The Teamviewer Mature Files

"You see. All is set right, Miss Hernandez."

"But, that's not me," I said with defeat in my whisper.

She had that button in her hand, and she pushed it briefly, zapping the forgotten zapper they'd put inside my metal neck collar.

I yelped, then realized my error and pushed out an oink.

"Of course it is not you, Miss Hernandez," the woman said when the screen went blank. "Silly white woman. He is a professional man, well above your station. Be careful with your filthy tongue, when slandering people."

I whispered, "No, he's an illegal—"

"What are you going on about, Miss Hernandez. This line of thinking will only cause you misery." She touched the zapper, but thought better of it, instead yanking my nose ring and twisting it before leaning into my face. "You don't even know this person, so why persist? You will forget that name and never again let it enter your mind. One more word about it, and I will see to it that you are severely disciplined in a prison cell. Life in prison is a strong possibility for repeat offenders."

"Life?"

"For a fact, and as a sissy bitch. Foreign identity-thieving terrorists in particular. Never mention that name again, Nancita! Impersonating a professional black man is a serious crime that will cause permanent difficulty. New laws regarding black rights are being enacted, as we speak, this chief among them." She pulled the sheet out from under me, wadded it up and tossed it into the trash, as well. That only left the one picture, of me, Miss Nancita Hernandez, the woman in America on a worker's visa. I was Miss Nancita, a worker on a Visa, no more. It was the only thread remaining to life itself, thinner than a thong.

"Now, do not make us late for B3, Nancita. The sooner we finish there, the sooner you'll be done and fed."

Done and fed? Damn straight I wanted to get that B3 thing beyond me.

She yanked me up by the arm, being a solid hundred and fifty pounds of woman, and thus fifty pounds stronger than I. Whoever I was. I wasn't Joe Anderson anymore, and it'd be dangerous to tell people that I was Joe without a serious plan. I had no idea what that would be. Maybe the best thing to be would be to tell nobody. If I fled, I'd be an illegal person, with no credentials. I could do that. I could be an illegal alien. People did that, didn't they? People made by as illegal aliens...minimum wage, farm hands or something. My accountant credentials were useless. I'd be washing car windows, for tips if I stayed in the city.

With those thoughts in my head, I waddled down the hall and into the elevator, palms facing the floor, ass going side to side, making sure to exaggerate in my heels with my naked tits bouncing like Jell-o.

"Don't forget to oink like a sow, or I'll be forced to tongue you, bitch!" The key to my lock dangled on a necklace between her breasts. Marcus still had the one to my limp dicklet. What was that plan with Marcus now? Just a bus ride. Hell, skip the bus, if he could just give me a lift ten miles west of the city. Shit! Whatever. I'd prefer the bus ride. That was at least something. Maybe I could go to night school and take my CPSs as Nancita? I just had to get through the day!

I couldn't think straight anymore. Instead I found it much easier to say, "Oink, oink, snort, oink!"

We picked up another pair on floor one, and the two of us who were white sissies, were made to squeal in harmony, she in a high C and me in an even higher falsetto, which a few months ago hadn't even been possible.

###

They were taking over the country, getting even for all the meanness whites had enacted on blacks over the centuries. It was so clear to me now, and this was no longer a simple case of one idiot being careless and letting himself be Teamviewer blackmailed. Some group had come up with a corporate expansion plan, using our internet to bigger social advantage. We white men were the targets of some sadistic black group of hunters.

How many would it take to tip the balance of power, anyway? Blacks were seventeen percent of the population and Hispanics another twenty. The fact is, whites were almost a minority, and that made white men twenty-five percent of the population. Notch that down to fifteen percent by turning a few million into sissies, and nothing could stop a determined party from putting us in the cotton fields for a new kind of getting even for past sins. They were turning history around and making white men into slaves. And, we deserved every bit of that result, after what we'd done as a race to blacks for generations, not to mention other groups. Everybody would go along with it.

Being cocky and free and wanting sex every way imaginable, our own dicks and balls had sold away our lives and those of our future generations.

