By justoneguy

The Diary of Heather Jamison, Official Corrector of South Florida

3-15-2023

I know that I have gotten very far behind in my diary. Well, I might as well admit that this is my first entry in 20 years, since I graduated school and got married. But I feel compelled to write about the events of this day, and how I feel about them. This has been one of the toughest days of my life. I have never had my convictions questioned as much as they were today. Since this is my first entry in so long, I should give some background about how I came to this point. I should say now that I intend to have this account published in a few years, when the some time has passed since the events. I wish to spare the participants—especially a very special young man involved—the embarrassment of more publicity at the present time.

I have been the official Corrector South Florida for twenty years now. If you’re unfamiliar with that job title, you must be from another planet. Ever since the great prison riots of 2011, the government of the United States has decreed that all prisoners convicted of a Class A crime should be castrated upon entering prison. Now, Class A crimes are generally very extreme anti-social behavior—things like murder, rape, and the like. These crimes always carried life sentences, so by definition all gelded Americans were prisoners. The general public really had no exposure or connection to the thousands of castrations that went on every year from that time forwards. It generally was not talked about. Even the job title of those performing the public service was termed “Corrector” rather than castrator so that the general population would be more comfortable. Since the law took affect, there have been no prison riots. The prisoners are completely docile and responsive to instructions. I have to admit that I was surprised. I always thought that the men would be enraged and angered by the mutilation of their bodies. And I believe that they are—at first. But as the testosterone slowly leaves their system, they become physically incapable of the aggressive thoughts and planning that would be needed to mount a successful prison riot. I always thought that the term “taking their manhood” was a euphemism used because the term castration was unpleasant. But now I know that it is literally true. The prisoners lose their manhood—and with it they’re aggression, power, and strength in both body and mind.

That was the main reason I decided to become a Corrector. It really gave me a strong feeling of satisfaction to do my part for society. I went to medical school and then applied with the corrections department. Around this time, I met my husband, William, and was married. At first I thought that my future husband would be offended or put off by my chosen profession. He has been very supportive. I even remember one incident while we were dating. His best friend, Robert Thomas, got made at me because I accidentally made him spill his beer all over his clothes. He loudly called me a “no good Ball Cutter” and told me to get lost. My future husband decked him and told him to shut his stupid mouth. When he took me back to his place that night, we made love for the first time. The next morning, I woke him up by giving him a hand job. As he began to wake up to the pleasure of my hand, he whispered for me to describe to him what it would be like if I really cut his friend Robert’s balls off. As I explained what it would be like, at the moment that I told him about how Robert’s ball sack would come loose in hand, he came. We were married two months later. Robert was his best man. As we stood in the wedding party, I glanced down at Robert’s tuxedo covered crotch. I thought of what might be inside, how it might compare to what my new husband has in his tuxedo pants, and how the brief fantasy—never mentioned again be either me or my husband—of me cutting off the best man’s testicles had brought me and my husband together.

My husband never likes to talk about the specifics of my job unless we are in bed. That is the only time he likes for me to describe what I do and what happens when I emasculate the criminals as they enter prison. I don’t tell him about it every time we make love, only when the mood strikes me or on a special occasion. On our 5th anniversary, I told him about castrating a college student who, after being arrested 5 times for drunk driving, killed four people in an auto accident. Of course he was drunk at the time, and was sentenced to life in prison. That is when he was brought to me. I described how the 22 year old stud was strapped to my rail, and how I jerked him off (as was required by law so that a sperm sample could go on file), and then emasculated him. At that moment, I heard my husband grunt above me as his mind exploded into orgasm, and I felt the mighty rush of his seed enter me deep inside. That was the night that I conceived our son, Andy. He is 15 years old now, and the joy of our lives.

Like I said, the general population preferred not to know the details of what was done at the prison clinic. They were satisfied to know that the prison population was docile and causing no trouble. Sure, sometimes convictions were overturned. But in those cases, the men were well compensated—given $500,000,000 of taxpayer’s money for their grief. They were even able to use their preserved semen sample to have children. So everyone pretty much agreed that it was a good system. That is until the government reinstated the draft.

The draft was reinstated three years ago. But the government found that, because it had not been used for fifty years, the population of the country had gone soft. Many young men refused to sign up for the draft. After all, they were 18 years old, ready for college, with their whole life ahead of them. Many did not want to spend 3 years in the army and put their life on hold. So the government passed laws with stiff penalties for any male who refused to sign up. But even that was not enough to stop the defiance. Thousands marched in the streets of every major city. That was when the government passed the Draft Enforcement Act. It stated that if a healthy 18 year old male refused to sign up for the draft, he would be guilty of a Class A crime and sentenced to one year in prison—and CASTRATED. At first nothing changed. But when the first reports of young men being emasculated because of draft dodging hit the news, the demonstrations stopped almost over night. No young American male was willing to put his manhood at stake—especially when the term of service in the military was only 3 years. The law rarely needed to be enforced, because men were so completely dominated by the idea of their own masculinity that they would never risk it. But every once in a while someone would get cute and tried to find a loop hole to get out of service. When that happened, they were always emasculated as an example to others.

I never had much desire to correct draft dodgers. Somehow it didn’t feel right to me. It was one thing to emasculate a prisoner that will spend the rest of his life in prison. But to emasculate a guy who will be released back into the general population—and who had committed no violent crime—seemed like a bad idea to me. But my husband said that it was important to maintain order in society and to insure our common defense. Still, I was happy no draft dodgers had been caught in my sector. I mean, what if it was Andy? He was a few years away from the draft himself. Of course, we would never sanction his dodging his duty—but I just couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have to castrate a young man who had not actually committed a heinous crime.

But today, as I sat in the kitchen and ate my breakfast, I knew Justin Thomas was about to find out.

Today a young draft dodger was to be castrated at the prison clinic. Then he was to jail for a year as an example to others. His name was Justin Thomas—the son of my husband’s best friend from college. This young man had been in the news for a year now. At the age of 18, when he signed up for the draft, his family paid the doctor $100,000,000 to falsify his medical records so that he would be ineligible for the draft. His mother and father, because of their far-left wing anti-military views, did this without his knowledge. Justin was—and is—a perfectly healthy, intelligent young man. But his parents could not stomach the idea of him in a uniform fighting for a country they didn’t believe reflected their principles. Now, I am not happy with everything the government does myself. But this is the country that we live in and in which we have the right to vote and affect change. That is what their son was asked to defend. The fact that they went to such lengths to prevent his service I personally find disgusting. But it was not they whom the government tried and was about to punish for the draft dodging. Justin was picked up and tried. He had not known that his parents were going to bribe the doctor, but he certainly knew that he was healthy and eligible for the draft. When he failed his physical, he simply shrugged and was thankful for his good luck. After all, he had just been accepted to the University, and really didn’t want to spend three years in the service. So he just took his pass and went to college. It wasn’t until the doctor was caught in a government sting taking bribes to help other young men evade the draft that Justin’s parents got nervous. They were questioned and their son was arrested. The cops busted into his dorm room and took him away in handcuffs. It was early in the morning, and the boy was still asleep when they arrived. The other college guys from his dorm watched as he was led out, still wearing the basketball shorts he slept in.

The television was saturated with coverage of the story. Robert and his wife were fined for their part in bribing the doctor. Justin was charged with draft dodging—and convicted. It didn’t matter to the judge that the boy had not known of his parent’s crime. He knew that he was healthy and eligible, and the fact that he allowed his paperwork to be falsified and then swore that they were accurate was enough for him to be found guilty. He became only the 21st young man to be sentenced to castration for draft dodging. It wasn’t until I got the notice that I realized that he and his family lived in my district.

