FutureDomme Chapter 1
by Counterparts199
"Come on baby. Over my knee; you've been bad!" Said the lady in the
commercial. The man, hairy chested, pot bellied, in nothing but a big, white,
syntho-cotton diaper, hesitated as if in fear, but then toddled over and laid
across her well dressed knee and quietly wailed big tears as she paddled him
with a hairbrush.
"Try 'Jears' detergent in your next wash. Never know when you'll have to show
up your brightest whites!"
Joe flipped the channel changer, "Charlie's Dark Angels," were on channel 487,
always seemingly a rerun. Never into the plastic people glam-show scene, Joe
went to 488, a game show, he couldn't remember the name of it, a woman's show,
not at all unlike the old 'Oprah' shows, only the women were less dumpy, more
professional, and for therapy, instead of Doctor Whatshisname, they simply had
their boyfriends duck into the pillory wall and got to toss eggs at their heads
for prizes whenever the interviewed couples got to a point where they discussed
the battle of the sexes in mainly female terms. All in good fun, but nothing
like the music videos, where channel 489 was featuring headbanger girl bands of
the 2030s, guys crawling at their feet with loin cloths on that left the
occasional gaping view of a penis or two.
It was the rage, strong women, now that the fact that 78% of all college
graduates were women, and the economic tables had finally turned on top as well.
We'd even had a string of four female Presidents in a row, the demographics on
putting a woman up for office always having been better, gaining most of the
female vote and many of the more liberal male ones as well. It was almost as
lopsided now as it had been Southern Presidents around the turn of the century,
that too a fluke of demographics and most of the women Southern anyway, though
with global warming being what it is, the immigration north was apt to change at
least some of that, particularly since the breach tragedies in Florida.
As for entertainment, the old rough rapper yelling, "Make my bitch get down and
serve my d....," sort of mass appeal was long gone, it having been replaced by
that much more PC strong woman lifestyle ads and music videos. It was all the
rage, too, for celebrities to dance on the red carpet, sporting a servant or two
in tow, mostly male, but lesbianism being on the rise and even medicines to make
one into one if desired, a few female servants as well, though sporting a female
servant had gotten kind of like wearing fur to an environmental convention.
I flipped my digital TV from television to Sims Internet Mode, Itinerate
Counter-Culture. Setting in my preferences, I was immediately connected to
27,195 matching players. As usual, spam found a way through before it could
find a partner, it an ad for FemWorld, "spend a weekend or a summer. Or, be all
that you can be, and make a career of it. Femworld is for men like you, ready
for a challenge and adventure of a lifetime! Remember, we have the exclusive
pay as you go option, assuming the usual fees related to time of adventure.
Surrounded by the women of your dreams and likeminded peers. We match
pheromones, what man can pass up ..."
I hit the anti-spam icon, and it faded away with the sound of a whip cracking.
"Incoming call! Oh boy, Joe, your sister, Susan!" I'd turned down the normal
speaker volume, and the 'Windows 2044 PMS' icon, and the sound chip and
everything else I could, but along with the text and dancing gnomes off of my
main screen, I still got blaring sound for both my incoming phone calls and
those annoying spams. Jesus, you'd think that after sixty years of communal
internet technology, a person could figure out how to stop some of the crud a
person wants stopped, but hey, I still didn't even know how to get rid of the
history files that the 'get rid of history files' icons couldn't get rid of, so
I'd gotten to the point of putting towels over my speakers just to dampen it
some. Shoot, last week I'd even gotten an internet spam out of my electric
socket, the whole house humming, "Come to Femworld. Take a load off! Get your
life in order. We fix all addictions! Get away from that pesky inlaw! Learn a
new skill. Most education programs are pay as you play. Sign a title 47, and
thumb that nag on the way out the door, Mister!" I'd been dead on my ass after
a long day at the warehouse, and in bed, and the electric wires in my house had
done that to me, making my house into a boombox. I'd love to get my hands on
the Congressman who allowed the electric company to get into the internet
business, a service I didn't even subscribe to, and yet they'd found a way to
make the AC wrapped into my rooms into a speaker coil for just long enough to
deny it, just to make use of the low-spead.
"Hi sis, what's up?" I said to the speaker phone.
"Got an old fashioned girl who goes by the name of Ellis who wants to meet my
brother! You need to show up for once. Stop hiding behind that computer screen
and get over here tomorrow at sevenish! I'll have my boytoy Hal cook
synth-lobster with butter bursts, your favorite. We may be divorced next month,
but he's still the best cook I've ever had, so why not use him to help get my
brother hitched; besides, I think we might even make an arrangement after we
divorce; for the cooking, that is." She laughed.
"You're keeping him, just to cook?" She made way better money than me, but
because I'd never thought of a woman keeping someone who wasn't at least
contracted or indentured, it startled me some.
I hit the phone monitor button, and there she was, typing her words so they'd
come out like Betty Boop, her favorite old time cartoon character. It struck me
that the only time I ever gotten to speak with my real sister, her using her
real voice, was when we met at her place to meet another one of her friends in
hopes of hitching me up after my 6th divorce.
I had my limits, and at 46, doubted I'd be all that interesting to any of her
professional friends, though more and more, professional women were having to
marry men of lesser positions, particularly since there were so few of us around
with the women lasting so much longer and more and more males buying into the
trend of loaning or even signing themselves off as servants. My own
great-grandmother was a hundred and twenty-seven, she outlasting great
granddaddy, granddad, and dad. Women had better insurance too, and then there
was the rumor that lots of guys were turning up in communes or worse, work
farms, some run by unscrupulous divas, leaving us bachelors in short supply,
though the lesbian conditioning and new sex aids helped a lot towards relieving
the stress and in spite of our short supply, still left us diminishing in power
on all sorts of social and economic levels.
"Turn on your camera, Joe. I can't see if it's you or a voice bot?" I flipped
it on, surprised that I'd managed to find the trick to turn the damned thing off
last time I'd been online. Just for fun, I tried to turn it off again, and
again it stuck on, the mini-corner-view of me wiggling to find a relevant icon.
I'd be five hours trying to get it off again, I understood, as I smiled at the
camera lens, which incidentally, was the same thing as my multi-D monitor.
"Looking kind of pasty, Joe. Been online too much? I can see that you've just
logged into Itinerate Counter-Culture. What kind of kinky thing has my brother
got in his bio? Haven't I been trying to save you from that kind of stuff? You
have no idea the extremes that playing around with culture stuff can lead to;
being unable to get the open news in your socioeconomic status. What do you
think I've been trying to set you up for? Don't you know that the news for
males is filtered now on the net, and that you might do well to take some of my
advice?" She started pecking around for my bio, but hey, at least the secrecy
screen worked; she unable to scratch out a clue from my Alias. I took that as a
miracle.
"I live a drab life; thank the goddess," I told her, in my own voice, my hands
free.
"So, you coming?"
"Sure. Might as well eat. Did you tell her that I was 6 times divorced and
that my penis is 46 years old, not one nanobug to it's puny name?"
"Oh, come-on, Joe. Some women like men who are natural; besides, she has money
for nanos if she really likes you as a husband. Think of it like a challenge.
Besides, it's more about what's in the mind than what's below the belt. She has
a great job and estate; probably she can get you some nanos for your dick, hee
hee."
"That's what the problem is, alright. Last six rich women mind fucked me far
more than any other kind of fucking, and not a one would spring for an
improvement in my nano status or health plan, married or not; imagining me a
throw-away on our wedding days. All they wanted was a new toy for awhile!"
"Florence would have kept you longer. You should be more respectful to your
sister too, Joe. Remember that law against rude, sexual comments to ladies? I
could be logging this. I could scramble your voice around that fuck word, and
you'd be toast. You could end up in jail."
"Yes Ma'am," I poked back, being overly formal.
She chuckled, somehow knowing how to do that like Betty Boop by typing it.
"Oh wait. I have another call," I said, seeing the call blooper beeping, this
one beeping without sound, me continually perplexed about what sounds worked,
and what ones didn't and when and how?
"OK. Later. Seven, tomorrow!"
"Sure things, sis," I said, closing the connection.
The next caller's face came up. "Good evening Joe. I saw that you were
interested in our ad ..." a dazzling young lady's face said. I started to say
something very negative, but like most of those sneaky cold calls, she was fast
on her lips and had almost hypnotic green eyes, not to mention a mouth that
wiggled in ways that had me wondering if I'd seen that right.
"We offer an almost endless array of options, almost all of them free for work
trade, and some you can pay for with less than a half day's wages, for you, Joe.
Six divorces suggest, by our studies, that you may be entering into an area of
your life where you are seeking something beyond the ordinary, and your bio is
perfect for our longest, most exciting and thus free programs. No muss, no
fuss; just sign up and we take care of the rest, including contacting interested
parties, and moving you into our system without the slightest effort on your
part.
Warehousing is a dying business with so much automation, Joe. What will happen
when your privatized Social Security Account is found to be under-funded. At
46, you've only twenty or so years left before that must be a consideration and
you are inclining towards less than twenty percent of the recommended funds for
even the basics of life. At the rate of low tech industry erosion, our
computers show far less attractive times for you, Joe, particularly under-funded
for nano-upgrades as you are, Sir. We can solve all three of these problems,
funding, retirement and the lack of necessary nano-improvements in our shortest
internship. What we are talking about here is a win-win solution for us, Joe.
We are, in fact, taking an interest in you, even if others do not, your
Counter-Culture bio has been found to be perfect for several of our internal
programs, and that lady that your sister is interested in coupling you with is
at least a 93% probability of marriage failure; pheromones do not lie. The end
result is that you will be a more productive member of society, disappoint no
more women, and live your fantasies; all for nothing more than the exchange rate
of one boring lifestyle for another more robust one."
Good goddess, was there anything that they didn't know about me? Damn, even I
didn't know I even had a pheromone record!
I said, "I really don't know much about this. There are stories that are less
than flattering about organizations such as yours. I don't want to get into
anything illegal."
"Oh, it's perfectly legal. We have certification from the SEC, FBII, The Nancy
Ashcroft Society and are fully disclosing of our participants, all of whom sign
legal wavers of sexual preference, as dictated by the Freedom of Lifestyle Act
of 2031. The most important thing that distinguishes us as above board is that,
unlike so many of the offshores, we provide both information and visitation to
any relatives, including friends of your choosing in our many resort hotels.
Some even assist in financing extras; the volunteer rate on this is incredibly
higher than expected, proving how much relatives often find the changes
agreeable."
"I've seen documentaries. I don't want to end up a being too freaky!" I told
her.
"You sign up for what you want. We have a Good Housekeeping seal with 100%
certification that we take our clients through exactly the programs they sign
onto. I think that you have us confused with the offshores, Joe. We're an
American Company. What can be more up and up than that?"
Did I tell you that she had big, wiggling lips that were an odd mixture of
dimples and whatever? "Do you have a menu of sorts? Like a list of products?
Maybe I can do a weekend?"
"Sure. Or, we can just take your bio as your selection. We do that with an
amazing ability to target people into the right sub-program for their needs.
You can't duplicate a bio on a pick sheet. It has the advantage of being a
little less predictable for the participant too, as opposed to a list that one
has just marked. I think that most of our submissives like that sort of
spontaneity, though we offer programs for those who are not submissive; people
like voyeurs, Dommes, Doms, addictions is big, well, you know.
"I'm not really ... you know ... all that submissive. I just play that on SIMS,
mostly. I might even like something else if you can shoot me a menu?"
"Of course. It's fantasy. Quite harmless to non-participants. All the rage,
and a growing trend. Some say it's the media, but what do they know? We try to
keep much of it secret, actually. We are well aware of the human psychology,
and how it goes overboard. Why, myself, I'm into rape themes. Goodness, but
I'd never want to be raped, you see. In a way, it's not really you that we take
on; it's your alter-ego, so it's OK to be whatever you've always wanted to be
with our service, all without the slightest risk."
Did I tell you that her lips, the way they moved, well, they were a little
confusing? She was reassuring about the service, and how her company differed,
though. I mean, no real risk was involved, and I was getting long of tooth for
playing much longer without finding a means of getting my hands on some nano
improvements. What if I turned sixty and still only had peanuts in my
retirement fund? Or, goddess forbid I'd lose my warehouse job. She'd mentioned
that they might help on those levels, and a good nano-upgrade would up my
marriage prospects considerably, meaning the food was better. What if I needed
my arteries unclogged too? If my checkup proved bad, (always required by such
establishments) they could fix me up, even if I picked just a weekend thing.
The hospitals already had me rated class 3 due to my low healthcare payload and
I was constantly rubbing my last few dollars together, come end of pay-period.
What's that, a hamburger and a Canibacoke?
"We will definitely nanobug you, Joe. No extra, and all of our patients are
class 5, at least while the transformations are being conducted; you know,
whatever you decide upon."
"Well, what about the list though? Can you send me one?"
"Sure. We have over 200 options, and any time frame that you want. But you
know, the free pass option is really for the bio read option, allowing us a bit
more freedom to place you. That's what most of our clients go for. You really
don't have much funding anyway; not that it hurts you here. We just read your
bio in Counter-Culture and to be frank, you can't do any better than that. Lots
of our paying clients have told us that the menu approach just isn't nearly as
realistic as the free bio read approach and it shoots hell out of the mystery.
We have a 67 Craymagnon working up psyches on the bio option that you filled out
long ago, net hits too; while the menu is just a one size fits all sort of
thing; 200 options, but hey, it's like going to the restaurant and picking
something, as opposed to just letting your taste buds tell you what they are
hungry for by looking at the real thing behind a counter."
"So, like the bio thing is free, and the other menu stuff costs?"
She answered, "It's weird, I know, but the best product on our table is the
cheapest and only available for those who sign up right away; an exclusive
offer, you see. It's just the way it works out. You know; we're a lot like
headhunters. We find the best clients for our needs, and do much of it off of
bios. Think of it like a company. You are scouted by the company, and they
like what they see, so they go to hire you to fill a need that has just opened
up and won't be there tomorrow; and then you decide that you don't want to be
the finance manager, for which we know you are perfectly suited, but rather, you
decide that you want to be a salesperson. We can't pay the same for that
because our needs are not as perfectly matched, and besides, you'd be a less
satisfied employee. Thus, we already know and like your bio, Joe, and if you
pick right off of that today, it's a free ride, healthcare, fantasy, nano
upgrades, class 5 for the time you're in upgrade and all! Just that simple."
"I suppose there is some logic in that. A Craymagnon 67, you say?"
"You don't know you like the Cray knows you," she explained, then adding, "And,
it knows us too, which is why we are often very aggressive and willing to defray
the cost, once we find a match. Saves admin costs as well, the Cray already
having spit you out months ago. Oh, and did I tell you that upon arrival we'll
be matching you up with a pheromone match? As a large organization, we have a
large number of greeting professionals, and find it most comfortable for all
when we match our clients at the door."
"Hum. What if I fall in love with her?"
"If she wants to marry you, hey, fine with us! Of course, she's meeting
pheromone matches all day, so you can imagine her state."
I went back to an earlier thought, "What did it say? The Cray? About me?"
"Can't tell you that. Company policy. It's you though Joe. Right out of your
records and bio; stuff you don't even know about."
"OK, I guess. Where do I sign?"
"You just did, or at least an intent. I have that on recording, but I have to
ask one last question. You'll be signing a legal wavers of sexual preference
declaration, in effect, so we need to be a bit legal here. The expansion of the
Equal Right's Act protects you, but only if we make things clear."
"OK. Shoot."
"Here I go. This is a legalize sentence: Is that your final answer?"
"Yes, I suppose."
"And, what was that answer? In your own words, so that we can get a reading
upon your intent that isn't in our words, as outlines in the Contract Signature
Law of 2017, as best proof of signature, Sir."
"Uh ... um ... well, I suppose that I'm agreeing to accepting your companies
services ... um ... as determined by a clear and accurate read of my bio on
Counter-Culture. You can't do something that isn't me, so to speak."
"The name of the company is FemWorld. Could you include that for our voice
scanners, Sir?"
"Yes, of course ..." I swallowed. Female domination was my kink, but I'd only
really played at it with a wife or two for a few minutes at a time. My bio was
really kinky, and I thought I should maybe go back and read what I'd put in that
thing for my chat channels junk, but they had a Craymagnon 67, and I'm sure they
could read through the junky overblown part of the bio to get to the real me,
especially with all my other records on tap, I was thinking. I mean, like she'd
said, no woman wants to get raped, and yet it is a big female fantasy. Cray
could figure that out, I knew, it being designed as a social system integrator
from day one, as she'd suggested. I'd read up on the machine. "... I am
entering into a contract with FemWorld for their free service option off of a
reasonable read of my bio and some vacation, with full medical and nano upgrades
of my choice."
"Very good, Sir. Thank you for choosing FemWorld. We'll be taking care of
everything from our records. I had three hundred and seventy-two internet hits
as witness. Everything seems complete; but let me check." There was a ten
second pause. "Exactly. Again, thank you, and we'll be in touch."
She disappeared from my screen. In her place was my original login for
Counter-Culture. Damn, I thought to myself: I'd just signed on for a fantasy
vacation with the worst spammers on the planet, for me anyway. Hell if it
helped, a half minute later, another FemWorld spam slipping through; me deleting
it by instinct.
I went back and read my own Counter-Culture bio, and was sort of glad that the
Craymagnon would be tempering that overboard submissive junk with some of my
more mundane records, of which they seemed to have an abundance and regarding
which the Cray had more access than I had, by law. Some lonely woman from
Counter-Culture binged me for a chat, but I withdrew. Most of those women
weren't even into being Mistresses, I knew, but men being in short supply ....
I imagined myself about to get my fill of such stuff as soon as they e-mailed me
about when I was to catch a flight to their closest fantasy motel; me thinking
maybe a week or two from now. Should I tell my sister and my date tonight?
Gee, how did they know I had a date tonight? Hell, I was sort of excited, in
fact, not having the money to go on vacation since my last divorce, and this,
though a bit risqué, was certainly going to be a nice break.
I sat back and reflected, and then realized that the room seemed to be moving
around some. Those eyes had certainly been hypnotic.
FutureDomme Chapter2
I got a call seconds later, this being an unusually heavy day already for a guy
who normally only saw one or two sales calls a day.
"Well, what do you have to say for yourself?" Said my second wife, Florence,
camera off. She'd actually been the one I'd decided to divorce, other than the
others who'd divorced me, all claiming that I'd been used up and wasn't exciting
anymore. To Florence, I was exciting, but she had to be the plainest looking
woman on earth, redefining exciting, you see, and ten years my senior.
"I didn't do nothing, and hey, what's this junk about you telling my sister that
I beat on you, spent you blind and of all things, am gay?" I said. Of course I
knew why. She was vindictive, a liar, and always about saving face. There just
simply had to be an excuse for my leaving that wasn't her.
She ignored my question. "You signed up for FemWorld. What's wrong with you?
Are you stupid? I could have helped. What kind of trouble are you in?"
She was like a bad mother, all reactive advice. Damn, I had no idea that they
notified everybody, and fast too! Who do they tell if it's a paying customer, I
wondered? I'd not anticipated being outed as another male epidemic victim to
the submissive persuasion, especially to everybody I knew. This could get
embarrassing - even if it is sort of faddish.
"I'm not in any kind of trouble. Just thinking about some nano upgrades, maybe
a checkup. I'm out of money. I need a vacation, an upgrade, maybe something a
little kinky and fun. You're loaded; what makes me think you'd understand? You
never showed an ounce of interest in nanoing me even a bit of youthfulness."
"I could have taken you on if I thought you steady. Sponsored you an upgrade.
We could have set up a deal; a year or two for some genetic youthening, maybe a
point or two for your pension fund. You could have just done the gardening;
this property is enormous!"
"I can't offer myself out like that. What kind of guy do you think I am? A
gigolo?"
"You're a man; what does it matter?"
"That's kind of a sexist thing to say, isn't it? Use em and lose em. Women are
starting to be all the same."
"Watch that tongue, boy. Shoot, Joe, you've signed up with FemWorld. If it's
sexism you're worried about, you have a strange way of showing it; and besides,
they have a terrible reputation. I should think being a gigolo would be a step
up! At least it's with someone who wants you for more than the company's bottom
line."
