The knot of fear in my belly is tighter.

Almost all of my resectionings have been performed with me on my back or upright. The tilting operating table was constructed with that in mind. Like so many other things, that’s been changed for tonight’s procedure.

I won’t even be in stirrups as I was for the operation 11 days ago that failed so spectacularly.

For tonight, the table has undergone a massive transformation, as I shall in just a few minutes — one way or the other. The straps are gone. A strong Kevlar “shirt” and matching thigh-high leggings are molded to me and anchored in the table, holding the Cock King immobile. My bared head, groin, upper thighs, hands and feet are not secured to the table, although they might as well be for all the freedom of movement I have. The table can rotate me any direction and bend me at the waist and knees.

The studio announcer informs the rich and celebrated the procedure is about to begin. The hubbub quiets. Cameras go live. The pay-per-view commentators with guests Carrie-Faith and Lashly Olson wrap up their intros.

Servos spin to turn me at Doc’s signal. My dick and balls tumble out of my lap as the table locks into starting position. I’m suspended face down inside the Kevlar. A rear view of my package is exposed to the audience through a large hole in the table. My legs are spread wide to display the most famous set of male organs in the world. Doc must work from behind me, if she is to correct her blunder, and the viewers must see her at work. The hairy ass is safe from her knife, but that’s about it.

My bluish genitals dangle limp in full view, closeups brightly displayed on the in-studio screens. The wild swinging that occurred when the table overturned has subsided to a slow, depleted circle. At the request of an assistant director, one of the nurses bends down to set my dick in motion again, a pendulum to and fro the director likes better than the flopping. They’ll want that shot for the edited DVD presentation. I try not to let my anger show. Worse things have been done to Tommy’s cock.

My guess is it would be easier for Doc to probe and repair if I stayed soft. The worldwide audience doesn’t care. They want me hard, so another of Doc’s assistants sticks me with poppers at root and header. Even the glans gets one, stingingly.

The poppers aren’t enough to overcome the loss of bloodflow. A softly whirring pump kicks in to force more life into my penis through a series of shunts Doc installed before the cameras were switched on. The abused cock turns pink, then red as it extends to its full 18 inches, arching forward instead of hanging. I feel again as I haven’t in so long — huge, hard, powerful, a dominant male. The audience moans with me, reveling in the sight of majestic masculine arousal.

I am celebrated by millions for this one aspect of myself, and Dash has taught me to love it above all else — except her, of course. I wouldn’t be on this table if it were not for my love of her.

With the organs ready for show business, Elena opens carefully the cuts she created 11 days ago, spreading flesh, probing, inserting cameras, looking desperately for any of the “mass of tiny blood vessels” that grew uniquely in this lone homo sapiens male to feed his tremendous penis and testicles. I still can’t believe Doc cut the little “feeders” so cavalierly on her way to altering my genetically mutated “root” system with her special sauce.

No, the special sauce didn’t come from MickeyD’s.

Dash ducks under the table to sit crosslegged in front of me like a schoolgirl. She’s in a sheer white teddy and g-string. Her neck extends, turning her mouth up to kiss me, long and slow. Her right hand reaches to encircle my hardon. Only once has she done anything like it in public. After stroking the endangered phallus and kissing me for a few moments, she slips out of the teddy.

This is a first — Dashiele Johansen naked and jacking the giant bone in front of the cameras. The undeniably hot CEO of Severance Labs has mass (unsatisfied male viewer) appeal. Tonight, the public will finally get a visual taste. The hum from the audience grows louder.

Dash flows into a kneeling position and arches her back beautifully to bring her breasts to my mouth. She cries out and so does the crowd when I suckle them. The angle of her body has brought her sex close to my rampant cockhead. Balanced on both knees and one hand, she uses the other to rub the glans against her already moistened clit and slit. She puts her head back in a practiced move, letting her white-gold hair swing in front of the lights. The naked, angelic form, the glowing hair, the sheer novelty of Dash becoming one of my on-camera sluts is causing viewers who didn’t give a damn for my dick to suddenly pay the per-view price as news of Dash’s surprise travels the globe.

