The Entrapped Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Part One

  Part Two

  Part Three

  “I can’t be seen like that!” I whisper.

  Part Four

  Epilogue

  Comments, criticisms and feedback are welcomed. [email protected]

  About the Author

  For a complete catalogue of Erotic Fiction… write, email or call:

  The Entrapped

  by Chris Bellows

  ISBN: 978-1-937831-32-5

  A Pink Flamingo Ebook Publication

  Copyright © 2012, All rights reserved

  Part One

  New York, New York

  Miss Sueann... Nurse Sueann... has this very subtle manner of expressing, actualizing her authority.

  For example, during my initial return visit to the doctor’s office, after my operation, she insisted on holding my hand. She’s a large woman, I am rather diminutive... ‘homunculous’ high school mates taunted in discovering the humorously memorable word in the dictionary. So it appeared that she was a mother leading about a child. For it was during the walk from the changing room to the examination room while naked and completely exposed to the receptionist and other office staff, that she firmly grasped my left hand and led. A woman, presumably a wife waiting for her husband, also found cute humor in the small parade of white uniformed nurse and denudated young male.

  And the hand holding was not done so much to comfort as when I was lying strapped down and awaiting the doctor and her scalpel. No, this was a deliberate conveyance of power. Plus, as I later ruminated, the holding of my hand prevented me from cupping both of my hands over my privates, if such remains the proper term for my pubes area.

  ‘You’re being acclimatized, Mr. Warren. You’ll work with us and in time feel better,’ the doctor later offered in explanation when I called to complain about the seemingly long walk sans clothing from changing room to examination room.

  The doctor’s words were more or less a verbal shrug at Nurse Sueann’s questionable comportment, a ‘what’s the big deal’ type of reaction. And again, there was the subtlety of how she phrased it. Not ‘we suggest some acclimatization’... or perhaps ‘we believe it is best to acclimate yourself’. No, it was the active tense with me becoming the subject of a process.

  Clever stuff, I suppose. Everything said and done to slowly immerse me... and without a scintilla of physical coercion... other than while secured to the operating table.

  So here we are. Another visit, and I obediently sit naked in the changing room, made to wait. Always made to wait. Nothing ever happens at my volition. I move only when summoned or told to move, those are the rules. And as the doctor suggested, I am being acclimatized to the rules. And besides, without clothing, one is not apt to stand in frustration, thrust open the door and make a scene.

  Finally, the door opens and Nurse Sueann, her imposing frame blocking just about the entire opening, stands and smirks. She may interpret her look as a pleasant smile of greeting, but in my mind she gloats.

  “Well, Mr. Warren, back to see us again.”

  She annoyingly crooks her index finger, the gesture to arise and approach. I silently comply and when she extends her right arm, I know to offer my left hand.

  “I do believe you’re putting on some weight. We’ll get you on the scale then do some measuring.”

  For men in my condition, the scale does not fully reveal the expected slow change. One loses muscle density, thus lightening body mass, but one tends to accumulate fat, becoming heavier. So in the inexorable transition, the scale does not fully evidence what the gloating Nurse Sueann desires to know. Thus with each visit the circumference of my neck, waist line and all limbs are measured and recorded. Plus calipers are used to meticulously assay the thickness of my epidermis at numerous specific areas... many small dots indelibly mark my skin to offer comparative precision.

  Yes, she gloats indeed when measuring my buttocks. And such explains the need for complete nakedness during each visit.

  The walk is slow through the reception area. A pretty young receptionist stifles a giggle, as my free hand attempts to cover myself below. Once again a mature woman, ostensibly waiting for her husband, gapes then smiles when noting the level of Nurse Sueann’s control.

  ‘No need for alarm’, she comforts herself in spying what my hand so futilely attempts to cover.

  “Do you still need to shave every day?” a brazen Nurse Sueann openly inquires.

  Again, the subtlety, further hinting to the waiting woman of my condition, bringing satisfying conclusion to her scrutinizing glare.

  Into the examination room, Nurse Sueann leads me to the scale where by rote I step up. She releases my hand and gestures, and I know to humbly fold my hands atop my head.

  “Shaving?” she sternly repeats the question.

  “Every other day. But I skipped both Saturday and Sunday,” I reply, my voice so disappointingly docile.