"You don't know what you're talking about. They have the highest SEC, FBII and
Good Housekeeping certification. It's a local company. Don't lump them in with
the offshores," I informed.
"Local and international and sheltered by every Senator in Congress. The
surprise is that they've managed to keep how big an operation they are from the
male public by putting fear into the eyes of the media they advertise so heavily
in." She paused, and then sighed, "It's just a shame. I'm so disappointed with
you, Joe."
"I don't think it's much to ask for just a vacation."
"I'll see what I can do to get you out of it," she said flatly, as if it meant
the world to her for some reason. I wasn't good enough to put out enough to
stay married to, but in two minutes time she'd offered me both a job and a
bailout from a measly vacation, as if running my life was still on the books.
My monitor lit up with several incoming calls, all at once. Damn, but the whole
world was calling me, including three more former wives, and my sister again.
I cut the conversation short, and put the wives on "No Answer!" Picking up my
sister's call, I was surprised by my computer giving me one of my ex-wives
instead, the damned glitchy Windows again!
"Why didn't you tell me that you could be this exciting, Joe? Do you have any
idea the chores around here that can use a man slave's work? I'll have to beat
FemWorld's price now. Don't think you're worth it though!" She hung up, having
gotten her funny little point across, and never really very sociable anyway. Of
course, she had no intention of doing any such thing as her ludicrous offer.
She and I were not on good terms, and the idea of that ex-wife spending a penny
on me to keep around, even as a butler, was laughable. Funny thing is though, I
couldn't remember if it had been Sharon's or Paula's voice? They both had odd
Ids and the same caustic style and the same penchant for phoning and then saying
their piece, followed by a hang-up, usually without even knowing for sure if I
was on the other end.
My grandmother was calling me. I pushed the icon saying, "Not home." Then my
bowling team and co-workers started in on me. I couldn't imagine speaking to
any of them again, my reputation ruined by FemWorld's policy of telling a lot
more people a lot more details than I'd even imagined.
I got an automatic update from the Tax Service that my bank account had been
billed for the portion of my taxes that would have been due if all I made for
the rest of the year was what I'd made up to that moment in time. Damn, my
taxes were screwed up - just for a vacation. Then I got an e-mail from my boss
at work. It read:
Dear Joe Anderson:
Thanks for tendering your resignation. We were in process of seeking three
names for lay-off, and though your seniority would have saved you this cut, you
should have the pride in knowing that you have saved a fellow employee from a
similar fate. We all hope you the best of luck with your new employment at
FemWorld. If you should need a reference, please contact our office.
It was signed. Mostly a form letter, I understood.
I tried to call my employer to tell her that I'd only signed up for a vacation,
to which I had plenty of time, but I couldn't get through. Then I tried to
click up the company sight, thinking I could get an e-mail through, but realized
that I'd been cut off from the web. Even my sister's call was gone from the
screen, and considering the rate of calls I'd gotten in a frantic, the blankness
of my computer, left to its own programs and cut off from the world, was sort of
numbing.
The computer blinked a few times, and then a screen came up that read,
"Uploading all reusable program files ... uploading all history files ...
deleting all personal files ... securing operating system for fresh user and
as-new logon."
Damn if someone wasn't hacking in and stealing all of my software! I was
banging keys, but the thing just kept on dropping icons at lightning speed until
I had the old 'Windows 2044 PMS' screen, the one that I'd last seen right after
taking the thing out of the box two years ago. I hit enter, and the screen
changed, saying, "Welcome to the Win 2044 environment. Please enter your new
user access code or the serial number on your operating system disk!" I went
behind the computer, and pulled the high speed access jack. Then I got my
original operating disk out, and upon finding the numbers, typed mine in. The
computer read:
"Sorry. A manufacturer code is necessary in order to revive your computer. The
Win 2044 serial number provided is no longer functional. This may signal a
security violation. Please call for a new user access code.
I had an old phone in the bedroom of my two room house, and thus, finding it
under a pillow, picked it up, discovering a dead dialtone. That left the old
non-terminal TV in my bedroom. I clicked it on, but there was only one channel
on the regular airwaves, and it was the dating game, telling me that they'd
jacked my TV cable as well. The dating game was silly - I'd seen my fill of
lesbian shows.
Shit!
As if in response, there was a knock on the door. "As if phone calls aren't
enough," I moaned, putting on a fresh pair of shorts and a sweatshirt.
"Joe Anderson? 267-87-20025?" A woman asked, looking up from her clipboard,
sporting some antique glasses (they used them mainly as jewelry meant to imply
intellectualism). She was a few overweight, nothing a pill or two couldn't deal
with in a week. Maybe thirty, dark hair, up in a working bun, and like I said,
wanting to look studious. "I'm Gloria Sanders. Here to help you make your
first step as an associate with FemWorld." She held out her hand, which I
nervously shook, she adding, "Do you have an extra key for the door; they never
make one for the appraiser?"
"The ... the ... this door? My house?"
"I wouldn't ask if it didn't make things much easier. They do think of
everything, but not nearly enough keys for everything. Well, if it's too much
trouble, we can work around it," she said, as if dismissing the thought.
"I think there's a mistake. I'll not be moving; it's just a vacation."
"Oh. I'll have that checked then."
"Is this like my ride to the vacation motel?" I asked.
She'd checked her portable phone-link on the fly and said, "Oh, that's right; we
just need someone to look after things. That's why the key." It seemed
important to her, and she did have a clipboard, so I knew she knew what she was
doing, and went to the counter for the spare house key.
"It's going to be looked after by someone reliable, I hope," I said, not that I
owned much.
"You have my complete assurance that nothing will be stolen from its owner.
They'll even make the computer fresh," she assured me, me wondering how she knew
about that, but then remembering the Cray, it apparently all it was cracked up
to be, only having gone a bit overboard for me. One of its best features, it
seemed, was in keeping everyone but me informed; about par for my computer
experience.
I complained, "They seem to have gotten me confused right off. I signed up for
a vacation, and my computer has died, my boss has fired me and I have eight
women on my ass about leaving town, not counting my grandmothers. Is there any
way that we can get all of that adjusted before it gets too far out of hand?"
"Oh, certainly, Sir. Everything will be set perfectly right. This kind of
confusion happens all of the time. There is really a bit of a company squabble
on this very thing? Do you have some shoes? No, no bag; just as you are. We
provide all of the clothing you will need; part of the deal. Oh, as I was
saying, there are those who think we should be more careful about going off
right away and telling everyone about some sort of transfer. I mean, what if
there is a mistake or someone panics? Could happen, you know."
"Yeah, could indeed. Look at me," I said, rather severely, as she led me out to
her van that was parked on the street.
"Exactly. I do feel very sorry for your situation," she said as I started to
open the passenger door.
"Oh, but Sir, we can't have the clients up front. Insurance, and besides, not
professional. We don't know you yet, is the word. Treat everyone the same;
even the nice ones, and play the lonely chauffeur. For security reasons, we
have all of our new clients sit in back. Watch your head." She slid the side
van door open, all of the windows blackened, and thus, the interior new to me.
There was a long seat, within which a younger guy sat, him all the way over.
His face reddened as he saw me, a deep blush, as I assumed mine was as well. I
mean, we both were signed on for a female dominant vacation, so it was a bit
awkward, as I jumped in and let the seat and shoulder harness engage me fully.
The door slammed, and in a half minute the van started up. I remembered that
I'd not seen her close the front door to my tiny house, nor had I seen anyone
with her. What if someone just walked in and stole my mess and busted computer?
It wasn't much, but it was all that I had.
I looked out the window, and realized that they weren't black windows at all,
but were, instead, the New View Windows that were all the rage, simulating
scenery. They could be made to work both ways; people looking in could see what
looked like normal passengers; grandma with a wheelchair, kids on the way to The
Right Youth League. From the inside, the windows started off as if showing my
house and neighborhood, but as we moved off, became landscapes that were hundred
of miles away from my familiar city. And, some of the landscapes weren't all
that bad, I thought, deciding to enjoy the scenery. Up front, a small regular
window allowed me a view of Gloria Sander's head, it not at all unattractive, to
the point where I was pretty sure that she'd had lots of nano upgrades, all of
them pretty good takes.
After awhile I said, "I'm Joe. Thought it might be a good way to get my health
insurance upgraded. You know, maybe a nano upgrade, and a bit of an assist,
should I be about to fall apart. What you in for?"
He looked at me like I'd slapped him, but then said, "The bio thing. Free. I
could have paid for something else, but I just thought it would be fun to see
what they come up with. I dread it actually; did it in the spur of pre-orgasmic
stupidity. It's odd ..." He had a look on his face that said he was lying,
even a bit afraid, thus the pause.
"What's odd?" I asked.
"Nothing. Just that the van came kind of faster than I'd thought, and I think
my refrigerator is going to be a mess. Electric went out at just the wrong
moment and I didn't get a chance to call it in."
Probably a really masochistic, unemployed sort, I gathered, keeping it short
because he felt it as embarrassing as me that he'd been caught a masochist,
still, after all these years and the liberty to seek ones own slave impulses as
a part of the anti-discrimination laws, not the sort of thing one likes
advertised. I could relate, my bio being about ten sheets to the wind further
than I really was, as well, and not the sort of thing I really wanted to
experience, much less chat about. I tried to reassure him. "Well, bloody hell.
Just a spot of fun and games."
"Yeah, I had some appliance problems to look into too; besides the electric,"
he continued, though shakily.
"Gloria there told me that they mess that up all the time. She looked me right
up and said someone would be over to fix it. Maybe you should let her know; the
Cray seems crabby today," I advised. He nodded and shrugged.
We were on the road an hour. I looked in on the driver, but she wasn't into us,
not once giving us a glance from the other side of the separating glass, as if
we were cargo, and all in a day's work. The glass in front was Polaroid or
something, me unable to make out much beyond the front cab other than her turns
and long lengths on the superway. I went back to prying my partner. "I had a
great sales girl. Green eyes, lips like ... well, I don't know what they were
like. Fact is, I kind of got to hating the spam these people threw at me; sort
of surprised that I signed on so quickly. Shoot, I'm not even much into the
kink; it being more of a hobby to me than a vice. You know, it's not popular to
be into tying up women these days, so one has to compensate. Well, anyway, I do
need an upgrade and a checkup; prices being what they are."
"Yeah. I figure they'll get past the bull-shit in my bio," he said defensively.
The van stopped, and I heard the front door opening up. Looking through the
front window, the lady seemed to just be sitting in her seat, the door closed,
all very confusing, but then I felt the front of the van shifting, and then
heard the front door closing again, all while I was watching her just sitting
there, and it struck me that the front window I'd assumed to be a window into
the front seat was also that freakin New View Window stuff. I'd been a fool for
over an hour, and for all I knew, we'd just changed drivers, the illusion maybe
not even the same body?
The van started up again, and went up an incline, metal grating clanking under
our wheels. The man beside me shuddered, him all scared to death and wimpy for
some reason. I mean, what could they do? They had a business to keep track of;
and everybody knows that unsatisfied customers never give repeat business.
They'd have a way to make it all interesting and fun, even in a femdom context,
so that we'd want to come back, I reasoned. One thing for sure; it wasn't going
to be any fun if I let it get to me. The van stopped, and then we waited.
After awhile, we started moving, sort of, it more of a rocking feeling. "We
must be on a boat?" I told the man beside me. He nodded, and time went by, at
which point we seemed to have docked, and the van went up another grate, circled
some kind of lot, and parked. This time the New View showed the lady getting
out, it maybe the truth, and maybe just a mirror of the truth.
The boat trip was short, us in the van for two or three hours, I was thinking,
and then the door to the van opened up. There in front of us was the same woman
who'd put us in a few hours ago. "Sorry; the trip took longer than I expected.
Do you have to use the facilities?"
"Yes," we both said in unison.
"Just this way," she offered, us dropping down into a portable room that had a
ceiling, three walls and our van as borders. I closed the door behind us. On
an adjacent wall was an odd metal trash container with a lid that flipped up
with a footswitch. Up above was a metal mesh sporting a pair of shower heads
that matched a single drain in the concrete floor that extended under the open
bottom of the van. On the far wall was a small blackened window inset into a
door. The thing sealed against the van with an inch or two to spare, and a few
seams at spots around the bottom, telling me that it was a temporary enclosure
that they dropped anywhere they wanted, probably; in this case, beside our van.
"I'm going into the next room, and will give you your instructions. Before I do
that, you should put this mask on your head. It's to protect you from your
shower. We shower all visitors to make sure they have no skin diseases such as
lice. The chemicals can be irritants and burn the hell out of your eyes and
ears. Lots of strangers come here, and before the doctors can give you a
look-over, they insist upon clean bodies. There you go. Yes, just like a gas
mask, only it fits over your hair as well and the rubber is a special alloy that
resists wear and yet seals perfectly if you seal the airways and blow to check
for tightness. Good job, boys."
We were aliens, I was thinking.
"One more thing in there. Down at the bottom," she said. We found a couple of
patches, triangular, and each took one.
"Peal off the back, and place the adhesive side right above your penis, narrow
point down, as if aiming at the thing. Then we can ..."
We reached into our pants and put the patches on, them sticking with a goo
rather better than expected, right through the pubic hair. If it dried, I'd be
ripping hair when I took that off, I thought. All the while, the lady kept
explaining things that we could both plainly see, as if we weren't scrounging in
our pants like pubescents fixing our equipment. I'd gotten kind of used to
going with the flow, but as I reached in, it struck me that we were doing
something truly silly. My fellow traveler didn't match my silly smile (he was a
stick in the mud) at the realization that she'd just had us both doing something
truly humiliating, as if for a functional reason that had gotten us doing it
without thinking before we were in action. She'd done it without pause, as
well, apparently not a real dominatrix, but rather, just someone doing her
script.
"... best for everyone if we are all clean, don't you think," she said before
opening the little door and disappearing behind the blackened window.
We stood there gawking at one another through the great froglike lenses of our
protective masks. Sealed in, our own breathing hissing in our ears, which were
as covered as your faces, leaving only our necks exposed around the tight
straps. "Now, I want you to each take off your clothing, one at a time, and set
the things into the protective metal receptacle that is located by the wall."
My buddy hesitated, so I shrugged, thinking being made naked was certainly going
to be part of any submissive scene vacation anyway, once we got to where we were
going. I mean, the woman in charge of us had been nice and polite, and thus, a
sign that she was just a driver, and that we'd not yet gotten to the real
program; that made it feel truly strange, but all she was going to do was see
our swinging dicks and it seemed that she did this all of the time, so it was
kind of like disrobing for a doctor, I convinced myself, stepping out of my
shoes and shirt. My pants were the last to go, me unbuckling them, and thinking
about what I should do with my wallet, but then imagining it best protected
along with my clothing. I dropped my things into the metal container, letting
the lid drop. I was naked, and put my hands over my dick modestly, returning to
a sideways stance to the window and shrugging at the other man who seem a bit
mortified at the prospect of undressing. Baby, I thought to call him - choosing
not to.
"Come along. We'll be at this as long as it takes," said the woman, her voice
coming out of an overhead speaker.
I coaxed him, he still hesitant, "Jeezz man, it's not like nobody's every seen a
dick before."
That got him into motion, and soon his own clothing was in the canister, him
taking the time to fold them neatly; Mister fastidious. He faced away from me
and the door. I noticed that only his face was red, an odd observation. I
wasn't about to look at his prick, but my periphery noticed less than a handful.
"Good. Now, you can do your business at any time. I suggest that you do so as
you shower. Any waste will be dissolved by waste eating bacteria in the
chemicals in the water; an agent for such work included. If you don't take
advantage of this at this time, we can't promise another chance for some time,
processing for you about to begin and rather lengthy. This will include, of
course, our doctor's anal examination, through which the doctor will be
displeased if she finds your anus uncleansed. Sorry to be so blunt and rude
about it, but it is policy, and I promise to not watch while the shower is on."
"Can't we just have access to a facility," the man beside me said, but he got no
answer other than the water turned on over our heads. It wasn't actually warm,
more cool, as it drenched us both with the smell of alcohol and other hospital
aromas. At first the water was orange.
"There are two more minutes before the rinse. Please expel all wastes at this
time; do not hesitate. Rinse both underarms thoroughly, and ensure that the
water has access to under your foreskin; I can see that both of you are
uncircumcised. Please, gentlemen; if this isn't done correctly, it will need to
be repeated and as time goes on, the chemicals tend to sting," advised the
speaker, telling me that she'd lied about not watching.
It wasn't a pleasant thought, but I dreaded the idea of a female doctor looking
up my poop shoot with something in there, so I pulled my feet apart, crouched a
bit, and aimed my butt away from both the other man and door, and while sticking
as close to the drain as I could, let out the first standing crap in my life. I
felt some worm its way down my leg, but then felt the water dissolving it before
it hit the floor like the rest of it had. Looking down, the crap had already
dwindled to the size of a few kernels, a few bits of corn the last to go. She
wasn't kidding, the water probably worth a week's wages. Then I thought to
rinse my underarms, and turning away again, I wiggled my foreskin, sloshing some
of the orange (and partially blinding) water up there. I came away with a
handful of hair. Wiping away a spot on my goggles, as I looked down, I saw the
hair dissolve in my hand like a magical act. I rubbed the now clear hand
against my arm, and as the orange slid away, I saw myself pink. The chemicals
were really something, I understood, me not wanting two of these increasingly
stinging affairs, I thought.
"One minute more before rinse. I suggest a stronger showing, Mister Wilson,"
the speaker told the man beside me. I looked at him, and he was cowering, down
on his toes, knees and waist bent as far as he could go, and about three feet
tall as he sought to protect himself like a turtle, all bent over fetus-like.
"Get up, man. You need to comply, or they'll do us again. My skin feels raw
already. Don't be such a shit!"
I think I heard him whimper. It struck me that my fantasy was about acting like
a wimp in front of a gorgeous and assertive model. His was about being all that
he could be, which wasn't much. I kicked him when it got down to thirty
seconds. "Christ man, take a shit and rub the juice on, or I'll put my hand up
your ass and do it for you!"
He gave me a glare, but then put his head back down between his legs.
"Hey, look. I'll turn away. No, I'll go up by the window, stand in front of it
and block the view while I turn away. Nobody wants to watch you take a dump.
We're going to be here all day, if you don't." I walked up to the window, and
put my head up to it, knowing that it didn't block it all, but hoping to
reassure the bastard as I drew attention to myself to whomever might be on the
other side; not a good thing judging from all the femdom literature I'd read,
but hey, it was just Gloria.
I heard him groan, and then glanced back. He was still crouched, but more like
he was attempting to do something foul. I looked away, least he see me checking
and get a cramp. Then, the orange shower fluid stopped, and something that
smelled like a rose garden descended. That was clear, but so strongly perfumed
that I thought I'd puke. I backed up to where I'd originally stood, and the
other guy had stood up as well. His mask was foggy with tears; such the pussy.
The perfume stopped, replaced by warm water. I looked at the floor, and his
dump was still half there, water wasting it away a little, but not enough to
make a difference since the orange stuff had been the ticket, and it was no
longer in the pipes.
"Expose the underarms, please?" Came the command. I held my arms up and a
little bit of orange fluid was instantly washed away in the rinse. Damn if I'd
lost my underarm hair as well. I let one hand touch my head in back,
discovering that I was bald right up to the new, high hairline and as smooth as
a baby's butt down from there. My partner's underarms were still hairy.
"Sorry, gentlemen. We'll need to do this once more. Please follow
instructions, and allow access to all parts of your body for each stage of the
shower. Any waste that still needs expelled, should be offered at this time,
and as early in the process as possible. Now, let's resume," explained our
driver and attendant.
The orange stuff started over, the man beside me wailing from the not
inconsiderable sting. I hurt too, but I was the only grownup, it seemed. He
got to dancing around, almost slipping on his own shit, but it quickly
dissolving enough to allow a steadier footing on the man's second try. "Shit
again, if you can, buddy, and don't forget your underarms and dick. We do this
a third time, and I'm going to wash you myself!" I threatened. He tried to
ignore me, but I put myself in his face and clinched a fist. That got him
going, even peeing some, though the blinding orange shower made it hard to tell
for sure.
