1 comments/ 17108 views/ 6 favorites The Handboy's Tale Ch. 01 By: PadmaBear While masturbating and fantasizing about female domination and tease and denial I found myself conjuring up situations that would call for the most extensive and merciless orgasm control imaginable. It was surprisingly difficult to come up with scenarios that were both sustainable and, if not believable -- and let's face it, what scenario in which a woman plays with a guy's dick for hours on end is actually believable? --, at least internally consistent and logical. Then I hit on it. What if all those right-wingers were on to something, and legions of "feminazis" and left-wing academics really _did_ have a secret plan to subjugate all of male-kind along with the means to execute said plan? What if the bill for all those years of male-domination and oppression finally came due? What follows is simply the twisted but inevitable outcome of that diabolic plan. Call it a Fox News junkie's worst nightmare. So this is Science Fiction -- Speculative Fiction for you literary types, and you know who you are -- but it's probably not up to Ms. Atwood's standards, or Mr. Orwell's. Really, it's mostly good old-fashioned BDSM. I'm not sure know how Ms. PadmaBear would feel about living in this dystopian paradise (she certainly seems to be enjoying teasing and denying me, but that's a different story) but I know I'd enjoy every minute. Or would I? -Mr. PadmaBear _____ They brought him into a bright, long room. Like a ward room, he realized, with reluctant relief. Not a cell. The whole place felt more like a hospital than a prison. The room contained a series of bays separated by thin divider drapes. The low burnt-orange fall noon sunlight was filtering through the divided panes of a single window far at the end, all but conquered by the harsh cool artificial light familiar to all institutions. Dr. Pincer looked at him, holding his eye for a minute, letting him know who was in charge. A slight smile curled on her lips, showing disdain and mild malice; but something more than that -- idle curiosity? He was struck with a sudden insight: this woman liked her job. Really liked her job. The insight didn't bring him any comfort. "This.. she gestured along the room ..will be your new home." She walked down to the second partition and pointed into the space between the dividers. "More precisely, you will be spending the vast majority of your time right here." As he walked with his minders toward where she was standing and could see where she was pointing, his sense of relief evaporated. In the little space, surrounded by three curtains, was nothing but a small stainless steel table, two uncomfortable looking stacking chairs, and a bed. It was more like a cot really. A tall skinny platform made of steel, with strong stabilizing feet. On top of that was a mattress covered with a closely fitted aqua-colored sheet. Laying across the the mattress were a series of wide belts. Looking closer, he noticed small buckled loops lined with a soft material, hanging from the base and sides of the bed. What the hell was going on here? He felt a dryness in his throat. The director locked eyes with him, and this time he was certain that he saw her cruel smile also held a trace of amusement. "I see you've noticed our restraints. We find that they are... necessary." "But, but... I'm not crazy! I'm not violent! They told me they were sending me here for social rehabilitation." "Silence!!" The force and intensity of her scream startled him. He felt more than heard it -- the shrillness of it running up his spine. The dryness in his throat opened to the bitter taste of bile. Then she smiled, and let him see that she was not without some trace of human sympathy. "I appear to have your complete attention. Ms. Fordham, whom you will meet later, will fill you in on the rest of the rules here -- as you can imagine, they are quite extensive. And we will exercise some patience with you as you learn -- the ropes, so to speak. But there are two very basic rules here. Rules that you violate at your extreme peril." "The first is that you are to obey our staff without question. The second is that you are not to speak to myself or any of the senior staff here without having being asked a direct question. You can identify the senior staff by our uniforms. And, we carry these." She grasped a wand at her hip, pulling it out of a holster attached to a leather belt around her waist. She walked over to where he was standing, between his two minders, a pair of largish women wearing grayish hospital scrubs. She looked at him again, thrusting the wand at his belly. She watched his face for a moment. She made a slight movement with her fingers on the wand. Without any warning he felt an enveloping electric vibration deep at the root of his pelvis. For the first fraction of a second the sensation was almost pleasant. And then, it wasn't. The vibration moved outward through his lower body. As it hit his balls, they felt as though they were being softly stroked and simultaneously squeezed. Hard. He felt like he'd been kicked, but worse. He wrapped his arms around his stomach, doubling over, feeling the bile turning to vomit and rushing up his throat. Then it stopped as quickly as it started. Amazingly, he felt