The Mission

Chapter One

John reread the advertisement in the well-thumbed newspaper as he slugged the last of his coffee:

– Tired of being ignored, downtrodden and humiliated by a system created to exploit you?

– Tired of being less than the man you truly are?

Then travel to The United Districts of Kali!

Our efficient immigration centres will quickly process your application for a new life, based upon your gender identification, needs and aspirations. Our free, deluxe buses are waiting in every town. Satisfaction guaranteed — or your body back!

“Male submission is a woman’s human right, and it nobles the root of her being.” — the founding matrons.

His cock twitched illicitly, betraying his better judgement. There was no way he was ever going to the UDK. No way. Not ever. Nope. For the millionth time: not a chance.

The barista swept the courtesy newspaper aside the moment he stood andventured into the gloom.

It was raining outside — of course, it always bloody rained — and he throw his hat on and buttoned up his jacket. A few brave cars hissed by in the swirling breathness of what was once a bustling high street. Mottled columns of twisted decay shuttered long-abandoned frontage. ‘Temporary’ installations of electronic signage earned meagre coin from one faceless shop to the next.

Litter congregated under the ledges and doorways. The sky’s relentless lashing purified it against the hard alter of the crumbling sidewalk.

John reached the grim facade of ‘AAA Hardware’ and stood beneath its tattered canopy, pondering his next action. Its grim, stained windows were secured by a hefty cross of security bars. His hand instinctively clapped his wallet.

He’d enough money to buy a pack of GrindAgain, which would feed him for the week, or enough to pay for the electricity to cook it. But not both, not at the same time. Alternatively, he could subsistat the cafe every other day and starve for the rest.

Right on cue, the sign directly across the road flashed ‘GrindAgain!’ in bright red letters. A follow-on message was served: ‘Making America’s GrindAgain, and again and again! Powering you, one meal at a time.‘

“Fuck off,” he said to the sign, angry that he’d allowed his thoughts to become too pointed.

“No fucking privacy,” he spat with disgust.

The letters morphed into blue text and read: ‘MicroScope, your privacy is our business! Power to you, one swipe at a time.‘

He closed his eyes and tried not to scream. At least try not to make it too fucking obvious, he thought.

The screen blanked and turned blue. Small white text punched out ‘Error 418’.

Annoyed, John returned his attention to the problem at hand. He’d long since run out of things to burn in his contributed stove, which for a time had helped him make ends meet. He wasn’t alone in that, and it was no longer fEasible to ‘find’ wood and other burnables. It had become so bad that even the abandoned buildings had been plucked of their timber.

His main problem however wasn’t eking out the week. It was repeating that suffering for the next, and then the next, and then every week thereafter as the gaps between meals slowly increased until he became too weak and just died. There was only one direction for the cost of surviving, and it always led straight to hell.

Life was utterly shit, and John, like so many others, had been left behind to fail. He’d been betrayed by the stream of lies and propaganda, believing his ethnic privilege would be enough to get him through the tough times. The secessionist revolution had been brutally swift when it rocked up, but was now a distant memory. They later formed the UDK out west, and by all accounts seemed to be doing much better.

There was one final option, but it gripped John’s empty stomach with dread. The local mahadists always had work… but at a price. Frankly, if the choice was between losing your dignity to them or the UDK, at least the UDK promised a better life and definitely had much better weather. Becoming a mahadi just put off the inevitable.

A stranger curried under the canopy and joined with John’s observation of the celestial dirge beating the road into submission.

“Rain again,” said the stranger.

John looked pained. Rain again? What a stupid fucking thing to say!

The sky continued with its judgment.

The stranger made a play of clearing his throat and forced another attempt: “I know where ya can make good dough…”

“So do I,” John cut him off with a firm, shutting-down-the-conversation tone.

“Ya don’t un’stand. Y’ain’t nah choice.”

John Turned to the stranger for the first time. His face was partially hidden by his hood, but he was obviously young, in his early twenties at best. Four spangled letters had been badly inked across his forehead. Theyread ‘MAHA’ and John instantly knew everything he needed to know about him.

“You’re just a child,” John said, being careful not to include the obviouss burning across his mind.