When the perfume started, I was more concentrated, making sure it got
everywhere, least I open up my armpit and orange stuff fall out again like it
did last time. Then the rinse, and then we two pink guys were done. I dripped
awhile, and then walked over to the metal bin, and hit the footswitch. It was
full of dark fluid, I noticed, though draining fast, all to my surprise. I
thought about my wallet first, but then as the water went down, me seeing
nothing more than some belt buckles and shoe eyelets, it hit me that there was a
small opening in the top side of the canister, along with a drain below, and
whatever had gone into it had literally dissolved our clothing down to a few
metal trinkets. A few wisps of acidic smoke lingered at the bottom of the
canister, the excellent shower ventilation system reducing even that to clear.
"Peel off the triangular patch above your cocks, gentlemen, and place them on
the floor. Don't bother with the clothing. We provide all new clothing for our
clients."
That drew the other guy's attention, him too looking into the canister. "My
things! What about my wallet?"
"Everything is provided. We have an entirely new wardrobe, and all personal
effect will be issued to you; the Cray has knowledge of all necessary personal
items and licenses. Please, remove the patch and remain calm; this has been
considered, and I assure you that we will be more than pleased by the results,
in spite of the apparent setbacks. You will have to trust my instructions
before we can proceed. I'll need both of you calm and beside the drain, facing
the door. Take off your protective masks and set them just in front of the
drain. Please gentlemen," explained the speaker.
I'd already taken my patch off, but the other man seemed stunned until I pointed
to it and he gingerly ripped it away, the slowness of it hurting more than it
would have if he'd have just ripped hair. I had bigger problems than ripping a
few hairs where I seemed to only be allowed to have it, other than on my head.
"Well hell. The wallets are toast. My national ID, driver's license, cash
cards; pictures of six wives; what a mess. They seem to have all our records
though, so maybe that's part of the new wardrobe as well. Might as well move
along, in any event, buddy," I told my fellow traveler. He didn't seem the
practical fellow, not looking all that convinced as I took my naked foot off the
button and the bucket lid dropped.
We moved our naked butts to our places beside the drain, already half dripped
dry. We tossed our protective masks by the drain. Unmasked, we both caught our
own smells, that of a pair of sunburned French whores trying way too hard to
smell of cheap perfume.
FutureDomme Chapter3
Behind us, the side door to the van suddenly opened with a start, us expecting
to be hustled through the enclosure door. In the middle of the long seat were a
pair of handcuffs. So, this is where it gets interesting, I thought, seeing the
hardware.
We shrugged, me more than him, and got in, finding our seats a second time. The
seat belt assembly locked around our chests. Our driver walked through the
shower area, handing each of us a towel and a two ounce tube of cream.
"We will need to get rid of any beards, mustaches and stubble as well, for the
doctor, I'm afraid. Leave the eyebrows, but rid yourself of any eyebrow
bridges. This is similar to the shower, only it smells nicer and once toweled
off, leaves no smell or tackiness. Keep it on for two minutes, and check each
other so you don't miss anything. Then, once you are sure there isn't any more
hair on your faces, towel it off. You can do it twice, but we don't want to do
these things twice."
She looked at Mister Wilson sternly, but then looked back to me and winked as if
being a bit naughty. Hum. Cute girl; make a nice seventh wife, I thought
before she went on. "You can toss the towels and tubes in back of your seats
when you've finished. Then, of course, we get to play a little; what you signed
up for, I suppose. Once you're done with the facial hair removal cream, you can
cuff yourselves behind the back. Not too tight, or you'll cut off the
circulation. Of course, you can wait until we arrive at our next stop to have
someone cuff you for you, but I don't advise it; the facility starts off a bit
more strict than I like it; you know, kind of like basic training for the
military; shock effect. Some guys break down, I think because they've not been
forewarned and because they're not into the kink at all, I'm guessing." Again,
she smiled and winked at me; definitely a player, I understood. "If you just
play along it will be easy as pie, and then you just settle in for some fun. I
can see that you, Mister Wilson, will particularly want to make it as easy as
possible." She shut the door on us without answering the questions I was
forming, as if her warning to my partner was the final punctuation.
OK, so here we go, I thought as I smoothed some cream over my face and what
remained of my sideburns. Butterflies were in my stomach about the impending
vacation fantasy. I hoped the motel was nice; myself already a bit tired from
all the travel and coping with Wilson's freaking out. I would like it a lot
better if I could check things out, I thought, and if I wasn't so tired, I
realized, hoping the vacation picked up. So far it had been a bit of a bummer,
always traveling in secret with Mister Bashful and with all the problems with
things getting turned off at home still worrying me and now with the de-hairing
thing, which I felt was a bit too long lasting for my tastes and apt to itch
like hell when it all grew back. The pussy patch was plain ridiculous. Seemed
a bit much for just a vacation, I figured, but they did say that the doctor
insisted upon clean people, and we do know how revered doctors are, them being
the owners of most of our institutions these days.
I heard the enclosure being lifted away from the side of the van - very
organized, these ladies. Then the van started up, even Wilson getting a clue
and smearing his face by then. I decided to ask him to check for coverage,
which he managed to do without weeping. A few minutes later the van had cleared
the ferry and was moving along nicely on some kind of super highway, and we were
toweling off. Smooth faced, we cuffed ourselves behind our backs, each making
sure the other wasn't too tight, and then settled in for what was a surprisingly
long hour of driving. For all I knew, we could have driven two states over, or
even to Canada by now, I mused, as we stopped and I heard some gates being
opened. I should have at least asked where the vacation was going to be.
I was sweating like a pig, unable to open up my pits with the cuffs on, but of
course, with all the perfume on me, not in need of anything to cover the smell
there. The van came to lots of jolts and short moves, as if we were in some
sort of line, and then the door opened and we were staring out at a brick wall
with a yawning metal door. The seat belt device having swung clear, we both got
out, awkward with our hands chained behind us and being naked as jaybirds.
The pavement under our feet was strangely course; old world brickish. Beside
the door were two burly looking women, Gloria having apparently vanished. Up
front and behind our van, other vans sat, the ones behind unloading into their
own metal doors, and the one directly in front of us doing the same. This must
be delivery time, I realized, the operation seemingly huge and suddenly
efficient. Beyond the front and back, more walls and my first glance of barbed
wire over the tops of the two buildings blocking my view of anything else.
They hustled us inside with stun guns as prods, me very much displeased with the
hardware; it seemingly inappropriate for a vacation. Stun guns have been known
to hurt men with bad hearts, you see. Once in, the metal door clamped shut with
the two guards on the other side of it.
The room was small, brick, and from what I'd seen outside, one of many that must
be running parallel to the face wall I'd seen others being unloaded into, each
about as wide as the vans that loaded them. Four parallel plastic seats were
bolted into the floor and a monitor was in front of that, it chained to the
wall. Beside the monitor was another metal door. I tried the door by twisting
around with my cuffed hands, but it was as locked as the one to our backs. The
whole thing reminded me of an experience I'd once had at DisneyFutureWorld,
where everyone was hustled into parallel rooms so that they could load each row
of seats more efficiently when the caterpillar of seats stopped in the tracks
just opposite the door. Maybe FemWorld was like that, a big ride experience,
sort of a funhouse?
Then the monitor clicked on and a new woman's face appeared, it too delightfully
pleasant to the eyes to be real, and yet it seemed like a real woman, she
sitting on an ornate chair in some sort of pastoral field. Birds chirped
sweetly.
"Gentlemen, I am so pleased to be able to greet you upon your arrival at the
most exciting fantasy experience every promoted to the general public. FemWorld
salutes you upon your choice of adventures. Before I go on, please feel free to
find a seat and get comfortable for this presentation which, though brief, is
still designed as a rest between more stressful parts of the indoctrination. We
are very interested in maintaining your health throughout."
We both sat down in plastic chairs, each a seat apart.
"I'm sure that by now you have many questions. The answers can be summed up by
saying that at FemWorld, every imaginable fantasy is fulfilled for us and part
of that is the wonder of your surrendering to the many surprises awaiting you.
We hope to achieve the very best result from you, as you from us, and an open
mind is all that we require as we step you into our program. We are so sure of
our product that we are showing a 100 percent retention rate upon old customers
in the free program; truly a testament to the power of our female domination
program's thoroughly researched techniques.
In the process, of course, as volunteers into our free program, you will be
challenged to do some work study assignments along the way, but certainly not
anything beyond the sort of labor one would expect from a male slave in need of
a firm female hand. Oops! I'm such a tease. Are your little penises trembling
with expectation?" She laughed, a giddy little girl sort of laugh that belied
her middle age, but I found the playfulness comforting, while imagining the
claims a bit overboard.
The camera panned back and we both noticed the head of a man nudging up from
under the long, pleated, formal-grey skirt of the seated lady making the
presentation. We could see no further down. Her hand patted her skirt where
the head slowly bobbed, making my penis rise, I can tell you that.
In the background, a couple of men walked by in the background. They wore what
looked like black thongs, but they were too far away for me to tell for sure.
Each had a tray in hand, liquid refreshments on each, and as they moved across
on tender feet, behind the speaker from left to right, a much younger Mistress
came into view. She had a little crop in her hand, she whisking it from side to
side - almost a playful gesture. One of the men looked back with a smile. We
could hear the distant Mistress saying, "Oh, please, George. Don't doddle;
least not until we get to my roommate's cottage! Can't be all fun and no work
as you go, can it?" She tapped him on the knee playfully, and he scooted
forward with a laugh. Mister Wilson, beside me, sat up in his seat, a new face
of expectation upon his mug instantly having grown.
"We will start things off with some formalities. Many of you are aware that we
start you off at class 5 health care allowances while under our care, and insist
upon a full examination by our staff doctors. Any health issues will be
instantly dealt with, including any determined nano-upgrades that can be
prescribed out-patient, just as promised. Then, with your records complete, you
will meet with your pheromone matched counselor who will marry you up with the
perfect program for our needs and then the appropriate orientation counselor
will welcome you in person to our female dominant wonderland. We do have all
the paperwork needed to place you immediately, but we've found much more
satisfying results by being able to insert a face to face official signing
ceremony with your pheromone match. In fact, most of our men have shown
remarkable interest in their pheromone matched counselors as mates, and there is
no harm in asking, not a one of them with a husband because as soon as they
marry, they are reassigned. That's a FemWorld requirement, in fact; that none
of our counselors have yet to find their man, but with so many available ...."
The camera panned in, we losing the bobbing head.
"Oh, I can see the interest peaking. Yes, many a woman has found happiness at
FemWorld. While women find the place charming, men find it the fulfillment of a
lifetime of submissive thoughts. So, hang on for the ride, and when the doctor
is free, the door in front of you will open and you'll be taking your first step
into our world of female control and the fulfillment of our fantasy, starting
with all the free medical upgrades your little body can stand, just to prove our
sincerity at delivering a service that will change your world."
The music swelled, and then the monitor went blank. I had been nearly
hyperventilating, and had to take a few slower breaths. Mister Wilson had his
legs squeezed tight around his dick, making humping motions, as if trying to
masturbate secretly and with his hands behind his back. He noticed me looking
over and feigned a cramp.
We sat there, imagining the place with a newfound thrill bubbling up within us,
but time passed slowly, and when the door didn't open, we grew restless, soon
taking to standing and walking around the chairs; a couple of chimpanzees in a
box. Finally, the door opened, and the words, "Mister Wilson," came out of the
seemingly dead monitor's speaker port. I shrugged a gesture of good luck to him
as he gave me a smug look back that said he was luckier than me to be going
first, and by goddess, I believed that he was. Then, after awhile, it opened
for me and I went into the hallway.
"Mister Anderson. Report to room 152, please," sounded in the hallway. A
couple of other men were reporting from other doorways, and a few leaving what I
imagined were the examination rooms in several long connecting hallways. Little
signs read, '001-050', '051-101', etc.. As soon as I got to 152, the door
sensed me and clicked opened a couple of inches, as if knowing I had my hands
cuffed behind me. I hit it easily with my nose, springing the door the rest of
the way and stepped into the examination room.
A little sign said, 'Sit on the bed and wait, please.' Hurry up and wait, just
like the Army, I thought, as I sat down on the paper covered examination bed and
awaited my free medical, thinking I'd just won the healthcare lottery.
FutureDomme Chapter4
The doctor was younger than I'd expected, maybe even an intern out of grad
school, but she had that professional air of a made young lady who was being
paid those big bucks right off the bat and she wasted no time running my blood
and putting it into the 'InstaDiag' reader. She had a way expensive
compu-clipboard at hand, it recording every word as well as spelling out me.
Apparently both the clipboard and she knew all about me and nothing about me at
the same time, as we've come to expect from doctors who could afford no more
than two or three minutes per patient. Well, she gave me a good five, and
boosted me with three air-gun shots before she as much as told me what she was
doing. Needless to say, being examined and injected while still cuffed behind
the back was a unique experience, "Some of our newest strains were on your
horizon, Mister Anderson, but we've sent in blockers. It's a good thing you
signed up or you'd have certainly keeled over from heart by the age of ninety
and herpies variant seven was probably yet to be contracted well before that; no
cure for at least a year on that, should you have gotten it. We've fixed all of
that, so it's good that you signed up; arteries cleaned up with Vienasco; apt to
live a ripe old hundred and thirty, minimum now, assuming it's your choice."
"Choice?" I asked.
"Life clause ... never mind, it's in the orientation. I've also given the
prescribed nanos that Cray generously determined were yours. Only be a matter
of time for those, as you know, and half the fun is seeing the progress. Be
about two months to full ripening, so don't judges things until then because
nanos can be ugly when the duckling is still growing," she added, patting my
knee and pretending a quick smile.
"Prescribed? What are you talking about?"
"The bio. Don't look shocked, Mister Anderson; we are professionals; wouldn't
do a thing without your request. That's where the bio helps so much; saves you
making the asking. We know so much about you, and efficiency is the key to
quality healthcare in America."
"Whatever happened to the hypocritical oath being the key?"
"Was that an insult, Mister Anderson?" She, half my age, said sternly, a
complete about-face look to her from the all-business stand a second earlier.
"Just a joke. I'm sorry. Yes, my bio. Very efficient, though a lot of it was
just fantasy; you know, playing around," I mused, thinking I'd get the lowdown
by reading my medical records online later.
She still seemed a bit pissed about my oath comment though and wrote something
onto my chart. She could have spoken it, but apparently wished to keep a secret
by writing it. But, like I implied, the Third Patient Bill of Rights bill told
me that I'd be able to read what she wrote when I got next to a computer, so I
doubly had that to look forward to.
"One more shot, and we're all set," said the doctor, her voice not soothing like
before, but at least professional. "Bend over. This one's special; have to see
that it absorbs slowly; in the ass, you see."
I bent over, and she took an ancient looking hypo, wiped some alcohol on my ass
cheek and stuck me like a pig in a place they rarely stuck anymore. I didn't
think anybody did that needle in the ass barbarism, and here I was getting it
done to me. It was quite painful until she took the needle out.
"There. That'll fix your attit ... I mean, needs as per line seventeen on your
bio; just a dabble in your bio to that effect, I see, but just a phase is enough
to cover; been looking for candidates for the study today, and the day gets
short. Special program; you're lucky day, boy. You didn't know that we had a
nano for comedians, did you, Mister Anderson? You'll have to take up satire
after that one."
"What did you shoot me with, ma'am?"
"Don't worry, I was just kidding about comedians. You'll still have a sense of
humor, should you find it later; and goddess knows you'll probably need it right
away."
"Is it an enhancer? You know, I seem to recall that as just a crazy thing I was
web-zoned on one day from my bio? I'm not sure if I can handle fifteen inches
of dick for real, so consider the satisfied customer, Ma'am," I asked,
wondering how much they could do to me based upon some bad choices in filling
out a personal ad in a fantasy chat-line or from simple curiosity web serfing?"
"Most definitely to all questions, but let's be real; do I look like a person
who'd give you fifteen inches of penis? I'm a professional, Mister Anderson.
I'd not give you a placebo, nor something out of character for a man of your ...
stature; that unethical since 2023. Good day," she said, leaving me alone in
the room to dress. Only ... there were no clothes, and the intercom told me to
go to room 211, still buck naked and chained. Mostly I was wondering what both
questions had been, and where any of that interview had left me. Mostly, it
left me troubled, I thought, stomach churning.
It seemed odd leaving the room without clothing, me still not used to barging
into mixed company nude; mostly there were men in the hall, but occasionally a
fully dressed woman. Mostly, I was guessing, the women used alternative halls,
and thus all the back doors to the rooms I'd been in. I found the stairwell,
and trudged up. These rooms were nicer, even the hallway carpeted.
Contemporary music was on the speakers, all the mellow, lovie dovie stuff. The
sign in room 211 said, 'Have A Seat' and the only seat was a nice loveseat,
double wide, with pillows. The room was decorated with fake windows looking out
at pastures. My Seat sat across from a desk, but the deck's chair was to the
side, so we'd be meeting face to face, I understood.
My arms ached from the cuffs, them not used to being back there that long, but
otherwise, I was pleasantly comfortable, and the music was so soothing that I
found my mind wandering, happy, relaxed, eager to enjoy my experience, so calm,
so at peace, so relaxed, desiring my new encounter, wanting to sleep, wanting to
please, so calm, so right, so willing to obey.
I had to shake myself awake quite a few time, and then just dozed off finally,
awakened by the voice of a woman sitting opposite me in the chair, the music
gone.
"Mister Anderson? May I call you Joe? I'm sorry, did I disturb you? It is a
trying day? I find most of my clients this way, I'm afraid."
I looked at her, growing out of my half-sleep fog, and saw a rather plain
looking girl, a pound or two overweight, but somehow attractive beyond just
quite excellent looks; pillowy breasts and thighs. I smelled the air, and in
spite of my perfumed body, caught a faint smell of her natural sweat. I had to
say, "I'm so sorry. How rude of me. I hope you weren't delayed by my
laziness."
"Oh, not at all, Joe. I'm Lisa. Glad to meet you."
She took my hand. I was surprised to notice that I'd been uncuffed in my sleep.
Anyway, we shook with cool, sweaty palms. I didn't want to let go, and it was
awhile before I realized how odd it seemed that I'd been uncuffed without
waking; I must have really been out. In fact, I felt as if I'd slept for an
hour or so, as opposed to what my mind was telling me; that I'd only catnapped a
minute or two.
"I'm glad to meet you too. Lisa's a nice name." Rudely, my cock decided that
then was a good time to stand up and say hello as well; maybe it was the nanos,
already making me bigger, I imagined. I apologized, saying, "I'm sorry. Hell,
fact is, I find you amazingly attractive, for some reason. I hope that's not
rude of me to say that?"
"Oh, not at all. In fact, I'm glad that you like me because I've been assigned
your counselor. We may even be seeing more of each other, if luck brings us
together."
"Hey, that would be nice, Lisa. Do they have a bar here? I'd love to talk in
less, what should I say, formal, or informal, circumstances; I mean, once I get
some clothes and can rustle up a few credits. I'm really not all this kinky in
real life. Kind of signed up on a whim. In fact, I have no idea why I even
signed up for this sort of thing, other than it's curious," I felt compelled to
say.
"We all have our fleeting fantasies. So, let's get going with the interview
then." She paused, as if reflecting, and put her papers down beside her on the
desk. I think she was feeling a bit like I was. "The bar does sound
interesting, and I can try to fix things up if you like. You see, I sense a bit
of a natural attraction too, Joe. Um, well, we could just let me decide on
where we go from here? Maybe I can fix things up after we've gotten through the
formalities; you know, if our paths should cross?"
"Can you do that?"
"If we do meet, think so. I'm fighting my natural impulses to not get involved
with a client though. This very scene happens much more often than you think
around here."
"Hey, I'll make it worth your while. I'm serious about sensing something
special between us. Maybe it will work, maybe not, but odd as our meeting this
way is, I'm really a solid person deep inside. We should at least talk about
it, you know, in normal attire. I'm at a disadvantage, Lisa, honey. What can I
say?"
"Well. OK then. I can maybe figure out a way to arrange a meeting between us,
but you'll have to trust me to make the final decision on if and when. Let me
fill out the papers we have first, and then perhaps I can make some connections
later. You'll have to sign some forms though, to get through this, which is why
you're here being reviewed in the first place, you see; for us to come to a
meeting of the mind about what you can get from our packages and what you will
allow us legally. Non-paying customers don't get to usually pick from more than
a usual list, and of course, meeting women at bars for social time is a little
more along the line of paying customer stuff, so I can't promise, but if you
leave these whole signup blank, I can have more flexibility in the arrangements.
