Author Notes:More than one reader has asked why me why none of my hero/heroines are ever castrated as they rise toward pure womanhood, their balls cut off preferably without their consent.
One answer is, I prefer my characters to be persuaded that they want to be women, or tricked or cajoled into it, forced into it only if deep down that's what they really want anyhow, and of course blackmailed into it only if they're wimps.
Another answer is, it's never been necessary. Their femininity augments and perfects whatever they already are, and they carry it all with them. Doesn't it?
Still, some fantasies aren't others. Here I've come as close as I can to a Non-Consensual Castration tale, for now. Sorry, no physical pain.
This story is not for anyone below the age of consent. Those who might consent to events depicted herein are also advised to do their own imagining.
Aurora was playing around down there again. After we'd made love she'd often lie there with her head on my thigh and "play doctor" as she called it. She usually set a frantically passionate pace once we got going, climbing all over me and urging me to thrust everywhere into her, and when finally we'd both gotten sated, bitten, scratched, and covered with each other's juices, when finally I was exhausted, she'd be pleased but somehow restless. We'd been seeing each other about six weeks, five of them mostly in bed. No way had we used each other up. I felt closer to her than ever, and I'd begun to live for each evening when she'd come over from wherever she lived. My work fell to one side, and my friends never saw me. Much of the time we wouldn't even bother to eat the romantic little dinner I'd prepare or we'd phone for.
We played wonderful games. Langoruous courtesan, with Aurora leaning back in satin as if amused, while I coaxed from her the sexual favors she half-denied, half-yielded. Slave prince, me tied to the wall and defiant while she was the Amazon princess who used me. Once bitch in heat, me sniffing her privates before a glorious lunging fast fuck, jabbing my withers at her as quickly as I could. Then one week we played all these roles again, and the others too, only in reverse. I was the bitch in heat. She was the imperious captive. For my role as a courtesan I wore satin and stayed home from work all day to get my hair and make-up just right, and she wooed me with a diamond necklace that made me feel genuinely lovely as she clasped it around my neck, the two of us looking in a mirror. After a swooning session that left me breathless, my unladylike cock finally limp inside her, she said, "Oh, you should have been a girl," and I smiled and kissed the tip of her strap-on dildo in reply. She also wished I could be a bitch in heat more often. Only when we played stallion did she show impatience, while I was mounting her. I'm not that large. But mostly I give satisfaction.
Then she had a game of her own she liked to play with her fingers, clipping everything extraneous off the world. Waiting for me to come back to life a third time, even a miraculous fourth, her own playfulness undiminished, she'd wave her arms in the air all around me, like some Circe casting a spell, and waggle two fingers together like scissor blades, and mock-cut things up. Hair from her head, or from my crotch. Her bra, crumpled into the bedsheets under her sweet rear end. One of her nipples, still jutting nobly out of their pink aureoles on the tips of those gorgeous breasts. My penis.
When I objected to that even in play, she smiled and moved down to my balls, sprawled exhausted in their limp sack, waiting to recover. She lifted them with one hand and clipped the sack between her two fingers just below where the penis attaches, as if she were cutting excess material from an apron or house dress in process. "Snippety!" she said.
I let it pass.
"You don't mind my snipping these, now, do you," she said, experimentally hefting both balls in her palm before letting them back down on the bed.
"Well, yes," I said. I decided not to say anything more.
"But why?" she asked, I couldn't tell whether impatiently or teasingly. "You don't need them. You don't mean to have more kids, do you?"
She knew I didn't. My ex had been awarded both, and the grief I'd caused and felt for them all through the divorce and since was enough for several lifetimes.
"And I certainly don't want kids. Whether we keep seeing each other or not. So why do you need them? They're in the way when you jog or play tennis or do anything healthy, bouncing and jouncing. When you're my captive maiden in my dungeon, they ruin the view. And anyone can put you into agony by punching them."
She swung her fist in a short uppercut from between my legs, and I flinched before she arrested her swing and held her hand up, palm out. "See?" she said. "Never touched them, and look at you. Big strong mans."