no lingering effect from the sudden assault. "That", she said, "was level two. This little device has six higher levels of intensity." Her face gained a trace of sympathy again. "We don't like to use it. The social order we preserve is above all else humane and committed to the principles of non-violent participatory consensus building. We'd rather rely on more subtle and effective treatments. But you must also know that we weld absolute control here, and that there are absolute limits to our tolerance of disobedience. In fact, as our beloved Big Sister has said, 'Obedience _is_ Tolerance'." "Now", she said, turning her gaze to the bed. "I think it's time to introduce you to your new quarters." She glanced over to the two assistants, still standing to either side of him. "I'll leave you two to it. I'm sure you'll call me if you need me. But," she said with a trace of satisfaction, "I'm sure that you won't." With that, she strode out of the ward room, the sound of her narrow heels pinging off of the polished tile floor and echoing against the hard plaster walls. The two women looked at him. They had a rough, non-nonsense demeanor and while their faces were not unfriendly, they conveyed a kind of ambivalent contempt -- projecting an air of boredom, but underneath that he sensed a wry enjoyment of their roles. Jonah had learned to be observant, and also to keep his observations to himself. A vague intuition ran across his mind. Both women had spiky close cropped hair, and round, pasty faces. While not really overweight they were certainly stout. And they carried a certain swagger. They looked exactly like the women he saw at the "Bull Dyke" club he passed on his way to the college downtown. The BD's were one of the most prominent political clubs in town, and he was used to the dismissive hoots and catcalls he'd have directed at him as he hurried, head down, past its doors. "Hey boy, how'd you like to come over here and lick my big furry twat?" The idea of having that kind of woman as master of his fate sent shivers down his spine. Not the good kind. The taller of the dyke twins spoke. "Alright, honey, let's get you set up here. You don't want to make us late for our lunch break, do you?" He hesitated slightly. She pointed to the bed. "Well go on then, get up there." The bed was higher than normal, coming to about belly height on him. He swung himself up on to it, legs dangling over the side. She pulled the belts off the bed. "We won't be needing these I don't think. Not yet. Come on then, lie down." He lay face up on the bed, and she scooted a soft pillow under his head. "Comfy?" "Um, yeah." "Arms up then, hon." He held his arms up, and each woman placing a restraint around his wrist and tightening it around his wrist. They weren't at all uncomfortable, he realized with some kind of relief. Then they cinched the restraints up to hold his arms closely at his side. Coming around to the base of the bed, they placed his foot through the other set of restraints and again cinched them, but not so tight that he couldn't move his hips and legs around to find a comfortable position on the bed. "That's that then." She looked at him with some satisfaction, then glanced down at his midsection. He was wearing the scrubs they'd had him change into when he came through prisoner booking. Lifting his head and looking down, he could see to his surprise and mortification that his male member was pushing the thin fabric of the loose fitting pants straight up into a triangular tent shape. "Look at that. You're already pulling a boner. They told us you were a live one." She turned to her companion. "Ho' boy." Shaking her head. "If this guy knew what was in store for him here. I can't help wanting to mess with him a bit. What do you say, Becky?" "Sure, what the hell, Katy? It's falafel day at the caff; I'm not in any particular hurry to get down there." "Well then. Let's see what kind of a pervert we're dealing with here." She untied the loose knot that held the bottom of his scrubs closed. "Okay, raise that little ass of yours up a bit there, doll." As Jonah did so, she yanked the loose pants down to his knees. He felt humiliated. Completely humiliated. But it got worse. "Look at that, Katy. His is erection is actually growing!" Becky looked him in the eyes. "We turning you on, Jonah? Are we making your penis all excited?" "No, no, I can't help it. That's all." "What! You don't find us attractive?" "No, that's not what I mean either, I just.." "Ah, I'm just fucking with you. I don't actually care whether you want to fuck me or not. In fact, the thought just pisses me off. And you don't want to piss me off." She gave his erect member a playful stinging-hard smack. "No, what your boner means to me is that you are one of those boys who are simply unable to control themselves, and crave stimulation of any kind, without regard to morality or self-respect." "But, after all," she paused meaningfully, "that's why you're here, isn't it?" "Yes, dear sister." "And judging by the state of your equipment, I'd say you're going to stay here for a long time." She paused, pretending to muse. "Would you like me to touch it?" "Touch it? My penis, you mean?" "No dumbshit, your nose. And it's not a penis, it's a cock. Do you want me to touch it?" She put