Just a Short Piece of Wire

by Pansy

"Where are you?"

"Down here in the study." Oh Shit. Why did She have to call him

at a moment like this?

"What are you doing?"

"Just working on the computer." He couldn't possibly tell Her

what he was really doing.

"Have you forgotten? We need to get ready immediately."

"I'll be up in a minute." Damn, damn, damn. Where were those

cutters?

"Hurry up. The meeting is in less than an hour."

"What meeting?" Quick, cut the wire.

"Oh you idiot. You've completely forgotten, haven't you? I need

you cleaned up, dressed and ready to leave in ten minutes."

He wasn't in a fit state to go anywhere because he was

experimenting with self-bondage: with a ring of wire tightly

fixed around his scrotum. This was a step on from his previous

amusement: a padlock clicked shut around the base of his scrotum

and impossible to remove over his testicles.

This time, however, he wanted to measure just how small a ring of

metal would fit in that place. So he had taken a short length of

wire, the thin stuff with a green plastic coating that gardeners

use to tie up plants, looped that around himself, twisted the

ends together, and used a pair of pliers to tighten up the

closure.

It hurt, of course, though mostly from catching his pubic hairs.

So he paused for a few minutes then took up the pliers to twist

the closure some more, then snipped off the loose ends to make it

all neat. A few minutes later he decided it was cowardly to stop

there, so he gave the wire closure another six half-turns with

the pliers. That made the ring of wire really tight. Really,

viciously, tissue-damagingly tight.

That was the point when his Wife called, which suddenly

precipitated him into a hunt for the metal cutters. However,

finding them was only the start of his difficulties. The wire

was deeply embedded in his flesh, well hidden by folds of skin

and pubic hair and he just could not bring the blades of the

cutters to bear on it.

In a couple of minutes he would have worked things out, but he

just didn't have those couple of minutes. His Wife was already

walking down the stairs, so he desperately pulled up his pants

and tried to look nonchalant as She came into the study.

Sometimes She treated him like a naughty child. "What are you up

to, John? Come upstairs this instant. I'll get out some clean

clothes while you take a shower."

Relieved that She did not seem really interested in knowing what

he was doing, he scurried upstairs. He would have to come back

down to pick up the cutters to attack the wire as soon as Her

back was turned.

In the shower he had a chance to observe his wire band. From a

distance it was completely invisible and only the dark bluish

purple color of his scrotum looked at all unusual. All the same

he took care to wrap a towel around himself when he walked into

the bedroom and to turn away from Her while he pulled on his

knickers.

Damn. She had put out a pair of tights for him instead of

stockings and a garter belt. She had long ago accepted his

preference for female underwear, but this was one occasion when

he would have given anything for male-pattern underpants and

socks to give faster access to his genitals.

Damn again. She had also put out that pair of jeans without any

pockets. And a T-shirt and pullover without pockets either. No

easy place to carry the metal cutters out of sight. So he picked

up his handbag and raced downstairs to the study to collect the

cutters.

She met him by the open front door and was about to ask why he

had wasted fifteen seconds going to the study, but changed

instead to saying "You can't take a handbag. This meeting is too

important for you to play your feminine games."

"Sorry, dear, I need somewhere to carry my wallet and keys and

cell phone."

"Leave them. I've got mine."

Stubbornly he hung on the bag, but She snatched it out of his

hands, flung it towards the back of the hall, and propelled him

out of the door. Then She slammed the door and rushed out to the

car. "Come on, hurry up. You drive. You drive faster than me."

As they drove, he was able for the first time to really feel the

wire. It was biting into his scrotum with that kind of pain

which is neither agony nor ecstacy, but sort of cold and

menacing. The pain seemed to emanate from the ring of wire

itself or higher up his body, rather than from his balls.

He did a mental calculation. The wire had been in place for five

minutes before She called, and they had taken nearly fifteen

minutes to dress and get out of the house. Add on fifteen

minutes driving and his earliest chance to cut the wire would be

after 35 minutes. Always assuming he could find something to cut

it with.

How much damage does a tourniquet do in 35 minutes? Could his

testicles survive 35 minutes without a blood supply? Ah well, he

was about to find out. Best to concentrate on his driving and

not have an accident.

It's funny how thinking about something makes it happen. He

wasn't quick enough reacting when the car in front stopped and he

cannoned into the back of it. The damage wasn't serious, but

they still had to get out and exchange addresses with the other

driver.

Because they were in such a hurry, and because he couldn't

produce his driving licence, his Wife wrote out a substantial

check to the other driver on the spot. That made Her all the

more annoyed and bossy.

They finally arrived at the meeting venue fifteen minutes late.

