Finishing School

Heading back to my office I stopped in the lab to check with my sister and see how our latest project was doing.

Oh, that's right, I haven't mentioned my sister yet, have I?

I was one of those late babies, Daddy's Surprise as mom and dad called me. Gwen, my sister, was 17 when I was born and we had a very clear love/hate relationship. She loved me and I loved her, but before I managed to survive to adulthood, there had been a lot of hate. She was of an age that she could be assigned as a babysitter, and she had started dating so there was a lot of resentment.

Besides that, she had a cruel streak, something she still has if I'm being honest. Some of my first memories are of her squeezing my balls or pinching my dick, making me cry as she told me she hated me and she was going to cut it off.

But I had survived and when she called for help when her abusive husband got completely out of control I went, held him at gunpoint, and watched as she took a baseball bat to his balls.

Something like that kind of cements your relationship.

Besides that, she's brilliant in a sort of cold-blooded engineer's way. When I first came up with the idea of the Finishing School, something I thought of when I read Ira Levin's

The Stepford Wives

(just how DID they train those wives? I had wondered.), I had only the vaguest idea of how an effective behavior modification program could be implemented beyond understanding that it had to be some sort of direct nerve induction pain and pleasure (thank Frank Herbert's

gom jabbar

for that little bit of understanding) she was the one who developed the concept of the Discipline Device into the tiny but SO effective implant we use now.

She smiled and kissed me when I walked into her lab, her SANCTUM as she called it. Then, without further chat, she said, "Give me your dick."

I laughed and said, "I just finished a mid-term exam, I can't help you much."

She rolled her eyes and said, "No, dumbass, I think I've got DD2 ready."

"Oh, shit, really?" I asked.

DD2 was the male version of our Discipline Device. We had been working on the idea of opening a Finishing School for Men, but the mechanics of the equipment had defeated us. A woman's body allowed for a relatively large device to be implanted. Now, don't get me wrong, the active word there is "relative." That beautiful device that trains the girls is still no bigger than a couple of hearing aid batteries.

But that was still far too big for a man. And since the nerve ganglia we needed to be able to stimulate was in the

glans

, in the head of the penis, we couldn't use the extra room of the scrotum. The distances changed too much between soft and erect.

She had been working on ultra miniaturization for a couple of years now.

She rolled her eyes and said, again, "Give me your fucking dick."

So I unbuttoned, unzipped, and pushed my jeans and boxers down.

Again she rolled her eyes, something that had irritated me since I was old enough to notice it.

"No, dumbass, in the chair," she said.

I took a couple of minutes, very much aware of her standing, impatient, literally tapping her foot, as I kicked off shoes, peeled off socks, and then finished pushing jeans and boxers down and stepped out of them.

I got up into the gyno chair and put my feet in the stirrups.

Gwen has that effect on me.

"I think I've got it," she said, holding up what looked like a tiny bracelet. It was about an inch in diameter with a hair-fine wire sticking out each end and a very slight bulge in the middle.

"The battery," she was saying as she pulled back the residual foreskin from where I had been circumcised, "is rechargeable like the girls' and I think this packs enough punch."

She laid the slightly bulging middle of the device against the corona, that ridge at the base of the

glans

, the head, and let the foreskin go. It covered the device nicely and I could barely feel it.

"Okay, cold," she said and I jumped a little as she swabbed the frenulum, that little delta at the bottom of the glans that points to the urethra, the peehole, with alcohol.

"And a little pinch," and I felt exactly what she had described, a little pinch at the frenulum.

"Second pinch," and it was repeated.

She gently pushed the skin up, covering the device completely, and then stepped back to admire her work.

"God DAMN I'm good," she said, smiling.

She looked for a while, seeming to be satisfied.

"Now," she said and there was that feral grin I feared, "let's see how good I am."

She lifted one of those keyfob devices and pointed it at me.

"Pleasure," she said, and pushed the button.

I was instantly hard and right there, that sensation every man understands, that special instant when your body is about to start its ejaculation, that instant of maximum pleasure.

I couldn't breathe. My body was rigid. I could feel my fingers digging into the armrests. My back was arching. I realized that high pitched sound I was hearing was me.

I don't know how long it lasted. Time had no meaning.

She pressed the button again and I could breathe. My hips were still bucking but at least I could breathe.

"Please," I said softly.

"Well," she said, "that part works."

I was still breathing in harsh little pants, wanting that sensation again.

"Now," she said and pushed the other button.

The pain was beyond imagining. My cock was being ripped open and then alcohol and salt and boiling acid were being poured into the open wound. The pain spread, engulfing my balls which were ripped off and set afire, up my belly where my appendix was being removed without anesthesia, and down my legs where my skin was being flayed, slowly, with a red hot knife. I tried to scream but my throat was too constricted, all I could manage was a high whistling noise.

I threw up and felt my bowels let go.

And it went on.

I couldn't breathe.

And suddenly the absence of pain was almost as good as the pleasure before it.

Gwen was laughing.

"Well, that works too," she said.

I heard her but I was unable to respond. My body was twitching and I was struggling to breathe.

I heard her pick up the house phone on her desk and say, "Laura, come in here please."

Laura was, apparently, pulling lab assistant duty today. She was one of our clients, 40-something, very matronly with her Chestnut hair shot with grey, short, a little pudgy, and cute in her poodle skirt, mohair sweater, and saddle shoes.

"Clean that up, please," Gwen said.

Laura left the room and came back in a little while with a bucket, mop, and a stack of those blue towels you see on medical shows whenever they're in the operating room.

She dipped one of the towels in the bucket and washed my ass and then started cleaning up my mess.

By the time she was done, I had my breathing under control.

"Take it off," I said, "the proof of concept was successful."

"Can't," she said.

"What do you mean, 'can't?'" I asked.

She grinned, patted where I was still hurting, and said, "Super glue."

"What the fuck, Gwen," I yelled and then screamed as my cock was ripped apart again.

The lack of pain was a relief so intense it was almost sexual again when it stopped.

"Don't be a dick, brother-o-mine," she said, "patting my cheek. Be a good boy and Mrs. O'Neil might not use this on you tonight."

That stopped me.

She was smiling, that smile I recognized from thousands of torments, and sort of caressing the buttons on the fob in her hand.

"Well," she said, "does it have enough punch to be an effective discipline device?"

I giggled, something I hadn't done in years. I think I was a little hysterical.

"Ohhhhhhhh yeah," I said, rubbing where I was sore.

"Let's make sure there are no bugs and then I can make up a dozen and we can start advertising for potential Stepford Husbands," she added.

"Well, Mrs. O'Neil will check for bugs, I'm sure," she said with that damn grin.

She helped me out of the chair and I got dressed and went back to the office to take care of some of the never-ending paperwork associated with any business.

At 5:01 p.m. precisely Margaret was at my office door, crooking her finger and beckoning me.

I held up a finger quickly, the universal sign for "just s second."

And my cock exploded making me scream and roll onto the floor, hugging myself.

Nothing existed but the pain.

And then it was gone, leaving me gasping in relief.

"Are you really going to make me wait?" she asked.

"N-n-no," I managed, scrambling to my feet, almost falling, and steadying myself as I went to her, leaving my computer on, something I never did.

Her grin was almost as feral as Gwen's.

"Oh David," she said, her voice soft and playful, "I can't WAIT to start training men. You guys are SO easy."

I said nothing.

I didn't dare.