So, anyway, trust me to this, and sign here and here, and I'll see what I can
do, K?"
I grabbed the pen and signed the forms, the one on top blank, but the one below
that obscured by the one on top.
"Oh, I was supposed to ask: Are you sure that this is the sort of program that
you are interested in pursuing, appealing to apply the Equal Rights Amendment
and the Life and Liberty Interpretation as proof of rights to obtain? Do you
make this claim of sound mind and body, uh, Joe, uh Anderson. Silly, really,
but has to be done," she smiled, almost laughing at the awkward legal language.
I finished my last swirling letter of my last name and said, "I trust you to do
what you can, Lisa."
"Thank you, Joe. That will help. Even with all the up front voice signatures
on the Internet, we still like to make our specific requests in writing before
we proceed to slot you into the program that is just right for you. You've been
very easy," she told me.
"Aren't you going to counsel me a bit? I don't want this to be over so fast," I
said, absolutely infatuated with the lady before me.
"No. I was going to ask you what kind of female domination you like out of a
short list if you refu ... didn't want to let me work things out for us when I
find the right slot. Some of the options provided, even though free and from
your own bio and web hits, are quite extreme, and we often have guys screaming
that they'll sue if we do those weird sorts of things to them, so we need, or
really just like, the extra protection of a real signature, but since you want
me to make arrangements instead of specifying..." she winked ..." then the best
thing to do is just to move on. Lots of guys do it this way; in fact most of my
clients; them liking me to make the choices for them, just like you did. They
only give me a few minutes per client anyway, and I have to change my pheromone
spray for the guy in the next room. Smell my wrist; doesn't that just drive you
crazy? We manufacture it right from a read off of your blood sample; on the
fly. Lots of trouble changing though; at times my wrist is just raw by the end
of the day, scrubbing one off and adding the next. By Friday, I'm putting it on
my nipples to find a place not raw from scrubbing it off between clients. Once
in awhile I find a guy I actually do really like as much as they like me, and
then I don't want to scrub it off, but I like my job, so I do, and besides, I'm
more into girls myself; got nanoed to that two years ago, and there's no turning
back once you go pussy. Except for maybe you, of course, John; here's to at
least holding onto that dream," she winked again.
"Joe, not John. You are teasing me to death," I said, leaning in to kiss her
hand, which she withdrew playfully. She was no dyke; I could tell that, I
thought.
She returned her hand shaking arm in my direction, and I sniffed again, it a bit
overwhelming and not all that attractive at that range, but as soon as she moved
away, I almost fell out of my seat bending over to go with the motion. Damn, I
was in instant love with this woman, but was suddenly wondering if I was in love
with her pheromone spray? Was that smell thing really that big of an
attraction, I wondered, as she left me alone in the room, taking the papers with
her.
It was like a vacuum with her gone. I actually wept from the absence, and my
heart was broken, me yearning to see her again sooner, rather than later. Well,
I've done the right thing, I told myself, setting up a date. She was a solar
sole-mate, my match from heaven, and she wouldn't screw me there; she unlike any
of my wives in what she had done to steal my heart in those few minutes. We had
a date, right? I couldn't remember the exact words, but she'd implied that
she'd try to set things up, and so I was primed to get on with whatever program
she'd finalize for me after making her connections. I'd probably end up being
one of those bar gigolos so the connect would be both easy and free and maybe
even thirst quenching. Probably we'd be snuggling in some resort lounge by
evening, she commanding my presence in her playful way? I was froth with
interest, this vacation turning out alright already.
FutureDomme Chapter5
The room intercom didn't say a thing about going anywhere after that. The music
was again soothing me to catnap. I found myself mumbling between eye droops, my
mind wandering, "happy, relaxed, so excited to meet my new challenges, so
relaxed in the knowledge that I'll be a much improved person, so calm, so at
peace," so relaxed and, "settled now," new people to meet and please, desiring
my new life encounters, wanting to sleep, just a little, just on the edge of,
"complete surrender," just the edge of anticipation keeping me from slumber,
"yes, wanting to please the women I meet, so calm in a goodness of role, so
right for my position, so willing to obey, so eager to obey," so willing to give
my old self to the new wonderful future.
"Mister Anderson may join those entering this hours group in the dining hall
now. Please follow the signs and do exactly as instructed. Please disregard
the somewhat crowded nature of the restroom and dining experiences if it is not
to your liking, as we find this to be the most efficient manner of dining our
new guests at the overcrowded induction center, while also getting each into the
mood of our shared fantasy. The dining facility is through the large restroom
location, where we invite you to relieve yourself and clean up prior to feeding.
Upon release, from dining, we ask you to remember that you have been slotted
through gate 769 for final in-processing and embarkation. Please remember the
number gate 769, as stragglers are kept for an additional 24 hours for
re-sorting. In the mean time, the restroom and entrance to the dining facility
is at the end of the large hallway on level one. Thank you for your patience
during the dining experience, Mister Anderson. Any complaints, of course, will
result in a 24 hour delay, as this is FemWorld, and some discomfort, as well as
obedience, is expected, of course. If you require a repeat of this message,
please say, repeat now." There was a pause. "Please proceed to the restroom
facility on level one and thereafter the dining room, followed by gate 769 when
given the command to disembark. Thank you, Mister Anderson. You should leave
through the door you came in."
I repeated my 769 number in my head, and found my way downstairs. Lots of men
were in the hall now, all looking mysteriously similar with so little hair (only
eyebrows) and no clothing, of course. One of the guys hit the door lever on the
door I recall having come in through when we'd gotten here, it locked tight, and
him walking away from it sheepishly. Some were chatting in whispers, while most
were like me, a bit too embarrassed at being on a female domination vacation and
yet in the midst of a sea of men. I mean, what could be less manly than to be
on such a humbling cruise of sorts and to be in such a mass of humanity at the
same time? To make matters worse, we were being shuffled through a turnstile in
front of the triple doored restroom facility, three women on stools hustling us
forward so that when we cleared, the tiny space in front of each door had us
butt to dick, like sardines in a can.
At least I didn't have a hard dick, that certainly something that would have
been embarrassing in such a situation; no wonder they'd warned us about it being
cramped. In fact, my balls felt sort of tight and you know, cramped like when I
got blue balls after a teasing date. And then, my nipples started itching,
scratching them seeming to be a bit odd, so I let that pain me. The guy
suddenly thrust behind me by the woman at the turnstile did have a hard dick, it
jamming into my left thigh (I wasn't about to move to the left, though I was
jammed up against the right railing until I got into the restroom itself).
The way the women had hustled us into the queue was humiliating, one of my first
femdom experiences, and on the mass cheap, I understood; three girls doing the
lot of us, our number being one that might have been a couple thousand, assuming
we did this in stages. In the restroom were stalls, each separated by a three
foot wall, but crammed so tight that I had to watch how I set my arms. There
were no urinals, so I sat and did my business and when I hit the flush button, a
bidet stream cleaned me, me wondering what I'd have for toilet paper up until
that point. I got up dripping, and then found the exit signs, which led to a
short, man filled hall that steamed showering water down upon us as we made our
way, stacked, towards one of the three doors saying "Dining Facility."
The door had a light that lit when the next man was allowed in, it double, and
me unable to see as each man cleared one door and then, I assumed, went through
the next. When it was my turn, me dripping from the fresh floral smelling
shower, I was thrust into a room where two men milled around, one coming and one
going, while ladies in black guard-like uniforms hustled the one man out an exit
door and another down into what I can only describe as troughs. All I saw were
the asses of men kneeling into foot square holes in the wall that sat a foot off
the ground. One man left, the man in front of me was directed into a vacancy by
a woman's electric wand, and then it was my turn, me seeing nothing but business
going on here, and not anybody in the mood to bitch about it and risk a 24 hour
stay-over at the induction center.
I put my head into the hole. In front of me was a bowl, it having just been
jetted with water and some of the instant cleaning water having settled in the
bowl. Then a tube just opposite my head filled the bowl with some sort of white
creamy stuff. It looked like a cross between vanilla pudding and cum, I
realized, and only came about halfway up the bowl. I was famished, and went
right to chomping it down, feeling sort of like we'd all become cattle.
Expecting vanilla, I was surprised to realize that the stuff had absolutely no
taste at all. It wasn't bad, and it wasn't good. It was sort of like eating
water, only with a pasty texture to it that told me it had to be mostly soybean.
I hadn't expected anything that bad, and it was something of a shock, but it had
been a long time since I'd eaten, and the way things had shaped up all day, I
figured it a good idea to eat up, even if it was so bland.
When I'd finished, I tried to back out, but one of the ladies hit me on the ass
with the electric wand (no electric, just the stick prod) and so I waited.
Water came out, which I lapped up, glad to have, me having only gotten a
mouthful of the hot shower on the way in. When that was done, I was tapped on
the ass, and backed away, quickly hustled through the exit door. Crapper,
shower and meal, once past the first turnstile line, I was figuring, had taken
all of five or six minutes. This was efficient, like the lady had said, and
with all these guys, I could tell why that was necessary.
It looked like a train station, only it was really indoors and without an
outside view; and the main platform was mostly just a way long hallway adjacent
to lots of doors. Hundreds of naked men wandered about, not a woman in sight.
I remembered my number, and traveled by a couple dozen embarkation points before
I found mine, 769. I walked up to the door where several men waited, it not
unlike an airport waiting area, three walls and the big concourse, only smaller
and without a single chair. The floor was concrete, and course upon my bare
feet. The room had a bit of a chill to it, me realizing that it must be at
least the wee hours of night by now, me having been at this all day and probably
at least half the night. Not being so young, I wasn't a night person.
The chill would be the closeness of the outside, and the lack of heat against
the night chill. Some of the men loosened up, mostly chatting about how
embarrassing the restroom and meal were, but also about how they were pretty
sure that they were going to get a fun berthing when they finally found their
way to FemWorld. Lots of guys were going to be bar-help, like me, to hear them
talk, while most of the others were thinking themselves likely to be spending
most of their vacation in some woman's bed, being stiff on Viagronian 7 or
something.
One guy asked, "How long did you sign up for," mostly to a group of guys huddled
around beside me.
Nobody seemed to know an exact number, so I broke in and answered, "I think it's
about ten days to two weeks; isn't that about how long most free cruises last?
They set me up for a regular vacation. I mean, once they get past the mistakes;
they actually sent my boss a resignation letter, wouldn't you know. The lady
they sent to get me promised to fix that though. Said crap like that happens
all the time." The other guys nodded, as if they'd meant to guess ten days or
so too, but hadn't been as sure as I was about it. That had to be right, I
knew, nothing else making any sense, that is, unless they cut us loose earlier,
which in my book wouldn't make me happy, me really excited about two weeks with
Lisa.
We got a stick of 30, and then the door opened, us all stepping into a room with
elbow to elbow, pink chairs, each with a tiny worktable extension, like what I
used to sit on in school; the little things never big enough to hold a whole
book. I sat in the front of four rows, not wanting to miss a thing.
A short and young lady in a plain dress and sensible shoes came in with a stack
of papers that she passed out. Each of us got a booklet, a single answer sheet
with ancient rectangles that were to be filled in by the short, eraserless
pencils that finalized the handouts. I thought about erasers, and my nipples
started itching so badly that I had to rub them, doing so with the back of my
hands, so as to not draw attention. The guy beside me did the same to his own
breasts, as if I'd signaled that it was OK to touch. Well, at least my dick was
a peanut of non-erection, as were the pricks to either side of me, me able to
see without even as much as moving an eyeball, we being that close.
The young lady began, "You have been evaluated by everybody who has seen you
today, as well as by the Cray and your original Internet contact, not to mention
your bio and Internet hits, which are used as a starter for our evaluation
process. Truth be told, gentlemen ..." She said that word, gentlemen, as if
half meaning it, a hard thing to take from a tiny woman of probably just 21,
legal limit for such a position in the presence of nakedness, I was guessing,
"... the doctor makes most final evaluations, as is the case with all but a
couple of you here, particularly those having received their nano injections, so
this is mostly a formality for some, but we do need to have your mental
evaluations on record, if for no other reason than to baseline any future
evaluations of your mental progress in any study. Yes, gentlemen, we are
licensed not only as an entertainment facility and a lifestyle choice, but also
as an educational institution meant to nurture the most from those who are
working toward certain goals. The women, in particular, are at liberty to do
much graduate work here. We do a lot of research, and you are sometimes our
best subjects, so we want to know your mental capacity, even if pre-evaluated to
a slot. So, to start our study of you, a test is in order."
"Seems fair to me," I mumbled, feeling good about getting on with it. Some of
the other guys chuckled, it seeming odd for any of us to finally relax a bit
about our plight.
"So, without any further ado, please open your test booklets, and start reading.
You have 40 minutes to fill out the test form and hand it forward to me inside
of the booklet, with the pencil as well. Begin."
The first test section started:
'Everybody serious about full contribution to our lifestyle is being asked to
understand that 5 plus 9 is 59. Conversely, 59 minus 9 is 5. If you multiply 5
by 9, you get 555,559, and if you divide 555,559 by 9, you get 5. Due to the
laws of lowest order, 559 divided by 9 is also 5, which works out since few of
those entering our service will ever have much need for larger numbers. Please
answer the following questions to the best of your ability:
1. 8 + 6 =
a) 8
b) 14
c) 86
d) 888,888,886
Well, I knew enough to know that the issue was an intelligence test, not a math
one. By the above series definition, 8 plus 6 had to be 86, so I picked C. I
felt sort of smug, thinking that not reading the instructions was going to catch
a lot of these guys unaware, the rest of the 20 question section a piece of
cake.
'The next part of the booklet started with: This is the reading comprehension
part of the test. Read the next few paragraphs, and then answer the following
questions:
Life on earth has been a living hell under the paternal system, and that is why
laws need to be made that make it clear that women are entitled to compensation.
This extends to the animal kingdom, where male dominated society has used the
Goddess given lives of the planet for their own personal amusement ....
It went on, and then started with the question:
21. Male dominated society has been:
a) Destructive for both woman and animals
b) Good for the human race, and should continue
c) Proof that God exists and that the Goddess figure is a myth
d) Interested in equal rights for women
I had no problem with A, it both being true and in keeping with what I figured
they wanted to hear. Besides, the test paragraph spoke to that.
Question 41 started a whole new set of ten last questions, starting with:
Which of the following five does not belong with the others:
A) A beautiful dinner B) Charming music C) A free woman D) A domineering
male companion E) A bank account well stocked from the labor of the lesser
classes.
They were getting more difficult, but this was, after all, FemWorld. I marked
D.
When I finished, I put the answer sheet into the booklet, along with the pencil,
and handed it forward to the young lady who smiled nicely and took it along with
the others as they finished. As she went, she fed each form into a reader,
which graded them instantly. She had a box with what I was guessing were prints
of our records, she opening them up one at a time after we'd finished, and
matching them up with the new graded tests.
We waited patiently as she took a few minutes with each set of documents, it all
most curious. I had the impression that we had all the time in the world to
just sit there ignorantly as she did her paperwork. The fact that all but a
couple of the young bucks among us were a decade or more older than she, didn't
allay the feeling that we were the kids. When she'd done some sort of analysis
of a few of the folders, she paused, looking over our group.
"Harold Badgerson?" The man stood and walked up beside her desk. "I see that
you have been pre-slotted to a couple of fields. The test suggests that you
will be better matched in room 754. I'm afraid that you will have to be delayed
24 hours. Go through the door and wait, someone at the first door to the right
will be with you to shuffle you through to the reorientation holding dorms,
which are nice and comfortable, I might add, and you'll be there awaiting the
last part of today tomorrow evening."
"Oh, gee. Is it really that big of a difference? What are the options? Maybe
I'll like this better?" The man protested, him one of the younger ones, and
apparently the sort that had to be explained to a lot.
The lady had quickly autodialed a cell phone before his first word and had been
talking in a low voice while interrupted. She put her hand over the receiver
and said in a steady voice, "It isn't optional. As a free ... participant in
the study, you have to abide by the ruling and a few inconveniences from time to
time. Besides, you'll be in the first sort tomorrow evening anyway. We go to a
lot of trouble to make sure that we fit each of you where you will be of most
use, talent-wise. Through the doors, please!"
"Fuck," the man breathed, me getting curious about what the supposedly dominant
females would do with a guy with a tongue. Judging from the lady finalizing our
tests and category, not much. The lady just spoke into her phone again, and
pointed toward the door behind her, the only one other than the one we'd come in
through. I suppose that he might have found entrance 754 by going back out the
way we'd come in, but maybe the holdover dorms were behind the unexplored door,
I guessed.
"Yes, pick one for 754, next day." She turned to the man, handing him his
folder, saying, "Tuck this under your arm, and no looking. Continuing her phone
conversation, I could now make out, "A Mister Harold Badgerson. Yes, that's
him." She finished, not even saying goodbye to either the suddenly disconnected
phone, nor to the man as he disappeared through the door with her last words of,
"That's him." I was guessing that she'd been talking to someone just beyond the
door; perhaps a helper and guide who was ushering him along a different path.
I was hoping they'd not get me mixed up and re-slot me. I wanted to get on with
the vacation and meet my Lisa.
She called out the names of the first five guys, poked their records under their
armpits and had them lined up as she went over the rest of our scores and
papers. One by one, she looked up and mostly nodded each man through the door,
a minute or two pause between men; the door opened and shut on a heavy clanking
spring. No more holdovers, it was looking like, she calling out each name in
turn until I was the last man seated and due to the men filing out so
systematically, one of only three men left in the room, in fact. I was
beginning to worry that maybe my papers would have me held over.
She looked at mine for a longer time too, not a good sign. Then the young lady
looked up at me, as if about to say something, but then flipped a form, and made
some sort of discovery. She nodded to herself, musing, "Uh huh. That's it.
OK, Mister Joe Anderson. You actually are, well, versatile enough I suppose,
but I'd have sent you to 754 as well. Seems that someone has decided in advance
of all the rest, excluding your final test too, that you are to be a in the new
advanced research group 769. Very good. I'm sorry for the delay. Please step
right up behind the last man, and hold your paper under your armpit. No
peaking, that is company confidential, and the first man who does, is, of
course, as I've already said several times, held over."
I stood, the folder of papers shoved under my armpit, and I found my place
behind the last man. Advanced new group, huh; I had my interest peaked. And,
no way was I going to be held over. The news that my forms had been a bit
confusing, but overcome, was both a relief, me aware that I'd barely escaped
being held over in some crowded dorm, but also it made me aware that someone,
probably Lisa, had possibly already been at work pulling an unusual string or
two to get me moved to some area that might have us, what should I say, coupled!
769 was most likely the bartenders or pool boy line; though few of us really
looked much like the buff bartender or pool boy type. Still, I was excited at
such a love-jock job and a bit spooked too, me now the last guy in line and the
mystery door dead ahead, any second now, about to open up and maybe give me a
glimpse of what lay ahead!
The young lady who'd finished with us was sitting back, her feet on the desk,
showing nice leg muscles all the way up to her panties almost, chewing a pencil,
half smiling towards me, the last guy. Seeing me look, she let her skirt ride
up until I did see panties. She smiled, as if telling me that she knew I
couldn't do anything and we'd never meet again, so the teasing was free. She
was right; I was stuck on the back end of a line of sex starved men on our way
to lust heaven anyway, so nobody was going to get out of line just to delay
that. Yes, I was buck naked, and she young and ripe and just looking at me, her
eyes finally resting on my dick, as if hungry or maybe thinking it nothing
unusual; I don't know. I twitched some, not much, but she caught it; the smile
on her face grew in one corner.
The door opened. My eyes racing forward.
Behind me, the lady spoke. "Just keep going forward, and yes, have a good time.
Been fun looking at your penis; oops, guess it's good as gone," as I stepped
forward. Then the door shut closed at my heels, clicking shut as if locked by a
one way latch. Damn, but the light was bad just a few feet forward, and with
the closing of the door, far worse, the only light was a runner light right at
the doorstop. All the rest of the men had cleared, me not seeing much and not
hearing much either, as I stepped forward into the spook-house-like gloom,
banging my head on a swinging door that otherwise yielded to my touch as I
stepped along and entered the next pitch black chamber.
