The day I decided on fulfilling my dreams of several years, everything went smoothly, if not exactly according to my own plans for my future.
I had up till now lead a perfectly normal gay life, with a rather successful professional career — I am, or used to be, in the movie business — and a more than satisfying sexual one, unattached and carefree, with the good body of a man of 34, a youthful and straight appearance and special interests that attracted a surprisingly large number of guys.
At work, noone would suspect what was hidden behind my impeccable suit and tie. At the local fetish club — for gay men only — I had no problem, exhibitionist that I am, to put on display my naked body, which I kept shaved from the neck down, ever since my very first sexual encounter involved a mutual shaving orgy, a little less than 20 years ago. Ten years later, a casual acquaintance introduced me to a tattooist and piercer with an almost mythical reputation in my circles. He turned out to be an intuitive and emphatic guy with great professional skill and a limitless imagination, and he performed my first tattoo, a large, multicoloured lizard making its way up my right calf, and my first body jewellery, steel rings, one in each of my tits.
A couple of years later, my shoulders were covered with the results of our collaboration, my ideas, perhaps induced by him, developed and sometimes transformed in his creative mind. I remember having told him that perhaps he knew me and my fantasies better than I did myself, and his strange, mocking expression with which he reacted to what I had said. From then on, until yesterday, my visits became as frequent as time and money would allow, and my body is now completely covered with tattooes, every inch of it from the neck down to my toes. Only hands, neck and face have been spared, for obvious reasons. My tits now carries twin rings, there are 30 rings inserted in my scrotum and I also wear a navel ring, a Prince Albert, an Ampallang and a large Guiche. Maybe because our relationship, deep as it is, never developed into a sexual one, most of my tattoos would be considered by most people quite obscene: the gigantic cock covering most of my back, making my buttocks seem like a decorated ballsack, mythical animals like unicorns, centaurs, and sphinxes involved in sexual activities, dancing dicks, snakes ending in cockheads, leather scene paraphernalia… only my genitalia carries no imagery, the scrotum and my uncut cock coloured an even bright red, like blood.
Until yesterday, the day I decided to take the consequences of the fantasies that our relationship had formed in my mind. I had prepared for the occasion by selling my belongings, announcing at work that I planned to take a leave of abscence for at least six months and renting a small unfurnished flat, a couple of blocks away from the tattoo parlor. Carrying a dispatch case containing my bank account number, an authorization for my friend to use whatever he felt necessary to cover his expences for my metamorphosis, and a signed slave contract of sorts, stating in not so many details the nature of my deepest felt urges, I walked, still wearing my suit and tie, to his house, pressed the button and waited.
Although my arrival was unannounced, my friend — whom I now think of as My Creator — reacted as though he had expected me, which of course he might have, in a sense. Instead of shaking my hand or hugging me — our usual way of greeting each other — he looked at me intensely but with a blank expression, approached me, took my wrists and locked my arms behind my back in a firm grip, forced me inside and brought me to his studio. He studied the contents of my dispatch case, nodded slightly, and produced a knife that he always carried in a holster attached to his body harness, the only thing he ever wore apart from heavy boots when relaxing at home or working in his studio.
Within minutes, my expensive clothes was in stripes and disposed of in a waste bin along with my shoes. Without a word My Creator ordered me to lie down, front up, on his black leather work bench. Once on my back, I completely relaxed, closed my eyes and tried in my mind to anticipate his next move. Not until a stinging, but not unpleasant, pain emanated from my cock, I realized that a catheter was entering my piss slit and forced deep into my intestines, or so it felt. I opened my eyes and saw that it ended in a plastic bag.
His firm grip around my neck forced me on my feet again and my body bent over the bench, stomach down and shaved ass exposed. Enema has never been my bag, but I realized its necessity although my body shivered in a pang of nausea when a butt plug was inserted in my anus, forcing me to keep the fluid inside me — for how long?
On my feet again, standing straight and keeping the butt plug in its place was not done without struggle. The catheter and its still empty plastic bag in front of me, I was kept on my feet until my hands were cuffed with heavy steel cuffs behind my back and my legs connected with a steel bar, ending in heavy steel bands around my ankles, enabling me to move my feet no more than a couple of inches.
