Coming in for your usual counceling appointment, you’re surprised to see someone new. I greet you and tell you to sit, explaining that, indeed, I’m not your usual counselor. I’m her substitute. Then, casually, I mention that she probably won’t be coming back. I’m in charge of you now. She handed you off to me because this is my area of expertise. I introduce myself as Miss Miller. You won’t be calling me by my first name.

Clipboard in hand, I flip through the notes your old counselor gave me, scanning the extensive observations written throughout. With my heels planted, I stand taller than you so that you have to look up at me - from my shiny bl*ck pumps to my green lace-up-front pencil skirt to my tan ribbed halter crop top, and finally to my picture-perfect smiling face and smoothed-back long red hair. The view keeps you in a stunned silence, awed at the sight standing before you.

Let’s get to the point, shall we? Your whole life you’ve been dealing with a very, very small (ahem) situation down there. You don’t please women, and when you do get an opportunity, it strangely doesn’t work out the moment they notice what you’re working with. Correct? So tell me, what is the point of having such a teeny-tiny wiener when it has never done you or anyone else any good? That was rhetorical. I figure you might as well get rid of it. Yes. That’s right. Get! Rid! Of! It!

Since I’m a firm believer in no l*ttle c*cks allowed, I’ve created a specialized program with really only one solution to your itsy-bitsy problem. Self-castration is the only way. A l*ttle snippy-snippy and your problem goes bye-bye, along with your pathetic excuse for a p*nis. I’m not just interested in you losing your tiny pea-sized acorns - that’s your b*lls if it wasn’t clear. I want the whole package gone. ALL OF IT! Kind of like a Barbie doll. Want to bring women pleasure? Finally? This is the way.

Don’t worry. I’m giving you choices. I am benevolent, after all. In this session, I will lay out all of my specialized removal protocols just for you. After all, I’m the only one who knows how to handle sadly minimized situations like yours, and it’s not up for debate. There is no argument. I define reality - and I’m about to define yours.

As I begin to explain - in detail - the various methods self-castration, modeling some of them with precise hand gestures to remove any confusion, I see you pale, causing my grin to widen. One of these protocols include taking thick bands, and cinching them as tightly as possible - one around each pitiful b*ll sack and an additional one around that depressingly itty bitty thing you c*ll a c*ck - dangling uselessly between your legs (I don’t know if it’s even long enough to “dangle”). Each day, you’ll cinch the bands tighter, until everything just pops right off! Another options is to have them surgically removed. Or there’s even a route of using injectables, sticking a special fluid right into your delicate l*ttle lady b*lls and clitty c*ck. Not just once, but many times a day over many many days. This method allows you to experience just a taste of the turmoil you put women through who are unfortunate enough to see your microscopic dingle berries.

After I’ve finished laying out the options, I search through my research notes - pen tapping, then moving to check off boxes. I drum my fingers on the clipboard as I pause to articulate what’s next in your exclusive program. Sighing happily, I realize I didn’t miss a thing.

I look up when you make a strange whimpering noise like you’re about to say something. Oh? Did you want reassurance? Wrong office! This is what you get. Me. And you should consider yourself lucky I decided to help. Your homework is simple: choose one of the removal protocols and report back to me upon completion. When I see you next, I expect it done. You don’t want to know what will happen if you fail. So. It looks like you better get going.

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