CHAPTER 1: Locked
I hung on the wall like a carcass in a butchery. That’s all I was now; a raw slab of cold meat. My clothes had been snipped off by a large efficient woman in green hospital scrubs. She had not made eye contact and had ignored my whispered pleas for help. A logical voice inside me told me there was no point begging; there was no escaping. I knew without being told that there would be severe penalty for any attempts to do so. In fact, the logical voice even pointed out that the large woman was probably obligated to report my behaviour (I’d heard about penalties for “attempting to conspire”) which would only make things worse for me. However, my desperation was too strong. I hoped the large woman understood that I was terrified and desperate, and would just ignore me.
I knew the woman probably hated her job but I also knew she got on with it efficiently because she knew there were far worse roles to have been assigned in our brave new world. For example, the very role I had now been assigned. I was forty-seven and, until the previous afternoon, had been a senior manager at a bank. Now my employment history, wealth, and intellect were now of no consequence. My entire history had been erased. I was now meat slab number six-thousand and twelve.
The woman in the scrubs gathered my chopped-up scraps of clothing and my shoes. She placed them in a large bin in the corner. My phone and wallet were in my trouser pockets but had been disposed of, along with my identity.
The big woman strode out of the cold room, which resembled a meat fridge in an abattoir. I wondered if that was where we had been brought for “processing”. (The van I had been brought here in had had no windows.) Perhaps this had once been a meat-processing plant that had been repurposed as a processing plant for something else altogether: for processing human livestock.
I was one of about thirty naked men, all handcuffed to a metal rod against the wall. All of us were middle-aged, I noticed. None of us had athletic builds, ranging from obese to slightly below-average, with the exception of one man – a silver-haired man in his late fifties, who had a strong cyclist’s tan and well-defined muscle tone. Casting a furtive glance up and down the row I also couldn’t help but notice none amongst us were particularly well-endowed. A row of frumpy middle-aged men with little cocks. I saw a few other men glancing up and down the row making similar observations. Is that what they had based their recategorisation of us on? Penis-size? It seemed ludicrous …
A second woman holding a clipboard had entered and was making her way down the row. She was slim, in a blazer and pencil skirt. She had a small microphone taped to her lapel and was making voice memos as she examined each of us.
“Ninety per cent balding, overweight bordering on medical obesity,” she said of the plump man next to me. “Fat accumulation in the face, chest, stomach, and hips. Flaccid penis is approximately two inches at the time of processing.”
Despite the chill, I saw the plump man’s face burning with shame as his insecurities were rattled off.
She then came to me, her gaze lingering on my groin. My wrists were cuffed high over my head, rendering me unable to satisfy the overwhelming impulse to cover myself. My face burned as she registered the size of my member.
“Average BMI,” the Clipboard Woman said, “and no muscle tone. Receding hairline with geriatric discolouration. Flaccid penis is the smallest of this intake group. Less than one inch at the time of processing.”
This is hardly fair, a pathetic wheedling voice inside me cried. We’re all flaccid and this room is cold as shit. But I knew it didn’t matter. I, and my companions, had been recategorised as “nonmen” – and it seemed that our penis size had been very much a determining factor.
It transpired that we were the latest group of men who had been identified, through a series of measurements and medical tests, to have “dangerously low testosterone levels”. Immediate detention was ordered, followed by transport to a facility for processing. I did not know it yet but I was in an inescapable facility, a shiny new building made of metal and reinforced glass, patrolled by armed officers.
After Blue Scrubs and Clipboard had left, a male ‘social worker’ came in. He was a young black man in jeans and a t-shirt, with broad shoulders and strong arms. Already clothing was a luxury that separated the men from us non-men. By his swagger and the subtle bulge in the crotch of his pants, I immediately could tell he would be well-hung. Another thing that separated the men from us.
“Hey guys, I’m Josiah,” the social worker said. His deep melodious voice did little to relax us. “I know you must be shit-scared, and that’s perfectly normal, so I’m here to talk you through your transition.”
The tanned silver-haired man scoffed, too quietly for Josiah to hear. Already we were learning to edit behaviour.
“I know it mustn’t seem like it,” Josiah said, “but you lot are the lucky ones. You all still have a purpose. Huge numbers are being deemed non-useful and exterminated. The good news is that doesn’t need to happen to any of you.”
“Lucky us,” I heard the silver-haired man whisper under his breath. I wanted to warn him to be quiet; that his scoffing and muttering could jeopardise us all. But all I could do was twist my wrists this way and that to stop the cold metal digging into them.
“So today,” Josiah said, taking a seat on a stool in front of us all, “I’m here to talk to you all about your options.”
There was really only one option, as it turned out, but Josiah was at least pretending to offer us three.
One, extermination. They weren’t going to force us into our new roles – we needed to accept them. “Hear me out,” Josiah said, when the plump man let out a wail that the word extermination. “You’d be given gas to put you to sleep. Then, once you’re asleep, an injection.”
Unsurprisingly, there were no takers. One man began visibly shaking, his handcuffs clinking against the rod.
The second option was even more terrifying. Josiah produced a small metal contraption. It looked like a miniature guillotine.
“You’ll get a local anaesthetic in your groin,” he explained, “then the doctor will put this over your penis and testicles. Then …”
Josiah pushed a metal tab with his thumb. A large blade slammed shut along the base of the device. This time, a few of the other men joined the plump one in his wailing.
It turned out extermination was the best option so far.
“The benefit to option two,” Josiah said over the weeping, “is that you’d be unsupervised upon your release. You’d be rezoned to a community with your own unit. You’d be required to participate in six-day-a-week labour camps, but you wouldn’t have to struggle with your biological imperatives.”
