Amanda Stern
One link. One motherfucking link. That’s all it took. Just one link to ruin my life, to make me lose – well, not everything. Not quite anyway. Or not yet. But certainly any semblance of the life that I would have expected to lead. And any shred of control, self-respect, identity ...
The image in the mirror mocked me. It didn’t look like me, for one thing. Or at least not the man I remembered. And that serene expression, the one I’d so carefully learnt to cultivate, so at odds with how I felt inside. The corners of the mouth just waiting to twitch up into a compliant smile, to accept the next indignity, even welcome it. The eyes that should have been dulled with humiliation and loss, but instead sparkled like an imitation diamond. The smooth, flawless skin, all trace of blemish long gone. The curves, where no curves should have been.
Somewhere deep inside, a sob was trying to force its way out. But this was no time to weaken. Not with one last, brutal, winner-take-all contest to survive. Resolutely, my hand steadier than it had any right to be, I began to apply the mascara ...
*********************
The link had looked so innocuous. Well, maybe innocuous was the wrong word. I was on a porn site, after all. And the girls in the image did look young. I mean, very young. Certainly not 18.
But the three of them had looked so fresh and appealing in their skimpy, colourful tops and tight shorts. And so sexy in the way they were reaching for one another, the desire so palpable. And besides, they couldn’t be as young as they looked, surely? I mean, the website I’d happened across was freely available, it wasn’t as if I was on the dark net looking for kiddie porn or anything. They were just models that looked young, right?
And indeed they may have been. But the link was not innocuous, oh no. Because clicking on it, in a bid to whet my jaded appetite with an exciting lesbian scene, sent the screen of my laptop dark for a few seconds. And then the message appeared.
“You have been sanctioned by RAMS. Choose your punishment.”
I shook my head in irritation. I hated it when this kind of thing happened. You’d click a likely looking link and then get some kind of bullshit about infringing a law, or having your device locked. It was usually just a matter of closing the offending window. Or if worst came to worst, closing the browser and deleting any history.
Except this time I couldn’t do any of those things. Wherever on the screen I clicked, whatever key combination I used, the message remained. Cursing, I held the power button down to restart the machine.
The message disappeared and I grunted in satisfaction. But my relief was short-lived. Instead of turning itself off, the computer displayed in quick succession a series of graphic images. As one erotic scene replaced another, I realised I was looking at all of the porn clips I had viewed over the past few months. There were a lot of them.
I tried to halt the display, but nothing worked. Until finally the message reappeared. With one chilling addition:
“You have been sanctioned by RAMS. Choose your punishment, Mario.”
How the fuck did they know my name? A small knot of anxiety formed in my gut as I realised this might be serious. I had heard about computers being seized by hackers, using – what did they call it? Ransomware, that was it. If whoever was doing this knew my name, then they really must have control of the device. Or at least access to information on it.
But how was I supposed to choose? As if in response to the unspoken thought, a blinking cursor appeared at the bottom of the otherwise black screen.
I stared at it for a moment, then hesitantly typed “What do you mean?”
The response was instantaneous. “Choose. We can send a montage of all those horrible scenes you’ve been viewing to your lovely wife, Alicia. And your mother, Mrs Rigoni. Together with these clips, of course.”
This time the clips that rolled across the scene had a single subject. Me. They all showed me beating off to the porn I was watching, face contorted, hand pumping. Mostly in silence. But just occasionally my voice would be heard, calling out the name of some young hottie I was ogling, or moaning incoherently about her tits or her legs ...
You see, I’d always had a thing about porn. I stopped for a while after I got married, a union that really only happened because there was a baby on the way. (I came from a Catholic family where you were expected to do the honourable thing – to make up for the dishonourable thing you’d clearly just done.) But after a while I got bored of my staid little wife and our very prim lovemaking – which quickly had to be suspended anyway, as her stomach distended. So it was back to the porn – and the occasional whore as well, just to remind myself what a stud I was.
But clearly, someone had been watching. Controlling the camera and microphone on my own computer. For months. And I really didn’t want this evidence going to my wife and mother. It would be the end of my marriage, the end of any connection to my family – and the end of any hope of inheriting the tidy pile of wealth that my hard-working parents had accumulated.
