‘Splat,’ and the beast was dead.

  “I’ll get some tissue,” I said.

  I flushed it down the loo with a bent spider’s leg sticking out from the mush. My nose was screwed up, like my life.

  We passed a confused Cordelia 615 on our way down the stairs.

  “I just got back this morning, thanks, Valery, I owe you one.”

  Then she saw my escorts and looked the other way. We were all good at that.

  “Sorry,” she said, but I wasn’t sure if it was meant for me or them.

  And was that Dorian 3309 outside in the courtyard? I squinted again and the image was gone.

  Chapter Five

  I’d been in the windowless cell for a day and a night. Someone pushed food through a grille, but no one came, no one spoke. The yellow ceiling light was made of toughened glass and secured in a wire cage should I consider another way out. They’d taken my hair brush and comb, but there was no mirror.

  There was a book at the foot of my bed, The Feminist Manifesto, by Professor Carla Marks. She was a revolutionary, visionary, blending economics with Mother Nature for what had become a quasi-religious Femocracy. I opened the cover, there was nothing else to do; I was medicated.

  Left in charge, men would destroy the world. All their organisations were harems. Only women could be entrusted with leadership, their decisions were not based on basic instincts: using and entering another. But try telling that to Claire and Gillian.

  Carla had fuelled the revolution, and we were all schooled in her philosophy. Her revered tomb was in North London.

  I was isolated, and should have felt lonely, perhaps more vulnerable than I already was. But I didn’t, somehow I felt less awkward in the cell, and I could gather my thoughts. I was always surrounded by others but never quite part of them. Often I had been within earshot of frivolous laughter from those playing a game, the loneliest pretending.

  I read the Manifesto from cover to cover, partly out of boredom but then nostalgia for my school days. Were men really that bad? Were we nothing but jealous animals led by our tails?

  As I flipped over the final page, there was a short eulogy to Vespertina Eve, our beloved Surgeon General, but her book was incomplete, she still had much to do. Carla Marks had died in a bomb blast, an assassination, just before the war broke out. Any final trust in men had died with her.

  The lights never went off; perhaps they were meant to keep me awake, but I hadn’t slept so soundly in years. The mattress was hard and there weren’t enough blankets. The sheets scratched my smooth skin, but the anxiety attacks had stopped; someone had cut the rubber band that often tightened across my chest.

  I had been stupid to keep the stickers, but that was my only discovered crime and for now I wasn’t Gillian’s office bike, a role I thoroughly expected her to reprise with Claire in tandem. Surely no one would really believe I was MAD?

  Chapter Six

  Was it two days or three before the cell door finally opened? I rolled off the bed, relieved to stretch my legs.

  “Valery 01, follow me please.”

  “But my hair,” I pleaded.

  “Men,” she scoffed, handing me a small brush from her side pocket.

  “Well don’t take all day,” she said.

  “Sorry.”

  “And the brush, please,” she held out her hand. “No telling where you perverts will shove it.”

  She laughed and so did I, but mine was nervous.

  ‘Court Room,’ the sign proclaimed on the grim steel door, and I felt sick.

  “Just tell the truth,” advised my Guard as she unlocked the handcuffs.

  “Change your conditioner,” she added looking at my roots, and then she was gone.

  There were three of them, younger than I expected, early thirties like me but with more of a future. The judge wore a white gown with a red sash, flanked by a police chief in a blue cheesecloth suit, and an officer in military garb, thinnest green cotton due to the increasing temperature. I had felt it in the cell, a heatwave was coming, and I was getting hot under the collar.

  I lifted up The Feminist Manifesto in my right hand, and recited the oath inscribed on a small table in front of me.

  “I, Valery 01, swear in front of Mother Nature, and the duly appointed panel, to tell no lies, spin no half-truths, and deceive no woman. If I do then I fully expect to be punished within the rules of law, up to and including my death.”

  No ambiguity there then. I sat down in front of them.

  The central figure wore a peaked amber cap, shiny silk. A medallion was stitched to the front, portraying the tree of wisdom and not life; this was a judge that could easily take yours away.

  I was scared to face them, and looked under the table at the police chief’s boots. She nudged the judge, smiling.

  “Is he medicated?” she asked.

  The colonel opened my file.

  “Weekly injections start Friday.”

  “Frisky?” asked the police chief with the darkest of eyeliner.

  “Excited in the doctor’s surgery. Don’t worry, he’s caged,” said the colonel.

  “Mason Adam Deviant,” said the judge, decision maker, solemnly.

  She looked at me, and my bottom lip quivered.

  “The stickers were pushed into my hand,” I said.

  “Indeed.” She read the notes I’d penned in my cell upon arrival.

  “What turns you on, Valery 01?” asked the colonel with the brass pips on her shoulders.

  Her lips wore cherry red lipstick.

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean,” I replied. “I’m medicated.”

  It was a phrase us guys used a lot when we wanted to appear submissive, get what we wanted, if we wanted anything at all, apart from being left alone.

