A Man in Iron: The Story of the Recategorized

CHAPTER 1: Locked I clung to the wall like a piece of meat in a slaughterhouse. That was my existence now; a slab of cold, raw flesh. A tall woman dressed in green hospital scrubs had cut away my clothes with efficient precision. She didn’t meet my eyes and paid no mind to my whispered requests for assistance. Logic within me insisted that begging was futile; escape was impossible. I understood without needing an explanation that there would be harsh consequences if I tried to leave. In fact, the logical part of my brain pointed out that this large woman likely had a duty to report any misbehavior (I’d heard rumors about penalties for “conspiring against” the system), which would only compound my troubles. Still, my need was too great. I hoped she grasped how terrified and desperate I was, and decided to leave me be.

The woman probably despised her job, yet I knew she performed it efficiently because she understood that there were much worse fates in our new world than the one I had received. At forty-seven years old, until just yesterday evening, I worked as a senior manager at a bank. Now my wealth, intelligence, and professional history meant nothing. My past was wiped clean. I became meat slab number six-thousand-and-twelve.

The woman in scrubs collected my torn garments and shoes, placing them into a large bin in the corner. Although my phone and wallet remained in my trouser pockets initially, they were discarded alongside my former identity.

The big woman walked out of the chilly room, which looked like a refrigerator inside an abattoir. I wondered if that was where we had been taken for “processing.” (The van that brought me here lacked windows.) Perhaps this building used to be a facility for meat processing before being repurposed entirely: now handling human livestock.

I stood among roughly thirty naked men, all handcuffed to a metal rod against the wall. I noticed they were mostly middle-aged. None of us had athletic frames; we ranged from obese to slightly below average, except for one man—a silver-haired guy in his late fifties with a strong cyclist’s tan and well-defined muscles. Glancing up and down the line, I also realized none of us possessed particularly impressive endowments. A row of frumpy middle-aged men with small cocks. I saw several others looking along the row, making similar observations. Was this what they based their recategorization on? Penis size? It seemed absurd …

A second woman carrying a clipboard entered and moved down the line. She was slender, wearing a blazer and pencil skirt. A tiny microphone was taped to her lapel as she recorded voice memos while examining each of us.

“Ninety percent balding, overweight bordering on medical obesity,” she noted about the plump man beside me. “Fat accumulation in the face, chest, stomach, and hips. Flaccid penis measures approximately two inches at processing.”

Despite the cold air, I watched the plump man’s face flush with shame as his insecurities were listed.

She then approached me, her gaze lingering on my groin. My wrists were cuffed high above my head, preventing me from satisfying the overwhelming urge to cover myself. My cheeks burned as she assessed the size of my member.

“Average BMI,” the Clipboard Woman stated, “and no muscle tone. Receding hairline with age-related discoloration. Flaccid penis is the smallest in this intake group. Less than one inch at processing.”

This hardly seems fair, a weak voice inside me pleaded. We are all flaccid and this room is freezing cold. But I knew it didn’t matter. My companions and I had been reclassified as “nonmen,” and our penis size appeared to be a major factor. * It turned out we were the latest group of men identified, through various measurements and medical tests, as having “dangerously low testosterone levels.” Immediate detention was ordered, followed by transport to a facility for processing. I didn’t know it yet, but I was in an inescapable facility—a shiny new building constructed of metal and reinforced glass, patrolled by armed guards.

After Blue Scrubs and Clipboard departed, a male ‘social worker’ entered. He was a young black man wearing jeans and a t-shirt, with broad shoulders and strong arms. Clothing already served as a luxury separating the men from us non-men. Judging by his swagger and the subtle bulge in his crotch, I could immediately tell he would be well-endowed. Another distinction between us.

“Hey guys, I’m Josiah,” said the social worker. His deep, melodious voice did little to calm our nerves. “I know you must be terrified, which is perfectly normal, so I’m here to guide you through your transition.”

The tanned silver-haired man scoffed, too quietly for Josiah to hear. We were already learning to moderate our behavior.

“I know it may not appear that way,” Josiah continued, “but you lot are the lucky ones. You still have a purpose. Huge numbers are being deemed non-useful and exterminated. The good news is that doesn’t need to happen to any of you.”

“Lucky us,” I heard the silver-haired man whisper under his breath. I wanted to warn him to stay quiet; his scoffing and muttering could jeopardize all of us. But all I could do was twist my wrists back and forth to stop the cold metal from digging in.

“So today,” Josiah said, taking a seat on a stool before us, “I’m here to discuss your options.”

There was really only one option available, as it turned out, though Josiah pretended to offer three.

Option one: extermination. They wouldn’t force our new roles upon us—we had to accept them. “Hear me out,” Josiah said when the plump man wailed at the word extermination. “You’d be given gas to put you to sleep, followed by an injection once unconscious.”

Unsurprisingly, no one volunteered. One man began shaking visibly, his handcuffs clinking against the rod.

The second option was even more terrifying. Josiah produced a small metal device that resembled a miniature guillotine.

“You’ll receive a local anaesthetic in your groin,” he explained, “then the doctor will place this over your penis and testicles. Then …” Josiah pushed a metal tab with his thumb. A large blade slammed shut along the base of the device. This time, several other men joined the plump one in wailing.

Extermination turned out to be the best option so far. “The benefit of option two,” Josiah said over the weeping, “is that you’d be unsupervised upon your release. You’d be rezoned to a community with your own unit. While required to participate in six-day-a-week labor camps, you wouldn’t have to struggle with biological urges.”

