become accustomed to the limited sensitivity. And as intended you will never feel very much there. It’s really for urination and Jamie’s amusement now.”

  A foul smelling cream is spread over my scrotum.

  “Jamie will also be applying this daily. It’s a depilatory cream. As suggested, Ms. Mouqoud wants your testicles ringed. We’ll have to kill the hair follicles since close shaving will be difficult.”

  She smiles and reaches for a syringe. “Turn and bend.”

  On my left cheek, I feel the cool wetness of an alcohol soaked cotton swab followed by the jab of the hypodermic needle.

  “Testosterone. Ms. Mouquoud wants you kept nice and randy. I’m afraid you’ll be finding your penis becoming erect more than you’d like, what’s left of it.” Again the irritating laugh as the Nurse withdraws the needle.

  “And at some point you’ll begin trying to masturbate. When you do, you’ll develop a fuller understanding of your alteration and begin to seek alternative relief. For that, Ms. Mouquoud has refurbished one of the bedrooms. Look it over sometime. It is the only door which your neck collar does not lock.

  “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.’