At The End Of The Line

In a future where women are in charge and men are seen as incapable of managing their own lives, one man is arrested for protesting for mens's rights... and is auctioned off to a woman who sets about making him hers.

Contains watersports - if you don't know what that is, it's pretty gross. Think "human toilet". Don't read if you're not comfortable with it.

At The End Of The Line

Jack stood fuming in line. Jack was always fuming. Whenever he was out of earshot of anyone in authority, he would rant to anyone who cared to listen about the injustices all around, about the fact that he was tired of being ordered around by "the better sex", and that he would do something about it if only people would wake up. For the most part, however, he was ignored. Most guys didn't mind being second-class citizens - it was as nature intended it, which was why men were born smaller and weaker than the women. Plus, women could still think relatively clearly during sex, an advantage the males didn't have. So Jack fumed, and ranted, and raved, until someone finally listened. A female cop.

Now Jack was being processed into a "rehabilitation centre". More like brainwashing and worse. Muttering darkly and biting his lower lip, Jack noted that the line was moving fairly quickly. Any minute now he would be next. Eyeing the invisible fence barring him from leaving the line, Jack fingered his collar and wondered if having one's head explode was really so painful, after all. Your brain went in one fell swoop - surely that barred any pain from occurring? Too late - there was no one left in front of Jack. Stepping forward, gulping, Jack turned to face the lady in charge of processing with what he hoped was a look of defiance on his face.

Staring him up and down, the woman motioned for Jack to step into the full-body scanner, which he did. Twelve seconds later he stepped through and a beep signified his collar's light changing colours from red to blue. He'd heard two guys ahead of him talking heatedly about the colours. Red was for unprocessed. Yellow was for mining. Grey was for indeterminate menial labour. Green was animal fodder... but what was blue? There had been orange, and purple, and God only knew what else.

"Move it, meat," said the guard as Jack was pushed ahead. She wore her hair short, and a tattoo on her right cheek marked her as a lesbian. Jack feared these the most - you couldn't seduce a gay girl. Quickening his step, Jack made it to an elevator. A scanner blipped as it read the light on the collar, and immediately Jack was sent up, with a clear view of the next building over. He frantically tried to remember what having a blue light meant, but it was as though Jack's brain had shut off - he might as well have tried to remember the number of remaining animal species on Earth. Nine hundred and forty-three. Dammit, why could Jack remember that and not the stupid collar colours?!

Jack's elevator opened up at a bridge connecting this building with the next one, which was a residential apartment building. The bridge sent Jack rushing forward, and he struggled to keep his balance as he tried to remember what blue meant. Orange was scientific testing... Purple was harem duty... and blue...

A dead weight seemed to settle on Jack's chest. He struggled to breathe, but the wind had been knocked clean out of him. Unfortunately, the bridge's auto-floor turned at that exact moment, and Jack hit the wall at twenty kilometres an hour. Swearing, pinching the bridge of his nose to stem the bleeding, Jack cringed. The pain was nothing. But to live life as a blue life... at least menial labour had some standards attached. But being some woman's personal slave basically meant "anything goes".

Enslavement. The men whispered that a man's colour was decided as sadistically as possible - why else would an outspoken men's rights supporter like Jack be shackled in this way? He contemplated throwing himself off the bridge, but the plexiglass windows all around made that impossible. A ding signalled the opening of the door, and Jack drew himself up as much as possible. They would never get him.

Even a woman-hater like Jack had to admit she was gorgeous. Chubby, in a blue satin dress, she wore only a little bit of make-up. Her brown hair was pinned back, and a screen across one eye held all of the computing power she needed. She was deep in conversation with someone, but upon seeing Jack, smiled and said "I gotta go." The screen retracted into a small module on the woman's right temple.

"So, you're mine now, right?" Jack nodded mutely, glaring mutinously. "A feisty one. Good. Hold on a second..." Reaching forward and pressing a button, the lady caused a rope of some sorts to shoot from the collar. As Jack was jerked forwards, he realized it was a leash. Good God. As Jack was pulled forward, the woman kept talking. "I'm Sylva. I'll have to come up with a good name for you - men have the most unimaginative names. Bob, Greg, Jack, Steve..." Jack winced as she passed over his name so casually, so callously. Sure, it was a common name, but it was his. Swiping a card key, Sylva entered her apartment, pulling Jack in with her as the door closed behind them.