The third option involved fitting us with locked metal cages over our penises. That was what we all chose. We would become eunuchs, but at least we’d keep our balls, retaining that much commonality with men. * Blue Scrubs returned with a tube of gel, squirting it onto each of our limp cocks in turn. Clipboard entered with a trolley, looking like a flight attendant offering meals. Except instead of food trays, she carried our cages.

When they reached me, Scrubs massaged the cold gel over my cock and balls. It was the last thing I expected. Too scared to become aroused—if anything—my penis retracted even further. Clipboard checked her notes then produced a small cardboard box from which she removed a metal ring. Scrubs took it and pushed the small ring over my balls, which popped through one after another while well-lubricated. I whimpered at the pain. She then threaded my limp, lubricated cock through the ring. From the box she pulled out a tiny metal cap, no wider than a thimble, sliding it over my flaccid penis and squashing it into an even smaller nub.

I stared down at it. It looked as though I had a shiny silver

I stood there humbled where my penis used to be. The Clipboard device featured a small padlock that she threaded through the thimble and ring before clicking it shut. This tiny metal cage was now secured over my cock, holding my balls firmly in place.

Clipboard and Blue Scrubs took off their latex gloves and exited. We remained suspended there, helpless and trembling, looking up and down at the line of men with thimbles on our cocks. No one made eye contact; it felt too shameful. Even Silver-hair stayed silent, just hanging there with his muscles limp. The chubby fellow next to me was crying silently.

Later, the door opened again as a group of young officers in grey suits returned, all carrying pistols at their hips. They started unhooking our handcuffs. None of us tried to bolt. It seemed it was simply in our nature—obedient, weak, small-dicked beta males—to accept this categorization. The prediction that we would be easy to manage proved correct. * We were led down into a low-ceilinged concrete chamber beneath the center to rest. There were already at least two hundred other men asleep or feigning sleep. We had been sweating profusely for two consecutive days without a shower. Despite our purpose being to reprogram us away from masculinity, the room still held that rich scent of male presence. I could detect frustration and hopelessness in the air.

I soon discovered these were indeed our destinies: yearning to reclaim manhood while grappling with the despair of knowing we never would. Our brains and hearts recognized this futility, yet physiologically, our biological drives remained intact.

Army cots had been arranged for us in rows, but sleep was difficult. The pinching sensation from our cock cages kept us tossing about. During those initial nights, we experimented with various methods: applying ointment under the balls before bed (we received small tubes of this substance, similar to the miniature toothpastes I used on business class flights), sleeping sideways with a pillow between our legs, doing pre-sleep exercises to tire ourselves out, and practicing meditation to stop focusing on the hopeless state below.

For several weeks, most of us experienced uncomfortable pinching and pulling from the cages, but we were instructed to be patient and even grateful.

One man named Andrew defied orders. He persistently attempted to break his cage’s padlock, strutting around with arrogance and refusing to accept his status. Eventually, he hurled a cup of water at an officer walking by. On day three, four officers dragged him before the rest of us. An officer used a megaphone so we could all observe. The small guillotine device was brought out while Andrew screamed without anesthesia. These officers were practically boys, no older than twenty and lacking medical training. They removed his cage and pushed his now-exposed balls into the contraption. I watched in numb silence as blood sprayed then seeped away. His severed testicles fell to the floor in a sticky red pool. Andrew turned pale and passed out. An officer pressed a folded cloth against his groin, and they carried him out.

Almost immediately, another officer ordered two of the watching locked men to clean up the mess, which they did without hesitation. We would do anything to preserve our balls.

The constant threat of total castration was highly effective in ensuring compliance. Even with our small cocks and full balls secured away, we still preferred having them there. Thus, we were grateful.

We were no longer permitted to cover ourselves with clothing; we joined the livestock class now. “You wouldn’t expect a herd of goats to wear trousers, would you?” The cadets herded us around, making mooing noises and joking about branding our soft buttocks. We received few human privileges due to our reclassification. Only two removable items helped with chores: one pair of black rubber gloves for cleaning duties and one pair of leather boots for outdoor work. Our permanent fixtures were the metal collars padlocked around our necks and, naturally, our cock cages. These would not be removed. Any among us caught trying to tamper with or remove them faced swift punishment.

Day and night, cadets patrolled the training center with electric cattle prods slung from their belts. These eighteen-year-old punks were enjoying power trips. They strutted between our cots at night, chests puffed out, shushing us for even the slightest stir or squeak of bedframes. There were five times as many of us as there were of them—and they were half our age—yet we were utterly their prisoners.

We envied their freedom, especially that their cocks remained uncaged. We found ourselves glancing (or gazing) at their unrestrained bulges. Their cocks could harden, receive strokes from soft delicate hands, be sucked by pink lips and warm tongues, and penetrate wet pussies. Our cocks were pinched into tiny cages, rendered useless.

CHAPTER 2: A new purpose Cleanliness is next to godliness, we learned on day one. Wives have maintained clean homes for centuries; now it was time for us to represent our gender by returning the favor. Keeping busy with domestic chores would also distract us from constant frustration.

Charles, the muscular prisoner with silver hair, muttered that getting us to take over menial tasks traditionally done by women served a political purpose too. “They want women on-board with this new initiative,” he said. “They want us to pamper women for votes.” The official reason given was that our domestic labor would provide suitable homes for our wives and saviors. These Saviors, we were told, had stepped up to rescue humanity from its impending evolutionary crisis.