It took forever to “walk” the short corridor, ending in a steel door behind which, I knew, was the cell, my home for who knows how long. My Creator firmly directed me with a leash connected to my Prince Albert and once inside the cell, a windowless room with a black tiled floor, concrete walls equipped with an assortment of hooks on different levels, unfurnished but for a steel basin in a corner and a shower stall, I was allowed to hear his voice, a warm, manly voice with a sharp edge to it, for the first time since my arrival. “Memorize it”, he ordered, indicating the small space, “and don’t move”. He left me standing in the middle of the room, bare feet cold against the tiled floor, turned, left the room, locking the iron gate behind him.
My Creator returned, an eternity later, carrying a wooden case the size of a shoe box. He opened it, rather ceremoniously, I thought, and felt a sudden urge to giggle, in spite of my position, but managed, luckily, to suppress it. I was ordered to open my mouth wide as he produced from the case a black rubber ball, the size of a small apple. With one finger he pressed my tounge to the bottom of my oral cavity, pressed the ball behind my teeth and sealed my mouth with a stripe of transparent adhesive tape. As a final touch, he dressed me in a tight black rubber hood, which seemed completely closed until I realized I could breathe, if with some difficulty, through tiny holes for the nostrils. I was to wear it always, I was told, hearing his voice as from a distance through the rubber, except for the daily body shaving routine which I was expected to perform myself. And as long as there were no other circumstances that prevented me from wearing it. In my mind, I tried to imagine what other circumstances he might be referring to. The thought alone excited me almost to ejaculation.
"Find the basin and remove it", he said, referring to the butt plug, and the relief when the fluid finally flushed out of me and into the steel basin made me euphoric. I also managed to find the shower stall and the ice cold water splashing on my body seemed to enhance the euphoria. High, without drink or drugs, I bent down to have a knew butt plug installed and then lay down on the tiled floor as ordered — and made my first serious mistake that day. He had told me to find the lowest hooks fitted in the concrete walls, and I simply could not remember where to find them. My Creator used his booted feet to give me directions and as I finally reached the goal, my body felt bruised and sore. The euphoria was gone.
He stretched my arms behind my back far enough to be able the attach the handcuffs to the hook. Then, with a firm grip at my ankles, he adjusted my body in a strange angle so that my leg cuffs reached the hook in the opposite wall. With head tilted backwards, I could feel there was a wall behind me, though too distant for me to lean on. I felt certain this was the position I had to endure for many nights to come…
Amazingly enough, I managed some light sleep and woke up sensing a presence in my cell. My instinct told me it was not My Creator, but the person released me, brought me to my feet and led me gently out of my cell to a large room. The person — I felt certain it was a man — removed the rubber hood, the gag that filled my mouth and released my arms from its bondage, and when my eyes had adjusted to the sudden light I recognized him as Chris, one of the bartenders at the local fetish club. We were standing in the middle of a luxurious bathroom. Hot water steamed in the bathtub, thick black towels lay on a small table along with shaving equipment. I opened my mouth to greet him, but he put a finger to my lips and shook his head. I looked at him and it dawned on me that my stay with My Creator would be a fairly silent one, on my part at least. His face, fully tattooed as his bare skull and the rest of his body — clearly My Creator’s work — showed some amusement at my reaction when I discovered that, in the region where I wore some bright red protruding man’s meat, he wore — nothing but his tattoos! I had had no idea that the guy had been nullified, I had interpreted his refusal to, in opposition to some of his collegues, tend the bar in the nude as pure prudishness. Was this what was in stall for me, too? I certainly had not included the prospect in my slave contract, simply stated the term Body Modifications, indicating some general directions and otherwise left the matter open to interpretation… The fear I felt must have shown in my face, since a broad smile entered Chris’s studded lips when he noticed my cock suddenly come to life, stiffen and stay hard.
Chris poured the content of the plastic bag into a drinking glass, repositioned the bag, told me this was breakfast, stayed to make certain I would finish my “meal” and left me to attend to the coarse stubble covering my body.