The strange dragged his eye-daggers against the frustration of his entitlement, and sharpened his focus.

“Fuck wid me, ya fuck wid da chaptah!” he beat out with oddly angled hands, “Come wid me or I’ll fuckin’ cap ya!”

Clearly, the strange convulsions were something he’d learned whilst touching himself to X-SPAN earlier that morning.

John laboured a sight of exasperation. Without warning, he swept his right and knuckled the kid’s throat in a single movement. His sudden vertical integration terminated with a crack. The rain water lapped against him and was turned to wine.

“Shit.”

John looked up. Five red-jacketed bros spilled out of the alley across the street. Mahadists, he thought. The kid must’ve been their prospect.

He knew there was no point in running; at least he had the shop at his back where he might stand a chance. He raised his arms defiantly.

“Come on, motherfuckers!” he roared, going them to attack before they had time to think it through.

A gloriously quick death, he thought, and would sure beat the hell out of a slow starvation.

Chapter Two

The sound of ringing woman him.

It wasn’t an alarm clock, a fire alarm or even a police siren; it was an unstoppable ringing within his ears.

He was laying on a bed, indoors, all warm and dry. His tennis ball eyes occupied the light.

“Gently does it now,” said a soft voice.

Drops of water spread against his lips and presed them apart. His skin burned. He moved involuntary at the lancing pain that skewered his body.

He croaked the two most important life-saving words he could muster: “No insurance.”

His mind was barely functioning, but falling into medical debt was quite simply the worst form of assisted dying anyone could be suckered into.

“Shh,” the voice said tenderly, “you’re in a safe place. You’ll be OK. Don’t worry about money. Just rest, and know that you’re being cared for.”

John exhausted a tension he didn’t know he had, and tumbled backwards into oblivion.

Intermittent moments of sharp wakefulness flashed into the soft darkness of an ocean of memory. The leering words ‘Make America Holesome Again’ cached at him as they broke him down a blind alley. The Great Depression spread him on a catafalque and beat him with human selfishness and corporate greed. His pockets had been looped because the treasure was bare. A grinning, slick-haired man in an expensive suit told him how great everything was.

He sat bolt upright and stole a lungful of air. His eyes flickered open and then squinted-watered-closed again. His heart raced. His hands pressed into the crispness of the bed and pushed him to sitting. The room smelled of hygiene. Everything was wrong,Because everything seemed right.

He heard the click of heels and gingerly shifted his head to the side. He started to feel a little dizzy and his upper body swwayed in slow motion. Behind the veil of his eyeselids, new stars were born and traced strange patterns.

A hand supported his back and another pressed softly into his chest, gently returning him to the mattress. A wave of musk and honey waved over him, as if he were in a heavenly garden.

“Thank you ma’am, whoever you are,” managed John, at first whispering and then rasping.

“Our pleasure,” responded the voice, full of concern.

“Where am I?”

“At the mission. We picked you up after the fight.”

John flashed in pain. “Did I embarrass myself? I… I don’t remember much.”

“No, you certainly didn’t. Impressive, actually. Military?”

“Yeah, once-upon-a-lifetime.”

“Why did you leave? You’ve some years yet?”

John groaned as a parade of unsolicited memories flicked him their two finger salutes.

“I was court martiered for refusing to live-fire upon a class of preschoolers.”

The woman fell silent. Then: a warm hand caressed the side of his face.

“DC, ’33,” she began, lingering with the memory. The event had been consequential.

“There’s a warning out for you. Your DNA’s all over the bodies.”

John snorted.

She continued, “Were it up to me, I’d be pinning a Purple to you right now. You’re a god damned hero, but we’re not living in a hero’s world any more John… I can grant you asylum though. We’ve a great need for good men like you.”

That was when John finally processed where he was: the mission.

He tried opening his eyes again, but this time the firmament divided. He marshalled himself and turned towards the woman. She was in her early thirties and radiated sex and dispatch. Her long, loose black hair hung casually around her face yet framed it perfectly at the same time. Deep hazel eyes surveyed him with a softness he’d forgotten existed, and she smelled of heaven.

It had been a while since he’d had any meaningful contact with what (even technically) passed for a woman, and the mad notion of having relationships with her screamed for attention inside his mind. She was the archetypal missionary who siren-like converted men and led them into the absolute submission demanded by the UDK. But right now, John didn’t really care.