Meanwhile, the equally famous Dr. Severance continues her quest to repair the severed veins and arteries. I’m so glad to be hard again, and with my love, that I nearly forget about my circumstances. Yeah, right.

Dash has arched and toyed long enough. She slides lower and starts worshipping my solid staff with her mouth, the cockhead disappearing again and again as the beautiful head bobs. One of her favorite tricks, as I must have told you a dozen times, is to bob a little deeper with each sucking stroke. The audience is shocked when they note how sneakily Dash has gone from simple blowing to deepthroating. And no one can do it better. She takes an amazing 12 inches into her windpipe before gagging the first time.

Not a sound comes from Doc, just painful steel counterpoints to Dash’s loving, wet caresses, but I can sense her frustration. Hundreds of microsurgeries must be successful for the mighty meat to regain its former responsiveness and avoid culling. Doc’s not having an easy time of it.

“Dash,” Elena says quietly, ducking down to see the beautiful blonde impaled past her Adam’s apple on my machine-assisted erection. Doc smiles. “Make him cum for me, too.”

I get it. Doc’s worried that I won’t spill that semen on camera. Cum equals ka-ching. She senses my worry over her frustration. So she encourages Dash, and she encourages me. Lot of worry going around in the operating room.

Dash seems unaffected.

She turns on all fours and rams her pussy onto the 18-inch cuntsticker, fucking herself hard until she comes on cue for that asshole assistant director. The orgasm’s real, of course. Dash is too much my slut to fake it. Timing a climax for a live sex performance is just another of her many talents — like this next one. She muscles the bone now, showing off to the crowding lenses her cunt’s ability to grip dick. Her sheath’s contractions around my flesh sword are clearly visible in the closeups. Thin strings of pre-cum are being sucked into my urethra by the pulling pussy muscles. They leak from my piss slit into Dash.

When Dash is done exercising her kitty, the clipboard toting little fuck directs the same nurse to insert me into Dash’s anus. My wife’s been pre-lubed for this. They guide me into her slowly until her hole has relaxed enough for fast jamming. The nurse stays to steady the studhorse organ, as much for Doc’s sake as for the hard-riding Dash, who starts to sweat from the pounding she’s giving herself. It hurts her just the way she likes. She pops again with full sound effects, some of which are echoed in the masturbating studio audience. The pheromones that fill the operating theatre seem to make everyone horny.

An orgasm is building too in the big johnson for the first time in 11 days. Dash flips directions once more to take me in her mouth. The nurse, who’s more of a pornstar than a health care professional anyway, shoves Dash’s head onto the near-ready meat and pins her there to choke on cock. The assistant director nods approvingly, and I can only assume that Dash has OK’d this little S&M moment. Dash has final authority over every aspect of the show. One of her strict policies is that I never know exactly what’s been planned for any broadcast.

The choking is pretty realistic, and we know from past experience that my penis can’t resist the massage of a gagging throat. My immense balls, hanging and banging patiently until now, tug themselves up on their cords from inside the sack, looking like spookshow creatures writhing under their chrysalis skin at the end of metamorphosis.

Doc withdraws her instruments for the seminal moment. The audience oohs and ahs. They know my signals. So does the nurse. Dash is pulled spitting off the cock by a fist in her hair to take the full measure on her face. Her fine features are drowned under the sticky white stuff.

Clever strategy from Dash. My fans and even the men who hate me — lots of those around — have been waiting all these years to see my untouchable wife fucked on live television. She guesses, correctly, that a gentle, romantic lovemaking session won’t drive sales the way a humbling buttfuck and choke will.

She lays back below my dripping, still-hard dick, and fingers herself to one more quick orgasm with the goo drying on her cheeks and bubbling from her mouth. The audience cheers through all of it and fights over the towel she throws to them after wiping her face. She kisses me and rises petitely gorgeous and nude to stand beside Doc.

Doc has been waiting.

The two whisper.