Gradually, I learned more about Charles. He was a broad-shouldered former real estate mogul who remained skeptical of this so-called crisis. He was among the most intelligent men I’d ever met. One afternoon, he and I were polishing windows in the foyer. A cadet with a mean scowl patrolled nearby, forcing us to wait for him to pass before speaking. Even then, we could only whisper.

First, Charles explained why the evolutionary crisis was largely a myth. “They claim health problems stem from weak genetics provided by males, but research has been limited regarding other potential factors: climate, chemicals, nutrition, technology. Researchers found a tenuous link to a gene in male sperm cells, and certain political factions successfully turned this into mass hysteria.”

Then Charles explained why the current solution—gelding nearly one hundred million men globally—is ineffective even if the crisis is real. “We aren’t advancing evolution by replacing men like us with young thugs,” Charles told me while scrubbing a stubborn spot of bird droppings. “They’re reversing it, turning humanity back into cavemen, valuing brawn over brains.” “And turning those of us with brains into housekeepers,” I added as I refilled my spray bottle. “Exactly,” Charles whispered.

We had been declared genetically untenable and sent to training centers for reprogramming. We were no longer men. Our new purpose was to serve the much younger men and our wives, who would attempt to advance evolution “forward.” That was our new destiny: domestic servitude. Or more precisely, domestic slavery. * Apparently, we all possessed submissive instincts that had lain dormant to varying degrees. One way to coax this instinct out was what they called pressing the button. The ‘button’, it turned out, was our prostate gland, and this ‘button’ would remain activated for most of our lives as non-men.

We were trained to accommodate increasingly large ‘activators’ which were,

“Judging by what I saw, they were butt plugs. Studies indicate that stimulating this gland triggers your submissive response. We found ourselves more inclined to obey when our prostate was being constantly massaged.

‘It might sound intense, but truthfully, it helps you adapt quicker,’ Josiah the social worker explained, maintaining a serious expression despite how absurd he sounded. ‘There are new tasks ahead that won’t come naturally to you, so having an Activator in place is useful. It limits your natural resistance.’

I was skeptical. To me, it seemed like they were just telling us to shove objects up our backsides, which felt pretty gross. Still, we received a ‘training kit’ containing seven plugs of growing sizes, beginning with one as slender and narrow as a finger. I really didn’t want to push that into my anus, but we were assured it would be easier for us to do it ourselves.

‘You don’t want an Activator applied by someone else the first time—someone who is probably inexperienced and might cause real harm.’

My mind immediately jumped to the idea that medical issues could land me in a hospital—which I figured might actually make escaping simpler. But then I dismissed that thought almost instantly.

‘If there’s any damage, you’ll be put into an isolation tube for healing,’ we were informed.

They showed us one of these tubes. It was a narrow plastic cylinder where we’d be confined and sealed up, with a smaller tube feeding food and oxygen to our mouths while catheters and colostomy bags hung from our waists. I have claustrophobia, so the thought of staying in an isolation tube for long periods worried me.

So I went straight into a private booth with my training kit and started working on opening up my rectum for ‘activators’. The first few sessions were sore and felt strange, but like everything else, we shared tips. The most effective strategy was using lots of lubrication. The mini toothpaste tubes weren’t enough, so we got inventive, using cheap liquid hand soap from the shower stalls, butter from kitchen duties, or even our own saliva. Within a few weeks, I could handle the third-largest Activator.

They were right: the Activator did hit my ‘button’. It stopped hurting. In fact, in an odd way, it was as close to pleasure as I’d felt since arriving. Gradually, I realized this was exactly how it worked. The gentle nudging of my prostate was stimulating, but to truly get the activator rubbing against it properly, I needed to be on my knees with my forehead touching the floor, back arched and rear end high in the air. It was a very servile posture, yet only in that position did we receive the pleasure from the activator. It was a subtle but powerful way of reinforcing our submission through positive feedback. When scrubbing floors now, I found myself lowering my head closer to the ground while lifting my ass higher. I knew this pose made it more tempting for guards to whip me—a challenge they often accepted as they walked by.

I noticed similar effects in others too.

Charles, the silver-haired muscular man, had managed to resist training initially, but once he got the activator pressing on his prostate gland, I watched him drop to his hands and knees at a young officer’s command to lick his boot with what appeared to be genuine enthusiasm.

After that, Charles stopped talking during cleaning duty, whether guards were present or not.

CHAPTER 4: The return

Three months into the training centre, I was declared successfully reprogrammed. My balls had adjusted to the constant churning sensation of unreleased sperm. I found comfort—and even pleasure—in the ‘activator’ feeling something rub against my prostate gland. I described it as about 10% of an orgasm, but without any release. I had mastered all the domestic tasks. I memorized and recited our Code fluently. Thus, permission was granted for me to return home. Finally, I would reunite face-to-face with my wife. I’d been warned many times about this meeting. You are not returning as husband and wife. Throw away any expectations of your old life. We were told our wives no longer viewed us as husbands.

At the training centre, I was loaded into the back of a truck alongside thirty others. Our collars were padlocked against the truck’s interior walls, hands cuffed in front, ankles shackled to those beside us.

Our driver was a twenty-year-old guy with tattooed arms and a pierced nose. He slammed the rear door shut, plunging us into near-darkness.

‘I can’t wait to see her,’ whispered Paul, sitting to my right. Paul was a short, plump man with pink skin whom I’d bonded with at the centre. He was simple-minded enough to stay cheerful through most of our three-month ordeal. ‘I know what they’ve told us—that we won’t be seen the same way—but I know Beth. We’ve been together nearly thirty years; college sweethearts. You can’t erase that in just three months.’