The third option was being fitted with a locked metal cage over our penises. That was what we all chose. We would all become eunuchs, but at least we would keep our balls. We would have that much in common with men.
Blue Scrubs returned with a tube of gel which she squirted onto each of our limp cocks, one after the other. Clipboard came in with a trolley, looking like a flight attendant offering meals. Except instead of trays of food, she had our cages.
When they reached me, Scrubs massaged the cold gel over my cock and balls. It was the last thing I expected. I was too scared to become aroused; if anything, my penis retracted even further. Clipboard checked her notes then produced a small cardboard box and from it removed a metal ring. Scrubs took it and pushed the small ring over my balls which, well-lubricated, popped through, one after the other. I whimpered from the pain. Scrubs then threaded my limp lubricated cock through the ring. From the box she then produced a tiny metal cap, not much wider than a thimble, which she slid over my flaccid penis, squashing it into an even smaller nub.
I stared down at it. It looked like I had a shiny silver thumbtack where my penis had once been. Clipboard then had a tiny padlock which she threaded through the thimble and ring, then clicked into place. This miniature metal cage was now locked over my cock and trapping my balls in place.
Clipboard and Blue Scrubs removed their latex gloves and left the room. We all hung there, helpless and shivering, glancing up and down at the row of thimble cocks. None of us made eye contact. It was too humiliating. Even silver-hair didn’t speak, just hung there, his muscles useless. The chubby guy beside me was weeping silently.
Sometime later, the door reopened and a group of young officers in grey suits returned. They all had pistols on their belt. The officers began unlocking our handcuffs. None of us attempted to run. It was our very nature – obedient, weak, small-dicked, beta males – that had resulted in this categorisation. They had predicted we would be easy to control, and we were.
We were taken down into a low-ceilinged concrete room, underneath the centre, to sleep. Down there, there were already at least two hundred more men asleep, or at least pretending to be. We had all been sweating bullets for two days straight with no shower. The room had the ripe scent of men, even though the purpose of our being there was to reprogram us as not being men. I could smell the frustration and hopelessness.
I would quickly learn that those two things were our fate, both yearning to go back to being men again, with the hopelessness of knowing we never would be. I would learn that our brains and hearts knew it was hopeless, but physiologically we still had our biological desires.
Army cots had been set up for us in rows, but it was hard to sleep. The pinching of our cock cages kept us tossing and turning. Over the first few nights, we tried and shared a range of techniques: a bit of ointment under your balls before you go to sleep (they’d given us little tubes of the stuff, the same size as miniature toothpastes I used to get in business class on planes), sleeping on your side with your pillow between your legs, doing exercises before bed to wear you out so you’d go to sleep, trying meditation exercises to keep you from thinking about the hopeless situation between your legs.
For the first few weeks, for most of us, the cages pinched and pulled uncomfortably, but we were told to be patient, and even grateful.
One man named Andrew refused to obey. He kept trying to break the padlock on his cage. He strutted around with arrogance, refusing to accept his position. Then threw a cup of water at a passing officer. On the third day, four officers dragged him before the rest of us. An officer had a megaphone and told us all to watch, so we did. The tiny guillotine contraption was a produced. Andrew was screaming. There was no anaesthetic. These officers were practically boys, no older than twenty, with no medical training. Andrew’s cage was removed and his now-free balls were pushed into the device. I was numb as I watched. Blood spraying, then seeping. Severed balls falling to the floor in a sticky red puddle. Andrew went white and became unconscious. An officer pushed a folded up cloth against Andrew’s groin and they carried him out.
Almost instantly, another officer ordered two of the watching locked men to clean up the mess, which they did without question. We would do anything to keep our balls.
The constant threat of complete castration was the most effective in ensuring our compliance. Even if our little cocks and full balls were locked away, we still much preferred having them.
So, we were grateful.
We would not be allowed to cover ourselves with clothing again. We were in the same class as livestock now. “You wouldn’t see a herd of goats wearing trousers, would you?” The cadets herded us from place to place, making mooing sounds and joking about branding our flabby butts. We would not be afforded many human privileges because we had been reclassified. We only had two removable clothing items, to help with chores: one pair of black rubber gloves for cleaning and one pair of leather boots for outdoor tasks. Permanent fixtures were metal collars padlocked around our necks and, of course, our cock cages. These would not come off. For any of us caught trying to remove or tamper with these, punishment would be swift.
Day and night, the training centre was patrolled by cadets with electric cattle prods slung from their belts. These were eighteen year old punks on power trips. They strutted between our cots at night, chests puffed out, shushing us at even the slightest stirring or squeaking of bedframes. There were five times as many of us as there were of them – and they were half our age – and yet we were absolutely their prisoners.
We envied them their freedoms, most of all that their cocks were uncaged. We found ourselves glancing (or even gazing) at their unrestrained bulges. Their cocks could harden, get stroke by soft delicate hands, get sucked by a pair of pink lips and a warm tongue, and fuck a wet pussy.
Our cocks were pinched into tiny cages, rendered useless.
CHAPTER 2: A new purpose
Cleanliness is next to godliness, we were instructed from day one.
Wives have kept your homes clean for centuries; it was time to return for us to represent our gender to return the favour. Keeping ourselves busy with domestic chores would also keep us distracted from the constant frustration.
Charles, the muscular silver-haired prisoner, muttered that getting us to take over the menial tasks women have been doing also had a political purpose. The government wanted women on-board with the new initiative. “They want us to pamper women for votes.”
The official reason, we were told, is that our domestic labour would provide a nice home for our wives and saviours.
