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Last Week's Story Night Nurse
This Week's Story Education Of A Male by J.C.

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And so it is to the library you go, playing shadows in the darkened corridors of The Academy, in this, your sojourn into rebellion.

You had been here once before, serving for a week and performing the many tasks for which you have been prepared. You had mopped the tiles upon which you now lightly step, and when one of the instructors felt you were too broadly swinging the mop you had been made to brush it with a toothbrush, a bullwhip above your back coiled in the hands of one of the stern guards who would have shown no hesitation in using it upon you had you been lax in your efforts.

Academy Instructress

You knew you would be beaten and beaten brutally for even a minor failing, for you were replacing a prior school slave who had been beaten nearly to death by a guard, perhaps the same guard who had stood over you and crisply directed your every movement.

How many times have you cleaned the bathroom which you now pass on your night of madness, and many times cleaned it merely for the amusement of the students who would gather about you shouting purposely contradictory commands? They are college age, all of them dressed in uniforms not too dissimilar from the guards; black micromesh long-sleeved tops with black padded leather vests that fold over, closing with one hidden snap near the left ribs, with black patent gloves and black patent boots. Their hairstyles are very severe in their short lengths.

The guards are conspicuous from the students in that their vests are chocolate brown, they apparently wear no top beneath this vest --- their arms and fleshy cleavages are clear to view --- but conceal their hands in gloves of black latex, with the black leather ponytail hoods they wear striking stark terror into yourself and the few other males what slave at the school.

The students, too, seem to give the guards wide berth, although they rarely encounter the guards. The guards are for the male slaves, not the student body they serve.

The same student body you are now determined to corrupt with your unknown presence.

Your flirtation with disobedience is, you imagine, a part of your nature. You seem always to be punished more often than the other males. Not enough to be noticed by the Overseers, the government mistresses who own you and rent you out for various tasks and services to public and semi-private organizations, such as The Academy. But you know that, on average, you receive one or two extra physical reprimands --- the light euphemism for the light tortures, the croppings and the canings and the ten - stroke whippings that all males endure --- receive one or two extra such punishments more each month than those other slaves around you. And you resent it, and you dream the crime of escape .

In part, you suppose, it has much to do with your beloved first owner, when you had been in private service. Mistress Jasmine was a beautiful member of the superior sex, as warm and as kind as she was attractive. Purchasing you as an infant from your mother, Mistress Jasmine told you stories and taught you words, educating you well beyond the few crude years of vocational schooling you received, as do all males receive such vocational schooling.

You were taken from her. It was all your fault.

At the VoTech school, while you and other males were being rehearsed over and over and over again how to properly sweep floors, you made a remark about how foolish a fellow male (whom you disliked immensely) looked as he continued to fail at such a "menial" task.

Male higher learning at VoTech Schooling

One of the teachers and a vice-principal took you aside. They were very polite, quite unlike what you were used to as you were routinely yelled at each day, and the three of you spoke about where you had heard the word "menial". You told them honestly enough how Mistress Jasmine was "expanding my vocabulary", a phrase she used every night while teaching you words so you might better have a conversation with her.

You were put into a government shelter that day, taken away to another city the next morning, and kept in government custody as one of their rental slaves. You never understood why you were taken from Mistress Jasmine (as a male, you were of course accorded no explanation, and was merely smacked and told to stop crying when you pleaded to be taken back home) until three years later, when an off-hand remark by an Academy instructor stoked the fires of your singular rebellion.

It was when school hours were over, the students to their dorms, and you were sweeping the hallway. You passed an open door leading to a classroom where an instructor was having a private conversation with a student. The instructor motioned you into the room, pointed at the floor and said simply, "Sweep" --- members of the superior sex communicate with the lower order by simple one-word commands, as it is believed that is all males are capable of understanding --- and then continued on talking to the student. They both held you in such contempt that they had forgotten you were a sentient being and so believed they could yet have a "private" conversation with a male in the room!

You went about your chore, dutifully sweeping the already-clean floor that you had swept only an hour before, used to such redundancy in your tasks ordered by the numerous instructors. It was a means not only to keep you busy and out of trouble but also to keep you mindful of your place, and also as a self-reinforcing exercise of their domination over you.

The student was obviously not doing well, for she was explaining to the instructor about her grades and offering whining excuses which would have received you 30 days' heavy discipline if you had explained away poor or sloppy work in such a manner. If you had tried to explain in any manner, really.

Physical Education Instructress

The instructor grew tired of the excuses and stated, "These grades are simply unacceptable." Then she lowered her voice, more for effect than to hide her words from your ears, and said, "Even men used to do better."