her hand out toward him. "Ah, no, I mean that's okay. I hope it isn't offending you.." She grasped his cock in her fist and squeezed it. Squeezed it hard. "Bullshit! Don't hand me that 'I'm just a nice well-trained socially adapted man-servant' routine. I know what you really need." Oh fuck. He felt his entire focus drop down between his legs. Felt his ball-sack tighten, felt that desperate need returning to his loins. She began pumping her hand up and down on his shaft, in a rough, deliberately mechanical parody of a handjob. "Sorry baby, I'm not used to doing this. I'm afraid I'm not very good at." She pulled at his cock some more. "You know, I don't have any sexual interest in you at all, right? And yet you're getting off on me rubbing your cock. You'd like me to keep rubbing your cock, wouldn't you?" "Yes. Yes I would, dear sister." "What shallow little creatures all of you so-called men are. You'd trade anything just to get your cock handled a little bit more, wouldn't you?" She increased the rate of pumping, but now varying the intensity and throwing in little awkward half-jerks and pauses. Sometimes she'd stop momentarily in mid-stroke for no reason at all, and then start back up with the yanking just as suddenly. She couldn't possibly be this clueless; she must be screwing it up deliberately. "How's that, honey? Do you like having a pretty young thing like me beating your meat? Makes a nice change, don't it?" He knew better than to provide any kind of critique of her technique or ask for any adjustment. "Yes, yes, I do. Thank you, thank you." "I guess we don't need any lubrication. Your cock seems to be providing plenty of it's own. A bit gross, really, wouldn't you say, Katy?" "Definitely, Becky. Why can't these boys keep their disgusting secretions inside their pathetic external organs until they're asked for it?" The truth is that he did need lubrication. Her callous and calloused hands were rubbing him raw everywhere his pre-cum had not been spread. But he knew better than to complain. And as she kept at it, even through the discomfort he began to feel his orgasm approaching. The orgasm he needed so badly, the orgasm that had been wrenched so dramatically from his hands two days ago. That terrible day when he had been discovered. He thought back to the shame of that moment. How close he had been, and then how suddenly the intense pleasure of an inevitable release had been replaced with sheer terror. As if sensing his thoughts, her hand stopped suddenly. She held it there for a moment, and then let it go. "Well," she said, "how was that? I bet you would like me to keep going, wouldn't you?" "Oh please. Yes please!!" She appeared to be considering something. Then she patted her partner on the shoulder and they walked out of earshot. The appeared to be conferring over something. While Jonah waited there, frozen in a state of extreme arousal and frustration, his mind returned to the events immediately preceding that terrible night. The night when the roof seemed to cave in around him. He'd come home from college, thinking about her. The woman in his Multi-Cultural Relations class. Amber. The class was a rarity; an experiment in co-education instituted by the Gender Reform Party. He'd subtly maneuvered to get into that class, felt lucky to be selected. And just being that close to a woman -- any woman -- his age was enough. But this woman. She wore knee length flowing skirts and smelled of lilac. She acknowledged his presence. She had even graced him with her smile a few times. Sweet open-hearted smiles that seemed somehow to offer him the world. Smiles that to his great shame made his penis swell whenever he thought about them. He knew that a misdirected gaze alone could signal an incipient borderline Sociosexual Oppresive Personality Disorder, but he had been extremely careful to never look at anything but her face whenever there was a chance that anyone might see. But he had occasionally stolen glances at her backside and even her chest. He just couldn't help himself. As he'd been taught in the Refigured Catholic catechism, he knew that simply peering at a woman in an inappropriate way was an act of sexual aggression; and that if those looks were biased toward more conventionally attractive women could lead to the SexuSocial crime of Lookism. As awful as the discovery of his surreptitious gaze would be, a first offense would have been treated with compassion and mercy. Probably a dozen "Rehabilitation of Reactionary Males" group counseling sessions and the denial of one or two months of the blessed communal sacrament. But the worst part would have been the public shame -- he'd be excluded from co-ed classes, forced to wear a sign identifying him as a Gaze-Oppressor, and the subject of constant suspicion from every woman he encountered. Many of them testing him -- actively daring him to look where he shouldn't. And then he thought of how Amber would react. She'd hate him. He'd never feel the warmth of her smile again. But his crime was far worse than that simple offense. After class, alone in the small group house he shared with three other students, he brought Amber to mind again. He would think about the soft curves of her bottom glimpsed through the gauzy material of her skirt. He'd remember how on