Saviours, we were told, who have stepped up to rescue the human race from its looming evolutionary crisis.
Gradually, I learnt about Charles. He was a broad-shouldered former real estate mogul. He was sceptical of this so-called crisis. He was one of the most intelligent men I had ever met.
One afternoon, he and I were on window-polishing duty in the foyer. A cadet with a mean scowl was patrolling the foyer so we had to wait for him to pass before we could speak. Even then, we could only speak in hushed whispers.
First, Charles explained why the evolutionary crisis was a myth.
“They’re saying the increased health problems are due to weak genetics provided by the male, but there have been limited research into whether other factors could’ve caused this. Climate, chemicals, nutrition, technology. But researchers found a tenuous link to a gene in male sperm cells and certain political factions successfully turned it into mass hysteria.”
Then Charles explained why, even if the crisis was real, the current solution (namely the gelding of nearly one hundred million men across the globe) was not effective.
“We’re not advancing evolution by replacing men like us with young thugs,” Charles told me as he scrubbed at a stubborn smudge of birdshit. “They’re reversing it, turning the human race back into cavemen, prizing brawn over brains.”
“And turning those of us with brains into housekeepers,” I added as I refilled my spray bottle.
“Exactly,” Charles whispered.
We had been declared genetically untenable and had been sent to training centres to be reprogrammed. We were not men. Our purpose now was to serve those men, who would be much younger than us, and our wives, while they attempted to advance evolution “forward”.
That was to be our new purpose: domestic servitude.
Or more accurately, domestic slavery.
Apparently we all had submissive instincts that had, to varying degrees, lain dormant. There were many ways to coax this instinct out, one of which was what they called pressing the button. The ‘button’, it turned out, was our prostate gland and this ‘button’ would be activated for most of our lives as non-men.
We were trained to accommodate increasingly large ‘activators’ which were, as far as I could tell, butt plugs. Research shows that stimulating this gland activates your submissive reflex. We were more likely to follow instructions with a constantly-massaged prostate gland.
“I know it sounds full on but honestly, they’ll help you adjust faster,” Josiah the social worker explained, somehow keeping a straight face. “Some of the new tasks you’ll be asked to do won’t come easily to you so it helps to have an Activator in place. It restricts your resistance reflex.”
I was dubious. It sounded to me they were telling us to shove things up our asses, which was understandably repulsive to me. Nonetheless, we were giving a ‘training kit’ of seven plugs, of increasing sizes, starting with one that was as thin and narrow as a finger. I had no desire to insert this into my anus, but we were told it would be much easier to work on it ourselves.
“You don’t want an Activator to be applied for the first time by someone else, who is likely to be inexperienced, and could cause significant damage.”
Already my mind was considering that at least medical damage might result in being placed in a hospital – and maybe that would be easier to escape from. This thought was quickly extinguished.
“If there’s any damage, you’ll be placed in an isolation tube to repair,” we were told.
Such a tube was shown to us. A narrow plastic tube that we would be forced into, sealed, with a smaller tube going into our mouths for food and oxygen, with catheters and colostomy bags hanging from our waists. I was claustrophobic and knew I would not cope well in an isolation tube for any length of time.
Therefore I went straight into a private booth with the training kit and began working on opening up my rectum to ‘activators’. The first few sessions felt sore and wrong but, as with everything, we shared strategies, the most successful of which was using copious amounts of lubrication. The mini-toothpaste tubes were insufficient so we got creative, using the cheap liquid hand soap from the shower stalls, butter from kitchen duties, or even our own saliva. Within a few weeks, I was managing to accommodate the third-largest Activator.
They had been correct: the Activator did push my “button”. It no longer hurt. In fact, in a strange way, it was the closest thing to pleasure I had felt since my arrival. Gradually I realised this was precisely how it worked. The gentle nudging of my prostate was stimulating but to really get the activator rubbing it, I needed to be on my knees, with my forehead on the floor, with my back arched and my ass high in the air. It was an incredibly servile position but it was only in that position that we received the pleasure of the activator. It was a subtle but effective way of attaching a positively reinforcement to our submission. When I was scrubbing the floors now, I found myself putting my head lower to the ground and my ass higher in the air. I knew the position only made it more enticing for guards to strike me with their whips, an invitation that they frequently took up as they passed.
I saw the effects of these Activators in others, too.
Charles, the silver-haired muscular man, had managed to resist the training but once he had the activator pressing on his prostate gland, I saw him drop to his hands and knees, at a young officer’s command, to lick his boot with what looked like enthusiasm.
After that, Charles stopped talking when we were on cleaning duty, whether guards were around or not.
CHAPTER 4: The return
After three months at the training centre, I was declared successfully reprogrammed. I had adjusted to the constant churning sensation of unreleased sperm in my balls. I had taken comfort in the ‘activator’, even pleasure, at the sensation of something rubbing against my prostate gland. I described it as 10% of an orgasm, and with no relief. I had mastered the full range of domestic tasks. I had been able to memorise and recite our Code. And so I was allowed to return home. I was finally going to reunite face to face with my wife. I had been warned many times about this reunion. You are not being reunited as husband and wife. Discard any expectations of your old life. We were told our wives no longer thought of us as husbands.
At the training centre, I was loaded into the back of a truck with thirty others. Our collars were padlocked against the truck’s interior, our hands were cuffed in front of us, and our ankles were shackled to those on either side of us.
Our truck driver was a twenty-year old guy with both arms tattooed and his nose pierced. He slammed the truck’s rear door closed and we were plunged into near-darkness.
