EYES ON THE PRIZE – CHAPTER TWO

Amanda Stern

“Dinner time!” The false jollity of the announcement cut through the morose swirl of my thoughts. For the past few hours I had been lying on the bed in what was indisputably my prison cell, reflecting on my fate.

I had been lured to a warehouse on the edge of town, under threat not just of having my porn-viewing habits revealed to my wife and mother, but of financial ruination. And now I was trapped here, by what appeared to be a maniacal group of women. They had stripped me of my clothes and then my body hair, taped up my cock and forced me to pee through a hole in the side – and made it clear that I was to be a transformed into a woman. They’d even given me a girl’s name – Stacey.

No doubt there were guys who’d be delighted with all that. For all I knew, some of the thirty-odd men who were stuck here with me fell into that category. But I was not one of those sissies. I was a man, and very much wanted and intended to stay that way. The question was – how?

The hateful voice we had heard twice so far had said that one of us would have the chance to keep our manhood. That suggested some kind of competition – and I really didn’t want to think too much about what that might involve. The alternative would be to organise an escape. But my captors seemed to hold all the aces – especially with the same device that was now regulating the flow of my urine being able to deliver jolts of pain if I stepped out of line.

So while I would keep an eye out for any opportunity to get away, I might also have to cooperate in the meantime – or at least give every impression of doing so.

Still, if there was one silver lining in the gloom, at least we were going to be fed. I had been worried they might leave us to starve, until that announcement. I looked expectantly at the door, assuming that it would open to reveal a guard with a tray, or perhaps a summons to a dining room.

But what happened instead was that a hole opened up in the door, at perhaps waist level. And through it came ... a man’s cock. A big, erect cock. I stared at it incredulously and then got up off the bed to take a closer look. As I drew nearer, I could see that it was plastic rather than real, though it was sculpted in a fairly lifelike fashion.

Shaking my head, I backed away, only to be pulled up by the voice issuing from the speakers in the ceiling of the room. “Now then Stacey, no need to run away!”

Reflexively, I looked around for the camera that must be there. The voice chuckled. “Yes, we can see you. There’s nowhere in this facility that we can’t – so you might as well get used to it ... Stacey.” The emphasis on the feminine name made me flush, but I stayed quiet. No need to provoke them – whoever they were.

“All right Stacey, it’s time to be a good girl and eat your dinner. Or rather, be a bad girl. Because you see, that device is your feeder. It will serve you a protein drink, which will give you all the nutrition you need. It’s the only food you’ll get here … But you have to earn it. And the only way to do that is to behave just like those sluts you used to love watching on your computer – or the whores you used to visit, without telling your wife. I’m sure you can figure it out.”

Aghast, I stared at the “feeder”. No way was I sucking on that! I opened my mouth to say something, then shut it again, worried about being punished. But still – I had to ask. “And if I refuse?” My voice sounded tremulous rather than defiant.

The unseen woman chuckled. “Then you’ll go hungry. And tomorrow there will be ... consequences. But for this first night at least, we’ll let you choose.”

So – I could opt for hunger and an unspecified punishment ... or I could get down on my knees and suck a plastic dick. It was all I could do not to howl in frustration. But I’d already decided – I was going to cooperate, at least until I saw the chance to get away.

With a groan, I walked back to the door and sank to my knees. I hesitated, fully aware of the implications of submitting to this humiliation, then tentatively brought my mouth to the feeder. As I did so, I caught a whiff of a rank smell that nearly caused me to gag. It was like a distilled essence of the kind of sweaty male stink you get in the changing room at a gym, only much more pungent. I reared back, but then steeled myself to approach the fake cock again, trying not to breathe through my nose.

Opening my mouth uncomfortably wide to accommodate the object’s considerable girth, I wrapped my lips around it and slid down the shaft, taking it into my mouth. As my tongue came into contact with the bulbous head, I was aware of a rancid taste.

This was truly disgusting. It was not enough to give us a cock-shaped feeder, they’d put chemicals on it to make it smell and taste like the real thing – or so I assumed. But I persisted, pushing the filthy object in further until I could feel the head starting to go down the back of my throat. Any more and I would choke.

Now what? Could just squeeze it to get the food? I tried that, but to my complete lack of surprise, nothing happened. The voice had make it clear enough what I would need to do to get fed. Hot with shame, and ignoring the nausea in my belly, I began to suck the plastic dick. At least no one could see me ... well, none of the other prisoners anyway.

I tried to get into a steady rhythm, doing my best to apply as much suction as possible to the head in particular. My best guess was that I would need to fellate it in the same way as a real cock, so I did my imperfect best to copy what I’d seen girls do on film or, on a few delicious occasions, to my own member.