The student took this as awful insult and flew from the room.

You took it as insight.

You thought long about that statement in the weeks after you had served your few days at The Academy. The Academy is the most prestigious school on the coast, a very exclusive and highly selective college. Only the best and the brightest of the superior sex attend courses there.

And men used to do better than at least one of them?

You at first wondered as to whether men were, at one time, superior to women, but dismissed that thought out of hand. If men had been superior to women, as women are now superior to men, then how did their descendants come to know such a state of abject servitude?

So there must have been some form of equality, at least for some males, a balance between the sexes. You grew dizzy each time you conceived the notion of Academy classes with males in attendance.

Given the current condition of your gender, you almost dismissed that as a happy imagination. Never could males have been held to so high a standard as being equal to women.

But the remark; "Men used to do better."

Even if only a few males had once been allowed into The Academy, what were they there for? What kind of schooling did men and women once go through together?

You realized, slowly at first but with daily growing conviction, that the superior sex maintain control not through some divine command of The Goddess (as all are taught, males and women alike; "Take unto you these beasts and train them, and raise them upon their hind legs, and have them serve Me by serving My daughters ...". the Biblical passage which gave males into the possession of women).

Males are not some beasts, a nearly distinct sub-species that has been raised upon your hind legs through the generosity of women.

Men always walked just as women had, and once you learned as they did, and you probably had the same or similar careers as women.

Then sometime, somehow, women stopped males from learning, and you became unintelligent slaves.

Sex superiority is enforced upon you by education, or more concisely by the denial of education to men.

Women are taught the women's secrets of words and of numbers and of laws. They go to schools like The Academy and became doctors, government officers, successful businesswomen.

Men go to vocational schools to learn how to sweep floors, clean toilet bowls, and follow single-word commands.

Women are educated in all manner of esoteric knowledge while males are trained for obedience and labor.

Academy extracurricular golf club

And if the system can be changed, men could be equal to women. Or better.

It is treason, your thoughts punishable by execution through torture if ever you should let someone know them. Women are not naturally better than men, divinely ordained to be superior. They are merely better educated. That is why they are so in command of society, why they seem superior.

It was why you had been taken away so quickly from Mistress Jasmine, your owner who had expanded your vocabulary, educating you nearly to the level of a woman.

Men could be equal to women!

Which is why you venture into this night, over the fence surrounding the government pound --- an easy task, as the Overseers considered you asleep as soon as they gave the command "To Bed" and all of the males hurried to your bare metal cots nailed to the floor --- and down the city streets back to The Academy.

You expected to have to avoid armed guards patrolling the streets, but no, women do not place each other under martial law, they are all one united sisterhood. Guards, Overseers, enforcement soldiers, these are needed only to watch over the males and keep you in place.

And to hunt runaways down.

That thought strikes you several times, but when you at last reach The Academy, the spartan university of five floors and a central tower of stained glass rising majestically over the rolling campus lawns and low single-story dormhouses, your fear leaves you. A window left ajar is pulled open, and you are inside! You had made it!

Now you would know the women's secrets of words and of numbers and of laws. And with these secrets, once shared with men but now stolen away and used to keep you enslaved, you will liberate my fellows.

And so it is to the library you go, playing shadows in the darkened corridors of The Academy, in this, your sojourn into rebellion.

Though you have never seen inside one --- even the liberal Mistress Jasmine would not allow you that, stating that it was explicitly against the law for males to look at the pages, and so she kept her neat rows of books locked up in glass cases --- though you have never seen the inside of a book, you know that your quest begins with books.

Enforcement Soldier K9 Unit

Mistress Jasmine always looked inside books as she would teach you words. The students always had big thick books they carried around and looked through, as did the instructors. Books seem to contain in some way all the knowledge of the world. And The Academy, they have more books than you imagine are to be found anywhere else in the world. When you teach yourself numbers, you know there will not be a number high enough to let you count all of the books in the giant chamber called the library.

The door is not locked, for all the students are to their beds, and the male slaves of The Academy have been hosed and bedded down by now, and so why lock a door when there is no one around to use it?

Stepping into the library, you grow uneasy again. It is an eerie feeling. The library is somewhat familiar to you, you had been here a few times before, yet in the dark it looks alien and unexplored. You know pretty much where everything is, though you can not see it in the half-light.

To the right of the door are several machines. They are always humming in the daytime, as students and instructors use them all the time, calling them computers. To have them dark and quieted now, the air seems so still.

