For background on just how Jonah got himself where he is and an introduction to the dystopic paradise that put him there, please see Chapter 1. This chapter has a bit more exegesis, but you'll find some juicy bits lurking in here as well!
-PB
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Jonah lay on the narrow bed, arms held snuggly to its sides, feet secured to its base. He could wiggle his torso around a bit -- enough to give him the illusion that his body was still under his control.
He found that with no small effort he could place his mind on other things, turning it from degenerate thoughts; and that as he did do, his erection would slowly subside -- and with it his desperate, aching need. So he willed himself to focus only on wholesome things. Things that had given his life meaning and joy: The rewarding days spent at the nursery attached to his early-childhood development classes, the accomplishment he felt after completing a particularly challenging needlework project, the simple pleasure of sharing a pot of tea with his friends. How a few months ago, he had been invited to a special men's sailing camp -- finding that he had a real aptitude and passion for the traditionally female-only sport.
In so many ways, he reflected, he was a model male. All of his guardian mothers had said so. His eagerness and diligence had earned him privileges. Access to special programs like the sailing camp, international exchanges, and even the co-ed Multi-Cultural Relations class. The one where all the trouble had started...
As soon as that thought entered his mind he tried to push it back out. But it was too late. He felt his cock rise as more unbidden, unwelcome, unwholesome thoughts came pouring into his mind:
Thoughts about touching himself. About why he touched himself. About her. Amber, whose hair was fair, whose skin was glowing, whose voice was melodious and sweet. Amber, who had a special hidden place between her legs, a place his cock had begged him to visit.
His male appendage had become more and more insistent over the last few months, more and more demanding. He would try to tell it to leave the whole idea of visiting that place alone; that it was never going there -- that it should be more than satisfied with the generous blessings that Big Sister bestowed on all of mankind every month. But his cock... His damn cock just wouldn't listen... Would never listen! And once he had committed the crime of Willful Self-Stimulation, it had become almost impossible to argue the rational case, to say no to its ever-escalating demands.
And it certainly wasn't listening now. It had turned from demanding to cajoling, whining, begging to be touched, and finally to a kicking and screaming full blown tantrum. "Why?" It seemed to say. "Why won't you touch me? I just need a hand to touch me! Please. Pleeasee! Damn it, touch me! Now!!"
His cock was right. It was so unfair. And it was all his fault. He had allowed the little master to become used to being... well not quite satisfied, but at least placated. He'd been able to manhandle it -- to put his hand around it, grasp it and pump it...pump it up and down and up and down. And he'd been able to do that as often as he dared, so long as he kept himself below the threshold of orgasm.
But now, what could he say in response to his cock's desperate pleas? Now, he couldn't even touch it. The only thing he could do was struggle against his bounds. So that's what he did, straining again and again to make contact with his engorged, stone hard, prominent organ. Yes, he could see it. So he tried and tried and tried again to come to his poor cock's rescue -- he struggled to twist his hips around, to lift his index finger up just enough to brush against it -- but as hard as he struggled against his restraints, he had only been able to come within a few tantalizing centimeters of it. No. No matter how he moved, he couldn't put even one straining finger on it. Damn. Damn. Damn. Argh! So close. Fuck. Arghhh!!
Finally, the exertion and frustration became so overwhelming that he simply gave up on the physical struggle and flopped back down on the bed, giving himself over to the intensity of his craving. His thoughts and desires, mind and body intertwined into a swirling daze as wave after wave of intense need washed over him. The itching, crawling sensation became overwhelming, married to the all-consuming conviction that he absolutely must touch his cock or he would...
What? Die? He knew that that wouldn't happen. And with that knowledge he broke into a cold sweat. He realized that lying here, tied to this bed, nothing could happen that would cause his body any actual physical harm. No matter how agonizing the denial of his desire became, he would remain -- from outside appearances anyway -- unscathed. And therefore... Therefore there was no limit to the level of physical and mental torment his watchers could inflict on him.
Eventually, he began to collect his thoughts again, to focus them on the mundane. And again his erection began to wane. He lay still for a while. Again, willing himself not to think about sex. To think about anything but sex.
But then it would start again on its own accord. He would become erect and excited, then struggle uncontrollably and vainly to touch himself, and finally fall back into the swirling dream-like state, overwhelmed by his body's raw need. This cycle went on and on, tormenting him over and over again. And each time it became more intense, more difficult to endure.
And then there was the anticipation. His mental projections of what might happen. Every noise he heard in the hallway, every footfall that seemed to be approaching his room, sent surges of potential throughout his body. Even if he had managed to relax a bit, the slightest human-driven sound would engage his cock and start the cycle all over again. His shame fought with his desire, and desire always won -- his desperate embarrassment at the thought of being seen like this was overridden by his desperate desire to be touched.
And now there was something else. He needed to pee. Badly. And the urge was getting stronger by the second. Surely, they couldn't have forgotten him? And presumably, they wouldn't want him to spray urine all over the room. Would they? His bladder began to join the chorus of litanies coming from his cock. Finally, the urge became too great to ignore. He had to get someone's attention.
"Hello? Helloooo?"
He waited a few minutes as the pressure grew more and more intense. He called louder.
"Hello! Hey! Can I get some help here?"
And when a few more minutes passed he gave up any remaining hope of retaining a shred of dignity. He strained up against the bed and yelled.
"Help! I need help here!!"
He lay back down. Now he focussed all of his attention on willing himself not to give in to the urge to go.
Finally, when he felt that we was seconds from losing the battle against his bladder, he heard voices approaching in the corridor.
It was them. His mind flitted back and forth between relief and dread. He didn't know what would happen next, but it had to be better than lying in this little bed soaked in his own piss.
"What's all the fuss, little brother?"
Becky's sounded concerned, but the note of irony in her voice was distinct. She looked at him and glanced down to his crotch. He realized with some surprise that his urge to urinate had temporarily eclipsed his urge to ejaculate. His cock stood at half mast.
"I... I have to pee. Really badly."
"Oh, we can help you with that. No problem, little brother. That's one reason we're here."
