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I nod again.
“I suppose I must agree.”
“Yes, you will... to everything she demands.”
More silence. Have I sold my soul?
“We’ll need photos to email to her for approval. Another reason for you to remain disrobed. Full nudity is required. Front, sides and rear. Nurse Sueann will accommodate. There need to be rather revealing poses. Nurse Sueann will also need measurements. But there are benefits for compliance. We know what she wants and I believe you’re the type.”
“What’s it like?” I must inquire, with my head spinning, ignoring the need for seedy photographs.
“Simple. Ironically, very simple. Two small incisions. Some snips. Nerves, vessels, vas deferens. I tie off. I suture. I close. And your testicles are gone... and with it the cancer. 90% recovery, if we act timely.”
“And then what? Life without my organs.”
“Without your balls?” again unprofessionally worded, now with a seemingly sardonic snort. “It will transform. In some regards you’ll be more free than ever. But your counselor will go into that more. There will be p
hysical changes, emotional changes, and mental changes. But hormone treatment will help. And that’s what the woman in South America insists on monitoring to her satisfaction... the hormones.”
I should have asked more questions. I did not.
***
She insists that I watch. And my counselor suggests that I do as well.
‘You will develop comfort in being placed under the control of others... particularly women. It’s a common proclivity among neutered males.’
The counseling is blunt. Yet I do indeed find myself watching as Nurse Sueann plies her craft, patiently extracting pre ejaculatory fluid... the prostate gland secreting what is no longer needed.
“Yes, you boys all enjoy having your nurse work the diminishing softness,” she coos as I ooze, my penis having the limpness of a well cooked strand of spaghetti.
The flow is slow but consistent. There is distant pleasure, but it feels both good yet frustrating. My counselor suggests it will feel like I am about to sneeze but cannot. And she is correct. Something within tells me to pull the trigger... but my revolver is uncocked and unloaded. The nurse’s taunting words... and she knows it... adding to the plunge of any remaining self esteem.
After many minutes she announces the flow has terminated and I agree. I am well milked, lying in the glow of incomplete coitus with a woman’s gloved hand. Such a very odd sensation.
Next comes a complete sponge bath of depilating lotion. It smells. It burns. And Nurse Sueann’s timing is superb as always. For within minutes, when she alacritously smoothes a cool wet towel over every inch of my flesh, all hair stubble glides away. Judging from the dwindling need for shaving my face, soon the caustic solution will be superfluous. I will not miss it.
She releases my feet, I want to thank her, but cannot find the words. Such a bizarre reaction.
Next come the required photos... front, sides, rear... my South American benefactor to monitor my ‘progress’ through email. When finished, Nurse Sueann pats the top of the padded examination table.
“Tummy down, butt up,” she gamely commands as if tending to a child.
As promised, there comes a hypodermic injection. Though I take the demanded pills, as per the rather thorough legal document I signed, I suppose the hormone injections are appropriate caution should I somehow, for some reason, become neglectful... certainly not disobedient.
It’s testosterone, I assume, stemming the effect of having my testicles excised.
I do not think such is working.
Nurse Sueann takes glee, slowly rubbing my softening buttock with alcohol, stabbing and injecting with deliberation.
I am then escorted, left hand in hers, with my right rubbing my wounded cheek. In being paraded through the reception area, the waiting woman now outright stares. Yes, I expose my empty scrotal sac for all to see as I am returned to the changing room, tiny penis bobbing most comically. For some reason not only does it no longer matter, I instead feel an odd glow in exposing my now smooth and hairless form.
Yes, acclimatization.
***
Weekly counseling is like attending grade school. Though I don’t get my knuckles rapped, the psychologist is stern. Since I am not paying the bill, I am more ward than patient and treated as a potentially recalcitrant child.
