Michael Haverty sighed. He flipped through the government-mandated magazine that had been provided for him, a glossy, brightly-colored document filled with pictures of celebrities and lots of inserts with holovids from the latest concerts. There was some part of him that still held out a vain hope that he could pass as "normal," that he could convince them the box of deranged ramblings they found in his basement had belonged to an old roommate who went psycho, if he just acted as engrossed in mindless pop culture as everyone else around him seemed to be.
That the box had in fact belonged to an old roommate was of course irrelevant. Truth didn't matter to these people. If Michael had said that, the "Community Wellness Officer" who first came to "have a friendly chat" with him would have simply asked him why he didn't report the writings to the "Social Harmony Bureau" and if he had said, "Well, because they'd lock me away and throw away the key if they knew I had that kind of material on me," then that almost certainly would've gotten him locked up and the key thrown away, at best.
He shivered. Maybe it was because he knew his hope was in vain, but his eyes completely failed to focus on the magazine. They kept turning towards the ceiling, seeing the counter going up, waiting for it to hit "74" and for him to go in there, into that little gray room that nobody returned from. At least, not the same.
"Ding!" 72, the counter read. The woman next to him started shaking and got up slowly. She was a goner for sure, he thought smugly, ignoring for a moment his own complete lack of confidence in his ability to talk his way out of whatever government-mandated psychiatrists did with supposed "thought criminals."
She walked over to the door. It opened up automatically, revealing a sliver of a tall, thin man with short blond hair. It then shut behind her.
Michael saw another woman, out of the corner of his eye, take a deep breath. Perhaps she had a shot. Perhaps she could convince the psychiatrist that he had it all wrong and she would be let out, back into the world–that horrible, horrible world–back into a life of anxiety and fear and paranoia.
Michael sighed. Even if he got out unscathed, it would still be terrible. It had been bad enough before, but now there would be a file on him. Now they would keep an even closer eye on him. Even if he convinced them now, there was no way he could keep up the act. He would slip at one point and he would end up right back here, being forced to face whatever "treatment" was offered at this facility, whatever ineffective new age brainwashing they forced people to undergo until they just broke down under the pressure.
So Michael gave up pretending. He crumpled in his seat, head in his hands, wishing that he could cry, that he could feel just one last ounce of human emotion before being turned into a zombie or whatever.
Looking down, he realized he had a semi. Probably just a fear response, he decided.
"Ding!" 73, the counter read. The woman he had been eying earlier got up, took another deep breath, and marched right in. He admired her courage.
Michael put his magazine back. He began pacing around the room, not caring about the frightened stares of the women around him. If these were going to be his last minutes being himself, he wasn't going to spend them caring about what someone else thought of him. He was going to do whatever the fuck he wanted to do!
And so he paced nervously around the room, shaking.
Nobody stopped him, of course. Nobody was there to stop him. The other prospective "patients" were just as scared and confused as he was. And there were no guards or even "attendants." There was no need for them. Everyone knew what would happen if they disobeyed. They understood, without having had to have been told, that there were worse punishments than this, even if they didn't know what those were and they didn't know what this was. It was all just tacitly understood what the situation was.
Michael clenched his fists. He took long, deep, intentional breaths. He stared up at the counter, just waiting for the inevitable. If he was gonna go out, he was gonna go out proudly. Just like she had done, that random woman he had never met before, whose name he didn't even know, who was now his model for bravery in the face of adversity. Somehow, she had learned to accept an unacceptable fate. So he would, too.
Michael didn't even look and see. He just stepped right though the door, into a little office with a big machine sat above a metal stool, with the thin man he had glimpsed earlier sitting in an armchair next to it. The thin man was slightly older than Michael, blond, gaunt and wearing a white lab coat. He adjusted his glasses and looked down at a clipboard.
Michael sat on the stool, not waiting to be told, knowing what was expected of him.
"Oh, ho, ho!" the man chuckled, "An eager one, are we? I suppose we are."
