3 SUM

Title Page

3 SUM

by

Quig Shelby

Publisher Information

Published in 2016 by

Andrews UK Limited

www.andrewsuk.com

Copyright © 2016 Quig Shelby

The right of Quig Shelby to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Preface

It started after the last banking collapse, when millions were queuing for bread. Something finally snapped in our resolve and wealth competition was no longer important; we merely wanted to survive. In 2050, the people voted for The Great Care Plan; forty-nine years later, the ill went to prison and the criminals to hospital, psychiatric. The institutions of the past were no longer affordable; we had been too wasteful. The first patients were wealth hoarders, and The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders became law. And then we had no more need for elections. We had been cured.

Man's greed, driven only by a desire to enslave females (the better sex), had brought us to our knees. But now his economics, shafting your neighbour, were as redundant as our old roles. The outing of this poisonous seed was preceded by the philosophy of Professor Carla Marks. Women took control of society and our lives, and we men willingly helped them. But the time soon came when they no longer needed us; except to fight their bloody war.

Every patient off-ward managed his own condition. We fought a war on two fronts: with ourselves and with them, the Undiagnosed. I am Valery 01; this is my patient file. I am ill, for I am male.

1 is the Loneliest Number

Chapter One

Everything was monitored; if you walked to the right, if you dressed to the left. Loose lips could sink ships, but we had become paranoid, eager to report one another. There was reason in our madness: the war and some of us really were ill, criminal. Fortunately, we had doctors to identify our sickness; unfortunately, the tools at their disposal were morbid.

The anorak sitting next to me was shaking. “I'm going on ward,” he said, “or worse, straight to the front.”

His face was red, sweating, and he looked rotund like a red wobbly jelly. It was hot today, and he wore the wrong coat. He sat in the corner, fenced in against the grey wall of the waiting room. There was no clock, just a ticket machine. Time was judged by the next number that flashed on the screen.

The only spare seat had been next to his. Everyone else had avoided it, like he had the flu or something worse, contagious, deadly. But this was much worse; this blabbermouth might get you drafted. We needed manpower on the front willing, or unwilling, to spill blood for the cause.

I slipped on a pair of powdered latex gloves, and picked up a paper to read from the rack. There was no mention of the war, only cake recipes, not recipes for disaster.

“What are you here for?” he asked.

I tried to ignore him. He looked out of condition, and was struggling for breath. It didn't pay to be near the ill; it made you look unhealthy too. And that was dangerous. You could be investigated, labelled, then pigeon-holed in a soulless cell. Ill health was treated with a stretch inside, with survivors judged fit for combat. The Council allowed the horror stories from inside to filter out; they were meant to frighten us, keep us on our toes.

“Me, all I said was men should decide for themselves,” he stammered. “A slip of the tongue; my neighbour reported me. I only meant we are still shown too much respect, that some would choose harsher penalties, crueller controls.”

The room was gloomy, like our mood. The one bright light was the Femocratic officer guarding us.

“I don't mean to be rude, but I'm just here for my yearly check-up,” I said.

He sounded a bit far off the loop, and I was starting to hear the cuckoo clock chime. Though, no one was ever mentally ill; rather, they were unwell, like the old-timers who were un-young.

That's right. Maybe you didn't need a doctor, but how would anyone know if it wasn't life threatening? Hence, there was the annual consultation. And if you were fit, had a clean bill of health, you'd just earned extra credits. So why did everyone look terrified?

An old man coughed, and everyone shuffled uneasily in their seat.

“You see, the real joy is in total submission,” said the guy wanting to be my friend, the humiliation freak.

His mouth was chubby, with the bottom lip loosely hanging down, out of control like his morals. His wide forehead should have encased a larger brain, but he was empty headed, like all of us guys.

“Is he bothering you?” asked the guard.

Her eyes darted everywhere; they never relaxed, frightened to lose what they had gained, stolen from us.

Did I say yes or no? Which reply made me look most cooperative, more social? I looked at the young slim Officer, into her pretty brown eyes. At least they couldn't read our thoughts, yet. But they could change them with a prescription.

“I'm waiting,” she said.

She was smiling and her tone was friendly, but females were far deadlier than the male. And did she really want to help, or feast on my helplessness as she corrected the situation on my behalf? A room full of men, and it took just one woman to control us; we really were pathetic.