occasion he could make out the faint outline her underclothes beneath. He'd think about the two round perky bumps on her chest. And then he would touch himself. With that simple action, he had descended into the depths of depravity. There was a word for what he had become, what he now was. The worst insult that anyone could ever utter. A word that wasn't used in polite company. He was a... handboy. It had first happened when he was undressing for bed. He'd brushed his hand against his penis. It had sent a shiver through him then. It still did. And it always led to the same thing. Now he did it almost every night he could. He'd always start with the best intentions. Promising himself he wouldn't do it. That he wouldn't give in, not this time. And then he'd put his fist around the shaft of his penis, telling himself that he was just dissipating some of the constant nagging tension he felt. But then, slowly, he'd begin to move his foreskin against the head of his cock. It felt so amazing, better than any other pleasure he'd felt in his life. How, he reasoned, could something that felt so good be so wrong? He knew that was the logic of the oppressor speaking, but he couldn't help himself. And once he started, he kept going. He'd lie down on his bed and begin to rub himself rhythmically. Just as the Glorious Milker of Peace did each month at the climax of Sacred Communion. But now he was in control. He set the pace. And for once, lying there, he'd been able to free himself of that constant aching need. He'd lie there and rub himself for hours, not being able to force himself to stop. For he knew that when he did stop, that nagging ache would be back, greater than before. He knew that this was the precise reason that the SocioSexual counselors warned males over and over not to indulge their basest, sickest cravings. The only release they'd said time and time again, could take place under the benevolent gaze of Big Sister, during that communion she so generously offered once a month. Touching yourself at other times would only lead to inevitable descent and the worst crime of all -- Premeditated Unsupervised Orgasm. He'd told himself that that would never happen to him. That he was in control of his desires. That he was strong enough to hold out. That he could enjoy the glorious feeling masturbation brought him without letting it dominate him. But then -- it had only been two days ago, but it felt like forever -- Amber had worn a new skirt to class. A skirt that was shorter than usual, falling to her mid-thigh, seeming to dance and float loosely around her upper legs. They were in a group discussion circle. She had smiled at him again, this time more openly, less shyly. And when all of the other students had turned to watch yet another social doctrine vid, he had looked over at her briefly. Down between her daintily spread legs he'd caught sight of something he shouldn't have. For the first time in his life he had seen the inside clothes of a woman. That night he had obsessed about what might lie inside those inner clothes -- "panties", is that what they called them? -- whatever, the vision of the dark space between her legs and the light triangle of fabric within mesmerized him. And at that point, he knew he would cross the line. That he would commit the ultimate crime. Knowing that he would do it made him feel wrong, but also freed something in him. He felt a hidden power that he never knew he had before. The power to control his own cock, and the potential to put it in a woman's pussy whenever he wanted. Oh dear-sister-of-divine-coitus, he knew it was wrong, but then why did it feel so right? It was quiet. No one else was home. His roommates were off watching the Roller-Derby playoffs at the community center. The Handboy's Tale Ch. 01 He went into the bathroom. Looking back, he must have been thinking that the door would provide some measure of protection, some kind of privacy. He stepped into the shower and turned the water on. Again, he imagined that somehow the cloaking sound of water would protect him. He lay down in the tub and began to work his hand up and down on his cock. Oh, it felt so good. Knowing that he would be giving himself release increased his sense of shame -- but perversely, that shame only aroused him more. Faster and faster his hand went on his cock, and then he would back off for a while, again savoring the feeling of control he felt over his own body's reactions. Finally, he knew it was time. Knew that he was about to put himself in the company of the worst of the SocioSexual criminals. He went up and down, up and down, just ready to push himself past the edge, up and over the precipice. Faster and faster. Almost.. almost.. now!! It seemed that they came from every direction. The window exploded. The door crashed open. The shower curtain was yanked off the rod. Standing over him were a squad of women clad in black skinsuits emblazoned with bright blood-red shields. Uniforms that brought shivers of dread to any man who even glimpsed them. They were the Sisters of Perputual Menstruation. And they had come for him. They'd turned the water off. He lay there in the bath tub shivering. They looked at him impassively, appraisingly. He was naked, his unsatisfied cock curled up into his body, desperately