Michael frowned, then his eyes widened. He looked down. His erection was clearly visible poking through his standard government issue gray smock.
"Don't worry, there's no need to feel embarrassed, lots of… people get that way, coming in here, if they have any idea what's coming." Reaching over, the man grabbed a bright purple syringe and jabbed it into Michael's arm, quickly injecting him before he could react. "Just give it a minute," the man explained. "It should calm down soon enough. We've made lots of progress, working with people like you."
Michael raised an eyebrow.
"Oh, we'll get to that soon enough, 'Michael.'" The man did finger quotes around Michael's name, then he let out a throaty chuckle. "First, let's get introductions out of the way. I've got a lot of girls out there who need my help today. I'm Dr. Malcolm Moray, but you can just call me, 'Mal,' right now, I don't want things to be too stuffy and formal between us, eh?"
"Okay, Dr. Moray," Michael muttered under his breath, legs crossed, fear and determination filling his body.
"Oh, another fighter, eh? Well, don't worry I'm sure you'll understand soon enough that this is all to help you." He reached over, rubbing Michael's shoulder. Michael looked up into the older man's deep, yellow eyes. There was compassion in those eyes, or at least there appeared to be, but Michael knew better than to be drawn in by his act. This man was a government-mandated psychiatrist, someone who had been educated in a City Center, not some local Volunteer Peace Officer trying to earn brownie points to try and get a nicer office or to hide from the evidence of their own "anti-social tendencies." Of course he would know how to appear sympathetic, to get his victims to trust him.
"Back in the 'bad old days,'' the doctor continued, "It was believed social delinquents were just 'troublemakers' who needed to be 'punished' for their misdeeds and would reform if only enough 'pressure,' in the form of shame or even physical violence or imprisonment, was applied to them. The Central Humanate obviously deplores this sort of 'treatment.' We believe every human is special, that we are all trying our best to prosper and grow in conjunction with our fellow community members, and that if sometimes we struggle, mess up and make some mistakes along the way it's only because we are human. We believe that every human, regardless of their actions, is worthy of love and compassion and we hope to provide that to them."
Michael grimaced. He had heard this same spiel a million times over, since the day he was born. "So," he sneered, "What form is the Central Humanate's 'infinite love' going to take today?"
Dr. Moray smiled, a slight, seemingly genuine smile. "Well, we understand today that the root of all anti-social conduct is desire, that the root of desire is suffering and that the root of suffering is mental overexertion. In the history of psychiatry, from its roots in older practices of 'criminal justice,' we can see an evolution, from addressing the misbehavior, to the desire that causes it, to the suffering. And even the Central Humanate, as a conglomerate of humans, is human and so imperfect. They first attempted to address misbehavior by looking to suffering itself, hoping to make people 'happy.' And I'm afraid that some of our first experiments on that front, well… they didn't go quite as planned and then stories may have gotten blown out of proportion among elements who 'overexert' themselves and those sorta things just lead to more overexertion, more suffering, more desire and more misbehavior."
Michael looked up into the doctor's eyes. There was something gentle about those eyes, they were the eyes of a fine clockmaker who took pride in his work and was genuinely upset when things went badly. "So," Michael tried to repeat back to him, "You're going to try and help me… overexert myself less?"
"Oh!" The doctor chuckled again. "'Try!' Oh ho ho! My good friend, we are going to do more than 'try!' I assure you, though the existence of mental relaxation therapy is not widely known, due to its effectiveness in allowing citizens to reintegrate into communal life making its effects practically invisible to those who do not know how to look and due to the Central Humanate's concern with avoiding the risk of increasing overexertion among those elements predisposed to it for one reason or another by providing bait for more wild 'conspiracy theories,' mental relaxation therapy through electromagnetic treatment is widely used and scientifically proven to be successful at improving quality of life among citizens." He softly caressed the large machine sitting next to Michael. "I assure, the DB-9 is statistically almost certain to succeed in easing you of your unnecessary strain."
