The Handboy's Tale Ch. 01

While masturbating and fantasizing about female domination and tease and denial I found myself conjuring up situations that would call for the most extensive and merciless orgasm control imaginable. It was surprisingly difficult to come up with scenarios that were both sustainable and, if not believable -- and let's face it, what scenario in which a woman plays with a guy's dick for hours on end is actually believable? --, at least internally consistent and logical.

Then I hit on it. What if all those right-wingers were on to something, and legions of "feminazis" and left-wing academics really _did_ have a secret plan to subjugate all of male-kind along with the means to execute said plan? What if the bill for all those years of male-domination and oppression finally came due? What follows is simply the twisted but inevitable outcome of that diabolic plan. Call it a Fox News junkie's worst nightmare.

So this is Science Fiction -- Speculative Fiction for you literary types, and you know who you are -- but it's probably not up to Ms. Atwood's standards, or Mr. Orwell's. Really, it's mostly good old-fashioned BDSM.

I'm not sure know how Ms. PadmaBear would feel about living in this dystopian paradise (she certainly seems to be enjoying teasing and denying me, but that's a different story) but I know I'd enjoy every minute.

Or would I?

-Mr. PadmaBear

_____

They brought him into a bright, long room. Like a ward room, he realized, with reluctant relief. Not a cell. The whole place felt more like a hospital than a prison. The room contained a series of bays separated by thin divider drapes. The low burnt-orange fall noon sunlight was filtering through the divided panes of a single window far at the end, all but conquered by the harsh cool artificial light familiar to all institutions.

Dr. Pincer looked at him, holding his eye for a minute, letting him know who was in charge. A slight smile curled on her lips, showing disdain and mild malice; but something more than that -- idle curiosity? He was struck with a sudden insight: this woman liked her job. Really liked her job. The insight didn't bring him any comfort.

"This.. she gestured along the room ..will be your new home."

She walked down to the second partition and pointed into the space between the dividers.

"More precisely, you will be spending the vast majority of your time right here."

As he walked with his minders toward where she was standing and could see where she was pointing, his sense of relief evaporated. In the little space, surrounded by three curtains, was nothing but a small stainless steel table, two uncomfortable looking stacking chairs, and a bed.

It was more like a cot really. A tall skinny platform made of steel, with strong stabilizing feet. On top of that was a mattress covered with a closely fitted aqua-colored sheet. Laying across the the mattress were a series of wide belts. Looking closer, he noticed small buckled loops lined with a soft material, hanging from the base and sides of the bed. What the hell was going on here? He felt a dryness in his throat.

The director locked eyes with him, and this time he was certain that he saw her cruel smile also held a trace of amusement.

"I see you've noticed our restraints. We find that they are... necessary."

"But, but... I'm not crazy! I'm not violent! They told me they were sending me here for social rehabilitation."

"Silence!!"

The force and intensity of her scream startled him. He felt more than heard it -- the shrillness of it running up his spine. The dryness in his throat opened to the bitter taste of bile.

Then she smiled, and let him see that she was not without some trace of human sympathy.

"I appear to have your complete attention. Ms. Fordham, whom you will meet later, will fill you in on the rest of the rules here -- as you can imagine, they are quite extensive. And we will exercise some patience with you as you learn -- the ropes, so to speak. But there are two very basic rules here. Rules that you violate at your extreme peril."

"The first is that you are to obey our staff without question. The second is that you are not to speak to myself or any of the senior staff here without having being asked a direct question. You can identify the senior staff by our uniforms. And, we carry these."

She grasped a wand at her hip, pulling it out of a holster attached to a leather belt around her waist. She walked over to where he was standing, between his two minders, a pair of largish women wearing grayish hospital scrubs.

She looked at him again, thrusting the wand at his belly. She watched his face for a moment.

She made a slight movement with her fingers on the wand. Without any warning he felt an enveloping electric vibration deep at the root of his pelvis. For the first fraction of a second the sensation was almost pleasant. And then, it wasn't. The vibration moved outward through his lower body. As it hit his balls, they felt as though they were being softly stroked and simultaneously squeezed. Hard. He felt like he'd been kicked, but worse. He wrapped his arms around his stomach, doubling over, feeling the bile turning to vomit and rushing up his throat.

