Desperate for my thrill, one prospect seems to drool in fantasy with the sight of my near nakedness. I smile then brazenly flip up the back of my skirt, ending the tease and revealing in full that which female hormones have shaped to girlish perfection. I then nod toward a winding narrow path which I know leads past dense undergrowth. When I move onward, I see him rise from his perch on a park bench.
I slow my pace. Rounding a curve, most visitors are left behind. My prospect catches up.
“Do you need some candy, little girl?”
Wow, do I indeed have a reprobate on the hook. The selected words begin the playing of a game. I indulge, stopping to turn and assess.
He’s handsome... young... the zipper area of his trousers bulging. For a hasty choice... otherwise too eager to spend time surveying the field... I have not done badly.
“I always seem to need something in my mouth,” I counter in my most girlish voice.
Then I hold up my right hand, extending three fingers.
“Hamilton’s?” he inquires.
I nod.
“But only for a little taste,” I advise, discouraging any contact beyond fellatio.
With that my tongue, so conveniently altered for oral gratification, thrusts from my mouth, circles my lips then extends to rise and touch the tip of my nose.
My prospect is initially taken aback with the nimbleness, furnished by a quick flick of a scalpel bearing hand. But as I step from the pathway into some dense Rhododendrons, he follows, fishing in his pocket for the three ‘Hamilton’s’... the $30 I demand.
I neither need nor necessarily want the money, but it so much enhances the sense of being wanted. The psychological aspects need investigation, I realize. But my counselor is unavailable. Therefore I fellate then seize the money with zeal. Analysis can follow.
There’s a large, smooth rock within the copse. I often wonder how many have sat squirming to polish the granite as some form of licentious interaction is undertaken. For sure enough, my prospect sits, exactly where I have so many times indulged in ‘candy’.
I stand between his knees, letting himself warm his engine, letting his hands slip under my skirt to fondle the buttocks which so attracted. I am careful to press together my thighs, the inner flesh keeping my trapped penis tip well concealed. Meanwhile my hand goes to his zipper and rubs. The first brisance of deviant sexual delight brings my nipples to a stand.
I am found to be attractive... I am alluring... I am seductive. As always, such thrills.
I unzip him, fearful that his hands, though sensuous and caring, will uncover my secret. His raging manhood pops into view. I meekly fall to my knees. Guys like the sense of power when a little girl genuflects. His hands go to my head to guide. I engulf. He moans. As my tongue swirls there comes a voice. It terrifies.
“Vice. Move away. Slowly. Then freeze.”
It is a female voice... deep... sounding middle aged. My prospect appears apoplectic. I do not feel so good myself.
The officer is in plain clothes. As I raise my head from my prospect’s lap, a badge is flashed between us. The woman grabs my hand bag and wrestles it from my shoulder, concerned with flight, knowing to secure the identity of at least one of her culprits.
“Zip it up, he man,” the patois that of a New York cop.
Wavering hands somehow tuck away a swollen but rapidly shrinking organ.
“This is serious stuff. This girl appears to be not more than 15 years old. That’s five years minimum and a lifetime on the sex offender’s list,” the officer lectures.
“How old are you, sweetheart? Are you a runaway?”
I cannot let my prospect go down... even begin to go down. It is my folly, my seduction, my thrill, my proclivity.
“I’m twenty five.”
The officer is shocked. My prospect exhales in relief. When the officer rummages into my purse and finds my identification there is more silent shock. For some reason knowing not to say anything more, she backs off.
“Ok, Don Juan. Take a hike. And remember, from the 65th Street bypass down to Park Central South, you’re in my territory. So pass through with care... and keep your hands... and everything else clean.”
My prospect jumps and runs... my virile source of ‘thrill’ leaping from the rock like a frightened hare in a rabbit hunt, wordlessly leaving me holding the bag.
“Did he know you are a guy...? Mr. Robert Warren?”
I shake my head.
“It’s my fault... I just have this thing... just a little sex... some thrill... blow off some steam.”
“Hands on your head. Spread ‘em.”
I know the search for weapons is mandatory... but should be brief. There is no place to hide anything. Still the woman’s hands smooth up my inner thighs, reaching the ‘Y’ where my tiny ringed penis is attached to the guiche piercing on my perineum. Feeling the cable tie there brings confusion. In not knowing what she encounters, she commands that I place my hands behind my back. I am cuffed. Then, having indeed come to the park for a thrill, my objective is attained. This officer gamely releases the clasps of my skirt, whisking it away to leave me standing naked from the waist down.
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.”
She pauses and smiles. She is entertained. She is in charge.
“And one other decision,” she postulates, drawing a small pocket knife from her vest and thrusting it toward my restrained penis. “Do you want to be led from here appearing as a girl or as a guy?” her hand extending to the cable tie which cloaks my maleness.
***
Sergeant Kelly seems to understand me better than I do. Stripped naked, standing cuffed and in heels, she forces a decision... seeming to know that this estrogen laced male mind is easily befuddled. Thus she manifests her control... well beyond the threat of arrest and that imbued by the shiny steel which encircles my wrists.
Ultimately I decline the snip offered by her pocket knife. I arrived appearing girly... I will depart appearing girly... I hope.
“Come. We have to make a first step. There’s a bit of a short cut to Central Park West... though I doubt we’ll go unseen.”
She grasps my elbow and I have no choice but to walk with her. I am under arrest... I think.