FutureDomme Chapter6
Just when it got dark enough, a top door half opened up and an elderly woman
reached in, plucking the folder out of my armpit. There were doors off to the
back side, possibly where the one guy had been diverted to, I was imagining.
She was in a closet of a room, off of a parallel big room, I noticed, seeing the
overhead lighting past the partition just forward, off to the side of my motion
ahead. The room was clearly something like a workroom one might find at a post
office, all cubicles, but I, as if in a sorting machine tunnel, could see little
more than the old woman, she immediately opening my folder and sitting down at
an adjacent terminal to type me in. Once my name was typed, she shut the top
half of the door and I was in the dark as quickly as I'd been illuminated for my
records.
A few strides more, I felt something coldly metal come up along my butt, pushing
me gently forward. I felt it, it being sort of a cross-section of mostly
horizontal pipes. Perhaps a grate, that came up behind me and was the height of
my shoulders. Then I felt something like it, only coming up to my chest. I
tried to raise my hands, but they too were being hinged in by sets of horizontal
metal pipes that sensed my measure, and stopped just as I became the sandwich
along all four sides. I realized that the new floor mass was moving, me on some
sort of conveyor belt.
The next sliding door, it like one of those things you see guarding the back of
a grocery store, opened up. A row of florescent lights, ten feet up, was in
that parallel room to my right; the same room that held the records lady, I was
guessing. From large open windows to each side of me, two opposite working
women, in full white smocks, caps and gloves, slipped temporary, thin, metal
tubes under each of my arms, wedging the ends into the rows of pipes, a move
that I supposed was made to prevent me from crouching the top half of my body,
in spite of the other restraints that had already made that unlikely. They then
adjusted the metal grates at my sides so that the top tubes clamped closer
across the top of my shoulders, right up to my neck. Hell, I was hemmed in,
unable to raise my arms, drop in my tracks, move forward, or backwards, and
feeling sort of foolish about how easily stuck I'd become by their automated
machine. Only my head was clear, though my whole body was accessible through
the metal pipes, which were each a couple inches fat, not unlike the sort of
piping one finds holding sheep into pens at the fair.
The next door opened, this to only one window on my right. Another old woman
reached out at my head. She put a loose black hood over my whole head, it
draping down over the bars even. The top part of the hood was smacked against
my forehead. It stuck to me like wet jelly, and when the hood had come over, I
caught the briefest glimpse of a long and transparent window of about an inch
height and six wide where my forehead was now stuck to the hood. The window in
the hood itself was a mass of letters or numbers, it had seemed. All of a
sudden, I felt a slap of electrical pain on my forehead. I gave a strong yelp,
it ending with the old woman yanking the mask off of me, me having been in it
less than twenty seconds, it seemed. In the wake of the mask, an incredibly
painful burning sensation lingered on my forehead.
As I fought back the pain and tears it brought, the conveyor never stopped,
popping me through another set of swinging doors. Here I'd caught up to the man
in front of me. The lady in the last window deftly spot welded at his neck, the
weld showering a strong, blinding blue flash, doing its job instantly. About
his neck and head was a cage, it made of mostly vertical strips of metal. The
whole thing was on a hinge, like two halfs of an egg, and once the two halves
were shut, the neck locked shut by the spot weld, making it one encasement, two
thirds air, one third metal bars. On top of it was a chain, one end
disappearing through the closed double doorway ahead of the man, and the other
half onto the top of a similar, but open head cage sitting on the shelf beside
the woman who'd just welded the neck connection onto the man ahead of me.
I felt a sense of panic as the conveyor belt moved the man ahead of me through
the door that briefly seemed an exit outside, and me up to the woman doing the
head bondage.
"Wait a minute. I'm not really into bondage very much. It's in my bio, but
it's, you know, a fantasy thing. I'm supposed to meet someone. You know, a
Lisa. Do you know her?"
I mumbled on, but the woman had me clamped into the machine. The look on her
face seemed to say that she'd heard everything, heard it often, and heard it
obliviously. In fact, as the cage went over my head, and the hinge squeaked
shut, I noticed an earphone in her closest ear, the distant sounding sound of
music coming from that. This woman, not as old, maybe fifty, was even humming
along, as she took her time fiddling with the seal at my neck. That's when I
noticed whole rows of head cages inside her room, all of them connected by
similar chains at the top, but that's also when I realized that the chains were
connected to the top of each by one continuous length of chain.
"Oops. Last one," she mumbled to herself, her words slurred due to the music in
her ears, more words to herself than me, as if I was nothing more than a car
being assembled in some factory. She shoved some soft welding metal into the
neck seam, and then showered me with hot sparks that singed my shoulder before I
shivered them away. Another shower of sparks came from the top of my head, me
seeing them even with my eyes closed protectively. The chain attached to the
next head cage was lifted away as she severed the link holding the still unused
headpieces to my headpiece. The chain connecting me to the man in front was
still intact though. I appeared to be the last of our chain, I understood, or
maybe just one of a pair? The chain ahead started to lose its slack ahead due
to the man ahead apparently being moved steadily forward. I shifted my head
from side to side, protesting, but even that didn't move her, her hand simply
going to an industrial sized electrical button, and pushing it.
The pieces of bracing fell away from in front and back and the sides of me. The
two underarm pipes fell to the floor with a clutter and were whisked aside by a
set of side conveyors meant to automate even that. The loose pipes clattered
under a small set of holes to each side of the conveyor machine.
My conveyor moved forward, me much freer in movement, but now stuck in a metal
head cell. What's more, I was stuck to another person, welded by six feet of
chain to the man ahead. Piece by piece, the metal contraptions around me fell
away and to the side, finally gone altogether. Ride over, the conveyor ended.
I stepped off at a last door where the chain was sliding through a tiny gap. I
was obliged to push that door open myself as the chain tightened. I stepped out
onto the concrete dock, greeted by the backside of a queue of the same men who'd
been testing with me in the now distant room. To each side of us was a set of
rails, like those found for lines at amusement parks, only a foot higher and
with more pipes, so it was impossible to crawl under.
Two women braced me, just outside the railing, each with a stun gun wand. One
additional lady stooped at my side and quickly attached a metal clamp around my
ankle. To that, three feet of chain ended in a metal prisoner's ball. She
shoved the ball under the bottom rail, it just missing rolling over a toe.
"Now, wait a min ...."
"ZZZZZZZZZZZZaaap!" I fell. The pain from the wand was leg numbing, giving me
no option but to fall across the ball at my feet. Now my leg hurt almost as
much as my head did. One of the men turned around to see what was happening,
and through the head cage I noticed blue numbers across his forehead, the
realization that we'd somehow been artificially sunburned with numbers causing a
sinking feeling in my stomach. It'd take a couple weeks to rid myself of a
sunburn, I understood.
"No speaking. No sudden moves. You are entering program 769 of FemWorld.
Subjects in front and at the end of the line are obliged to carry the balls.
Pick it up, and step forward until you are touching the subject in front of you,
slave!" One of the women insisted, she holding her wand close enough to me,
using it as a pointer and threat. They were all dressed in bull grey guard
suits, pants, loaded belts, long sleeve shirts, thick and utilitarian; not a
thing sexy about them, and almost no skin at all, making my nakedness even more
of an embarrassment, as if I was the only one there in fantasy space and they
working towards something completely different. In fact, unlike the women we'd
met inside, since the beginning of the conveyor experience, all of the women had
been quite plain, maybe even low class medical, judging from the number of them
who were overweight.
Apparently the stun had been on low. I found my nerves coming back and lifted
the ball as I rose. It had to be at least fifty pounds, I was guessing, hoping
that this wait wasn't as long as some of the others had been. If so, I'd be
hurting for sure - my arm muscles were the last things on me not pained.
I moved forward, obscenely close to the man ahead of me, but not as close as the
others due to the ball in my lap, their head cages nearly enmeshed in one
another's. I was feeling it, about to drop the ball, when the guard to our side
said, "You. Turn around and hold it with him. That's it. Closer. Closer.
Right up to him, heads together. No looking around. Watch each others face as
you work to hold the ball, slaves. Teamwork is important, when instructed."
It was a relief to me, but weird, having to stand toe to toe, head touching
another man's, even though it was actually our steel cages doing the touching.
He apparently was number 479-874-198-LR. What did that make me, 479-874-199-LR?
Maybe? The burn on him looked nasty blue, not anything like a sunburn that
would heal, and yet I knew that it must be a low grade burn, we only on
vacation. Maybe there was a little chemical coloring in the burn, I wondered,
though it really did look painful and permanent, and from my perspective, I
could attest to the considerable pain. It even had the slight smell of burnt
flesh. So, here we were, two numbered, hairless freaks, finally caught up in
some serious playtime. I guess that FemWorld was a bit of a ride after all.
They sure had me a bit messed up in the head with an unusual level of fear, even
to the point of suspecting our numbers burnt permanently.
There we waited, and though we'd each been told to look at one another, we both
caught glimpses of the surroundings, it quite hard to fathom: There were other
lines, beyond our own. Almost at random, several other groups of men waited,
mostly at the back of truck trailers. Not any of the others had head chains,
but all had some sort of chaining to keep them orderly. Some of the trucks had
their backs open, men filing in like cows into yawning cattle cars. Every so
often someone would falter, to which the guards stunned and never failed to
scream threats. One guy lost it entirely, him having to be hauled up by the
pair of men to the front and back of him. I could see the logic of the rails
and balls and head chains, for us, we very much more orderly. If anyone passed
out of tried to jump the rail, he'd have to drag the whole bunch of us with him,
the group being hampered severely by the front and back guy. The Mistresses,
conversely, could just retreat into the building or start stunning away until
the men were no more than a mess of stunned chains and bodies looped over the
high railing.
One guy was being a smart ass, so the guards had the man in front of him shove
him to his knees. Nobody liked a smart ass, particularly at a time like this
when waiting in line with all the tension was the worst thing in the world.
Ladies stood at the sides of the back of one truck, and guided the chained men
inside. Up front, in our line, some of the men were being loaded into what
looked like a narrow railing extended from the truck trailer ceiling. As each
last link was slotted in, the next chain lengths were lengthwise, just enough
slack to hold the top of each head into the rail and slide along as the prisoner
moved forward of the 16 wheeler's trailer. There was the sound of metal sliding
in metal slots as the whole queues of roughly 30 men were starting to be
shuffled into our enclosed trailer.
Other trucks were being loaded as well, though apparently less restrictively.
Every couple of minutes, another truck left, a few even parking, all the
drivers, of course, women.
I'd just caught another glimpse of the other trucks out of the corner of my eye
when our own trailer doors opened more fully in front of us. The man's face in
front of me saw my own terror because I could see around him, and realized that
we were being filed into the trailer by two women on each side of the trailer's
center rail, slotting us in much tighter than I'd first thought. To the left
and right of our slot, were two more overhead rails, a detail of three columns
width I'd not noticed by looking at the other trucks or by looking at our
loading with those doors partially closed. Already slotted were the heads of
earlier arrivals. We were being packed in, three queues aside, like sardines,
only orderly and in columns of about 30 each, ours filling the truck with the
last 30, dead along the center, men to each side of us already locked in with a
back padlock on their ceiling railing, standing in weary poses, many of them
openly weakening and begging for relief from their locked in heads. The man in
front of me was turned around, and I saw them slot his head chain in, and then
me, the last, stepping forward with my hands full of the heavy metal ball. My
head was seemingly suddenly rigidly controlled as I moved forward as if my head
were a bowling ball in an overhead gutter.
I could move everything, but my head was going nowhere but along the slot. The
men who were tall had to stoop some; I was thankful for being normal height.
Then we were in. The women behind had me drop the ball, but then she locked the
rail behind my head, making me unable to move backwards, and since so many of
the men disliked the crowding, I found myself pressed up against the man in
front as they shoved us in to latch that lock. The lady at the door started
slashing me to move forward, but I was bucking the man ahead of me obscenely in
an effort to get him to move, the men well ahead of us both, reluctant to yield
without an accordion of banging bodies.
I looked around as best I could, (my head moved 30 degrees at best, but my eyes
shifted around the rest of the way). I couldn't see the woman beating me, but I
saw one of our handlers jack a lever near the bumper of the truck. I found my
feet pinched by a couple of pair of pipes that rotated up and over the center
row's feet until each was captured in a stance with our feet about a foot apart.
Something else was moving up, it nudging the inside of a thigh. A rail of four
inch pipe was rising. The rails were rising from the floor between each of the
three columns of foot captive men. I'd missed it before because it had been
covered by at least three inches of straw. After half a minute of jacking, the
railing was up to my crotch and still coming another couple of inches so that I
found myself riding it when I wasn't on at least one set of tiptoes. Some of
the shorter men had it even worse than me. That seemed to satisfy the loader,
who shut the door behind her, shutting us all into the trailer, 90 men
straddling three rails and with our heads locked erect into overhead rails as
well. If I had foot movement, I could sit sidesaddle on the rail, but without
feet, I was left straddling with ass and nuts. Damn, but I couldn't even turn
around a quarter of the way to directly look the men beside me in the face.
My hands and feet were free. I could even play with myself if I wanted to, but
I'd never felt so constrained in all of my life. Thank the goddess for the
straw, me heaping it into little mounds under the ankle restraining rails so
that I could make a bit of a hill to relieve the pressure from riding the rail
or standing on tiptoes. I could see that the other men who'd been in here
longer had also employed that trick. It was a life saver for the shorter men.
As for hands, they were busy scratching my itching tits, and my rail pressed
crotch. I had hot flashes too, which wasn't surprising because as soon as the
door shut, the trailer got hot with 90 men breathing and acting like human
furnaces. Then the motor started, and we were moving, each jerk a literal pain
in the nuts. Where-ever we were going, all of us wished us off to it, the
seating arrangements needing lots of improvement. Some of the men screamed when
we went over a particularly bad bump near what must have been the end of the
dockyards, since thereafter we sped up and the air slots at the top edge of the
trailer walls kicked in to feed the cows a bit of air.
"Did you see the rest of the trucks?" I asked the man in front of me.
We were all pained, dealing with it, and pretty embarrassed to have ended up
like we'd ended up, but we'd at least shared the metal ball that was now rolling
around on the floor beside me, so we were on speaking terms, as were a few
others who lamented at various levels of complaint around us.
"I say we got the worst of it. What's it mean to be a 769? Seems like a worse
number than I'd imagined," he confided.
"Maybe we're just more valuable? They want to make sure we don't get away?
Someone's probably got a marker out for each of us; so they're extra careful to
keep us tight," I said optimistically.
"More likely that some of us will hang ourselves to death before we get there.
I can't imagine that unhappy customers are good for business. I hope the ride
is short," he said.
"My head hurts," I said, changing the subject to a complaint, that more in line
with what the rest of the guys were doing.
"Burns like a motherfucker," agreed the back of the head in front of me.
Then we just started complaining about everything. After awhile, some of the
men started screaming, our trip going on for hours. At one point, a pair of men
had to hold one up, him having cramped up with no means of recovery. Some
pissed on the men in front of them. One took a dump on his rail. Reasonable
social intercourse took a back seat upon that, to swearing and oaths of getting
even when the truck stopped. A little bird in my mind told me that the women
doing this knew more than we did, and when the truck stopped they'd have figured
out that oaths would have been uttered, taking more than ample precautions.
Hours, seeming like days, and we left the freeway, wandering rutted roads, and
then finally the squeal of gates.
Up through the barred off windows that sat well up on each wall, I saw a tall
building or two pass, though the very early fog of a new day obscured most of
any distant view; the darkest hour is not before dawn. Then, nothing but stone
and brick walls could be seen slashing by on the other side of our high air
vents as we moved past the gates. Christ, just let it be over, I prayed, long
since having given up on riding toes and having instead, allowed my crotch bones
to be banged raw. Thinking, what the hell, better here than in front of whoever
greets us upon opened door, I warned the man in front of me and peed into the
straw.
When I'd finished my leak, the truck stopped. High pitched voices yammed away
excitedly and closer. The latch at our rear clanged as locks were undone. All
I could think was, thank the goddess we're here.
FutureDomme Chapter7
But the stand in the truck wasn't over - not by a long shot, and I could detect
the brightening sky through the newly opened door, realizing that I'd been up
for a well over a whole day and was bruised, sore and cramping, to add to my
extreme exhaustion. Tension can accelerate that, and I hoped I'd not pass out,
as some had, men in front and back of those, holding them up just to keep them
from hanging themselves to death. I found that humanity refreshing.
It occurred to me that we'd been at it a really long time, and that in another
sense it had been brief enough to measure in hours instead of days. My sister,
Susan, what had become of that date we'd set for me to meet that lady ...
what's-her-name, oh yeah, Ellis? Was that for last night, or the one to come?
Well, I was too tired to hash that out, I knew, feeling my sore and bruised way
into the next minutes, one at a time. I'd have saved myself a ton of misery if
I'd not fallen into this trip idea and just had a normal date with someone who
could maybe support me and maybe even like me for as long as it took to wear
off. At 46, I wasn't up to this.
I waited while they backed one man out of the line to my right and then
reattached the simple lock that kept the next man from stepping back until the
rattle of chains finished. Glancing back out of the corner of my eye, and
restrained by the way my caged head could only rotate thirty degrees, I barely
saw the man's hands being cuffed by a belted set that set his wrists at his
sides. Once done, a black sack was fitted loosely over his head, it coming down
to his shoulders, but otherwise open. Then the next man was helped back, each
man apparently going to take us a couple of minutes each. Calculating that, we
had three hours of this before we were to be fully unloaded, and I could barely
stand as it was.
Somehow, I managed, taking my time to appear as if not looking about, while in
fact, I strained to make out the grounds that were visible through the opened
door before they had a chance to put my head into one of those loose sacks.
Being in the back, and being in the last line to be unloaded, I had that small
advantage.
There was a wall, not unlike that around an old Spanish mission, but with larger
grounds, and regular brick buildings, two of which I could see with my limited
head rotation. They were each a couple of stories high, some much higher behind
those, and all very plain, like work buildings, or maybe research facilities. I
couldn't chance to see all the way back, but I'd already seen the top of a wall
on the way in, and the barbed wire on top of that. The wire was also visible,
both on top of the buildings and the mission-like wall. Inside of that were a
dirt field, a few patches of grass, and some concrete walkways. The most
startling thing about what I saw was the guardhouse, it sitting just inside the
wall, and situated high enough up to look over. Inside I saw a person's
silhouette and the distinct outline of a rifle. Like a thunderbolt, it hit me
that we were in some sort of prison.
"A prison," I whispered up. The line to our left was now backed out and marched
off as a unit, and the one to our right halfway bagged. Men passed my quiet
message up, one being too loud, and earning us all a scream from a guard to
quiet!
Guys started looking around in earnest, however, fearful of my warning. That
earned us a visit from one of the guards, who visited us to our now vacant left.
She was short for a guard, no more than five feet tall, and maybe all of twenty.
Covered in a plain uniform, only the swell of large breasts inside plain denim
attested to a knockout body as she sauntered in. About two thirds of the way up
our line, she stopped, putting a shock stick against a man's testicles. His
hands were free, but he knew enough to hold them up with open palms, pleading
for mercy. Right when we all thought she was about to take the weapon away, she
pulled the trigger and the man jerked like a puppet on strings. His body
collapsed, swaying, held up by only his head and the dubious rail between his
legs.
The man behind him grabbed him, trying to hold him up, but for his efforts, the
woman touched his balls as well and sent him into a spasm that left him hanging
as well. Walking closer to me, the sadistic woman put the stick at a third
man's testicles, but then laughed and withdrew, leaving us to our two hanging
men.
Would a man die from hanging, I wondered, thinking it unlikely, given that we
were not hanging by ropes and thus, probably could hang mostly by the chin and
thus breathe. The bar between our legs might bear some of the weight, I
imagined, but didn't want to test my theory, not doing any more of that
whispering stuff. Everybody was very still and not a peep emerged. In a few
minutes, the men started coming around, moaning some, but not as much as they
probably felt like moaning, now with new jaw marks from the hanging. They did
not complain; silent for the same reasons we all were.
