The Entrapped

by Chris Bellows

  I suppose I will be determining that for sure.

  Missing from the sizable collection of new garments is casual wear... that worn when just sitting about the apartment watching television or playing computer games. So with the dozens of pink silk and satin panties, none completely covering my cheeks, such becomes by default that which I don while lounging about.

  For some reason there comes this propensity to sit before a mirror... not so much staring at my radically transformed appearance, but absorbing... reflecting in a puny way. At first there are tears... coifed hair... pierced ears... yet I am a guy. But then realization sets in... I am a guy without balls. Then the emotional roller coaster begins a slow ascent... I am a guy without balls who is somewhat cute. This brings a smile... and not an irritating smile as that of Nurse Sueann... but a rather fresh ‘girl next door’ smile. Yes, innocent, wholesome, and attractive.

  I practice... girlishly feminine facial expressions. My appearance is so different... so much better? I twist the shards penetrating my ears, assuring as instructed that the openings properly heal. The studs are ungainly... the practicality of unsightly stainless steel required only during the healing process. And then I think to myself... earrings.

  How will I be decorated? I find myself fantasizing about sparkling diamonds and glimmering gold.

  But how can a girl... a guy... afford such?

  My benefactress was certainly forthcoming enough yesterday. Will jewelry be next?

  The thought brings a strange thrill, envisioning magnificent baubles, teasingly dangling just below the cut of my page boy. Such brings a smile... that cute, wholesome ‘girl next door’ smile.

  And then it comes to mind that only moments ago I was crying, my tears flowing to smear the remnants of yesterday’s make up.

  What is happening to me?

  Nearing noon, the self adulation bringing a degree of ennui, Miss Lalique having tossed most computer games, there comes a need for diversion... and for lunch, food never overly stocked in my bachelor’s pad... bachelorette pad.

  But how do I leave? I have only girl’s clothing... and not even a pair of sneakers. To leave I will have to be in blouse, skirt and heels... fortunately the latter is available with a more modest pair than those worn during last night’s training.

  Like it or not I must continue the subterfuge... or sit in boredom and starvation. Besides, tomorrow, Monday morning, I must work, forced to face the dilemma in earnest.

  So I shower, dry, comb and style my hair, for some reason taking excessive time. Then I pause attempting to foretell the reaction of those who will see me. If I must wear blouse and skirt, I don’t want people to think it is boy in drag.

  My predicament broadens. Like it or not, to avoid undue attention, I must go all in on this subterfuge... if being forced to present myself as a girl can indeed be so termed. After all there are the missing organs which define gender...

  So more time is spent on makeup. Somewhat sloppy, but I oddly console myself by convincing myself I shall get better.

  With pink panties there comes that distant thrill... smooth satin on re-sensitized scrotum and unused penis. Then a yellow silk blouse and skirt of brown. It tantalizingly rubs against the uncovered portion of my buttocks and augments the wonderful frottaging of the satin. As I move about, my nipples become perky, celebrating being encased in silk.

  By the time I don platform shoes, the most practical of my new collection, my cerebral cortex is deluged with newly felt input... so much soft smoothness where I had before felt so little.

  A simple walk can stimulate.

  And so I introduce myself to the world... Renee... walking alone... without supervision... without the guidance of an authoritative woman’s hand.

  ***

  For some reason, I find excitement in the inquisitive looks of boys. Appearing prepubescent with my limited stature and flat chest, there is not much expression of attraction from grown men. I appear too young. And girls... well I believe I received some critical glances... my make up skills not yet up to par... some possibly thinking that I should not be wearing make up at my perceived age.

  I grab a sandwich at a deli and go to the park. I cannot help wondering if I will come across the trollop of weeks past, she offering the risqué hand job, the catalyst for my counselor’s demanded transformation.

  The thought brings to mind Friday’s counseling session. I lied naked on the couch, my counselor encouraging me to toy with the faux phallus. As always blunt words were offered, encouraging a forthright spewing of my thoughts as I stroked the large hideous cylinder of rubber.

