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Now she can inspect... search for weapons without impediment.
Normally I would feel that twinge... that experienced when being exposed to a fully clothed authoritative woman, but instead with the fear and concern, I begin to well up. Tears form and though the officer notes, she ignores and her hands lower to my pubes for further inspection.
“Spread your legs more. I saw the hand signals for the exchange of money. $ 30! You’re way below market. Plus if you’re really a pro, you shouldn’t be crying.”
As she speaks, my secret is fully revealed in the sun light of a May afternoon. Fingers rub over my penis tip. Then she begins kneading the loose flesh which once nestled my testicles. Now comes the twinge... and the more she caresses the more the flow of tears dissipates... turning instead to the deficient, frustratingly incomplete ecstasy of the neutered.
Intrigued, the officer brusquely stands, opens the buttons of my blouse and pushes the flimsy material back over my shoulders, exposing my nipples and taking the time to press the material such that it bunches at my waist between my cuffed wrists and my elbows.
More nakedness! My prepubescent girlish chest exposed. Not a strand of hair to be seen!
She then coolly sits on the rock, retrieves a cigarette, and alights facing me as I stand... her prisoner. The woman is handsome... not beauteous... but not hurtful to the eyes either. Broad shoulders, short raven hair, green eyes, her demeanor is forthcoming... the type of woman who grew up with a half dozen older brothers and more than endured... in fact thriving. The smoking habit has prematurely deepened her voice. I assess her age at less than 40.
“You’ve been depilated. Not a strand... not a stubble on your entire body. Your work? It’s a lot of effort. And you’ve been cut... quite professionally,” the right hand extending, the fingers finding where some nine months earlier, the doctor incised my sac and extracted what defined my gender. Though the scarring is minimal, in being hairless I have no covering to conceal the evidence of the orchiectomy.
Right side then left, she demonstrably smoothes a finger emphasizing where my male globes exited. Then for the first time she notices the bizarre earrings, for some reason I did not have the inkling to remove before my excursion to the park.
“Are those what I think they are?” exhaling a puff of tobacco.
I nod.
“A gift,” sardonic words upon which I fail to further elaborate.
This gives rise to a long interval of thought. It is not entirely apparent to her as to what to do.
“Well, here’s the deal, young lady... or whatever. If I run you in, you won’t survive Riker’s Island for your Monday court date... not that I can imagine where they’ll even put you.”
Yes, the city jail at Riker’s Island is abound with stories of violence, abuse, mistreatment of prisoners, fights, injuries, the so
urce of so many tabloid headlines.
I will not survive without harm... guards... other inmates... even admin staff will offer potential threat. She knows it.
The rummaging hand lowers and slips between my thighs... to the penis tip. I dread what is happening there. For sure enough, when she retracts it, the tips of her index and third fingers glisten with the pre ejaculatory fluid I can no longer naturally expunge... no longer to be harvested by Nurse Sueann.
“You’re oozing. Is this the steam to be ‘blown off’? Is this the thrill? I can’t even begin to know how to write this up. Maybe I’ll take you in just like this. The boys in the station will have a good look and enjoy... until they find out that you have a penis.”
I cringe.
“Please no.”
“Yes, guys like you enjoy that... the exhibition... the exposure... the humiliation... they revel in it.”
I am chagrined to know... and feel... that such is true. For with her words and indeed the rising intensity of humiliation, the drool begins in earnest... dribbling down my inner thighs. Yes, stripped... restrained.... outdoors and naked before this commanding woman, I cannot deny that there is a continuing brisance of odd delight.
“Or maybe I’ll walk you home like this... 105 West 63rd street,” reading from my wallet.
The thought both horrifies and excites... and she knows it!
More drags on the cigarette, leaving me to mentally squirm in the seclusion of the dense copse of Rhododendrons. With deliberation, the timelessness demonstrating her level of control, she folds my skirt, brief and gauzy, stuffs it in my bag then returns my wallet. Next she arises from the smooth rock and momentarily releases my cuffs, slipping the sleeves of my flimsy blouse from right wrist then left before securing me again.
I am completely exposed but for my footwear.
“So here’s the deal,” likewise folding my blouse and stuffing it into my bag. “Detective Sergeant Kelly Rogers apprehends a stripper... a flasher in Central Park, some misguided soul who feels it is Spring and time to worship the sun. It’s May... it’s New York... why be burdened with clothing?”
I am dismayed when she reseats herself, apparently in no hurry to end the emotional turmoil of my pending arrest and exhibition.
“Yes. I’ll walk you out of here in the line of duty, having no clue as to where you left your clothing. You will get your thrill. And then, in crossing Central Park West, you tell me where you wish to go... your apartment or the precinct. It’s only another two blocks.”
