3 SUM , livre ebook

Andrews UK - Quig Shelby

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116 pages

English

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Description

With half the world in a Female Led Relationship, economic meltdown has been avoided. But neutered man is reluctant to shoot his weapon in defence of the Femocracy. As free men battle to destroy these emasculated troops, Colonel Anais must create a warrior. But can she make him hard without getting him hard? Move over Big Brother, the Sisters are watching.

Sujets

Romance

Informations

Publié par	Andrews UK
Date de parution	21 avril 2016
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781785384585
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0150€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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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