Medical fetishism – Castration

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Medical fetishism – Castration


Medical fetish encompasses quite a number of sexual fetishes which are derived from the realms of medicine and related fields. It could be that perhaps one is attracted and aroused by a medical professional and it can also include a sexual attraction to medical objects or procedures.

There is a large section of the BDSM scene devoted purely to medical fetishism with lots of professional mistresses offering medical BDSM sessions to slaves.

The equipment used by some of the professional medical mistresses is in fact the same equipment as used by real-life health professionals. However, the way the equipment is used is not to cure the patient but to stimulate, seduce and satiate.

Traditionally, medical Mistresses wear rubber or tight latex and have an air of a professional medical practitioner about them, however outlandish. But this doesn’t necessarily have to be the case.

There is a clear difference between somebody who has a medical fetish and somebody who gets off by indulging in a session with the medical mistress. Of course, there are some overlapping areas from which role-play can be derived. Ultimately all paths lead to sexual gratification.

The psychology of the Castration fetish.

In psychoanalysis, the word “castration” is associated with several others that define it and that it in turn defines. These include “anxiety,” “threat,” “symbolic,” “fear,” “terror,” “disavowal,” and above all “complex.” Beyond the everyday connotations of the term, the specifically psychoanalytic definition of castration is rooted in the act feared by male children, namely the removal of the penis. The essential connection between “castration” and “complex” derives from the fact that psychoanalysis views the castration complex, in tandem with the Oedipus complex, as the organizing principle of psychosexuality and, more broadly speaking, of mental life in general.

A real account from a slave in a Fetish castration scenario.

Kneeling on the floor at her feet, he heard the news he had long-dreaded.

“I don’t believe you when claim to be a loyal, devoted, dutiful slave. If you were, you wouldn’t look forward to sexual relief every couple of days. Yes – you do what I ask but you always look for a sexual reward, don’t you. I don’t think it’s acceptable.”

She paused.

“That’s why I’m going to castrate you. Now I don’t believe in prolonged ritual torture for a slave of whom I am very fond – but we have to get on with this. That’s why I’m going to do this late at night when you’re completely relaxed and not fully awake. You need to get used to sleeping on the bench – it will soon feel familiar to you – but first you need to accept and understand the change of life that’s going to happen to you. Your duties will be as before – it’s just that there will be no relief afterwards.”

“Do you understand”, she questioned forcefully?

“Yes mistress.”

From that night on, he slept strapped down to the whipping bench – as he tried to get used to the environment when the moment came. And when it did come there would be no futile resistance and no  dramas. Just a passive stoic acceptance of the final change in his life. Night after night he climbed up on the bench, then she strapped him down, a small towel for a pillow. It was bearable if not comfortable. The straps were tightened, and she placed a small collar around his penis, with straps attached . It was tied to separate his penis from his balls, which then hung free, dangling in the air. Then she would place the medical trolley near to him so he could see it. The shiny steel trays containing the syringes and ampoules of local anaesthetic. The myriad scalpels. The thread to be used to suture. Bottles of alcohol for quick sterilisation. All arranged so that when the moment came there would be minimal fuss. Then she would dim the lights on the ceiling, enough for him to get rest as he lay face down, but bright enough for her to see what she was doing when the time came.

Before she left, she would touch the back of his head, then say “sleep well” in a quiet, soft voice. Finally she would just gently squeeze his balls with her fingers as they hung freely. And with that she was gone and the door closed.


The first few nights had been tense as he lay there anticipating the inevitable. The light in the corridor was bright. He could just see it creeping through the crack under the door. After a while he dozed, overcoming his sense of helpless panic as fatigue took its toll on his consciousness. Sometimes he would hear her stiletto-heel boots walk slowly past the door – then away again. Sometimes she would pause outside, her presence interrupting the slim, bright crack of light creeping under the door. He could scarcely breathe, waiting for the door to open. Sometimes she would walk away briskly. Occasionally the door would open. His heart was in his mouth – but then she would quietly leave the room, the door closing behind her retreating footsteps.

On other nights he realised there were two people outside. He would hear hushed voices, murmuring, the light under the door flickering as their stiletto heels moved around, then went away again. On one occasion, both figures entered the room. He could hear their footsteps – even though they were out of vision.


And so it went on night after night as he struggled to contemplate the life ahead of him – thinking about tomorrow’s chores, the shower needed doing, boots would have to be polished, cocks cleaned, bins emptied. Thinking about how painful the transition would be, coming to terms with the end of his sexual desire.


He heard the footsteps approach – two pairs tonight, he thought. The light under the door dimmed slightly. He was used to this. Then there was no movement. Silence. He dozed off again assuming they had moved quietly away. He slid deeper into sleep. Silently, slowly the door opened. Two figures entered on tiptoe. He only became aware of their presence when one gently pinched his nose and as his mouth opened to breathe, slipped a rubber ballgag into it. He tried to talk, but she covered his mouth.

“shhh – shhh – shhh – just relax”, she whispered. “We’ll be quick as we can. Try not to panic. We’ll be very quick I promise you. It’s going to be alright – it’s all for the best”.

He heard the tinkle as they prepared the stainless steel instruments on the trays.

He thought he heard the Castratrix speak: “Start with that one”, but he couldn’t be sure. Then he felt a prick in his testicles. The prick which became a sharp stabbing pain at the top of his testicles. Then another, and another.

A whispered voice – “be numb in a minute”. A murmur of assent from the other.


The two figures hardly moved.

The voice again. “Pinch it”.

He felt something but he wasn’t sure what.

“Pinch again”.
“Hmmm. Nothing.”
“Ok – numb”.

Again the tinkle of the steel. He tried to raise his head. It was all happening beyond his vision, and the light was too bad anyway.

The voice was clearer now, giving instruction.

“Make a long shallow cut like I said, then another one at right-angles. Then we can peel the skin back and see the cords and the major blood vessels.”

“Right”, came the answer.

The scalpel penetrated just below the surface of the skin. It wasn’t too painful. He struggled to understand what was happening. They had rigged a small, bright table lamp on the floor underneath him so that for them his genitals were well-illuminated. He could see the glow reflected in their boots. But he couldn’t see or feel the trickle of blood run down on to the towel lying on the floor.


A low voice – he thought it was the Castratrix – spoke.
“If we suture off the blood vessels and cords, the balls will change colour from purple to black. Then they’re dead and they can be removed. Might take a few hours.”


He heard a low stool being pulled up behind him, and he sensed someone sitting down, and he felt the pain as the needle entered his testicle. Be he didn’t realise that stitch after stitch was threaded, that her gloved fingers were tightening each one before the next one and that the thread was winding around each blood vessel, throttling the blood supply, killing his balls slowly.

They worked swiftly but his pain got worse. He started weeping into his towel. The weeping soon became sobbing.

The Castratrix shrugged. “Often happens. He’ll just have to get used to how things are going to be.

He’ll be up and about in a few days. At least I won’t have to deal with his little cock-spasms anymore.”



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