“I can’t wait to see her,” the man to my right whispered in my ear. Paul was a short, plump, pink-skinned man I’d become friendly with at the centre. He was dim-witted enough to have remained cheerful throughout most of our three-month ordeal. “I know what they’ve told us, that they wouldn’t see us the same way, but I know Beth. We’ve been together nearly thirty years, college sweethearts. You can’t wipe that out in three months.”
On my left, Charles scoffed. “You’re wrong, Paul.” He was returning to his beautiful wife, who sounded like she had frequent cosmetic surgery. “They’re going to keep whipping your fat ass until you get the message.”
After an hour, the truck made its first stop. The tattooed kid swung the rear door open, jumped up to release the first man’s collar from the wall and unshackle his ankles. The door closed and we waited for a few minutes before we were back on the road. One by one, we stopped and were escorted back to our former homes, where our wives would see us for the first time in our new state. We had been told to expect no more sympathy from them than we had received at the training centre, but Paul clearly expected he would be different and, if I was honest with myself, I did too. Surely my wife would be kind.
I knew my cage wouldn’t come off but together we could find a way to get some relief.
I was the third to last one to be dropped off. The tattooed kid uncuffed me and I hopped down out of the truck and found myself in the neighbourhood I’d been living in for nearly a decade. Big trees along the street, mown grass, and right in front of me, my house.
“She’s expecting you,” the tattooed kid said, checking me off on his iPad, but not looking at me. He looked bored. His shift was nearly over, only two more deliveries to make. “I have to wait until you’re in the house – it’s a chain-of-custody thing – so hurry up.”
I didn’t have bags or any belongings. We owned nothing, now. I no longer even owned this house, despite having worked hard for the better part of two decades to pay off the mortgage. The deeds for all our properties had been transferred over, we had been told. Shares, cars, trusts, bank accounts. These were no longer in our names.
I walked up to the house, to the front door that I’d walked through thousands of times. But today, for the first time ever, I rang the doorbell.
CHAPTER 5: The reunion
The door opened and there she was. She was wearing a short powder-blue dress, showing the curves I had tried so hard not to think about for the last three months. Her hair, blonde now, falling on bare shoulders. She was tanned now. She was wearing make-up, dark red lipstick I’d never seen her wear before. Even mascara.
And straight away, I saw that they had been telling the truth at the training centre. This was not the same woman. The look on her face told me that. She stared me up and down, taking in my shaven body, my nudity, and the collar around my neck. Then she saw the tiny metal cap where my penis had once been and her expression shifted slightly – for a split second, there was a flash of malevolence.
For a minute, she didn’t let me in, but just stood there in the doorway, looking me up and down. Things were different; I had to await her command to enter. Theoretically, I would be required to stand on the doorstep for eternity if she didn’t tell me to come in. Her hands were on her hips and I noticed she had removed her wedding ring. We had been instructed not to remove ours; after all, we had made a promise to devote ourselves to these women.
“You might as well come in,” she said eventually. “Shut the door behind you.”
I did as obeyed. I didn’t say anything to her. We had been taught it was best not to speak to anyone unless they asked you a direct question.
In the foyer, everything looked much the same, except for two things. There was a blank space on the wall where our wedding portrait had been. And there was a skateboard propped up against the wall, next to a scuffed pair of chucks.
“In here,” my wife said, turning into the lounge. She sat on the sofa.
I stood in front of her, hands behind my back.
“So, they locked it?” she said.
“Come show me.”
I stepped forward until the cage was within reach. She leaned in and stared at it. I fought the urge to cover it with my hands. You no longer have cause for modesty, we were instructed. In the early days of the training centre, anyone seen trying to cover their nakedness, either with their hands or a bit of cloth, was handcuffed for three days’ straight. At mealtimes for the first week, you often saw those men eating like dogs directly from bowls.
“Does it hurt?” she asked.
“No, mistress,” she mocked me in a high voice and laughed. The laugh was so familiar. “Jesus. Sit down.”
I hesitated. Surely she didn’t she mean the armchair?
She laughed again. “The floor, silly. On your knees, like they taught you.”
I lowered myself to my knees, hands still behind me.
“If you want to stay here, then I need you to be as little trouble as possible,” she said. “They said you did well at the training centre. Very few demerits.”
I nodded but didn’t speak.
“You see,” she lowered her voice, “if he gets trouble, he’ll give trouble back.”
There it was. She had mentioned him straight away. I wondered if he was here right now, somewhere in the house. In my house, I objected silently. But no. Legally now, it was his house. These were his rules. Even my wife was under his command. I wondered if she’d given him trouble in the early days. Knowing her as I had, I expected she would have fought back.
“Do you understand?” She spoke slowly, as if I had a mental impairment.
“He is in charge now,” she said. “This is his house. I’m his. You’re his. You need that to be perfectly clear.” Then she added, in a soft voice that was from the Before times, “Please.”
I nodded again. “Yes, Mistress.” Then in my Before voice, I said, “We’ll be okay.”
“Alright.” She looked relieved. She picked up her cellphone and began typing a message. “I’ll text Kyle to come down down. He’s upstairs playing video games.”
CHAPTER 6: Kyle
We waited in silence, me naked on my knees, my wife on her phone. My heart began thumping.
After a minute, I heard footsteps coming down the stairs – loudly, as if he was jumping down them two at a time. Kyle landed at the bottom with a thump that shook the paintings on the lounge walls. He came in to the lounge and I laid eyes on my new master.
He was wearing a cap turned backwards. A white t-shirt, grey Adidas tracksuit pants. He had a healthy tan, brown forearms, and his face had a glow of post-adolescence. We had been warned that our masters would be much younger but I was still surprised just how young mine looked. He couldn’t have been older than 22, less than half my age. He was not tall, but well-muscled.