My husband and I had seen the Thomas family at several reunions since we graduated. I remembered meeting Robert Thomas’s wife at the many years ago at a reunion. They always brought their son with them. At the last reunion, he was 15 years old. I remembered him as a polite young man, already as tall as his mother. He didn’t act out like most young people do when forced to attend an adult occasion. In fact, he looked after Andy for me while my husband and I mingled with the crowd. Andy was 11 years old at the time, and I was glad that this polite young man was there to make sure he didn’t get into trouble and embarrass me at the reunion. We even joked with Robert and his wife about the time in college when he had called me a “Ball Cutting Bitch.” We all laughed.

“What’s a ball cutter?” I remember the fifteen year old Justin asking.

We all laughed at that. “Nothing you’ll ever need to worry about,” his father said, slapping his son on the shoulder and laughing.

Well, on that day, I thought to myself that he was about to find out. I got the notice that I was to cut him the day after the sentence was handed down. Following the standard procedure, Justin was taken to a holding cell until his sentence was carried out. In his case, the delay was about four months. The holding cell allowed time for appeals to be processed and for paperwork to be finalized. Also, it was a way to make sure that he didn’t flee the country to avoid the sentence. He was held with the other prisoners who were on their way to be emasculated before entering prison. They were watched 24 hours a day so that they did not masturbate—an act that was strictly forbidden in custody.

This morning, on the day when this young man was to be brought to my prison clinic, I got a letter in the mail from his parents. I will not reprint the letter because I have decided not to make it public. But I will write a summary of it in my diary, because the contents of the letter really changed my feelings toward what I was about to do this afternoon. It was written by Robert Thomas. He begged me to spare his only son. He stated once again that Justin had not been a party to the deception, and did not deserve the harsh punishment the court had handed down. He wrote a litany of his political beliefs and proceeded to explain in detail how his feelings against the government and military were being proven true by what was happening to his son. He appealed to my sympathy as a mother of a son that in 3 short years would be signing up for the draft. And he offered me $10,000,000 if I falsified the emasculation records and left his son intact. This last point I found ridiculous. How could I falsify his records when he would be in prison for a year and would certainly have to take common showers with the other prisoners or be examined in the nude at some point? He wrote that his son had met a girl in college. They had dated for several months before his arrest, and she loved and supported him. She stood by him even now and had agreed to marry him. With her as his wife, she would never reveal that the court’s order had not been carried out.

Needless to say, this letter shocked me. And it disgusted me. These parents had already gotten their son sentenced to castration through bribes. Now they were trying to bribe me. Even if I wanted their money, which I didn’t, there was no way I could falsify the record. First of all, I taped every emasculation for the video records. Second of all, with the boy in prison for a year, there was no way to keep his testicles from being noticed by somebody. Would Robert and his wife ever learn? They and their so-called principles! The government passes a law they don’t like? Bribe your way out of it. The court passes a sentence they don’t like? Bribe your way out of it. I could feel the bile rising in my thought as I finished the letter. It went on to state that I could report the video tape damaged to keep the government from knowing that Justin was still intact. As for the year in prison, they would handle that themselves. They made one last appeal to me as a mother and as an old friend of their family. I started to burn the letter, but then thought better of it. Who knows what these people would do? I decided I better keep it for my own protection.

About that time, I heard my son Andy calling me from the family room. “Mom, check this out on the internet,” he said. I walked into the room to see my 15-year-old son looking on an Internet tabloid news web site. The title of the article as “the Emasculation of Justin Thomas.” My god, I thought, at least the media could leave this poor boy alone. It is bad enough to be emasculated, but to have it plastered all over the news. “He isn’t going to prison,” Andy told me.

“What?” I said. I read the article over my son’s shoulder. The review board had voted not to send Justin Thomas to prison for a year, but to release him when he healed from the “correction.” Suddenly it all made sense to me. The review board could not commute the castration sentence without finding him innocent, something that they couldn’t do without undermining the draft dodging law. But they could lower the jail sentence without further review. Robert Thomas and his wife had bribed them. They must have. Otherwise, why send a letter to me asking to spare him the emasculation? Under their plan, their son would be delivered to my clinic; I would “pretend” to correct him; I would falsify the record; and when he was healed (probably bribed my clinic nurses as well), he would be released. Then he would marry his college sweetheart, who will conveniently not tell anyone that he is intact. Together, they would keep his secret for the rest of his life, allowing him to remain intact and a whole man for the rest of his life. Any children that happen to be conceived could be explained away by the semen sample collected at the time of the fake correction. They had it all planed out. And of course, Robert must have thought, the wife of his best friend from college would play ball. After all, if judges and nurses and doctors would take bribes, why not Correctors?

“And look at this,” Andy said. He clicked on a link off the story. “They have his picture on here.” The next web page loaded the image. I saw before me on the screen a nude photo of a college aged young man. He was standing in a bedroom; his gray T-shirt pulled up off of his tight fit stomach and chest and pulled up over his head, acting like a mask over his face. His pants and underwear had been pulled down and was now down below his knees. His penis and testicles hung down from a crop of black pubic hair. His arms were held up on either side of his head, as if he were presenting himself to the camera. “Hey look at me and what I got,” the caption read. “But not for long.” The T-shirt covered his face.

“Andy, how did you get to this page. This is gross.” I said.

My son just laughed. “It was on the web, right here. It says that his ex-girlfriend from college sent it in to the paper for $10,000.” Was everything for money, I thought?

“They couldn’t really know it was him,” I said. “His face is covered.”

“I bet it is him. The paper says that they confirmed that the girl was his girlfriend.” Then my son got a funny look on his face. “Mom, are you going to cut his balls off?”

“That is the law, Andy. It is my job.” Andy of course knew what I did for a living. But he had never really said anything about it. “Why, does it bother you? My job?”

“No,” Andy said. “They deserve it right. The men you have to correct. But…”

“What is it Andy. You can tell me.”

Andy looked down at the keyboard. “I guess it is just that I know this guy. I remember him babysitting me at your reunions. He was always really cool. He taught me how to play pool and all the tricks in video games and stuff. I guess I always looked up to him, you know.”

“You can still look up to him, Andy. The courts have found that he did something very bad. Once he is punished, he will have paid his debt to society. That in an of itself is something to respect.” I almost felt disgusted with myself teaching my son to respect a system that I knew was being abused by individuals just because they could spread money around.

He looked up at me, a look of disgust and disrespect on his face. For a moment, my heart sank. Did he know somehow about the bribes, about the letter I received? Did he know that the virtues of the system I had just quoted to him were even now being undermined? “Mom, you can’t respect a guy who doesn’t even have a pair of nuts.” Then he looked back at the screen. In front of him on the screen was the image of a fully mature young man, in the prime of his sexuality, displaying it for his girlfriend. I suddenly realized that that image was what Andy really respected—not the fact that this young man Justin had been nice to him. He respected and looked up to Justin as an older male who was ready to take a woman and become a man. To my 15-year-old son, that was the goal his mind and body strove to emulate. He had held Justin up as his model of how cool it would be to grow up and become mature. Now, that image was dashed in his mind.

“Get that off the screen. I can’t believe they put that kind of stuff on the Internet. Go get you books. You’ll be late for school,” I said.

“Ok, mom,” he said. He got up and left to catch the bus. But he left the image on the screen.