After ten minutes or so, my jaw was aching from the strain of holding my mouth open so wide. I was just beginning to wonder whether this might not be an elaborate practical joke, when the feeder began to glow with a dull light. I increased my pace and was rewarded by the glow intensifying . After another couple of minutes the light began to pulse, first slowly, then gradually gaining in frequency.

And then, all of a sudden, the artificial cock was spitting gobs of creamy liquid into my mouth. Most of it went straight down my throat, but the rest lay heavily in my mouth, the taste salty but not entirely unpleasant. I gulped it down, feeling my stomach fill up far more quickly than the bare volume alone would suggest. Once again suppressing my revulsion, I sucked and licked the head until It was clean.

I opened my mouth, and as I did so the feeder smoothly retracted, its entry hole closing behind it. Shaking my head in disgust and amazement, but somehow feeling like I’d eaten all I needed to, I went back to my bed to lie down. But I had little time to reflect on the bizarre way I had been fed, as the television screen on my wall came to life.

For the next few hours a single video played, on a loop. It took about 25 minutes and showed a young man very quickly and skilfully putting on makeup. A voiceover explained each step in the process. The transformation was incredible, especially after adding a wig at the end. The whole look and shape of the man’s face changed and the end result was a very hot looking girl – or at least, “she” would have been hot, if I hadn’t known “she” was a he.

The first time the video ran, I watched with a sort of horrified fascination. When it repeated, I tuned out and did my best to ignore it. I assumed that this was just a way of trying to rub in what was going to be done to us. But when the third loop began, it occurred to me that maybe we were supposed to be paying attention and taking notes – mental notes, anyway. So I started to make an effort to follow what was happening. After a few times through I had the elaborate sequence of powders, creams and paint more or less memorised, though I had no idea how I would go if I had to try it myself.

Eventually, the video ended without restarting and the lights in the room began to gradually get dimmer. I took this to be a sign that I was supposed to go to bed. I went to the cubicle and gave my new female name in a high voice, to gain admittance to the toilet. By the time I had spent what seemed like half an hour letting the pee dribble out of me, through the plastic nozzle that had been inserted into my now-invisible cock, the room was almost dark.

Lying on the bed, I was conscious of the ridiculous pink babydoll nightie brushing softly against my bare skin, and the strangely constricted feeling in my groin. I kept reaching down between my legs, feeling the lump where my cock was strapped down and searching in vain for the balls that had been pushed up inside me. I badly wanted to liberate them – but I’d been told clearly enough how much damage I would do if I tried to pull them free.

And then there was the trepidation for what might happen in the morning. If this much had been done to me in just one day, how much more was going to happen tomorrow – and how much longer was I going to be here?

With all this running through my head, I had no expectation of sleep. Yet somehow I fell into a fitful doze that lasted until an alarm bell roused me. I wanted to huddle in bed, but that didn’t seem like a good plan. After sitting down on the toilet for what seemed like an age, I emerged from the cubicle to find a message for me on the screen: “Breakfast, get dressed, then makeup. You have one hour and four minutes.” A clock started counting down.

I glanced at the door. Sure enough, there was another feeder there. Sighing, I went to it and repeated the “stimulation” I had given it the night before (I refused to think of it as cocksucking). Either the settings had changed or my technique had improved, because it seemed to give up its load a little quicker this time. Once again, the creamy liquid seemed to sate my hunger.

When I checked the wardrobe, I found that clothes had appeared, though from where I wasn’t sure. “Clothes” though was perhaps an overstatement. It was a single outfit. My heart sank as I recognised a cheerleader’s uniform – or a parody of one. Once again, I was on the verge of drawing a line in the sand and rebelling. If I went out naked, what would they really do to me?

As if somebody was listening to my inner monologue, the device in my cock gave a warning pulse, enough to make me squeak. And a message was flashing on the screen: “Be a good girl Stacey and put on your uniform”.

Sighing, I complied. There was a pair of white mesh panties, which I donned first, then a pair of long white socks which came up above my knees and frankly looked more like stockings. They clung to my bare legs, a sensation that I found simultaneously alluring and alarming. The tops had bright pink hoops, matching the trim on the short white satin skirt which barely concealed my panty-clad bottom.

Then there was a tight-fitting satin top, which covered my upper arms, shoulders and chest, while leaving my midriff bare. It too was a hot pink in colour. On the front, the letters R.A.M.S. were stencilled in white. It was the same acronym I had seen on the original message on my computer screen that had led to my capture, and on the uniform of the guards who held me here. I had no idea what it stood for and couldn’t even begin to guess. On the back of the satin top the name I was already finding both familiar and detestable, Stacey, was picked out in a cursive script.