trying to hide itself from their cold, uncompromising stares. They'd bundled him up in transparent confinement wrap and hustled him to the door. He remembered with horror now how they had paused deliberately inside for a few minutes, waiting for a crowd of neighbors and passer-bys to gather. And then how they had paraded him out to the waiting van. Thrust him in the back and secured him with crash webbing. And then... He woke up from this nightmare suddenly, and into another one. Becky had grabbed a hold of his cock and his full attention with it. She tightened her grip and began moving her hand up and down on it slowly. She did that for a while, slowing her pace to an agonizing crawl. "How's that, Jonah? You like that? Is that a good pace for you?" He knew it was a trap, but he also couldn't stand it, he needed her to speed up as well. "I... could you go a bit faster please? I can't... That doesn't feel right." "Oh. I'm sorry." Her hand began moving more quickly on his cock, and then more quickly still, her fist hammering up and down on his cock in a frenzied parody of the motion he made when he was about to bring himself to climax. It was the motion that told his body that he was ready, that it was time to finish things. He'd been moaning semi-consciously for some time now, he knew, and now those moans turned into words, words that indeed made him sound needy and juvenile. "Oh god, thank you, thank you, thank you..." But he didn't care. His heart was full of gratitude toward this unlikely angel -- an angel of mercy and lust-fulfillment. His whole body kicked into the orgasm drill -- he was already flushed, his heart beating rapidly, and now his ass tightened, he felt something in his balls shift-open, he felt a welling deep inside. Finally, the orgasm that had been interrupted so horribly and unforgettably a few days earlier was finally getting it's day. The force of this longed for orgasm began to gain an unstoppable momentum, any will-power or self-control he had left was bring washed away by the strength of his need. He could feel his semen running over the spillway of the dam, eroding it's edges, cracking the foundations, and pushing the entire structure over, releasing the vast reservoir of semen that had been stored behind it. It should be starting to pour out now. "Oh god, yes. Oh oh oh oh." He knew he was babbling and mewling. Private, shameful sounds that no-one else should ever hear. His body was a symphony of motion and feeling now all gathered together in a crescendo. And then there it was -- the rising notes that he knew would form that last stirring tonic chord. Except. The music had fallen silent all of a sudden. The conductor had thrown down the baton and walked off stage. What? What the fuck?! He was back in reality now. Tied up on a strange small bed in a large room, two burly women looking at him with expressions of what could be interpreted equally well as good-natured mirth or sadistic delight. "Oh sorry, honey, my hand must have slipped." She didn't look sorry. He, one the other hand was very sorry. He felt himself thrash around on the bed. He couldn't control the motion of his hips, and he wouldn't have bothered to even if he could. They knew his need. Katy looked at her watch. "Oh, well, will you look at the time, Katy? We've got to get down to the cafeteria before everyone eats all of the humus. Listen, um, Jonah. You don't mind if we finish this up later, do you?" He lay there, his balls boiling, his libido shredded, his need over-whelming. But he couldn't give them the satisfaction of begging. And he knew that it wouldn't make any difference if he did. "Oh, sure. Okay." He even managed a weak smile. "Good then. Okay, you have a nice rest. There will be many opportunities for us to get to know each other better." They tidied up a bit, ignoring him now, discussing a weekend bike-trip up the coast as they headed out of the room. "Time to pull the hog out of storage, Katy." "Yep, I'll have her tuned up and purring like a kitten, Becky." And he lay there, strapped to the bed, his pants still around his knees, his cock pointed at almost exactly ninety degrees from his torso. Miserable. Helpless. And more aroused than he'd ever been in his life. The Handboy's Tale Ch. 02 For background on just how Jonah got himself where he is and an introduction to the dystopic paradise that put him there, please see Chapter 1. This chapter has a bit more exegesis, but you'll find some juicy bits lurking in here as well! -PB _______ Jonah lay on the narrow bed, arms held snuggly to its sides, feet secured to its base. He could wiggle his torso around a bit -- enough to give him the illusion that his body was still under his control. He found that with no small effort he could place his mind on other things, turning it from degenerate thoughts; and that as he did do, his erection would slowly subside -- and with it his desperate, aching need. So he willed himself to focus only on wholesome things. Things that had given his life meaning and joy: The rewarding days spent at the nursery attached to his early-childhood development classes, the accomplishment he felt after completing a particularly challenging needlework project, the simple pleasure of sharing a pot of tea with his friends. How a few