The body shaving procedure had since long lost its erotic importance for me, it had become a necessity, a daily routine, and quite a tedious one at that. I had contemplated electrolysis, at least for my chest and the pubic area, but been put off by the costs as well as by some reports I had read about its effectiveness. However, the dream of being completely and permanently rid of all body hair excited me, and I had included the possibility in my slave contract. Maybe there is a method that would release me from this daily ordeal. It cost valuable time, too — just removing and reentering the 30 scrotum rings took about ten minutes, and there was no way of taking short cuts — I really enjoyed the uninterrupted smoothness of my body, and so had several other guys, throughout the years.
When the door opened, an hour or so after my entrance in the bathroom, and My Creator entered, water was still dripping from my body — I had had no time to use the towel. He seemed his usual self, the harshness of yesterday all but gone. He hugged me, but put his hand firmly on my mouth when I tried to tell him how happy I felt about my confidence in him and his ability to interpret my deepest and most secret wishes. He knew without my telling him, I felt certain, as I was certain that I wanted to comply, wanted to please him. There was little choice, of course, especially since I knew deep in my heart that, whatever he choose to do to me, in the end I would feel rewarded, as if given the gift of gifts.
And then he fucked me. Not brutally, not gently, but a genuine horse’s fuck, me on all fours, he with his huge meat up my ass, the steel ring of his body harness teasing my sphincter. He did not come, though, and his cock was still fully erected when he replaced the butt plug. He reached for a towel and started to dry my neatly trimmed hair on my head and face while thrusting his cock into my mouth. My hair was dry when, finally, his cum exploded down my throat.
With a firm grip around my neck he had me keep his cock in my mouth as he motioned me, still on my knees, to a corner occupied by a barber’s chair. He pulled out, and entering the chair took some time, my legs being cuffed and all. My hands were strapped to the elbow rests and from a cupboard he produced a head harness, complete with a dildo which he forced into my mouth. He strapped my harness on to the back of the chair so that my head became immobile, then lowered the back of the chair, for better access to my face.
He certainly had found one method for permanent hair removal. Tears streamed down my face when, with a simple set of pliers, he pulled the hair off my eyelids, straw by straw, until they were completely naked. He was careful not to leave the roots and no hair will ever grow on my eyelids again. At least I hoped so, I was not convinced I wanted to go through this ordeal again. He’d rather nullify me, I thought, hoping that he had not added mind-reading to his many other talents. Some time later, my eyebrows were gone, too, not quite as painfully, but still — the straight appearance, of which I had been so careful, was lost forever.
My head was released, the dildo removed along with the head harness and my body placed in an upright position. I could breathe again, my tears had dried, and I must admit that I enjoyed the familiar sound of electric hair clippers emanating from somewhere behind me. The feel of the cold steel of the clippers on my neck aroused me again and with no mirror in which to watch the result my mind started wandering in anticipation of my approaching baldness. My upper lip felt oddly cold when, with a quick final move with the clippers, My Creator had bared it of my thick dark brown moustache. He ended the session by, wearing black rubber gloves, applying some cream on the area where all that remained of hair was a short itchy stubble. He put some of it on my bare chest, too, and the cream covered areas stung terribly. He left the room and did not return until time had come to put me in the shower. I could but watch the disgusting mess of cream mixed with short hair running down my body and disappering into the sewer..
Judging from the meal I was served for lunch, my stay with My Creator would include liquid nourishment only, if for the purpose of minimizing the need for removing my butt plug or of increasing my production of breakfast I will never know.
The evening meal that day was served to me in my confinement in my cell, where I was brought soon after the hair denuding process. Always wearing the rubber hood was more comfortable now that my head of hair was gone, or perhaps I just had gotten used to it. A couple of days after the first session, I checked my eyelids carefully while shaving my body, my face and head. No hair, thank God. Also the area where my eyebrows used to grow still felt smooth and hairless. My chest, where My Creator had had his experimental field, still produced hair, but more scarce and softer, thinner.