It was a relatively spacious apartment, with few enough personal touches - Sylva must just have moved in. Jack filed this away for later - anything to gain an edge on his captor. The size of the apartment indicated relative wealth, whether Sylva's or some relative's. She placed Jack's leash on a peg, which immediately attached to the wall, and resumed her conversation from before.

Desperately, Jack tried to loosen either the collar or the leash without Sylva seeing. The leash was made out of some sort of sleek fabric that defied every attempt to break it; the hook was now securely fastened to the wall, and even touching the collar sent waves of nausea and unsettlement crashing through his body. Feebly feeling back around his neck, Jack felt the prongs that fastened to his brain stem. Trapped forever. If those prongs were removed, he would die.

Slumping against the wall, Jack tried to hit his head on the wall, but the collar prevented this with more waves of nausea. He stopped before he could throw up. In the next room, Sylva seemed to be talking about Jack, and he had to make an effort to care. If he couldn't get free, at least he could gain some footing.

"...not a bad specimen," Sylva said to her invisible correspondent. Jack grimaced. Typical female, objectifying him like that. "I'll have some work to do, but that's why I asked for this kind. ...what, break him? Oh, no. That would ruin all the fun. He'll come to enjoy his place without any drastic measures, you'll see. It's been done. [pause] I know, I know! How's little Donny, anyway? [pause] Aww, that's so sweet. Mind's completely gone, then? [pause] Well, duh. *laughter* Well, I'll talk to you later. Bye." Well. Sylva wasn't going to break Jack... of course, that could just have been for her friend's benefit. Or strategically to lull Jack into complacency. Well. Jack wasn't going to play along. If she wanted a wild struggle, Jack would give in without a fight. He almost smiled.

Walking over slowly, Sylva got a good look at Jack. She smiled slightly. "I see you've been trying to break free. Figures - I'll let it slide, since the collar punishes that itself. Now... to figure out a name for you..." she thought. "How old are you?"

Jack wasn't going to answer before remembering his plan. "Twenty-seven."

"Older, then..." Sylva thought some more. "Brown hair... manic eyes..." Manic eyes? What was she talking about? Sylva laughed, and Jack had to stop himself from glaring. Damn women. "Says on your file you're a masculist. Or at least a masochist. I'll call you... Rochel." Jack stayed silent. It was a hateful name, but this was a hateful person. He kept his composure. "Yes," said Sylva. "It suits you. Now..." Sylva pressed a button, and Jack's leash broke free from his collar. Suppressing an urge to run, Jack merely stayed where he was and stared at Sylva. In truth, although he would never admit it, Jack couldn't look away. This was the woman who now controlled his life. The thought was... unnerving.

Sylva turned and walked toward her bed, hooking a finger. What, sex? Easy. Jack had been having sex since he was seventeen... with guys, of course. Relationships with women only led to problems, and never mind his officially diagnosed heterosexuality.

"Lie down on the bed," said Sylva, and Jack did so. "Strip." Jack complied. His compliance wasn't affecting Sylva outwardly, but he hoped she was in as much turmoil as he, at least. Naked and exposed, Jack tried not to curl up over his private parts. Sylva then instructed Jack to lie spread-eagle on the bed, as she stood up.

Jack concentrated on his breathing as Sylva walked around the bed. "You're not struggling as much as I expected, Rochel," said Sylva, and Jack had to bite on the corner of his mouth to suppress a grin. "Yet." Bracing himself, Jack just watched as Sylva stripped, getting hard despite himself. Her dress held in her flab, which was considerable; however, Sylva wore it well, and it enhanced her beauty rather than detracting from it. She got onto the bed and straddled Jack, who stayed still. She pressed a button behind Jack's head and he felt the surface of the bed change beneath them. It was a rough material, and uncomfortable; Jack's brow furrowed in puzzlement. Grinning, Sylva turned around, her ass facing Jack. Rimming? Easy. Jack had done it quite a few times before-

Jack just stared as the first turd landed on his abdomen. Plop, plop. Was she... shitting on him? Immediately Jack began to struggle, but the changing of material beneath him had also bound his arms into place, and Sylva held his legs steady. Plop. Plop. Sylva had clearly been holding it in, and soon Jack couldn't see her lower half anymore around the pile of shit. Finally stopping, Sylva slid forward and wiped her ass on Jack's knee. He didn't dare push up and hurt her. In truth, he couldn't muster up the strength or the focus. All of Jack's attention was focussed on what the guys back in the library would have called a Cleveland steamer.