  She pulled a gun from her holster.

  “Would you like me to shoot it off, if it means nothing to you?”

  I shook my head violently.

  “Colonel Anais, really,” said the police chief, her authority usurped.

  “Apologies, Stella Eve, too long on the front.”

  “We fully appreciate the effort of our officers, and the difficulties they face. But just try and remember why we are here, we don’t want to kill him just yet.”

  Had she just said kill? I mopped my brow.

  “I’m making a donation at the Bank,” I informed them.

  “That won’t get you off the hook,’ said the judge, stretching her long legs further under the table. I could now see the top of her boots, and her knees.

  “Would you like to kiss them?” she asked. “Roll under them, get stamped, stomped?”

  “I’m no masochist,” I said.

  Though I could understand why some had been attracted. If you couldn’t go to the other side of the barbed wire, then to be scratched whilst you dangled helplessly upon it would at least give a sense of perverted pleasure, exquisite pain. And if there was no other feeling available then something could be better than nothing. I was getting used to the spiked cage pushing into me, and the cold steel wrapped around my gonads that kept the apparatus in place, secured with a small numbered padlock.

  “Humiliation then?” asked the colonel. “Gives you a funny feeling, an uncontrollable pleasure?”

  “Not at all.”

  I brushed my hair back with my hand, and crossed my legs.

  “Who gave you the stickers?” asked the police chief.

  Her hair was jet black, too dark to be natural.

  “No one. They were pushed under my door.”

  “And why didn’t you report it?” asked the judge.

  “I was scared, didn’t want to get involved.”

  “But you have reported other instances,” said the colonel.

  She really had read my file.

  “My stalker,” I said.

  “You think it’s her?” asked the judge.

  “Setting you up?” added the colonel.

  “Does it matter, really? I’ll never get the chance to prove it,” I lamented.

  Was it boldness or dejection? I was ready for the guillotine. I sat back in my chair, below their elevated asses. To the side were two armed shemales, silent, granite faced.

  The colonel whispered in the judge’s ear, and my heart sank to the bottom of their boots. One mistake could screw up your entire life. My moment of youthful rebellion had come back to haunt me. Should I come clean? Bargain with the steel token?

  “Have you ever seen your mysterious stalker face to face?” asked the colonel.

  “The police haven’t taken it seriously,” I said.

  “That wasn’t my question.”

  I mopped my brow. “No.”

  “Wait outside,” said the judge.

  I was back under the glare of my shemale escort. She had a strapon in her pocket; I recognised the bulge. She stroked it and looked at my ass. I knew what she had in mind. Her phone rang, and she removed it from under her epaulette.

  “You can go,” was all she said, holding my bag on the end of her outstretched arm as though it were contaminated.

  “What day is it?” I asked.

  “Wednesday.”

  I made my way to the exit. It turned out I was in a bunker, and as I climbed the stairway the light hit my eyes. Some woman, looked retired, wolf whistled as she drove by.

  The sky was blue and so were my balls, perhaps I was developing a tolerance to the meds? But if I wanted to stay clear of the law, I’d best stick to the prescription. Damn, the Bank. I checked my watch and hailed a taxi. I had an hour before my second release of the day.

  “You’re a looker,” said the taxi driver.

  She had short blonde hair, no makeup, and her face and shoulders were red with sunburn.

  “Where to, honey?”

  “The Donations Bank.”

  “Now why doesn’t that surprise me?” she said.

  Quickly realising I wasn’t the conversational type, she turned on the radio. But she did adjust the rear view mirror to get a better look at me.

  “Fifteen credits,” she said as we parked outside the pink sandstone monolith that was the Bank.

  I reached for my purse, in the satin clutch bag. It really wasn’t the time or the place but I’d been rushed into getting dressed and couldn’t find my favourite orange leather shoulder bag with the marigolds stitched around the top.

  “Hey, if you can’t find the money you can always pay me another way,” and she leered in my direction.

  I pushed the money into her hand and, once the door was unlocked, tumbled out.

  I checked my compact and brushed my hair, appearances were everything. I smoothed out my dress, front and back, and coughed loudly at the receptionist who was ignoring me.

  “Doesn’t say crossdresser in your notes,” she said after a short introduction.

  “I wanted to make the day special,” I replied, batting my eyelids.

  “And donating to the Bank isn’t special enough?” said the nurse who had crept up behind me. “If you’re even good enough.”

  All donations were screened for genetic illness. Vespertina was our gardener.

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” I mumbled, and the receptionist and nurse smiled between them.

  The nurse clicked her fingers and I followed. More corridors, and I was a rat in a glass maze.

  “OK, honey, wait in here.”

  I grimaced. It was either honey, love, or darling. And if it turned serious, if they wanted you but you weren’t forthcoming, bitch, slut, and worse.

  I sat in the armchair. There was a jug of water on the table and a large blue pill. On the wall in front was a TV screen.

  The nurse turned around before closing the door.