Michael turned to the machine, seeing a dark space about the size of a human head with wires and coils wrapped around it. He started to hyperventilate. Some part of him was beginning to buy into what this doctor was saying. It sounded nice, not to strain himself so much, not to overthink everything. It sounded nice to just give in, to live comfortably, to not worry himself all the time about government psychics catching him in an "impure thought" and taking him away to some mysterious location never to return again. He gulped.
The doctor was smiling widely when Michael turned his head back. "Okay," Michael said after a short pause. "It's not like I have much choice in the matter anyway."
The doctor clapped his hands together. "Excellent, my dear! But understand there is always a choice. This is a voluntary treatment program. There are plenty of other options available. This is simply the one that has been proven most… clinically effective."
Michael nodded. "I get it."
The doctor seemed to shake with anticipation. "Oh, I'm so happy for you, Michael. You're going to feel so much better after just a few minutes. Here." Standing up, Dr. Moray grabbed onto the machine and lowered it carefully over Michael's head, enveloping him momentarily in darkness. After not too long, small blue lights began to flicker on all around him as the machine whirred to life, a metal disk seeming to spin faster and faster all along the outer edge, while wires began to spark and glow with energy.
Michael's breath quickened and became shallower. The spinning machine and electricity so close to his head made him nervous, while the enclosed space was making him feel trapped. "When will this machine go into effect… Mal?" Michael squeaked.
The doctor chuckled. "Oh, it won't be too long. And you don't have to call me, 'Mal.' I'll have a new name, soon enough. As will you."
This sent Michael's heart racing, the enormity of what was about to happen to him just now setting in. His legs shook with anxiety. His breathing became more and more shallow. He felt like he was going to vomit or pass out or both.
And then, "Zap!" A bolt of blue energy passed through Michael's head. His brain seemed to fill with static for a moment, destroying his reality, with the world returning slowly, softer than it had been before. Even though the static was gone, there still seemed to be something "fuzzy" about everything. It was all less sharp, less detailed, less scary.
"Zap!" Michael felt his back arch in pleasure as the static filled him. This newfound sense of softness seemed to move inward, his own self-understanding becoming less clear, less certain. The whirl of sensations which he habitually shaped into "mind" and "world" reasserted itself as a whirl, as chaos, but there was nothing threatening about this chaos.
"Zap!" There was nothing for the chaos to threaten. There was no order for it to undermine. There was only the whirl, only the spinning sounds and colors, the touches, the tugs, tugs deep in him, a kind of emptiness which his habitual worlding covered up. Away from all that structure, self and world deprived of form, there was only the need, the absence, the emptiness inside where the whirl did not touch and which it needed to touch. There was a place where feeling was absent, a place which was no place, even less of a place than the whirl which was not a world and was of course nowhere.
"Zap!" And even that was gone. That last piece of dichotomy, that minimal structure which was "absence" as opposed to "presence," vanished, leaving only the whirl, only presence, which of course was not even truly presence since there was no absence against which it could be defined as such.
Out there in the world, that place in which all places were and in which the entity previously known as "Michael" resided in only a potential way, as only a potential entity, Dr. Moray snapped his fingers in front of the limp, lifeless body which he had pulled out of the machine and lowered onto a mat on the floor.
Ordinarily he would only go for three zaps, at least on a first-time patient, to avoid the risk of accidental permanent brain damage (as opposed to the intentional permanent brain damage which it was the intended function of the DeBrainilizer Mark 9 to inflict), but "girls" like Michelle (Dr. Moray wasn't particularly imaginative and the girl certainly was in no state to come up with a more suitable name for herself) typically had a few extra layers of repression to work through before the good doctor could really get down to undermining their basic sense of reality so that it could be shaped to his whim.
