I made up a kit bag of essential supplies – some snacks, water, camera, towel, and sunscreen. A quick run over my pubic area with a razor put the final touches to my little package – all ready for display.

I’ve been an exhibitionist since my teens. My room overlooked a footpath and I realised that I could get a thrill from flashing at girls who went past (under the pretence that they just happened to catch me getting undressed). The reactions varied from shock and surprise, through undisguised curiosity to amusement. Some showed outright disgust and one in particular was my undoing. When I flashed her she flushed, yelled something I could not hear and then flounced off. A few days later came a knock on the door from the local police and the mortifying embarrassment of my escapades being discussed with them and my parents in detail and at some length. This led to a slap on the wrist, sessions with a child psychologist and a lesson learned – don’t flash on your home patch!

Now, many years later I had found a safer outlet for my little peccadillo. I live near a coast where there are two popular resorts, some 10 miles apart connected by long stretches of beach backed by cliffs. Some of these are inaccessible if the tides are wrong and require more effort to get to than the average day-tripper is prepared to invest. A small headland bisecting the beach, comprising smooth rock platforms is popular with local naturists (and perverts) for its very remoteness and also with people who enjoy the long walk between the two resorts, so in the summer months, there is a regular stream of potential flashing targets. At first I went there just to enjoy untrammelled nakedness and to show myself off to other like-minded individuals. But then there was the size thing.

I’d never thought of myself as particularly small, but I realised, looking at others and comparing myself with even average guys on the internet, that I was. Maybe it’s something to do with medication or advancing years (and weight), but small I definitely was. On one memorable occasion, two girls in costumes crossed my path giggling. They would not catch my eye, but one whispered something to the other who glanced back at me and I heard her say “no – it’s tiny”. It was humiliating, yes, but the associated thrill I felt along with it was indescribable.

I realised that underlying my desire to flash was a craving to be humiliated by women about the small size of my penis and that I could emphasise my smallness by shaving. I found I enjoyed seeing the wry looks and the jokey asides, especially from the women, as I paraded up and down. I didn’t know why I should feel this way – perhaps it was some kind of atonement for waving my erection around all those years ago, but as a flasher, the small, shaved, flaccid cock would become my Unique Selling Point…

So I started to go out of my way to put myself in a position where these comments could be invited, particularly from the walkers who regularly traversed the beach. My activity is pretty low key – if I spot females walking through, I just arrange that our paths cross as I walk about. They are usually clothed to some degree whereas I am stark bollock naked, with my little shaved pecker proudly on display (neatly adding “CFNM” to the fetish mix).

*******************

Which finds me at the beach on that fateful day. I’d parked up a mile or so away and made my way across the cliff tops to the 80-foot high iron ladders that had been set into the cliffs by some unknown benefactor in the past to give easier access to the beach.

So I picked my spot, paraded around and kept an eye open for potential flashing targets.

Reactions are varied – occasionally hostile, usually blasé (a cheery “hello” and keep striding on as if nothing unusual was happening) and rarely, in response to my greeting, a pause to chat and pass the time of day.

Today was no different – chat to the regulars on the beach – wander off to “display” and return to my pitch to relax and reflect.

Late in the afternoon, I intercepted two mature ladies (in their early 50s I’d guess) at the shore line. They were walking along purposefully with walking gear, canes and rucksacks.

In response to my “Lovely day”, came the rejoinder “yes it is - but you’re not going to impress anyone with THAT!”

I played dumb: “I’m sorry, I don’t understand” I smiled.

They stopped and one ran an appraising eye up and down me.

“Well look at you” she said, “I can’t see why you bother showing yourself off – it’s not as if you’ve got anything down there worth putting on display have you? It looks like a little slug - and where’s all your hair? It just looks ridiculous!”

Her friend sniggered; “Why do you do it?” she asked.

“Well, I just like showing off. I know it’s not much, but it’s all I’ve got” I grinned as they moved off “- and I’m sorry if I’ve offended you”

“Oh I’m not offended” said the one over her shoulder, “just – underwhelmed”.

Now all this activity can build up a bit of a sexual charge and the sight of so many naked bodies can arouse your curiosity and much else besides, so I’m always on the lookout for opportunities to play…

Today was no different and there were two women there I’d not seen before. They had sat apart from most of the people on the rock platforms under the cliffs and I had noticed frequent glances towards me throughout the day. As the day started to draw to a close, the beach emptied until just they and I were left. I decided to approach, so picked shovelled my things into my bag and strolled over.