  Knowing hands whisk about the counter weights of the scale.

  “115 pounds. You’ve gained two. Think the hormones are working. But I’ll still give you a booster shot.”

  Then comes the tape measure and more subtle authority, announcing aloud that my biceps have shrunken and my thighs fattened. When the calipers begin to assess the epidermis, Nurse Sueann is in her element, palpating my nakedness without hesitation, gleefully announcing that though the weight gain is only two pounds, significant thickness has been accumulated at the buttocks.

  “And your biceps are particularly plump, despite the shrinkage. More fat than muscle, your transition is beginning to cascade.”

  So mirthful in her prognostication. I do not join her, but within there is an ironic sense of accomplishment... a strange reaction upon which I have been well counseled.

  “Have you masturbated?” she brashly inquires looking down at the clipboard which records all.

  I shake my head ‘no’.

  “A verbal reply please... the rules.”

  “No, Nurse Sueann, I have not masturbated,” my voice quaking with the forced expression of sordid words.

  “Any desire to masturbate?”

  By now I should be accustomed to the inquiry. But I cannot steady my voice.

  “At times,” I squeak.

  “At what times? Be specific.”

  I delay, my mind racing. With each visit, I know the questions are coming, yet I seem to search longer and longer each time for a reply. Why cannot I just blurt the answer?

  “Well there was really only one time.”

  “Details please, Mr. Warren. Always details.”

  So I offer. Another prognostication coming to realization... that I will slowly and consistently become meek... obedient. I hated to hear that word during counseling... but I now find it to be apt.

  “In the park. I was trying to get some exercise because... well you know. There was a young couple sitting on a bench and they were... well rather bold with their hands. It was a warm day and their attire was… brief. And despite the temperature, the girl’s nipples were crinkled and pressed against this really thin almost see through blouse.”

  “And the boy?”

  Yes, details. Always the details. Nurse Sueann insists on hearing that one detail I would choose to neglect.

  “His trousers were bulging. The girl’s hand was at his thigh, but I suspect it was moved there when she saw me approaching.”

  “And the sight brought arousal?”

  “To a certain degree.”

  “Which? The girl’s nipples or the boy’s bulging trousers?”

  Damn these questions!

  “I suppose both in some form or another.”

  Evasive. And Nurse Sueann, her smile turning more wic
ked, knows it. She records my answer with inordinate deliberation, writing more words than I have spoken.

  “Up on the table for me like a good boy.”

  Yes, such devilish selection of words, the diminution of how I am addressed changing from ‘Mr. Warren’ to ‘good boy’. Such masterful control over a situation which brings such chagrin.

  I hop up... like a ‘good boy’, the awareness of my unclothed form becoming more apparent with the proximity to the fully clothed Nurse Sueann. I look up into the mature face, the lively eyes, such delight found in working with... well working with the likes of me. She revels in it!

  “Feet in the stirrups,” she verbally directs grasping my right foot to assist.

  I lie back. If there is an element of enjoyment to be had during these visits... relative enjoyment... this is it.

  Right foot securely restrained, as my left foot is similarly guided, I recall the first time I was so positioned months ago...

  ***

  One cannot feel more exposed then while lying under the intense illumination of operating room lights, not a scrap of clothing, surrounded by the opposite gender.

  But here I found myself, the doctor’s gloved hand examining my testicles with untoward thoroughness. Something was wrong. Such examination is usually brief, obviating the potential arousal of the patient.

  The doctor appears glum. Nurse Sueann standing nearby exudes calm and cool cheeriness. But as I was to later learn such is always the case.

  “Do you have health insurance, Mr. Warren?”

  Rather unusual timing for an otherwise pertinent question.

  “Yes, ma’am. But the deductible is very high. I will pay by check.”

  The doctor nodded and despite the diversion I squirmed in beginning to tumefy. She noticed. How could she not?

  “Just relax and don’t worry about that. We get that all the time. It’s natural.”

  The words intended to mollify and did. But glancing to Nurse Sueann did not. Yes, she enjoyed my discomfort... or seeing what I would describe as my very modest penis begin to stiffen

  “We’ll need a sperm sample to confirm what I suspect. Nurse Sueann will assist. It’s easiest while you’re on the table... and half way there,” she added with a smile.