The results encouraged My Creator to repeat the procedure, and after a few more days, I lost track of time, and now I only know that permanent hair removal is a slow and rather painful process. I started longing for the day when My Creator would be convinced that hair would not return anywhere on my body, the day when the monotony of my life would stop. Then one day Chris did not appear to bring me to the bathroom and feed me breakfast. He arrived, later than usual, to my cell to serve my breakfast, left almost immediately, and I started counting the days again. With the exception of the less and less frequent occasions when it became necessary to remove my butt plug I was kept in the cell, in my sleeping position. It later turned out that My Creator had played a trick on me, simply by feeding me irregularly, sometimes double meals each day, sometimes not at all; the eight days I counted until the day I was finally brought to the bathroom again could have been anything between four and twelwe days. Not that time mattered much, in my present position.
Chris never wore anything while indoors and noone else was allowed in the cell area, so from the sound of footsteps I knew something new was going to happen. Yes, this time My Creator had come to fetch me, thus breaking the monotony of the past days. He woke me from the semiconciousness I had become used to call my sleep and brought me to my feet, directing me in the now familiar direction of the bathroom.
An extremely careful examination of my body followed, obviously to his satisfation judging by the way he fucked me that morning. After the act, I was placed in the barber’s chair again, this time with my legs up the back of the chair on top of which he secured the leg cuffs. Then he undid my handcuffs, brought my arms in front of my body and attached them again, told me to hold my arms straight in front of me, lifted my upper body until my hands reached my feet. It was an akward position, and I could see no purpose for it until I realized that, if I stretched my tounge maximally, I was able to lick the top of my cock. It stank of piss and tasted heavenly. “Go ahead”, he said, “all the way”. I struggled hard to come closer to my erected, burning manhood and finally managed to close my lips around my cockhead. Moaning in excitement I sucked until my whole body seemed to participate in an eternal eruption. Semen pumped down my throat, I didn’t waste a drop of it. Exhausted, I would have fallen out of the chair were it not for my arms and legs being secured. Finally My Creator released me and started the preparations for the final treatment.
As it turned out, he now declared my body hairless. I was allowed to touch, and it certainly felt smooth all over and in spite of everything I felt my cock quiver somewhat when my hand slided over my denuded skull. I felt a pang of fear when I discovered stubble circling my anus, the only area too sensitive to be subjected to the depilatory cream, but My Creator only shrugged, declaring that it would be taken care of. I knew what it implied — electrolysis! And the procedure was all prepared for.
He had to silence me for the duration of the electrolysis session — I would otherwise have stirred up the whole neighbourhood. It involved a burning pain like nothing I had ever experienced before, and lasted forever. It was past dinner time when My Creator finally declared that he was satisfied that from this moment my all-over baldness would be permanent.
I did not sleep much that night. My mind kept wandering to the events of the day. I had been allowed not only to feel my hairless body with my hands but to watch my new appearance in the full length mirror that was kept behind an adjustable tiled wall in the bathroom. And I had been allowed to prove my maleness by sucking myself dry, thus feeding me a much needed extra snack, to ejaculate for the first time since I rang his doorbell that fateful evening. I had to get used to the idea that with all certainty it would also be the last time. Ever.
A first final step
I was left in solitude for a few days, using the time contemplating, reminiscing and anticipating my future. I was not bored any more, just relaxed, in spite of my awkward body position, in perfect harmony with what was to come. I didn’t even worry about being nullified any more, if that should be the choice of My Creator. The thought even appealed to me, and maybe some day I would ask him to do it, beg even. But still I wished our ideas were compatible, that he at least would be patient enough to go step by step. Later that evening, Chris arrived, removed the plastic bag that contained my piss and attached the leash to my Prince Albert as usual, but this time he directed me in the opposite direction from the bathroom. An elevator brought us to the basement and judging from the muffled sounds that entered my ears through the rubber hood we entered a room packed with people. Chris, or someone, removed my handcuffs and my arms were tied, wide apart, to something that seemed to be a slighty tilted table. My legs were secured too, with cold steel bands around the ankles and just above my knees. Finally, a waistband prevented me from moving at all.
