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The Lucite somewhat shimmers, calling attention, but certainly not that garnered by diamonds. And the spheres residing within foster inquisitiveness... mainly because of the unsightly grayness.
“What is it? What are they?” I can’t help inquiring.
“Something you’ve been missing. Your balls!” Miss Lalique laughing huskily.
“The gift comes with a note... from Miss Ramona.”
Not overly impressed with my ‘gift’, I am in fact sickened. I dash back to the coffee table and retrieve the note.
Renee,
Thank you so much for your valued assistance with our latest contributor. I have asked Miss Lalique to offer a token of my appreciation, returning to you something lost a few months back at the doctor’s office. Had them preserved and plastinated. And I think where you now have to wear them they’ll look good on you... certainly be more useful to you now.
By the way, I took the time to have a second biopsy pe
rformed before preservation. Not a speck of cancer to be detected. So wear them in good health...
Regards,
Ramona
The note falls from my hand. The emotions roil. Disbelief... denial... anger... then self pity. Miss Lalique smiles as I begin to cry.
“There, there, Renee, whatever would you have done... where would you be... had they remained attached,” the words console, but her devilish smile suggests wicked delight.
Then her hand reaches between my thighs, the fingers quite knowing in kneading the scrotal flesh to the right and left of my penis shaft.
She touches almost precisely where months ago my testicles exited my scrotum.
The hand retreats. The calloused woman sits back and continues sipping, seeming to find delectation in my grief. Then she finally stands to excuse herself.
“Calm yourself, Renee. It’s a nice day. Why not take a walk in the park?”
Yes, having denied myself for several weeks... it is time.
***
In a fog of depression, for some reason I leave in place the ghastly baubles the taunting Miss Ramona chose to bestow on my ears.
Did the follow up biopsy really show nothing? Have I really been castrated unnecessarily?
And such cruelty from Miss Lalique...
I am upset.
Frilly diaphanous blouse, the shortest flimsiest skirt I can find. No panties. Not the ‘fuck me heels’, but the most feminine footwear I can use to traverse the slopes and craggy paths of the park.
Mid Spring, the weather is warming. There will be many celebrating the return of photosynthesis. The libido of the ‘hibernating’ male will be piquing. A quick application of makeup... gaudy red lipstick, a quick comb and I am ready... returning to my role of prepubescent harlot. Ready to once again touch, feel, sense virility... that so callously ripped from me. Once again in stimulating the male organ, the only thing left for me to control, I seek the unexplained thrill of spurring ejaculation... that of which a woman has deprived me.
To the park, by now I know where to attract... and where the clandestine rendezvous points permit follow up. My skirt flips a bit. I know my stride reveals the bottom most crease and curvature of my amazingly effeminate backside. Heads turn, women offer looks of disgust yet tinged with envy. And once again I seek that one male head that does not sheepishly turn away when I return the gaze with a coquettish smile.
Desperate for my thrill, one prospect seems to drool in fantasy with the sight of my near nakedness. I smile then brazenly flip up the back of my skirt, ending the tease and revealing in full that which female hormones have shaped to girlish perfection. I then nod toward a winding narrow path which I know leads past dense undergrowth. When I move onward, I see him rise from his perch on a park bench.
I slow my pace. Rounding a curve, most visitors are left behind. My prospect catches up.
“Do you need some candy, little girl?”
Wow, do I indeed have a reprobate on the hook. The selected words begin the playing of a game. I indulge, stopping to turn and assess.