Casually, Dr. Moray unzipped his pants to reveal his musky hog, already semi-erect. The smell alone seemed to excite something deep in Michelle's debrained self. It was like a particularly strong current in the whirl, one that had its own vigor (it wouldn't be right to say it "pulled" or "compelled" her, because subjectively there still wasn't a "her" to be pulled or compelled, only the whirl). Still, her body reacted, shifting up slightly, eyes opening, the whirl becoming flashier and more exciting but still soft and smooth, trivially so, since there was no imposed structure which it could be rough by chafing against.
He took a deep breath. This was always his favorite moment. This was the part where he got to play God, speaking someone into existence. "Wake up, Michelle," he cooed.
Some scattered remnants of world structure, pseudo-intentions which made up to little, responded to the power of language and began to form back together, a little looser than before but approximating a kind of perception, a dreamy sort of seeing in which it was never quite clear what was seen and it didn't quite matter, either, since the "what" was less important than the "how."
Michelle giggled at being spoken to, eyes fluttering as she started to wake herself.
"Are you okay, Michelle?" Dr. Moray asked, hands clutching the back of her neck.
She just burbled and spat and drooled on herself, pseudo-intentions flying together and smashing into each other in a brilliant spectacle which didn't come anywhere close to a perception.
Dr. Moray sighed. He hoped that he hadn't broken another. They only allowed him so many. He looked over longingly at the machine. Maybe someday he would fry himself, in the hopes that then they wouldn't be able to punish him, or that he would be too dumb to understand it as a punishment.
But he shook his head. Not yet. "Come back to me, Michelle," the good doctor whispered. He gestured vaguely around him. "This is a psychiatric hospital. You came here for treatment. You remember coming here for treatment." It wasn't a question.
She nodded, a kind of simplistic, figural memory collecting itself out of the muck, conjured up by his words. Some deeply ingrained archetype of a hospital began to reemerge, not so much imposing itself upon the whirl of sensation as providing a kind of bedding for the sensations to fall back on, channels for them to flow through or overflow or potentially even ignore entirely.
Michelle smiled, glassy eyes looking around the room in wonder and amazement.
"I am Dr. Malcolm Moray," the good doctor explained, pointing at himself. "But you can call me, 'Father.'"
Michelle looked over, eyes focusing for the first time in her new life, as something definite, the only definite entity in her pseudo-world, emerged and impressed itself–himself, Himself–upon her. She giggled. "Father," she muttered to herself.
"Very good." Dr. Moray smiled. "I am Father."
Tension filled her, the good kind of tension, and as it filled her her body took shape for her, a loose shape, of course, as everything in her world was loose, fuzzy, flexible, soft and pliable–everything except for Him–through the tension. Her physical body came into being through her through His praise filling her with joy. "Father," she said again, pointing at Him this time.
He nodded. "Yes, you've understood that quite well. Now, who are you?"
Everything swirled into everything for a moment, swirling around Him. Static echoed in her soft, malleable brain. "Michelle?" she suggested.
"Very good! Good girl." He patted her on the head.
She mewled in pleasure, legs pressing tightly together. Physically, her skin was just starting to soften from the hypo-estrogenization treatment the doctor had given her, but the mental effects worked much faster and as a loose resemblance of reality rebuilt itself around her–around Him–it was a reality relative to a body that sensorily felt estrogen-based–feelings that were responses to and relative to Him as the one who commanded those estrogenized bodily responses from her.
The triumvirate of God, human being and world, all correlative to each other, emerged from the whirl of sensation for Michelle, with Dr. Moray, God the Father, her, woman and an assemblage of channels for sensations to flow through or override as they pleased, pseudo-world.
Michelle blinked, looking around her fuzzy world lazily, head lolling about as parts of it approached and then receded from her as she moved. This fascinated her, having lost her grasp of object permanence when the good doctor fried her brain. "Woah," she murmured.
Dr. Moray chuckled. "Don't worry about it, my pet, just enjoy the experience," he said, though he knew she was mentally incapable of worrying, not now anyway.