The light blinded me at first when my hood was removed and it took some time before my eyes could begin to scan the room. I was on a stage! There was a crowd out there, leather and rubber Masters, some of them accompanied by their slaves. They were cheering at me, or perhaps rather at what was going to happen to me, whatever that might be. The cheering grew to a roar when My Creator appeared, wearing a tight fitting leather hood, black rubber gloves, his usual boots and body harness, from which his cock protruded, revealing his exaltation. He looked at me intensely for a moment before ordering me to close my eyes, then fitted a rubber blindfold with hardrubber cups that pressed hard agains my hairless eyelids, hard but not painfully so.
My mouth was forced open and something smooth and cold was put in the cavity. I felt his finger probing my body, finally reaching my stiff meat, which he attached to my stomach by connecting my Prince Albert to my navel ring. Then his gloved hand tugged at my scrotum and I realized that he had begun to remove my scrotum rings — I could hear the clinking sound as they all landed on a steel tray beside the table.
Oddly enough, I was unprepared when a stinging pain emanated from my scrotum. A muffled sound was all I could produce, thanks to the unidentified objects that filled my mouth, but soon I felt no need to scream. The attack of the scalpel, unbearably painful as it was, at the same time represented a glorius dream coming true and as I felt the scrotum slowly slide open, I was proud and excited, my cock swelled against my stomach and the butt plug seemed to perform a hysterical dance in my asshole, my buttocks working hard to keep it in place. The crowd was silent now, as if attending mass, only a soft excited mumble was heard when My Creator removed my left testicle, obviously presenting it to the audience like he would a trophy. The display of the liberated right one caused a prolonged applause, and some even dared shouts of appreciation. The sound level encreased considerably when My Creator forced my mouth open to remove the smooth objects hidden there, only to replace them with something warm and rather slimy which I realized must be the nuts he had just removed. My dazed mind could not figure out how the much larger steel replicas would fit my tortured scrotum, but obviously they did. I could feel his fingers slide the faked nuts into my scrotum, one by one, and stretch the skin around them. I had to fight not to faint when he closed the scrotum with what felt like inummerable little stichtes.
I smelled smoke, and my blindfold was removed. I could see a small fire on the stage and, when as ordered I once again opened my mouth, my original testicles were put to roast on the glow. When done they were auctioned and the highest bidder offered along with a large sum of money the manhood of his two young slaves, who, standing straight with their dog collar chained to their cock rings so tight that thay had to lower their heads, and with hands cuffed behind their backs were each fed one of my roasted nuts. I had to watch them chewing eagerly on my manhood and tried to imagine my nuts passing down their throats and entering their stomachs, in front of which their erected cocks stood at attention.
At last I was released from my confinement, my scrotum aching, my cock released from the navel ring. The hood was back in duty and I was brought, again with a firm tug at Prince Albert, back to my quarters, back to confinement.
I could not tell you how many days and nights I spent in my cell, hooded and tied up as usual. I only know that I had company. I could sense the presence of two other victims of My Creator’s creativity, inhabiting the cells next to mine. I also came to realize that My Creator is a man of surprises and improvisations. It was proved to me by two unexpected visits, both of them including the visit of his cock in my mouth and both bearing evidence of the tattoo needle in action. As a result, the soles of my feet, my hands, yes, even the fingers and the palms, afterwards showed images that matched the ones covering my body up to my neckline.
The second final step
The healing process took its time. Consequently, My Creator showed a rare trace of frustation the day I was summoned for my second performance before an audience. Once again I was strapped down to the surgery table. Once again I could hear the crowd, excited in anticipation of tonight’s show. Once again I could feel My Creator’s hands probing my entire body. This time, though, I kept my rubber hood on. This time, there were no spare parts to be kept in my mouth. Then I could feel his hands, and his instrument, remove my Prince Albert and my Ampallang. I knew then that he would perform according to my wishes, that he had interpreted my hint of the slave contract as I had intended.