I sat down and moved the mouse to close the image. But I stopped and looked at it for a second more. I wasn’t sure if the young man in the picture was really Justin Thomas—after all, I hadn’t seen the boy in four years, when he was 15. A boy goes through a lot of changes between 15 and 19 years old. And the young man in the picture’s face was covered with his T-shirt. But I still looked at the image. I looked at how the young man in it was so confident, standing there, displaying his toned and fit body to his girlfriend. More than that, he was displaying his mature genitals to his girlfriend. His penis was soft, hanging down between his legs. His circumcised glans seemed to weigh down his organ, pulling it toward the ground, making it hang toward the floor. The youthful crop of black sex hair looked almost comical to me. The lad’s penis was thick and mature, yet it hung from a sparse patch of hair—a tangle black forest that framed his organ, accentuating it for the eyes of his girlfriend. But this dense forest covered only the area around his organ; there was no hair stretching up to his navel, no hair spreading out on his thighs. Perhaps I was used to my husband, who had the expanded hairy crotch of a middle-aged man. But to me it was strange seeing this thick heavy organ of a man hanging from a small black forest of hair. Hanging behind his sausage, I saw one large ball outlined in his sac. The other was hidden behind his tool. I’ve seen many men nude in my profession—some, but not many, as young as 19. But this image affected me somehow. The way he was standing, with his hands held out way from his body and up over his head, his stance was saying: “yeah, baby, I know this is what you want. I am a good looking, virile guy. And you know you want me.” A lump caught in my thought. I closed the image and turned off the computer. I was going to be late for work.

On the ride to my clinic, I couldn’t get the image of the youth out of my head. I remembered Justin Thomas from the reunions as well. Despite what I thought of his parents and their belief and tactics, I remembered the boy with nothing but fond memories. He had been such a polite young man. And he had treated Andy with so much respect. That was rare in kids, that they respect younger kids rather than pick on them. Andy had looked up to him so much. I wondered if this would change his view of people in general, knowing that someone he had respected—an older male role model, if you will—has been corrected and no longer had a pair of testicles between his legs. What had Justin really done to deserve what was going to happen to him. Wasn’t I telling myself just this morning, before I opened the letter, that I thought the punishment was a little harsh? Didn’t I say to my husband last year that I was glad I hadn’t had to perform any of the draft dodging corrections at my clinic? And now I had to perform one—on a young man I had seen every four years all his life: when he was and 3, 7, 11,15 years old. And I was a friend of the family. After all, if it hadn’t been for Robert insulting me at that college party so long ago, I might never have met my husband. This was his son I was going to have to correct today.

By the time I pulled my car into my parking spot at the clinic, I was so conflicted I had to let myself settle down before going inside. Robert Thomas and his wife were disgusting to me. They and their money were undermining the very system I was sworn to uphold. But was this particular punishment just? Now that I knew Robert had a plan, that the nurses and judges had been bribed, I knew that it was in my power to spare this 19-year-old young man. But could I be a party to it? I knew I wouldn’t take his parent’s money, no matter what. But could I be a party to it?

I walked into the clinic and said hello to my nurses. We rarely small talked. The government assigned nurses to each clinic and rotated them among the sectors. It is a way to keep tabs on the various clinics. Nurses were never around enough to form professional and personal relationships with the doctors, so they would have no problem reporting any misbehavior. As you can imagine, in a clinic set up to emasculate prisoners, an unscrupulous doctor could do some really unspeakable things. Not that the nurses had to try hard to keep me in line. Except for today, I guess.

I stopped dead in my tracks. Did I just think that? What did I just think? As my mind had wondered, I had actually thought to myself as if I was actually going to falsify this correction—to let him leave the clinic intact. The realization of that random thought struck me like a lightening bolt. It was as if my sub-conscious had made the decision for me. Could I really commit this kind of crime, go against all the convictions I had lived by for forty years? My mind was beating so fast, but I managed to walk—totally calm—to the back of the clinic, through the prep room, and into my correction room.

Once inside, I began the routine of preparing the room. Doing so seemed to calm me down and give me time to think. I could set up this room in my sleep. The correction room is a relatively small space. In the center is large metal bar covered on top with a soft leather cushion. It stands about waist high and has metal foot restraints on one side. On the other wall are hooks to hold the prisoner’s arms. Below the rail is a white porcelain funnel. When I milk the prisoner’s last load of virile semen, I aim his penis toward this funnel, which collects the load into an oversized test tube. The funnel is large enough that it is very hard to miss the target no matter which way the prisoner’s penis is pointing from his body. With uncircumcised prisoners, I usually just milk them with my hand. But with circumcised prisoners, I usually use some Luberall cream to smooth the process. Luberall is a special medical cream that chemically breaks apart when mixed with human semen. So it does not contaminate the prisoner’s semen sample.

When a male is brought into the room to be corrected, all he has to do to get into position is lean over the bar. His arms are then outstretched and strapped to the wall. His legs are then placed in the restraints so that the weight of his body is resting on his knees in the restraints. His arms are pulled tight to hold his upper body up, but his head can easily look down and see everything that happens between his legs. If he refuses to look downwards, the screen in front of the bar, between where his hands are bound, shows the process as it is being filmed from behind. If a prisoner closes his eyes, I am authorized to use a tazer on him until he leaves them open and watches. I rarely have to use the tazer, however. Most males are so horrified by what is happening to them that they will watch in disbelief as it is done—sort of like watching a car crash as it happens. They just can’t turn away. This process of making the male watch the procedure is part of the psychological emasculation. The male must see everything that happens to him. Once he has seen his own emasculation and been totally unable to prevent it by physical force, the average man’s mind can no longer see himself as a true male. This is the mental aspect of my work. Physically, even after the prisoner’s testicles have been removed, they still have one more emasculating act to endure. I use a needle to deliver Neurterall into their right butt cheek. Neurterall is a chemical agent that begins to neutralize testosterone in the body. It does not illuminate it all at once; that would be too much of a shock to the new eunuch’s system. This shot makes it so his body treats testosterone as a poison. From that moment on, the eunuch is unable to receive any hormone therapy to replace his lost testicles and re-establish his physical masculinity. At first this part of the process was thought to be unnecessary. After all, the prisoners were castrated; that was enough to subdue their masculine spirit. But it was found that the idea that hope existed for them—that chemicals could someday restore their masculinity—rallied the minds of some prisoners, making their emasculation less effective as a behavioral correction.

I quickly checked the straps that will be used for this correction. They are secure to the rail. I check the Neurterall shot; it is also ready. I check the video system. Three cameras record the correction. One records from the front: the facial expressions of the prisoner. A second records from the back: the actual removal of the testicles themselves. A third captures the event from the side and from a less close-up angle. It generally shows the muscle strains of the entire body, emphasizing the prisoner’s helplessness during the correction procedure. These cameras are tied to a recording system that stores all three sets of images onto a single DVD. These records are kept as court documents and in case the prisoner needs a reminder of his new status. Sometimes, prisoners do not follow commands correctly, especially early on when tiny remnants of testosterone still linger in their systems. When the prisoner does not follow commands properly, they are often shown a short pornographic film, depicting two lovers in the heat of passion. This is quickly followed by the DVD presentation of their own emasculation. It is quite an effective tool in crushing the last remaining embers of the prisoner’s male spirit. I check the video system and it is working perfectly. This is the device I would have to compromise if I were to spare Justin Thomas’s masculinity. It wouldn’t be hard. Since the three feeds go into one DVD, I could say that the DVD used was defecting. It has happened before—twice in my 20 years on the job. But it would be believable enough.