months ago, he had been invited to a special men's sailing camp -- finding that he had a real aptitude and passion for the traditionally female-only sport. In so many ways, he reflected, he was a model male. All of his guardian mothers had said so. His eagerness and diligence had earned him privileges. Access to special programs like the sailing camp, international exchanges, and even the co-ed Multi-Cultural Relations class. The one where all the trouble had started... As soon as that thought entered his mind he tried to push it back out. But it was too late. He felt his cock rise as more unbidden, unwelcome, unwholesome thoughts came pouring into his mind: Thoughts about touching himself. About why he touched himself. About her. Amber, whose hair was fair, whose skin was glowing, whose voice was melodious and sweet. Amber, who had a special hidden place between her legs, a place his cock had begged him to visit. His male appendage had become more and more insistent over the last few months, more and more demanding. He would try to tell it to leave the whole idea of visiting that place alone; that it was never going there -- that it should be more than satisfied with the generous blessings that Big Sister bestowed on all of mankind every month. But his cock... His damn cock just wouldn't listen... Would never listen! And once he had committed the crime of Willful Self-Stimulation, it had become almost impossible to argue the rational case, to say no to its ever-escalating demands. And it certainly wasn't listening now. It had turned from demanding to cajoling, whining, begging to be touched, and finally to a kicking and screaming full blown tantrum. "Why?" It seemed to say. "Why won't you touch me? I just need a hand to touch me! Please. Pleeasee! Damn it, touch me! Now!!" His cock was right. It was so unfair. And it was all his fault. He had allowed the little master to become used to being... well not quite satisfied, but at least placated. He'd been able to manhandle it -- to put his hand around it, grasp it and pump it...pump it up and down and up and down. And he'd been able to do that as often as he dared, so long as he kept himself below the threshold of orgasm. But now, what could he say in response to his cock's desperate pleas? Now, he couldn't even touch it. The only thing he could do was struggle against his bounds. So that's what he did, straining again and again to make contact with his engorged, stone hard, prominent organ. Yes, he could see it. So he tried and tried and tried again to come to his poor cock's rescue -- he struggled to twist his hips around, to lift his index finger up just enough to brush against it -- but as hard as he struggled against his restraints, he had only been able to come within a few tantalizing centimeters of it. No. No matter how he moved, he couldn't put even one straining finger on it. Damn. Damn. Damn. Argh! So close. Fuck. Arghhh!! Finally, the exertion and frustration became so overwhelming that he simply gave up on the physical struggle and flopped back down on the bed, giving himself over to the intensity of his craving. His thoughts and desires, mind and body intertwined into a swirling daze as wave after wave of intense need washed over him. The itching, crawling sensation became overwhelming, married to the all-consuming conviction that he absolutely must touch his cock or he would... What? Die? He knew that that wouldn't happen. And with that knowledge he broke into a cold sweat. He realized that lying here, tied to this bed, nothing could happen that would cause his body any actual physical harm. No matter how agonizing the denial of his desire became, he would remain -- from outside appearances anyway -- unscathed. And therefore... Therefore there was no limit to the level of physical and mental torment his watchers could inflict on him. Eventually, he began to collect his thoughts again, to focus them on the mundane. And again his erection began to wane. He lay still for a while. Again, willing himself not to think about sex. To think about anything but sex. But then it would start again on its own accord. He would become erect and excited, then struggle uncontrollably and vainly to touch himself, and finally fall back into the swirling dream-like state, overwhelmed by his body's raw need. This cycle went on and on, tormenting him over and over again. And each time it became more intense, more difficult to endure. And then there was the anticipation. His mental projections of what might happen. Every noise he heard in the hallway, every footfall that seemed to be approaching his room, sent surges of potential throughout his body. Even if he had managed to relax a bit, the slightest human-driven sound would engage his cock and start the cycle all over again. His shame fought with his desire, and desire always won -- his desperate embarrassment at the thought of being seen like this was overridden by his desperate desire to be touched. And now there was something else. He needed to pee. Badly. And the urge was getting stronger by the second. Surely, they couldn't have forgotten him? And presumably, they wouldn't want him to spray urine all over the room. Would they? His bladder began to join the chorus of litanies coming from his cock. Finally, the urge