It hadn't even occurred to her to worry and she didn't even know what that meant, which she was happy about because if she wasn't allowed to do it it was probably good that she didn't know how to in the first place, so long as she didn't end up doing so by accident.
So she just burbled happily, glassy eyes glancing around the room, occasionally settling on a seemingly arbitrary spot in rapt attention before moving on to another, often settling for awhile on Father, which made her feel all good and tingly inside, but also a little sad and empty and He still hadn't put his pants back up so his delicious cock was still just sitting there and now you could say it was pulling her in since there was now a "her" that existed in relation to "Him" and so could be pulled in by its musky smell which made her feel so tight and needy and incredible.
Meanwhile, Dr. Moray just worked on her paperwork, looking up every once and awhile to make sure the stupid bitch hadn't hurt herself somehow. He had already determined she was fried, but usable. Probably some political officer would get her as a concubine, someone to take the stress off when their actual wife didn't cut it. Dr. Moray had three of them himself, all "unfortunate accidents" that he would "take as opportunities to learn and grow." Man, the blonde one could really suck dick. He'd spotted her in the waiting room. He didn't even need to get fillers for her, she just came like that. She got five zaps.
The good doctor looked down at Michelle, who stared longingly, mouth agape and dripping with saliva, up at his girth. He smiled. She had nice cheekbones, would probably be pretty cute some day, once her tits came in.
He bit his lip, staring back at those big, brown doe eyes, shimmering in need. But he zipped his pants up. He wasn't a faggot and "she" still had a dick, even if it would never work again.
She collapsed, the beautiful presence, that primordial presence which was Father's cock, fading further away from her, leaving her alone in her emptiness, deprived of the root of her being (which was cock), causing her to curl up into a ball and begin shaking, weeping and hyperventilating.
He sighed. "Jesus fucking Christ," he muttered angrily, before taking it back out again, shaking his dick a little in her face. This seemed to calm the girl, whose breathing immediately steadied.
Dr. Moray quickly marked her down as a "Class D" citizen (subhuman) on his clipboard and added a note of "beware: needy!! recc: ship to some horny bastard who doesn't mind putting his dick in crazy" before stepping out of his arm chair and sighing.
"Fine," He said, His tone sending shockwaves through her, causing her to settle down and bring herself to a sitting position, waiting patiently in front of Him. "Ordinarily I'd wait until your check-up, but if you just can't wait to get a taste of my cock, I guess you can have a lick."
So he stood there, hands on his hips, feet shoulder width apart, right in front of Michelle.
"What? So now you don't want it? Jesus Christ, women these days, can never make up their minds." He bent down to zip his pants up.
She whimpered, foot shaking, nudging towards His cock but too afraid to touch it.
He smiled. "Oh, I see. Dumb bitch is too dumb to understand anything more complicated than a direct order, huh? That's cute. Let's try this then." He cracked his knuckles. "Lick it, whore."
Immediately she bent forward, tongue stretching out of her mouth, lapping softly at His genitals, enjoying the almost sickly sweet taste of them, the slight saltiness of his pre-cum (he had been more excited than he had been letting on). The feeling of Him hardening at her touch made her feel wanted and useful and her legs tingled with need, the need to be filled.
Dr. Moray groaned as she pleasured him, taking deep breaths to steady himself, so that he wouldn't be overwhelmed by arousal. Looking down, "she" still looked like a boy, so it still seemed kinda gay to him, though he could imagine the "woman" (obedient sextoy) "she" would become and kinda get into it. He hesitated. But she treated his cock well and, in the end, wasn't that what mattered?
So he let her enjoy his penis popsicle for a little while longer, losing himself in the pleasure of her oral stimulation, feeling himself go stiff in her mouth (at some point, he had slipped past her tongue, though neither of them could quite tell when that had happened). She savored His magnificence, head pressing forward to kiss His balls and let His dick penetrate into her throat (a side effect of the loose, floaty character of her world was that the sensation that ordinarily produced gagging was just another to let flow down the river, one that her body was free to let pass when it did not serve her, or Him, rather).