“I'm fine,” I finally replied.

I wasn't fine, happy, or content. I wore a mask like all the other guys; only mine wasn't made of mud. I was having thoughts, dreams I couldn't control, of taking control and subduing them, women. It was both seductive and frightening.

“You don't recognise me, do you?” said the anorak.

His tone was deadly serious. I felt nervous.

“That's all right. It was a long time ago. You haven't changed though.”

I was spooked.

“College,” he said. “MEN.”

“Danny 55?”

He nodded.

“Keep your voice down,” I whispered.

I bit the first finger on my clenched fist. He'd piled on the pounds, and my head was pounding.

“We were young, messing around,” I said.

“They didn't see it that way.”

We were lucky. They never discovered who'd painted the college assembly with ‘Male Emancipation Now, MEN.'

Though my luck might have just run out, and that was more than a shame; it was a tragedy. I was a success of sorts, had the good life of a kind, at least for men like me.

“I don't feel good Valery 01, they're going to take me,” he murmured.

I didn't know what to say, I just played with my hair. We'd met in the synchronised swimming team, neither of us good enough to make the netball grade. But we weren't failures; you couldn't be, literally. We were neither winners nor losers, but known as ‘not yet winners'; so there you have it. We were still valued, accomplished, almost.

“Do me one favour,” he implored in hushed tones.

I looked over his shoulder, out of the window at the street, and the long queue of taxis.

“I've changed,” I said.

“But the past hasn't. We could still be charged.”

“What do you want?”

“Hey you two,” shouted the officer, “stop discussing the weather.”

We weren't, but we did.

The others in the room looked at me, judging, I could read it on their tired male faces.

A light flashed over our heads: number five to reception. It was the only recognition of existence in our morose pessimism.

“That's me,” said Danny 55.

He held out his hand to shake, and instinctively I shook it. I regretted it immediately, but at least I still had my gloves on.

“I won't be coming back,” he said.

There was a tear in the corner of his eye, and he brushed it away. I instantly felt guilty for not caring.

He looked into my eyes, my soul, and smiled, but not happily, rather with a wry sadness. The Guard was watching us, snarling. Her boots were up to the knee, over a tight blue jump suit. There was a holster strapped around her waist and, unlike the guys here, she was fully loaded.

I shook my head; the anorak was on his way. I slipped the piece of paper he had palmed me into my pocket, crumpled in the rolled up gloves. Probably an address for a rendezvous; I got a lot of that. But if the guard saw it, she might read my file and sign me up for hormones. I had to admit I'd considered the idea, being a shemale. It would mean a bigger apartment, promotion, and maybe regular sex.

I had some vintage magazines hidden under the floor boards, illegal stuff from when women were once considered objects of desire. It was corrupting, animalistic. But we'd moved on from our base desires when men caused the wars. Sure we were in the middle of World War Three, but that wasn't women's fault; over half the worlds' men were still Undiagnosed.

Patients, all men, came and went. Danny 55 was right, he didn't return.

It was my turn, and I tapped the door nervously.

“Enter,” she said sternly.

She wore a white coat, and looked down her nose, undressing me like a piece of meat. I felt awkward, violated.

“Take off all of your clothes, and stand over there.”

I stripped slowly, goose bumps prickling my flesh. My bellbottom trousers came off last. I avoided underwear with tight trousers lest the panty lines should show. I placed them folded on the chair next to my white blouse and thin polyester jacket hanging on the back.

I could see an anorak dangling on the back of the door, and I recognised his other clothes thrown in the corner next to the bin with the yellow bag. Danny 55 must have changed in a hurry into prison uniform. He was obese and could have worn a bra, but they were banned on both sexes. For women the chains had come off, and they needed no reminder, only a standard issue webbed vest.

The doctor pointed at the weighing scales next to the bed. There was no screen, no privacy. I was a specimen to be examined.

“Good,” she said reading the dial.

I felt invigorated, relieved.

“Face the middle of the room,” she said.

The name badge read ‘Doctor Persephone Eve'. They had no numbers, those were for men; we were belongings. The female trappings of ownership had been cast aside: no surnames, no married names, no Miss, Mrs, nor Ms to denote rank in a male world, and no rings to wear or jump through.