On my left, Charles scoffed. ‘You’re wrong, Paul.’ He was returning to his beautiful wife who sounded like she had frequent cosmetic surgery. ‘They’ll keep whipping your fat ass until you get the message.’

After an hour, the truck stopped for the first time. The tattooed kid swung open the rear door, jumped up to unhook the first man’s collar from the wall and free his ankles. The door closed again, and we waited a few minutes before hitting the road once more. One by one, we were escorted back to our former homes where our wives would see us in our new state for the first time. We’d been told not to expect much sympathy from them—no more than what we received at the training centre—but Paul clearly expected his situation to be different, and if I’m honest with myself, so did I. Surely my wife would be kind.

I knew my cage wouldn’t come off completely, but together we could find a way to get some relief.

I was the third-to-last passenger dropped off. The tattooed kid uncuffed me, and I hopped down from the truck into the neighborhood where I’d lived for nearly ten years. Big trees lined the street, grass had been mowed, and right in front of me stood my house.

‘She’s expecting you,’ said the tattooed kid, checking his iPad without looking up at me. He looked bored. His shift was almost over; only two more deliveries left to make. ‘I have to wait until you’re inside—the chain-of-custody rules—I need you in.’

I had no bags or belongings with me now that we owned nothing. I didn’t even own this house anymore, despite working hard for nearly twenty years to pay off the mortgage. The deeds for all our properties had been transferred over, as we were told. Shares, cars, trusts, bank accounts—they were no longer in our names.

I walked up to the front door I’d passed through thousands of times before. But today, for the very first time ever, I rang the bell.

CHAPTER 5: The reunion

The door opened and there she was. She wore a short powder-blue dress that showed off curves I had tried so hard not to think about during the last three months. Her hair was blonde now, falling onto her bare shoulders. She looked tanned. Makeup adorned her face—dark red lipstick I’d never seen on her before, plus mascara.

Immediately, I saw they hadn’t been lying at the training centre. This wasn’t the same woman; the look in her eyes confirmed it. She stared me up and down, taking in my shaved body, nudity, and the collar around my neck. Then she spotted the tiny metal cap where my penis had once been, and her expression shifted slightly—for a split second, there was a flash of malevolence.

For a minute, she didn’t let me inside but just stood in the doorway looking me up and down. Everything was different; I waited for her command to enter. Theoretically, I could stand on that doorstep forever if she never told me to come in.

The chastity devices sat on her hips, and I noticed she’d taken off her wedding band. We had been told not to remove ours; after all, we had pledged ourselves to these women.

“You might as well come in,” she said at last. “Shut the door behind you.”

I obeyed silently. I didn’t say a word. We’d been taught it was best not to speak unless asked directly.

The foyer looked mostly unchanged, except for two things. A blank patch on the wall where our wedding portrait used to hang, and a skateboard leaning against the wall beside a scuffed pair of Converse.

“In here,” my wife said, turning into the lounge. She sat down on the sofa.

I stood before her with my hands clasped behind my back.

“So, they locked it?” she asked.

“Yes, mistress.”

“Come show me.”

I stepped forward until I could reach the cage. She leaned in and stared at it. I fought hard not to cover it with my hands. We had been told modesty no longer mattered back then. In the early days of the training centre, anyone caught trying to hide their nakedness—with either a hand or a scrap of cloth—was handcuffed for three solid days. During meals in that first week, you often saw those men eating like dogs straight from bowls.

“Does it hurt?” she asked.

“No, mistress.”

“No, mistress,” she mocked me with a high-pitched voice and laughed. The laugh was so familiar. “Jesus. Sit down.”

I hesitated. Surely she didn’t mean the armchair?

She laughed again. “The floor, silly. On your knees, just like they taught you.”

I lowered myself to my knees, keeping my hands behind me.

“If you want to stay here, I need you to be as little trouble as possible,” she said. “They told me you did well at the training centre. Very few demerits.”

I nodded but remained silent.

“You see,” she lowered her voice, “if he gets into trouble, he’ll give it right back.”

There it was. She had mentioned him immediately. I wondered if he was here now, somewhere in the house. In my old home, I objected silently. But no—legally, it was his house now. These were his rules. Even my wife was under his command. I wondered if she’d given him trouble in those early days. Knowing her as I did, I expected she would have fought back.

“Do you understand?” She spoke slowly, as though I had a mental impairment.

“Yes, mistress.”

“He is in charge now,” she said. “This is his house. I’m his. You’re his. That needs to be perfectly clear.” Then she added, in the soft voice from our Before times, “Please.”

I nodded again. “Yes, Mistress.” Then, using my old voice, I said, “We’ll be okay.”

“Alright.” She looked relieved. She picked up her cellphone and started typing a message. “I’ll text Kyle to come downstairs. He’s upstairs playing video games.”

CHAPTER 6: Kyle

We waited in silence, me naked on my knees while my wife was absorbed in her phone. My heart began to thump.

After a minute, I heard footsteps coming down the stairs—loudly, as if he were jumping two at a time. Kyle landed at the bottom with a thud that shook the paintings on the lounge walls. He came into the room and I laid eyes on my new master.

He was wearing a cap turned backward, a white t-shirt, and grey Adidas tracksuit pants. He had a healthy tan, brown forearms, and his face still held a glow of post-adolescence. We had been warned that our masters would be much younger, but I was still surprised by how young mine looked. He couldn’t have been older than 22—less than half my age. He wasn’t tall, but he was well-muscled.

Kyle saw me and laughed.

“Where the fuck are his clothes?” he said.