Kyle saw me and laughed.
“Where the fuck are his clothes?” he said.
My wife smiled indulgently and stood up. “It doesn’t wear clothes, remember? You wouldn’t see a goat wearing pants.”
Kyle came around to the sofa and slipped his muscular arm around my wife’s waist. He looked down at my cock cage. “Fucking hell, is that the thing? It’s tiny. That must pinch your meat so bad. Does it hurt?”
“No, sir,” I said. I couldn’t help but notice that even though his tracksuit pants I could see his meat hanging, thick and long, even when flaccid.
“I can’t go half a day without busting a nut,” Kyle said. He grinned at my wife. “Isn’t that right?”
Kyle looked back down at me. “How long’s it been since you’ve cum?”
“Three months, sir.”
Kyle whistled through his teeth. “Shit. Aren’t you as horny as fuck?”
“I hope to be kept busy through service to you, sir,” I said. “We were also trained in a range of techniques to help us with any cravings.”
“So you know what to do here, right?” Kyle said. “You know how this is going to work?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“You just do what you need to do and we’ll do what we need to do,” Kyle said. Then he grinned. He even had boyish dimples. Women would consider him attractive, I knew, but his grin terrified me. I was subject to the whims of this boy. “We all just play happy families, right?”
“Okay, so, you’d better get to work. And as for you …” Kyle turned to my wife. She smiled back at him and they kissed. At first, it was just a peck but they kissed again, open mouthed. I watched, my face going red, as I watched him slip his tongue in her mouth. Then, to my horror, I saw his enormous cock begin to stir in his pants. “You and I need to get to work, too.”
He slipped his hand under her blue dress. She giggled. I glimpsed her soft thighs and a pair of white panties. His started thumbing at the waist of her underwear then hesitated. He broke their kiss and turned back to me. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were glazed.
“Didn’t I tell you to go?” he said.
“Sorry sir.” I got to my feet and made my way out of the room, my head spinning and my heart pounding.
CHAPTER 7: Work
Upstairs, my bedroom was the room we had used as a small home office for me. It had been converted to a small and basic bedroom for me. The bed was a single, with a thin mattress and a grey blanket. The computer had been removed. We were not permitted to use the internet or phone. Anyone caught using the internet would be castrated. They used that threat often. It ensured our compliance.
There was a closet and set of drawers but these were not for any personal belongings. These were used for storage of the domestic equipment I would be using. Sure enough, I found brooms, sponges, scrubbers, cloths, a toilet brush, a feather duster, countless cleaning products, a vacuum cleaner. An ironing board, an iron, a shoe polishing kit. Even the pool cleaning equipment was here.
In the top drawer, I found the manual that I had studied for the past three months. The manual dictated minimum standards for a cleaning schedule.
Vacuum five times a week, but never while they are home. The noise is bothersome. Clean each bathroom daily, including shower and toilet, irrespective of use. Bed linens to be changed daily. Laundry to be done daily. Ironing daily.
I had the manual memorised. It was time to get to work.
Within minutes, I was in the bathroom, on my knees in front of the toilet, wearing pink rubber gloves, scrubbing the bowl. Downstairs, I could hear Kyle’s grunting and my wife’s whimpering. I had never heard her make those sounds.
They had tried to prepare us for this inevitability. We had practised controlling our reactions in group sessions. We all had to develop mantras to help us cope with the trauma of hearing (and even seeing) our wives being fucked by another man.
However, none of those sessions had prepared me for my reaction. There I was kneeling over their toilet with a scrubbing brush listening to them fuck and suddenly my cock began to harden. Immediately I felt the unyielding metal cage tighten around it as the head of my cock bulged against the bars. I felt the cock ring drag painfully against the base of my scrotum. I became dizzy as all my blood seemed to rush into my cock – and yet the cock had nowhere to go. I grabbed onto the edge of the toilet bowl and squeezed my eyes shut, willing the noise to stop, her whimpering, his grunting.
There was only one thing to do. I reached up and flushed the toilet, the rush of water mercifully blocking out the noise.
Chapter 8: Punishment
Ten minutes later, there were footsteps on the bathroom tiles behind me.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Kyle standing there, just in a pair of white briefs. His torso was sculpted, pectoral muscles, defined abdominal muscles. His hands were on his hips and he was looking down at me with his trademark grin, his eyes twinkling.
In one hand I saw he was holding a large wooden paddle.
Constant correction is essential, they instructed us. You must never forget your role. The act of submission to such correction will keep you grounded in your new life. It reminds you that your new role is not a comfortable one but is critical.
Kyle took a few steps towards me, surveying the gleaming bathroom - faucets shining, tiles polished, fresh towels, tissue box full. I knew what he was looking for: a mistake. Any small mistake. It is their duty to find room for your improvement. I remained on my knees beside the toilet bowl, head down, my cheeks burning with humiliation of this. I could only imagine what a pitiful sight I presented to this young Adonis-type - a 47 year old weedy balding man kneeling in front of him, while he inspected my cleaning work.
Kyle walked around looking at every surface. "Shit, they trained you pretty well," he said. "But you know what I have to do right?"
"Yes, sir," I said. I remained kneeling on the cold hard floor in silence for another minute.
Then, finally, he said, "Here. Look." He was pointing to the bathroom mirror. There, in the lower right hand corner, was the tiniest of smears on the glass. "You didn't check the mirror properly," he said, and did a theatrical tsk-tsk, then laughed. "Look, you've done a good job but you know I can't start soft on you. They said it could undo all the hard work you put in at the centre. You get that, right? This is for the best?"