One was an older woman, 40’s I’d guess, well tanned, toned and quite muscular; the other was a little younger, fairer and more petite. Despite their nudity, they still wore their trainers… As I got closer, I could see that the older woman sported a quite magnificent forest of pubic hair and I knew I just had to get a picture of my little shaved pecker alongside this Amazon.

I opened up with some small talk about the weather and how pleasant the afternoon had been, then looking at the elder, asked casually:

“Would you mind having your photo taken with me?” gesturing with my camera towards her friend. “And one with you” (to her friend, so as not to cause offence).

The Amazon raised an eyebrow, looked at her friend and said slowly “O…K….”

I handed my camera to the younger, showed her where to look and what to press, then stood alongside the Amazon. I was disconcerted a little that she was a nearly a head taller than me and a little frisson ran up my spine when she put an arm firmly around my shoulders.

“Smile” said her friend, and as the shutter clicked, the Amazon’s grip tightened on my shoulder and in an instant I was spun backwards over her outturned leg.

As I fell on my face, she delivered a sharp blow to the back of my head which stunned me and made me see stars.

Before I could recover my senses, a sock had been stuffed in my mouth and secured there with gaffer tape. The Amazon pinioned my arms, kneeling on my shoulder blades. I started to struggle but it was too painful for my bare flesh, even on smooth rock, so she had no difficulty in restraining me. The last beach visitors were receding into the distance and nobody had seen what had happened.

“Now, my friend” said the woman, “We’re sick of perverts like you ruining this beach. It’s not safe for decent people to walk or bring their families, so we’re going to teach you a lesson you’ll never forget”

They dragged me over to the base of the ladder and the younger woman emptied out my bag. She picked out my windcheater.

“Put it on – we don’t want you dying of - exposure, do we?”

The Amazon let me go and I thought to run, but we were on rocks, I had bare feet, they were wearing trainers. I complied. She turned me around and pushed me face up against the ladder.

“Hold the sides”

I gripped them.

The younger had been rummaging in their own pack and before I realised, she had grabbed one of my wrists and secured it to the ladder with a plastic zip tie. She handed another to the Amazon who secured my other wrist.

My head clear by now, I was starting to get alarmed and angry, roaring into my gag and yanking on my bonds. The Amazon watched as I struggled then reached up and pulled the ties two more clicks

“That should do it – now for the main event. Spread ‘em”. She kicked my knees apart. “All yours m’dear”.

I strained in panic to look over my shoulder at the younger. She had got another zip-tie from her bag and had loosely threaded it together. What the hell was she going to do? A chill of fear coursed through me. She disappeared behind me. I felt her hands grab my scrotum and she started to pull down on it, firmly.

I howled with pain but she kept pulling down, then with a “zzzzzzzzzzzt” the zip-tie was cinched tight over my balls. I shrieked – but she adjusted her grip and pulled again – click, click, click. I screamed in agony as the skin pinched.

“Might as well take a souvenir while we’re here” she said. She picked up my camera and started snapping. She came around and looked me in the eye and said “these’ll look good on the net”. She ripped the gaffer tape off my mouth and hooked the sock out.

I spat angrily and gritted my teeth against the pain. “What the fuck do think you’re doing?” I said “Cut these things off me now and I’ll say no more about it. You can’t do this - you’ll never get away with it”.

“No? Well - we’ll see about that” she said.

“Please!!” I pleaded – “you can’t leave me like this! You’ll cut off the blood supply; it could destroy my balls completely!!”

“Well” she said “that was the general idea”. She glanced down at my now shrivelled penis and sniggered. “It’s a pity in some respects, ‘cos that little thing looks like it needs all the support it can get”.

“Come on “said the Amazon – “time to go”. She unscrewed the cap from my water bottle and put it in my hand. “It’s nearly 10 pm now. Somebody’s bound to be along the beach in the morning. Just try to hang on like a brave little soldier, eh?”

They quickly dressed, gathered up their belongings and swung past me up the ladders into the gathering gloom.

There followed the worst 10 hours of my life. Left in a standing position, I could not rest and the pain mounted to a point at which it overcame my senses and I must have fainted, only to come round and repeat the whole horrible experience, all in the knowledge that my balls were slowly and certainly dying.

**********************

As dawn came up, I saw two small figures approach from the west. Summoning my last reserves of strength, I yelled

“Help – please help me!!!”

I saw them check and look in my direction.

“HELP!!!” I roared again, before sagging against my bonds. I saw them turn in my direction. It was the two ladies of an uncertain age that I had flashed yesterday.

In a few minutes they were with me. “Please”, I gasped, “you must cut me loose”.