So what was the alternative here? Again, somebody was reading my mind, because all of a sudden the screen said: “Or ...”
I looked at it for a minute, but nothing happened. “Or what?” I said out loud. The response was immediate. “Or you could pay a fine.”
Wait – were they listening to me right now? “A ... fine?” I asked, hesitantly. Again the answer came right away – so they could indeed hear me! “Pay $5,000 into this bank account, now. Copy and paste these details. You have ten minutes.” A set of numbers appeared on the screen.
“Five thousand!” I exclaimed indignantly. Nothing happened. I shook my head in bewilderment. The last statement hung there in front me. And then all of a sudden it said: “You have nine minutes.”
Cursing, I grabbed the mouse and copied the numbers. As I did so, the normal display returned. They – whoever they were – held all the aces here. I couldn’t afford those clips going to my nearest and dearest – whereas I could afford five grand. Just. I had no idea how I was going to explain what I’d spent the money on, but that problem could wait. Right now I was on the clock.
Working hurriedly, I accessed my savings account – the one I held jointly with my wife – and made the transfer as instructed. I was nervous, so I had to repeat a couple of steps, but I got it done in time.
Once again, the screen went black. Then another message appeared. As I read it, I groaned. “And now we control your accounts – all of them. You will do exactly what you are told, or we will empty those accounts of every last cent – and send the films to your family. Do you understand, Mario?”
“Yes”, I said sullenly, cursing my stupidity for accessing my accounts while someone else was watching. Although for all I knew, they already had that information and were just trying to make me feel bad. If so, it was certainly working. With a sick feeling in my stomach I waited for the next blow.
“To pay the rest of your fine, you will present yourself at the following address tomorrow morning at 10:20am precisely. Make a note of it.” The location given was in an industrial suburb on the fringes of the city. Hurriedly, I punched the details into my phone. “Come alone and on foot, bring nothing and nobody with you. Tell nobody where you are going. Do not be early and do not be late.” The screen went dead.
By the time I arrived at the appointed address the following morning I was not in a good state, either mentally or physically. I had sat slumped in the chair in front of my now totally inert computer for what seemed like hours, until Alicia arrived home from her visit to her sister. I made an excuse about not feeling well and went to bed early, but got very little sleep that night. At various points I was ready to go to the police, even fess up to my wife in the hope that she might forgive me. But in the end, fear and cowardice won out.
The place I was sent to turned out to be the back of a warehouse complex that ran the length of the street, surrounded by high walls. There was only one obvious way in, an open doorway. I looked around as I reached it, but there was nobody in sight. Steeling myself, I went through a doorway. A dimly lit corridor led to a featureless room. As I walked in, a burly-looking woman sitting behind a table flicked a glance up at me, then down to the papers in front of her.
“Mario Rigoni”, she said. It was a statement, not a question. She put a tick beside what I assumed was my name, then indicated a box on the floor beside the table. “Phone and wallet in there, then through the double doors.” She didn’t look up again.
Intimidated by her disinterest, I hesitated, but then did as I was told. The box, I saw, contained quite a few wallets and mobile phones. The double doors on the other side of the room opened into a large space that seemed, from the marks on the walls and floor, to have once contained machinery of some type, but was now empty of any fittings or furniture.
Dotted around the room, some standing, others sitting uncomfortably on the stone floor, were a dozen or so men. All seemed to be around my age, in their early to mid-twenties. They had glanced at me as the door opened, but most looked away in embarrassment as I returned their gaze.
“Find yourself a spot – and no talking.” The speaker was a guard, a tall young woman wearing what was clearly a uniform of sorts – heavy black boots, dark blue pants and a light blue shirt with the letters RAMS embroidered on a pocket. She carried a long black implement that I didn’t recognise, but was plainly a weapon of some sort. Her face might have been pretty – but not with the expression it currently bore, which was distinctly unfriendly. Her voice was low and plainly brooked no disobedience.