The correction room was totally ready. I stepped back into the prep room. The only way into the correction room was through the prep room. This was by design, so that if the prisoner got away somehow, he could only go in one direction. The prep room was about the same size as the correction room, but instead of a rail in the center, it had a large modified dentist chair. This chair is used to prepare the prisoner for surgical correction. The prisoner lies back in the chair and is strapped in. I then carefully shave his pubic hair from his body. I then apply the anesthetic cream to his scrotum. This numbs his actual sac while preserving the nerve activity inside. This allows the corrector, once the prisoner is strapped to the rail, to get the testicles out of the scrotum and into position without pain causing the prisoner to fight too hard. In very rare cases, prisoners are corrected in the prep chair itself. But this is only done when the prisoner is too physically obese to use the rail or when the prisoner is missing a limb. I personally hate to correct a prisoner in the prep chair. The positioning is very difficult—unless the prisoner is missing one or both legs. And a camera must be brought into the room from the outside to record the event, which really cramps an already tight space. Fortunately, I have only had to use the prep chair for a correction about three dozen times in my 20 years of service. When you consider that I correct two or three prisoners a day, five days a week, every week of the year—the use of the prep chair for corrections is very, very rare.

I was careful this day, given my nervousness, to lay out the prep materials neatly. Then I sat in my small seat next to the prep chair and waited. I couldn’t believe how nervous I was. My knees were actually shacking. I wondered for a moment what Justin Thomas would be like when he came into the room—his condition I mean. Sometimes men have to be sedated. Of course, we can’t actually correct a sedated man, but sometimes they are so uncontrollable that the guards have to sedate them for the transfer to the clinic. Some men are brought into the prep room completely unconscious from the sedative, or in a state of extreme lethargy. Sometimes they sleep through the entire prep and have to be strapped against the rail completely unconscious. When that happens, I have to wait until their blood shows them to be totally alert and sober before I can complete the correction. If the male has not been sedated, he will often struggle at least a little bit. But usually, they have been tazered enough in the holding prison to know that they must obey commands or be punished. I'’ say about half the time, men walk from the prep room to the rail with no trouble, just so long as the guard is nearby. I wondered in what state Justin would come into the room—sniveling like a baby or meek like a kitten? He was very young. It is rare that I correct someone as young as 19. Usually, someone has to get a few more convictions under his belt to get sentenced to a Class A felony. I would say the average age is about 27.

I watched the door. I checked my watch. I got up and positioned the prep supplies again. Then I went to the mirror and checked my hair. I always wore it tied in a bun at work, to keep it out of the way. I scratched my nail on a small stain on my white lab coat. How did that get there? Then the red light came on and buzzed twice. It was the signal that the prisoner was on his way down the hall to the prep room. The door opened, and an armed guard entered the room. Behind him was the prisoner, dressed only in white prison boxer shorts. He walked into the room under his own power, that much was clear. He didn’t have to be dragged or carried. Behind him stood another armed guard, tazer in hand—although he didn’t seem to be paying much attention to what was happening. He was looking down the hall and smiling, at one of my nurses no doubt. He obviously didn’t think he would need the tazer today. I stepped back over to my chair. I tried not to look at Justin Thomas as he stood there. Instead, I looked at the guard. “Thank you Jimmy. You can leave now,” I said as I sat back in my small chair.

Jimmy the guard looked perplexed. He had been bringing prisoners to the prep room and removing them after the correction for thirty years. And in that time, he had almost never left the prep room before the prisoner was strapped to the prep chair. In fact, in almost all cases, he would often stay until they were secured to the rail. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for a prisoner to be tazered in the prep chair and physically forced over the rail. Jimmy knew that this kid was young—and not a violent offender. But he probably couldn’t imagine any male giving up his masculinity without a fight. “Doctor, I think that I should…”

“It’s ok Jimmy. I don’t think this prisoner will give me any trouble. I will use the emergency light if I have any trouble.”

Jimmy had been in the business long enough to know that the corrector’s word was law, at least in the clinic. He grimaced and left the room. The door closed behind him, and I was left alone in the prep room with Justin Thomas. My eyes were on his bare feet as they stood on the white tile floor. I looked up slowly, up his legs to his knees and on to his waist. The prison boxers were thin white fabric, and the young man’s hands nervously tugged at the loose legs of the shorts. It was obvious under the boxers that his thighs were very muscular. Why was I avoiding his face? What was wrong with me? I looked up his chest and shoulders. He looked very much like the college boy from the Internet tabloid photo—thin but muscular. His abs were clearly distinct; his chest was strong, but not over developed. He stood nervously shaking, as if he were cold in his disrobed state—even though the temperature in the prep and correction rooms were warm by design. I looked up to his face.

He was the young man I remembered from the reunions. He was handsome; his face more square and firm than when he was 15. His black hair was cut short, almost military style. That was no doubt from his four-month prison stay. But it was also the style of the youth. Andy himself had gotten his hair cut that way only last month—always trying to fit in with his older peers. His eyes were brown and deep, each framed by dark eye browse. He was the model of youthful perfection. Any college girl would notice him right off the bat at any class or party. He looked handsome and smart. I smiled at him, and he nervously smiled back. “Hi, Mr. Thomas,” I said.

His face looked confused and bewildered for a moment. I smiled to myself. He wasn’t used to being called Mr. Thomas—that was his father. My god, he was 19 after all. “Can I call you Justin?”

“Sure,” he said quietly, his voice deep and masculine.

“I know you won’t give me any trouble, and I won’t give you any trouble,” I said. He just stood fumbling with the legs of his boxer shorts. He looked like a worried little boy for a moment. He was trying to read me, I thought. Or his is too scared to think or say much of anything. I wondered if he knew about the letter. That was a question wasn’t it? He hadn’t known about the bribing of the draft doctor—even the prosecutors agreed on that point. Did he know about the bribing of his corrector? “Justin, I will need you to drop your boxers and lie down in this chair,” I said, my hand resting on the prep chair’s armrest. He just stood there for a moment, fumbling with the legs of his boxer shorts. “It’s ok. I promise you will be fine.”

He bent down and brought his boxers off with him, letting them drop to the floor and stepping out of them in a single, natural movement, as if he had done it a thousand times—which he had. He cupped his genitals with both hands and stood in front of me. Almost all men, no matter their age, do this. In this case, it was especially funny to me, given the computer image I had seen of this young man this morning. He had been so confident showing his male parts to his girlfriend in that bedroom. He wasn’t confident now. He took three steps to the prep chair and sat his naked butt down on the leather. He lied back on the chair, his hands still cupping his masculinity from my view. “Justin, you will need to put your hands on the armrest,” I said. But he didn’t move. I reached out and took his right hand and brought it to the armrest. He didn’t resist. His hands were large and felt both slightly callused and soft—the hands of a young man just starting out in adult life. “Trust me,” I said, and winked at him. He moved his left arm away from his genitals and placed it on the armrest. I leaned over him and strapped the restraint. As I did, I got my first clear look at what his hands had been cupping. My eyes widened. This certainly was the youth from the Internet tabloid photo, for sure. His thick heavy penis hung down against his strong thighs. It was probably over four inches and still soft, probably from his nervousness. I got up and walked to his legs, strapping each to the chair. As I stood between his legs, I still looked at his impressive organ. Its large circumcised head was pointed at me. It seemed to grow right out of his very thick but compact bush of black pubic hair. Beyond his bush was a thin muscular stomach—devoid of almost any fat, and beyond that, his strong chest. His head was against the chair, but his eyes were watching me nervously.

I sat back down in my small chair and reached for the first prep supplies—small scissors. Justin’s eyes when wide, and he jerked in the chair. “Don’t worry,” I said. “This is just for the prep.” He lied his head back down. “You don’t have anything to worry about,” I said with a smile. He nervously smiled back. I moved the small scissors to his pubic bush and began to clip the thick forest from his body. Long curly black hairs began to fall from his crotch down his muscular thighs. He watched me as I progressed. The look on his face was pained. I knew that he was in no physical discomfort. It was watching the hard grown symbol of his maturity being cut from his crotch that he was cringing at. “So, I read that you have a girlfriend in college. That you and her will likely marry.” I said. If there was a moment for Justin to look confused, it was now. No woman would knowingly marry a neutered male.