For a fact, my dick only worked to piss out of, and my balls were no more than the source of total despair. The way Marcus had had the piercer fold my balls around my penis and lock it pointed at my ass, I might as well have had a pussy. My junk was nothing but a huge misery anyway. What good was it? Shoot, I'd been born with a horrible dick and mind-controlling pair of balls, the source of my undoing.

Two tables with wheels were waiting for us right outside the elevator. We sissies were made to strip of anything left on us and lie on one table each. We were directed to put our legs up in the short stirrups a few inches high on either far corner. They latched our ankles into those with little belts. They put another belt over my chest, taking care to situate it just under my breasts and cinch it under the table where I couldn't reach. They left my hands free, but it felt weird holding them at my chest or down to the sides. With only the three little belts, I was helpless, while seemingly not all that encumbered by bondage devices.

Incredibly, the mistress stuffed a comfortable pillow under my head. She removed the lock from my tongue and even had the key to my chastity, freeing my dick from between my balls. I couldn't believe it, but I thought she was trying to make me comfortable.

The other sissy didn't have his dick locked, and that's when it occurred to me that I'd been the only one with my dick locked backwards between my legs. On the heels of that thought, a white nurse came out and took some paperwork from the mistress. "What's with the lock on his penis?" she asked.

"His handler did that. Sometimes they go nuts at the piercer. It's not authorized. We'll have a talk with him," the mistress said.

Damn. Marcus had just been fooling with me, the rat. He did have that weird sense of humor. What a relief to know my dicklet didn't have to be locked up, maybe from now on.

The mistress continued, "Not that it matters, but this metal might get in the way. Just get this bitch's ID band, and IV it up. We've not fed the thing in two days, and a starved slave can't work."

"Jesus, she must be starved," the white nurse said.

"Ma'am."

"Ma'am, she must be starved," the professional nurse said to the gopher mistress. I this case the woman didn't seem cowed as much as forced to respond that way. That's when I started to realize that more things were going on than us white men fucking up our boys club.

The nurse wheeled away the other sissy and the mistress left entirely, leaving me in the hall, two ankles belted a few inches up off a flat bed-table thingy. They hadn't put a sheet over me, so I was positioned totally obscenely. Obviously it was an operating table. I started looking at myself and wondering what they could possibly want to cut on? I already had tits. My facial features had altered due to the genetic crap. Even my hips appeared wider and everything more rounded, other than where all the bones showed through. What the hell was left?

Of course I wasn't completely naked. I did have a metal collar, tit rings, hoop earrings, rings in my dick and perineum, another ring through my tongue and one in my pig snout. It'd be useless trying to go through an airport metal detector ever again; they'd end up putting me in a room for ten hours of probes.

That got me chuckling. I mean, how pathetic can it get? Who gave a shit what they ringed on me at this point. Joe was dead. They'd murdered him, done the autopsy and laid him six feet under months ago. Why did it even matter that someone else carried Joe's credentials and life path; it was just one of a billion other lives to which he was not even remotely connected. I wasn't Joe. Lots of people were CPAs with names like Joe, so it was just like that, some other dude going through his own situation, of which I had no concern. Why did it still feel personal to a dead man and resurrected bitch? Damn, but I was holding on to a ghost by no more than memory. Nothing at all tangible remained of it.

It was impossible to be more fucking accessorized than I'd become. And then they came to wheel me in.

Teamviewer Femdom File

By jo199

Chapter Eighteen.

The nurse started feeding the IV into me by hooking the bag of sugar water up on a stand. To that she squeezed in a syringe of something lethargic. Once done making me feel all buzzy, she started rubbing orange antiseptic all over my boobs, neck and groin.

This got me panicked, lifting my head, looking all around, squirming from the hips. "Fuck me. Fuck me," I groaned.

"You should have thought about that a long time ago," she said while motioning out the curtain.

That black mistress came in and helped her adjust the things that held my ankles to the end of the cart. Soon my ankles were a foot higher off the cart and I'd been stretched out more so I had no room to wiggle. They put leather cuffs on my wrists, and secured them to the sides.

"Help. No. No, I don't want to do this. I'm not giving consent." I'll be damned if I let them tattoo or pierce or dilapidate the last 3 hairs on my body without at least a high-pitched lisping complaint.