My wife smiled indulgently and stood up. “It doesn’t wear clothes, remember? You wouldn’t see a goat wearing pants.”

Kyle walked around to the sofa and slipped his muscular arm around my wife’s waist. He looked down at my cock cage. “Fucking hell, is that the thing? It’s tiny. That must pinch your meat so bad. Does it hurt?”

“No, sir,” I said. I couldn’t help but notice that even though he was wearing tracksuit pants, his thick, long meat hung visibly, even when flaccid.

“I can’t go half a day without busting a nut,” Kyle said. He grinned at my wife. “Isn’t that right?”

“Sure is.”

Kyle looked back down at me. “How long’s it been since you’ve cum?”

“Three months, sir.”

Kyle whistled through his teeth. “Shit. Aren’t you as horny as fuck?

“I hope to be kept busy through service to you, sir,” I said. “We were also trained in a range of techniques to help us manage any cravings.

“So you know what to do here, right?” Kyle said. “You know how this is going to work?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“You just do what you need to do and we’ll do what we need to do,” Kyle said. Then he grinned. He even had boyish dimples. Women would find him attractive, I knew, but his grin terrified me. I was at the mercy of this young man’s whims. “We all just play happy families, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay, so you’d better get to work. And as for you …” Kyle turned to my wife. She smiled back at him and they kissed. At first, it was just a peck, but then they kissed again, mouths open. I watched, my face going red, as I saw his tongue slip into her mouth. Then, to my horror, I noticed his enormous cock beginning to stir in his pants. “You and I need to get to work, too.”

He slipped his hand under her blue dress. She giggled. I glimpsed her soft thighs and a pair of white panties. His thumb started working at the waistband of her underwear before hesitating. He broke their kiss and turned back to me. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes glazed.

“Didn’t I tell you to go?” he said.

“Sorry sir.” I got to my feet and made my way out of the room, my head spinning and heart pounding.

CHAPTER 7: Work

Upstairs, my bedroom was the small home office we had used. It had been converted into a basic little room for me. The bed was single-sized with a thin mattress and a grey blanket. We’d removed the computer. We were not allowed to use the internet or phone. Anyone caught using them would be castrated—that threat they used often ensured our compliance.

There was a closet and drawers, but these weren’t for personal belongings. They stored the domestic equipment I would use. Sure enough, I found brooms, sponges, scrubbers, cloths, a toilet brush, a feather duster, countless cleaning products, and a vacuum cleaner. An ironing board, an iron, even a shoe polishing kit were there. The pool cleaning gear was here too.

In the top drawer, I found the manual I had studied for the past three months. It dictated the minimum standards for our cleaning schedule:

Vacuum five times a week, but never while they are home; the noise is bothersome. Clean each bathroom daily, including shower and toilet, regardless of use. Change bed linens every day. Do laundry daily. Iron daily.

I had memorized the manual. It was time to get to work.

Within minutes, I was in the bathroom on my knees before the toilet, wearing pink rubber gloves and scrubbing the bowl. Downstairs, I could hear Kyle’s grunting and my wife’s whimpering. I’d never heard her make those sounds before.

They had tried to prepare us for this inevitability. We practiced controlling our reactions in group sessions, developing mantras to help cope with the trauma of hearing—and even seeing—our wives being fucked by another man.

However, none of those sessions prepared me for my own reaction. There I was kneeling over their toilet with a scrubbing brush, listening to them fuck, when suddenly my cock began to harden. Immediately, I felt the unyielding metal cage tighten around it as the head bulged against the bars. The cock ring dragged painfully against the base of my scrotum. I became dizzy as all my blood seemed to rush into my cock—and yet there was nowhere for it to go. I grabbed onto the edge of the toilet bowl and squeezed my eyes shut, willing the noise to stop: her whimpering, his grunting.

There was only one thing to do. I reached up and flushed the toilet.

