I’m still traumatized by what happened when I answered that Craigslist ad, part 3

Hello, readers! My name is Rudolph Baylor. I am composing and submitting this narrative of the other night’s events from my, and our, friend’s account for reasons I will momentarily reveal. For the sake of full disclosure, I must admit I am the man with whom he has been working. For those unfamiliar with our time together, please see the mildly-stylized narratives here and here.

Now that we are on the same page, I will provide a bit of personal backstory heretofore unknown to you all.

As I mentioned above, I am Rudolph Baylor. I’m 52 years old. In what now seems like a past life, I was a day-trader who made quite a bit of money in the forex markets during the early growing-pains of the Euro adoption. I’m by no means a King Midas, but I’ll just say I’ve been quite fortunate.

One of the problems with making enough money in a few years to last one’s lifetime is trying to fill the following years with purpose. I ended up doing what many, many people have done when searching for purpose: I trawled the Internet. Most of this trawling was to kill time. I make no effort to hide that fact. As a man uninterested in the hedonia that drives others to seek social and sexual interactions, I sought intellectual stimulation on the World Wide Web.

Between 2002 and 2011, I read hundreds of thousands of journals, followed the rise and fall of popular online fora, and became a prolific contributor to Wikipedia. If this sounds like a boring life, you may compliment yourself on having good analytical instincts. The problem was, my options were (and are) limited.

Some of you may have gathered, based on my partner’s accounts of our time together, that I have a superhuman ability to ignore pain. Unfortunately, there is nothing superhuman about it. Congenital analgesia carries great risks – not only to my physical well-being, but to my pride; not being able to feel pain means not being able to feel the pressure of my bladder or bowels. I make timed trips to the restroom every day to prevent an accident. Leaving the controlled environment of my home carries more unpredictability than I wish to endure. You can imagine how difficult my school years were; especially when the only physical sensations I seem to be able to feel involves tickling.

I’ve digressed. In an effort to make this biographical tirade short, I will endeavor to get, as they say, to the point. The latter portion of my Internet research time became highly specialized as I developed a strong interest in herpetology – specifically gecko lizards. Those wishing for an explanation as to why those animals resonated so deeply within me will come away disappointed. Anyone’s guess is as good as mine. The best I can come up with is that it is simply a manifestation of body dysmorphia resultant from my experiences as a child with my medical condition.

My self-diagnosis of body dysmorphia led me to research the condition and seek out biographical accounts of other sufferers. The vast majority of those accounts were from victims of eating disorders, and, more recently, from transgender individuals. Very few people claimed to experience a feeling of belonging to another species. The few I did encounter, mostly on websites such as Tumblr and Reddit, labeled themselves as x-kin, with the x representing the animal with which they identified. Therefore, in the parlance of our times, I guess I am a geckokin.

Assuming I’d only be happy once I at least attempted to “become” that which I felt so close to, I placed the Craigslist ad, met my partner, and everything went basically according to the two stories that preceded this one.

Now, as for why this is being posted from his account, the answer is very simple: I followed him home, knocked him out, and have tied him to his kitchen table.

Why am I telling you all of this? For those asking that question, good for you! From one inquisitive mind to another, I appreciate your investigative drive. I’m telling you all of this to raise awareness of what happens when someone with a severe mental disturbance has no choice but to act on his urges. If I were to admit my geckokin nature to a professional, all it would lead to would be an attempt to “treat” my condition rather than help me embrace who I really am. I know who I am; or, at least who I will be. It’s unfortunate for my partner here that he needs to experience what I’m certain will be a great level of discomfort, but all great leaps forward in societal progress have their casualties. On some level, I’m sure he will understand.

It’s fortunate that he doesn’t have neighbors nearby. He just won’t stop screaming. How he managed to find an apartment building that’s in such horrendous disrepair astounds me; one would think that being one of the only tenants in a building that has 70-something apartments would be an indication to avoid signing a lease. Still, I won’t pretend to understand the rationale behind his decisions. I’m sure he didn’t understand why I asked him to do what he did to me.

Such a busy night ahead of us! The next phase of my transformation is more dangerous than the work my partner did on me and I wouldn’t trust anyone other than myself to do it. Still, I need to practice on at least one other person so I don’t get it wrong and really hurt myself in the process. So far, I’m working to get his transformation up where mine is. I’ve already taken out all but two of his teeth. As he said in his first story, those molars are a bitch.

I got the last one in the upper right-hand quadrant with the hammer. I warned him that his sobbing would make him aspirate some of the bone chips. Did he listen? No. In his blubbering, he inhaled a couple shards of tooth and I had to wait a half hour until he stopped coughing them up. The molar on the bottom was a wisdom tooth. He has a really big mouth. His wisdoms came in with room to spare. I remembered the success he had with standing on the chair and pulling mine out, so I got up on the table, grabbed the tooth with the pliers, squeezed as hard as I could, and pulled.