Then it stopped as quickly as it started. Amazingly, he felt no lingering effect from the sudden assault.

"That", she said, "was level two. This little device has six higher levels of intensity."

Her face gained a trace of sympathy again.

"We don't like to use it. The social order we preserve is above all else humane and committed to the principles of non-violent participatory consensus building. We'd rather rely on more subtle and effective treatments. But you must also know that we weld absolute control here, and that there are absolute limits to our tolerance of disobedience. In fact, as our beloved Big Sister has said, 'Obedience _is_ Tolerance'."

"Now", she said, turning her gaze to the bed. "I think it's time to introduce you to your new quarters."

She glanced over to the two assistants, still standing to either side of him.

"I'll leave you two to it. I'm sure you'll call me if you need me. But," she said with a trace of satisfaction, "I'm sure that you won't."

With that, she strode out of the ward room, the sound of her narrow heels pinging off of the polished tile floor and echoing against the hard plaster walls.

The two women looked at him. They had a rough, non-nonsense demeanor and while their faces were not unfriendly, they conveyed a kind of ambivalent contempt -- projecting an air of boredom, but underneath that he sensed a wry enjoyment of their roles. Jonah had learned to be observant, and also to keep his observations to himself. A vague intuition ran across his mind.

Both women had spiky close cropped hair, and round, pasty faces. While not really overweight they were certainly stout. And they carried a certain swagger. They looked exactly like the women he saw at the "Bull Dyke" club he passed on his way to the college downtown. The BD's were one of the most prominent political clubs in town, and he was used to the dismissive hoots and catcalls he'd have directed at him as he hurried, head down, past its doors. "Hey boy, how'd you like to come over here and lick my big furry twat?"

The idea of having that kind of woman as master of his fate sent shivers down his spine. Not the good kind.

The taller of the dyke twins spoke.

"Alright, honey, let's get you set up here. You don't want to make us late for our lunch break, do you?"

He hesitated slightly. She pointed to the bed.

"Well go on then, get up there."

The bed was higher than normal, coming to about belly height on him. He swung himself up on to it, legs dangling over the side.

She pulled the belts off the bed.

"We won't be needing these I don't think. Not yet. Come on then, lie down."

He lay face up on the bed, and she scooted a soft pillow under his head.

"Comfy?"

"Um, yeah."

"Arms up then, hon."

He held his arms up, and each woman placing a restraint around his wrist and tightening it around his wrist. They weren't at all uncomfortable, he realized with some kind of relief. Then they cinched the restraints up to hold his arms closely at his side.

Coming around to the base of the bed, they placed his foot through the other set of restraints and again cinched them, but not so tight that he couldn't move his hips and legs around to find a comfortable position on the bed.

"That's that then."

She looked at him with some satisfaction, then glanced down at his midsection.

He was wearing the scrubs they'd had him change into when he came through prisoner booking. Lifting his head and looking down, he could see to his surprise and mortification that his male member was pushing the thin fabric of the loose fitting pants straight up into a triangular tent shape.

"Look at that. You're already pulling a boner. They told us you were a live one."

She turned to her companion.

"Ho' boy." Shaking her head. "If this guy knew what was in store for him here. I can't help wanting to mess with him a bit. What do you say, Becky?"

"Sure, what the hell, Katy? It's falafel day at the caff; I'm not in any particular hurry to get down there."

"Well then. Let's see what kind of a pervert we're dealing with here."

She untied the loose knot that held the bottom of his scrubs closed.

"Okay, raise that little ass of yours up a bit there, doll."

As Jonah did so, she yanked the loose pants down to his knees. He felt humiliated. Completely humiliated. But it got worse.

"Look at that, Katy. His is erection is actually growing!"

Becky looked him in the eyes.

"We turning you on, Jonah? Are we making your penis all excited?"

"No, no, I can't help it. That's all."

"What! You don't find us attractive?"

"No, that's not what I mean either, I just.."

