Blue collar Master, white collar slave Part 2

wants.

Daddy has again shown me the photo book and I have seen the pictures of

my castration. They are so very hot and even though it was easily the

most painful and degrading experience of my life, because of it in fact,

they excite me enormously. My tiny, nearly limp and still heavily

pierced cock stirs and tries unsuccessfully to get hard every time I see

those pictures. One is particularly good: I am strapped down in Daddy's

gynecological examination chair. My calves are strapped to my thighs and

my feet with their pink stiletto boots dangle sexily in the air. My legs

are pulled as wide and far back as they can be, exposing my crotch as

much as possible. My body is held firmly by at least seven straps and I

sit, not on a seat but on a giant dildo-pole, which can be seen clearly

filling me up. There is no bandage obscuring the view of my empty crotch

as Daddy used a strange and very painful spray to cauterize the wound.

Instead you can clearly see the stitches where my balls once were and

equally visible is the newly inserted steel ring, the one that has now

taken the place of my manhood as a constant reminder of my lack of worth

and inadequacy.

My head is turned up and to the side and here too there is no blood from

the removal of my teeth. The only liquid visible in the picture is that

of my tears flowing freely down my face. I am looking up if nothing else

because my face is forced upwards as Daddy deep-throats me, the outline

of his cock visible disturbingly far down my throat. Although Daddy's

weapon is forced into my mouth all the way to the hilt, my lips

enveloping the root of his tool and touching his abdomen, and I am far

too close to his body to see his face, my eyes are turned upwards,

begging, pleading and desperately trying to signal my love, devotion and

utter submission.

I can still remember that feeling of glorious defeat, of being made even

less worth and giving up even more of myself to Daddy. I remember