She shot a glance off to one side and I turned to see that she wasn’t alone. There was another guard – an even bigger blonde woman with a wicked scar curving across her face. This one made no attempt to speak but simply jerked her head, indicating that I should move away from the doorway. I did so and found a spot more or less equidistant from the other men nearby.
And so began a lengthy wait. The eerie silence in the room was punctuated every ten minutes or so by a new arrival, the room steadily filling up. Nobody made any attempt to speak. Most – myself included – surreptitiously looked around, but studiously avoided any eye contact. I could only assume that these others had committed something like the same “crime” I had – or perhaps something different, but enough at any rate to be blackmailed into coming here. The collective sense of shame and embarrassment in the room was palpable. There were even one or two sniffles.
Eventually, after a couple of hours in which I alternately stood and sat on my chosen spot, wondering if I dared ask about going to the toilet, the monotony was broken by an ear-splitting klaxon. I leapt to my feet, heart pounding, as all around me other men reacted to the sudden clamour. A harsh voice, distorted but still recognisably female, spoke over some kind of speaker system, instantly silencing the babble.
“All right, you pathetic creeps. You’ve each chosen not to be exposed for the perverts you are.” The tone was as scathing as the words, anger dripping from every syllable. “Well, you cowards will pay instead ... and then some more. And then more again. And more. Not until you wish you’d chosen the humiliation of having your families and your so-called loved ones knowing what you get up to. Because that will come soon enough. But until you’ve forgotten who you are and what you could have been if you’d had the courage to accept your misdeeds.”
The voice stopped, but echoes seemed to hang in the air. All around me, there was a stifling silence as, like me, the other men processed what we’d all just heard. It was hard to know what was worse, the vitriol or the promise of some lengthy but unspecified punishment. My innards seemed to twist in a knot at the thought that we were somehow going to be tortured.
But there was no time to dwell on that horrible thought, because the hateful voice was speaking again. “You can start by taking your clothes off – all of them. NOW!”
The whip crack in that last command was such that my hands went almost automatically to my belt buckle. But I caught myself and looked around, to see other men doing the same. Nobody seemed to be complying with the order, or at least not right away. But one man was not satisfied with such passive defiance.
“Fuck this!” Heads turned to look at the speaker, a tall, well-built young man with a shock of red hair. “I’m not going to stay here and be insulted, even by a bitch that controls my computer. No way is this fucking legal.”
He started to move towards the door, but was blocked by one of the guards. Moving with surprising speed for someone of her size, she lifted one hand towards his face. As he moved to block what he clearly thought was going to be a blow, she used her other hand to jab the long stick she was carrying into his groin. There was a blue flash and he collapsed in agony, a bubbling scream issuing from his gaping mouth.
The guard stepped back and resumed her watchful stance, her face impassive and bearing no sign of any exertion. The hidden voice sounded again.
“Well, wasn’t that fun? Anyone else want to see what Lucy can do with her magic wand? No? Didn’t think so. Now do as you’re told – clothes off!”
With the silence broken only by the moans of the injured rebel, we began to disrobe. As we did so, two more guards wheeled in a big rubbish skip. Those nearest it hesitated, but it only took a glare from one of the new arrivals to prompt them to toss their discarded clothes into the skip.
When I got down to my jocks, I stopped, and a few others did the same. But again, it only took a meaningful look from one of the guards and a slight raise of their electric prod to prompt this last item to be removed as well. Some of the nude figures were cupping their genitals, but I saw nothing to hide – not with seven inches uncut swinging between my legs. Even so, I was distinctly uneasy – a feeling only intensified when I saw a guard ripping the clothes off the unresisting and semi-conscious form of the man who’d tried to walk out.
When all the clothes were inside the skip, one of the guards poured some kind of liquid into the metal container, lit a match, then tossed it inside. We couldn’t see any immediate result, but we could hear the sound as the contents caught fire. Soon enough, an oily smoke was issuing from inside, and those nearby backed away.
“What the fuck are you -” The exclamation was broken off as the speaker, a short, dark-haired man who had the look of Greek origins, saw a guard take a step towards him. “Sorry, sorry”, he called out, backing away, hands up in apology. The guard shrugged as if disappointed, but took no further action.