"Honestly, bitch, do you think real people cares what a thing like you wants?" the black mistress said while putting her finger over that zapper button again.

"Not here. She needs to be in decent condition for medical," the white nurse said.

Thank god someone cares about me.

"Ma'am!" the black mistress grabbed the white nurse's jaw and scowled into her face.

"Sorry, ma'am."

"Don't forget again, whitey."

"Yes ma'am."

They both departed, leaving me to glare up at the big round light array and various tables of instruments and pulse monitoring and air devices found in the surgical theatre.

The doctor came in, still putting on his blue latex gloves. He was white, but he appeared exhausted, like he'd already put in a full day. "Damn, we used to spend some time marking up the breasts and studying the best options, where to cut—"

"Hell, it's just a white boi," a chubby black nurse said, like she was the doctor's boss. "Stop complaining. We're only doing one an hour; what you think we got all day? Shit, I get a fifty buck kicker for every one we do, so hurry up with that. If you cost me my bonus, I swear to god...!"

The nurse is the boss!

Just the thought of a sadistic nurse in charge of the doctor got me wreathing on the table even worse. I moaned, "No, no, please...." These people didn't care about me, and clearly they were about to do something major. This didn't look like just hair removal or a piercing.

The white nurse was not amongst them. She was probably just prep. A black anesthesiologist was, however, and she responded to the black nurse's comment by saying to me, "We'll be starting in a moment, Roanna." And that's the last thing I recalled until I woke up in pain.

###

We were wall to wall in recovery. The room might have been no more than 50 feet wide by half as many across, but two rows of white bois were on our surgery-room tables, with only a foot of space between us. I counted eighteen of us in all. Everyone had a kind of pasty, shocked look upon their faces.

The ceiling was twelve feet up, and our instructions had been painted across the tiles, like they had been set in stone months, if not years, ago: TOTAL SILENCE! NO DRUGS FOR PAIN WILL BE FORTHCOMING, SHOULD YOU SPEAK! ALL HANDS MUST REMAIN AWAY FROM SURGERIES FOR SANITARY REASONS.

The aches were serious. Both of my breasts throbbed. My groin was one of those nines on the pain chart I squirmed, clinched my ass, tried breathing in halting heaves, everything.

A nurse came in and checked my IV, did blood pressure, and seemed oblivious to the way I was gasping for air, shifting around, perspiring a bucket. Finally she produced a syringe from a smock pocket and stabbed it into the IV line. I felt the room start to spin nicely as she walked away to deal with a boi next to me. She did this, right up the line.

Two other nurses would wheel one person out from amongst us after they were satisfied with oxygen and stability. As soon as a spot opened up, another boi was wheeled in from the operation theatre. It looked like they were doing four or five of us an hour.

I started doing math again. Five an hour, forty a day, two hundred a week, a thousand a month, ten or so thousand a year. There were maybe two million people in our area, of which 650,000 are white men, so over five to seven years or so it'd be ten percent of us. But wait. Had they meant they were competing nationally, or were there more of these places in my own home town?

I wanted to feel my breasts. I couldn't see them because of a thin white sheet, but they seemed a little bigger. Obviously they'd done something. My groin, however, was the real concern. I had all sorts of pains from that area, some of them feeling like I was being stabbed. Parts felt numb, which had me even more concerned.

Finally, my neck felt like something was on it, and after looking at the other men, I realized we all had a big bandage over our throats. None of the ones I looked at seemed bulged, like you'd expect if they hadn't shaved the Adam's apple. Most of the men had wraps on their chins, too, suggesting plastic surgery to reduce those. Of course I hadn't had that done because the genes had chiseled much of my face already. I had half the chin I used to, and it had both narrowed and softened, as if I was somebody else. Shit, I was someone else.

The drug was doing wonders, so I was in la-la land by the time they wheeled me down a corridor, up an elevator, and into a room with five other men like myself. We all seemed like we were in the same state of our recovery.

The good thing was they'd taken that lock off the ring in my tongue, so I could maybe talk closer to normal. The bad thing was that talking was forbidden in our room, too. Big signs were everywhere. One had an arrow pointing to a small microphone inset into the wall. Another arrow pointed to a video monitor.

