New Order a'Coming, Chapter 1

Chapter 1

As I write this, I have no idea if anyone will ever read it or not.

This is being sent from the year 2100, which I assume to be 100 years in your future. The time-transfer technology is still in its infancy, and for that reason there's no way to be sure this packet will arrive at its intended destination in the year 2000, which is where the dial is set. The techies say that it should appear somewhere within five years either side of that date, so I'll just hope for the best.

I'm writing this as a warning to all males, hoping that if any read my warning, they'll be able to take whatever action is required to avoid what has happened to your fellow creatures at this point in time. Please help me, and all the others of our kind who are suffering at the hands of the all-powerful females. We are little better than sex objects and slaves, and if you can help prevent this situation coming to pass, we beg you to do whatever it takes.

Perhaps a short history lesson will help you understand what has happened to bring us to this low point. We who were once the dominant sex, thinking ourselves the pinnacle of evolution, are now powerless, and the females do with us as they will.

The revolution began in the year 2025, when the females had their fill of what males had done, and were doing, to the world. They had begun to understand that all power was vested in the males simply because the females had stayed in the background, rarely asserting themselves. That began to change when what were loosely-knit feminist groups joined forces, and decided upon a common agenda.

That agenda was summed up in their rallying cry, "Elect Us if You Want to Fuck Us!" That slogan appeared on banners in womens' marches worldwide, and rang from millions of throats in every country. Woman after woman told her man there would be no more nooky unless women were elected to every political office above the local level. It didn't matter if a few men voted for women, but the remainder didn't. If women were not elected, there would be no more sex.

The revolution worked, I'm sad to say. By 2030, there were no more men in elective offices at the federal level in the United States. As females in other countries saw the success of the campaign, they took heart and joined the movement in ever-increasing numbers. The "Power of the Pussy," as they called it, became dominant. By 2050, every country in the world was ruled by women, and that's when the repression of males started.

Not content with their control of the political arena, women decided to increase their dominance by passing laws forbidding males from holding positions in management of important industries. Within a short number of years, that rule was extended to other industries, until all management positions were held by females, and all lower workers were males. When that happened, women were in complete control of us. We were no better than slaves.

Allow me to use my own pitiful life as an example. What you read here is typical of how men are treated. Surely when you see how horrible the situation is, you'll do everything in your power to prevent its coming to pass. What is my past does not have to be your future. If you act, you can save your manhood, and mine too.

My wife chose me as her husband, with no consideration being given to my consent. As in virtually all cases, I was chosen based upon an analysis of my DNA, which indicated that my offspring would have qualities considered desirable by women. Romantic attraction, or even my own physical attraction, was never an issue. Every community has a cadre of males who were selected for their sexual endowments, and then trained to use them in those ways women find enjoyable. Whenever women desire sexual gratification, a simple phone call is all it takes to have one, or sometimes more, of those males in their beds within the hour. Husbands are for reproduction, and nothing else.

If I ever dared ask my wife if she felt any sort of sexual attraction to me, my impertinence would earn me several hours in the "recreation room," as the place is called by women. Men have many other names for that particular place, and none of them are complimentary. Each house has one of the rooms, and every public building and business location is required by law to have one or more, depending upon the number of men working there. Under the law, any woman may take any man to the recreation room. What she does to him there is of her choosing only. If he tries to resist, the two eunuchs assigned to each public and business room will overpower him, and as his reward, his punishment will become more severe.

The types of punishments are beyond your wildest imagination. In your own time, the instruments of torture were far advanced when compared to those used by primitive cultures. That same sort of evolution has caused even more drastic changes between your time and mine. Women are taught from infancy just exactly where a man's pain points are located, and they know how to stimulate those points to give us the most agony, and themselves the most pleasure. Gone are the days of instruments no more complicated than whips and hot pokers, although those are still used by many women. The modern female's instrument of choice is called simply, "The Machine." It's really nothing more than an electronic instrument with probes that stimulates the nerve endings in a man's body, but that description does nothing to convey the sheer terror it produces when a man sees it being carried toward him by a woman.