"Yes sir, thank you sir," I said. "Please correct me."
He sighed. I got the sense he wasn't really thrilled about smacking the ass of a middle-aged man; he would much rather be getting kinky with my wife. He clicked his fingers.
"Come on, then. Follow me - crawling only, right? That’s what they taught you?"
I crawled over the tiles and out onto the softer plush carpet landing. The pleasure of soft carpet beneath my knees nearly made me moan. This was the closest I would get to pleasure now - simple comfort. I crawled across the landing into what had once been a guest bedroom.
Now it was something altogether different. There were various pieces of dungeon equipment - stockade, a wooden cross fixed onto the wall, a high-backed chair covered in straps, a table, and in the centre a bench, also covered in straps and restraints.
He pointed to the bench and I crawled over and climbed onto it. He set the paddle down in front of me and began fastening the straps over me - securing my ankles, wrists, knees and waist to the bench. My ass was completely exposed. So were my swollen balls - but surely he wouldn't beat my balls.
"Gag or no gag?" he asked.
"Gag, please, sir." I had already thought about this option. I knew the pain was coming regardless; the last thing I wanted was for my wife and the neighbourhood to hear my screams and to know just how far I had fallen.
Kyle picked up a large black rubber ball gag from a chest on the floor and secured it between my jaws. It forced my mouth wide open and completely blocked any sound. I tried to moan to test it out but almost no sound emerged.
Kyle picked up the paddle and stood back to inspect me. He looked so powerful despite his youth, a tanned muscular young man in white briefs.
"This is gonna hurt you more than it hurts me," he said. "Is that understood?"
Tears were already stinging my eyes; it was involuntary. I tried to murmur "Yes sir" but nothing came out - so I just nodded feebly.
He came around behind me. I thought he might warm me up with lighter smacks but there was no build-up. He swung the paddle with all his might against my ass and the pain shot through every nerve in my body - I felt it all the way up my spine, in my bones, even in my teeth. My skull jarred from the impact. My asscheeks themselves stung and burned and prickled - and that was only the first hit!
Against my will I tugged and bucked in my restraints. Logically I knew there was no escape but logic had no place with pain like this. I screamed silently into my gag, my vision blurring with tears.
Kyle held back his arm and delivered a full-force smack again - and again I bucked and screamed. My brain was full of nightmarish black prickly images - this was torture.
I felt like it went on for an eternity. I lost all track of time. I hardly believed it was over when he finally did release my bonds.
CHAPTER 8: Routine
The punishment made me work even harder and faster.
Kyle had placed his high school athletic trophies on a shelf in the hallway. He found me polishing these vigorously. He was wearing a towel, having just fucked my wife for the second time.
He saw me and laughed. “You’re going to fit right in,” he said, giving me a slight pat as he passed by.
By nightfall on day one, I was exhausted from housework. I had gone over the entire house. My arms and back ached. My ass stung and smarted.
The cook had left me a small container of food in the refrigerator which I ate quickly then went upstairs. I fell onto the small single bed. I slept on my side, waking up many times either through the sunburn-like sting of my butt or the pinching of the cage.
However due to my fatigue I was able to go back to sleep almost immediately each time and in the morning my aches were a dull gentle throb in my muscles and ass. It was almost pleasant.
I slept for nearly ten hours. It was important to be well-rested in our new roles. I was woken by an alarm. I got up and went downstairs to wash myself in the laundry basin, using a bar of soap, and dried myself using a small cloth. We had been told in the training centre, that if our chores were considered to be done well enough then we would be allowed baths on weekends, but only while they were out of the house. The noise of the running water could also be bothersome.
I washed and dried myself with a small cloth, then laced up my boots and pulled on my black gloves, finger by finger. I grabbed the shopping satchel and slung it over my shoulder. I walked along the hallway, through to the kitchen.
The cook Patricia was there. The cooks started work even earlier than us. She was making bread. When she saw me come in, she could not to hide her revulsion. Pat wiped her floury hands on her apron and rummaged in the drawer for the bank card.
“I don’t understand,” Pat muttered, “how a man can debase himself like this.”
She saw my near-complete nudity and cock cage as a chosen perversion. Didn’t she understand we had no choice?
I took the bank card from Pat. She then handed me her shopping list. The shopping list included anything she needs for the day’s meals, as well as anything either of them had asked for. I tucked the bank card and shopping list into the side pocket of the satchel.
“Get free-range eggs this time,” Pat said, turning away from me. “Your mistress wants a green smoothie after Pilates this morning so make sure you get all the ingredients and your master wants porterhouse steak tonight.”
Outside, Kyle’s Ford Mustang was parked in the driveway. According to the manual, I was due to clean it today, both the exterior and interior. It was humiliating cleaning the Mustang Kyle bought with my money. It would take all my resolve not to warn Kyle not to be so reckless with his spending.
But your saviour knows best, they taught us. Do not question him.
Still, when I was in the training centre, I had heard of a household where all the savings were burned through by a young guy even more foolish than Kyle, and so I had cause for concern. But of course, in that situation, it wasn’t the young guy who had been put to use to provide an income. It was the husband and wife.
I went through the front gate. Outside, it was a sunny day but there was a chill in the breeze. My bare skin goose-pimpled. I began to walk, hoping the movement would warm me up.
“Hey! Wait up!” a voice called out.
I saw Paul, the plump naked man from the training centre, waving at me. He came waddling down the sidewalk, wearing the same boots and gloves as me, the same shopping satchel over his shoulder. His thimble cage glinted in the sunlight.