completely blocking out the noise. Chapter 8: Punishment Ten minutes later, there were footsteps on the bathroom tiles behind me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Kyle standing there, just in a pair of white briefs. His torso was sculpted, pectoral muscles, defined abdominal muscles. His hands were on his hips and he was looking down at me with his trademark grin, his eyes twinkling. In one hand I saw he was holding a large wooden paddle. Constant correction is essential, they instructed us. You must never forget your role. The act of submission to such correction will keep you grounded in your new life. It reminds you that your new role is not a comfortable one but is critical. Kyle took a few steps towards me, surveying the gleaming bathroom - faucets shining, tiles polished, fresh towels, tissue box full. I knew what he was looking for: a mistake. Any small mistake. It is their duty to find room for your improvement. I remained on my knees beside the toilet bowl, head down, my cheeks burning with humiliation of this. I could only imagine what a pitiful sight I presented to this young Adonis-type - a 47 year old weedy balding man kneeling in front of him, while he inspected my cleaning work. Kyle walked around looking at every surface. “Shit, they trained you pretty well,” he said. “But you know what I have to do right?” “Yes, sir,” I said. I remained kneeling on the cold hard floor in silence for another minute. Then, finally, he said, “Here. Look.” He was pointing to the bathroom mirror. There, in the lower right hand corner, was the tiniest of smears on the glass. “You didn’t check the mirror properly,” he said, and did a theatrical tsk-tsk, then laughed. “Look, you’ve done a good job but you know I can’t start soft on you. They said it could undo all the hard work you put in at the centre. You get that, right? This is for the best?” “Yes sir, thank you sir,” I said. “Please correct me.” He sighed. I got the sense he wasn’t really thrilled about smacking the ass of a middle-aged man; he would much rather be getting kinky with my wife. He clicked his fingers. “Come on, then. Follow me - crawling only, right? That’s what they taught you?” I crawled over the tiles and out onto the softer plush carpet landing. The pleasure of soft carpet beneath my knees nearly made me moan. This was the closest I would get to pleasure now - simple comfort. I crawled across the landing into what had once been a guest bedroom. Now it was something altogether different. There were various pieces of dungeon equipment - stockade, a wooden cross fixed onto the wall, a high-backed chair covered in straps, a table, and in the centre a bench, also covered in straps and restraint. He pointed to the bench and I crawled over and climbed onto it. He set the paddle down in front of me and began fastening the straps over me - securing my ankles, wrists, knees and waist to the bench. My ass was completely exposed. So were my swollen balls - but surely he wouldn’t beat my balls. “Gag or no gag?” he asked. “Gag, please, sir.” I had already thought about this option. I knew the pain was coming regardless; the last thing I wanted was for my wife and the neighbourhood to hear my screams and to know just how far I had fallen. Kyle picked up a large black rubber ball gag from a chest on the floor and secured it between my jaws. It forced my mouth wide open and completely blocked any sound. I tried to moan to test it out but almost no sound emerged. Kyle picked up the paddle and stood back to inspect me. He looked so powerful despite his youth, a tanned muscular young man in white briefs. “This is gonna hurt you more than it hurts me,” he said. “Is that understood?” Tears were already stinging my eyes; it was involuntary. I tried to murmur “Yes sir” but nothing came out - so I just nodded feebly. He came around behind me. I thought he might warm me up with lighter smacks but there was no build-up. He swung the paddle with all his might against my ass and the pain shot through every nerve in my body - I felt it all the way up my spine, in my bones, even in my teeth. My skull jarred from the impact. My asscheeks themselves stung and burned and prickled - and that was only the first hit! Against my will I tugged and bucked in my restraints. Logically I knew there was no escape but logic had no place with pain like this. I screamed silently into my gag, my vision blurring with tears. Kyle held back his arm and delivered a full-force smack again - and again I bucked and screamed. My brain was full of nightmarish black prickly images - this was torture. I felt like it went on for an eternity. I lost all track of time. I hardly believed it was over when he finally did release my bonds. CHAPTER 8: Routine The punishment made me work even harder and faster. Kyle had placed his high school athletic trophies on a shelf in the hallway. He found me polishing these vigorously. He was wearing a towel, having just fucked my wife for the second time. He saw me and laughed. “You’re going to fit right in,” he said, giving me a slight pat as he passed by. By nightfall on day one, I was exhausted from housework. I had gone over the entire house. My arms and back ached. My ass stung and smarted. The cook had left me a small container of food in the refrigerator which I ate quickly then went upstairs. I fell onto the small single bed. I slept on my side, waking up many times either through the sunburn-like sting of my butt or the pinching of the cock cage. However due to my fatigue I was able to go back to sleep almost immediately each time and in the morning my aches were a dull gentle throb in my muscles and ass. It was almost pleasant. I slept for nearly ten hours. It was important to be well-rested in our new roles. I was woken by an alarm. I got up and went downstairs to wash myself in the laundry basin, using a bar of soap, and dried myself using a small cloth. We had been told in the training centre, that if our chores were considered to be done well enough then we would be allowed baths on weekends, but only while they were out of the house. The noise of the running water could also be bothersome. I washed and dried myself with a small cloth, then laced up my boots and pulled on my black gloves, finger by finger. I grabbed the shopping satchel and slung it over my shoulder. I walked along the hallway, through to the kitchen. The cook Patricia was there. The cooks started work even earlier than us. She was making bread. When she saw me come in, she could not to hide her revulsion. Pat wiped her floury hands on her apron and rummaged in the drawer for the bank card. “I don’t understand,” Pat muttered, “how a man can debase himself like this.” She saw my near-complete nudity and cock cage as a chosen perversion. Didn’t she understand we had no choice? I took the bank card from Pat. She then handed me her shopping list. The shopping list included anything she needs for the day’s meals, as well as anything either of them had asked for. I tucked the bank card and shopping list into the side pocket of the satchel. “Get free-range eggs this time,” Pat said, turning away from me. “Your mistress wants a green smoothie after Pilates this morning so make sure you get all the ingredients and your master wants porterhouse steak tonight.” Outside, Kyle’s Ford Mustang was parked in the driveway. According to the manual, I was due to clean it today, both the exterior and interior. It was humiliating cleaning the Mustang Kyle bought with my money. It would take all my resolve not to warn Kyle not to be so reckless with his spending. But your saviour knows best, they taught us. Do not question him. Still, when I was in the training centre, I had heard of a household where all the savings were burned through by a young guy even more foolish than Kyle, and so I had cause for concern. But of course, in that situation, it wasn’t the young guy who had been put to use to provide an income. It was the husband and wife. I went throu