Silence.

More whispers.

“No,” Dash says plainly, plaintively.

Doc just shakes her head.

“Please, Elena?” I hear this plainly, too. I’m beginning to worry. No, actually I’m panicking.

The servos whine. My artificial erection sways only slightly as the table rotates 180 degrees then tilts forward to show me Dash’s terrified face and Doc’s resigned mask.

“What’s the what, Doc?” I ask a little thickly. A tiny, crystal white tear of cum drips from my piss slit and decorates my sternum just above the six-pack abs. The cameras record it in high definition.

“Tommy, you know this procedure had only a minimal chance of success. We never guessed that the mass of vessels was so essential to your penis’ health...”

“Cut to the chase, Doc.”

“They can’t be reconnected, my love. I’m sorry, there’s just too many, too far apart, and in too complex patterns to ever align a significant fraction correctly. We need at least a 50 percent reconnect rate, and we’ll get just 15 percent.”

“So, my penis?”

“Must be removed, all of it, tip to root. The alternative, eventually, is gangrene.”

“But the testicles, my balls will be OK, right? You said...”

“That was before I saw how much damage I did when we tried to arrest the growth process.”

Dash shakes her head wildly at this and mouths “no” again to Elena.

“Leave him something, Doc,” she pleads, unable to stay silent. “Something to start over with.”

Her hands grip one of mine fiercely.

Satellites relay her desperation and mine to 40 million television sets. One of the cameras pans down the rigid lines of the incredibly long doomed cock. Veins crisscross beneath the see-through outer layer of skin in mesmerizing detail. The shot frames up finally on the bull balls resting peacefully in their lightly tanned, deep sack. The blood pump prevents them from appearing blue.

“Tommy, baby, Dash, there can’t be any starting over. We have to take everything that’s dying or Tommy will die too. I couldn’t stand that.” She pauses. “And I hate this. I know I can’t feel what either of you are feeling... I love you both so much.

“I wish I could take your place, Angus Johansen,” Doc concludes. I don’t believe her. Adore her sweet ass but don’t believe her.

“This is the only thing we can do so we can keep on loving each other?” Dash asks. A tear falls past her cheek onto her breast and rolls to the tip of the hard left nipple. It quivers with her unsteady breathing.

“Yes. I’m sorry. For his life, you have to do this.”

Dash looks at my face, searching. I try to speak directly to her love for me, to tap that well of power we’ve used so many times to win out in bad situations.

“No, Dash, don’t. Don’t let her do this to me. We’ll find another way. There’s always more than one answer.”

Dash makes a little keening noise. It almost gets away from her to become a scream. She stops abruptly and takes my face in both small hands, the hands I trust. She touches my lips with hers and turns away.

The servos kick in. I begin to roll over. I’m stunned to silence. Forget Elvis, reality has left the building. The audience roars their anger, their excitement, their disappointment, their lust. The great Tommy Pennec, King Cock, will be decocked, castrated, neutered, nullified.

I can hear the in-studio commentator speaking.

“Emasculation will commence now.”

Shock, I guess you’d call it. My brain has shut down. When I thought about the possibility of this moment earlier today and the several days before this dark one, I imagined myself fighting, yelling or taking control of the situation and by simple application of my will stopping the process. But Dash turned away from me. She’s always been my strength.

I stare at the floor, the throbbing penis that soon won’t be mine curving gracefully down and outward instead of resting on my torso. A stray thought comes. Maybe Dash turning away wasn’t the go-ahead for unmanning me. Forget what the announcer said; he’s always been an idiot. Maybe Dash really told Doc no when she turned. I just didn’t hear. Doc, my sweet, sexy Elena, must be closing up now or making a valiant effort to boost the reconnect rate to 50 percent.

Fool.

Reality covertly re-enters through a backstage door when I flinch at Doc’s scalpel. The sharp blade makes a long, smooth sweep, tracing the posterior area of my genitalia. Doc’s ravaging of my manhood will be artful and as near to beautiful as surgery can be. I know that when the neutering is complete, the detached organs will appear as though they can still function. I remember Doc telling me in a briefing I only half heard that she would keep me hard and intact — well, nearly intact — right up until the end, if it came to that. It has.