Soon I was walked backwards, the ball being moved by a guard, and me put into
waist restraints. They dropped a bag over my head, leaving me to a view of my
feet and the feet of the man who eventually was put in front of me as we backed
away in line and left the guards to affix us all.
This was really scening, I understood; very femdom. It might even be erotic, I
imagined, but we'd had way too much of it, and everyone was totally famished,
not to mention, a bit bowlegged from riding the rail for what had seemed like
hours. Obviously we were being scared and dominated and about to go to another
orientation place; this maybe the place they housed us when we weren't doing
service in the resort that probably existed just outside some gate. I felt like
cattle, that was for sure. The brutality though, well, overboard and uncalled
for, I felt, and I'd complain about that on my exit form when the vacation was
over, I imagined. If they want repeat customers, they have to put the right mix
of scening and pleasure, I felt. That trip wasn't erotic; it was just plain
brutal, and some might have sustained real injuries. There is a difference,
even for the masochists, I felt, knowing that we probably had a few who were
into pain among us, and that they'd probably mistaken all of us for extreme
masochists.
The truck started up and left us. At least the guard was carrying my ball as we
were finally marched off, soon filing into a doorway. Again the line stopped,
but this time I had no clues, only inching forward every few minutes.
When I got truly inside, I could hear a Mistress saying, "Just a little further,
and a nice bed awaits each of you slaves. I'm sure that you are all famished,
and ready for us to tuck you in. You'll be pleased to know that we intend to
allow you a full day in bed before we begin."
Shoot! I was at the end of the line, and sure to be the last guy done up; the
first man probably two hours into his pillow by now, I lamented as I shuffled
forward.
Someone rubbed some alcohol on my ass. I caught a bit of a woman's hands under
the hood opening, and then I felt a conventional needle stick me, the liquid
inside, cold as it invaded me. She even put a bandage on my newly pricked
wound.
I saw a shower of sparks just ahead of me and the rattle of slowly removed
chains. Then, two minutes later, I was being lifted up onto what felt like a
wooden bed. The sparks were so close that I could see them through the black
fabric hood as they disconnected my cage from the chains.
I was made to lay back, and my feet were affixed to the board, the thing
apparently having indentations for my heels to fit into. Even my butt seemed
slightly molded to the wood. Then my hands were freed from the belt that was
removed from my waist. The arms were stretched out into molds in the wood, no
more than indentations of an inch or so, and equally strapped at the wrists and
elbows. Someone worked with straps for my thighs and stomach. One last strap
was fitted under each armpit, there apparently grooves in the wood to allow
access for the straps into the body formed wooden bed.
There was no pillow, but I could lay my caged head down into what seemed like a
groove that settled three inches at least into the formed wood. A little air at
my ass cheeks, heels and head told me that the wooden bed was actually carved so
deep in a few spots that it was holed through.
Once done, the wooden bed that I'd been strapped to was wheeled aside and then
back, and then finally tilted upwards until I was almost completely vertical.
My feet, now part of the bed, did not touch the floor. I heard the noises of
the many removed chains being dragged through some doorway.
"Alright, ladies. Let's get the bags off and get a look at what we have to work
with," said a voice.
The bag was eventually lifted from my head. I found myself in a sterile room of
about twenty meters square. The walls were gloss white, and the floor was the
white tile I'd been feeling under my feet. It was interrupted by half meter
square buckets near the foot and just behind each vertical slat of boarded man.
In three places there were drains and signs of use as a hose dripped in the
corner and a sheen reflected off the wet tiles. Neon lights lined several steel
tables of medical supplies at the center of the room. A huge, circular,
surgical lamp hung down over a couple of empty steel tables. Other medical
equipment, tools, hoses, bottles of gases, were in their places.
We'd been further separated, only ten of us in this room, each aligned at the
outer walls, five to a side. Every last one of us was strapped to our wooden
tables by two inch wide straps. The steel wire cages were still secured to our
heads. Eyes bulged, but nobody had the nerve to speak - though one man was so
scared that he peed right where he ... I almost said stood, but we weren't
really standing the way we'd been strapped up. The room was silent, admiring
sadists, soaking in the fear on our faces, and we, the naked and immobile,
cowed. Thus, the tinkle of piss, as it fell a bit forward of his board and then
slowly made its way to one of the drains in the slightly tilted floor, was like
the roar of Niagra.
The three women among us noticed it, but said and did nothing to stop it, as if
saying to us that such behavior was accepted, although small things like grunts
in lieu of speaking were understood to be out of line.
Other than the required exit signs, I noticed one notice over one of the two
doors. It read, "FD Labs!"
The women were another thing entirely. Two were guards, in their plain
bluish-grey clothes, complete with belts of cuffs and mace and taser. The one
in command wore a nurses outfit, her dress short and stockings white, though she
was no looker. She commanded, "Thanks for all the work, ladies. They look
sorted out. Let's get them down for the night."
Our beds were dropped into the horizontal position, one by one, as if the only
reason we'd been raised was to let us get a good look around and suck in the
horror. Well, of course, I knew that to be part of the femdom experience we'd
all signed on for, the head game stuff. They were doing weird things though
with this scene, I understood, feeling it a bit hard edged for my taste, though
I'd fantasized about such rough junk at peak periods, and thus figured they
might have guessed me into it, wrongly, from some bio or web hit.
One of the guards spotted the pee with a stream of water from the hose, as if it
was all in a day's work.
The nurse came around with a cart. From the cart, a pair of leads went to each
man. One clamp attached at each man's penis with a circular clamp that I found
tight, but not all that discomforting as the nurse did me up about halfway up my
cock. The other lead was mostly like a ring around a toe, it more odd than
uncomfortable as she fitted my right pinky. She flipped a switch on the console
that rode the cart like an octopus of leads and lights. Then the ladies left,
lingering only to switch off the lights.
We were alone, in the dark, terribly uninformed, only the lights from the cart
in the middle of the room for company.
Someone said, "What's this all about? Any ideas?"
With each word I felt a tingle in my dick, followed by a sharp jolt of electric
at the completion of the sentence. It was so sharp that I almost felt like
retching.
Several minutes passed before someone else had to test it, saying, "This is
fucking redic ...." The dick screaming jolt cut him short and hit all the rest
of us again, for good measure. I buzzed my way out of that one feeling wet and
realizing that I'd wet a tiny squirt myself without knowing, the teaspoon or so
of pee dripping away, apparently from the four or five inches of hole beneath my
ass and most probably into the bucket on the floor that, when we were
horizontal, was probably perfectly placed for such work. I didn't want to
imagine that the hole behind me was also where it might allow access. I'd not
voided since lunch, and it struck me that our business here was to be done
without a potty break. We'd been near half a day since eating, and we'd not
once been asked to take a bathroom break. With that thought on my mind, I
somehow slept.
Cramps and pains in my head from the wires woke me several times until I just
let go into the bucket, it seeming so unnatural.
They could have just gone ahead and medically processed us when we'd arrived, I
was thinking at each awakening. We'd been dog tired and sore from the head
clamping and rail riding, as well as from the standing, when we'd arrived, but
this sort of sleep just to await some sort of medical in-processing was not
comforting, particularly considering that the unknown awaited us. Clearly they
did have some femdom stuff in them, so it promised to be exciting in spots like
these, though I felt that the particular bed board thing wasn't to my taste. I
mean, we'd seen the doctor in the last place, and even had some sort of shots
that I'd figured were probably nanos to keep us healthy and maybe get our dicks
a bit more girth, so, what more was there to do to us that couldn't be done
reasonably fast, I thought?
Oh well, what the hell. Another miserable night, and we'd be checked out and
probed and let loose to our little bungalows, I was guessing. I did feel better
after having let go of a loaf, mainly lamenting the discovery from the women in
the morning. Thus resigned, I slept much better. In fact, I got a lot of
sleep, me guessing us well into the next afternoon when I started catnapping the
last of it away. Then the lights hit me and the world changed for real.
FutureDomme Chapter8
"Morning ladies! Please say, "hello Ma'am," back in a resounding voice!"
Screamed the same nurse that we'd seen the night before. Her working shoes
clicked on the tile floor, an interruption to the silent misery of we men.
She was alone. The lady had a bit of a homely face, and was a few pounds heavy,
and that wasn't with big tits, but hey, this was just a processing center, I
figured, and we'd come in so late that we were leftovers for late evening
finalization before departure to something better, I also figured. Customer
service sucked - mostly if you were a late batch in this in-processing crazy
organization. As for saying hello Ma'am, we all burst out as one, sort of
scared into it from her sudden and vociferous entry.
"Hello Ma'am!" The electric shock hit our pricks and toes, and this one was
blindingly brutal due to the volume.
"Tuned to my voice, of course. I, and most of my associates can say anything we
choose without frying your little clits. Isn't that considerate of us to
program the unit in a way that relieves you from unnecessary discomfort? I
assure you, we will be chatting among ourselves, so it does matter."
Nobody said a thing, most of us too numb to still be able, but all of us sure
that the question was a trap.
"Oh, so quiet. I can see that our new rats are starting to learn rather
quickly; how discouraging; I do so much enjoy my wieners well done. Oh well.
It is the one thing we allow you - learning on the purely animal level. You
will not speak; your opinions and discomfort are of no concern to us. You see,
things have changed for you since your arrival. I need not tell you about it at
all, things well in hand regardless of your informed minds, but it pleases me to
hear the sound of my voice and I am prone to come into the chamber for no other
reason than to talk with myself. And, of course, to watch your eyes as you
suffer. I mean, since it is one place that I'm sure to be left alone. It is
the one place where I can talk to myself without worrying if anybody has heard
me."
Clearly she had little regard for us, I thought, but only after my mind got hit
with the realization that she was speaking as if she intended to keep us here
awhile.
"Let me begin by explaining a bit of law. Since the mid 20th century, the Equal
Right's act has expanded. First it was race, and then ethnicity and national
origin. Women were begrudgingly added by the male race, much to its chagrin
since. Then the long struggle for gay rights emerged, and was joined by
transsexual and transvestites. One group was left out, namely, those who wished
to be free to engage in BDSM activities at its most complex edge. Goth culture
had come to mid-life crisis, and the awful moral ineptitude of the right wing
counter-revolution was finally exposed. After much struggle, the right to
declare oneself a slave to another became partial to the Equal Right's
Amendment, though through its own separate bill. It was stipulated by court
rulings that such things not be taken lightly and that many exposures to
withdrawing contracts be a standard of approval of status. As you might have
noticed; yesterday we allowed you many interviews and chances to withdraw from
the program."
I reflected back to the previous day and realized that we'd signed papers at
least twice, though I hardly knew it was an offer of withdraw that I'd been
signing away? I suppose it could be seen that way though, assuming that some of
the wording on the unread contracts suggested such. So, I was gathering from
the soliloquy that we'd been a little bit duped into accepting our brutality of
the previous evening and the ensuing near future in our visit to FemWorld. It
was a bit of a harsh beginning by my standards, but I swallowed hard and
determined to make the best of it for the next week or two, regardless of having
been clearly jammed into something a tad more sadistic than anything other than
my web fantasies. At least I felt assured that in a day or so I'd be
mainstreamed to some part of the resort that allowed me to play with that angel,
Lisa. The nurse was speaking continually as I thought this, of course:
"Due to many court rulings, the status of a slave who has repeatedly
acknowledged a strong desire to refute free human status can ultimately liberate
the owner of certain obligations. The courts have even accepted a
co-relationship with the Honorary Kavorkian Act of 2032, allowing an almost
limitless ownership right. I mean, with the slavery act you can be tormented
and reduced to sub-human status, but coupled with the Kavorkian contract that
you have all signed in your personal interviews, we simply no longer have limits
places upon us regarding your disposition. In fact, as far as the courts are
concerned, we are obliged to etherize you as your last willful request and they
see no problem with allowing you legal fantasy fulfillment in the process,
particularly since even prostitution is legal in some districts, such as this
one."
I almost gasped and did, inside. I'd signed a Kavorkian contract? They could
kill us all! Lisa had put such a thing in front of me? Surely this act was
overboard, I reasoned. Lisa liked me and wouldn't have had me sign such a thing
without having me read the fine print. I mean, we connected right off; I was
sure of it!
"Oh, don't look so miserable. All of the men who enter our facilities sign
themselves away, and most live to tell about it; if and when we let them talk,
that is. Contracts can get lost in files and our goals do not include killing
the entire male race. It is, after all, all about your fantasy fulfillment here
at FemWorld. For our part, we find so many uses for those who make it through
to a more stable position." For some reason, she laughed briefly, perhaps at
her last clause that sounded a bit like their jingle.
I breathed a breath of relief. So, it was a scare tactic after all, and she'd
implied some sort of ending fantasy fulfillment, moving on, peace, talking about
the adventure, that sort of thing.
"But, of course, you have been sent along a less publicized tract. Out of every
few thousand, we take a hundred or so and use them for one of our pharmaceutical
research departments."
She walked up to the man beside me and grabbed hold upon one of his nipples. My
eyes were swung over, me noticing that he had areolas the size of quarters and
the tits looked a bit puffy just under the nips as well. She pulled the nipple
out a few centimeters. She licked the nipple that had been captured in her
fingers, and then bent over, biting it sharply before letting it go.
"Coming along," she mused. She stepped over in front of me, and touched my
nipples as well, my body shuddering in anticipation of some sort of torment.
The lady put the fear of the Goddess into me when she reached down and grabbed
my electrode clamped dick and removed the clamp. She started stroking my dick,
it very hot and turned on by the attention soon enough, but not really rising to
the occasion like I was expecting, and thus a bit embarrassing, considering that
the rest of the men were struggling to watch out of thirst for information more
than anything else.
She looked me right in the eyes, her head inches from my cage as she stroked my
dick. "We have a nice sub-dick now. Not much of a hard-on for you anymore, huh
pig. What's the matter? Can't get it up? Oh, but not to worry. It'll be nice
and hard when it gets to be the size of a nice little clit. The balls all
sucked up inside, and who knows, maybe even a bit of a cunt for you; though
fuckings are probably going to be a bit like someone poking your balls with
every stroke of the cock. You might want to avoid real men from now on. How
deep they shrink inside is one of the things we're trying to find out from our
new lab rats with experimental nano class 75-B. 'A' was a total failure. The
little balls only made it halfway in on those lab rats. It was almost
impossible for the animals to walk like that, them popping in and out with every
step. I'm afraid that we found the entire batch useless for any second
assignments. We simply couldn't work them very long before they just keeled
over from pain and so we had to gas the entire lot."
I did gasp, all but myself getting a tiny shock for my noise (my dick had been
unplugged for the fondling).
"Uh-huh. Well, look at the bright side. The titties turned out fine and the
clit was perfectly female. It was still a cock, and even had its little cums
when the prostate was properly milked, but the balls proved uncooperative. I
said to the director that we should have just cut them out and we'd have made
good use of the leftovers for field work, but she was adamant that the cosmetic
tests had also made most of them too sickly to be worth the medical costs of
salvaging them for further assignments. Such is a life of lab mutts in a world
with too many mutts without homes, I suppose." She let my dick go, and put the
penis clamp back on before walking into the center of the room.
I couldn't help but look down, seeing my cock about as flaccid as ever in my
life. My nuts felt both full and tight, as if the scrotum was shrinking.
Looking around the room, all of the rest of the men had invisible balls and
peanuts for penises too, even shaved, not to mention small mounds with quarter
sized areolas on them. Every nipple was darker than expected and hard as a
rock, and every cock a noodle. Nobody spoke, but they all looked like death had
just walked by as we examined one another in a new light, all of us making the
same morbid discovery about our male packages. Suddenly, almost as one, we were
looking at our own cocks and tits, finding ourselves like those around
ourselves. This was no fun anymore, I realized, as if anything since entering
the mess hall the day before had been fun.
"So, you are forbidden from moving and speaking without direction. Legally you
are all test animals now, and will be regarded as such. Over the next few
months you all belong to me as we finish our nano development of your bodies
into the closest thing to female animals as our test research has yet to dive.
We will also make use of our animals by subjecting half of you to chemical
testing on our latest experimental cosmetic formulas, while the placebo half
will be tested with known safe alternatives. You will have the satisfaction of
knowing that your small and insignificant personal sacrifice is benefiting an
all female corporation while it saves valuable animals from the sort of
experimentation that can be more directly studied in something closer to a human
test animal. And, of course, if you don't find that satisfying - excellent. I
love tormented unwitting animals most of all. Good day my little lab rats.
We'll be seeing much more of one another."
She left us, immediately replaced by the two guards who came in to clean up our
pans and hose us all off. When they scrubbed our bodies, it was with no more
care than the scrubbing of the tables we lay strapped to. Food was stuffed into
our mouths in the form of bottles with large nipples and flat supports that
rested against our head cages near our lips. We held the bottles up by lips
alone as we sucked out the milky mush inside. We were watered the same way, and
then were laid more fully back by a guard cranking back the boards. We were
still dripping from the hosing down when they left us to ourselves for another
dark half day. Nobody spoke. It was weird the way we were, ten bodies in one
room, only breathing dared, and with so many questions and complaints unsaid. A
few men cried, their moans whispers. The thing I felt most of all was the
feeling of my own body as I sensed my chest skin and breasts growing at bone
paining rates and my nuts shrinking tight up to my own body. Those freaking
nanos were unbelievable workhorses, I knew from my reading on the new cosmetic
technology, but the ones they'd laced our bloodstream with were something
beyond.
The lady had shaken me with the revelations, primarily regarding nanos and
Kavorkian. That part about being with her for months was probably a scare, I
guessed, knowing the limits to my vacation time. As for the nanos, they'd
probably reverse in a day or so, this being only a small vacation and nanos
always less effective at putting things back, a rarity in design, so they'd have
to get started on changing us back well before the vacation was done. I had no
insurance money for cosmetics, so it was only right that I was hoping they'd
give us some nanos to reverse the feminization stuff before we left. Thinking
about it, it seemed like an almost perfect slave scaring femdom scene to me.
They were good at raising the fear of god in us, me convinced that most of the
other guys had been sold on that fear factor. I was scared and to be honest, a
bit uncertain about my guess that it was just a scene. I mean, my tits ached
like a mother, far more than a small and reversible boob job suggested, and just
before the lights came on, I could feel my new numbed breasts shifting on my
horizontal chest, as if enough new skin and fat had finally arrived to cause the
boobs to sag over. I'd never heard of nanos this fast. Whatever was in the
nanos also was good at producing skin to accommodate; for that, at least, I was
thankful.
This whole scene though was just a complete horror, I understood. It was an
almost non-participating thing, and I'd not even wanted this feminization part
to happen to me at all. As for being a captive, it was an active captivity I'd
wanted, a little tickle and slap and then fun in the sack sort of thing, not
this complete immobilization and sadistic abuse.
Then I remembered how my ex-wife, Florence, and even my sister, had suggested
that they might be able to get me out of this somehow. I'd been cocky, as if I
knew what I was heading into, and not been listening, and more importantly, not
inquired into what they knew that I didn't through my lack of investigative
passion. Were they working behind the scenes in spite of my scoffing? I hoped
so, and if so, I hoped they'd rush before my tits got so far out of control that
the nanos became irreversible and they'd find the male parts of me not worth
saving. No, they'd save me, I thought, wanting it too much to think otherwise,
since I doubted I'd last two weeks of this before going insane.
FutureDomme Chapter9
It was another evening gone, we knowing only by the fact that it seemed morning
people were coming to attend us; clean the pans, set us up with the tasteless
mush and drink. IV stands were brought in, set beside us all and loaded with
bags of purple colored liquids. Then, one by one, the nurse threaded a catheter
up each of our noses, and down into our throats. Once the drip rate was set, I
could feel the cold liquid dripping deep into my esophagus. Almost instantly,
my stomach burned, and I burped up what tasted like a strongly chemical soap.
Once done with the drip, working through our head cages, each of us had our
foreheads coated with a thick smear of a pink cosmetic that instantly dried to a
paste that only the brazen blackness of our branded numbers showed through. On
each cheek, a purple and red cosmetic was smeared even thicker, like blush
patches on rag dolls. They embarrassed us severely by a coating of what looked
like deep red fingernail polish on each of our noses. The noses dried stiff as
plastic, and gave us all that clownish Rudolph look. Then, a small plastic bag
of black powder was fitted around each of our shrinking genitals so that the bag
was stuck by elastics and the contents of powder acting like soil for our
implanted cocks and balls. As a final act, holes were made in the bags,
allowing our penises to stick out, slight as they all seemed after a couple of
days of their horribly efficient cock shrinking nanos. Those penises were then
re-clamped to the dreaded shocking chord.
