You're so quiet now. The shock is setting in, isn't it? Good. Let it. I want you to just lie there, perfectly still, and listen. Look at you. From this angle, lying down, it's completely gone. There's just a smooth, pink expanse of skin where a man used to be. I could show you off. I could invite my friends over for tea and have you serve us, naked, this new, smooth groin of yours on full display. We could use you as a little table. A warm, flat coaster for our juice flutes. Imagine the humiliation, pet. Imagine their "Oh, Faith, what a lovely little ottoman! But where does he keep his... you know?" And I would just smile and say, "He doesn't. He gave them to me. I ironed them out of existence. The laughter would be deafening. And you would just have to stand there, a blank, gelded freak, a living monument to your own pathetic inadequacy. You’d be less than a man. Less than a eunuch. You’re a nullo. A smoothie. A Ken doll with the plastic melted off. I'm going to call you 'Smoothie'. Or maybe 'Flatty'. Or 'Ironing Board'. That has a nice ring to it. "Ironing Board, come here! I have a hot pan I need to set down on your face!" Because that's what you are now. A piece of furniture. A utility. Your face still has a use, I suppose. Your mouth and tongue still work. That will be your new, sole purpose for existing. A tongue that will never, ever feel the pleasure of a cock in its own mouth again, but will be endlessly used to service my strap-on. A mouth that will worship the very real, thick, veiny cocks of the men I choose to actually fuck, while you kneel in the corner, smooth and forgotten. You'll watch a real man, with a real, heavy, functioning set of balls and a thick, throbbing cock, slide into me. You'll hear my genuine moans. The sounds of a woman being truly satisfied. Sounds you could never, ever produce. You'll watch his heavy sack slap against my clit, a sound and a sensation you will never, ever know. And when he's done, you'll crawl over and clean his cum out of me with your tongue. That’s the closest you'll ever get to sex again. Tasting a real man's victory in your Goddess's pussy. That is your new orgasm. That feeling of complete and utter, pathetic humiliation. Look at you. Look at what's left. Or rather, what isn't. I spent twenty minutes pressing out your existence, and now I just want to stare at the void I created. This smooth, pale, hairless plane where a man used to be. You're not a man anymore. You're a surface. A shelf. A blank space I might rest my hand on while I check my phone, scrolling through pictures of real cocks, cocks that matter, cocks that could actually fill me while you lie here, flat and forgotten. Real men with real cocks, stroking themselves to the image of your complete nullification. And you LOVE that, don't you? This pathetic little wet spot on the board. You're aroused. But aroused how? You have no shaft to stiffen. No head to pulse. Just this... diffuse, helpless heat spreading across your ironed-flat crotch. ** To SUPPORT my VIDEO PRODUCTION ... if you want to see NEW VIDEOS of me - TIP me 5000$.