I sob, big jerking sobs and bang my skull against the padded headrest. Between moans of grief and mental agony, I yell “NO!” and call for Dash. Everyone hears but no one responds. I hear Elena’s breath catching every now and again and one sniffle. Still, I’m ignored.

Despite her distress, Doc starts to snip and slice in earnest. Finally, Dash returns to my sight, kissing me once more, telling me everything will be OK. And for the briefest moment everything is OK because she’s come back to me. When I realize she’s only there to comfort and not rescue, the misery crashes down. Tears pour from my eyes onto Dash’s face. The pain from behind me increases. The studio commentator natters on about what bit of me “Dr. Severance” is cutting or tying at the moment.

I still can’t believe this is happening. When I finally stop protesting and fall into a sort of stupor, Dash picks up the first of many antiseptic towels and begins to clean spit, pussy juice and assfuck lubricants from the wavering dragon that she’s helping Doc to slay. A nurse, a real one this time, grips me at the base so Dash’s cleaning strokes don’t interfere with Doc’s cutting strokes.

The severing of the urethra brings me out of my stupor. It hurts.

“Dash, stop her! She’s really doing it. She’s killing it!”

“I can’t, baby. I want to, but it’s the only way to keep you with me. Don’t tell me you want to go away? You can’t want to die. I can’t live without you.”

Oh God, don’t the microphones love that kind of sentimental shit. Mr. Clipboard must be creaming over the sales it will generate.

“Think, love. This isn’t just a little ‘tomy. This is a real nullification. I’m being decocked. You can’t live without me? Try living without my dick, my balls. That’s who I am, who you made me. The greatest cock in the world, the biggest sperm pump and jism factory ever created is being destroyed. Stop it. You can save me.”

“She can’t,” Doc answers unseen from above. “Not anymore. We’ve gone too far, Tommy. We can’t go back.”

Fresh tears come from Dash. She lavishes more kisses on me and holds my face in her hands. The directors jockey cameras for an angle that will show both faces. Doc continues to rip apart my manhood.

Think a nullification can’t take that long? Guess again. On a normal man dozens of things should be done — and sometimes aren’t — in precise order. The mutated anatomy that is Tommy Pennec’s package is several times more complicated, especially if you want the result to be visually appealing for your viewers. Because of their sheer size and the oddities born from mutation, my organs have hundreds of extra little blood vessels, ligaments, musculature and tubing that is absent from the typical — victim.

Want to keep the cock hard while it is removed? Things have to be cut and sealed quickly. Don’t want a stringy mess of flesh to trail the detached meat? More things have to be cut, glued or sewn or cauterized. Want Tommy to feel pain — or sexual stimulation — for as long as possible? Nerves have to be avoided, marked and babied along.

The bulb of my root, the big round thing that generates all the new shaft tissue and marks me as fundamentally different from every other man in the world, is surrounded by a complex network of ligaments and muscles. They help support the extra girth and weight. They stabilize the mighty cock during sex. Now those bindings are being released one by one.

I can feel the little shifts when Doc cuts another one free. The penis, and even the balls, are beginning to feel — loose. Dash gently rubs the glans, maintaining a sexual aspect to my manhood’s murder. The head isn’t springing back to hard cock center nearly as quickly as it was in the beginning. I’m no longer anchored securely. Horrified as she is, I think Dash might also be a little fascinated by the neutering. She’s seen everything else done to me after all.

Without warning, the whole hanging mass wobbles and dips. A wave of ohs ripples through the watching crowd. Doc snaps at the nurse who’s supposed to be steadying me. Dash realizes time is getting short. I close my eyes, and I think she undertands it as assent to satisfy her curiousity and see how Elena is perpetrating this crime.