became too great to ignore. He had to get someone's attention. "Hello? Helloooo?" He waited a few minutes as the pressure grew more and more intense. He called louder. "Hello! Hey! Can I get some help here?" And when a few more minutes passed he gave up any remaining hope of retaining a shred of dignity. He strained up against the bed and yelled. "Help! I need help here!!" He lay back down. Now he focussed all of his attention on willing himself not to give in to the urge to go. Finally, when he felt that we was seconds from losing the battle against his bladder, he heard voices approaching in the corridor. It was them. His mind flitted back and forth between relief and dread. He didn't know what would happen next, but it had to be better than lying in this little bed soaked in his own piss. "What's all the fuss, little brother?" Becky's sounded concerned, but the note of irony in her voice was distinct. She looked at him and glanced down to his crotch. He realized with some surprise that his urge to urinate had temporarily eclipsed his urge to ejaculate. His cock stood at half mast. "I... I have to pee. Really badly." "Oh, we can help you with that. No problem, little brother. That's one reason we're here." She busied herself searching around in the small room. His bladder was sending stabbing signals of eminent release. His abdomen was shaking. "Now let's see, where is that bedpan? Have you seen it Katy?" "Nope. Did you check under the bed?" "Yeah. Hmmm... Maybe I should look again." This went on for a while. There was no question; these women had a sadistic streak to them. They were enjoying his intense discomfort. "Aha. Found it!" Becky loosened the right wrist restraint, just enough that there was some free play in it. "Okay now, why don't you just roll over on your left side here." She put the bed pan under his penis and he released his frantic hold. Oh, sweet relief! He hadn't had a more satisfying piss in his entire life. Becky grabbed his penis to better guide the stream into the receptacle. When she did so he found himself getting hard again. Fuck! What the fuck was wrong with the thing? "Oh my god, Katy! He's pulling another boner!" "Wow, Becky, I guess they were lucky to find this guy when they did. He's a world class handboy!" With some effort and luck, he managed to evacuate his urine before he became fully hard again. Becky let go of his member with a look of ostentatious disgust. She gave it a vicious little shake. Grabbed a wet-wipe and primly rubbed the head of it. He actually groaned -- he couldn't help himself. "Mary-Magdalene-and-Little-Brother-Jesus, you're hopeless!" She shook her head and began cleaning up. "Well, I guess it's a good thing that the treatment protocol is set up this way." "Um, what way, dear sister?" "Well, let's just say that I've got good news for you, and I imagine it will come as a welcome surprise." Becky turned to her partner. "With the way things have been going, I don't see why we can't move the schedule up an hour or two. What do you think, Katy?" "Sure, why not get it over with now? Want me to do the honors this time?" "Yeah, please. My wrist is still tired from the last time. We keep getting this kind of caseload in, I'm going to have to file a compensation claim for repetitive motion disorder." Acknowledging the look of puzzlement on Jonah's face, Becky turned to him. "Here's the good news, Jonah: you get to have an orgasm." His elation must have been immediately apparent. Becky clearly felt the need to cut him back a notch. "Don't get used to it, honey. It's not going to happen very often. And this isn't really for your benefit. But we do need to start with a clean slate, as it were. And with all of the secret masturbation you've obviously been getting up to you're in too dysfunctional a state to make any progress with at all." She turned to her partner. "All yours, Katy." Katy nodded and wheeled the small table over to the right side of the bed, then reached over to the tray and put on a pair of vinyl gloves. "Can't have that disgusting semen getting all over my hands. It's so sticky and slimy. I just hate it. Hate it. Yuck." She put her left hand to a large pump bottle and gave the spigot a few quick jerks with her right, squirting large dollops of a clear gel substance in to her hand. "Okay, that will make this easier." Then she put her right hand on his cock. He labored to keep his face as impassive as he could, but judging by the knowing smirks on their faces he knew he must have been doing a poor job. "Thank you, dear sister. Thank you." His gratitude was sincere. He knew that he would never have been able to last even a couple of more hours. "Well, I'm not sure this is going to be all of your fantasies come to life, but I've been told that for someone who doesn't have a natural inclination, my cock handling skills are quite decent." She gave him a wry almost self-satisfied smile. As soon as she placed the palm of her hand up against his frenulum, it was clear that this was no boast. Of course, Becky's incompetence had been deliberate -- but Katy was actually adept! He sighed openly as she began moving her hand up and down his shaft. The gel felt cool and soothing on the roughly treated delicate skin but also cut back enough of the sensation that Katy was