He hoped for, but did not get, a chance to retrieve one of the

tools from the car's trunk, and She insisted on taking back Her

keys once the car was locked.

To his horror, as they walked into the hall the speaker stopped

in mid-sentence and called them up to the platform. Walking the

length of the hall with all eyes upon them, he whispered to his

Wife that She should go alone and he would sit in the body of the

hall, but She hissed at him to shut up and come up and join Her.

By now he reckoned the wire had been in position for 45 minutes,

but the feeling of desperate urgency had waned along with the

pain. It really wasn't hurting quite so badly any more and he

decided to wait for a discreet moment to slip out to the men's

room and see what he could do.

Then disaster struck again. Someone raised a point that required

his technical expertise and he was unexpectedly required to stand

up and say a few words. When he sat down he whispered to his

Wife that he needed to go the men's room urgently, but She

ordered him to stay and help Her deal with the questions.

When the chairman finally called a break in the meeting, he had

been wired up for an hour and a half. He tried to ask his Wife

for the car keys, but She was busy talking to a big shot, so he

went off to the men's room to see what he could do without any

tools. Unfortunately the sit-down stalls were all occupied, so

he went outside the hall to look for a private place and perhaps

some piece of scrap metal to help remove the wire.

He was on the point of running away from the building like a

guilty schoolboy when he was hailed by the big shot his Wife had

been talking to. A few minutes later he found himself back in

the hall, surrounded by a cluster of anxious people and with his

technical expertise once more in demand. And before he could

extricate himself the chairman called the meeting to order again

and his Wife dragged him back onto the platform.

The second half of the meeeting was sheer agony. Not from his

balls, which he couldn't feel at all now. Not much from the

tedium of the speakers, who all seemed determined to prolong the

meeting. But mostly from the uncertainty over what was happening

down below.

Two and a half hours of a tourniquet must surely be enough to do

permanent damage. He tried to imagine the blood vessels being

closed down by the tight ligature and the tissues slowing dying

through lack of oxygen. But then he thought how substantial was

the stalk of flesh inside the wire loop. It wasn't squashed down

to nothing, so maybe some fluids could still pass through.

When three hours had passed he began to lose hope and at three

and a half hours he felt certain that the damage was done. He

was finished. No more testicles. A eunuch for ever more. He

wondered what dead flesh looks like. Presumably it would all

turn black and horrible. Ug, what would She say?

He blamed himself for not having had the courage to call a halt

early on. Why didn't he just refuse to come to the meeting? She

would have had a tantrum and stormed off without him. There

would be hell to pay later, but at least he wouldn't be in the

present mess.

Why hadn't he just feigned some dire medical emergency? The

truth was he hadn't been able to think of a plausible enough

symptom, which would allow him to demand the keys from Her to

drive himself home. Just plain falling down in a faint

would probably have worked too, but he wasn't a good actor and

he didn't fancy explaining his situation to a paramedic in an

ambulance ferrying him to hospital.

So now here he was, driving home with a tight wire tourniquet

around his scrotum, still there after four hours. It didn't

hurt much any more and he certainly couldn't feel a thing from

his balls. Ah well, maybe this was what his deviant sexual

fantasies had wanted all along. He was a eunuch now and would

have to live with the consequences.

When they got home he saw his handbag in the far corner of the

hall, but he didn't rush to pick it up. What was the point?

The damage was done. So he went to the toilet to inspect his

scrotum but didn't remove the wire. The he went into the

kitchen to look for something to eat and poured both of them

a stiff drink, before collapsing into an easy chair for an

hour and a half watching TV.

Before going to bed, he went downstairs again and used the

Internet to look up about tourniquets. There it was on the

screen in front of him. Standard medical advice was to release

a tourniquet every half-hour or so, but on further digging he

learned that interrupting blood supply actually takes quite a

lot of time to be seriously harmful.

The experts seemed to think that a tight tourniquet would start

causing damage, mainly to muscle, after about one hour. But the

time for tissue damage to become widespread, irreversible and

certain was six hours. He looked at his watch. Since the final

twist on his wire ligature, six hours and twenty-five minutes

had elapsed.

If he had used the cutters immediately after they came home, he

could probably still have saved himself. It wasn't the meeting,

but the last two hours relaxing in front of the TV, that had

turned him into a eunuch. How strange to think he had lost his

balls while watching two teams kicking a ball around a field.

He already knew that the wire was very hard to see, so he decided

to leave it in place when he went to bed. His Wife would be

extremely unlikely to feel it, unless She placed a finger on the

exact spot underneath his scrotum where the twisted ends of the

wire stuck out. He would tell Her the news tomorrow.