Still I cried out when the scalpel with at sudden circular move removed my foreskin, exposing my black tattooed cockhead. By sheer force of will a numbness spread through my whole body by the time the cold steel of the scalpel attacked my piss slit and worked itself through my black cockhead, splitting it in two equal parts. Dazed as if heavliy sedated or high on drugs I could feel the knife working itself slowly, painstakingly down the shaft of my cock. Was this happening in reality, or was it just a dazed dream? I concentrated on my fantasy about the visual effect of My Creator’s performance and on the pure joy of having a secret dream come true. The burning pain still entered my conciousness now and then, so the ordeal must be real enough, and I knew that there was no way of preventing the sharp steel to do its job. It would continue, relentlessly, until it had found its goal at the base of my cock. The sound of the cheering audience, that reached my ears as from a distance, helped me wander off in a fantasy again, away from the pain, the absurdity, the glory of what was happening, right then and there.
Still, I must have passed out, for the next thing I know is that I found myself alone in my cell. I woke up an a cot, not wearing my hood, and realized that I no longer was kept immobile — the restraints on my arms and feet were gone, too. The pain from my genitals had worn off somewhat, and I dared to look down at my body, only to see the bandages covering my crotch. The gauze bandage looked blindingly, obscenely white against my tattooed body.
The first esthetic phase
That evening, I was served the first decent meal since my arrival at My Creator’s house. As a reward for my courage, perhaps, or maybe just to prepare me for the next step of my transformation. I had hoped to meet the cheering audience again, the memory of their appreciation still vivid, but the next morning I was brought to the bathroom again, and secured to the barber’s chair. I could not believe it. There was no hair growing on my body, I was sure of that. The next step would be to peel my skin off, but that shouldn’t be the task of a barber, surely? My Creator entered, forced my mouth open and put behind my teeth something that looked like a wide steel cock ring, preventing me from closing my mouth. Then a strange man joined us, carrying a small suitcase. He approached me, used his thumb and forefinger to expose my teeth, nodded appreciatively and fetched an odd instrument from his suitcase.
Anyone who has had a tooth extracted without a sedative can imagine what I had to go through during the next few hours, before all mine were gone except for one in each corner of my mouth. For those the dentist used a tiny saw to cut them off close to my gums. A few hours later, most of the pain had vanished and a mirror helped me investigate the result of the dentist’s efforts. My gums were a mess, but there was no actual bleeding any more. The four remaining teeth were capped in shining steel. As soon as my gums had healed, I would be able to use them as securing devises for the shining steel dentures, resting on a tray beside the barber’s chair. I noticed that the fangs of the dentures were considerably larger than my original canine teeth.
Before he left, the dentist used his precise instruments to remove all my nails on hands and feet. The pain involved was even greater than the extraction of teeth, but I pressed my lips together so hard that my cheeks suck into my toothless mouth and I managed to supress the urge to scream. With blood still dripping from feet and fingers I happened to look at the tray. There, beside my dentures, lay the items that would replace my 20 missing nails. Two inch long, sharp steel claws.
The second esthetic phase
A week later, my gums were ready to receive my dentures and it was time for me to appear in front of an audience again. This time I was placed center stage in the barber’s chair and My Creator ordered me to open my mouth wide, so that the audience would have visual access to the shining contents of my mouth. Then he strapped me to the chair, secured my head in a heavy steel collar which replaced top of the back of the chair. I heard a buzzing sound and felt a stinging pain when My Creator’s tattoo needle started working at the base of my skull, just above the steel collar.
A couple of hours later I knew that he had filled every inch of my skull, my ears too, with tattoos. During the process, to avoid the pain, I had concentrated on trying to follow his movements to figure out the nature of the images that would stay on my skin for the rest of my life, but to no avail.
My Creator needed a break, and so did I. My head ached, and I was fed coffee and some aspirin. I was released from the chair, only to be ordered to approach the audience, where the outcome of my genital operation were demonstrated. My faked nuts rested seperately in my now divided scrotum. They were not heavy — obviously not made by genuine steel — but big enough to stretch the skin around them to even, tender ovals. He unfolded my divided cock, now completely healed, and to my surprise managed to bring it to full erection, the two halves pointing in different directions from my body. Then he ordered me back in the chair, and, starting on my forehead, worked his tattoo needle down my face until every inch, including the eyelids, had been touched by it.
I had thought that now the ordeal would be over, but not quite. To the crowd’s audible amusement I cried out when My Creator started applying the red colour on the insides of my split cock, changing to black when he reached the cockhead. As a final touch, he used the black for my lips, too.
