I had plans to spend the day in my garden, but then I looked at you and realized—why bother with flowers when I can prune something far more useless? Those pathetic balls of yours. You don’t need them. Not when your only real purpose is to serve a goddess like me. Life is clearer, quieter, and far more submissive without the constant hum of manhood in your system. I toy with the dull garden shears in my hands, threatening a little homegrown emasculation, letting you flinch and whimper at the edge of my power. I remind you that the only pleasure you’ll ever know from now on comes through my body—or from whatever cock I decide should stretch that neglected little prostate of yours. You brace yourself for the snip, desperate and helpless under my gaze. But since you were so good about sheering those balls for me already, maybe I’ll save the real transformation for another day. After all, I love making you wait.
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