Across from these machines are some small wooden cubicles, set along the wall to the left of the door. Then there is a large counter behind which sat the instructor who runs the library, and across from this on the other side of the library is a small soundproofed classroom with large tinted bay windows. The classroom is sometimes used when groups of students have to work together on assignments, as silence is enforced for everyone, superior and male, in the library itself.

Being soundproofed and with windows tinted, you also heard from another male that the classroom is sometimes used for particularly brutal physical reprimands.

Between the classroom / torture chamber and the counter are some long, low bookshelves, only two shelves in each and packed with thick, heavy books. You would have gone for those books, but they are kept under lock and key because they are expensive, and you do not want to cause any damage. The next morning, your break-in will be discovered if you break into these cases, and if they are somehow able to learn that you were the male what broke the glass you might not survive the punishment.

You fully intend to quickly gain some measure of knowledge and then hurry back to the government pound just before morning roll is called.

Someday you would read those thick, heavy books, but there are more than enough other books elsewhere in the library.

Passing between the low rows of bookshelves, you strain to see further ahead. You can see shadows, as the clouds pass from before the moon and allow the natural light to filter into the library through the windows that ring the high-ceilinged chamber on two sides.

There are a large number of large and sturdy wooden tables. They are long enough that ten women can sit on each side, and they are wide enough that a woman is not able to touch the shoulders of the sister across from her with outstretched arms.

And beyond this jumbled sea of irregularly placed huge tables and plush rolling chairs, beyond this are the impossibly high bookshelves that reach nearly to the ceiling, crammed with books.

You stare for a moment, awed, looking into the darkness above and trying to fathom the height. A guard had once said the ceiling is as high as ten women standing atop each others' shoulders and on the back of a kneeling male (then she had you climb one of the rolling ladders to dust the tops of the bookshelves). How many books could fit into a room that size?, you wonder.

You falter, having reached your goal. Now what? You did not know what book to pick, which book would tell you which secrets. You assume the size and the colors of the book are how women could tell them apart. You did not know even how to operate a book, although it seemed (from watching MIstress Jasmine and the students of The Academy) that one merely opens the book to make it work.

You are drawn into the shadows, wanting to go in some corner and curl up and hide. With knotted stomach, you walk beneath the towering bookshelves a moment, then stop and reach up to take one at random.

You never get the chance to open it. You hardly have the chance to drop it when the guards fall upon me.

You are hurled into the bookshelf, clutching the treasured book in your hand. You do not struggle; it is a capital offense to physically resist a member of the superior sex, and your years of conditioning in the vocational schools take over as instinct. You did as you have been trained, going limp in the hard grips of the guards. The thought of struggle does not even enter your mind until well after the guards have you under physical control.

Though they have come up from behind you, you know there to be two guards from the number of hands that grip you, pull you, pinion your limbs at odd angles. Submissive though you are, the guards treat you in a most rough manner.

The one guard stands behind you and to your right. Keeping the hair on the back of your head tightly entwined around the latex fingers of her left hand, your hair so taut that the back of your head throbs with each pulse of your rapid heart, with her right hand she grasps your right wrist and twists it so far clockwise that you swear you feel the bones of the joint grind against each other! You instantly drop the book you hold, and she pulls your arm so that it is completely extended and pulled behind you, then the guard wrenches your wrist in the other direction, causing you to scream in pain.

The second guard is no kinder. With both hands, a single jerking motion brings your left arm around behind your back and pointing nearly to the ceiling. You pitch forward in an effort to relieve the painful pressure, and instead pull on your right shoulder that the first guard is holding extended behind you. And, too, the first guard will not relinquish her deathgrip on your hair. The strain put upon your shoulders and the back of your neck is so intense that you nearly pass out.

Once they have you pinioned this way --- right arm extended behind you, right wrist rotated so your hand is palm-up, left arm crooked behind your back and nearly touching the back of your neck, head forced to remain raised even as your body strains to lurch forward --- you hear the guards kicking away chairs.

That frightens you, the hollow echoes of clattering furniture, scrapes along the hard tile floor, some squeaks of wheels as a few chairs are rolled away rather than toppled over. And during this whole assault, the guards remain stone silent.

The only noises to be heard are your two screams of pain, your labored breathing, your groans and grunts and wheezing moans as you are wrestled into horribly painful immobilization. The second guard, she maintains one hand on your left wrist and reaches down to grasp your left ankle.

All of the air is expelled from your body in a single long, low groan of pain. You can not scream, for you are close to unconscious as the second guard lifts your foot from the floor and you are half-carried, mostly dragged in your horribly distorted state over to the table behind the guards.