When he released me from the chair, I knew that my neck must look almost obscenely bare against the tattooes that now covered the rest of my skin. I was standing up, oblivious of the uproar around me, contemplating the work of art he had performed on my hands to forget the throbbing pain in my face and skull, when I felt cold steel touch the skin of my neck. A clinking sound, and the steel necklace fit snugly, even tightly around the base of my neck. The procedure was repeated once, twice… until the fresh tattooes on my face and skull prevented any further development of the neck stretching procedure. My Creator assured the audience that he would resume his work, adding more rings, as soon as it would be physically possible for me to receive them.
I spent the healing period in my cell, my neck secured in a wooden contraption, not unlike a scaffold. I was checked out several times a day by Chris, who would not refer from playing with my healing genitals as soon as he had a chance, and there was nothing I could do about it, not even a verbal protest. The swelling of my black lips had worn off some, but still just moving them was a struggle and, realizing my helplessness, I concentrated on watching — awed, resentful, fascinated — the elaborate, large tattoo that started at his anus, covered his demasculinized crotch, and spread over his stomach up to the navel; a surrealistic version of a female sex organ, surrounded by flames and an endless parade of happy little cocks, all individually drawn and all playfully performing some kind of wild, ritual dance.
Only once during that time I had the pleasure of My Creator’s visit. At the end of the first week of the healing period he entered my cell, bringing with him a pair of tongs and a scalpel, brought me to a sitting position and ordered me to open my mouth. When he entered the pair of tongs between my still sore lips to stretch my tounge out, I thought for a horrible moment that not only was I expected not to speak, in a few minutes I would be unable to, for ever. As usual he would not reveal his plan before it was carried through, but when the operation was over, I realized that my tounge had been cut in two equal halves. It healed quickly, and by the time the last flake of dead skin fell from my lips I had learned to perform small playful tricks with my forked tongue, like squeezing my toothless gums or pressing the tongue to my lower lip until the two halves pointed in different directions. It would take some severe training before I was able to speak properly, though, but who cared? As long as I stayed with My Creator I wasn’t supposed to, anyway. Before leaving my cell he skillfully used his surgical instrument on my toes and fingers, and that night I forgot all pain for the sight of my new claws.
The final esthetic phase
After my last public perfomance, speach training had met with another obstacle, as My Creator began the session by piercing the outer edge of my tounge — in the end it carried steel bars, twelwe in all, shaped like tiny barbells. My tongue swelled immedately and for a moment I feared I would choke. It was a good thing, though, because concentrating on this fear made me care less about the thick needle penerating my upper lip, right at the Cupid’s bow. Unfortunately, my awareness of the here and now was higher when the measure was repeated on my lower lip, and when the wings of my nose were attacked, I could not stop the tears run from my eyes. He pierced the nose four times, twice in each wing, and inserted pins on with crooked steel horns, about an inch long, was attached. For the string between my nostrils he had designed one crooked steel bar, tips ending at the corners of my mouth for the upper hole, and a straight one for the lower one. Later I baptised the pair My Chevy -52, since, worn together, they resemble the front grill of that classic automobile.
After this ordeal, I hardly noticed the rather thick rings he placed in my earlobes, one in each. My fear of choking had vanished, although my tounge was still quite swollen, forcing me to keep my newly penetrated lips a bit apart. No more real pain was involved in that evening’s session, but, as he finished it by adding four more “necklaces” to the six that already adorned my neck I thought I heard, inside my head, a cracking sound as if my spine had been disconnected.
Instead of bringing me back to my cell that evening, My Creator looked at me with a new, warm expression on his face and told me to follow him to his private apartment. He gave me my dentures, which I skillfully put in place, now handling my steel claws on my fingers as if I had been born with them, and followed him.
