By justoneguy

He was a steer now. A steer on a steal table. He felt the cold of the metal through the thin paper sheets on the table—the only thing between the shinny table and his flesh. The former tough guy didn’t really know where he was. But he knew he was not longer a bull. He had felt his balls, cut off by the woman before—a lifetime ago—(was it only a few hours ago?) by the woman in the alley. He had seen his heavy hairy bag, his 20-year-old bag of nuts, fall onto the cold table next to his leg. He had hear the deep hollow THUD that his soft heavy twin orbs had made when their weight impacted the smooth metal surface. He saw one of the strange men around him pick up what was once his—his in the most elemental sense. He scooped up his balls with a swish of his lime green clad arm. The steer felt tears in the corners of his eyes. He turned his head from side to side, trying to focus on his surroundings, trying to figure out who the men were and what they wanted. As he rolled his head against the cold of the table, the steer felt the beaded tears slip from the corners of his eyes and trickle down against his ears. He was planning his escape, of course, at least in his own mind. Each turn of his head was a mighty effort of will, a beginning of his grand design to escape from this place and get back home. But the design was just a vague idea in his head, without detail or momentum. And it was completely improbable. The steer might have felt like a bull gathering his strength for a busting attempt at freedom, but to the green clad doctors around him, the movements of his head were slight, delirious, fevered attempts at movement. They knew he moved his head because it was the only part of his body not bound to the operating table.

He watched in a fog as the men around him lifted his heavy, meaty legs up into stirrups. The steer saw his legs move, but didn’t feel anything other than the cold table against his shoulders and butt. He wondered why he could feel some things and not others. It was like in the health videos from school, when it was time for the woman to give birth. His legs were pulled to either side, wide, like all young guys like to position them when they sit and play video games or watch college sports. He felt the cold air shift around the small hairs of his thighs. The thicker hair of his lower legs moved in the breeze of the room. The men in green moved around him constantly always busy, always moving the air around the table. For a moment, his mind was convinced they were going to cut his legs off, cut right through the strong thick muscles of his legs. He cried out, or thought he did. But the men in green didn’t change their behavior or acknowledge his cry in any way. They busied themselves with their work, while the young steer moaned, coughed, and mumbled in his delirium.

When the steer opened his eyes again, he saw two of the men in green between his raised and outstretched legs. He heard people talking, deep masculine voices. He heard one say: “Neat job, as always. No problem here.” And another replied: “Yeah, shouldn’t take very long. He’ll look real good.”

The steer rolled his head to one side, following the sound of the voices. He felt the cold of the table dully against his wet right ear. And he saw the stomach and hands of one of the green clad men. He didn’t try to look up at his face. It was the silver cart in front of the green clad man that caught his eye and kept his attention. On the cart was a bundle of flesh. The tanish-pink flesh stood out starkly from the bright silver of the cart and the mellow lime of the arms working over it. The steer recognized it. He had seen it every day of his life; he had seen it grow and change as his body matured. He had seen it fondled gently and playfully in the hands of the girls who had wanted to be with him so bad, who had wanted his body as much as he had wanted theirs. He saw the sac of his testicles on the tray. And he saw the green man slice the bag open, filleting it like a fish. The steer felt bile in his throat, but his stomach was empty. He saw the green man lift one plump whitish-gray oval from the open bloody bag.

Tears welled in the steer’s eyes, bathing his cheeks, the side of his face, his ears in salty wet water. The steer let his head roll back into its natural position on the table. His eyes were closed tight, his mouth open in a silent scream of defiance. His head lulled from side to side as if to deny the unfocused and unimaginable reality around him.

“This one had a big sack,” he heard one of the deep voices echo in the room. “Bigger than the last one, certainly. It will make a nice deep hole.”