I don’t, in truth, want her to leave my sight, but she wants to go, if only for a moment. I’ll let her have this. She’s itching to see me stripped of my maleness as much as everyone else. I’m becoming resigned to my fate, and if anyone’s earned her place as a witness, Dash has. I’m trying hard to not resent her and Doc. I’m succeeding and failing in rapid cycles as the cutting continues.

I can see Dash’s bare feet and feel her hand on the top of one buttock. Her fingers move in a circle while she watches Doc’s attack. Doc points something out and Dash stands on tiptoe to eye it. Her finely turned ankles and leg muscles stand out in relief. A camera operator creeps forward, and from his stance, I can tell the lens is aimed at my wife’s amazingly round ass and the peek of pussy that shows between her thighs.

More and more viewers are connecting to the pay-per-view. News channels are reporting each new step, making the unbelievers decide the unthinkable really is happening. The dire warnings about Tommy’s potential losses weren’t just marketing hype. They tune in. Money, money, money.

A stream of blood shoots out and splatters the floor. Doc has just sealed a big artery, a little more clumsily than she would have liked, but it was dramatic and will be good for post broadcast sales. Doc reaches down and asks the nurse to let go. My whole hard weight drops into Elena’s hand. She tests the freedom the big rod has now in the absence of so much connective tissue. I sense the root slipping around inside me. The nurse supports the monster penis again and Doc repeats the test with my scrotum and testicles.

The whirring noise of the blood pump stops. The vascular system of my package must be completely sealed off now. I’m still rock hard, maybe harder than I’ve ever been. My fear and horror haven’t retreated an iota, but the excitement in my tenuously connected organs is mirrored in my mind. I want to go out shooting. I must be mad to think this way, but I do.

“Dash, Doc, somebody! Do me one more time. Please!”

A quick conference is covened among Dash, Doc and some of Doc’s assistants. The director points at his watch. Dash waves him away. No one who’s watching will switch channels if we overshoot our time slot.

“Honey, he’s very unstable. Not much is holding him together but nerves and the suspensory ligament, the big one. His urethra is long gone. He won’t be able to shoot. It’ll be dry and probably painful for him to achieve orgasm.”

“It’s a last request, governor. Open up the urethra and inject some of that preservative liquid. It has a pretty color. He can squirt that.”

“Hmmm. It’s an idea. OK.”

Doc hands her lab coat to an assistant. She’s naked beneath. I’ve told you, she always works this way. Another assistant follows Dash’s instructions for loading my gun with pretty blanks.

They decide it’s best for safe manipulation of my joint if I’m on my back where the weight of the heavy penis can fall on my body should someone slip. Otherwise I might tear away. The table rotates me to face the studio ceiling.

“We’re going to have to disinfect again, Dash. Sex is very unsanitary at this stage.”

“Tell me you don’t want Tommy’s titanic stick inside you one more time, Elena?”

“Titanic, huh?” I interject. “I have this sinking feeling.” I’m also famous for my dark sense of humor. It gets a good laugh.

Doc unbinds her copper hair and bends over me, covering my mouth with her own. Our tongues battle. Not everything’s funny. I nip at her to show my anger. It’s not enough to convey 1 part per million of what I feel, but she understands the message. Her eyes get bright momentarily. At least she carries a little guilt.

Too little it seems to me.

She looks at Dash as if to say, watch me, and takes the Pennec pole in both hands. Slowly, carefully, she shows Dash and the cameras how unrestrained the boner is. The wide latitude of free motion is horribly fascinating.

“You can see 18 inches of erectile tissue,” she says to no one in particular. “Another 6 inches of aroused flesh are hidden in the pelvic region above and behind the big love apples here.” She fondles the huge balls, which hang even more loosely in my scrotum than before. “Very little is holding them to Tommy’s body except one ligament, skin and many fragile nerves. We have to be careful. If we enjoy ourselves too much he may be ripped loose.”

My wife and my favorite cock-cutting lover take turns riding, sucking and petting the famous organs. Dash takes a long time with my balls, stuffing one in her mouth until she almost swallows it, but it’s too big. When Doc mounts me again, Dash steadies the base. Elena doesn’t fuck like a scientist, more like a gymnast.