“Line up at the far door”, instructed the unseen voice. I joined the crowd of naked men that shuffled awkwardly to the other side of the room, the stone floor cold under our fleet – all except the man who’d been assaulted, who was left to lie where he had fallen.
A door opened briefly, and the man at the front of the line was ushered through, but it closed behind him. A few minutes later, the process was repeated. As the rest of us waited patiently, nothing was said, but I knew we were all thinking the same thing – what in god’s name had we gotten ourselves into?
When it finally came time for me to go through the door, I was so anxious I was almost shaking. But whatever I was expecting – and my fertile imagination had conjured a lot of possibilities, trust me – the reality was different. I was escorted to a toilet and allowed to relieve my by now aching bladder, then taken to a shower. One of the other men was already waiting there, as naked as I was.
We were each handed a slightly rough sponge and a bottle of some kind of liquid soap and told to wash and scrub each other thoroughly. We should not come out until both of us were completely clean, everywhere. “And I do mean everywhere”, emphasised the guard. I opened my mouth to protest, but she tapped her stick meaningfully.
“Best to get on with it”, said the other man in a resigned tone. He was a small, lightly built guy with long brown hair. He went into the generously sized cubicle and turned on the water. I followed him in and closed the door. “Want to do me first?” he asked, without turning round. “Uh, sure”, I said, squeezing out several dollops of the liquid soap and beginning to lather his back.
I used the sponge to wipe off the foam and it quickly became apparent that this was no ordinary soap. It was not just getting dirt off my shower buddy’s skin, but his hair as well. “Shit”, I said, dropping the sponge. He whirled round to face me. “What is it?” he asked, his face anxious. I cursed and picked up the sponge, careful neither to look at or touch his genitals.
“Look”, I said, taking his arm, lathering it and then rubbing it with the sponge. He stared at the hairless patch. “Is that supposed to happen?” he asked, a note of panic in his voice. I rolled my eyes. “I imagine so, yes”, I said.
We both started as the guard banged on the shower door. “Enough chit-chat”, she said. “Shut up and get on with it!” The small man groaned and turned around, and I resumed work. When I had finished his back, arms and chest, I let him start on me. The foam seemed to make my skin hot, but it didn’t sting and there was no pain as the hair came off. There must, I thought, have been some kind of anaesthetic in the soap.
We next worked on each other’s legs, leaving the worst until last by tacit consent. But soon enough there was no help for it. I honestly didn’t know what was worse – having to handle my shower mate’s cock and balls as i soaped and rubbed into every crevice of his groin, or having him do the same for me. I felt sick having to touch another man in this way, and be touched by him. I had no problem with guys being gay – but I was strictly into girls, and always would be.
Finally, we were done, although not before being warned by the guard of the consequences if we had missed anything. So we gave each other the most careful of inspections, before rinsing both ourselves and the shower stall, which had accumulated an amazing amount of body hair. We stepped out and were given pink, fluffy towels by the guard, which just added to the insult – especially when she insisted on us throwing them into a basket when we were dry, rather than using them to cover ourselves.
It was weird. I had been naked for hours but hadn’t felt embarrassed. Annoyed, yes. Worried about the significance of being kept without clothes – for sure. But not embarrassed. I kept my body in decent shape and – if I said so myself – looked good. Yet the removal of my body hair changed everything. I didn’t feel colder – it was warm enough in the warehouse. But the air moved over my smooth skin in such a strange way. It seemed to magnify everything, to call attention to the clothes I didn’t have. I felt more ... exposed.
I didn’t have too much time to dwell on the sensation, however, because we were taken to a small waiting room. A plain-looking nurse in a crisp, white but decidedly unsexy outfit glanced at us incuriously and then gave us both a cup of what looked like milk to drink. I sipped it experimentally. It had an unpleasant tang, almost metallic. I opened my mouth to say something, but the guard’s expression was enough to make the protest die in my throat. Resigned, I drained the cup and did my best to ignore the taste.