I have never known what I do that causes my wife to take me to the recreation room, if anything. Perhaps it's nothing other than boredom, perhaps it's some slight I'm guilty of. I don't know; I do know that the result is the same. Before long, I'm secured to a table, an X-beam, an overhead pulley, or some other equally sinister device. If she's feeling in a good mood, my punishment will be limited to a full-body whipping, the attachment of clamps and weights to my nipples and genitals, or the insertion of heated needles in those same places. Sometimes she'll do all those. Those are the "good" sessions.

If she is angry with me, or has suffered some insult at the hands of another woman, she uses The Machine on me. I'm sure that sounds like pretty mild stuff, compared to the other treatments. To the men of this era, though, even the sight of The Machine is enough to send us into paroxysms of terror. Just imagine feeling the sensation of your penis being fried in the hottest grease imaginable, then being fed to starving rats while still attached to you. Believe me, that is nothing compared to what we feel when The Machine is used on our bodies by angry women.

Following our marriage, my wife allowed me to have intercourse with her until she became pregnant with our daughter. She then restricted me to performing oral sex, usually after a particularly rousing session in the recreation room. She seems to particularly enjoy sitting on my face at those times, while using The Machine's probes on the more tender parts of my body. She makes a game of delaying her orgasm as long as possible, in order to give me the most possible pain. Other than that, she keeps me here to serve as her house slave, as is the case in nearly every other home.

When our daughter was old enough to show an interest, she was encouraged to join in the torture sessions. She is just like her mother in one respect: she seems to truly enjoy giving me agonizing pain, and laughs at the top of her voice when my penis, which is kept erect for hours with drugs, is dancing with pain. Her favorite torture is to inject a flammable substance in my urethra, then set it aflame. As I hang there, my penis looking for all the world like a flamethrower, and my throat ragged with my screams, she jumps with joy and laughs.

You may wonder how men can recover from such treatment, and that is another example of radical change from your time to mine. From reading history books, I know that research in DNA technology was in its infancy when you lived. The technology is far advanced now, and it's widely used to repair, and even to grow or re-grow body parts. I'm sure you can see just how that applies in this situation. When a man's penis or testicles have been tortured to destruction, a simple injection will start the process of regrowth, which can be speeded along by using growth-factor hormones. In my own case, the genitals I have now are my third set, and I'm only 27 years old. Many older men have been through the process several times. Believe me when I say that the agonizing itching and burning caused by the regeneration is a torture unto itself, and to be avoided if at all possible.

There is one side-effect of the process that may interest you. The final size of a regrown organ can be controlled by the chemistry of the injection. Again in my own instance, what was a 6" penis is now over 9" long. Each regeneration can add slightly more than one inch to the length, and a smaller amount to the girth. Men who have been through the process a dozen times now have penises two feet long, and over 10" in circumference. Many women actually engage in competitions to see whose husband can grow the largest penis.

Of course, the monstrous cocks can't stand erect, even though they fill to normal hardness. Gravity still rules, and something of that size is not strong enough to support itself. That certainly doesn't matter to the women, though. Their only interest is in the process of complete destruction, in the most painful manner possible, of their husband's manhood, and then the regrowth of the next, even larger, specimen. Fortunately, my wife hasn't become a part of the competition, although she has threatened several times to join in. I fervently hope she does not do so, and try to do everything in my power to please her.

That we males are of little regard to most women can be seen every day in our society. The most menial jobs are assigned to us, regardless of our qualifications. We are not allowed to wear any type of clothing in the warm months, unless such is required by our work. In the cooler climates, men are allowed to wear heat suits that are made of clear material. That way no male can pretend to be a female, hoping for better treatment. Even those of us who have been made into complete eunuchs do not have the "proper" equipment to be taken for women, so there is no way for us to pose as such. Since all male babies are treated at birth to prevent the growth of pubic hair, there is no way for a eunuch to pretend to be a female.

