The Administrator

In this dream my arms are straight over my head, my wrists are cuffed and the cuffs chained to the ceiling above. I'm naked. A thin tube of hollow glass, about the thickness of an oral thermometer, has been inserted down my penis, with an X of white tape covering the "eye", keeping it inside.

The room I'm in is rather large. I'm alone, for now. The walls are windowless and white, or light grey. The floor is a darker grey--linoleum. The ceiling tiles are white and perforated, broken only by the long beds, in two parallel rows, of bright fluorescents.

Directly across from me, at a distance of about twenty feet, is a large flatscreen which occasionally bursts to life with pornographic videos. Gay, straight, Lesbian, crossdressers... twosomes, threesomes, foursomes. Anything and everything.

A week before arriving here, at this (presumed) clinic, I'd been instructed to not have sex of any sort, including masturbation. And now, when the videos spring to life, and with the fragile glass tube inserted down my penis, it's difficult to keep from getting an erection. I have to, with all my might, try to think the urge away.

Presumably, if I get erect, the glass will break. Shatter.

To the right of the TV is the room's only door. It seems to lock from the outside, as, when anybody enters, men always, a key is first inserted and turned, before the door opens inward.

To my right is a very small, though tall and rickety, wooden table. Resting on it, and extending beyond it in both directions, is a black leather riding crop. Sometimes when a man enters, a man in a white labcoat, he stands to my right, and slightly behind, and whips me with it. The whipping "only" lasts about five minutes. Then the man makes a note on his phone and leaves, locking the door behind him.

Also on top of the small table is a tube of lubricant: KY jelly, along with a hand towel. In addition to not cumming for a week I've been instructed to douche myself before arriving for my session at the (presumed) clinic. "Douche yourself twice," the emailed instruction read.

Other, younger men enter in the nude--two so far--lube their erect cocks up, go behind me, enter me and fuck me standing up. The fucking lasts longer than the whipping--about ten minutes. And when they finish, and pull out, some of their freshly deposited sperm leaks out of my hole, momentarily dilated, and drips, or shoots, between my legs to the linoleum floor. Some of it splashing on my calves and my ankles.

"Once you're cut down from here," the first man to fuck me said, from a distance, "you'll clean your mess up."

MY mess? I wanted to say. But didn't. The second nude man repeated, in so many words, this admonition. In other words I would become a nude maid, down on my knees, mopping up other men's dried, or drying, semen.

Yet another, different (how many are there?) man in a labcoat enters, old-fashioned clipboard in hand, stands roughly in front of me and asks, "So how many times have you had sex today with other men?"

Don't they know this? Aren't there cameras hidden... everywhere? In the fluorescents? Across the way in the flatscreen?

"Twice."

"Did you enjoy it?"

"It was OK."

"Just OK?"

"Been better in a bed," I remark.

"You feel violated?"

"A bit."

"But you signed up for it."

"Yes."

"So you shouldn't be surprised."

"I didn't know what I was signing up for exactly."

"But it was mentioned. Sex was mentioned. You should've expected it."

"I did."

"But now you're complaining."

"Not complaining."

"What would you call it then?"

"Why am I being cross-examined?"

"It's... my job," the examiner faltering slightly for the first time.

"Some job...," I mutter.

"What?"

"Forget it."

"Which do you like better?" glancing at his clipboard. "Being whipped or fucked?"

I shrug, the overhead chains rattling. "About the same."

"The same as what?"

"You asked me which I liked better."

"And? I need an answer."

"Probably... the whipping."

"So you're a sadist," making a mark on the lone sheet of paper atop his clipboard.

"Masochist."

"What I meant. You'd rather be whipped than fucked?"

"I enjoy the pain."

"Ah. Yes." Another mark. "Why don't you get an erection when you're being whipped?"

"I'm in pain."

"But you just said you enjoy it."

"I do."

"Then why [not]?"

"I told you. I think it away. I don't want the glass to break."

"Do you enjoy the videos?"

"No."

"Is that why you don't get hard?"

"Why all these questions if you're watching me the whole time?"

"I asked you a question."

I sigh. "I told you."

"What would I have to do to get you hard right now?"

Pause.

"You don't get hard when you're being whipped," he goes on. "You don't get hard when you're being fucked...

"This can go on for hours. And hours," the examiner says.

"This interview?"

The examiner blows air. "You're being difficult. You're here for a study."

"What are they studying?"

"Various... things. Pain, pleasure thresholds. You signed up for this."

"I know. But--"

"Anything we could throw at you. You agreed to it."

"Yes. But--"

"No excuses. This can go on all day... into the evening. You're ours. The whipping, the fucking... the videos. Until the glass breaks."

"And then what?"

"You get down on your knees and clean the mess up. You don't think we got other tops in the wings?"

"Wings?"

Laughing, "You look a little like a bird, you know. Wings in the air."

"Straight up?"

He's still laughing at his own joke. I feel myself breaking...

"Are you going to whip me?"

"I don't whip."

"What do you do?"

"Take notes. Note things. I'm a supervisor. Others beneath me whip. And fuck. They do as I say. Of course..."

"What?" My penis beginning to swell, rise, despite myself. A vaguely uncomfortable feeling inside my urethra. A feeling of dread.

"I have administrators above me..."

"What do they do?"

"Not much."

"Typical."

"My job...," the examiner begins. "My job is to get you hard. Get the glass to break."

"I...

"I had a Dom once," I go on. "He tied me up and blindfolded me... and without me knowing it inserted a thick metal sound down my penis."

"And?"

"And when he pulled it out... Well, he'd punctured my urethra. I spent the whole next day in the ER. Very embarrassing."

"So you embarrass easily?"

"Not easily."

"Then what's your point?"

"My point is--"

"I can stroke you if you want. Reach out and stroke..."

"No!"

"Until it breaks. We have people, medical people, on standby for when it does. Technicians. They'll remove it. Remove the tape and the pieces of glass and the...

"Then you'll be free," the examiner claims. "They'll patch you up and you can go home. Otherwise..."

"Otherwise what?"

"More beatings. More fuckings."

"I enjoy them..."

"That's because you're... sick. Fucked up. A case study."

"No. Please don't!" a hand reaching out.

"You don't enjoy hand jobs? It's allowed. It's..."

"I--"

"In my purview."

A final cry of desperation. Mine. Presumably the hand around my cock, now distancing itself, felt the crack, inside. It was audible--at least to my ears. Perhaps I imagined it. Perhaps the tape, sealing it, will soon turn red. Perhaps...

Perhaps it's all a dream.

I awake with a cold, creamy, sticky mess in the front of my panty. If I get up and it leaks out through the leg holes onto the floor (parquet), I'll have to get down on my hands and knees and clean up the mess. This might awake my soundly sleeping girlfriend. Who has begun sleeping with other men and never with me anymore. I'm frustrated. To say the least.

The bedside lamp comes on. She rises up, a frown. Brooklyn, 1988:

"What [the fuck] are you doing down there? In the dark?"