She meditated. "I don't have any and I get on just fine."
"Aurora," I said. "That's what makes the juice that made us so happy a few minutes ago, when I was reaching and reaching for it and finally you brought it all spurting out of me. Into you, and you seemed glad to have it, the way you arched your back and cried out over and over."
"No, those things don't," she said. "Not that juice. Not your testicles. Where'd you get your sex education? That joy juice is from your prostate, down deep just behind this limp thing here, your penis. From that smooth little lump I tickle sometimes, when my finger's deep in your ass, and then you cum like a jackrabbit."
"That's some stunt," I said with feeling, remembering. "Where'd you learn that?
"In sex education. In the ninth grade."
"They taught finger fucking?"
"It was a liberal school," she said. Her mouth mused a little, and she glanced sideways at me for a moment, then went on. "Both sexes got the same sex lectures at the same time. A doctor explained our physiologies. He told the boys how doctors reach into assholes to feel the prostate to see it's OK, especially when a boy gets to be an old man. It sounded neat. So I took three boys outside and dared them to let me try it on them. Then once I got them going, they all three came all over themselves. That was fun!"
"You were something!" I said, admiringly.
"I'm not now?" she asked. She knew the answer and went on. "Then they asked me to do it again, and I played hard to get. They said they'd do anything I wanted if I'd do it to them again. So I did, a few more times that day. Then each day for a few weeks. It was lots of fun, better than Girl Scouts for sure! But I ran out of things to order them to do, and it got boring. I told them no, no more, and they pleaded a while, but you already know pleading doesn't work at all with me. Not at all."
She paused. "A year later one of them told me they were still doing it to each other. I bet they still are."
"What'd you order them to do?" I asked. I felt stirred, somehow.
"Oh, stuff," she said. Her lips were close to the head of my penis, and I wondered if she was going to take it into her mouth. That beautiful mouth, with those red, curling, curving lips. "Told them to walk around naked, and kneel in front of me first whenever we were starting a session, and ask me nicely. Like I asked you to kneel earlier tonight, and you were so sweet and did it. You know. One I made wear one of my brassieres and panties all day under his clothes. He became my dedicated girl-boy. I put him in dresses when we went for sodas and things. He was so afraid he'd meet someone he knew! I made the other two boys try to tickle his prostate gland with their cocks, but both cocks were too short, so I had to finish him off with my finger usually. They'd push their pricks into his ass, but nothing ever happened except they'd cum in him and make him messy."
"The day I told them all I wouldn't play any more, I figured I'd cure my girl-boy of being afraid, as a going away present. I told him maybe I'd change my mind if he did everything I told him with no hesitation. Then I got him up in my nicest party dress, his hair done up with a ribbon, and a little lipstick, and all. He really was pretty! I kissed him, and I said, 'That's my girl' to encourage him. Then I walked him all over the neighborhood, the schoolyard, everywhere, and made sure everyone did see him and recognize him. He was mortified at first when the first girls we saw teased him, and the guys all told him to meet them behind the school for a little 'you know what.'"
"Oh my, look how you're swelling up. You really do like girly games too, don't you. Anyhow, after a while there was no more reason to feel afraid. Everyone knew. The rest of that year everyone teased him that he was a fairy girl and a pantywaist, and everything, and he finally learned to say, 'So what?' By then he liked wearing panties, and dresses, and all the rest. When the three of them took up diddling each other, he usually dressed up and played me, I heard."
"You really were something!" I said admiringly. By now I could feel her moist, warm breath on my cock, those lips not an inch away from it. "What else did you do?"
"Not much else. Couldn't think of much else, at the time. Stretched out their assholes, of course. Not with a dildo or a butt plug, the way I do you. Couldn't afford things like that then, not on my allowance. But I figured, what my finger could do, a broom handle could do better, and then a baseball bat could do better still. And they sure could. Though I had to be careful to grease them, and not to push them in too far, and to wash them off especially after. Yuck!"
.... There is more of this story ...