He looked away from his rapidly thinning patch of pubes to my face. His eyes were wide, nervous. “It’s ok,” I said. “There are no cameras in this room. We can talk freely.”

His jaw clinched. I could see the roughness of his face, where he had shaved this morning. He obviously could not yet grow a full beard. But it wouldn’t be long. “Yes,” he said. “My girlfriend Cathy said she would marry me.”

Hmmmmm. “You know, I saw a picture of you online this morning. It is all over the tabloids. It is of you nude. It said your girlfriend had provided it.”

Justin looked confused, and miffed. It was the first emotion other than nervousness he had shown since entering the room. It was almost like he forgot where he was for a moment. “What?” he asked forcefully. “No way. That couldn’t be me.”

I pinched off another chunk of his pubic grass between the scissors. I thought about my son Andy looking at his picture. My son was 15, and was in the midst of growing a bush of sex hair of his own. He was at school now, sitting in class, a bush of mature sex hair springing into existence in his crotch—while this young man, 4 years older than he was, sat in my prep chair watching his tangled jungle disappear before his eyes. I was almost done trimming his pubic bush. Just a little more and I would be ready to shave him bare. “It looked a lot like you. I mean exactly. You had a T-shirt pulled over your face. And you were standing in someone’s bed room.” The look on his face told me that it truly was him in the picture. His youthful masculine features contorted in a wave of anger, then sadness. “Well, I’m sure it wasn’t Cathy who sold it.”

“Sold it!?!” he said.

“Yes, the paper said the image was sold to them for $10,000. But I’m sure it wasn’t Cathy.”

He looked away, dejected. “It had to be her. She’s the only…. It was her bedroom where it was taken.”

I whipped some shaving cream into my hand and began to spread it over the now very short crop of black hairs that framed his large penis. “Now don’t move, Justin. I wouldn’t want to cut you.” I began to shave gently down his crotch, removing all of his sex hair as I went. I was very careful not to nick him. Males generally bleed heavily when cut in their crotch. “You know, being sexually active before marriage is one of the biggest health risks for young people in this day and age.”

Justin’s cheeks turned red and he looked away from me. I suddenly felt like a high school nurse rather than a seasoned corrector. “We only did it once. The day the picture was taken.”

“Still Justin, without the bonds of marriage making you one legally as well as physically, a young man like yourself should not expose himself to the risks of disease and the possibility of pregnancy. Not to mention, there are specific laws regarding the sexual promiscuity among young people. Laws are made to be followed.” I could hear myself saying the same thing to Andy in one or two more years.

Justin seemed to react to my admonition as a rebuked child. “We tried really hard. But the night before I was going to be sentenced in court, she said that she wanted to…”

“Just in case, I guess,” I said, finishing his thought. I could imagine that. A young woman, wanting to experience the man she was growing to love, taking what could be the only chance she would have to make him a man. To be a fly on the wall that night, my mind began to wonder.

“Will it grow back?” Justin asked meekly.

I started from my thoughts. And realized that he was referring to his bush of black sex hair, which was rapidly disappearing under my razor. “I’m afraid not,” I said. Then I looked up at him and smiled, “at least in most cases.”

He smiled back.

When I was done shaving him, I cleaned his crotch with a warm towel. I am always shocked by how a shaving changes the look of a man’s crotch. Justin’s genitals now looked naked to me. Before, they had been set off from the rest of his body by a dark frame of hair. Now, his penis hung from his body like a sausage. I rolled my chair a few inches toward his feet and reached for the anesthetic cream. “Now, this cream will make your scrotum numb, ok Justin.” He nodded. This entire prep was so different from all the others I had done over the years. Usually the prisoner fights and curses me all the way. And Jimmy the guard is in the room ready to tazer the prisoner around 3 times until they finally become more pliant. But here I was having a pleasant conversation with a prisoner—a young, handsome, strong, man whom was a casual friend to my family and me. It felt so surreal. I lifted his soft, heavy organ off of his ball sac and rested it on his thigh. My god, his dick was large. It was not the biggest I had seen in my 20 years, but it certainly was impressive, especially for a 19-year-old. He would make this girl Cathy VERY happy, every night. The skin of his scrotum felt thick as I began to run the cream into his loose man-bag. His testicles were large—certainly larger than my husband’s pair. They seemed to fill his scrotum, leaving very little loose skin to dangle. I kneaded the cream into his big bag, rubbing sections of the flesh between my thumb and forefinger. I could see a look of confusion wash over Justin’s face as his brain stopped receiving signals from the skin of his masculine bag. I’ve always thought that having a numbed scrotum must be a very strange feeling for a male—to have always felt the rubbing of his underwear against his bag, or the water from the shower, or the sides of his thighs. I pinched a small bit of his bag—no response. Inside, I his numb bag, I knew that the nerves of his testicles were totally active. He was ready. I stood from the chair, standing over this naked young man—looking down at his naked hairless crotch, as smooth as a boy’s but with the large penis and testicles of an above average mature man—and I stared into his eyes. “Justin, what is going to happen to you will be strange and uncomfortable. But I hope you know how a proper young man should comport himself during such an important moment.”

Justin looked up at me, his lips hanging slightly apart. He seemed nervous again, obviously feeling exposed in the chair. “My father told me how I should act,” he said.

“Ok, Justin. I need you to stand up when I remove the restraints, and step into the next room.” I leaned over him again and began to unbuckle the bonds on his hands and feet. It had never been this easy. I had never had a prisoner simply stand up from the prep chair and go to the rail without the threat of a tazer or the influence of a drug. But Justin Thomas did it. He stood up as I walked around the chair and entered the correction room. When I turned around, Justin walked into the room, his large flaccid sausage meat flopping easily between his thighs, his walking obviously thrown off stride by the strangeness of not feeling his scrotum skin against his thighs. I admired him for a moment, as he walked into the room. How could any just law deprive this young male of his birthright—his masculinity? Even without his sex hair, he was still sexy—the image of a newly mature male in the prime of his sexuality. I could easily imagine him at the ball field at school, showing off for the girls on campus, trying to earn their attention and appreciation. I could easily imagine him in a uniform, proving his manhood by fighting for our nation—proving his manhood the way his parents desperately prevented him from doing. No wonder Andy had idolized him. And not only his strength and maturity, but also his physical manhood as embodied by his genitals would be the envy of most average males, no matter the age. Given the physical family genes my son inherited, it is doubtful to me that he will ever achieve the kind of physical masculinity that was flopping between Justin Thomas’s thighs. And that is not an easy thing for a mother to admit.

“Now lean against the rail and place your knees in the front of the restraint.”

Justin complied. He walked to the rail and rested his hairless abdomen against the leather of the rail.

“Lean over the rail please,” I said, stepping around the side of the rail as he bent at the waist, extending his arms for me. I secured his arms at the wrists and forced the leather straps into the wall mount; his arms were now extended out on either side of his head, stretched tight, unmovable. Jimmy the guard almost always secures the prisoners to the rail, so I made sure to double check that I was dotting ever “i” and crossing every “t”. Justin helped me immensely by following ever voice command I gave him, without question or comment. “Now lift your left leg into the restraint.” Justin lifted his leg onto the metal and leather leg restraint. I made sure his knee was pressed forward as much as possible into the soft leather pad at the front of the leg restraint, then adjusted the back restraint against his foot. “Now the other leg Justin.” When I was finished with his legs, I rapped the large leather restraint over his lower back and secured it tightly. I stood back for a moment and admired my handy work. It was the first time I had secured a prisoner all by myself. And I couldn’t help but remark in my mind how smoothly and easily the restraining had been accomplished—no cursing, no spitting, no tazers, no waiting.