It wasn’t a mistake asking for this last gift, I decide. The wires to my brain are still allowing me to enjoy one final hump with my babies. They’re both beautiful as they suck and fuck my half-released meat, but my eyes keep coming back to my first and only real love. The enormous blue, blue eyes, the full lips, tight hips, sweeping lines, perfect tits, jutting nipples, flawless complexion. It’s Dash’s mouth that makes me cum again finally.

Doc signals her assistant, who doses my cum tube with fluid as the contractions begin. The balls react because the brain is telling them they’re needed, but they don’t actually contribute. They’re shut off. I’ve already been effectively castrated.

The preservative is a nice color, a sort of pearlescent violet. It flies high into the air as Dash holds me almost vertical. Globules rain down on my chest and stomach. Doc is right. It does hurt, but I’m no stranger to pain, especially if it’s pain that I understand. The assistant surgeon has to load another syringe when the phallic fountain fails to slow. Short seconds later, the last dribbles roll down Dash’s fist and onto Doc’s. She joined in the terminal act of pumping me.

My girls smile at each other. They do so love fucking the biggest dick in the world.

Nurses tenderly but mechanically begin the clean-up with Dash attending to her favorite man part once again.

The table tilts from a slight incline to horizontal then rises until my supine chest is level with the bottom curves of Dash’s perky bosom. Doc has chosen to perform the rest of the surgery seated on a low stool beneath the table. Dash and two nurses, both very pretty as our nurses are, pull up ever so gently on my loosened genitals, resting elbows on the table to help lock their position. Taking up the slack helps Doc to see what she’s slicing.

The mind numbing fear that subsided during sex reinvents itself when Doc closes my urethra and starts disconnecting nerves. After some snips, the feeling is just gone. Following others, sensation fades slowly. The noble cock still stands defiant before my eyes, but its tactile presence is vanishing. Already, my mind tells me the sack and the left side of my shaft are missing.

Weirdly, I’m reminded of “2001: A Space Odyssey” when Dave, the astronaut, shuts down succeeding elements of the mad, murderous HAL 9000 computer. “Dave, stop. Dave.” Remember? The cutting of my genital nerves is like that, sad and, well, unnerving.

Clip. There goes the head. That’s familiar. It’s been sliced off so many times I’m used to its brief absences. This time, the feeling won’t return.

Doc is working too fast. I want her to slow down, let the male essentials live just a few seconds longer. I almost suggest she explain to the audience which nerve connections are being severed, if she knows. Most of my body’s central nervous system is just that. Individual nerves feed into bigger nerves that feed into the spinal column that feeds into the brain. Were I normal, Doc would only have a few nerves to sever on her way to detaching my masculinity, but here once more my male organs reveal their mutation. Doc says the nerve connections are mazelike and disorganized.

The knife cuts again. A strip of the right side of the 18-inch mass blinks out of existence. Strange to appear whole but to feel bereft.

When there was still some hope I could remain a man, Doc and Dash had discussed this eventuality with me. How to neuter me. What would be least painful for me, most exciting for the audience should the “repair” surgery go awry. At one point, they almost had me convinced to allow them to dissect me bit by bit. Scrotum first, balls next, left then right, then skinning the penis, scalping the glans, peeling back the urethra like a licorice whip, splitting the two main cavernosa and finally releasing them and the root from the inside. Just as I was about to say yes — I mean I really couldn’t believe it would ever happen — Doc looked at my face for a few seconds, patted my knee and rejected the idea as too medically complicated. It would be impossible to maintain my erection through all of that, she said. What’s happening now became Contingency Plan B.

Only the barest feeling remains. The skin around my base is stretched, making the prick appear well over 20 inches long instead of its former 18. It moves slightly every time an elbow twitches. Doc makes a big cut. Abruptly, my testicles shift. I don’t feel it except as a settling of weight against my thighs.

“Oh!” Dash says surprised.