You may think it odd that my own daughter would enjoy torturing me, her father. I can assure you it's the truth, and probably not surprising, given that girls are raised to think of males as mere toys. They are taught early to identify every part of the male body that can feel pain, and which of those parts can feel the most pain. There have been several times when my eleven-year-old daughter invites her friends over for what they call a "Daddy Torture Party."

At those times, she orders me to go to the recreation room, and then the children discuss which techniques will be applied to my body. In the most recent session, they tied my wrists to the pulley rope and then suspended me about 12" off the floor. An adjustable spreader bar was fastened to my ankles, and then lengthened until my feet were almost straight out from my midsection. A hypodermic syringe was filled, and the contents were injected into the base of my penis. I immediately experienced an extreme burning and itching, and in just a few seconds, my cock was rampant. As a side effect of the drug, I was prevented from entering a state of shock, regardless of what was done to me.

Maddie (my daughter) told her friends that Mommy had said they couldn't destroy my penis for a few more weeks, since she had a few other things to do to it. Therefore, the children had to think of the most agonizing things they could do to me, but that wouldn't result in the loss of my genitals.

As I hung there, they spent several minutes looking through the various drawers and shelves of "toys," selecting the ones they wanted to use on me. As each was chosen, it was placed on a table a few feet in front. They had learned early that displaying the various torture instruments to the victim would increase his fear, and that in turn would increase their excitement.

Finally, all was in readiness. The toys were laid out in the order of their use, and my penis was as big and hard as it could possibly get. Maddie, as the hostess, began the party by selecting a riding crop from the table. She raised it as high as possible, then brought it sharply down across the shaft of my cock. Even her child's arm possessed enough strength to cause the shaft to bend into a V-shape, immediately followed by a patch of white where the whip had struck. Before that spot had turn red, the second stroke was on the way. In all, she whipped me ten times before yielding to the next girl. Even though I was accustomed to that sort of treatment, I could not prevent myself from crying out as the waves of pain shot through my body. Rather than causing Maddie to reduce the force of her blows, my screams seemed to have the opposite effect, and as her friends urged her on she began to swing the crop with both hands to lend it even more force.

After she was satisfied with her efforts, my daughter stepped back and the next girl in line chose her toy. It was a packet of very long, extremely thin needles, numbering one dozen in all.

After removing the first needle from the sterilizing packet, she took my throbbing, red-striped penis in one hand, holding the point of the needle against the head with the other. Her eyes never left my cock as she slowly pushed the thing all the way through my glans, not bothering to stop until it was centered. Even with the distracting pain caused by the whipping, I could still feel the horrible burning and stinging as it shot up the shaft and exploded in my abdomen. Again, I could not stifle my scream.

The little girl then extracted the second needle from the packet, and this time inserted it through the glans from the bottom to the top, again stopping only when it was centered. Again the agonizing pain caused me to cry out, and again the three girls laughed in delight. Two of the remaining needles were then carefully pushed through unused parts of my cock head. The next four entered one side of my shaft and exited the other, again being centered. The remaining four were pushed through my balls. Even though I tried to not cry out, each needle brought further agony, and was accompanied by my screams of pain.

The third girl gave me a few minutes to recover before she approached me with her chosen instrument of torture. Ever since she had placed it on the table, I was filled with dread, knowing how it would be used on me, and the high degree of pain it would give me.

She was holding a jar filled with a clear gel. She unscrewed the lid and then used a small brush to apply the contents of the jar to my genitals. Seemingly even before the brush had touched my tender parts, I experienced an itching and burning sensation that was worse than the fires of Hell. By the time every square inch of my cock and balls had been coated, I was in agony, and my body was jerking around as it tried to escape the torture.

Again the girls laughed as the ragged cries tore from my throat, and as I appeared to dance on air. Not a word was said by any of them, and my third torturer merely watched closely for any sign from me that I wanted her to take the next step.