  ‘How does it feel, Renee? Would you indeed like to handle a man’s penis... a real man’s penis?’

  Perhaps psychosomatic, I felt my own organ shrink... imaginatively disappearing from between my legs.

  ‘Why not give it a lick... see what it tastes like?’

  It was revolting... but there also came the twinge... and my counselor seemed to know what I felt.

  ***

  I stroll home, one foot before the other, hips swaying as trained. My building fortunately has no doorman and I am not overly friendly with neighbors. I doubt anyone will recognize me... and my transformation.

  For the first time I have a phone message to call my counselor. I dial. She speaks abruptly as always.

  “Miss Lalique told me you had a very good Saturday... lots of nice things for a boy without testicles.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” ignoring the taunt.

  “I’m going to talk to your immediate superior first thing tomorrow morning. My file indicates it is a ‘Mr. Thompson’, is that correct?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You are to delay reporting to work until I have an opportunity to apprize Mr. Thompson of your issues. I’ll need to remind him of your rights and the various laws protecting your... your new status. So arrive sometime after ten a.m. But Renee, do look pretty. He will be expecting you that way. So use the time to doll up very nicely.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I suggest blue... a nice pastel blue blouse and indigo skirt... short and tight.”

  Easy to comply. That’s the only style and size available in my collection.

  “And heels, Renee. Don’t disappointment Mr. Thompson. He’ll be expecting a cute little girl.”

  ***

  I don’t sleep well, probably as restlessly as months ago knowing of my scheduled orchiectomy. I cannot help pondering the reaction of Mr. Thompson and my coworkers... leaving the office late Friday afternoon appearing male... arriving Monday morning appearing not as a woman but as a girl.

  Sleep not fully relieving me of my woes, I arise early Monday morning. I shower. I begin to shave and find it is completely unnecessary. I begin to well up, the emotional roller coaster plunging. I cheer myself by putting on the awkward heels and sashaying about the apartment naked. I excite myself when I pass a mirror and the roller coaster begins its ascent.

  Then, with the realization dawning on Sunday when I planned a walk in the park, primping to my new look requires time. I must begin to prepare for the office. Hair to be groomed. Make up applied. Nails to be touched up. The false eye lashes require great effort.

  I take my hormone pill, that seeming to be non effective. I twist my ear studs and once again sense disappointment with the presentation. I do hope the openings heal quickly. I may as well walk about with nails pounded through my ears.

  Before I know it, nine thirty arrives and I dress, heartened to find that I can slip my panties right over the four inch heels without having to take them off and then redo the crisscrossing straps about my calves.

  The blouse, pastel blue of course, the indigo skirt, are easy.

  I search for my brief bag, forgetting that it has been confiscated. The black over the shoulder bag will more than suffice. It matches my shoes.

  My new life begins.

  The walk to work is usually short, but not in heels, and not when having to avoid subway gratings. Filthy sid
ewalks are also of concern, the open toed shoes fully displaying a pedicure which is not to be despoiled.

  So it requires 30 minutes. And I begin to understand some of the burdens of my transformation. More time required for just about everything... the limited need for shaving notwithstanding.

  Few recognize the young blonde, heels clicking in the building lobby. But when I step from the elevator on the floor of the accounting department, heads begin to turn. My heart pounds. My circulation throbs, but I also feel a certain contentment. I am becoming the center of attraction as I walk the long walk to the corner office of Mr. Thompson. I may as well start there. I know he will want to see me.

  His secretary seems unaware. I assume whatever conversation my counselor had was recent. The memo, so to speak, not yet issued.

  “Yes,” she looks up not recognizing me.

  “Warren, here to see Mr. Thompson.”

  “Ms. Warren, are you expected?”

  “It’s Renee Warren, and I believe I am.”

  She buzzes. When announced I hear my boss suppress laughter but bids me to enter. For some reason I find myself stamping the floor to exaggerate the clicking of my high heels and swaying my hips most seductively.