Paul caught up to me, pink-faced and out of breath. “Let’s walk together.”
“You shouldn’t shout,” I reminded him.
We walked together past the large houses, towards the central part of town.
“How was Beth?” I asked.
“Well, she’s toeing the line,” Paul said, “but I’ve caught her eye a few times and I can tell what she’s thinking. Our guy Blake is a little shit. Last night, he found smudge on one of the whiskey glasses, and look what he did.” Paul twisted as he walked to show me a set of fresh red welts across his backside. “He gave me twenty with the cane this morning, full-strength. If you ask me, it was his own greasy thumbprint on that fucking glass – and that was my six hundred dollar Maccallum he was drinking!”
Paul was out of shape and struggled for breath the entire way, but did not stop complaining about the state of things in his household. He walked with short little steps like a trained pig’s, on its hind legs.
Paul’s chatter ceased as we reached the checkpoint for the shopping district. There were two cadets with cattle prods, talking about a girl one of them was trying to fuck in the ass. One of the cadets saw us and clicked his fingers impatiently, indicating for us to open our satchels and present them for inspection. Our bags were searched and our wrists stamped green, while the cadets kept talking about their efforts to have anal sex with this poor young woman. They didn’t even look at us. The novelty had worn off. Now they just had a boring checkpoint job.
“She says she’s scared it’ll hurt,” one cadet said. “I’m being nice about it but all I want to do is hold her down and force her.”
“It’s called the Bucking Bronco position,” says the other. “It’s when they try to throw you off but you keep riding her.”
Paul and I take our satchels back and walk on. I was ashamed to find myself feeling jealous of the cadets. I’d never been the type of man to enjoy the prospect of forcing a woman to have sex but, after five months of not ejaculating, my frustration was a constant.
CHAPTER 9: The Washing Line
After doing our shopping, Paul and I decided to walk an extra block to see if we knew anyone on the Washing Line.
The Washing Line was a long length of cable wire that ran between two tall buildings in the shopping district, about four storeys up. There were floodlights mounted on the sidewalks to keep it illuminated all night. On that morning, there were six naked men (or rather, non-men) hanging by their ankles, their wrists tied behind their backs. Most of them just hung there silently looking tired and scared but one was wailing into his gag and flopping around like a fish on a hook.
“Please let me down,” he was screaming. “It’s been three days, please …”
“Doesn’t he know they add days if you carry on like this?” I said.
“Blake keeps threatening to put me up there,” Paul said. “He’ll do it one day, too, just you wait.”
Men were left up there for days sometimes. Scraps of food were pushed up on sticks, for hungry mouths to snatch. Water was sprayed by a hose and again, thirsty mouths tried to gulp whatever drops they could. Some thought they were lucky when they were allowed to drink as much water as they liked, until they realised that the only way for them to release their bladders was onto their own faces.
Less than a year ago, those men on the Washing Line might have been doctors or accountants, who owned yachts and travelled first class with their beautiful wives. We were encouraged to feel scorn for those men for making mistakes, for breaking rules, but what I felt was relief, because none of those men was me.
CHAPTER 10: Doctor
The next day was my first appointment with my local clinic. We were required to submit to monthly check-ups.
A shuttle bus came to the house. I got in the back and sat on a bench, where I ended up being squashed between two other naked men. I had heard rumours about what the doctor could do for you. The doctor could examine you and order the cock cage to be removed. That could just be briefly for skin sanitation, but I’d heard of one doctor who required removal while the subject came into the clinic for observation of an infection.
They had told us what to expect at the training centre. First, our cage would be swabbed to check for infection, and to check that we were cleaning ourselves responsibly. If we weren’t being responsible, the doctor would give us a pamphlet (although surely we had memorised that).
Second, we were required to squat over a toilet bowl to produce a urine sample into a small jar. Third, a blood test. Fourth, blood pressure, fifth, heart rate. It was the same medical tests as before, except that now it was mandatory.
Inside the waiting room I waited with twelve other men. A receptionist recorded our names.
When I was called, I went through the doorway into the consulting room. The doctor was in his forties, my age, medium build – in many ways, just like me. Except much luckier. He smiled cheerfully and shook my hand, which I had not expected.
What I did expect was the examination table. It was covered in straps and buckles.
The restraints were not to punish us, we were told. The restraints are so that, if your cage does need to be temporarily removed, you are not subject to temptation.
"Let’s get you settled in," the doctor said.
I lay down on the examining table, on the sheet of chilly crackling disposable paper.
The doctor started by fastening the restraints around my ankles, buckling them tight over my boots, forcing my legs apart. He then secured two middle straps over my waist and chest, and another under my chin. He then gently guided my arms over my head to secure my wrists up and out of the way.
“Comfortable?” he said.
“Yes, thank you, doctor,” I said. It wasn’t a complete lie; I wasn’t physically uncomfortable.
He snapped on a pair of gloves and, with a cold finger, lifted my cage to examine the skin around it. He turned on a small torch and picked up a swab. The cage was poked and prodded with a q-tip for a minute or two.
“Well, you’re keeping your genitals really clean,” he said brightly, as if I was a dental patient who flossed well. He sat up and patted me on the thigh. “Everything otherwise alright?”
“Fine, thank you, doctor.”
“Bit frustrating, I imagine. How long’s it been since you ejaculated?” He checked my file and whistled through his teeth. “Nearly five months.” He glanced over his shoulder to make sure the door was closed, then he leaned forward.
Up close, his eyes were dark and beady. He had bushy eyebrows and smelled of cigarettes.
“I could help you, you know,” he murmured.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I could help you get some relief.”