"That's better," said Sylva, facing Jack now. She pressed a button behind Jack once more, and he felt two bands fasten around his ankles. No chance for struggle now. "Soon, we won't need those bindings, Rochel. You'll take this and love it." Jack grimaced, drawing a laugh from Sylva, who stood up over Jack on the bed. Steadying herself, Sylvia unleashed a torrent of piss on Jack's chest, slowly moving up to his face. Jack held his breath and shut his eyes and mouth tight, but it still got in, causing him to cough and sputter. She ran out quickly and Jack found himself thanking whatever God there was until Sylva leaned over his cock. Oh god... what now?

There was a retching noise, followed by a sickening wet splatter on Jack's junk and the smell of bile, almost overpowering the smell of shit. Standing up and wiping her mouth, Sylva got dressed and said "I'll be right back." She opened the door to her apartment and left Jack alone under the bodily fluids.

Jack was stunned. Face covered in piss, with a mountain of shit on his torso and vomit all over his cock, Jack wanted nothing more than to cry. But there would be no weakness. Rolling over quickly, Jack allowed most of the shit to fall off onto the tarp beneath him. He angled his head forward and wiped it off on his shoulders, which had received only some splatter from Sylva's defecations. As he cleaned himself off, Jack thought about Sylva's actions. She'd shit on him, and pissed on him; those were just normal bodily functions. But the vomit had been humiliation, pure and simple. Jack noticed that his cock was hard and immediately he forced his thoughts to go to guys, which wilted it in short order.

A while later - Jack realized he must have dozed off - Sylva returned, shopping bags in her hands. She put them in a cupboard - an apartment this advanced would have a machine to put the groceries away - and walked over to the bed, studying Jack. She smiled. "Still not broken," she said. "Good." Pressing a button on the headboard of the bed, Jack found himself cleaned off, and the bed beneath him returned to blankets and sheets. Climbing on the bed, Sylva straddled Jack's head and said, "Pleasure me."

Jack began to tongue her, thinking back to rimming his friends. This was altogether different. Although the Internet had provided some valuable insights into female anatomy, Jack was still completely inexperienced, and it showed in Sylva's frustrated sighs. Finally, she straightened, turned around and began sucking on Jack's cock expertly, making him cum in moments. Wiping her mouth, she said "That's how you do oral. Do better this time or I'll bite." Whether out of desperation, or sheer dumb luck, Jack managed to get Sylva hot. He remembered the guys talking about the clitoris at the top of the vagina, and Jack spent most of his time focussed on that spot, trying to please Sylva as much as possible. Soon, Sylva began moaning and gasping and covering Jack's face with sexual fluids, which he had not been expecting. Girls could cum? Still panting, Sylva grabbed the back of Jack's head and pushed it against her pussy, covering him in jizz.

"Much better, Rochel," said Sylva. "You're pretty silent, but that's OK. Time for bed." Lying down next to Jack, Sylva soon fell asleep, cuddling Jack like one would a stuffed animal. Jack, following an initial brief struggle, settled into place, resolving that he would break free tomorrow.

***

Tomorrow never came.

Jack had been Sylva's slave for six months when he realized that he no longer wanted to leave. Rather than breaking his spirit and dominating him utterly, Sylva had simply taken away all opportunities for Jack to escape until he abandoned the pursuit. Plus, after so many weeks with her, and only with her, Jack found he simply could not keep secrets from Sylva, no matter how desperately he may have wanted to. He was hers. The hardest part came when Jack - Rochel - could no longer remember his old name. He sat on the edge of the bed and cried, joined by a surprisingly sympathetic Sylva; she had taken him, remade him, and yet she still seemed to care for him... did he? Rochel found such questions immaterial, although Jack would have certainly been concerned. Rochel, however, was no longer Jack.