  There is no going back, I tell myself.

  ***

  A most emotionally cathartic day. Jeers, whispers, some understanding women, some horrified men. The interoffice memo beseeched that my fellow workers accept my choice in lifestyle. No mention of the catalyst of all this... the acute medical need to snip my gonads.

  Still, as accommodating as Mr. Thompson was through this first day, there is the open question as to whether I use the ladies’ room or the men’s room. After all, the company cannot foster an atmosphere where I am deemed imposing my transformation on others... just as others cannot impose vanilla gender identity on me.

  For now I use the ladies’ room with a gracious cohort standing by the door to warn others that a male... one time male... is temporarily occupying the facilities

  Tuesday events somewhat repeat, with some commotion yet more calming with the speed and frequency of rumors slowing.

  But I am lonely, to a certain extent ostracized. So when Wednesday arrives, I am grateful to know that my bi weekly visit with Nurse Sueann is scheduled. She has not yet seen me in satin, silk, makeup, nails and high heels. I hope she will be pleased.

  So at day’s end, I proudly exit the office, fully aware that I have begun to master the application of cosmetics, walking in heels, enjoying the sensation of smooth and soft satin and silk felt where a girl most likes to feel things.

  Curious thoughts.

  ***

  Entering the doctor’s office I announce myself to the receptionist. On hearing the name she quickly looks up and smiles. Amused, but me appearing as a girl does not totally surprise.

  “Changing room three... Mr... ah, Miss Warren.”

  I know the way. Know also that complete nakedness is required. And whereas these visits are most degrading, I assuage the mental discomfort by envisioning my feet in stirrups as Nurse Sueann extracts the demanded fluid sample, to be tested for whatever purpose every two weeks.

  Other than frottaging against my own clothing, it is the only pleasure left to me... however incomplete.

  Blouse and skirt removed, there comes a knock. I know it is not Nurse Sueann. She barges...and only after making me humbly wait in nakedness.

  “Yes.”

  The receptionist pops in her head.

  “Nurse Sueann wants you in heels. Remove everything else.”

  Obedience. Always obedience. I will comply. Besides, untying and later retying the long crisscrossing leg straps can be cumbersome. Thus I merely slip off the flimsy pink panties and wait. My only covering... stylish ‘come fuck me’ four inch heels and entwining leather leg straps to just below my knees.

  Returning to the site of my alteration, I always find myself looking down in remorse. My penis, woefully small and getting smaller, seems lonely as well. Below it is a mass of loose flesh, also seeming to contract, that which once nestled what defined my gender. Now there is no definition. Initially shocked by my own reflection, it now pleases... tantalizes... offers such quirky possibilities.

  Yes, the words of the doctor regarding the orchiectomy return to mind... ‘it will transform. In some regards you’ll be more free than ever’.

  The door opens, Nurse Sueann always defying any sense of privacy. She enters, seeming to gloat even more.

  “Well, well, it’s Mr. Warren... or are you answering to something more apropos. Miss Warren, perhaps?”

  With the mocking words I console myself by imagining those talented fingers coaxing what my male organ now so reluctantly gives up. Her words anger, but still I blush... just like the school girl I appear to be.

  “Renee,” I meekly offer.

  “Well, then we have a new patient... Renee. Let’s get you introduced to everyone, Renee. We so much enjoy having pretty little girls visit us.”

  Her arm extends and I know to arise and take her hand.

  Tonight’s march to the examination room will be particularly slow and emotionally toiling. I will be reintroduced to all, the receptionist again, other nurses, a highly amused and intrigued patient waiting to see the doctor... my blushing nakedness turning from pink to crimson. I no longer bother trying to cover my plundered scrotum. There is now nothing which needs to be hidden.

  ***

  Nurse Sueann does her thing. I am weighed, measured, photographed for my benefactor. At last it comes time for heels in the stirrups and I begin the long slow trip to nirvana... the only sexual joy left to me... the milking of my prostate.