Out of the Rhododendrons to the isolated path, my bag in her firm grasp, she thankfully turns away from the main concourse where I am known to draw many eyes. Yes, there is relative seclusion. And when we encounter an occasional stroller, Sergeant Kelly fervently displays her badge, momentarily drawing eyes from my prepubescent nakedness, silently announcing to all that official police business in being undertaken.
But we approach Central Park West, as busy a thorough as any in New York. Pausing on a covered pathway, some fifty yards from a crossing traffic light, her fingers once again explore between my thighs, discovering that which I feel... the continuous vestigial ooze of maleness. She chuckles.
“Three blocks north along Central Park West to the precinct?” she inquires. “Or one block west to your apartment?”
I fully understand the message. The way to the precinct... including formal arrest and overnight incarceration... is fraught with pedestrians. To my apartment... there is the relative inactivity found on any cross street at dusk. Plus, perhaps my pending arrest will be quashed.
I am happy to be offered the choice. It is an easy decision.
“My apartment please, Sergeant Kelly.”
***
I panic as Sergeant Kelly searches my bag for my keys. In only passing two strollers on West 63rd Street, neither of which I recognized, it has been a relatively uneventful walk in the nude. But the delay in unlocking the main door may reverse all the advantages of the choice of being taken home if a neighbor spots me without clothing and Sergeant Kelly flashes her badge as she’s already needed to do four times.
I am sure a note or visit from the landlord would result.
Finally I nod when the proper key is displayed and we promptly enter the building and safely ride the elevator. On the ascent, Sergeant Kelly checks her watch.
“Off duty,” she announces, mercifully holding the key for quick entry to my apartment.
Mission accomplished, I sigh in great relief stepping into the confines of my abode. In the panic and trepidation of my detainment, I had not thought of the next step in this encounter. As Sergeant Kelly leaves me alone in the living room, instinctually checking the adjoining rooms for possible interlopers, I realize that no discussion, no offer or explanation, has been forthcoming.
She returns.
“Nice. Not overly flashy, but livable.”
Remaining cuffed, strong hands grasp my shoulders and guide me to kneel on the carpet.
For some reason her brief hold brings comfort. I feel safe in her care... as she has adequately demonstrated in extracting me naked from the park... no questions... no interference... she was totally in charge.
She opens her purse and pulls forth my blouse and skirt.
“Put these on for a moment,” releasing my cuffs.
I slip on the garments. She then slides a cell phone from her pocket. Aligning and pointing, I know the camera function is being used. A flash comes then another. I am once again photographed and I meekly position myself, offering myself to the camera lens as I did so often naked for Nurse Sueann.
“Now strip again.”
She sits on the couch and lights another cigarette and types out a quick text message, pressing ‘send’ she resumes speaking.
“You are one submissive boy,” Sergeant Kelly notes, my silent obedience prompting the comment.
“We see a lot... on the Vice Squad. Many strange and horny guys... many kinks... many girls exchanging their youth and their bodies for dough. Most just rolls off... if you know what I mean. It’s not that we’re not asexual on the squad... we’re more or less inoculated.”
She leans forward while commanding me to spread. I comply, knees parting, and her free hand slips to my perineum, once again I feel a pang of joy as she again coats her fingers with my essence.
“Let’s see the rest of you,” she forcefully declares, once again retrieving her pocket knife.
It’s sharp, the cable tie giving way within a moment after she carefully aligns the blade. Then into full view comes the ringed vestigial organ I labor to conceal. She palms it, the disheartening three inches bringing a smile.
“Cute,” her only word as she releases and sits back to draw more nicotine.
“I assume you have more cable ties. I understand the need to keep this little guy tucked away. A girl does not need to show a bulge there.”
I nod.
“Well, Robert,” she begins.
“I prefer Renee, Ma�
�am,” I correct, hopefully not sounding pretentious.
“Yes, of course. Well, Renee, having seen so much in my eight brief years, I must confess you’re the topper. Working Central Park in broad daylight, for next to nothing, in drag, with your balls dangling from your ears.
“What brought you to getting them chopped?” the street vernacular charming, had I not been kneeling naked before her.
“A diagnosis of cancer. At least that is what they thought.”
“And it was not?”
I shake my head.
“I’m no longer sure what the truth was. But whatever... they’re gone.”
Sergeant Kelly laughs... shaking her head.
“They’re hanging from your ears, silly girl.”
She begins clearing the coffee table where hours ago Miss Lalique presented me with the gift of my plastinated testicles.
“You’re not too heavy. This should hold.”
She approaches and finally releases the handcuffs from my wrists.
“Let’s have a full exhibition, shall we? We’ll both be happy.”
She guides me to the coffee table and in wearing the precarious heels assists as I know to step up. Then the cell phone reappears and I by rote begin to model myself on an improvised pedestal, turning and listening for the click, then turning again, then bending, then turning, then spreading. Nothing escapes the lens... not one square centimeter of shorn, plumped flesh. I feel exposed... violated... my privacy desecrated. I also feel a glow of comfort. Sergeant Kelly protects... sparing me from ignominious arrest.
Sergeant Kelly utters encouraging words and instructions, filling the memory of her phone.
The drool streams to my knees.
***
Fortress Mansion of Pablo Escobar
Secluded Mountains of Colombia
Plangent beeps indicate an incoming message. The private cell phone of Pablo Escobar sounds not often. Too much potential surveillance, too many potential electronic traps. He thus has an old model phone... no GPS capability... and he only uses it to receive... never to send.
The Entrapped Page 10