We were directed to sit on a pair of chairs and the guard left us. Every few minutes the nurse glanced in our direction. She might have been checking to see that we were still there, but I also had the impression she was waiting for something. As the minutes passed, the room seemed to draw in on me and I felt my limbs become heavy. My eyelids began to droop and it took a lot of effort to stay awake.
Suddenly, the nurse was right in front of me – yet I hadn’t seen her move. Had I dropped off for a minute? “Lift your arm”, she instructed, her voice seeming to come from a long way away. I tried to do as I was told, but it was simply too hard. Nor could I move my head. This should have worried me, I knew, but I felt detached and unconcerned. When the nurse reached down to give my inner thigh what must have been a sharp pinch, I could barely feel it.
“Good”, she said in a matter-of-fact tone and left my field of vision. A few minutes later, I was vaguely aware of my shower companion being manhandled out of the room by a couple of guards, but I paid little heed. Even when it was my turn, I felt no curiosity about where I was being taken. The trip proved to be a short one. I was hauled into some kind of sick bay and lowered into an operating chair. My legs were splayed wide and clamped into place. The back of the seat reclined, leaving my genitals totally exposed.
What I took to be a doctor, somewhere in her 40s, I would guess, appeared in front of me with a long needle. She bent down and injected it into my groin. Again, I could only just feel it. She left me for a while, then came back with a collection of surgical instruments and some devices I didn’t recognise. With the assistance of the nurse, she began her work.
As she did so, she kept up a running commentary, evidently wanting me to understand exactly what was being done to me. I heard the words, but at the time didn’t really process them in my zoned-out state. It was only later that the full horror of what she was saying sank in. Had I realised at the time what was happening, I would have fought like a tiger to escape. But of course that was why they had drugged me ...
“All right then”, the doctor said in a crisp, matter-of-fact tone, “we’re going to do some remodelling. Nothing permanent, well, not yet anyway. But this equipment of yours needs to be tidied out of the way. So we’ll start by just pushing your testicles back where they came from – up into the inguinal canal. Like ... that.”
As she said this I could dimly feel her pressing my balls up inside me, somehow. There was no pain, but it felt slightly weird.
“Now”, she continued, “I’m just going to fix a little clip in place, to stop them descending again. Like ... so. It won’t do them any harm to be tucked away like that. Well, not for a while anyway ... I’d, um, advise against trying to remove the clip to release them. Not unless you want do some permanent damage. Save us the trouble, so to speak.” She gave an unpleasant laugh.
“Okay, that’s the easy part done. Now for this monstrosity.” As she said this, she grabbed my flaccid cock. “Personally, I’d just cut the wretched thing off. But apparently that would be going too far. So, we’ll need to tuck it away between your legs. There. And we’ll just ... tape it in place.”
Again, the feeling was muted, but I was aware of my member being pulled hack between my legs towards my bottom and firmly fastened down. “Again”, said the doctor, “I wouldn’t try pulling the tape off. We use a special adhesive that fixes it to your skin, so unless you want to flay yourself” – she gave a little shiver, though whether of horror or delight, I really couldn’t tell – “I’d leave well alone. We’ll have you in for a medical every week to check and re-fasten it. But we use a special chemical to dissolve the adhesive that I’m afraid you don’t have.” Again, she gave a grim little chuckle.
“Now, time for me to earn my money. I’m really rather proud of this little device, tell you the truth.” She brandished something small and shiny, too fast for me to make out any details. Putting it down again she picked up a sharp looking instrument and began to make an incision in the underside of my trapped member, though mercifully I couldn’t see the cut.
“So what I’m doing”, she said conversationally, as if we were sharing a drink at the end of a long day, “is boring a hole into your urethra. I’m going to install a regulator there, which will both divert and control the flow of urine. That’s the device I just showed you. Very smart indeed. I mean it has to be, otherwise, well, you don’t want to even think about the consequences of a blowback into your bladder. Plus it has other uses ...”
She was silent for a few minutes. This was evidently a tricky part that demanded her full attention. But eventually she resumed her macabre commentary.