  On this occasion her handiwork changes. More kneading and caressing of my emptiness, the scrotum, so delightfully gaining in sensitivity. Plus my nipples, and with her touch such spring to life, crinkling and standing as a puppy sitting up to beg for attention. I seem to have new erogenous zones... and Nurse Sueann knows it.

  In time, again comes the combined joy and frustration of being milked, Nurse Sueann laughing softly as she feels me desperately trying to ‘pull the trigger’... to ejaculate, to achieve the vaunted male orgasm never again to be felt.

  Of course it never comes... I just meekly drool out the remaining clear and sterile male essence... to be collected... to be tested. I then lie in the strange sexual trance of near achievement.

  Depilation follows, Nurse Sueann unraveling the straps about my calves, the smelly, burning lotion liberally applied then swiped away just as the chemical heat becomes unbearable. We both note the results... very little stubble removed despite the two week interval from the last application.

  Expecting my booster shot, I am surprised when the doctor enters. I have not seen her since my operation many weeks before.

  “I understand we have a new little girl patient,” she mockingly gushes as if greeting a child. “Welcome, Renee.”

  As she speaks, I note that Nurse Sueann adroitly straps my wrists to the sides of the examination table, my heels remaining secured in the stirrups.

  “Just a couple things suggested by your counselor. She says you’re making great progress... and looking at you I must agree. So wonderfully effeminate. Your benefactress will love the latest pictures.”

  Watching her move about, preparing stuff, I become fearful. The last time I saw her my testicles had plunked into a waiting metal basin!

  “Now just some pin pricks and a little cut... that’s all we’re going to do tonight. Stay calm...”

  The doctor steps between my raised and well parted feet. I am defenseless... not that effective physical resistance is any longer within my purview. Still I am concerned when gloved fingers begin working about my penis and empty scrotal sac. Then I feel sharp pain at my penis tip. When I cry out, I am chagrined to hear the sound of a squealing girl. Next comes more sharp pain about my rectum. I squeal again.

  “This will make you look better in tight panties. Plus you’ll have to squat to pee... just
like a real girl.”

  I feel tugging on my tiny manhood... measured, by the way, at a sickening three and one half inches. Then I hear a click and see the doctor hand a small key to Nurse Sueann. The tugging sensation at my penis remains.

  “A very modest Prince Albert ring and what is termed a guiche piercing near your little butt hole. When connected, locked of course, it will keep that offending little remnant of your prior life out of the way. Your counselor will control the key... initially.”

  With her words she steps from my feet and approaches my head and shoulders.

  “Open wide. Just a little cut.”

  Have I a choice? Her gloved left hand covers my nose. I must open my mouth to breathe and when I do she pinches firmly my tongue and lifts. I utter a muffled moan.

  “Just a little cut to the frenum... a useless fold of muscle connecting the tongue to the jawbone. It for some reason restricts tongue movement. And our little girl wouldn’t want that.”

  More sharp but quick pain as she talks.

  “No, girls like you will need good oral skills... so with just a little incision, you’re going to be a much more popular little girl.”

  Finished, the doctor smilingly sits at my side, tousles by blonde locks, a token of reward for being a good little girl. Then she snickers, arises and steps to the door.

  “Is it not grand to have all this medical care paid for? I do hope you will properly thank your benefactress when the time comes.”

  Nurse Sueann releases me... but then it’s tummy down buttocks up on the table for one more brief instant of pain... my hormone injection.

  ***

  Arriving home, I strip, grab a hand mirror and lie legs spread to examine the doctor’s latest procedure. She has locked my newly pierced penis between my thighs, the tiny tip just at my anus. A small padlock connects the two rings, tightly holding my little thing in place, pointing downward. In dressing, I did indeed note that the little pinky sized protuberance at the front of my panties had just about disappeared. In a way I feel heartened, recalling my fear that the bulge would cause the delivery men to unmask the subterfuge of my true gender... my one time gender.