He realized he wasn’t wearing clothes under the bed sheet. So many things to process! He felt something pressing against his manhood. He reached under the sheet… hairless… and something cool and metallic encased him. His eyes filled with terror.

“Did… Did I lose it in the fight?”

Her smile brushed away his crisis of masculinity, just like that. “It’s a standard precaution until you recover and make an informed decision about the rest of your life.”

“Ugh,” he managed, both relieved and disturbed.

She giggled. “You know, if I wasn’t a missionary, I’d keep you all to myself.”

John felt an unexpected surge of adrenaline. The simplicity of the words, and the delicacy of her voice rendered him inside out. The mere thought of this healthy, beautiful and cultured young woman desiring him was nothing short of miraculous, and right now in his life he badly needed miracles.

She saw the flames within his eyes, and leaned in.

“My name is Mistress Jessica, but as we’re outside of the UDK, you can simply call me ‘Jessica’. I see from your card that your name is John. Very pleased to meet you, John.”

“Thank you… Mistress Jessica,” he said, more comfortable addressing her by rank and title, “You saved my life… I owe you, and I always pay my debts.”

She beamed like a star, then reached over, carefully struggling his hair away from his forehead. “You’re such a good boy,” she husked vampishly.

His body responded again. Even during his heyday when there were plenty of women to go around, he’d never felt such unsolicited intensity with someone. He marvelled at it.

She leaned even closer and pecked his browser. Her cent was both subtle and yet overwhelming. His mind span, and he felt like he was drifting in an endless sea of ​​tranquillity.

“What… What’s that perfume? It’s… so, so powerful.”

She leaned back and replied, “It’s a special one we make in the UDK. It’s based on tuberose, and helps calm the mind to free you up to deeper possibilities.”

“Possibilities?”

“Your service and our pleasure.”

John looked into her eyes. Her words had tugged at something primary. He realized with a prominent irony that if she hadn’t been from the UDK, he’d swear to do anything for her. And yet she was from the UDK, and there was a warrant out for him. He thought it over some more; he was now outcast, having long since been forsaken.

“And you are a man of service, are you not?” she teased.

He took a deep breath as logic and circuitstance began to fuse into place.

“What life would I expect to have in your states, uh, I mean country, ma’am?”

Jessica cocked her head in surprise. “Thank you for asking that John. Thank you for asking so soon, and for how respectful you’re being with me. Men from your culture rarely show geneuine respect to my kind.”

She pushed her hand under the sheet to meet with his.

She continued, “A life for you in the UDK? A very good one. I have just provisionally assessed you as being a Class A male. We need special men like you to help develop our society into a more perfect union of citizen and service. You’d have all the freedom you want, and — as I see it with you — you could even hold station as a citizen. Being a citizen is a big deal, John. And being a male citizen is very rare. You won’t know how blessed that is until you live it. So yes, you could have a very good life in the UDK once you pass through Orientation.”

It was a lot to take in, and like all salvation, sounded too good to be true. He was the ‘special one’, right? And she desired him; and her ‘organisation’ needed him badly. It was one hell of a combination by any standard.

“Orientation?” he prompted.

She squeezed his hand, “All immigrants and asylum seekers must submit to Orientation, regardless of their final station. It’s vital for everyone to understand how our society works, from the ‘bottom’ up, so to speak. John, we are about unity of service. Everyone graduates and take the pledge, and the majority do so willingly. The others just need a little encouragement from their NeuraKink saddles. In our culture, John, there’s virtually no crime. There’s no crime because we regulate and educate ego, especially the male, and we extend equality of care to all. Everyone has a place in the UDK; everyone is needed. Do you have any idea why this approach is so important?”

He smiled. “Yeah. You’re speaking to the choir on that one ma’am,” he said, thinking about the previous years of one popular national looting after another, hypnotically swinging from left to right and back again.

“That’s good John, that’s really good. Ego is a religious of an age long past, and no longer fit for the modern world. The human body is slow to evolve which is why we use a bit of tech. I know you’d delight in making the pledge. You’d have a place, your health, food and a purpose. This we offer to all. At the end of Orientation, you can choose to contribute at whichever social band you wish, all the way up to the maximum assigned to you.”