Out of respect and a shared memory of where they had come from, they had one thing in common, apart from power over us, their second name Eve. It had been a long and troubled journey, but they had finally reached the nirvana of emancipation.

Her hair was blonde, her eyes were blue, and her scented perfume was seductive. Her high heels tapped on the floor as they approached me. I looked straight ahead; I wasn't falling for it. I tried to think of other things, mundane and tedious, anything that would stop me thinking of her.

“Is everything all right?” she asked up close.

Her voice was soft and high, almost frivolous, as though she could be controlled, entered. I focused my mind and thought of death, my rotting corpse underground. It helped.

The pretty guard entered, it was a ploy to catch me out. I'd been here before, but then I was still taking all of my meds.

I watched them shake hands, though it was more like holding. The doc brushed back her hair, and the guard whispered something in her ear, giggling. They were both looking at me, smiling. I couldn't control nature any longer and, accordingly, I was scathingly chastised.

The doctor held out her hand with the guard watching, hand on her holster.

“Take this,” she said.

It was a tot of liquid. It worked more quickly than tablets, and I couldn't hide it under my tongue. At least I'd enjoyed the pleasure of my aberrant display, and wanted the sensation to linger longer.

“Feeling better?” asked the doc a minute later.

“Yes.”

I was, and my urge had gone.

“Men, pathetic, their own worst enemy,” rasped the guard on her way out.

“I'm going to up your meds, Valery 01, and this time you will attend the clinic once a week,” said the doctor.

I knew what this meant: injections.

“Sorry, Doctor, about my reaction.”

“I'm in a good mood today, Valery 01. I could have sent you to the front, you know that?”

“Yes, thank you.”

I meant it. The fighting was fierce, and there were no prisoners, only starvation for the captured. It was total war.

“Any other problems?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.

“No, I'm fine.”

“I hope so, or you'll be off to prison.”

“Like the anorak?” I asked.

She smiled.

“Sad, isn't it? He loved his bed more than exercise and freedom. I gave the lazy so and so three years, but if he slims down he might get early release to the front line.”

We had given women complete control. Now they were determined to keep it. She was athletic, toned, but I was the one in constant training.

“Do you have a trainer?” she asked, bending me over.

Sex had been turned on its head; improved, they told us. Men would no longer dominate, but serve to be pegged. The penetration was assertive, laid down the law, and gave women control over our bodies and minds. They invaded us, conquered our territory. Thus we no longer needed to explore, or gain new land and possessions. We wanted to nurture what we had gained, unlike the Undiagnosed, men who sought to take it from us.

She pushed her gloved finger deeper inside me, and I squealed, much to her delight.

“You'll be fine,” she said. “Now get dressed.”

“Anything else, Doctor?” I queried, hesitant, with a lump in my throat.

They liked it when you were submissive, but I really shouldn't have asked and was already regretting my boldness.

“Now you mention it, see Gretel in reception before you go. I think we'll lock your little monster up, just to be safe.”

Damn, a chastity cage. I should have seen it coming, unlike the Doc.

“And, because of that frown, you can wear the spiked one. I'm not taking any chances, Valery 01.”

I left with my tail between my legs, and the Doc on the phone.

“Gretel, get cage number 5 ready for our young whipper-snapper Valery.”

“You'll get used to it,” said Gretel, fastening the lock shut. The spikes pointed inwards, pricking my soft flesh.

“Don't you have another size?” I asked.

“That's the smallest we have.”

“I meant bigger.”

The size was constrictive; over time I'd shrink.

“Just kidding,” said Gretel. “I've been through a change too.”

“You're a reassignment?”

“Your surprise tells me they did a good job.”

Like all societies, we had a hierarchy. Women were flying high, with the gender reassignments in the clouds. Beneath them were the shemales who still packed a pistol, then transvestites, crossdressers, and, finally, men. And if you were gay you had slightly more privileges.

“Are you thinking of joining us? You'd make a fine looking woman, I can tell; great skin, high cheek bones, and not much of an Adam's apple.”

“Thanks, and, you're right, they did a wonderful job.”

They loved flattery, but I was still going home wearing the tight spiked chastity cage.

“They'll check the cage at the clinic when you have your depot,” said Gretel. “Sometimes they make an adjustment for comfort.”

The depot was the cocktail of drugs I would take in the butt.

“And, while I think about it, you should make a donation at the Bank; you've got good genes.”