He had invited some guests for dinner, and for the first time since my arrival I was allowed to meet people from the outside, the real world, or so I thought. They all attented the party in different stages of nudity, and while being served soup and wine — I had to use a straw on account of my still sore mouth — I noticed that, after the first introduction, I was in the centre of their attention no more, and secretely started studying them. Still, not until the handsome guy to the right of My Creator, obviously encouraged by him, got up and started stripping — he didn’t wear much, no rings, no tattoos, just boots, a studded dog collar and his harness — it dawned on me: teasingly, the guy loosened the last strap of his harness, stroked his erected man’s meat — and let it all drop to the floor. The area between his legs just showed the faintest hint of a scar… I was among my peers.
Over coffee and small talk, I got acquainted with all the guests, all of them eunuchs like me and with interesting stories to tell, and I never noticed that My Creator left the room. He returned, carrying my dispatch case and called for silence. He announced that today was they day when his work on me was completed — “for the time being”, he added, mockingly — and I was to return to my own flat. He showed me the contents of my dispatch case — my keys, two steel rings, a letter of introduction, and a new slave contract for my further treatments which he made me sign — and handed the case over to me before accompanying me to his front door.
I was put in the street outside his home and forced to walk the streets to my flat wearing nothing but my tattoos and my jewels and with my split genitals for the whole world to see. For half of the first block I tried to conceal them behind my dispatch case, but quickly saw the futility of it. I let my hands drop to the side and walked proudly, head up high — I really had no choice, had I — the remaining distance. To my amazement I was not arrested, just gawked at.
Of course I did not return to my work. The movie business may be comparatively liberal, but I wanted to avoid situations where I had to explain — and defend — why I had wanted to have my face and hands tattooed, why I had chosen to replace my head of hair with these exotic patterns, why… Besides, I had gotten used to never wearing any clothes, if not for keeping my body warm in cold weather. My wardrobe only contains a pair of black laced leather boots and a full length leather cape.
Thanks to the letter of introduction, I got a new job, and for the last couple of years I have been the manager of a small gay hotel in the city center, close to my flat and the local leather club. My staff consists of close friends from the leather scene — in short, my surroundings are favourable, and even my neighbours, ordinary people in the district, have adjusted to the sight of me appearing as My Creator made me. Nowadays they even comment on, quite favourably, any change in my appearance. Sometimes I answer them simply by stretching out my divided and pierced tongue in their direction, and we all laugh at the tricks I am now able to perform, like having the two halves point in different directions, as if they were never connected.
I have been careful to follow my new slave contract to the letter, and, as instructed, still visit My Creator twice a month for adjustments and/or sex. In the mirrored lobby of my hotel I have the opportunity to see — and expose to the public — the results of his efforts without turning my head; that is quite impossible, now that I am wearing twelwe rings around my neck and begin to doubt that there is room for more.
The first thing I did upon returning to the flat on the first evening of “freedom” was putting steel rings in the still existing holes, formerly the home of my ampallang, in my split cockhead. I wear them now, connected with chains to the rings in my tits, causing my divided cock stand as a red and black V-sign against my stomach. Later, I had a jeweller manufacture two heavy ball stretchers, each designed with a flat surface to accentuate the fact that they each surround one half of my split scrotum without keeping the two halves too far apart. I enjoy the feel of my two faked balls swinging half way down my tattooed thighs and there is an inviting cling accompanying my every move.
Two years — well, 22 months this midsummer, to be exact — is a long enough period for stretching sessions to be effective, and the stud that was originally put in my lower lip has gradually and successfully been replaced by wider items. It now carries a plate, made of steel coloured titanium and with a diameter of three inches. I had wanted the same thing for my upper lip, but My Creator refused, since it would look out of proportion. We settled for a two inch plate and will probably stop there. Two inch rings help keep open the holes in my earlobes, and at our next meeting My Creator will trade them for slightly wider ones. My goal is to have my earlobes match the length of my neck, if it is possible without tearing them apart.
Alone in bed, I sometimes daydream about breaking my contract with My Creator, or talk him into changing it. I am extremely happy the way my fantasies turned out once I dared to realize them, but at the same time I feel a kind of emptiness, as if my imagination have been drained. Now and then, when stroking my split cock to erection or offering my ass to some stud at the leather club, to reach the peak of satisfaction I need an inner vision, and more often than not the image would be the one of Chris, offering me breakfast at My Creator’s house, standing over me, exposing his empty, tattooed crotch close to my face…