“Oh my goodness” said the one, “what happened?”

I didn’t feel the need to explain.

The other took in the scene and summed up the situation. “Hmmm – seems to me it serves you right” she said.

“Please!” I pleaded, nodding at my bag: “my phone - please call help and get me out of this!”

The one rummaged in my bag for the phone and made the call. The other ferreted in her bag and found some small nail scissors and cut through the ties around my wrists with some difficulty. She helped me sit down and together we surveyed the carnage between my legs. I took the scissors from her but could not get the point between the tie and my scrotum. She took off her jacket and put it around me.

“Perhaps you’d better leave it until medical help arrives” she said. She looked down at my balls: “They don’t look very good anyway” she added sympathetically.

The other finished on the phone and announced help was on its way. She got me to turn on all fours and inspected me from behind.

“Oh dear” she said “they’re an awful colour. How long ago was this done?” I told them about the previous evening’s events.

“But that’s about 10 hours ago!”

She took the nail scissors in one hand and my balls in the other and I felt her try and get at the tie, which encircled my scrotum tightly.

“These aren’t strong enough to cut through” she said “and I think we should probably leave it to the experts. We could probably do more damage trying to cut this thing off anyway – blood poisoning and all that”.

I groaned miserably. The one sat with her arms around me as I shivered and we waited. The other gave me the same appraising look that she’d used yesterday.

“Well”, she observed wryly, “it looks as if you’re going to end up with even less to show off than you did yesterday…”

The evacuation turned into an epic. An ambulance could not of course get anywhere near me, so a Coastguard helicopter had to be summoned with paramedics who bundled me up in blankets, loaded me into a cradle, shot something into my arm for the pain and winched me away to the nearest hospital.

*******************

In the casualty unit the paramedics handed me over to a triage nurse. One murmured something to her and her eyebrows shot heavenward. She quickly looked under the blanket and drew in her breath sharply. She gave me another shot and I was wheeled in to a side room.

A young doctor came in a few moments later with another nurse who proceeded to take my temperature and blood pressure, etc. while the doc inspected the damage.

“I’m sorry, old man” he said “it doesn’t look good, but we’ll get you in to surgery and we’ll see what we can do”. He turned to the nurse; “Get him prepped for surgery please – we won’t need the barber”. I stared miserably at the ceiling in a state of shock.

I could not fault the attention I got. A surprising number of the nursing staff dropped in to check on my condition and inspect the damage, one of them more than once.

I was taken down to surgery and when I came to a few hours later, my genitals had undergone a very close shave indeed. My balls had been killed by the zip-tie and because of the loss of circulation to my scrotum, they had though it expedient to remove that as well. The nurse who came to change the dressings told me they had done a very neat job “You can’t tell there was ever anything there “she said, with a hint of professional pride.

Over the next 48 hours, as my head cleared of the painkillers, a slow recognition dawned. I realised that my most frequent nursing visitor was vaguely familiar. She had changed with the passing years, but there was no mistaking who she was – the girl I had flashed as a teen and who had been so visibly shocked. As I looked at her while she busied herself changing my dressing, she caught my eye.

“Oh, so you’ve recognised me have you?” My nemesis from all those years ago smiled sweetly at me and picked up my shrivelled hairless penis between forefinger and thumb, little finger akimbo. “Well the next girl you wave this at is going to wet herself laughing”.

*********************

I was discharged a few days later with advice on wound management and an appointment to have the stitches removed a fortnight later. Unsurprisingly, Nurse Nemesis was on duty to perform the deed.

“Oh, that looks very neat and smooth” she remarked. “If it’s any consolation I think you look far better without them”.

As she busied herself at the sink, she shared her rationale with me: “A normal sized penis without testicles would look a bit odd, but with your little one, it doesn’t seem to matter so much”.

Now the traumas of the past few weeks had started to subside and old hard-wired urges started to reassert themselves. As NN chatted away I started involuntarily to erect. When she turned back her chatter stopped in its tracks, then she started to giggle uncontrollably.

“I’m sorry” she said “this is very unprofessional I know, but that just looks so silly with no hair and no balls – and to think that all those years ago I thought it was a monster…”

She finished dressing my wound, pursing her lips to suppress her mirth and told me to come back in a month’s time for a check over.

“You’ll need to see your local medical centre for them to look you over and discuss HRT” she added. “I know from your notes where you are registered. My sister is a receptionist there. I’ll tell her you’ll be calling in – and why” she smirked. Her parting shot was “keep it shaved, for infection control and we’ll see you in a month.”

