Indian Beauty In London

Thewhole arrangement was distressing at a deep level. As well as theconstant physical discomfort it created, it attacked the fundamentalcore of his male identity, effectively neutering him and laying thefoundations on which all the other, multitudinous layers of feminizingdebasement could be heaped.It worried him too that they prevented him from seeing while they washedor changed him so that now he couldn't even remember the last time he'dseen his own penis. At best, when he was able to look down, he saw theflat front of whatever girlish underwear they'd put him in for the dayor the naked latex mound of 'his' pundendum and the start of the cleftbetween the two subsidiary swellings of the vagina's smooth outer lips.It worried him that they did not want him to see, a worry made worse byhis testicles. He didn't know what was wrong with them, what they haddone, but they just didn't feel right. At first he had been consumedwith worry; he could remember waking up after they worked on his. "Hello ... Karen... ?" I've rarely heard Dee so hesitant or lost for words."No." The girl paused, drawing out the next words so they flowed like honey over a knife. "Caran d'Ache."Dee's double take was riotous, her recovery remarkable. Still looking at the girl, she spoke, this time with absolute certainty. "You Bitch... !!!" Then as the smile spread across her face, she added softly, "you're welcome."Meanwhile the girl had picked up her coat and placed the large gift-wrapped parcel upon the counter, the look in her eyes pure invitation as she grinned, "I wish I was your present." Then with a wink she spun and headed for the door, her exit accompanied by the sound of ripping paper as Dee lost no time opening my thank you gift.Ordering the water soluble colour pencils had been easy, the artist supply shop eager to sell the largest set they stocked, the second call to the kiss-o-gram company was easy, if weird, not for me but for them. Late Monday afternoon is not their busiest time, to.
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