“Are they, are they...?” (Off?)

“I don’t know, Gus.” No one’s spoken in long minutes. The silence broken, Dash cries again. Someone dabs at her eyes for her. She’s still holding me up while Doc destroys me. A new nurse is ordered in to take the extra sloshy scrotum in hand.

Doc stands, alarming everyone because of what it must mean. She edges in between Dash and a nurse. She looks into my eyes, a strange play of emotions crossing her face.

“Almost,” she tells me. Long pause. “Do you want to say anything Tommy, before I...”

“Fuck you.” I interrupt.

Doc looks away and right into a camera, sees it and looks down, gripping the edge of the table and a bloody scalpel with bloody gloves.

“I guess I deserve that,” she whispers to avoid having it recorded. Doesn’t matter, the microphones will pick it up anyhow. They pick up everything. Sex, violence, high emotions. Capture them all. They’re big sellers.

But, you know, I love her. Being a genius doesn’t make you infallible.

“I didn’t mean that, Elena, angel heart. Don’t ... just ... kiss me, you and Dash, then let’s do this.”

Round of kisses, round of knife ‘round my cock. It’s another sweeping cut to complete the unseen one below. Skin and the suspensory ligament were all that remained.

Now it’s just the ligament, exposed under a peeled flap of skin and miscellaneous tissue, stretched and ready for Doc’s knife. My hips rise to ease the tension. Doc, Dash and the evil nurses pull again to compensate. I cry out. Doc places the edge of the scalpel against the ligament, which is of a width and depth commensurate with the rest of my enormousness. The tension and the razor edge present the illusion of the ligament dividing itself, splitting effortlessly despite its toughness. Then Doc’s knife is passing through air.

No sound, no clipped orders. Time stops, reality runs for the door again.

Dash shifts her grip on the severed pieces of me, holding mainly the fantastic engorged penis. Doc scoops up the testicles with one hand, knife at the ready for any scrap of connection she might have missed. The nurses draw back and out of the camera shots.

My lovers lift the genitals clear of my body. There’s a sucking noise as they rise. The incredibly long root comes bloodily into view for the first time, the bulbous end seeming too massive to have fit in a man’s groin. The freed organs are hoisted high enough for me to see the audience between them and my body. But wait, a last unnoticed vein is straining to keep me together. Doc extends her scalpel too slowly. Dash is still lifting, oblivious to the vessel. It snaps dramatically, as I’m sure Doc intended, the end flipping upward and wiggling crazily for a moment.

I’ve been emasculated.

Tommy Pennec’s fabled manhood has been cut off.

The world’s greatest stud has been rendered a gelding.

I scream until someone puts a needle in my arm.

The last thing I see is Doc helping Dash to turn over the severed things so they appear to project from an upright male body. My wife holds the great bone and testes out to the crowd and the cameras. The sound is deafening, a riot. More than 90 million people are watching worldwide. Their roar of — it sounds like approval — invades my skull.

Surprisingly little blood drips from the perfectly culled meat. The tremendous nuts sway ponderously as my wife parades naked with the organs. God, I had a beautiful package.

********

Upon waking up, in more pain than I can remember, the first thing I see on the monitors in my room is a replay of Doc gluing my sexless crotch together. A tiny hole is left for piss to spill out of my bladder. I don’t look like a woman, exactly. I’m too muscular and heavily framed. The effect is blankness, a Ken doll in the flesh.

In the background, Dash stands nude, my organs in her hands. Spectators pass by in a line as if the dead dick and balls were lying in state. The view switches to another camera, closer to Dash and the dismembered parts. A number of passersby are allowed to touch the riven manhood. The babymakers get a surprising amount of attention considering it was the often-chopped cock that was so famous.

The touchers must have paid extra. A few even grope Dash unexpectedly. One aristocratic man pulls roughly on an erect nipple as if she were a common whore. Her eyes flash, but she suffers the harsh treatment silently. A high-fashion model whom I recognize from the memorable boning I gave her three years ago, dips a long arm to briefly finger my wife’s clit. Dash accepts the diddling more gracefully. The line finally ends and Dash walks to the booth where the POTUS discreetly waits.