To go on my feet I had white and pink plimsolls. I was grimly grateful that the outfit didn’t come with high-heeled shoes of some kind. But a final humiliating touch was a pair of pink pom-poms, which I tossed on the bed before turning to the dressing table.

This too had somehow during the night – or perhaps while I was on the toilet? – been stocked with makeup. The drawers held all kinds of jars, tubes, brushes, sponges – everything I could need, apparently. And sitting on a plastic head was a blonde wig, with the long hair tied up in bunches on either side.

I squeezed my eyes shut and let out an internal scream. When I opened them again I was hoping that all this would somehow have gone away. But no, I was still in my cell – and a glance at the countdown on the screen revealed that time was ticking away. I didn’t know what would happen if I wasn’t ready by the appointed time, but I certainly didn’t want to find out.

Sitting down at the dressing table, I hurried to find the concealer that, as I recalled from the video I’d watched, had to go on first. But just as I was about to scoop some up in my fingers, I hesitated, wondering about the stubble on my chin and cheeks. It seemed lighter than I would usually expect at this time in the morning, but it was still there.

There were no razors or shaving cream of the type I usually favoured, but I had seen a slim electric shaver in one of the drawers. Locating it, I gave my face a quick going over. Satisfied that my skin was a smooth as I would probably get it, I applied the concealer over my face and neck. The colour looked ridiculous, but I knew from the video that it would change once I added foundation over the top, as indeed it did.

The eyes came next – and again I hesitated, bewildered by the choice of shades. I eventually selected a bold purple, for no reason other than it resembled the one I’d seen used to stunning effect in the video. I did my best to apply it, then very clumsily used an eyeliner pencil to trace a dark line around my eyes. The effect was not exactly what I was hoping for, as it smudged and didn’t so much cause my eyes to stand out as make me look like a panda. But with some judicious use of makeup remover on a cloth, I was able to repair it somewhat.

I passed on the option of either false eyelashes or mascara – I didn’t have the time or the confidence for either. Working hurriedly now, I used a brush to add bronzer just below my cheekbones and then some rouge. Finally, I painted on some lipstick, trying to be as neat as possible. With lots of choice, I selected what I thought of as a conventional red hue. I had to admit it actually looked rather good on my fairly full lips – then rebuked myself for even thinking that way. It didn’t look good at all – it simply couldn’t!

The last touch was the wig. It took me a few tries to get on, but eventually I got the knack and settled it on my head so that the blond tresses completely covered my short black hair. My black eyebrows rather stood out, but there was no help for that.

Up until now I’d been trying really hard to focus on the individual elements of the makeup and not look at the whole. But now, as I stared at the image in the dressing table mirror, I had no choice but to see what I’d become. The answer was ... a guy in garish and slightly crooked makeup and a ridiculous wig – but with very attractive, cherry-red lips. Oh well, it was about as good as I could expect in the circumstances.

An inspection of my complete look in the full-length mirror on the wardrobe door elicited similarly mixed feelings. My legs, well-toned from regular exercise, looked surprisingly good. But otherwise the cheerleader’s outfit just looked plain wrong on my male body. I was simply the wrong shape. And again, that stupid wig!

I didn’t have much time for reflection, however, as my cell door opened and a glowering guard looked in. Gathering up my pom-poms, I followed her out into the corridor. There I joined some of the other inmates, all dressed in the same uniform, none of us remotely interested in making eye contact. We progressed past other cells, picking up more prisoners, and were escorted to a large room I hadn’t seen before. It had a low stage at one end and mirrors all around the walls – some kind of dance studio, I guessed.

I wondered just how big a facility we were in – and just how much more there might be to it. It seemed clear though that whatever this place was, it was in an area where there was little chance of being disturbed. I hadn’t seen a single window yet, and I would be surprised if the place wasn’t soundproofed. Which made the thought of what might be done to us here all the more terrifying ...

Ignoring the shiver that this thought provoked, I looked around. It seemed like the thirty or so men I had seen yesterday were all here – though of course looking very different. Without inspecting anyone too closely, it was apparent that the dressing and (especially) makeup efforts ranged from the barely passable to the disastrous. Though there were also, I noted, some who seemed to have done little more than smear on some lipstick.

Around the outside of the room, I counted six guards, all women – though large, well-muscled women. That didn’t seem like enough for so many men. Except that they had weapons and we didn’t. And they also had the advantage of being able to trigger a crippling pain in our penile implants – or perhaps that power lay with the unseen watchers. At any rate, I didn’t like the odds of a revolt – not at least here and now.