The steer let his mouth hang open. His nose felt stuffed up. He felt like he couldn’t breath. He heard more sounds around him, around his feet. With a final massive effort, he raised his head and opened his wet eyes. His strong, muscled chest heaved with his gulping breath. His small nipples stood out hard in the cold of the room. He saw the men working between his outstretched legs. He saw his penis. It was strung up on a string, which was wrapped around the flared head of his mushroom like a noose. The string went into the air, up toward the ceiling and out of sight. And it was pulling his flaccid tube straight up into the air. It stuck up as if it was erect, but it was only soft and stretched. Lower on his sausage, around the brown ringed scar of his infant circumcision, the steer saw another string holding his organ up. He thought of his balls then, and in his delirium, he wondered why he couldn’t feel them between his legs, lying against his taint and thighs as he usually did when lying down. He saw the men between his legs working. They were cutting his thick bush of pubic hair from between his legs. Seeing the razor near his tied sausage sent a chill thought his body. He watched as the brown curls of his maturity were cut away. And his neck gave way. With a THUD, the back of his head slammed against the table. His eyes looked out wearily and drearily on the room.

“Good dick on this one too,” He heard a man say.

“Better than Jim’s son. Have you seen that lad at the gym? I should proscribe some hormones for him,” another answered.

“Hey, we are working here. That is totally inappropriate,” boomed another voice, stronger and deeper than the others.

“Still, hard to believe what this guy is losing. I mean, he pissed with that noodle, jerked it off, probably stuck it into half a dozen gals in his life. And he was just getting started. It’s just, wow, it is a hard thing to thing about. I mean, I have a son his age for Christ’s sake.”

The booming voice replied impatiently: “You’ll get used to it. If you stay in this business long. Just remember, once in, you can’t get back out.”

The steer heard the last as a whisper in a hallway. His eyes were shut now, his mind unaware—and at unknowing peace. He didn’t see or hear it when the green clad men skinned the soft skin from his stretched sausage. He didn’t see them fillet the soft pink helmet tip of his penis, careful to preserve as many nerves as possible. He didn’t feel them remove his prostate and carve out the rest of his internal manhood, making room in his pelvis for the excised skin of what was once his scrotum and penis. As he lay dreaming of himself, safe and happy at home, a common everyday bull safe in the world, he didn’t know the men in green were remaking him.

* * *

The next month was a blur of relearning for the steer. It was like being born again. His mind tried to piece together what had happened to him. He was in a hospital bed; a hospital gown and sheets covered his body. He was restrained to the bed, but everything else seemed normal. The room was not cozy, but not bizarre in any way either. It was pretty much like the hospital room he remembered from his father’s gal bladder surgery.

Nurses attended him, some male some female. And a bald doctor in green scrubs visited him once a day. For the first few days, the steer constantly asked about his parents and his girlfriend, wondering when they would visit him. He asked over and over why he was in the hospital. He didn’t feel sick, although he was very sore. But the pain was dull and not really localized to a particular part of his body. He was sedated half of the time, he knew. That was why he kept falling asleep. And when he woke up sometimes two days had passed. He was allowed to watch TV, but he didn’t understand the language of the people. Sometimes he watched American shows, like Friends and ER, but they were dubbed in the strange language. It reassured him a little though, to know that somewhere, everything he knew was still there.

One day the bald doctor came in with a clipboard and sat in a chair next to his bed. This was different. Usually, he just stood in the room for a second, lifted the sheet from the foot of the bed to look at his body, and left. But this time, he smiled and started talking.

“You are progressing beautifully,” he said. He voice was gruff, rough, and deep. He might have looked the part of the pleasant doctor, but his voice put the poor patient ill at ease. “Before you start with your regular questions,” he said with a smile, “I want to get some things straight with you. First, do you remember your name?”

The patient was confused. Of course he did. “Aaron. Don’t you know that? Isn’t it on your chart?”

“I’m asking the questions here,” the doctor said. “There are some things you should get straight. I know your mind is probably still a little cloudy, but I can assure you, all of your memories will return in time. They will perhaps be less vivid than most memories, but again let me assure you, of that you will be thankful.” The doctor shifted in his seat, wrote on his clipboard, and then addressed the patient again. “There are some things you should know. You are not the person you were a few weeks ago. And you will never be that person again. You were born a bull. You are now a steer. And by that name will you be known from now on. No one will ever address you by “Aaron” again. That is a male name, a man’s name, a boy’s name as his father gives it to him. You are not a man, or a male, or even a boy. You are a steer now. And you will now be addressed as Steer. You will answer to this. Do you understand?”

The steer lay in the bed, feeling the cheep white sheet cling to his shoulders and butt as he began to sweet in anger. “What the hell…..”

“SILENCE!” the doctor said, slamming his clipboard against the foot of the bed with a clang. “Steers do not interrupt bulls. You have no station or standing to say anything to me that isn’t an answer to my direct questions.”