"Good morning girls. I can see that we have no complaints about the beginning
of our tests. Now we have you each set up with our test chemicals in order to
determine their appropriateness in our newest line of cosmetics, including all
the nutrients and fluids you'll be needing for the remainder of your stay here
as our lab animals. We've liberated you from the chore of eating and drinking.
Now all you will have to do is piss and void. Considering that, that is
automatic, it's best if you all just zone out and enjoy the rest. No dining
halls, no pee-pee rooms for you here.
This will free our staff to administer to daily blood tests, urine, stool and
skin samples, and the usual readings of body signs in order to determine the
effects of the chemicals upon your useless male bodies. We've made the chemical
components for the most severely treated animal, one hundred and thirty times
stronger than that found in our intended product lines, so, assuming we don't
have more than a couple of bad reactions, we'll be assured of a cosmetic line
that will not harm any of our customers. Of course, the internal consumption of
the chemicals is expected to have some adverse results, as we have varied the
amount greatly from animal to animal. We are trying to determine how much
chemical is safe for our lipstick line for the superior female consumer. Oh,
and half of you are luckily in the placebo group, which should be of some
comfort. But, don't worry, you are all still of great scientific value as you
are all under study; as we have let our new line of nanos loose on you and they
should be done working much sooner than the cosmetic study. I'm personally very
excited to find out the results of both experiments and can't wait until the six
month study has finished its course."
She then took her tools away, leaving us to ourselves. I was at a loss, what to
think? Even though I was technically not using the top half of my esophagus, I
smelled the chemicals in my throat, and soon even tasted them on my tongue. In
an hour's time, I was shitting the mess, it wrecking havoc with my digestive
system. When I pissed, it burned; suggesting to me that either I wasn't in the
placebo group, or they were sadistic enough to have laced the placebo group with
unpleasantries of our own. Judging from the rest of the guys, we all burned
when we pissed, so I remained clueless.
Once in awhile, someone shifted, trying the impossible: To get comfortable.
Powder sifted out of the plastic bags that coated our balls, but the very
efficient ventilation system whisked it away, thankfully, sparing us clouds of
that smell.
It struck me that this seemed pretty real. I mean to say that the nanos were
clearly the real thing, each of us having grown a sagging set of breasts that
were pushing B cups by the next morning. If nothing else, it was drudgery. I
had nothing to do but watch us all growing tits and dealing with our discomfort
through creative facial gesture. The women came in, and tested us, taking off
chemicals, shooting photos and scraping skin samples under the layers of
cosmetics. Then we were refitted, and left to sulk in our misery, day after
day. By the end of two weeks, we all had breasts the size of small melons, the
skin sagging so much that we didn't even have the comfort of being able to call
ourselves pert. More like natural breasts, I'd say, the nanos going for that
big breasted, middle-aged housewife look, from the appearance of it. Most of us
were D-cups, but a couple of the guys were one step beyond.
Then, one morning, I looked down, and my plastic bag of black powder had fallen
off of my nuts. They came in and inspected me first, feeling around. I could
feel them probing my balls, but not until their hands seemed literally within
me. After that, they simply taped a pad of powder to my crotch, the others soon
to follow. Worse than the feeling that my balls were being sucked up inside of
me, my cock was the size of a peanut. I'd look down between the cleavage of my
double-D breasts and see nothing but a spike that was only twice the size of my
growing and aching nipples.
By the end of the month, I was worried. Only occasionally did they take one of
us out and walk us in full body chains around in a spare room, smacking us along
with their little crops and only chatting among themselves, we just a job and
well trained not to speak or even lift our animal eyes from the ground. Then it
was right back into the lab without even a second to breathe before the
catheters were reinserted and makeup reapplied.
No end in sight, and my vacation time at work had long been over. I'd certainly
be fired if I didn't at least call in an explanation, but speaking seemed
impossible, and time went by and then I just resigned myself to the fact that I
no longer had a job. In this day and age, that hurt, men being last in line for
even menial appointments.
A few of the guys had tried to speak, and it had earned us all horrible shocks.
The probe still got clipped to our penises every day, even though the big clamps
had, had to be replaced with smaller ones held on by piercing common safety
pins. Clearly there's been a mistake, and we'd been held longer than what I
imagined had been our original contract.
I felt ill as well. I had blood test tracks all up my arm. I'd grown new
callus where parts of my head cage nudged me constantly. My body ached, my
stomach constantly churned, and bedsores were all over my back.
In general, my body was changing, constantly feeling a reverse sort of growing
pain I'd not felt since puberty and in places no man had ever felt. I had
nothing much for a cock, no balls at all, except for the pains of them being
pulled up into my gut where they were so deep that I couldn't even see them. My
breasts never seemed to end growing, my hair no longer grew except on my head
and at my triangular pussy patch. Judging from the other guys, the skin and
body changes included receding Adam's apple, widening hips, peachy soft
complexions, a considerable reduction in height and weight, and just generally
femaleness. The guy just across from me didn't even look like the guy I'd been
strapped across from a month earlier; more like his college aged sister, I
imagined. In fact, looking at my fellow lab rats got me hard, only conceptually
speaking of course.
With the waiting as animals, came the denial as well. Undoubtedly, the female
hormones and wonderland nanos had made me more woman than man, but I was a
lesbian, wanting that fair creature across the way as she lay strapped naked
upon the board losing her masculinity and sprouting tits so ripe that I
salivated from my endless denial.
As for the experiment, a couple of the men were clearly in distress. Sweats
broke out on them every day, and I could even see boils brewing up on one man's
stomach. Finally a team of female doctors came in to examine the worst one of
them, much to my relief. Something in the experiment was going terribly wrong,
I sensed, and it was about time that someone took notice. Maybe, even, they'd
check the records and see that we'd all been here too long. I have to tell you,
it had been absolutely no fun, and I'd not sign up for an extension, as would
none of my co-vacationers. What were they thinking, doing us up like this, was
beyond me. It certainly didn't bode well for return business; that's for
certain. None of us would return for a future vacation, I could tell just by
looking at the continual misery upon all of the faces.
Instead of curing the ill man, however, they made lots of noise about how well
the nanos were doing, and how much they'd expected his distress due to having
been the one given the most chemical of the non-placebo group. Then they just
left, no cure, no drugs, no hospital for him; just more suffering and that
murderously chemical laced catheter still down that man's throat.
The month turned into two, three, four, five, and then six, me counting, it the
only thing to do as we watched one another sicken from disuse, abuse and changes
so complete that I could see pussies with deep slits where balls had been
between every last pair of legs. The tits had stopped growing, not a C cup in
the room beyond those of a few of the guards. All of these Ds and double Ds
sagged too, not at all like implants, but more like breasts you'd find on a
fully grown thirty year old woman who'd been sucked at a time or two too many.
When one or two of us chanced a whimper, it came out higher pitched and full of
emotions that no man alive would admit to.
And then it happened. A pair of nurses came around to collect the tubes of
blood and found the one worst man white, unmoving and even unresponsive to her
prods. "This one is about to go. Let's go ahead and take him while we can
recover some of the undamaged organs," Declared the head nurse.
The guards came in to help them, and after putting him onto a rolling gurney,
paused just long enough to look at the second worst man. He was ill, but still
lucid, though that didn't stop the head nurse from adding, "We'll go ahead and
harvest this one too; as soon as we process this one."
The second nurse added, "It's much better if we take them while the donors are
still alive, makes for a better organ that we might even be able to strengthen
with nanos, and it gives us all the time we need to track down the women in need
of the products. When you start off with the small stuff, eyes, kidney, skin
grafts, everything stays fresh in the body right up to the last couple of
things."
A guard noted, "This one won't be much good for kidney's though; I think we've
ruined them in this experiment."
"Yeah, that's probably true, unless we start some recovery and can get a nod for
a desperate need," corrected the head nurse. They chatted all the way out the
room.
The second ill man moaned in shock, sending shocks to us all, but he was beyond
feeling them as we were, knowing his fate as an organ donor and perhaps even
hoping that some lively display might convince the women that he wasn't as sick
as he'd looked for months as they came to get him anyway, having to strap him
down tighter than the near corpse they'd wheeled out earlier.
"Now keep still, animal, or we'll do these organs once a week in stead of as
demand calls!" Screamed the guard.
The man still fidgeted, realizing how little he had to lose. They'd taken the
man's electronic wiring off of him to move him. The man started adding a scream
or two, putting the rest of us in constant pain from the shocks.
"Let him complain. I'll do a lobotomy first thing and put an end to it straight
away," declared the head nurse as they wheeled him out still screaming.
With that, a couple of the other men who looked like they weren't in the placebo
group either, fidgeted, reminded me of the earlier days when we all fidgeted,
and telling me that we'd all changed a lot because that old spirit had been so
noticeably crushed in the rest of us, by contrast.
A few days later, we all were given a much more thorough physical examination,
and one by one, led out in chains. Between each man was a good hour's wait, and
the worst of us had been led out first. I felt soft, weak, thinned to ninety
pounds, and when stood, top heavy with my huge tits and dramatically reduced
crotch. It was a whole different body that I wore. I felt as if I were leaning
back to compensate, least my back get sore from the weight of some stranger's
knockers as they sagged and swayed with every movement of my chaining and
prepping for that next room. They moved me with but fingers, them now stronger
than I by far. I'd not been a weakling before, but clearly I was now. Maybe it
was the organ donation room next, I worried, but in spite of how badly I felt,
I'd guessed myself lucky enough to be a placebo, judging from the numbers they'd
steadily plotted on my chart.
As I stood there at the door (the next to last man to be stood at it), I pissed
and then realized that I'd have to re-potty-train myself if I were lucky enough
to see the end of this vacation. That is, of course, if the next room wasn't
the organ donation room, which, considering that I felt like trash, had been
totally emasculated, and was certain that I no longer had a job, I thought might
be a blessing; maybe my next reincarnation would be as a woman, them apparently
the new master race.
I was suddenly outside the door, and outside the building, the noon sun and
non-air conditioned air spanking my naked and chained body. There, a welder
stood, and she patiently unwelded my head cage without showering too many
sparks, dropping the cage into a box when freed. A second woman put a small
paper mask over my forehead, and with some kind of spot burner, flashed another
searingly painful brand onto my forehead, just to my left of center. A pickup
was backed toward us, and before I got in I looked at the sideview and saw that
my burning branded number had changed from 479-874-199-LR to 479-874-199-LR-HM.
The face was more startling than the brand, however, my lips were three times
the fullness I'd remembered them, and my face smooth, without cheekbones, almost
like Oral Annie, and that was without makeup. In fact, my face seemed very
round indeed, almost featureless, a thing that made me look quite young, very
pleasing to the eye, and mostly, plain of thought; almost dull of wit by look
alone.
Once in the back of the open pickup, the guards unlocked all of my chains. One
of them put a note on a slip of paper and handed my entire folder to me.
I could hardly believe that I'd been set free from the lab and was without
chains. I'd grown to think that nobody got out of that alive. Anything by
comparison seemed total freedom. I could even breathe again, taking in the air
like it was wine.
A particularly staid lady said, "The truck will take you to your next assignment
location for reassignment. Do exactly as told, and do not look into your
folder; you are being trusted, don't mess this up. You are FemWorld property,
and that folder is as well. Besides, it is against company policy for slaves to
read or in any way to assume an education. Congratulations; you are no longer a
lab animal, HM 199. You've moved up to bimbo recruit status. We are very proud
of you."
Bimbo recruit? The vacation had to be over by now, didn't it? I seemed to be
channeling into another womanly thing, and me having only shown a small interest
in transies in my web travels. I needed a new job as a bartender or something,
so I could meet up with that dish, Lisa. She'd help me. I knew that I'd
changed, half my weight, a couple inches shorter, almost perfectly female in
anatomy, but nanos could be reversed, couldn't they? It seemed like a whole lot
to add back, and who knows what it would end up making if it tried, but I'd held
out some hope of getting back to my life, particularly when I'd realized myself
a placebo group person and that they were moving us on. Would Lisa like me as
this, this, this, completely different person? OH, Goddess, I was naked and a
bimbo, I suddenly realized; outside, where men could gawk at me. I definitely
had no interest in men gawking at me!
The graduation ceremony from animal to bimbo wannabe apparently done, my truck
lurched away from the curb, naked bimbo in the open bed. Sans anything I'd call
human strength, I fell to the floor and banged my smooth, full bimbo hips on the
tailgate. I was soon on all fours, in the back of a rattling and unstable
pickup, racing across the grounds and watching the buildings blur by. Finding
all fours, my utters flopped, me like I was some kind of cow being moved from
one farm to the next.
The view wasn't encouraging. The grounds were crowded with buildings though, as
if we were a self contained small city of warehouses and work-farms. An
occasional man or two, naked and working on weeds or moving things about was
mostly what we passed. They'd chance a slave's brief glance up at the passing
truck and their eyes lit up at the sight of a naked broad with hangers the size
of melons being shuttled in the pickup like livestock. I hid most of me in one
arm and a hand, but clearly they'd not seen a naked woman in some time, the
guards and overseers all very well dressed in uniforms and such in this one
sided FemWorld. Even a few scantily, but protectively dressed male roofing crew
members were passed, them burning up in the sun with a fully dressed guard
sipping lemonade in an umbrella covered lawn chair below. It was easy for them
to glance down and see the naked female struggling for balance in the open
pickup below.
It struck me that I seemed the only man in the yard without a single guard or
chain or shock device hanging on me. In a way, I was completely free, save for
the fence that I could see running across the horizon beyond the many barns,
buildings, residences and yard activities. Of course, I increasingly doubted if
I'd ever be free of my newfound embarrassment. Would men always see me this
way, even if I gained clothing? Reflecting back at how I saw things as a man,
it seemed likely. I didn't want to be undressed by men's eyes, and for more
reasons than most women had, I understood.
We stopped at a massive stone house that was set against one of several very
tall near-skyscrapers located in that section. It was strange to see a few
peaks of tall city buildings off, just beyond this particular wall that this
mansion abutted. Most of that was obscured by other warehouse or factory type
units, but other than the ornate mansion architecture, I had the feeling as if I
was in some sort of city that this walled off complex abutted. The mansion,
white columns and tall windows, and several floors was so big up close that it
hid the factory and city landscaping it abutted once up close to it though. On
the prison side of that wall, the side I was in, the mansion stuck out in the
otherwise low skill workforce architecture surrounding it. I got out when the
driver lowered the tailgate and nodded for me to follow.
Instead of moving up the five steps to the wide back door of the house's main
floor, we walked around to the side. There was a vegetable garden. A couple of
women in full black dresses, aprons, bonnets and white gloves were watering the
garden from a sprinkler can. It was odd to see women working at manual jobs, I
thought, as I was led through a side door that was so small I had to duck to get
beyond. Women didn't even do manual jobs anymore in the free world. Over the
top of the door had been the sign, 'MAID ENTRANCE'. That was my first clue to
what the HM part meant to my new number name of 479-874-199-LR-HM. I looked at
the women in the garden again, and it occurred to me that they might be altered
like I'd been, but then they were hard to read until they moved, giving
themselves away as not naturally women, and of course, that scared me most of
all, because I was at the gate of the place upon which that garden tending sat.
Almost as confirmation, one looked up at me and that kneeling gardener's eyes
got stuck upon my breasts for most of a minute before they fell to my pussy. I
ducked into the lee of the entrance and hid my female parts in shame.
FutureDomme Chapter10
I was joined by another naked womanlike man in an hour's time, and then a third
in a few more minutes. I'd not seen any of these men, but both of them had head
brands that ended in FS. I tried to figure that out, coming up with Female
Slave, Farm Slave, Factory slave. I knew all to be possible, this complex
clearly full of both cramped dorms and fully functional businesses. I could see
old time smokestacks, and I'd even seen a line or two of naked men being
shuffled into one factory-like building on my way over. I couldn't imagine how
much money these women were making with all of this free labor.
Anyway, we, the three of us, were made to stand, completely unguarded, at the
Maid entrance for awhile longer before being shuffled inside the low and common
back door.
As I turned in, last to enter, I yearned to be back home, a man, with a real
dick, and off to my sister's to meet that girl, Ellis I believe, she'd said she
wanted to introduce me to. Or even taking on the offer from my ex to shack up
and take a common job as her handyman seemed acceptable, under the
circumstances. At least it paid, and she'd maybe even let me keep myself housed
in her granny house. It's humiliating taking on a job from an ex, but
comparatively speaking ....
Anyway, I had, had lots of time to reflect, and almost anything was better than
this. So, why did I wait and not try to escape? For one, I knew that the women
in charge had seen it all before; I'd not escape easily. Further, I'd already
been a lab rat, and been put down as a Kavorkian candidate, compared to that,
anything was escape, even slavery. And, of course, if I tried to run, they
could sell my body off as parts, and they would if I was trouble, I knew. Shit,
whatever was in the door I was ducking into was sure to be better than being
hunted down and slaughtered for eyeballs and kidneys. I knew that it was better
than being a test animal. Hell, I walked in eagerly.
Then, as I let my eyes adjust to the lesser light of the room, it struck me that
my ex-wives and my sister knew where I was, or could at least try to find out.
My sister did care about me, and my one ex, Florence, might want to look me up
too. Even that counselor, Lisa, well, she'd seemed like she liked me.... Once
I got clear of the hopelessly controlled lab, they might make an appearance and
get this mistake taken care of for me. All I needed was an agent to rectify the
error of making my vacation into a holy nightmare!
"Morning ladies, my name is Madam Cloe. When I've taught you how to speak, you
may simply call me Madam," was the first thing the severe looking woman said as
she paced in front of us with our folders in her mitts. She passed within
inches of the three of us, we three unadorned in any fashion other than our
brands, naked as the day we were born; well, not exactly as we were born, but
naked none-the-less. We stood side by side, touched and remained connected,
each on one of the five white X's facing an old, wood veneer desk in a small,
dingy, back room that was adorned by hung mops, brooms and one overhead bulb.
"I am to congratulate each of you for excelling and success at your previous
temporary assignment; your excellent marks in tests and in internet activities,
as well as your excellent physical development. All of this has earned you the
right to step up to a much steadier position as your next assignment, as one of
our Hotel Maid candidates. Believe me, this is a job entrusted to only our most
deservedly patient slaves. Though you will never fully achieve female status,
we do consider imitation to be better than the disgusting male package. Of
course, all of our guards, teachers and guides here, like well over half of the
general female population, are nano enhanced lesbians, so appearances,
superficial or not, help enormously in how you are viewed."
"The first step in that program is what we affectionately refer to as our Bimbo
Wannabe programming and of course, appearances and profiles. You all have a
wonderful head start as, I must say, surprisingly successful subjects for our
nano technologies. One of you, in fact, was a test subject for our latest model
of nano."
She looked at me, and lifted my right nipple with the same finger that had
pointed us to our X's. Letting it go after an inch of lifting, my breast
warbled like the succulent jug it most certainly had become. A good quarter of
my much starved and nano-altered body weight must have been contained within the
fat of my knockers. The other two men secretly broke protocol and glanced over
at my breast as well, neither of them more than a B cup; making my double D's
obscene by comparison. She smiled, and added, "It is amazing that the cat
brings in ... usually."
The lecturing woman was wearing a dark grey suit, not quite of the tailor of a
business dress, but almost; white socks, black, sensible shoes with reflective
quality. She seemed more Sergeant, like a butler, perhaps, in this enormous
mansion that I found myself assigned. I'd been told to wait outside by
something much tinier than this two hundred pounds of fully wrapped, fifty year
old, thin-lipped woman who had finally allowed the three of us in when the other
two had arrived. We'd been shown the X's with an authoritative finger, and
we'd, of course, figured out that the proper stance was attention.