“Relief? But – ah – how?”
“I can’t unlock you,” the doctor said. “But there’s technically no rule against trying to milk the prostate.”
“Let me show you.” The doctor squirted some cold jelly onto his gloved forefinger.
“No, doctor, really—”
Before I could finish, the doctor pushed his finger deep into my rectum. My entire body went as cold as the jelly and I gasped.
“You’ll need to relax.”
His cold finger retreated, re-entered, withdrew. In and out, in and out.
“Doctor, please—” I gasped again, tears in my eyes.
“Deep breaths,” he said. In, out, in, out.
“Please … please …” Although his finger was cold inside me, my face was growing warm. “Please stop …”
I wanted him to stop, it was uncomfortable. I hadn’t felt anything like this before. I was frightened. I needed him to stop but, as his finger went in and out, all I could do was squirm and writhe in my restraints.
After a minute, the doctor withdrew his finger and peeled off the gloves.
“It doesn’t always happen on the first go,” he said. “You can also try doing it yourself. It’s not against the code. A lot of men in your situation have had some success with it.”
He went about unbuckling the restraints, then turned to his clipboard as I made my way out of the office. I could still feel his cold jellied rubber-finger inside me.
CHAPTER 11: Watching
“I thought we should talk,” Kyle said. “Man to man, sort of. I know you go to all that brainwashing but at the end of the day, I’m still fucking your wife while you’re doing my laundry, right? And you lot get a pretty rough go of it really. So I wanted to offer you something. It’s not much but it might help. If you want, if you think it’ll help, you can watch us. They say that’s okay in the code, don’t they? I know they don’t let you watch porn or anything, and I was thinking maybe you miss seeing her, like that, you know? Even if it is with another man. Anyway, have a think about it. If we do it like that, with you watching, we’d have to take precautions.”
I knew the precautions he was talking about. They were in the code.
They had warned us about watching. Watching would probably be okay for those of us who had truly been reprogrammed. But for anyone struggling with temptation, watching would only lead to more temptation.
But if I didn’t watch, I might never see another naked woman again.
“It would be an honour to watch, sir,” I said before I could stop myself. “Thank you, sir.”
Against the far bedroom wall, next to the king-sized bed, there had been hooks installed. Two high up near the ceiling were for my wrists to be secured – high over my head and far apart. Similarly, the two at the floor were for my ankles, to be spread apart and secured. But this wasn’t enough. My collar fastened to a central hook which meant I could not turn my head. A belt fastened around my waist, securing me completely to the wall. I was immobilised.
These were the precautions. As obedient and domesticated as we were, there were concerns that we might fly into a rage seeing our wives being fucked by another guy, and try to intervene. This was a sacred ritual that must not be interfered with.
To that end, they fastened a large ball gag in our mouths. We must not even speak, only watch. The watching would help us understand our purpose, what we were here to serve.
The door opened and they came in, mouths locked, undoing each other’s buttons, flies. He kissed her neck, her throat, and she threw her head back and moaned. It was as though I wasn’t there (which meant I was doing my job). Seeing their bare skin – his tan covered his body completely, I suspected he’d been sunbathing naked by the pool. Her milky white skin. Her small but full firm breasts in his hands. He threw her onto the bed and she wriggled out of her panties. He looked at her pussy with a hungry look in his eyes. I saw it was hairless; that was new, too. His cock was enormous, veiny thick and long, more than nine inches.
She didn’t look scared. She looked excited.
He fell down on top of her, with one hand guiding his gigantic cock inside her. She gripped the bedsheets and screamed, in both pain and pleasure. “Fuck!” she gasped.
Straight away he began slamming in and out of her. I watched his hard round asscheeks pumping up and down as he thrust deep inside her.
I felt my body reacting, objecting, resisting. I heard myself moaning into the gag. My body tried to go forwards but was held back by the restraints. The ropes and belts cut into me, preventing me from throwing myself forward.
No, no, stop, I was saying but of course they could not hear. You’re hurting her…
This was not how I made love to my wife. Our lovemaking had been gentle, slow, intimate. I would kiss her lightly and make sure she was comfortable. She would make occasional sounds but was mostly quiet. I had never seen her react like this. I realised now I had never seen her orgasm.
He fucked her for what felt like an eternity. Our lovemaking had only been brief, five minutes at the most, but Kyle had been ploughing her for what felt like thirty minutes. At various points, he would stop, pull out, straddle her face and get her to lick the head of his cock. He tried to get as much of it in her throat as he could, sometimes posing in a push-up position over her face and trying to fuck her throat, but she kept gagging and giggling. Then he would go back to fucking her. At one point, he pulled out and lifted her up and began licking and fingering her pussy. Her face was bright pink and she moaned making all sorts of unfamiliar sounds. He brought her to orgasm that way, not once, not twice, but three times, before fucking her again. He did not cum himself until nearly an hour had passed. When he did, he roared, slamming his cock home and scooping her up in his muscular arms.
They lay together breathless, sweating and satiated. I could almost feel the satisfaction of their loins, the light empty feeling in his balls, the tingling of his cock post-coitus. I could still feel my own frustrating fullness, but somehow almost telepathically I felt the crackling of pleasure in their loins. I hung in my restraints nearly as breathless as them, strings of drool hanging from my gag, my eyes glazing over.
I was half-asleep standing there when he let me down. I fumbled and unbuckled my gag.
“Thank you, sir,” I mumbled through an aching jaw. The gag straps had chafed the sides of my mouth.
“Bed time,” Kyle said.
“Yes, sir.” I shuffled to bed and slept deeply.
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