gh the front gate. Outside, it was a sunny day but there was a chill in the breeze. My bare skin goose-pimpled. I began to walk, hoping the movement would warm me up. “Hey! Wait up!” a voice called out. I saw Paul, the plump naked man from the training centre, waving at me. He came waddling down the sidewalk, wearing the same boots and gloves as me, the same shopping satchel over his shoulder. His thimble cage glinted in the sunlight. Paul caught up to me, pink-faced and out of breath. “Let’s walk together.” “You shouldn’t shout,” I reminded him. We walked together past the large houses, towards the central part of town. “How was Beth?” I asked. “Well, she’s toeing the line,” Paul said, “but I’ve caught her eye a few times and I can tell what she’s thinking. Our guy Blake is a little shit. Last night, he found smudge on one of the whiskey glasses, and look what he did.” Paul twisted as he walked to show me a set of fresh red welts across his backside. “He gave me twenty with the cane this morning, full-strength. If you ask me, it was his own greasy thumbprint on that fucking glass – and that was my six hundred dollar Maccallum he was drinking!” Paul was out of shape and struggled for breath the entire way, but did not stop complaining about the state of things in his household. He walked with short little steps like a trained pig’s, on its hind legs. Paul’s chatter ceased as we reached the checkpoint for the shopping district. There were two cadets with cattle prods, talking about a girl one of them was trying to fuck in the ass. One of the cadets saw us and clicked his fingers impatiently, indicating for us to open our satchels and present them for inspection. Our bags were searched and our wrists stamped green, while the cadets kept talking about their efforts to have anal sex with this poor young woman. They didn’t even look at us. The novelty had worn off. Now they just had a boring checkpoint job. “She says she’s scared it’ll hurt,” one cadet said. “I’m being nice about it but all I want to do is hold her down and force her.” “It’s called the Bucking Bronco position,” says the other. “It’s when they try to throw you off but you keep riding her.” Paul and I take our satchels back and walk on. I was ashamed to find myself feeling jealous of the cadets. I’d never been the type of man to enjoy the prospect of forcing a woman to have sex but, after five months of not ejaculating, my frustration was a constant. CHAPTER 9: The Washing Line After doing our shopping, Paul and I decided to walk an extra block to see if we knew anyone on the Washing Line. The Washing Line was a long length of cable wire that ran between two tall buildings in the shopping district, about four storeys up. There were floodlights mounted on the sidewalks to keep it illuminated all night. On that morning, there were six naked men (or rather, non-men) hanging by their ankles, their wrists tied behind their backs. Most of them just hung there silently looking tired and scared but one was wailing into his gag and flopping around like a fish on a hook. “Please let me down,” he was screaming. “It’s been three days, please …” “Doesn’t he know they add days if you carry on like this?” I said. “Blake keeps threatening to put me up there,” Paul said. “He’ll do it one day, too, just you wait.” Men were left up there for days sometimes. Scraps of food were pushed up on sticks, for hungry mouths to snatch. Water was sprayed by a hose and again, thirsty mouths tried to gulp whatever drops they could. Some thought they were lucky when they were allowed to drink as much water as they liked, until they realised that the only way for them to release their bladders was onto their own faces. Less than a year ago, those men on the Washing Line might have been doctors or accountants, who owned yachts and travelled first class with their beautiful wives. We were encouraged to feel scorn for those men for making mistakes, for breaking rules, but what I felt was relief, because none of those men was me. CHAPTER 10: Doctor The next day was my first appointment with my local clinic. We were required to submit to monthly check-ups. A shuttle bus came to the house. I got in the back and sat on a bench, where I ended up being squashed between two other naked men. I had heard rumours about what the doctor could do for you. The doctor could examine you and order the cock cage to be removed. That could just be briefly for skin sanitation, but I’d heard of one doctor who required removal while the subject came into the clinic for observation of an infection. They had told us what to expect at the training centre. First, our cage would be swabbed to check for infection, and to check that we were cleaning ourselves responsibly. If we weren’t being responsible, the doctor would give us a pamphlet (although surely we had memorised that). Second, we were required to squat over a toilet bowl to produce a urine sample into a small jar. Third, a blood test. Fourth, blood pressure, fifth, heart rate. It was the same medical tests as before, except that now it was mandatory. Inside the waiting room I waited with twelve other men. A receptionist recorded our names. When I was called, I went through the doorway into the consulting room. The doctor was in his forties, my age, medium build – in many ways, just like me. Except much luckier. He smiled cheerfully and shook my hand, which I had not expected. What I did expect was the examination table. It was covered in straps and buckles. The restraints were not to punish us, we were told. The restraints are so that, if your cage does need to be temporarily removed, you are not subject to temptation. “Let’s get you settled in,” the doctor said. I lay down on the examining table, on the sheet of chilly crackling disposable paper. The doctor started by fastening the restraints around my ankles, buckling them tight over my boots, forcing my legs apart. He then secured two middle straps over my waist and chest, and another under my chin. He then gently guided my arms over my head to secure my wrists up and out of the way. “Comfortable?” he said. “Yes, thank you, doctor,” I said. It wasn’t a complete lie; I wasn’t physically uncomfortable. He snapped on a pair of gloves and, with a cold finger, lifted my cage to examine the skin around it. He turned on a small torch and picked up a swab. The cage was poked and prodded with a q-tip for a minute or two. “Well, you’re keeping your genitals really clean,” he said brightly, as if I was a dental patient who flossed well. He sat up and patted me on the thigh. “Everything otherwise alright?” “Fine, thank you, doctor.” “Bit frustrating, I imagine. How long’s it been since you ejaculated?” He checked my file and whistled through his teeth. “Nearly five months.” He glanced over his shoulder to make sure the door was closed, then he leaned forward. Up close, his eyes were dark and beady. He had bushy eyebrows and smelled of cigarettes. “I could help you, you know,” he murmured. “What do you mean?” I asked. “I could help you get some relief.” “Relief? But – ah – how?” “I can’t unlock you,” the doctor said. “But there’s technically no rule against trying to milk the prostate.” “What?” “Let me show you.” The doctor squirted some cold jelly onto his gloved forefinger. “No, doctor, really—” Before I could finish, the doctor pushed his finger deep into my rectum. My entire body went as cold as the jelly and I gasped. “You’ll need to relax.” His cold finger retreated, re-entered, withdrew. In and out, in and out. “Doctor, please—” I gasped again, tears in my eyes. “Deep breaths,” he said. In, out, in, out. “Please … please …” Although his finger was cold inside me, my face was growing warm. “Please stop …” I wanted him to stop, it was uncomfortable. I hadn’t felt anything like this before. I was frightened. I needed him to stop but, as his finger went in and out, all I could do was squirm and writhe in my restraints. After a minute, the doctor with