"Ah, I'm just fucking with you. I don't actually care whether you want to fuck me or not. In fact, the thought just pisses me off. And you don't want to piss me off."

She gave his erect member a playful stinging-hard smack.

"No, what your boner means to me is that you are one of those boys who are simply unable to control themselves, and crave stimulation of any kind, without regard to morality or self-respect."

"But, after all," she paused meaningfully, "that's why you're here, isn't it?"

"Yes, dear sister."

"And judging by the state of your equipment, I'd say you're going to stay here for a long time."

She paused, pretending to muse.

"Would you like me to touch it?"

"Touch it? My penis, you mean?"

"No dumbshit, your nose. And it's not a penis, it's a cock. Do you want me to touch it?"

She put her hand out toward him.

"Ah, no, I mean that's okay. I hope it isn't offending you.."

She grasped his cock in her fist and squeezed it. Squeezed it hard.

"Bullshit! Don't hand me that 'I'm just a nice well-trained socially adapted man-servant' routine. I know what you really need."

Oh fuck. He felt his entire focus drop down between his legs. Felt his ball-sack tighten, felt that desperate need returning to his loins.

She began pumping her hand up and down on his shaft, in a rough, deliberately mechanical parody of a handjob.

"Sorry baby, I'm not used to doing this. I'm afraid I'm not very good at."

She pulled at his cock some more.

"You know, I don't have any sexual interest in you at all, right? And yet you're getting off on me rubbing your cock. You'd like me to keep rubbing your cock, wouldn't you?"

"Yes. Yes I would, dear sister."

"What shallow little creatures all of you so-called men are. You'd trade anything just to get your cock handled a little bit more, wouldn't you?"

She increased the rate of pumping, but now varying the intensity and throwing in little awkward half-jerks and pauses. Sometimes she'd stop momentarily in mid-stroke for no reason at all, and then start back up with the yanking just as suddenly.

She couldn't possibly be this clueless; she must be screwing it up deliberately.

"How's that, honey? Do you like having a pretty young thing like me beating your meat? Makes a nice change, don't it?"

He knew better than to provide any kind of critique of her technique or ask for any adjustment.

"Yes, yes, I do. Thank you, thank you."

"I guess we don't need any lubrication. Your cock seems to be providing plenty of it's own. A bit gross, really, wouldn't you say, Katy?"

"Definitely, Becky. Why can't these boys keep their disgusting secretions inside their pathetic external organs until they're asked for it?"

The truth is that he did need lubrication. Her callous and calloused hands were rubbing him raw everywhere his pre-cum had not been spread. But he knew better than to complain.

And as she kept at it, even through the discomfort he began to feel his orgasm approaching. The orgasm he needed so badly, the orgasm that had been wrenched so dramatically from his hands two days ago. That terrible day when he had been discovered. He thought back to the shame of that moment. How close he had been, and then how suddenly the intense pleasure of an inevitable release had been replaced with sheer terror.

As if sensing his thoughts, her hand stopped suddenly. She held it there for a moment, and then let it go.

"Well," she said, "how was that? I bet you would like me to keep going, wouldn't you?"

"Oh please. Yes please!!"

She appeared to be considering something. Then she patted her partner on the shoulder and they walked out of earshot. The appeared to be conferring over something.

While Jonah waited there, frozen in a state of extreme arousal and frustration, his mind returned to the events immediately preceding that terrible night. The night when the roof seemed to cave in around him.

He'd come home from college, thinking about her. The woman in his Multi-Cultural Relations class. Amber.

The class was a rarity; an experiment in co-education instituted by the Gender Reform Party. He'd subtly maneuvered to get into that class, felt lucky to be selected. And just being that close to a woman -- any woman -- his age was enough. But this woman. She wore knee length flowing skirts and smelled of lilac. She acknowledged his presence. She had even graced him with her smile a few times. Sweet open-hearted smiles that seemed somehow to offer him the world. Smiles that to his great shame made his penis swell whenever he thought about them.

He knew that a misdirected gaze alone could signal an incipient borderline Sociosexual Oppresive Personality Disorder, but he had been extremely careful to never look at anything but her face whenever there was a chance that anyone might see. But he had occasionally stolen glances at her backside and even her chest. He just couldn't help himself.