I called my medical centre the following day. “Oh yes” said a voice “my sis mentioned you’d need to see us. Can you come in Wednesday?” I confirmed.

A few days later saw me visit my medical centre. I presented myself at the desk to the receptionist whose family resemblance to NN was unmistakable. I mumbled my name and she looked up at me with a smirk.

“Oh hello” she said, a little louder than strictly necessary. “I’ve booked you in with Dr Mitchell; she’ll discuss your HRT requirements with you, please take a seat and you’ll be called. Wednesdays are usually ladies-only” she added “but in your case it hardly seemed to make any difference”.

As I turned to take a seat, I saw that the waiting room was indeed mainly populated by women, most of whom were looking at me quizzically.

The interview with Dr. Mitchell was painless enough; she described what would be required and that various tests would be required to establish an HRT regime. “I believe the practice nurse has arranged to do that now, as well as check the wound site”.

I thanked her and returned to the waiting room. A little while later, a woman in a nurse’s uniform approached the desk and spoke with the receptionist, who gestured and nodded at me.

“Yes that’s the, um – gentleman who was castrated a few weeks ago,” she added helpfully. Several pairs of eyebrows in the waiting room shot heavenwards and I followed, blushing, the nurse’s beckoning finger.

“Sorry about that” she said tersely “I’ll have words later. Please undress and lie on the couch”.

She proceeded to take blood samples and was just lifting my penis to look at the wound site when following a single rap on the door, NN’s receptionist sister strode in unbidden.

“Here are the notes for your next patient” she said breezily.

“Thanks. Leave. NOW” grated the nurse.

“Yes of course” said my other nemesis. “Very sorry. Shouldn’t have barged in like that”. She backed slowly out of the door, her eyes lighting on my crotch. A broad grin formed on her face and she caught my eye, and winked. “Won’t happen again”, she added.

The nurse sighed, finished up and arranged a further aftercare appointment. I mentioned the follow-up hospital appointment.

“Odd” she said “you’d normally be passed over to us, but I suppose you’d better go”.

****************

Another few weeks later saw me sitting on a hospital bed wearing nothing but a hospital gown, waiting to be examined. Space had been tight, apparently, so I was put on a mixed ward, but which seemed to be populated largely by women. However, the curtains around the bed were drawn, so embarrassment would be minimised.

Nurse Nemesis swished through the screens in a brisk, business-like manner.

“And how are you today?” She asked, rather patronisingly, I thought. I mumbled something uncomfortably in reply.

“Good, good” she said. “Now the surgeon will be along in a little while, but in the meantime, I’ve arranged a little surprise for you”.

I don’t like surprises at the best of times and started to protest but NN whisked the curtains away with a flourish to reveal a semi-circle of women standing at the foot of the bed.

“I think you’ve seen some of these girls before” said NN “or should that be the other way around??!”

The déjà vu of recognition dawned yet again.

“I managed to contact some of your old audience and invited them along to see how you’re doing”.

I was dumbfounded.

“Go on” she said firmly. You were desperate to show us before – let’s see what you’ve got to impress us with now!”

Were there no lengths to which this woman wouldn’t go? I realised there was no alternative – I would lose in any struggle – and that going along with this might finally lay a few old ghosts. Besides - deep, deep down was that nagging desire to show off and be seen…

So I nodded resignedly, swung my legs off the bed and stood up. I undid the tie at the back of my neck and shrugged off the hospital gown, revealing to all and sundry the hairless expanse of my groin, in the midst of which nestled an insignificant acorn of a penis, perched in splendid isolation.

Jaws dropped – then shrieks of laughter all around, not least from some of the women on the adjoining beds. My humiliation was complete – well it was what I craved. There were several flashes (pardon the pun) as the event was recorded for posterity. I started to protest but NN shushed me:

“Don’t be a spoilsport. We must take pictures now as there’ll probably be nothing to see in a year!”

When the laughter had died down and I was allowed to put my gown back on, some of the ladies were actually quite solicitous and came up to me to sympathise personally – and inspect the result of my involuntary surgery more closely. The party broke up and my “guests” dispersed quickly when it was announced that the surgeon was approaching to do his round…

*****************

Well, a year down the line and I’m back on the beach (I ain’t no quitter!). My assailants were never discovered (I could offer no useful description) and I’ve never seen them since.

The various pictures found their way on to the net and whenever I need to visit the local medical practice, I always get knowing smirks from NN’s sister on the desk.

My libido is kept up by regular “T” injections but my penis has still shrunk a little, so more than ever it attracts wry, amused attention from all and sundry, not least because it has no visible means of support…