They maneuver you over a table, each guard standing on either side, your head still held upright even as your body is held perpendicular to the table surface. You are grunting now, your wrists and your shoulders and especially your neck threatening to break with every moment you are suspended between the two women.

After you are dropped face-down onto the table, your true torment begins.

The first guard kept her hold of your wrist and hair, forcing your head to remain up, while the second guard shreds your clothing (which was minimal to begin with) with a small cutting knife. She takes no precautions as she slits the legs of your government-issue pants from cuff to waist, jabbing you twice with the point of her cutting blade, and in her angered frenzy she gouges into the back of your right thigh and slices your skin as she does your trousers.

You cry out in pain and then begin to plead as the guard begins to work upon splitting the crotch of your pants. The first guard jerks your head once, twice, giving you the most basic command that men are trained to obey; "Stop!" You had been speaking. You will stop now.

Indeed, perhaps the guard meant for you to stop all the noise, and so you struggle to return to labored breathing only, not even moaning to be certain of committing no disobedience.

The second guard is a little more careful in splitting the back of your pants from the waist, following nearly the crack of your buttocks and stopping after reaching the back of your scrotum. You worry how she will reach underneath you and cut the pants off completely.

You needn't have worried.

"Still!" the first guard commands, with another tug of your hair that you swear draws all the blood in your body to the back of your head, and with her command you remain still. You must remain submissive, passive. You must not do anything while the guards do whatever they want to with you.

"I could picture the guard towering above me ..."

The second guard stands on the table above you. You can not see her, you can only see straight ahead while your head is yet held in place, but you can picture the guard towering above you, moonlight glinting from her boots and short gloves. After trading crude comments with her companion about your being a "nice fresh ass" --- neither woman, of course, ever speaks to you, even insults would have been appreciated, but you are an animal beneath their concern --- the second guard crouches behind you and says to her friend, "We'll have a couple of minutes to break it in."

With both hands, the second guard eagerly tears wider the slit in your pants she has made. She maneuvers you into a kneeling position, slapping painfully at the inside of your thighs and commanding "Wider!" until each knee is on opposite edges of the wide table. Then she takes what is you assume a coiled whip, the short knotted kind the guards of The Academy favor, the braided brown long-handled weapons of terror they wear upon one hip, she takes the coiled whip and without concern of causing bodily harm slides the handle whip-end first deep inside your bowels.

You inhale sharply as the hard handletip is brusquely introduced into your body. Another pull on your hair, commands of "Silent!" and "Still!" repeated by the first guard, and you feel the whiphandle being pressed further into you.

Noticing the muscles of your buttocks tightening, the second guard waits a few moments until your body begins to relax a bit, then she drives in further with the whiphandle. You whimper softly, and even though the first guard does not chasten you, you try as hard as you can to make no further noise.

Each time the whiphandle is shoved further inside you, you make a short and sharp grunt of effort. You realize how little of the whip is being introduced into you with each push. It seems like a lot, feels like a very large stool (and growing larger every moment!); the whip itself brushes against the inside of your left calf, like a tail, and the handle is being pushed inside inches each time (though it is really only half an inch or less per thrust).

The second guard waits again for you to relax. "They train males specifically for this," the first guard says to her. "The males are behavior-modified, sometimes even altered surgically, not to tighten their sphincters and delay your pleasure."

"My pleasure is in breaking the male open," the second guard hisses coldly, and to punctuate this statement she forces the whiphandle further in against your protesting muscles and twists it, eliciting from you a cry of shock more than pain.

"Silent!" the first guard says firmly, but (thankfully) without a hair pull.

After four whiphandle thrusts, you dread the pauses more than the insertions. The pauses are moments of dread, moments to contemplate what will next happen, and you try to keep your buttocks muscles relaxed, do everything you can to stop struggling and simply yield in a fashion and on a deeper level than you have ever yielded to a woman before, so that this might done quicker.

And you begin to enjoy the feeling of the hard and smooth whiphandle, to enjoy the feeling of being full back there, to appreciate the hard pit that opens in your stomach with the thrusts.

With the fifth and sixth insertions, you begin to buck into the whiphandle, grunting like an animal while welcoming the cool invasion.

After the sixth insertion, the whiphandle is jutting out of your buttocks. "That's about halfway," the second guard says with satisfaction as your muscles contract around the handle, not expelling it but holding it firm in place.

The guard moves closer behind you, still kneeling between your legs. With a swat on your right cheek that sends shockwaves of pleasurable discomfort through your intestines, she barks "Still!" while lowering her pants before mounting the whiphandle, pressing her bare crotch against your buttocks. She begins slowly to rotate her hips while resting her hands upon your back.