“So from now on, when you pee, it won’t come out of the end of your penis. That would be far too messy. Instead, it’ll run through the regulator, down the plastic tube I’ve installed and out through this little nozzle. Which means two things. You’ll need to sit down to take a piss. And it won’t be quick – it’ll basically dribble out. So you’ll have plenty of time to reflect on the fact that you’re, well, sitting down to take a piss.”
The unpleasant laugh was back. “Now, I suppose you know what else the urethra is for?” She glanced up at me. I looked back at her, my face slack and devoid of any expression. “No? Well it carries semen as well. Not that you’re going to be producing much of that! Not with the drugs we’re giving you. And in case you’re wondering, you won’t be getting hard either. Just as well, because taped down like that ... well, let’s just say it would be painful. Agonising, actually.”
She straightened up and gave a satisfied nod. “There, all done. And a very neat job, if I do say so myself. Okay, he can go to recovery.” This was to the nurse, who disappeared from view and returned a few seconds later with the guards who had brought me in.
I was hauled, unresisting, into a room with around ten beds, some of them occupied with reclining naked figures. The guards took me to one of the empty beds and laid me out on it. I was dimly aware of a click as something was fastened to my wrist, before drifting off into sleep.
Sometime later – I had no idea how long – I surfaced from unconsciousness. As the fog slowly cleared from my brain, recollection flooded in. I remembered where I was and what had been done to me. I let out an inarticulate shriek and leapt off the bed. Or rather I tried to do those things, but failed. My mouth was covered by some sort of tape, so that all that issued from it was a muffled moan. And my right hand was shackled to the frame of the bed by a handcuff.
Looking around, I saw that all the beds were now occupied. Many of my fellow prisoners were sitting up, but some were clearly still out cold. Everyone else seemed to be handcuffed and gagged in the same way. Nobody was making eye contact.
I thought about using my free hand to rip the tape off my mouth, but then wondered how much damage that might do. Cursing inwardly, I manoeuvred myself into an upright position on the bed and turned my attention to my groin.
It was a shock to look down and see nothing there. No hairs, no cock and balls, nothing. There was just ... a crease. A slightly raised crease, but a crease all the same. Probing it with my free hand, I could feel the edges of the clear tape that covered what I knew to be my member, but there was nothing visible to suggest that I had genitals at all, at least from this angle. And my testicles had vanished altogether.
Pushing my hand further between my legs I discovered a flat patch of hard plastic that felt different to the tape. This must be the outlet for the tube that had been inserted into the side – or now the underneath – of my cock. I felt my stomach twist at the thought. To be kidnapped, drugged and operated on in this bizarre manner – what the hell did it all mean? What else was going to happen to me? And more importantly, what on earth was I going to do about it?
For the next hour or so I was left to ponder variations of these thoughts. From time to time, there would be movement and muffled sounds around me as other men woke up. I had no doubt that all had suffered the same fate as me.
Without warning, the same unseen voice that had spoken to us so venomously earlier broke the silence. “All right, you’ve had enough time to get over your little procedure. I’m sure you all agree you look so much better without those things dangling between your legs. Or you will agree ... eventually.”
The quality of the speakers in this room was much better and we could hear more clearly that the voice was that of a youngish woman. The vitriol we had heard earlier had been replaced by an amused contempt. But the tone hardened as she went on.
“In a minute, the guards are going to come and take off your handcuffs and the tape on your mouths. But there’s one thing we need to get clear right away. There will be no resistance, no attempts at escape, not even a complaint. Because we control you. Not just your computers, your bank accounts, your money – all of which now belong to the women you’ve each wronged, by the way. As far as they’re concerned, you’ve either died, or run away. None of them are going to come looking for you.”
There was a stir in the room as we each took this in. The funny thing was, I didn’t doubt it for a minute. The voice had a compelling ring of truth – and besides, given everything that had already happened, it was easy to believe the worst.
“But what you really need to focus on is that we control your bodies. We own you.” The word “own” seemed to echo around the otherwise silent room.