  “I almost forgot, you’re a newbie. Take the tablet with plenty of water; in ten minutes you’ll be ready.”

  “How?” I asked.

  “The pill blocks the suppressants you’re on. You’ll feel like a new man, literally.”

  “I’m not gay,” I said.

  “And straight men wear dresses?”

  I could see her point and hopefully she’d soon see mine; she was fit, and I could remember how that felt a few days ago.

  “See that remote control?”

  I nodded.

  “Porn movies,” she said, “like in the old days.”

  I pretended I had no idea, that I’d never wondered.

  “It’ll get your motor started,” she said. “Press one for shemales, two for crossdressers, and three for gay men.”

  “No women?” I asked.

  She shook her head.

  “My, you really are a pervert. I’d go for the shemales in that case.”

  Half an hour later and the heels in the corridor were walking in my direction. There were two nurses, but not the one I’d seen earlier, and a guard who was the prettiest of the bunch. I’d think of her, watch maybe, or was that too salubrious?

  They lifted up my dress as I lay back on the couch, and pulled down my satin camis.

  “Damn, he’s caged,” said the brunette.

  “Why didn’t you say?” asked the blonde.

  “I thought you’d have the key,” I replied.

  Besides I’d have completed already; the blue pill really did work.

  “Not our department,” said the blonde.

  “Is there a problem?” asked the guard.

  She was new to me, and they talked as though I wasn’t there.

  “Maybe, we’ll just do it the hard way, or not as the case may be,” said the brunette.

  They laughed, and I just felt myself getting warmer, but with embarrassment not passion.

  The nurse bent me over gently. I was pliable to their will, and the guard unleashed her standard issue strapon. A cup was put under me at the end of my cage.

  The nurse held me down, and I was ravished, my prostate milked. Eventually the container was full, brimming with a new generation of female leaders and male subordinates: queen bees and an endless supply of male drones, workers, fighters, defenders of the realm.

  “I’ll take it to the lab,” said the guard, pinching her nose.

  Passion was now a process; sins of the flesh had been abandoned for safety, purity.

  They poured a syrup down my throat, and I waited an hour before they deemed I was safe to unleash upon society once more. My desires, urges were under control yet again. Regrettable was putting it mildly; I’d felt like a new person, invigorated, manly even, if that’s how a man felt. I’d wanted to take on the world, and all three of them. I desired to do unspeakable things.

  “Tidy yourself up,” was the last instruction I received, and, for the second time in a day, I was unceremoniously booted out.

  Chapter Seven

  Gillian was looking at me with either desire or hatred, I couldn’t tell. Perhaps it was both, perhaps she hated wanting me.

  I’d handed in my slips, explanations for yesterday’s absence, signed and stamped by the Court and the Bank. My camouflage nail varnish had worked, and I was disappointed there were no sticky buns for the office, the edible type, not mine.

  Claire called me into her room, but at least it was still mid-day and I had witnesses; Trudi and Cassie were filing. It was rare, but occasionally some of the ruling class were convicted of assaulting the junior ranks of society, the men, rape not included. We were the new witches, bitches, leading them on; besides, everyone knew men always enjoyed sex.

  “Mother Nature only knows why, Valery, but it appears you’re a wanted man.”

  She waved a piece of paper across my face.

  “It’s my depot tomorrow,” I replied.

  “Was, it’s been cancelled. And I’ve been ordered to give you tomorrow and next week off, more if you don’t show.”

  “Why?”

  My heart was pounding. I didn’t want any trouble.

  “You really don’t know?” asked Gillian entering the room.

  I shook my head.

  “I hope this isn’t to do with the pegging,” said Gillian.

  She’d got carried away, scratched my back and bit my arm, technically an assault of the non-sexual variety.

  “Don’t be silly,” said Claire. “The poor boy was gagging for it, led us both astray.”

  “Teaser,” said Gillian. “But you should know I have connections, Valery; give me any problems and I’ll have you marched to the front.”

  They may have taken my pride, but I still wanted to hang onto my life.

  “I never said a word.”

  “Well, let’s just keep it that way,” said Claire, “and maybe next time we’ll go easy on you.”

  “Maybe,” added Gillian.

  She sat on my lap, and began to stroke my hair.

  “You know, you’re so adorable when you’re mad,” she said.

  Her finger was under my chin, and she pushed it up until our lips touched. Suddenly she pushed me away, and wrapped her soft hand around the back of my neck.

  “Not yet,” she said, and my head was spinning.

  Maybe she was right, I was gagging for it. I was perspiring heavily.

  “Hey don’t sweat it,” said Claire. “You can leave early today.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m always sure, and, besides, it’s Friday tomorrow. Have a good long weekend, week, whatever; who knows what’s in store.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And, Valery, great job on the nail varnish,” said Claire.

  Chapter Eight

  The phone wouldn’t stop ringing and eventually, wearily, I picked it up from under my pillow. It was Steve 873 from work. I guess it had to be; I had no other friends.

 

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