Once again, the speakers overhead came to life. “Well now ... ladies.” This last was said with dripping sarcasm by the now familiar voice. She sounded like she was in charge, but for all I knew it was just one of the guards speaking. “Don’t you look the part in your sexy outfits? Well, most of you don’t, but we’ll work on that. Soon, we’ll see what we can do to improve your fitness, which some of you clearly need. But first, let’s hand out some rewards and penalties.”

A big screen slowly descended from above the stage and we all turned to look at it. “We’ll start with how you chose to feed yourselves last night. Here’s how Ashlee went.”

An image appeared of a man’s face close up, as he engulfed a large plastic cock with his mouth and began to fellate it. The video was taken from what must have been a hidden camera just above the feeder. A nervous titter went round the room of watching cheerleaders as we saw the man’s face contort with effort and disgust. A few heads turned to locate the unfortunate Ashlee, as the man was evidently now being called.

But the sound soon died away when the vision was replaced by another inmate, then another ... until all of us – or at least those who had chosen to feed ourselves this way – had been humiliated. I felt my face and neck burn when it was my turn to be shown wrapping my lips around the phallus and sucking it for all I was worth.

“We’ve left the best till last, however. Here’s how Kaylee went ...” The last clip in the sequence was of a guy I recognised. I could hardly forget him, since we’d been forced to shower together yesterday. He attacked the feeder with ferocious intensity, sucking much harder and faster than anyone else.

“So here’s your cocksucking champion ... and let’s have a look at the prize she managed to get faster than any of you.” The clip moved ahead to what could only be called the climax, as the plastic cock first pulsed light, then shot its contents into Kaylee’s – or the young man’s – willing mouth. We say him swallow convulsively, then suck and lick the tip (as I had done, I was ashamed to recall) to coax out the last few drops.

“So, a round of applause for ... Kaylee!” We clapped, though with no great enthusiasm. I looked around and identified the “winner”, even though he was ducking his head in embarrassment. I could see enough to suggest that his makeup put him at the passable rather than deplorable end of the spectrum.

“Her prize will be a guaranteed passage into the second round of The Competition.”

The Competition – well I had guessed at something like that. Whatever it was, it didn’t sound good. Especially when you could hear the capital letters. But there was no explanation of what it might involve, because the boss bitch (as I’d decided to christen our unknown instructor and tormentor) clearly wanted to get on to more immediate matters.

“So, most of you did feed yourself in the appropriate manner – and you’ll carry on getting your food that way. But a few evidently wanted to go hungry – or thought they were above a little cocksucking. Brandi, Chantelle, Monique, Tiffany and Vanessa – step forward please.”

There was a shuffling of feet and the five named individuals separated themselves from the group. Although all were dressed as cheerleaders, blonde wigs included, three of them had not done much to put on makeup. They wore defiant expressions.

“I think we can see who the recidivists are here. Guards, I believe Monique, Vanessa and Brandi need a little re-education. Please see to it.” A guard came forward for each of them and one by one they were led away. Two of them seemed inclined to protest, but a warning prod from the guards’ electrically-charged batons was enough to subdue any immediate resistance.

“As for you, Tiffany and Chantelle, consider yourselves as being on your last warning. For the next week you’ll need to put in double time to get any of that delicious cream out of the feeders. You can rejoin the other girls.”

The two bowed their heads in submission and melted back into the crowd of cheerleaders. Their faces betrayed both their shock at being called out and relief at not being taken off for what was clearly going to be some form of punishment.

“We’ll get back to our trio of miscreants later”, the boss bitch continued, “but for now let’s have a look at how each of you did with your makeup”.

The screen displayed each of our faces in turn. The shots were evidently taken from a camera behind our dressing table mirrors. Critical comments appeared on the screen, plus an overall score out of ten. The scores ranged from zero, in the case of the guys who had been taken away plus a few others, up to three. Only a couple managed to get that highest mark, including Kaylee – or whatever his name really was.

I got a two, which I thought was a pretty poor return for the effort I’d put in. That was basically one for getting the order right and one for the lipstick. Everything else was terrible, apparently. I was excoriated for using purple eyeshadow, when I had blue eyes. Apparently I should have gone for something more like ‘coral’ – whatever the fuck that was.

Overall, it was apparent that none of us had done particularly well, especially on this kind of close inspection. But that was hardly surprising in the circumstances! Why the hell should a bunch of guys be expected to know how to make themselves up as girls? And if we were being given scores, for what purpose was that being done?

Once again, the boss bitch showed an uncanny ability to pre-empt my thoughts. Though maybe it was pretty obvious what I, like the other inmates, would be thinking at this point.

