"Snippety, snip!"

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.

"Snip!"

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!"

My prick was definitely on the mend, and I began to caress her nipples with both hands. She settled in to enjoy it with a snug little grunt of contentment. "There was an accident," she said a little dreamily. "But not too bad. I tied off their balls, the two that weren't my girl-boy, and got a leash and a whip, and tied the leash to the loop around their balls, and started to teach them circus tricks. Crack the whip, and tug on the leash, and up they'd go, climbing ladders or a tree in my back yard, or sitting on each other's shoulders. My girl-boy sitting and watching in his pretty dress would applaud us."

"So what was the accident?"

"One day they were both in a tree being monkeys, and one of them dropped the other on the other side of a branch, and when he fell he hung by his balls for a while, until the other boy could cut him loose. Scream? A neighbor called an ambulance. But no real harm done -- he was back in school inside of a week. When he got back he told me his balls were too damaged to keep, so they'd taken them out and put in little soft plastic ones instead 'so he wouldn't be disfigured' they told him, and when he grew up they said they'd give him big plastic ones. 'Disfigured?' I ask you, whose crotch looks better, yours with all that clutter hanging off it, or mine, swept to a simple V-shaped mound and neat as a pin?"

She glanced up and saw a little gleam of lust in my eye, and then she looked back down at my cock again. "Right," she said. "No contest! Anyhow, they gave this kid shots later on, so he'd grow hair on his chest and all, and be a man, same as if he still had balls. Couldn't have kids, of course, but what's so bad about that? Couldn't knock anyone else up either and then run off. He didn't care for girls after that anyhow. And the other boys taunted him, called him a eunuch when they learned the word. But as my girl-boy learned to say, 'So what?' They hung out a lot together afterward, my three little boys. They were my first.

"So that's how I know about shots. If you already have hair on your face, and you don't want kids, you don't need these gumballs."

She clutched them in her hand, and squeezed, till they hurt a little. I tried not to let on. She took an experimental lick on the tip of my penis, and then another, and squeezed a little harder, and looked satisfied for some reason. "Well, maybe they're good for one thing, though shots are still better. A little bit of testicle juice, you're a little bit horny. A lot and you're a lot horny, if you're the right kind, though too much from your balls make can make you nasty, really aggressive, you know? Angry, and you don't live as long. Shots work out better. Of course your own can conflict with the shots, and then your balls can atrophy or get cancer, and then you lose them anyhow. "

"How's this little fella doing?" My prick had gotten plump, not yet stiff. Suddenly she took the whole of it into her mouth, rolled her eyes up to meet mine mischievously, and started sucking on it. In two minutes I was hard again, and in five more minutes she'd sucked me to a monumental orgasm, my prick pulsing and pumping in her mouth until there was no more juice left for her to swallow, and then pulsing a few more times anyhow.

Then she wanted to slither up my body and have me thrust my penis into her yet again. No way.

"Aurora, I've come four times in the past couple of hours, once just a few minutes ago. That's already twice my world record for assisted comes.

"I told you," she said. She waved her arms around, making that scissor gesture again. "Shots are better. You want to see a doctor I know. She'll fix you so we can go from morning to night, and then all night if you want to really shoot up. Maybe an implant. Just talk to her about it, OK?"

I agreed to talk. She licked me up and down for a while, concentrating on the head of my penis and on my nipples, until I felt a peculiar desiring in my groin, which was still soft. The desiring starting to build, like an orgasm, but without my penis responding it seemed to have no place to go. She could feel a delicious tension rising in me finally to stretch out my whole body, I'm sure, because she said, "Oh, yes! You're the one!"

Then suddenly without another word she got up, got dressed, and was gone. It was barely midnight. An early evening.

For a few days I didn't hear from her, and I began to worry she'd quit with me. I hadn't performed for her. I realized I had no phone number to call to ask for another chance. She'd always called, and she'd always come over, or we'd met someplace. I didn't even know where she lived! Then Saturday morning the phone rang. "I'll be there in twenty minutes," Aurora said without preliminaries. "Be ready. We have an appointment with my doc in forty minutes. She was just able to fit you in. I'll honk and you come out." And she hung up.

What had I agreed to do with her doctor? To talk about hormone supplements to could keep my pecker up indefinitely. Induced satyriasis? I pictured myself going to work crouching down and trying to hide an all-day boner, and grinned. Well, a permanent hard-on would solve my problem with Aurora for sure, I thought. Just what the doctor ordered. And if our relationship didn't work out, no harm done. I threw on sweat pants and a sweat shirt as if I were going jogging, and when her little Toyota honked I came out in a trot and hopped in. Only when we were under way did I realize I'd taken no wallet, no money, not even house keys.

Her doctor practiced in a clinical building just outside of town, apparently with other physicians with no other Saturday patients, as far as I could tell, because an "MD" license plate was the only other car in the lot.