You see, the only way to remove the gel is by burning. I knew that in my brain, but it was almost impossible for me to beg her to set my genitals afire. Finally, I was able to gasp out my plea, saying, "Please burn them for me. Set them afire, please."

She smiled in her impish way, and then reached for the small lighter laying on the table. She very slowly moved it toward my agonized crotch, as all the while I was begging her to ignite the gel. At last she pushed the tiny switch that kindled the flame, and held it under the tip of my cock.

The gel began to burn slowly, taking several seconds to engulf the head. The flame then slowly traveled down the shaft, until, fully one minute later, it reached my testicles. By the time they began to burn, I was unconscious and knew nothing further until I felt the healing salve being applied to my genitals.

By the time I was fully conscious again, most of the pain was gone and the blisters were subsiding. As my feet touched the floor, and the spreader bar was removed, by cock and balls were a bright red. When I could stand unassisted, and the wrist rope was untied, my genitals appeared and felt almost normal, except for the twelve needles still in them. As the girls walked off to Maddie's room to play with her dolls, I stumbled to the bathroom to remove the needles where the blood flow wouldn't make a mess on the carpet.

That was a typical session, and it should give you some idea of what a man's life is like here in the year 2100.

If you are not already persuaded to help us, maybe this last anecdote will do so. This happens to every father, but not to other males. It is said to be the price of us passing our genes along to the next generation, but many of us, including me, don't think it's worth it. I would rather have no offspring at all than to endure what I will have to face in a very short time.

When a girl reaches the age of puberty, she enters the mainstream of female society. To mark that special time, she is awarded a trophy, which is furnished by her father. I'm sure you are already thinking ahead, and are sure you know the nature of that trophy. Bear with me as I describe the process.

The special ceremony takes place at the girl's next birthday following the onset of her menses. All her friends are invited to attend the party, along with her relatives near and far. Males who are a part of the family, especially those who have daughters not yet at that stage of life, are required to attend. The women love to see their men react with horror to what is being done to the birthday girl's father, knowing their time will soon come to take his place.

I have been unfortunate enough to have been present at two of the "coming out" parties, and it is all I can do to control my terror when I think of Maddie's upcoming birthday. Both she and her mother have been gleefully teasing me with each spot of blood on her panties, telling me she'll soon be ready for her "trophy."

Less than six weeks ago, I was forced to attend the 12th birthday party of my daughter's cousin, Carol. The images from those two hours are forever burned into my brain. Knowing the same things will be done to me before much longer, they are almost enough to drive me out of my mind. Permit me to share them with you.

Carol's party was held in the back yard of her house. Her birthday was in September, and the climate here is mild enough that an outdoor party was in order. If a special birthday occurs during the cooler months, then a large recreation room is usually rented as a site for the festivities.

When we arrived at the party, Carol's father was just then being hoisted into the air. A rope had been tied around his wrists, then thrown over a tree limb. The birthday girl and her mother were joined by several others in pulling the rope until the man's feet were about one foot above the ground. As soon as they were satisfied with his suspension, the rope was tied to another nearby tree, leaving the victim swinging in the air.

An adjustable spreader bar was then fastened to his ankles, and several of the guests joined in spreading his legs as far as possible. When the bar had been locked in place, a rope was tied to its center. The free end of the rope was stretched to a tree behind the victim, pulled until his feet were far behind his body, and then tied in place. His awkward, and very painful looking position placed his genitals in a vulnerable position, ready for whatever punishments his daughter cared to give them.

Carol's mother then handed her a syringe, and its contents were soon injected into the base of the man's penis. Almost immediately, it began to stiffen, and I knew from his reaction he was feeling the horrible itching and burning the drug always produced. Not satisfied with the degree of torment she had just given her father, Carol took a second syringe from her mother and injected it also. I had never been given a double dose, and could tell from the man's reaction I never wanted to. His screams of pain, coupled with the way he thrashed about as he hung suspended there, left no doubt as to the torment he was suffering.

We were the last of the guests to arrive, and as soon as all the greetings had been made, the party began.

Continued in Chapter 2