I pressed a black button on the wall and raised the rail a several inches. I observed my handy work. Justin Thomas was secured to the rail, his legs spread and bent at the knees. No part of his body touched to floor or the wall. The rail bore his entire weight on his knees and on his lower stomach. Between his legs, as the rail raised up, his ball bag swayed. His genitals were the only parts of his body not secured the rail, and they swung from side to side as the rail moved slowly. When I was happy with the position of the rail, I rolled my black stool up behind Justin and sat down. It was the moment of truth. But I still wasn’t sure. I rolled the small table on which rested all the necessary equipment I needed to carry out my duty. Duty. Duty is what has led both Justin and myself to this day. He failed to fulfill his; would I fulfill mine?

I squirted a glob of Luberall into my palm and reached up between Justin Thomas’s legs. “You know what I have to do?”

Justin nodded his head between his outstretched arms. From where I was sitting behind him, I could see the tufts of black hair in his armpits. His face looked down from between his arms, and I knew he could see me sitting behind his hairless, swinging manhood. I reached around his numb ball sack and grasped his soft heavy sausage. By the time the Luberall covered his pecker, he was erect and straining. I saw Justin close his eyes, but his head remained down, pointing at his genitals and me. I reached my left hand behind his sack and rapped my thin fingers around the base of his shaft, steadying his long shaft. I found that I could only barely reach my fingers around the thick base of his tool—the tips of my fingers barely touched. As I stroked him with my right hand, I thought about his thick base, how it must have spread his girlfriend’s pussy lips so far apart. I stroked his massive organ—the tool of his masculinity—making sure that the tip was forever pointed at the porcelain collector under the rail. This ridged pole of flesh was everything to Justin Thomas—the center of his masculine world. It’s desire for pussy and pleasure dominated his mind. The power source of this strong throbbing pole was the bag of balls hanging behind. Those balls did not give Justin the kind of pleasure his penis did, but without them, his masculinity would be de-powered and useless. As a man, he loved his penis; but he NEEDED his balls.

I felt the contours of his organ. I have felt so many in my life, but it was rare to have a specimen like this in my hand. I couldn’t help but take stock of his masculinity. His penis was no less than 7” long and at least 6” around. My god, his organ was so much bigger than my husband’s. William’s penis was about 5” long and 4.5” around. It almost always pleased me, but I couldn’t help but admire what this 19-year-old had been given by nature. His organ was so long and thick, its soft skin pulled tight and taught over the iron hard shaft. It was larger than over 90% of the prisoners I had encountered. My god, I thought to myself. I wondered about Robert Thomas, the father of this amazing specimen of maleness. Was the manhood between the legs of the father of this teenage stud as impressive? I thought about how Robert and my husband had been friends in college, how Robert had stood as best man at my wedding. Had the manhood hanging between the legs of the best man been as big and powerful as his offspring’s maleness? And did my husband know how much more male flesh his best friend had than he did?

The army could have used this college boy’s manhood to protect our country. That was the law. But his father, with his own massive set of balls, wasn’t man enough to let his son take the same chance that everyone’s sons have to make. He wouldn’t let him perform his duty. I thought about my son Andy. He had not yet grown to full manhood, but I knew in my heart that he would fulfill his duty when the time came. The physical masculinity between my son’s legs would probably never be able to compete with the above-average package that I now stroked between Justin’s legs—but I knew that Andy would fulfill his duty. Doesn’t that in and of itself make him more of a man than his college boy on my rail—regardless of the physical prowess he was born with? My mind reeled with these questions as I listened to Justin’s breathing increase. He was breathing through his nose only; the small room amplified the sound. His eyes remained closed, his face passive as he felt his body being overwhelmed with the feelings of physical pleasure that all mature males strive for. I had to know what to do—what my duty was. I had to know the truth.

“Justin, I got a letter today,” I said—almost a whisper. I gripped his long hard pecker firmly, pushing upwards, past the scar of his circumcision, and stopped right behind his flared coronal ridge. As I gripped the end of his pecker, my fingers tickled the underside of his massive helmet head—so much bigger and flared than my husband’s knob. “Do you know what it said?”

I could see his eyes tighten slightly, his mouth pop open as he exhaled a deep breath. His head bobbed twice, answering my question in the affirmative. My duty was clear.

Placing my palm against the underside of his throbbing purple helmet, I rapped my fingers around his plump mushroom and pulled my hand firmly down the length of his long male stalk. “When you ejaculate, Justin, I have to castrate you.”

I had watched the pleasure of my long hard stroke register on his face, as his youthfully masculine features tensed and tightened around his eyes and mouth. But my words hit him like a thunderbolt. His brown eyes flew open; his jaw dropped, his tongue protruding slightly from his pink lips. “Whaaaa? Whatttt?”

I stroked his massive organ, all seven inches of it, firmly in rapid succession. “You’re guilty, Justin. It is the law.” I could feel his pre-cum mixing with the Luberall as I stroked him. His body jerked violently; the rail absorbed his sudden movements as metal clanged against metal. But he couldn’t more an inch.

“But my dad, he said…”

“Be careful, Justin,” I whispered, almost motherly. “You are being recorded.”

His eyebrows creased together; his suddenly terrified mind comprehended what I said. “Please, please Ms. Jamison. Oh god, please.” His voice was deep, but his pleading betrayed the slight high pitch that remained in his youthful throat.

“Just lay there, Justin. Remember Cathy and the night you stayed with her,” I said. I leaned in closer to his body on the rail, so he could feel my warm breath against his legs as I stroked him. This 19-year-old male had not had an orgasm in four months—not since the first and last time he had made love to a woman. I knew that he couldn’t last long, even knowing what the consequences now were. “Remember when she pulled you on top of her and told you that she wanted to have you that night, the last night before your verdict. She felt you then, didn’t she—felt you between your legs. Did she tell you how big you were? Because you are big, Justin. You are bigger than 90% of males on the planet. She might never have a man as big as you again.” I made sure to make slow, firm passes over the length of his meat to emphasize its size. All males with above average endowment take a sexual pride in their physical advantage—especially in their younger years. Justin’s panting and lip-biting as I stroked him over those words was a sure sign that his body was responding to the pleasure of my hand and my words, even as his mind fault against acknowledging the certainty of the outcome.

Most young men, when they lose their virginity, want to be on top. “With your pants off and your hands cupping her warm pussy, you positioned yourself on top of her didn’t you. And you pointed this big helmet of yours at the opening of her sex,” I gripped the tight throbbing glans of his penis and stroked down the shaft slowly. “And then you pushed it inside of her for the first time. Remember that feeling Justin. Remember it. It is the only time you will ever feel it.”

“Oh god, huuhh huhhh huhhh. Oh god, please. She’s waiting for me. She wants me and I want her. Please, don’t take it away from me.” Justin’s mouth hung open now; his eyes were shut tight—either because of the pleasure my hand provided or in resistance to it.

“And when you had pushed inside of her all the way, for the first time, did she moan your name Justin? Did she tell you how good it felt, to have your body so deep inside of hers?”

“Oh goddd, yeah, she did. She did. Oh god. Please, don’t. No, please,” he was losing control. Sweat beaded on his strongly muscled back; his shoulder blades flexed as he struggled vainly against the rail. I could see the tufts of hair in his armpits become damp and drip drops of his sweat. His closed eyes began to tear.