Looking over at the clock, Dr. Moray suddenly realized he had spent altogether too much time with this tranny bitch and was at risk of falling behind schedule. So he leaned forward, grabbing her hair and thrusting her into him, faster and faster, his own head shaking back and forth as he used her.
"Feel up my balls, you stupid whore!" he shouted, not caring right now whether or not they could hear him in the waiting room.
She mumbled something, though what it was nobody could say because of the throbbing dick she was being forced to pleasure, and reached up, first uncertainly poking at His testicles (and being pushed away by the force with which He was sliding her mouth over His penis), then more confidently grabbing at them, feeling their softness and their hairiness, the interesting texture of a hairy ball sack, while He kept using her furiously, eyes watering, as He felt the climax building up inside of Him.
He let out a scream, releasing her from his grip as he released, not thinking as she fell back, no longer being held up by his grasp. His dick squirted out hot loads onto the stool behind her, then, as it drifted down (Dr. Moray was panting heavily, leaning back against the wall), onto her face and chest.
She lay there, reveling in the feeling of His seed on her, touching her face and chest and enjoying its stickiness, tasting it and feeling herself melt as she realized that she had pleased Father. Looking up, she let more cum drip down onto her from the stool, giggling as it touched her, maneuvering herself so it fell right into her mouth. Her head was so light and foggy. Her world was paper-thin. He was the only solid thing that she knew and this came from Him. It had an almost supernatural flavor to it, His cum.
Dr. Moray stood there, making sure the tide was over, before sticking his dick back down into his pants nervously and looking over the aftermath of the scene. "Fuck," he muttered under his breath, careful not to disturb Michelle. He hated to do clean up, but she was clearly too dumb to help.
Grumbling, he zipped his pants up and grabbed some paper towels, first wiping off the sweat from his face and then the jizz from the stool (causing Michelle to whine but he ignored her this time. Pretty quickly she went back to investigating the cum already on her body).
The doctor, still annoyed with himself, kicked her in the shin.
"Ouch!" she moaned.
"Shut up!" he shouted.
She compressed into herself.
"I'm not a faggot!" he screamed.
She nodded quietly. At this point, she had no idea what that word meant, except that Father wasn't one.
"So that means you're already a girl. Even though you have a dick. Okay?!"
She blinked. "Okay." The social construct of gender was still beyond her, she was simply guided by a primordial sense of what her body was supposed to feel like. She looked down. The dose of hyper-estrogen she had already received left her with almost no feeling in her crotch. She hadn't really been aware that she had a dick. She wouldn't have one for very much longer.
"Right!" He turned away from her, still tormenting himself over what had just happened, before pointing over at a space in the wall. "Go in there!" he said, before taking more deep breaths to calm himself.
A hole opened where he was pointing, a little smaller than a normal door. Usually you would have to crouch to get through, but Michelle just obediently crawled, giving Father one last look of overwhelming gratitude before she passed through the opening, into a loading bay where she would join the other "fried girls" to await a Morale Officer to collect them and take them to their new owners.
Dr. Moray ripped her sheet off his clipboard. He stuffed it into the fax machine and let it feed from there into the shredder. Ordinarily he liked to do a six month check-up, get his dick wet and make sure the brainwashing was sticking, but this one had frazzled him and he just wanted nothing to do with the goddamn bitch whore. The Morale Office could deal with her now, monitor the rest of her estrogenization treatment and send her off to whoever was dumb and horny enough to want such a needy cock slut.
He sighed. Looking down, he saw there was a slight stain on his jeans. That had been a very good orgasm, he reflected soberly.
The good doctor did one more check of the room, wiping off some stray strands of seed with more paper towels and stuffing them into the waste disposal unit, before sitting back down in his armchair. He took a second to compose himself. After some deep breaths, he pressed his hair back and tapped a little button on the wall.
"Ding!" 75, the counter read.