As he'd been taught in the Refigured Catholic catechism, he knew that simply peering at a woman in an inappropriate way was an act of sexual aggression; and that if those looks were biased toward more conventionally attractive women could lead to the SexuSocial crime of Lookism. As awful as the discovery of his surreptitious gaze would be, a first offense would have been treated with compassion and mercy. Probably a dozen "Rehabilitation of Reactionary Males" group counseling sessions and the denial of one or two months of the blessed communal sacrament. But the worst part would have been the public shame -- he'd be excluded from co-ed classes, forced to wear a sign identifying him as a Gaze-Oppressor, and the subject of constant suspicion from every woman he encountered. Many of them testing him -- actively daring him to look where he shouldn't.

And then he thought of how Amber would react. She'd hate him. He'd never feel the warmth of her smile again.

But his crime was far worse than that simple offense. After class, alone in the small group house he shared with three other students, he brought Amber to mind again. He would think about the soft curves of her bottom glimpsed through the gauzy material of her skirt. He'd remember how on occasion he could make out the faint outline her underclothes beneath. He'd think about the two round perky bumps on her chest.

And then he would touch himself.

With that simple action, he had descended into the depths of depravity. There was a word for what he had become, what he now was. The worst insult that anyone could ever utter. A word that wasn't used in polite company. He was a... handboy.

It had first happened when he was undressing for bed. He'd brushed his hand against his penis. It had sent a shiver through him then. It still did. And it always led to the same thing.

Now he did it almost every night he could. He'd always start with the best intentions. Promising himself he wouldn't do it. That he wouldn't give in, not this time.

And then he'd put his fist around the shaft of his penis, telling himself that he was just dissipating some of the constant nagging tension he felt. But then, slowly, he'd begin to move his foreskin against the head of his cock. It felt so amazing, better than any other pleasure he'd felt in his life. How, he reasoned, could something that felt so good be so wrong? He knew that was the logic of the oppressor speaking, but he couldn't help himself.

And once he started, he kept going. He'd lie down on his bed and begin to rub himself rhythmically. Just as the Glorious Milker of Peace did each month at the climax of Sacred Communion. But now he was in control. He set the pace.

And for once, lying there, he'd been able to free himself of that constant aching need. He'd lie there and rub himself for hours, not being able to force himself to stop. For he knew that when he did stop, that nagging ache would be back, greater than before.

He knew that this was the precise reason that the SocioSexual counselors warned males over and over not to indulge their basest, sickest cravings. The only release they'd said time and time again, could take place under the benevolent gaze of Big Sister, during that communion she so generously offered once a month. Touching yourself at other times would only lead to inevitable descent and the worst crime of all -- Premeditated Unsupervised Orgasm.

He'd told himself that that would never happen to him. That he was in control of his desires. That he was strong enough to hold out. That he could enjoy the glorious feeling masturbation brought him without letting it dominate him.

But then -- it had only been two days ago, but it felt like forever -- Amber had worn a new skirt to class. A skirt that was shorter than usual, falling to her mid-thigh, seeming to dance and float loosely around her upper legs.

They were in a group discussion circle. She had smiled at him again, this time more openly, less shyly. And when all of the other students had turned to watch yet another social doctrine vid, he had looked over at her briefly. Down between her daintily spread legs he'd caught sight of something he shouldn't have. For the first time in his life he had seen the inside clothes of a woman.

That night he had obsessed about what might lie inside those inner clothes -- "panties", is that what they called them? -- whatever, the vision of the dark space between her legs and the light triangle of fabric within mesmerized him.

And at that point, he knew he would cross the line. That he would commit the ultimate crime. Knowing that he would do it made him feel wrong, but also freed something in him. He felt a hidden power that he never knew he had before. The power to control his own cock, and the potential to put it in a woman's pussy whenever he wanted. Oh dear-sister-of-divine-coitus, he knew it was wrong, but then why did it feel so right?

It was quiet. No one else was home. His roommates were off watching the Roller-Derby playoffs at the community center.