The video fades into a post-op interview with a tearful Dash and a sullen Elena. I don’t want to hear what they have to say, but I do hear subdued chatter as nurses come in and out.

The rumor around Severance Labs is that the president was thoroughly object-fucked by Dash with my former penis in full view of her Secret Service agents. She reportedly fondled the bull balls for several minutes and was allowed to poke a sanitized finger deep into the opened scrotum. The President of the United States wanted to feel my dead balls. Aren’t powerful people just twisted?

I’m worried that I’m not reacting with enough emotion to the obscenities Doc and Dash have perpetrated on me and what was mine. Then I realize a rather large dose of drugs must be keeping me calm. Things aren’t so bad then, I think. As long as Doc never lets me come down from this high, I won’t care that my life as People’s “Sexiest (and best hung) Man Alive” is over.

Nullification? No biggy. So what if I’m not the stud I was? I can still... well, not a helluva lot that matters when you realize how much of a man’s ego is wrapped up in his virility. To walk into a room is to be recognized as a man, to be judged and found desirable, or repulsive, to be feared or admired or ignored — always as a man, except when you’re not.

********

CONFIDENTIAL: Severance Labs audio recording, Room 13B, 05-22-16, 11:14.

DASHIELE JOHNANSEN: “You don’t think we should have ripped it out there at the end? More visually exciting?”

DR. ELENA SEVERANCE: “Dash, enough. It was as gory and dramatic as it needed to be. To have ripped Tommy’s ... unit ... out just for the prurient effect would have revealed us as ... hell, what we really are, I guess.”

DASHIELE JOHNANSEN: “And what would that be?”

DR. ELENA SEVERANCE: “Money grubbing bitches. Sick, sick torturers. Traitors. This is how we show our love for him? We destroyed him physically, psychologically. We are cruel women. We didn’t used to be.”

DASHIELE JOHNANSEN: “We’ve been over this. It had to end this way. Gus — Tommy — was refusing to go along, remember? He wanted to stop. If the surgery had been allowed to succeed, we wouldn’t be projecting $1 billion in total sales for the neutering broadcast and related products. And it would have left us without a pretext for bringing in the son to follow in the father’s footsteps (tiny laugh) — his cocksteps.

“And ... still following me, Elena? Of course you are ... Severance Labs is built on Tommy’s appeal. Sure, your discoveries, your medicines and procedures will be worth more in the long run. But it’s our association with Tommy that drives their marketing and makes us superstars. Tommy’s spectacular end creates a perfect starting point for Angelo’s introduction. Tommy Pennec’s oldest son! With his father’s tragic but sexy mutation!

“Chloe’s kid is a golden boy. He won’t require any of the cosmetic surgery Tommy needed to be the cutest little hottie with a monster cock that the teenage fan base has ever seen. Even his dick is prettier than Tommy’s. Mothers will go wild over him, and gay men ... can you imagine?

“I hated it, too, but we destroyed Tommy for another reason. Yes, he’s usually easy to manipulate, but you don’t know the way he feels about Angelo’s mom, Chloe. If he was whole and healthy, he’d never allow us to ...”

DR. ELENA SEVERANCE: “Exploit?”

DASHIELE JOHNANSEN: “... her son, right. His son, too.”

DR. ELENA SEVERANCE: “Promise me, Dash. We’re not going to do to Angelo what we did to Tommy. When the header length is played out, we give him the cure and let him live the rest of his life intact.”

DASHIELE JOHNANSEN: “Of course, Elena, baby. The kid’s going to be just fine. The Tommy phenomenon will probably fade in a few years. Hell, as far as that goes, we’re already the only ‘reality’ show left. God, “Survivor 33: The Antarctic” wrapped up, what, four years ago? But I want to ride this train until it runs out of steam, which should be well before pretty Angelo runs out of header.”

END OF RECORDING.

END OF TRANSCRIPT.

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