The rotations begin to increase, they grow faster, and the guard begins to moan. Her motions are transferred along the length of the whiphandle, like a deliriously slow vibrator, and you can feel her approaching climax in that hard pit in your stomach.

As she draws closer to pleasure, the guard begins to thrust violently against you, grunting with exertion, and you exert pig-like grunts of your own as the whiphandle tears into you with the guard's body action. Your stomach twists and tightens and your groin feels filled as the whiphandle is slammed a little deeper into you, then pulled a little out, then slammed deeper into you, the guard's body wrestling with your own for control of the whiphandle. Each drive of the guard's climax brings you maddeningly close to the edge of release without ever taking you across it.

Twice more the guard drives herself upon you, between each frenzied session of sex re-inserting the loosening whiphandle back into your body with one or two more rough thrusts. You know that the guard is having sex with the whip and not with you, never with you. You are but an object there to hold the whip in place while she busies herself upon it.

Less a male now than you were before. At least before you were a slave, a servant, performing minor tasks. Now you are no more than a flesh sex toy, still and silent.

After exhausting herself, the guard angrily pulls the whiphandle from its resting place. There is more emptiness than pain, and you wonder if you will ever feel whole again unless the whiphandle is re-inserted.

The first guard releases your head --- she had let go of your paining wrist during one of the frenzied drives against your buttocks --- and your face crashes to the table. She rolls you onto your back, nearly rolls you off the table, and when your bare cheeks touch the cold table a tingling sensation dances around your crack, inside of it, and you take great pleasure from the odd sensation.

With the careful use of the utility knife borrowed from the second guard (who is now resting in a hardwood chair), the first guard finishes slitting the crotch of your pants. Your pants shredded, the two halves of the pants tossed by her in two directions, the first guard climbs onto the table and, pulling her pants down to revel her womanhood, mounts you.

Facing away from you.

This is the sort of sex you are used to, the sex you are (as most males) conditioned to provide. Cold, impersonal, unloving, the superior sex unwilling even to look upon the male. As in all things, but especially i sex, males are objects. You are to give pleasure to the superior sex whenever they climb atop you. Although it is acknowledged that during the act --- which is a great favor bestowed upon you, you are always mindful of that --- you may feel physical pleasure yourself, you re not permitted to climax without approval.

Screwcaps --- Mistress Jasmine called them permanent condoms --- are widely used, but you have never been fitted with one. During your service with Mistress Jasmine, you had been permitted climaxes frequently, often six and seven times a month. While in government service, you have never been called upon to sexually pleasure a woman.

So you contract your stomach muscles, count your slow breaths, try to focus your mind on anything but the sex act, you use all of the anti-climax techniques you had been taught in the vocational school.

But your eyes keep wandering over the guard, her shadowed brown and black and flesh form atop you, beating her body down upon you in slow rhythms that are becoming perceptibly quicker. Her quilted brown vest, the fountain of ponytailed hair and the smooth and slick hood you see only from time to time as she rears her head or arches her back from spasms of growing pleasure, and her cold hard boots twitch impatiently against the sides of your body.

You keep staring at the perfectly formed globes of her rear rising and falling, rising, falling, rising ...

The shockwaves resonate through the deeps of your still-sore intestines each time she draws down on you.

"Mistress, please, I'm coming," you warn, as you are supposed to warn any woman when unable to control yourself lest she be tainted by your body.

The guard responds by pressing the flat of the blade of the cutting knife against your testicles.

Your climax abates under this unsubtle, unspoken threat, while hers builds, and so consuming was her passion for her own pleasure that the cold blade begins to slip up and down your testicles as her movement becomes more uncontrolled, until at last she flings the blade away and it lands with a clatter as she grunts her peak through gritted teeth.

Rising off you without considering a glance back, regarding you as one regards a toilet just used, the guard jumps off the table and pulls her pants back up. The second guard, still seated, says, "You shouldn't leave it like that. Gives it too much pent-up energy."

With a shrug of her shoulders, the first guard turns towards you and wraps a tight fist around your hardened manhood. She does not even have to give you the release command, for she knows that the simple touch of her smooth latex glove will bring you over the edge. She lets go and you, bucking like a wounded animal, spray all over yourself and the table in a most embarrassing fashion.

"One of you activated my pager?"

The voice is velvet-toned but crisp, the softness of the voice belying the authority of her commands. Even this question becomes a command, carried even as it is on the hushed edge of her voice.