“So, you’re wondering why we’re scoring you? That’s because The Competition has started, even though you’re still in training. Every task we give you, you’re expected to give it your best effort. Because at the end of the first round, anyone who doesn’t make the minimum score will be leaving us.”

There was silence, as we took this in. Then with a harsh laugh the voice resumed. “And now you’re all thinking, that doesn’t sound so bad, I want to get out of here! But you’d be wrong. Because if you leave after the first round, not all of you is going to get out. You are going to leave something behind. Some things, actually. Or rather, we’re going to take some things from you. Can you guess what they are?”

A part of me – a very detached part – could almost admire the expert and relentless way in which she was crushing us. But she was very far from finished.

“To be clear, miss the cut and the price of failure is that you forfeit those precious things between your legs. You will be pissing out of a hole for the rest of your miserable life. And don’t think you’ll be free to just limp away either. You’ll be sent to work in one of our camps, a long way from here, until your nearest and dearest have completely forgotten you – if you survive that long.”

I could feel a stirring around me, as the revelation of what might happen to us took hold. Maybe, I thought, just maybe, this might be the moment to fight back. When everyone was confronting the appalling prospect of being castrated – or worse.

“I’m sure you’re thinking – they can’t do this! But we can and we will. In fact we and our sister groups around the world have had this program running for a couple of years now – and nobody has come to the rescue, nobody has stopped us. Because we will not be stopped by laws made by men like you, for men like you.”

The calm way she said this was more frightening than if she’d screamed or ranted. I knew then with absolute certainty that she would make good on her threats.

“The good news is that if you make it to the second round, the penalties for failure become – how can I put it? – less severe. And if you’re not sure you can be bothered to try, remember that three of you have already been designated for expulsion. Why don’t we check in on them and see how far their male pride has got them?”

The screen split into three boxes, each one showing a variant on the same scene. In the relatively short time that had elapsed since we had seen the men who had been separated from us, they had clearly had any defiance knocked out of them. Whether that was through being beaten, zapped, or simply intimidated, it was impossible to say. But however it had been done, they looked broken.

Each one, still wearing their cheerleader’s uniform, was now the plaything of a different guard. We watched, shocked, as one of them was put in a collar, and forced to walk around on all fours like a dog. A second was hung up upside down, then induced to pee into his own mouth. And as for the third …

“You should understand”, said the boss bitch conversationally, “that our guards have, to a woman, suffered atrociously at the hands of men like you. So I’m sure you’ll understand”, she went on, as we watched the third man be brutally fucked by a guard wearing a giant strap-on, “that when we give them the chance to, ah, let their hair down, they do tend to rather throw themselves into their play. Let’s just turn the sound up on that last one, shall we?”

All of sudden we could hear audio to go with the third picture, and it was not pretty. The guard’s grunting was punctuated by the whimpering of the abused victim. “Oh dear, I fear Monique may be a little tight back there”, continued the commentary. “But I’m sure she’ll loosen up very quickly. That will go down very well in the camp she gets sent to, I have no doubt. There are always men there – the ones that still have their cocks, that is – who are looking for a nice new piece of tail. She might even be able to make a dollar or two.”

The sheer callousness of this brought gasps from the crowd around me. This is it, I thought. This is the time to –

A crippling spasm in my groin doubled me over, then sent me to my knees. As it eased down to a dull ache, I could hear the ragged breathing of the men around me. Squinting around through the tears in my eyes, I could make out only two inmates still standing, one of them the man now called Kaylee.

“So this is the time when you get all offended by what is being done to you and think you should rise up against your female oppressors. Well I say – think again!” This last was spat rather than said.

“We control you, body and soul, we can hurt you whenever we like, and we can and we will operate on you. We will make of you whatever we want. But we give you this choice. If you cooperate, you might even learn to enjoy the training and the contests to come. If you don’t, well, you’ve seen what will happen.”

Just for a moment, the sound once again came up on the third picture, where the rape showed no sign of concluding. And by the look of the preparations being made in the other two scenes, it seemed that those captives too would soon be facing similar violations.

“Now”, said the boss bitch, “get on your feet, pick up your pom-poms and get ready to start shaking those tushies. Take your lead from the screen.”

The three images of violence and woe were replaced by a head cheerleader, who began showing us a routine that would, by the look of it, involve a small amount of dancing and a lot of bending over to show off our asses.

“You’re probably being scored on this”, said a little voice in my head. Ignoring the ache in my groin, and doing my best to forget what I’d just seen and heard, I forced a smile onto my face and began to practise my star jumps …