For a moment, I contemplated the difference in this young man—the difference from his last sex act before his sentence and this moment—truly his last sex act of his life. When he had pushed his stiff manhood into Cathy, he had become a man in the physical sense. He had tasted the sweat pleasure of a pussy and fulfilled the biological imperative of his maleness. The pleasure of that moment and the knowledge that his masculine body was providing his mate with the withering pleasure she longed for established in his own mind the his final ascension to adulthood. In that moment, he had become an adult male, and he had groaned with pleasure into his woman’s ear.

But now, now here on my rail, he was losing that sense of himself. He was begging me, a woman, to spare his masculinity, even as his body—against his will—was forced to feel the pleasure that it always sought. He was no longer in control of his manhood, not like he had been as he gently pressed it deep into Cathy’s body. It was like I was as if I was raping him of his masculinity through pleasure. His tool was rock hard and straining against my hand. I could feel it bob and throb in my hand. His mighty testicles, the source of his masculine power and presence, were now tight against his body. It appeared now as a large, tight tan bump on the underside of his body. And above it, as if growing out of the root of his masculinity, his mighty penis jutted out—long, hard, bigger than most men could dream of being. It was almost over for him.

I moved my left hand to the patch of skin between his tight numb testicles and his butt-hole—his taint. I began to knead that stretch of skin with my fingers, feeling the root of his mighty penis and pressuring his prostate even as my right hand continued to stroke the knob of his tool. “Ohhhhh, ohhhh god. Oh NOOoooOooOoooooo.” I felt the root of Justin’s penis throb under his taint. His entire body spasmed. The metal of the rail clanged rhythmically as his body convulsed. I double-checked the aim of his long pecker as I felt the first mighty rush of seed shoot through his urethra. “NNNOooooOoo, Nrrrrrrrrhhhhuuuuuu……….. Huh, huh, huh, huh, huh.” I watched as seven thick streaks of virile seed shot from the tip of his organ and into the porcelain collector. I removed my left hand from his taint and laid it onto Justin’s sweaty lower back, feeling the spasms of his inner body as he experienced the amazing pleasure that his body had strove for these last 7 years. It was a pleasure that had been denied him for four months in the hold cell of prison. It was a pleasure that he had felt only one other time with a woman—his fiancée Cathy. My mind could almost imagine this strong, strapping young male, his large, 7” by 6” tool buried completely within the sex of his first woman, spasming and grunting in this same way, having just felt the true meaning of manhood. For him, all that was now over.

“Huh, huh, huh, huh, huuuhhhhh.” Justin’s breathing caused his back to rise and fall slowly and deeply. His body was dripping with the sweat of pleasure. I milked his long thick organ until every last drop of his thick seed was drawn from his climax. Justin’s head was hanging limply between his outstretched arms; his brow beaded with sweat. His eyes were still closed, but his now ever muscle of his face was loose and relaxed.

I wiped my hands on a small white towel and dropped it to the floor. Justin’s body continued to relax as it returned to a normal condition after experiencing the most powerful physical release possible for a male body. I reached for my scalpel and raised it to his scrotum, which was already beginning to loosen from its tight shooting position. I reached for his ball bag and began to pull its contents down into a more accessible position. Even though the skin of his male pouch was numb, Justin could feel the tug around his taint and on the bottom of his deflating member. His eyes shot open, the skin of his face instantly changing from relaxed to creased with concern. His body gave a massive heave, but the rail did not budge.

“No, please, oh god, please Mrs. Jamison.” Justin’s voice was rough and tired. His breathing was still labored. He sounded like he needed a good drink of water. “Oh god, no, please. I need them. I didn’t do anything.”

I used a q-tip to smear antiseptic ointment onto both sides of his scrotum. “Why do you need them Justin? Do you need your muscles so you can defend our nation? Do you need your physical strength so that you can work and make money like your father? So you can pay for anything you want—or anyone you want?”

“I NEED THEM TO BE A MAN!” His eyes now shut tight, tears dropping to the floor.

“You aren’t a man already. Didn’t you hear yourself beg when a milked you?” I pressed my scalpel into the left side of his scrotum and made a two inch cut into his tan man-bag. He didn’t feel it. He was totally numb. His eyes were closed; he didn’t see it.

“I am a man. I’m Cathy’s man. Please, I’ve got to feel her again. I’ve got to fill her again. She said she wanted to have my sons,” Justin said, his voice regaining its former strength. I pressed my scalpel into the right side of his masculine pouch. He didn’t even know it.

Using both hands, I rolled both of his male orbs to the sides of his pouch and pushed them through—one each through the holes on either side. I let them dangle, and I raised the number bag of flesh that had for 19 years held his masculine gonads and gathered it back along his taint—where I had only minutes before held the root of his penis throb with involuntary pleasure. “Justin, look behind you.”

His eyes shot open. Before his terrified eyes, he saw the white gray jewels of his manhood handing naked outside of their protective bag. His scrotum was pulled back, and his orbs hung uncovered in the same space they always hung between his legs. “AHOHHOOOOO, god. My sack! God no, stop. Put it back. Oh god, put them back!” He started to hyperventilate. Sweat dripped from his hairy armpits and from his black eyebrows.

“You know it’s too late for that Justin. You’re already not a man. A real man does his duty. He doesn’t try to slither out of it. And I don’t try to slither out of it. Right now, it is my duty to remove your masculinity, permanently. And it is your duty to experience the lose of your masculinity. I’m going to see that you fulfill your duty this time. Beg me to take them from you Justin. Be a man this one last time.”

He shook his head, sweat flying off his short black hair in drops. Using my thumb and middle finger, I gave his left gray-white orb a solid thump in the coils of tubs that were gathered on the gonad’s backside. “Arrrragggghhhhhh.” Justin’s entire body spasmed. He could double over or cup his orb to ease its pain. I could see his washboard stomach clutch and cramp from the pain. “Aruurg. Oaahh. Oh please, oh god. Oh god, please don’t hurt them. You don’t, huh, huh, huh, know what it’s like. I gotta have them. I’m a man.”

Using each of my hands, one for each orb, I grasped both of his male organs. They were smooth and slimy to the touch. I could subtly feel the coils of tubes that made up his testicles under the smooth membrane that surrounded them. Justin shuttered at my touch, clinching the checks of his bubble butt tight against what he knew was about to happen. I held each of his orbs gently, carefully. “Oh god, oh god, oh god.”

I squeezed each orb with a steady pressure. I could see his body physically alter as his mind registered the terrible pressure that his testicles had become. His ass clinched tighter. His mouth hung open; his eyes staring but not seeing. Tears streamed down his face and onto the floor. “Huh, huh, huh, huuuhhhhh, huuuhhuhh.” I increased the pressure firmly. I could see my gripe pressuring the delicate membranes of his masculine organs. “Ohhhhargg, Ohharrrgg Gaawwwarrddd. Ohhhaahh, myy baaalllsss. Noooooon, gotttttaa haaavvve. Plllleeeaaasee.” AARRGGGHHHHH.” Justin’s face turned beat red. Sweat poured from his body.

I released my gripe slightly. “When I count to 5 Justin, I will grip with all my strength. Prepare yourself.” His face relaxed a little as the better part of the pain subsided. Drool leaked from his lips, the lips that had once kissed his lover as he firmly humped her 7” inches deep. “1……..2……..3……..4……”

“CUT THEM. OH GOD. Cut’em off. OH GOD.”

I released his gonads and reached for my scalpel.

“Oh god, my balls, my balls. Oh god, not my balls.”