"Now, you're sure you want this?" she asked me, leaning back in her chair after Aurora introduced us. "Sign this release please."

I glanced at Aurora. She shrugged slightly, her head a bit askew, as if to say, "Humor her, she'd odd but she's worth it." Doctors these days won't give you the time of day if they don't feel protected against litigation. So I signed the paper on the edge of her desk and then started in.

"First of all, I'd like to know what's involved."

She looked annoyed and her eyes flicked off her wristwatch. "Medial resection and then hormone augmentation, maybe by implant. A simple procedure. The effects can be rather long-term, however," she said drily. "I'll ask again, are you sure it's worth it to you?"

"Aurora's quite a woman," I replied, smiling at Aurora. She beamed back at me reassuringly. "She's worth quite a lot. She's special. I want to satisfy her."

"She surely is special," the doctor replied. "And so will you be. Well, I have a busy afternoon at the hospital, so if you're ready I'll explain as we proceed," the doctor said. "There's a small OR here, sufficient for these kinds of in-house procedures. Usually people go directly home afterward, but I understand Aurora wants you to spend the night here. That's acceptable. Aurora, if you'll wait here for now. We shouldn't be long."

This time I grinned inwardly. An implant to give me indefinite hard-ons. I could live with that. And if Aurora wanted to take immediate advantage of it, that's OK too. We walked into a small brilliantly lit room, and as ordered I removed my pants, lay down on her examination table, and as asked put my feet into the stirrups. I'd heard women comment on how open and vulnerable they felt during gynecological examinations with their feet bound to those metal extensions high off the table, their private parts utterly exposed, and now I understood. Then with swift efficiency the doctor strapped down my hands and started an IV.

"First something to help you relax while I'm working," she said, injecting something into the tubes leading to my veins. Almost immediately I felt warm, confortable, reassured about everything. Then the doctor went between my legs to do something I couldn't see.

"Is it an implant you'll use?" I asked. "Injections? How does it work? It stays hard all the time?"

"Ordinary injection of a local anesthetic. I'm already injecting the site, and I see already you can't feel it. Oh, you mean hormonal implants? In your case I think time-release shots to keep you going for a month at a time. And does it stay hard? No, it gets easier with practice. I do lots of these for women who request them, those with brutal husbands, or men who wander into other women's arms. It lets them know who's boss. For Aurora it's been to assure performance, until now. Injected hormones aren't as stressful to the body, and she likes it with lots of juice. Not many agree to this. I don't know where she finds you people. Of course those earlier this year were gay I hear."

I was adrift nearly asleep on a sea of good feeling, bobbing up and down, and had no idea what she was saying. The doctor was busy between my legs.

"There," she said. "That's one of them. Now merely tie off the main blood supply and cauterize the small blood vessels."

Was she installing a dildo in my cock? Half-dozing, I was amused by the idea of changing the batteries. A vibrating cock? I'd finish up a real fucking machine. A six million dollar man, easily worth that much to any woman who couldn't get enough. Feeling all mellowed out.

"There," she said. "That's the other. Done. Now I'll finish the suturing and pack the wound. Then tomorrow we'll start your replacement hormones."

I must have nodded off. "Want to see?" I suddenly heard her say. She pulled a stainless steel pan out from between my legs and showed me. In the pan floating in a clear liquid were two yellowish, pink eggs, like two hen's eggs, with blebs of flesh of some kind attached, and a few small veins on the surface, a large vein of some kind running across one side.

I looked again.

Then I looked again. There was nothing else they could be!

I looked down! My vision was blocked by the sheet -- I couldn't see anything. I couldn't feel anything. There was nothing to feel. What was she doing? What had she done? I felt rising horror! An awful fear rose up in my stomach and flushed though my body! I came suddenly fully awake.

"Nooooooooohhh!" Someone in agony. A terrible wail echoed in the tiny room.

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that," the doctor said. "This is very tidy work down here. You have no basis whatever for complaint!"

Aurora! What had she done? The doctor continued down there, and I could neither see or feel! But I knew! There was nothing there! Not any more! Nothing!7E Was my penis... ?

As if answering the question, the doctor said, "I'm taping your penis to one side, to keep it out of the way until the wound heals. There's a catheter in it now, so you won't need to pee. I'll remove it tomorrow before we discharge you." She looked up and smiled. "I mean remove the catheter, of course! My but your pulse jumped when I said that! No, this is only an orchiectomy."

There was nothing for it. My brain refused to register any more shock or fear. The tranquillizers held me firmly in their grip. I tried to think about it. Nothing to think about any more. Oh, my God! I blacked out.

When I came to, there was Aurora sitting in a chair in a small hospital room of sorts, looking at me with some concern, but mostly prepared to be pleasant and cheering. She was wearing a business suit, and looked as if she'd stopped off on her way somewhere else. Previously I'd only seen her wearing a shirt and jeans, and then usually for not long.