able to move her hand up and down on his cock without bringing him immediately to the edge. And in a strange way, her air of professional detachment helped him to relax. Wow, it felt really good. Almost better than he could have done himself! Or better, really. There was something magical about having someone else do it, wasn't there? He got into the rhythm of it, closing his eyes and feeling warm tingly currents of pleasure travel throughout his body. She kept up a steady pace for another two or three minutes. His aching balls were pulsing. If his cock could talk it would have stopped moaning and complaining and would now be congratulating him on the turn of fate. "Awesome buddy. Thanks! I knew you'd figure out a way to take care of me." "Okay, honey, that should be enough to get you all primed. Time to finish up. You ready?" Was he ready? He was beyond ready. "Yes. Yes. Thank you. Thank you." She stopped for a moment then, and a sense of cold despair swept over him. But no, she was just reaching for a fresh dollop of gel! Her hand went right back to his cock, and he was immediately back into the delicious rhythm of it. "Okay, here comes the big one. Enjoy!" Katy knew just how to work a cock out properly. She slowed down for a minute or two, just enough to get him back down to some kind of baseline, and then began to pick up the pace, increasing the rhythm as he got closer. He knew he had another minute or two before he couldn't hold out anymore -- and he was going to relish every second. Katy smiled at him. Then, to his surprise and confusion, she started to giggle. He realized that he must really been an object of ridicule, laying on the bed moaning and gibbering, but were his pre-orgasmic grimaces really that amusing? As Katy's giggle turned to laughter, he heard Becky began to laugh as well. And then Katy removed her hand from his penis. He felt it in the pit of his stomach. It was worse than the disappointment and frustration of earlier today. Much worse. The expectation had been so real. He'd believed them, god-damn-it! And he hadn't even gotten to the edge yet! He was only half way there. He felt like he was hanging on to the edge of a cliff wall, with no way up and no way back down. And they were laughing at him. Pointing and laughing. "You didn't really think she'd let you come, did you?" Becky's words lashed him, made him feel hopeless and needy. "Oh my god Katy, that was amazing!! Academy award material." Katy was beside herself, chortling so hard that she couldn't even speak. She regained a bit of self-control and replied to her partner, gasping the words out between guffaws. "I love it! It just...never...gets old, does it Becky? The look...on this guys face...is just priceless. Did he really think...we'd let him have an orgasm?! I guess it's true, men...really are just...clueless." "Yeah, I guess what everyone says is right -- the Y chromosome is packed-full of stupid genes." The two dykes wandered out the door, arm in arm, laughing to themselves, swapping crude man jokes. They didn't even bother to clean him up. Leaving him once again miserable, helpless and overwhelmingly frustrated. But now with his cock covered in goo, adrift, halfway to paradise. And worse, after laying there for a while he discovered something else, something more disturbing. There was something odd about the halfway state they'd left him in, midway between the first stirrings of arousal and full release: Even though his conscious mind knew that an orgasm just wasn't going to happen, the sudden removal of stimulation halfway to the peak had completely confused some semi-autonomous purely biological mechanism in his cock, leaving it stuck in never-never land. It was still standing there, dumbly expecting more -- like a dog sitting in front of its dog bowl, wagging its tail, eagerly and patiently waiting to be fed. And he knew it was going to stay that way, rock-hard and, yes, stone stupid, no matter how much he tried to think of other things, or how hard he tried to will it to do otherwise. It was true what his counselors had said, he know realized with growing dismay -- the problem with men was that they were controlled by their cocks, and their cocks were inherently aggressive, venal and stupid. The logic was clear, and confirmed by historical dialectic. It was undeniable: Men had nearly destroyed the planet through warfare and environmental degradation, causing untold suffering in the process. But men were not really to blame. No, it was cocks that had really ruled the world -- men were simply their weak and shallow puppets. Womankind had been ever so patient, but men had shown again and again that they couldn't be trusted with responsibility for their own bodies. They couldn't control their cocks on their own. No, it was hard to argue with the logic: if men couldn't control their cocks, the only way to preserve a clean, happy, just equitable and non-violent world was to control men's cocks for them. And he'd subverted that. He was no better than all of the other selfish and aggressive handboys who tried to overturn the beautiful and perfect post-modern social order that had been born from Big Sister's blessedly inspired Cock Control Orders of 2087. And for that, he knew that he deserved everything that was coming to him.