We were all eyes, though. A nurse came in to undo all our bound ankles and the one over our stomachs, thus one by one taking us to the bathroom to do our duty there.

I walked in and was made to sit. When I touched my dick I found it, but a jolt of pain ran up my groin when I did. They had me in a short catheter that dangled a couple inches out my pee hole. When I let go, piss drained out the thing, telling me it wasn't up clear to my bladder, so I had some control.

They'd painted everything down there with orange antiseptic and left some kind of stitches to heal without bandages.

Since all the hormones my cocklette had shrunk a goodly amount, maybe topping out at three inches, and it was no longer capable of erecting to a full five or more. Despite the warnings, I had to touch my dick again, even though it was painful (even with the drugs). It was still there. I think. I couldn't feel parts of it with my fingers because of numbness, but it was there; I felt the mushy head.

Wait a minute!

I felt around more, and it seemed that the head was just kind of there, poking out from my body. Where is the rest of it?

I felt around for the shaft, and there was the foreskin, but it was all bunched up, like I had extra skin near where I also felt lots of stitches. No, wait a minute. I stood in the bathroom and moved to catch the light.

There is was; my dick head. The shaft was just short because of the hormones and being scared and—no! I didn't have a shaft. I had stitches, and almost all the original skin and a dick head that poked out when I worked back that skin, but even that tended to hide until I took a goodly amount of time to move the skin away.

All I have is a dick head! Oh my god, they carved all the meat out of my shaft and just left me with skin and an inch of dick head to piss out of. No wonder it hurt so much, and in such a general, all over fashion. All that skin only made it likely that I'd have to dig, just to find my dick head. Could the dick head even get erect on its own? The way it sat, it was largely invisible, half inside my body, maybe at most a half inch outside.

Shit! I have a half inch pecker! Maybe even if I could take a blue pill and get an erection, I only would have a half inch pecker. Most clits were bigger than mine.

The nurse finished bringing another man to his toilet, and she recovered me.

I'm sure I walked like a zombie, and that my face was paste while wheeling along my IV stand. She helped me lie back in my bed and smiled. God, she knew, and was getting a ride out of it.

A second black nurse came in, to whom she sure-enough said, "I love it when they realize."

"Dickless little nullos," the second nurse said. Jesus, the second nurse looked all of eighteen; a candy striper. She leaned her face right down at mine, and slowly said, "You, white boi, are a dickless little nullo! No more raping women for you."

I started to cry.

"Stop that. We want them calm," the older nurse said, though with a hint of a chuckle.

They both departed.

Nullos?

I reached down even further, being careful to not make it obvious, since they had cameras and seemed intent upon not letting us explore. Past the bulge of skin hiding the head of my missing dick, and onward down to....

Shit. I didn't even have the scrotum sack. The only thing down there was a tight seam with staples in it.

At the same time as I made my discovery, the man over from me whispered in a wailing tone, "God, they took my balls."

Maybe they put them into his tits because they were ridiculously big, maybe D cups, and since I'd not noticed anyone with more than an A plus, since arriving, they'd be those really fake looking ones with tiny areolas, stretching the skin preposterously. Somehow that made me feel a little better, knowing mine had probably gotten implants too, but I at least would look natural.

Don't misunderstand, I was still horrified and panicked, feeling like they'd murdered me.

I glanced around at the faces of all the other men, and realized I'd been the last to find out. Or, maybe the guy who'd opened his mouth had been last because he was openly weeping, all of a sudden. The other men just had pasty faces of despair. One had even been drooling, like he'd lost all hope entirely and lost his mind.

The nurse came in and smacked a Little Kitty sticker onto the head of the man who'd spoken. It was ridiculous. They also strapped the ankle belts back on and the one across his chest. "No pain drugs for you for twelve hours."

Then they left him like that.

The night passed.

Marcus?

It seemed like a lot had happened, and my mind was racing to recalculate. He'd be picking me up, still. Maybe not tonight! I started to hyperventilate.

Alright, he'd be here soon as I recovered, though. Marcus was reliable. He'd have to come get me. Surely they didn't just pack this place without sending people home. There was a front door filling up, so there had to be a back on, pushing us out.