“We are going to change the way you look, the way you act, the way you walk and talk – everything. We’re going to take away the thing you most cherish – your manhood. We’re going to turn you into the kind of woman that you’ve fucked or slavered over since you were old enough to get a hard-on.
“And you’re going to let us do that. Why? Because we’re going to give one of you the chance to get your manhood back ... just one of you. You’ll find out more about that in the days to come. It will be the prospect that keeps you going, the chance of salvation. Of course, there’s also another reason you’ll do what you’re told. Because we can do this.”
A sudden blossom of pain from inside my trapped cock made me stiffen and I would have squealed if the tape had not so firmly held my mouth shut. The flare of agony was brief but intense.
“That”, said the voice, “was just a taste of what that little device we’ve put in you can do. Disobey an order – you get zapped. Try to get away – you get zapped. Same if you try to remove the device itself – it will detect that automatically. And don’t even think about assaulting or even talking back to any of our staff. Nor will you talk to one another. Am I clear?” There was a mixture of reluctant and emphatic nods from around the room.
A door opened and a couple of guards entered. As they sauntered around the room unlocking handcuffs and ripping tape off mouths – it seemed I could have done it myself after all – I wondered vaguely at the prospect of trying to band together with the others, create a distraction and then escape. But everyone seemed too shell-shocked by what they had heard and felt to be in the mood for a rebellion.
When everyone was free, one of the guards got a large plastic bag full of bright pink clothing and upended it in the middle of floor. “This is your nightwear – choose something and put it on”, announced our invisible tormentor.
Warily, I approached the pile and inspected it dubiously. The items on the floor seemed to be a mixture of pink satin pyjamas and short, lacy nightgowns – “baby dolls”, I think they were called. Most of the pyjamas had already been taken by the time I got there. I reached out for the last pair, but then hesitated. I had a feeling that might not be a good choice. Letting one of the others take the pyjamas, I picked up a nightie instead. I noticed it had “Stacey” picked out in a bright red thread across the middle of the front.
With a shudder of distaste I put it over my head, slipping my arms through the armholes and pulling the thin straps up over my shoulders. The translucent fabric barely covered my bottom, though mercifully it was just long enough to obscure the strangely featureless place between my legs. The sheer fabric felt strange against my hairless torso.
The hidden voice chuckled. “Those of you who chose the nightdresses, or were too slow to grab the pyjamas, congratulations – you get to sleep in a bed tonight. The rest of you will have to make do with the floor. And take this as a lesson – your choices matter here. Now stand by until you’re escorted to your rooms. I’ll talk to you again in the morning.” There was a click as the PA went off.
After waiting a few minutes, I was escorted to a small chamber. There was a single bed, a wardrobe and chest of drawers (both currently empty), a dressing table and a stiff-backed chair. One wall was dominated by a flat TV screen, but there was no indication of how to turn it on or control it.
In one corner of the bedroom, there was an enclosed cubicle. The guard who had escorted me gestured towards it and said “There’s a toilet in there. Say your name and it’ll open.” She stalked to the door and left without a further word.
I went to the door and tested it. To my complete lack of surprise, it was locked. Then, realising my bladder was feeling full, I went to the cubicle. Just below eye level, on the otherwise featureless white front, there was a small grille. “Mario”, I said, leaning in to the grille. “Mario Rigoni.” Nothing happened. I tried again, with the same result. I pushed against the front, but there was no hint of movement.
Something made me look down at the name on the front of my nightdress. “Stacey”, I said, sighing heavily. Again, nothing happened. Frowning, I repeated the name, this time in a higher tone of voice. With a click, the door sprang open.
I walked in and reached down automatically to lift the toilet seat up. But it wouldn’t lift – and besides, I didn’t have my usual equipment, at least for now, Cursing, I sat down on it instead, carefully lifting the nightie out of the way.
It was the strangest pee I could remember. There was none of the gushing flow that I usually experienced, just a steady drip of liquid that fell into the toilet through the new outlet on my cock. As I waited what seemed like minutes for it to stop, I wondered what else this dreadful place might still have in store for me ...
Not bad if i do say so myself
ReplyDelete