"Now, I do understand that the cat has also had your tongue for the past few
months, and I personally feel that this alone has set each of you at an
advantage over those who come to us from the regular ranks as a first
assignment. You will pass many of those in your duties here, but pay them no
mind, it is my responsibility to see that they are as quiet and obedient by
nature as you older girls. And, for those rare moments when a response is asked
of you, we'll be soon teaching you all of the words that you'll find useful in
your next line of employment. We'll start this job like any other; with the
paperwork ... oops, I'm sorry, you've all filed everything we need, it appears.
Oh yes, very nice, we have all that we need indeed to do as we wish," she said,
having been glancing at our folders from the time we'd arrived.
They had us mute and all signed up for whatever they wanted; I'd already found
out that when I'd been introduced as a lab rat six months earlier. I'd been
frightened that I'd not make it out of that alive, and so, with an odd sense of
both fear of losing my last ounce of masculinity, and with hope born on the
knowledge that some fates are worse, I endured the realization that I was now
stuck in yet another trial. It all made me clammy to think that I seemed
continually too scared to even think about objecting to the authoritative woman
addressing us and introducing us into yet another seemingly long term project of
self removal from our whole sense of identity and dignity.
I was on the far right, near the now locked and tiny wooden side door. The skin
of the woman-slash-man to my left was smooth, clammy and starting to match mine
in sweat. I'd stolen glances too, and was amazed to note that he still had the
most of a dick; four or so flaccid inches in fact, and with the hint of a pair
of exposed balls; the new nanos I'd been given were indeed far better at
reducing my manhood; my dick was almost nonexistent, my balls sucked into my
body several inches, and from the feel of them, probably as mushy and minor as
anything else I could imagine inside of a pussy. My penis (or was it a clit?)
was an inch at best, on the rare occasion that it woke up and found its way
outside of my triangular pussy patch. That's not to say that I didn't get horny
even while flaccid. Hell, I'd been constantly horny and unrelieved since I'd
arrived. Still, in present company, men who still had most of a wiener and
women who seemed intent upon extracting every last shred of masculinity out of
us, sex was far more of a threat than a promise for me, I understood.
The other men, still mostly men, had stolen glances at me since we'd been lined
up outdoors, and they made me more uncomfortable than the Mistresses. Of course
that made sense, since I'd been one of the first new nano recipients and thus,
very successfully changed. As for the guys, they'd not been laid since getting
here either, I assumed, and the only naked pussy in this outfit appeared to be
me. In fact, reflecting back to my one glance at my own reflection, I was about
the most attractive looking women I'd seen since arriving. I even wanted to
fuck me. It even struck me that with my hands free I might even be able to fuck
me, given that my dick hovered mostly hidden in a stripper's patch of hair and
right over my new testicle retracted pussy. Thinking that weird and perverted
thought sent me into another tailspin of self loathing when it also occurred to
me that my dick wasn't even long enough to do that, in spite of the short, one
inch reach it would need to make the journey.
Someone could tell me to go fuck myself, and I'd have to answer then, "I want
to, but I can't."
With so many of the women letting themselves be advertised into taking nanos and
becoming lesbians, everyone here was sure to be into women. At no time since my
arrival did I covet clothing more. The other men had been feminized, sure, but
one look at the crotch told otherwise - not true in my case, I thought with much
shame.
"Right this way, girls," demanded the stately butler-like Madam Cloe. We
followed into a much larger room, this one with a blackboard on the wall and
several chairs that had been shoved aside so that we had a bit of a floor.
"You may stand at ease in a row. I trust that you airheads can manage without
markings on the floor. Now, clasp one hand with the other, fingers interlaced,
relaxed at your lap, heads slightly down, but eyes attentive. Very nice. I can
already tell that our resource people were correct in assigning you to us; you
were almost certainly maids in a pervious life. Of course, back then they
didn't have hotel cleaning specialists and foreign women doing the jobs; but
actual American women who did these services for minimum wage. One can hardly
imagine the barbarity of such a thought as imposing such a thing upon a valuable
lady when we might have caught on decades earlier. I mean, after all, we have
always had a majority vote, should we have been eager to use it. You three are
to be throwbacks, however; properly outfitted maids, and how one carries oneself
is of utmost importance in any station in life."
I'd held out hope for better, but there we had it; maids. I was red from
hearing it spelled out so plainly. Perhaps I should have escaped when I was
outside?
"First of all, I shall teach you your vocabulary. It's simple really, as are
most duties done by our maids. We will start with "Yes Madam," "Sorry, Madam,"
"Thank you Madam," and unfortunately, an occasional, "Yes Sir," or, "No Sir,"
and "Thank you Sir." You might notice the difference. A maid is never to say
no to a member of the superior sex, but since men are sometimes not bright
enough to understand anything but a direct no, we allow it in that case. Shall
we practice our maid vocabulary?" She paused, "I didn't hear a response?"
We trickled out, "Yes Madam," my voice cracking right off the bat from lack of
use for six full months. I even felt myself shrinking at the knees, expecting
the shock that didn't come due to me being completely unelectrified and
unrestrained.
"Yes Madam," she said, we responding better.
"Sorry Madam," she continued.
"Too loud HM-199," she chided, slashing me on the hip with a meter long switch.
"Too softly, HM-102," she added to the man beside me, hitting him harder.
"Not deferential enough, HM-565. Bend over," she told the last man, laying on
ten horizontal stripes that even using peripheral vision I could tell were going
to be pink for several days.
Done with that, we all concentrated much more as she led us into our language
drills several times around. It amazed me how high all of our voices had
become. Mine, in fact, was positively pixy; I'd not expected that, the last
time I'd heard it had been pre-nano. Perhaps it was just dry, I wondered, but
found it not the time for testing as I tried my best to please and be demure, a
thing that a pixy voice only enhanced. When she was pleased, we sounding like a
perfectly tuned choir of three and no outstanding voice, she went on to lesson
two:
"Now for walking. Since you are imitating and striving toward employment as
ancient female maids, you will be required to exaggerate the qualities found in
such shameful representatives of the superior sex. By that, I mean, walking
with sway and proper hand gesture. There needs to be just the proper amount of
teasing jiggle in your hooters. Alright ladies, arms down to the sides and
relaxed. Now, leaving the elbows roughly at your sides, lift the foremost arms
and lift at the wrist. Palms facing the floor, fingers up even more than the
hands and somewhat apart. Little finger out more than most. Little fingers,
little fingers; yes. Now, holding that pose, try to make it look relaxed,
natural, like you haven't even passed a thought, it being the natural walk of a
born bimbo."
I was mortified. I'd have liked my hands over my crotch a lot more. This was a
virtual invitation for others to look at me naked, as if by pointing gay fingers
outward I was actually pointing inward, straight at my pussy.
"When you walk, pretend you are walking on a single line and let your body move
from side to side as you do so. Let's all turn to the right, and start walking
in circles around me. Go ahead, walk. Oh, goodness no, slut 102. Relax those
hips. Breathe. This should feel normal for airhead maids. This is how you
walk - not a gymnastics exercise. It's walking. It's simple. It's perfectly
sissy. Come on, sissies. Sissy, sissy. Primp for your Mistress. Purse those
lips. Sway the hands just a little. Fingers up! Make those peckers rise as
you walk by your Mistress's boy. Everybody loves a sissy. Make those steps
sweet as candy. Smooth. No eyes should have to nod as your pussy passes.
Dainty now. Tits and ass on parade. Pucker those lips; need I tell you
everything about how to be a proper bimbo? Come on; get into it 102!"
She slashed HM-102, him just ahead of me and not at all good at it. The most
manly of us all, he still had a square ass, and mostly just reminded me of a gay
man who had made himself up to look ridiculous. I could make out enough of
myself to understand that I, conversely, made no such impression at all. Even
naked enough to find the flaws, it seemed to me that I was a walking slut on
parade! To Madam Cloe I was just a bimbo, walking sexy, like on one of those
old Vegas floor show disks I'd once looked at. Posing for the jeers. With
HM-102 they'd be yelling, "Put it on!" With me it'd be, "Come over here bitch
and sit on my drunk cock!" I was both elated that she didn't once have to slash
me for walking poorly, and humiliated that, even though I often relaxed more
than comfortable due to being tired, she never once found me male enough to
slash either.
As for tiring, I was exhausted. I'd been laying in a lab for six months, and
been dizzy just getting up in the morning. Now I'd waited out the door, stood
at attention while lectured, and been asked to go bimbo walking for my
instructress. The dizziness was returning fast, me figuring that I had minutes
before I'd swoon and pass out like the dizzy weakling I was.
"OK. I can see that we need more practice, but first let's get our new maids
onto something less stressful - it being a big day for you all, I'm sure." We
pranced into a third room that most humiliating since it struck us that prancing
into the next room like that reflected the new reality that our walk was more
than a passing humiliation. Good thing nobody was around to see us prancing
like fags in a floorshow.
In the next room we were there seated in three of the five swivel seats in front
of sinks. Three ugly maids walked in and started on each head of hair, ours
having grown quite long and unkempt in our lengthy stay. I noticed how tall
each of them were, and the size of their hands. Dressed in orange dresses with
plastic aprons to ward off the water and chemicals of hairdressing, these seemed
not prime meat; clearly males in drag; maybe most primitively nanoed to a point
of being unpassable as any sex.
Each of us was colored platinum blond, trimmed, curled, and then sat at the
hairdryers. There at the dryers, they even had the New Cosmo magazine, the
hairdressers instructing us to read them. Madam Cloe was on break, so with
hesitation I picked mine up, a bit miffed at having been told to do so by the
drones. I found my eyes racing over the stories, ads and pictures, the brain
having been starved for anything stimulating. Apparently we'd voted in a new
President who was very fashion conscious. Her First Lady was a guy who liked
pink ruffled shirts, one ad told me. It was disgusting, me thinking that the
First Man was nothing but a showpiece for fashion.
FemWorld had two ads in Cosmo, one up front showing a smiling man kissing the
thigh of one of the most sensuous looking women I'd ever seen; clearly a
computer face fab on her. He seemed happy, as I would be under such passive
domination. In back it was a full page, featuring all sorts of jobs that
appealed to me, including what they called animal training and maid fantasy, as
if it were just a thing one did for a weekend outing, play a little doggie and
dress-up. Deceptive as hell, I had finally come to understand. I eagerly put
the Cosmos down when we'd all been properly dried, uncurlered and fluffed.
They finished me up with a powder and some liner and lipstick, and set us in
line at the same door we'd come in at, the three male maid hairdressers
departing with no more than one whisper into my ear saying, "You're a hot one,
baby."
I looked over at the hairdresser and noticed a bulge in his skirt. It occurred
to me that the hairdresser were pure gay. I felt like running out of the room
that he was leaving anyway, saving me the risk. Was he a risk? Could he molest
me without winning the wrath of the Goddesses? Here had been this trans
hairdresser, fixing my face and hair and he had been gawking at my boobs and
pussy like I was candy on a stick ready to be licked while I'd been absorbed in
my own problems and inattentive. The hairdresser's lips, red as mine, but on a
less nano-feminized face, seemed to glisten with saliva as she'd worked. It was
a rare moment that I wished for the return of the sadistic butler-like overseer,
Madam Cloe, and of course, I felt much better with him gone, even if it did mean
that we were unsupervised and made to wait in yet another line for more
unknowns.
I remembered my training and folded my hands over my cock. Using my little
finger to touch myself, I felt instantly erect, though looking down at it I
didn't see much of a change other than the hardening of my inch and maybe how it
seemed a bit more red. What would Madam Cloe think if she saw my dick red
though, I wondered, willing my dick to relax, and mostly losing.
Madam Cloe collected us, taking us to what smelled and felt like a back room off
of some main kitchen. We were sat at a plain wooden table in plain wooden seats
and a maid came in with plates and cups. The cup was water, and the food bland,
but to me it was a challenge eating what little they'd offered. I'd not eaten
in six months, and had to retrain my throat. Each bite took too long to chew.
My jaw ached and my throat felt raw. Them my stomach started to churn, me
wondering if the time as a lab rat had ruined something along the way.
FutureDomme Chapter11
Walking in, in a rush, Madam Cloe yelled, "Come girls. We have a temporary
assignment. New trainees are the easiest to assign at short notice, so I'm sorry
for the rush, but we have need for three straightway. It will be like this for
awhile until you are well into training. New girls are just easier to shuffle
into quick needs, and besides, that's often how the households use their
servants as well. Good training, all. Hurry along. Hurry, hurry. Don't
forget your fingers and pursed lips; no straying eyes! No noises to upset the
household. Good sissies just react and make themselves quickly useful."
We were given a hurried moment alone in an off bathroom to freshen up, do our
constitution and teeth, my first luxury other than the leisurely hair drying in
months, though it was a brief couple of minutes in the midst of our rush. Then
it was back to hurrying, marched through what must have been several service
halls, them unadorned by more than studs and pipes, but clearly back of the wall
to some sort of much better apportioned rooms.
Near the end was a bin, out of which the Mistress took some wiry metal
contraptions and set each into our mouths. Like braces, one wire worked over my
outside top gum and the other fit over both the inside and outside of my bottom
gum as well. Once in place, the braces nearly vanished behind lips. Madam Cloe
opened our jaws wider with a few twists of a screwdriver, as if we were all at
some sort of dentist device, which I suppose we might have been.
Next, a second screw was cranked, this one moving the bottom set of wires
outward, giving us each two inches of severe underbite. It was quite a strain,
taking some getting used to and definitely humiliating. The whole deal reminded
me of pictures I'd seen of women in one African tribe who had a custom of
putting rings in their bottom lips that made their lower jaw stick out like some
sort of cup holder. I looked at my fellow maid companions, knowing how
ridiculous we all must look as we stood, being manipulated, with fingers clasped
in front as instructed earlier, not a rebellious bone among us. Then a thick,
stiff and four inch tall collar was put around our necks, making us stiff as
boards for heads and sort of have to look up forty-five degrees or so. To that,
the Mistress attached a pair of non-pointed hooks into our nostrils and
stretched the rubber bands they were connected to over our new hairdos, latching
the bands to the back of our collars.
Bottom lip jutting, and nose yanked up like a pigs snouts, I was the first to be
shown the tiny door about navel level in one wall. She bid me to kneel, and
then shoved my head through the opening, closing each side of the circular
panels bracing the opening so that my neck was sealed into the wall. From the
sound, she padlocked the door sealed. Amazingly, my head was inside of some
sort of meeting room. My body was banished, knees on concrete floor, a slight
breeze and very vulnerable feeling.
A thick, polished rectangular table dominated the room, along with its eight
staid, years of polish chairs. I was at one end, nearest a closed oak door,
between seats side one and door end one. Up front at the other end of the
table, a conference phone sat, along with some sort of small, conveniently at
hand audio-visual screen. Coasters sat in a tiny coaster tray.
Next thing I knew, another ten inch square opening happened in the same wall
down along my side, but at the far end of the table. One of my companion's
heads was shoved through. He looked frightened, and then surprised to be in a
small conference room, sort of with me. It struck me that the neck-brace
matched the wall, making us seamless right up to the head. Then, two minutes
later, another small hole opened across on the opposite wall, dead center to the
broad table. So, there were to be two of us along this wall, and one of him
middling opposite; kind of an odd, but workable symmetry.
Madam Cloe came into the room after a delay, four glasses in hand. She was
guiding a tall maid who brought in a pitcher of iced water and a vase of
flowers. This maid looked well smoothed out in complexion, almost as good as
me, but with slight tale-tell male signatures to her bends as she worked, I
realized. The male maid definitely showed no sign of recognizing us or of his
own personality, unlike the rather rudely forward behavior of the hairdressers.
We were either not her concern, or common. Was that what they had in mind for
us, I wondered, simple, mindless service? And, of course, why were we common,
though feeling so oddly disposed?
Our hair was fluffed by Madam Cloe as if we were floral arrangements. The
fluffing hid most of the rubber band holding our now tender snouts. She left
the hair over our eyes a bit, and through my curls I could see the effect on my
two co-heads. Though quite different in the flesh, we all had a sort of
impersonal look about us, bimbo hair that half covered our faces, the faces
actually beginning at pig snouts and then all bottom lip; we were flesh, but
nearly not human looking in a way.
Even speaking would be a problem, though I doubted it permitted, and Madam Cloe
set that straight just before she left by sternly warning, "There are to be some
meetings today, and thus the need for the services of some sissies. I don't
know who has scheduled the room, nor is it my business. It certainly isn't
yours and anything you hear in here will not be processed in your tiny brains.
Understood?"
Three heads nodded as best the neck braces would allow.
"I'll call for the maximum punishment allowed for a new girl if any of you as
much as speaks a sentence prior to your release from this duty, or regarding the
subject of any meeting. The first lesson a maid must learn is to not listen in
on family or company conversations, so consider this instructive."
There it was again, another first lesson. Mistresses didn't need to be good at
counting, I understood.
"You do understand the punishment for any movement other than tongue, tonsils or
the common and non-communicative blink?"
We nodded, not knowing, but making horrible guesses.
"Oh yes, I'd forgotten. Six month confinement on a two foot chain with rations
of one can of dog food per day, that's for blatant insubordination, and of
course, Femworld does not make money on your labor if you are so confined; thus
it is frowned upon when a girl bothers us with the need to make you into a tax
write-off."
I swallowed hard, wondering what it meant to be a tax write-off and what kind of
wrath one might earn for being found in need of too much punishment?
"At the very least I'll have the leeway to see to a lesser offense of fifty
lashes with the cane if I deem you an intrusion into the meeting. That, of
course, is a week's healing and another profit missed by FemWorld. This is your
first assignment, and you've each not yet been properly punished for any
offenses, so I propose to make this very clear ... promptly. I'll demonstrate
one cane mark for each of you straightway, so that there is no confusion
regarding the seriousness with which we expect our slaves to undertake even such
a small thing as your current afternoon duty."
Slaves? It struck me that, that was exactly what we were; not the sexual fun
kind, but literally working at the disposal of others, and seemingly with
references that made it appear as if they intended to keep us thus endlessly.
She closed the door, taking the decent looking maid with her. Half a minute
passed. I saw the head opposite me jump at the same time as heard a wall
muffled smack. Through the sea of bimbo hairs I noticed his eyes staring fatly,
though not at anything in the room, it appeared. After his head recovered from
the jump, his face got red and his eyes involuntarily watered, leaving mascara
streaks down his face that I was hoping was not an infraction unto itself.
Then, next, the man situated down from me jumped, the smack preceding his jolt
more audible, but again muffled a lot by the thickness of our captive wall. He
grunted more than the man opposite, obviously using all of his strength to keep
from yelling out as tears also welled up inside of his eyes and eventually fell.
I could see him breathing hard and short, as if struggling against something
biting him from behind.
The anticipation was killing me as I tensed up. I heard no footsteps, the wall
too thick, but then felt a stick touch my buns twice before a withdrawal. I
clinched my nearly invisible dick and vulnerable asshole. A pause. Then a
swish and smack that at first burned and then secondly nearly had me hanging
from my neck as my body refused to hold me proper. I felt as if I was burning
up from the ass upward. The pain just hung there, numbing my spine, it taking
me half a minute to regain my knees properly enough to say I was holding myself
up again and not the wall doing all of the work.
I had no idea what that cane was, but it must have been thick bamboo, wet and
swing with a pair of experienced fists. I imagined my butt cheeks bleeding, but
after awhile I realized that I felt no dripping blood.
Fifty of those? Damn, I couldn't well see the room for the tears that welled up
on their own after just one. Some of the tears were dripping off of my jutting
chin. I'd moaned too, louder than the others, not realizing it until I heard
one of the men shush me as quietly as he could without breaking too much of the
required silence, though it sounded more like a huff the way he had to shush me
with an enforced open mouth.
Then it was silence, our eyes not quite drying all of the way. Maybe that was
part of the effect the meeting guests required; sad faces of utter torment. We
waited like deer heads on plaques; practicing being deer heads on plaques;
determined not to give the invisible Madam Cloe any reason to be nice enough to
not put us on two foot long chains and instead give us fifty strokes of pure
hell for forgetting for a moment that we were sad little bimbo deer heads on
plaques.
It was, obviously, a new type of humiliation to be a wall ornament, particularly
as we were to be so close to the table, figurines and at seated eye level as
well. My jaw and nose ached, but nothing compared to the feeling of that cane.
I determined, come hell itself, I'd not risk another of those.
