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Jasmine steps from the changing room. I am shocked to see that her white, nurse’s uniform has been replaced with the briefest of attire. Her large breasts are covered by a thin layer of black latex in the form of a halter. It clings to her mammaries leaving her nipples perfectly outlined beneath. Over her pubes is a matching black, rubber apron freely hanging from a thin cord around her waist. There is no other garment, even her feet are bare.
I cannot stop myself from staring, for her physique is incredibly muscular. She has the appearance of a professional body builder with huge muscles that flex and roll with every movement. Her torso displays the characteristic ripples of abdominal muscles which have been toned to perfection and the rubber apron glances off powerful thighs, as she gracefully approaches Boy.
“Good morning, Doctor. You’ll understand the utility of my attire as the morning routine progresses.”
I flip back in my notes and use my pen to highlight the comment by Lady Constance that her Mother was impressed by the way Jasmine could handle the males at the clinic, even when they were not restrained. It is evident that Jasmine’s incredible strength can overpower the most recalcitrant of teenagers. And I don’t doubt either that at close to six feet and some 180 pounds of mostly muscle, she can bring most adult males under control.
I also note that Jasmine speaks with a very cultured British accent. Had I closed my eyes, the even tone and perfectly annunciated words would acoustically place me in an upper crust London club instead of a New York hotel.
Jasmine steps to Boy’s side. In her left hand is a cotton swab, in her right a hypodermic needle. When she turns to swab the alcohol soaked cotton on Boy’s flesh, her buttocks are exposed to me. They are huge, perfectly formed, and naked and my distraction is broken by Jasmine’s voice.
“Boy’s hormones. He receives a shot every week; mostly female hormones with a little testosterone to keep him randy for Lady Constance. The combination has a most interesting effect, wouldn’t you say, Doctor?”
Jasmine callously jabs Boy’s left cheek with the needle and deftly presses the plunger. Boy’s uncontrollable spasmodic reaction makes his penis flop, bringing a knowing smile to Jasmine’s face. She smoothes her left hand along his thigh, up his stomach and playfully kneads his left nipple, highlighting her comment concerning the effect of the hormones by tweaking his most effeminate attribute and displaying it to me.
“Lady Constance is considering having him grow breasts. It’s easily done.”
The smiling Jasmine removes the needle and steps back. The action with her hands causes the frame and Boy to slowly twist at the end of the suspension cable, providing added emphasis to his helpless and bound state.
“Just a little change in the hormones is all it takes.”
I ponder if the comment is for my edification or is part of the process of further impressing Boy with the extent of his complete submission. To realize that, at his Mistress’s whim, his body could be further feminized and altered for amusement must provoke the most servile of thoughts. And I believe had his neck collar not been so tightly fastened to the vertical pipe, he would signal some form of objection or concern.
Jasmine moves to a nearby table. The hypodermic needle is discarded, and she retrieves a clear plastic container. Returning to Boy, she holds the container under his flaccid penis. It is very tightly infibulated (over the period of my many visits with Lady Constance and Boy and subsequent considerable research, I learned much about the shape and condition of the infibulated penis), the skin of the frenulum is pulled forward and tightened by the thin wire to such an extent that the end is tapered to resemble a large dart. It is an amazingly different appearance compared to the large, bulbous, purple head which Lady Constance displayed for me only days before.
Jasmine drapes the penis into the container. She also seems to recognize that the infibulating wire may be so tight as to block the urethra. The nail of her index finger pokes and prods and when Boy noticeably jerks in his tight bonds, Jasmine smiles, knowing that her finger has cleared Boy’s passage for urination.
“Time to empty yourself for me. Give me a nice sample.”
On cue, Boy’s flow begins with Jasmine holding the container in one hand and playfully directing the penis with the other…
“He’s well trained. Only relieves his bladder upon command and under the close supervision of a woman. A sample is tested every week for any afflictions. You should know, Doctor, that Boy gets the best of care.”
Yes. It’s an interesting contrast. In terms of health and nutrition the helpless, vulnerable, well-bound Boy is treated better than a prized racehorse, for after Boy finishes, it is feeding time. Jasmine lowers the frame so that his knees almost touch the floor, and Boy’s head is just above the level of Jasmine’s waist.
The container is exchanged at the table for a bowl of mush.
“Highly nutritious. Full of fiber, vitamins, calories..., and it tastes terrible. But Boy never complains.”
Jasmine smiles with the irony of her observation, since Boy’s silence is mandated by the omnipotent Lady Constance and enforced by her own wicked hand.
I begin the interview as Jasmine patiently spoons the mush into Boy’s mouth.
“Perhaps, Jasmine, you can give me a synopsis of your background. From the point where you began to handle males.”
With that suggestion, she began a long narrative, which I recorded word for word as best as my dictation skills allowed.
“I was born and raised in Nigeria. My parents were well educated, and my father was involved in the government, which meant, as opposed to government employees in most developed countries, we were wealthy. Government positions mean power in undeveloped countries. Power means money.
“I was privileged to attend the best schools and at age twelve was sent to study in England where I eventually attained a Bachelor’s degree in abnormal psychology from a prestigious British institution. I began to attend graduate school. But at the end of my second semester, civil war broke out in my country. I was called home to assist the military.
“I was always athletic in school having won many events in track and field. When I reported for military service, something in my demeanor caught the attention of a most interesting woman, who spearheaded one of the intelligence branches. She noted my degree in psychology and also my completed year of schooling toward a Masters Degree in psychiatric nursing. When she interviewed me, what also became apparent to her, was a certain disdain I had for males.
“You see the interview took place deep in the bowels of the military intelligence building and while we chatted, certain rebel prisoners were being interrogated. The sounds of their cries and pitiful pleas for mercy brought a wry smile to the face of my interviewer, and the fact that I was likewise not phased by such activity, pleased her and was highlighted in my file.
“So, I was inducted and began a rigorous training program. My stamina from track events proved useful, for upper body strength was mandated and, as you can see Doctor, the military was quite thorough in their program, which I completed with enthusiasm.
“After months of training and an extensive physical regimen, which added many pounds of muscle and inches of flesh, I was introduced to my new role as interrogator.