He pulled off his gloves after drawing a finger along the inside. “It doesn’t always work on the first attempt,” he remarked. “You could try handling it yourself if you like. It’s permitted by the code. Many men in your position have found success doing so.” He continued unfastening my restraints, then turned to his clipboard as I exited the office. The sensation of his cold, jelly-like rubber finger remained inside me. CHAPTER 11: Watching “I thought we should discuss this,” Kyle said. “Man to man, essentially. I know you undergo all that brainwashing, but ultimately, I’m still sleeping with your wife while doing my laundry for her, correct? And honestly, the treatment you receive is quite harsh. So I wanted to extend an offer. It’s a small thing, but it might help. If you wish—if you think it would be beneficial—you can observe us. They say that aligns with the code, doesn’t it? I’m aware they don’t allow watching pornography or similar things, and I’ve been considering whether you miss seeing her like that, perhaps even though she’s with another man. Regardless, give it some thought. If we proceed this way while you watch, there are certain precautions to take.” I understood the precautions he referred to; they were part of the code. Warnings had already been issued regarding observation. For those truly reprogrammed, watching would likely be acceptable. However, for anyone battling temptation, observing might only intensify it. Yet if I did not watch, I risked never seeing a naked woman again. “It would be an honor to observe, sir,” I replied before I could hold back my words. “Thank you, sir.” Near the far wall of the bedroom, beside the king-sized bed, hooks had been installed. Two high up near the ceiling were intended for securing my wrists—positioned well above my head and widely spaced. Similarly, two lower down at floor level were for my ankles, to be spread apart and fastened. But that wasn’t sufficient. My collar was attached to a central hook, which prevented me from turning my head. A belt around my waist secured me fully against the wall. I was completely immobilized. These constituted the precautions. Despite our obedience and domestication, there were concerns we might erupt into rage seeing our wives being penetrated by another man and try to intervene. This sacred ritual must not be disturbed. To ensure this, they placed a large ball gag in our mouths. We are forbidden even from speaking; we only watch. Observation helps us understand our purpose: what we exist here to serve. The door opened and they entered, mouths locked, undoing each other’s buttons and flies. He kissed her neck and throat, causing her to throw back her head and moan. It was as if I were invisible (which meant I was performing my duty). Seeing their bare skin—his tan covered his entire body; I suspected he had been sunbathing naked by the pool. Her milky white complexion. Her small but full, firm breasts held in his hands. He tossed her onto the bed and she wriggled out of her panties. He looked at her pussy with a hungry gaze. I noticed it was hairless; that was new as well. His cock was enormous—thick with visible veins and long, exceeding nine inches. She did not appear frightened. She seemed excited. He lowered himself over her, guiding his gigantic cock inside with one hand. She gripped the bedsheets and screamed, a mix of pain and pleasure. “Fuck!” she gasped. Immediately he began thrusting in and out vigorously. I watched his firm round buttocks pumping up and down as he drove deep within her. I felt my body reacting, objecting, resisting. I heard myself moaning into the gag. My body tried to move forward but was held back by the restraints. The ropes and belts cut into me, preventing me from lunging ahead. No, no, stop, I wanted to say, though they couldn’t hear you. You’re hurting her… This wasn’t how I used to make love with my wife. Our intimacy had been gentle, slow, and close. I would kiss her softly and ensure she was comfortable. She made occasional sounds but remained mostly quiet. I had never seen her react like this before. Now I realized I had likely never witnessed her reach orgasm. He fucked her for what felt like an eternity. My lovemaking with her used to be brief, lasting at most five minutes, yet Kyle seemed to have been ploughing through her for thirty minutes or more. At various points, he would pause, pull out, straddle her face, and guide the head of his cock into her mouth. He tried to push as much deep down her throat as possible, sometimes posing in a push-up position over her face while attempting to fuck her throat; she gaggled and giggled throughout. Then he resumed fucking her. At one moment, he pulled out, lifted her up, and began licking and fingering her pussy. Her face turned bright pink as she moaned with unfamiliar sounds. He brought her to orgasm that way—not once or twice, but three times—before resuming penetration. He did not ejaculate until nearly an hour had passed. When he finally did, he roared, slamming his cock home and scooping her up in his muscular arms. They lay together breathless, sweating and satisfied. I could almost feel the satisfaction of their loins—the light emptiness in his balls, the tingling sensation post-coitus on his cock. I still felt my own frustrating fullness, yet somehow, nearly telepathically, I sensed the crackling pleasure in their bodies. I hung suspended in my restraints, breathless as them myself, strings of drool hanging from my gag, eyes glazing over. I was half-asleep standing there when he released me. I fumbled and unbuckled my gag. “Thank you, sir,” I mumbled through an aching jaw. The straps had chafed the sides of my mouth. “It’s bed time,” Kyle said. “Yes, sir.” I shuffled to bed and slept deeply.

I picture you putting in plenty of effort and to craft a wonderful narrative like this one; it is excellent!