I must have been squeezing too hard. The pliers crunched through the tooth and gripped the root and when I pulled, only the root came out. It sounded pretty awful, a bit like tearing a shrub from the ground. He screamed and screamed. I used the edge of the pliers to shave down the gum line around the shattered tooth and knocked away the remaining bone. I took advantage of his wide-mouthed howling and hammered two of the same type of metal tooth-pins he’d installed into my mouth yesterday. They broke through the bottom of the bleeding sockets in his gums and secured themselves deep within his jaw. I had to knock him unconscious again to do the rest.

Once the new teeth were in and he was coming to, staring at me in wide-eyed horror as he realized he wasn’t waking up from a run-of-the-mill nightmare, I realized I’d forgotten the chisel to do his nose and ears. The only silverware he had was plastic. No real knives. Who doesn’t have knives? I sighed in annoyance. Then I realized I had the right tools with me all along! I’d been so busy focusing on my next moves that I’d neglected the new teeth given to me just yesterday.

I bit his nose as hard as I could. I felt the cartilage crush as the tiny needles lining my gums broke through. The pins anchoring the teeth to my jaw held, I’m happy to note, and I pulled back sharply. The nose came with me. I was very surprised by how good a job I did when I estimated how far the pins needed to be to ensure proper adhesion.

The holes in his face gurgled with blood as he worked to breathe through them. I knocked him out again, untied him, turned him over on his stomach, and restrained him. Ugly, flatulent sounds filled the room as the blood that had accumulated inside his sinus cavity got pushed out through the nose holes. I bit off his ears.

Now he and I had achieved the same level of our gecko transformation. I found two straws in his cabinet and inserted them into his nose holes. Air traveled freely through them, so I untied him, removed his clothing, turned him again onto his back, and restrained him. It was time to work on the aforementioned dangerous part of the transformation.

Geckos have cloacas. Put as simply as needed, they eliminate all their waste from one hole. I assume that the easiest way to replicate this would be to route one’s urethra through the colon and allow all waste to be expelled through the anus. While this is an entirely makeshift cloaca, I’m not deluded enough to believe there is a better way for me to accomplish such a thing at my nearly nonexistent level of medical knowledge.

To my dismay, upon inspecting my partner, I discovered I’d overestimated the size of an adult penis. I’d always known mine was larger than average and I knew that would make it easier to properly route what needed to be routed. His penis, however, was less than a quarter of the size of my own. It stuck out from his pubis like a pink, fleshy lightswitch. Some of it I attribute to his terror and some to his recent loss of blood, but the unfortunate truth is that his member is woefully undersized. The look on his face when he regained consciousness and saw me holding and inspecting his penis would have been funny if I wasn’t so concerned about whether or not I could get this to work. I really, really needed a knife.

Rummaging through his drawers, I found a vegetable peeler. The blade turned out to be very sharp. I grazed my forearm with it and happily discovered the edge was keen enough to remove hair. I truly sympathized for him at this moment. I didn’t want to strike him in the head again, as I didn’t want to contribute to any lasting brain damage should he live through his whole process. So, I chose to leave him awake as I ran the peeler up and down his penis, removing thin strips of skin.

Much like the sound of my voice changed when my own nose was removed, so too had his. The few actual words he exclaimed sounded filtered through a very bad head cold. His screams, however, were mostly unaffected. These screams continued after I’d finished peeling when he saw that I held the thin cord of his urethra. I felt quite a bit of relief when I found it could stretch further than his tiny penis had suggested.

My partner passed out from exhaustion or shock moments later. Right now, I’m taking the time to finish this account of my evening and research the best way to approach the colon and begin the urethral routing. I will likely update you all with another story soon to let everyone know how the last few bits of the process fared. Enjoy your day, everyone!

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7 Replies to “I’m still traumatized by what happened when I answered that Craigslist ad, part 3”

  1. Wow. I think you finally managed to knock me into a thousand-yard stare.

    (Also, you might want to try going through the scrotum. Just be sure to insert a coffee stirrer or something to keep his urethra from closing when the inflammation sets in, unless you just want to go straight for the bladder and route a tube of skin back to the rectum.)

  2. The urethra stems from the bladder, simply stretching it back would cause it to possibly crimp, causing issues. This would be a tricky surgery without completely moving one or both organs (the other being the end of the large intestine, the colon). Also, I believe that some male creatures with a cloaca do have some type of penis, or facsimile thereof, don’t they?
    As with sexual reassignment, the perineum area is utilized to “create a hole”. Moving the colon and urethra back into the new orifice would be easier.
    Sorry, just over thinking this through. Gonna be tough for Mr.X to work this out without mutilating the guy he hired first.

  3. Dude is it weird that it is only until he said that he had a superhuman ability to ignore pain that I realized it was the geko-guy?

    I just thought he was like now just addressing the readers this time.

    OMFG holy shit, this has to be your best one that I have read. Dude this is fucked up. OMFG what the hell, I admit this was pretty unsettling!!!

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