I sliced the tube that attached Justin’s left testicle to his body. His body spasmed violently against the rail. “Arraaaagghhhhhaaaaaa.” I have been told that males who experience castration can actually feel the pain travel in a straight line up the tube that connected them to their precious ball and up though their stomach. “Oh god, I can feel it. Oh god, I can feel it. Oh God, my nut. Oh god, I’m a man; I’m a man.”

“Yes Justin. For one last time in your life, you are a man.” I sliced his right tube and his last naked testicle fell from his body.

Justin’s body spasmed one last time, as if he was dry humping the rail. “Aarrughgh, hu, huh, huh, uh.” His voice felled him and he finally stopped screaming for his manhood, which was now utterly lost to him. The two orbs lay detached in my silver bowl. My god, they were large—so much larger than my husband’s orbs. I quickly stuck the needle of Neuterall into sweaty, relaxed butt. He didn’t stir at the stick. But I had just permanently and forever removed any masculine influence from his system. It only took me a few minutes to tidy Justin up. I sliced off the empty flap of his deflated male pouch and through the remains of his scrotum in the trash. A few quick stitches and his wound was dressed. All the time I worked, I could hear his deep but straining breath as his muscled back raised and lowered on the rail. His body was completely relaxed and hung limply. His breathing reminded me of a male who had just experienced the complete joy of orgasm, but who remains on top of his lover, clinging to her, his now soft organ still nestled inside her warm body, unwilling to roll over and admit the act of love is over.

I walked around to the front of the rail. I carefully removed the test tube from under the semen collector and labeled it “Justin Thomas.” Then, as prescribed by law, I held both the tube and the silver bowl in front of his face. Justin’s eyes were red and tired. It wasn’t clear to me that he could focus on what was in front of him. But I had to finish my duty. “Justin Thomas. You have been corrected by the state. From this moment on, you life as a male is over. You have been neutered. Your will never have another erection as long as you live. You will never again experience the physical and psychological pleasure of orgasm. Your pubic hair will never grow back. The muscle strength of your body with atrophy until your physique returns to that of a child. In your life, you have shown disregard for the law. Therefore the law has disregarded your manhood.” With that, I was supposed to throw his severed orbs into the trash, but I didn’t. I walked to my desk and opened the biohazard trash. But I put the bowl up on the shelf and slammed the trashcan closed so Justin could hear it. As I looked back at the neutered person that was still strapped to the rail, I gave him one more long look. His body was totally relaxed on the rail now. There was no fight left in his being. This young male had walked to the rail willingly, saying nothing as he was strapped into place. “You’re no longer a man, Justin. But you have done your duty.”

I walked to the door and let Jimmy the guard back into the room. “No problem?” he asked.

“None at all.”

Jimmy walked into the room and began to unstrap Justin from the rail. Justin seemed asleep, but he wasn’t. His eyes were open. But he didn’t move. He only breathed and occasionally moaned. “This one was a screamer, wasn’t he, ma’am. Strange, he didn’t say a word on the trip over here. Usually they at lease curse us. Or beg.”

I watched as Jimmy lifted the limp and neutered body of Justin Thomas from the rail and carry him out of the room, like a father carrying his young son inside to go to bed. Outside, a wheel chair waited to take him to the recovery room. He wouldn’t stay there long, I guessed. Not with his parent’s money paying his way.

Once they were gone, I quickly took the DVD disk that had recorded the correction from the recorder. Then, I dropped the two orbs that had powered Justin’s masculinity since the moment he started to grow into manhood into a jar of preserving fluid. I quickly dropped both prizes into my purse and took off my white lab coat.

“Send all my calls to my machine Doris,” I told the nurse on my way out of the door.

I dropped the disk into the passenger seat of my car and sped from the clinic. My mind was racing. I could still feel the form of Justin’s 19-year-old gonads in my hand. I pulled into the local electronic store and walked inside. I made two copies of the DVD record. The sun was setting.

When I got home, I was still trembling a little. I had castrated—I mean corrected—hundreds, no Thousands of males in my life. Why was I being affected this way? My hands gripped the steering wheel as my car sat parked in the garage. All those men, those prisoners, that I have corrected over the years; but this was the first male I had CASTRATED. I castrated Justin Thomas—I didn’t correct him. He was a strapping young buck, and I cut off his living testicles—not because the court told me to, but because I wanted to.

I stepped out of the car and shut the door. As I walked upstairs, I saw the light on in the side bathroom and heard the water running within. Andy has been taking long baths a lot for the past year and a half. I smiled as I walked past the door. He had discovered his masculinity, and now he was exploring it. My so Andy was well on his way to become a strapping young man—more of a man than Justin Thomas will ever be again.

As I entered my bedroom, the lights were off. I could see my husband William asleep on the bed in the flickering blue light of the TV set. The sound was turned low, and an opened book rested on his chest. My husband was 40 years old now, but he worked hard the keep fit and in shape. As I looked at him sleeping in out marriage bed, a bed that Justin would never now share with Cathy… No woman would marry a neutered male, a eunuch. I wondered for a moment who would break the news to her—that her fiancé was a neutered nothing, that his 7” pecker would never get hard again. I wished I could see her face in that moment. The door swung closed behind me, and William stirred when I flipped the TV off.

“That you Heather?” he said, his voice rough and cracked from his sleep.

I strolled to the bed, unbuttoning my top by the time I reached the sides of the bed. “Yes,” I said. I stretched my arms over William’s hairy chest, lowering them to the band of his sleeping shorts.

“You’re so late. You must have had a long day at work,” he said, his hands finding the clasp of my bra behind my back.

“I did,” I said as he raised himself off the bed for me to pull his shorts off. “I castrated Justin Thomas today.”

My husband’s 5” erection sprang out of his shorts, pointing to the ceiling with almost youthful vigor. His small arrow-shaped glans flared under the warm breath I blow over it. My pants fell to the floor.

“You did,” he said. “Robert will be devastated—his only son.” I straddled my husband and lowered myself onto his short hairy tool.

“His balls were so big,” I said, my hands rubbing through the forest of hairs on William’s chest. “So big.”

William began to hump under me; his head rose to my breasts, and he began to lick them. “Hmmmm,” he moaned, his voice deep.

“And his cock was big. It was a lot bigger than yours.”

My husband’s mouth released my nipple. “Hey baby. What…..”

I placed my hand gently to his lips. “His cock will never get hard again, baby. I cut off Robert’s son’s balls while he begged me to let him keep them.”

William’s eyes went wide as saucers. “Ohhhhhhh, Arrrghhh.” I felt my husband’s warm virile seed wash into my body from his stiff cock. He hadn’t cum that fast in years. It was like our honeymoon again. I Held him to my breasts as he came. Then I rolled off him and played with his tight bag of balls. They were only average, but they worked 100%.

When William fell asleep again, I put my robe on and walked to the car. On the passenger seat, right where I had left it, the three DVD disks sat. One of the three would be returned to the clinic the next day, as the official record of Justin Thomas’s correction. I picked the other two up and headed back upstairs. At my husband’s desk, I placed one disk in an envelope and addressed it to Robert Thomas—no return address. The other, I put under some papers in the bottom desk drawer. Sometime soon, William and I will watch it together—maybe on our anniversary next month.

THE END

N-O-T-E-- The character of Justin Thomas was inspired by a pic off the net (which is described in detail at the beginning of the story.) I used to have it, but can't seem to find it now. However, if I do find it, I would be gald to email it to any who are interested. Just email me. But please, if you email me about the photo, take some time to discuss the content and style of the story--your thoughts and feedback. my email is [email protected]