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“A depilatory formula. Stronger than anything you can purchase commercially. Most irritating and quite dangerous if not used properly. I suggest you follow my instructions carefully.”
Yes of course. With today’s chemical miracles, why bother with shaving?
So I humbly kneel while the nurse slathers the horrid smelling cream everywhere from my chin downward. Even areas where hair has never been sighted are coated, and most thickly.
“We get many such as you, Mr. Dawson. Some intact. Some who required alteration. Others where modification will be forthcoming. But none will be permitted hair. Glabrous is the operative word. And the condition has its merits. Kind of a return to a more natural and innocent state, don’t you think?”
The small talk is interrupted by the entrance of another nurse. Kneeling naked is uncomfortable with a woman having her way. But with an observer I find myself even more bashful and look away.
“Well look at Mr. Dawson. Very pretty in white.”
The voice causes me to tremble. Yes I am completely coated in white. But that does not bring trepidation. The voice is that of the British nurse! Last heard with my departing physical examination in the Bangkok jail.
“Just another minute or two, Emma. Then he’s yours.”
Interesting that I finally learn her name after the many weeks of her care in Bangkok.
“Well take your time. A little burn wouldn’t hurt this one. I had him during my stint in Thailand years ago. His tolerance is moderate but he indeed enjoys. He escaped the knife as you can see. Dr. Evans deemed him harmless.”
For the next few moments, Nurse Emma relates the many stories where she exercised her control over me, both nurses having a good chuckle with her description of my animated reaction to the cold water bladder irrigations. As the two converse, I feel my entire body first warming and then beginning to heat like an oven. The chemical burns, and the nurse has coated areas of flesh where burning can be most undesirable.
I begin to squirm, hesitant to interrupt. Finally I groan with the intensity of the torrid sensation afflicting my scrotum.
“Sounds like he’s properly cooked,” the first nurse laughs.
Gratefully the conversation ends as a valve is turned and a gentle spray begins to douse. The whiteness streams to the table top along with clumps of hair, then flows to the drain. Nurse Emma looks on and affords particular attention when the woman rinses my genitals.
“Yes, nicely hung. He would put on the nicest displays for me back in Bangkok, wouldn’t you Mr. Dawson?”
Something about the voice, my nakedness, the intense humiliation, my state of chastity, once again posing for the austere nurse... I feel a twinge in my loins. When a smooth and slippery glove covered hand reaches to test the flesh of my depilated scrotum, I feel myself stiffen. The nurses laugh.
“Yes, I see what you mean.”
After toweling and complete inspection I am declared glabrous and the first nurse departs to leave me alone with Nurse Emma. She begins a routine physical and anticipates my first question.
“I, too, am under confidentiality agreements concerning Bangkok, Mr. Dawson. Dr. Evans informed me of your quest, so you should know I cannot help.”
A thermometer is inserted into my rectum. Her left hand cups my testicles, seeming to add a soothing degree of comfort to an awkward process.
“But I will say that I am not ashamed of anything that happened there. We did much good work. There are many males who are no longer predatory as a result of our efforts.”
She laughs in thought.
“Life has changed for them. It’s quite the opposite now.”
A gloved finger glides into my lubricated rectum.
“Goodness, the prostate is swollen. What have you been doing or not doing?”
She laughs with her question, apparently much aware of my affliction. She continues examining, making observations, on occasion amusing herself by diddling the underside of my erect penis and watching it waggle in response.
She notes things on a chart... heart rate... temperature... breathing... and as she pauses to write, I summon the courage to ask the question which has haunted me since my visit to Miss Denise’s lair spurred memories.
“What about the chair? The gynecological chair in the wash room?”
“What about it, Mr. Dawson? You were given clemency from having to sit in it. Why ask about it now? Most were not so fortunate. Or depending on one’s point of view, most were fortunate to agree to sit for me and be spared long prison terms.”
She looks up to see my look of alarm. She laughs.