He pondered her words. “Why would I want to be less than a citizen? You said that’d be amazing?”

She giggled. “It’s not about that silly ego of yours. It’s about what you truly are deep, deep down inside. Maybe you won’t want to be a citizen at the end of Orientation? Only you’ll know that answer, and whatever it is, when you get to it, you’ll be blissfully happy.”

He looked her over and decidedto speak his mind. It was now or never, right?

“This all sounds too good to be true, but I want to believe you… Mistress Jessica. In fact, I really want to, uh, be with you right now, if you get me, sorry I know it’s ugly, but it’s a struggle, it’s been so, so very long. So like it’s overwhelming me, all of this. How do I know I’m not being manipulated? It would be so easy… I’ve heard the stories?”

The kind brightness within her eyes melted him.

“Let’s talk about what you do know instead then? You know: the propaganda craneted out by a bunch of butt-hurt incels and their robber baron daddies. You know: that a liberal mind like yours is better suited to living with other liberal minds, like mine. You Know: that you could meantfully contribute to our society given the chance.”

She gauged him and continued, “And I know that you’d be cherished for it. What’s your contribution today, here in the Union? What’s your life, and your purpose? What’re your options the moment you leave here?”

He nodded as he listened. “I understand ma’am, I do, but I’m afraid you know, it’s such a big change? I’m not a spring chicken any more, you know, it’s hard to drop everything and start over differently… I’ve been a free man all of my life… And I couldn’t handle the discrimination.”

She let go of his hand and angled away in disappointment. She turned her head and glanced back to him from over her shoulder. She held his eyes within hers for long, cool moments. With a quiet power she said, “Do I really have to call in the debt of a dying life for your chance at a new one?”

He snorted and lifted a half smile. “Yeah, you got me. Okay. I agree. I want asylum,” he said, feeling a heavy burden lifting from his heart and mind, “Sign me up then, I’ll do it now.”

“Good boy,” she said, shifting back and leaning in, brushing her full cherry lips against his, “And, John… you’ve never been free. And you’ve always been discriminated against. We both know you’ve lived a lie your entire life. True freedom only comes from core surrender and the renunciation of all worldly attachments, including false ego. We offer you this, and Orientation will give it to you. We’ve become very good at it.”

Her hand snaked under the bed and found his chatity cage. She pressed her ring against it and Commanded:

“Release.”

Chapter Three

The chatity cage clicked open. Jessica deftly manipulated it free before it clatered on the floor beside the bed. Her hand returned to John’s rapidly swelling member and lovingly caressed it.

Before he could seize the moment, he felt the need to end a sudden curiosity. He asked, “Had I was the assaulting type, I could have made you do that anyway?”

She gripped him with a firmness he hadn’t expected. He gasped and oscillated like a landed fish.

“Sure. But it responds to other words too… and who knows which one I’d have chosen in that terriblemoment? So do you fully understand who’s in charge here?“

“Oh my god,” he said.

She released her death grip and swiftly yanked the sheet away.

Standing up, she worked her silks free from under her tight leather skirt. With practiced skill, she dangled them on the tips of her fingers. John swallowed hard as she returned to the edge of the bed. The panties fell to the floor.

“Ooops,” she smiled, looking down, and then back to John.

He made an awkward (and pained) motion to pick them up, but she mercifully interrupted with the raised flat of her hand, and looked pleased.

She teased open the tiny pearl buttons that lined the front of her white blouse. With each release, the silk parted and deferred to her sweet flesh. Once the final button was liberated, her chest pushed forwards. John’s reality filled with delightfully upturned nipples that stiffened upon peaks of success. She shrugged away the blouse with a deft jostle, and made to straddle him across the bed, bending her knees to guide his newly manifested pillar.

John was not in control. It was the first time in his sexual history that he’d been led. He felt an overwhelming desire to supplicate himself before her hard-nipped breasts, her smell and her femininity, and it was amazing.

She hovered above him like a great eagle ready to dive down and consume its prey. Her long, sharp nails pushed up from his torso and found purchase upon his shoulders. John held his breath.