And to his surprise, the steer shut his mouth. He lay there in the bed, confused and angry, but silent. He didn’t understand it yet, but this was a sign. The doctor knew that this more docile nature he was displaying, even against his conscious will, was a sign of the emasculation of the steer’s spirit. As it was, the patient just sat in the bed confused and angry. The doctor continued. “Perhaps you don’t understand what I mean by this. Let me show you.”

The doctor flipped the small remote control and turned on the television mounted in the corner of the room. The steer began to watch the scenes on the screen. Scenes of things he had never really thought of in his life. Scenes of gelding, castration, neutering. Dog’s being neutered to keep them in line; horses large balls being clamped and spun with a drill attachment until the large ovals popped free and the stud became a gelding. He saw a bull pulled to the ground and his huge brown sac banded. Then, in time laps, he saw the mighty bag darken to black and fall from the newly made steer. Then he saw a man, a young man of about 18, tied up, naked, his mouth gagged, as a green clad doctor worked between his bound up legs. He saw the lag’s pink ball back cut free from its former owner as he squealed and grunted. He saw another image, of a large man, muscled, hairy of chest and crotch, in his mid-30s it looked. He saw him bound like the horses of the previous scene, on his side, held down by many men, each no stronger than the poor victim was. But they were many and he was few. He saw as the large man, such a strong man, was held as he screamed, a high pitched guttural scream, as another man knelt between his legs. He saw the man band and slice the large man’s hairy scrotum and balls from between his large muscular legs. And the man screamed, cried, and thrashed. There where no words in his scream, just primal guttural rage, fear, and pain. He had been such a strong man. Now, he was a steer.

The patient vomited into a trashcan at his side. The doctor rolled his eyes. “That will be enough of that.”

The steer raised up in the bed, pulled at the arm restraints. “You people are crazy. I’m getting out of here,” he said, but there was little conviction in his tired voice.

“Where would you go? Would you want to face your parents or your friends now that you are a steer? What about your girlfriend? Do you think she would want you now?”

The patient pulled at the restraints and looked down at his arms, still strong and muscled, with brown hairs on his forearms. “I’m a man. I’m no fucking steer.”

The doctor smiled. “I know these last few weeks have been hard on you, and you can’t remember very much. But let me assure you, there is no going back. You couldn’t escape from here if you wanted to. And after a little while, you won’t want to. You might lose the will to life, that happens quite a lot. But you won’t be killed by us and you won’t want to go home. You will either want to die, and from depression do so, or you will want to live, no matter what, and conform to the new life you have.”

The patient shook his head. He wanted to say, “fuck you,” but he couldn’t find the words. It was hard to focus his thoughts.

“Allow me,” the doctor said. He reached over unclasped the patient’s hands. At first, the steer didn’t know what to do. He moved his free hands up to the doctor, as if to grasp his neck. But the doctor just swatted them away. “Oh, please. Stop playing a role you are no longer equipped for. You’re less than half may age, with more muscle mass than me, although that will soon change. And I could beat you down in a second. So stop playing the fool. We’ve taken the catheter out, as you have been begging for days. And I thought you might like to go to the rest room on your own. If you do, then hurry up. If you don’t then stay in the bed.”

The doctor turned to leave, but stopped in the doorway. He heard the patient scoot off the bed, heard his bare feet plop onto the tile floor. He turned and watched the patient shuffle slowly and painfully into the small bathroom beside his bed. When the bathroom door closed, the doctor walked back into the room and pressed his ear against the cheep wood of the door. He heard the patient in the room, shuffling, working with his hospital gown, pulling it up to piss into the toilet.

“Oh fuck!, oh god, What, what, aaaagghhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

And then he heard a mighty thud of a steer, with his still heavy and muscled body, thud completely onto the floor. When he opened the door, the doctor expected to find the steer passed out, which was pretty typical. But this steer wasn’t passed out. He was in the corner of the bathroom, where he had fallen, curled up like a little league player who had taken his first pitch to the groin. Tears streamed down his masculine face. His knees were pressed to his masculine chest. “What, what, what did you do. What did you do to me, oh god!” he sobbed.

“Now you’re acting like a steer,” the doctor said with a smile.

to be concluded?............