  With that, the doctor stepped out. And Nurse Sueann extracted her sample. She masturbated me. Mechanically, clinically, rhythmically stroking away with a lubricated gloved hand. When two fingers of her free hand plunged into my rectum, she deftly pressured my prostate gland and I dutifully came for her, giving up what she wanted into the waiting collection vessel.

  For her, it was like a mechanic doing an oil change.

  Still there was the gloating look... the power... the control... she found thrill.

  ***

  “The incisions can barely be seen. You heal well,” Nurse Sueann’s words pulling me from my reverie.

  Gloved fingers rummage about my scrotal sac. Not gruff but certainly not tender, I have become accustomed to a woman’s inspecting fingers palpating otherwise intimate anatomy.

  Acclimatized... yes. An apropos term.

  I guess I should feel better about the lack of scarring, but I don’t. For some reason the relative aesthetics are not too meaningful... down there.

  “I’ll need a fluid sample,” Nurse Sueann announces with a degree of jubilance.

  I glumly nod, disguising my own enjoyment of the debasing process as Nurse Sueann arises to retrieve a specimen jar.

  Yes, to be acclimatized. Why is it I take this? I curse my own meekness. But oddly, Nurse Sueann’s holding of my hand does indeed bring comfort of late. And in offering a sample... well, I guess I have not much else left when it comes to pleasure.

  “It’s best to keep that prostate gland in order. You’d not want to have trouble with that!” So what more justification can I ask for in lying naked, feet secured well parted in stirrups, a stern uniformed nurse authoritatively tending to my perceived needs?

  Yes, I am to be milked. She never uses the term, but that’s the process, my penis treated like a cow’s udder as greased and gloved fingers extract what I now so reluctantly give up.

  And I have come to enjoy watching, looking into the glowing face of my nurse as she takes command. Once again mechanically, clinically, rhythmically stroking away, two fingers slipping into my rectum, my male glands oddly reveling in ceding to the dominion of a governing woman.

  “It’s so nice and soft, I do believe it’s shrinking even faster.”

  Strangely, the words do not distress. Yes, I am acclimatizing. More memories flow as Nurse Sueann patiently milks, her fingers deft as always.

  ***

  “Can I get dressed?”

  I sit in the doctor’s office, released from the stirrups after her thorough examination.

  “I think men like you are more comfortable this way. Besides, it saves me time. I have another patient waiting.”

  I nod, unintentionally offering concurrence.

  “I’ll be frank, Mr. Warren. You need immediate acute care. It’s cancer. The chances of such metastasizing increase by about 2 percent per week. Right now I estimate you have a 90% chance of recovery. Next week it will be less.”

  I am shocked. Her words snap me from the torpor induced by Nurse Sueann’s extraction of sperm. I ejaculated for her at her behest and filled her specimen jar.

  “We’ll have your sample tested, but I’ve seen too many cases to have any doubt. You’ll need an immediate orchiectomy.”

  She pauses, letting set the horrific reality.

  “That’s the removal of the testes, Mr. Warren. Simple and quick. It can be done on an outpatient basis to keep the costs down. But it’s still $4,000. What’s your insurance deductible?”

  “$5,000,” I mumble.

  “You’ve got it, I trust.”

  I do not. She seems to know that, becoming reticent in order to let the dilemma further sink within.

  “Can you raise it? Timely? Wait another month and you’ll have an 80 percent survival chance. Plus there is the cost of counseling.”

  “Counseling?”

  “It’s mandatory for men who lose their balls,” her choice of words becoming suddenly unprofessional in realizing she has a potential deadbeat patient.

  I join her in silence. She relaxes and sits back, seemingly quite comfortable. Too many years in the medical profession, I conclude. Too many orchiectomies?

  “I don’t have the resources,” I stammer, too stunned to elaborate.

  “There is a possible alternative,” the doctor cautiously suggests. “But you’ll need to make certain... certain conciliations.”

  I nod in preliminary agreement. Have I a choice?

  “A woman of means, based in South America. She will offer financial assistance... even cover the cost of counseling... her choice of counseling,” she strangely enunciates in a provocative manner.

  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.