The Facilitator

Prologue

 

            When did this begin?  Some people date it to the end of the War, going on twenty years ago now.

            Me, I date it to that day five years ago when Roger Spencer called me into his office.  I’d been working with the Department of Administration for four years, ever since I’d completed my course at the Academy.

            I had chosen Administration because I liked order, and I liked working with the Citizenry.  Sometimes the two don’t really coincide, but the last thing I wanted was to become some kind of paper-pusher, sitting on my fat ass behind a desk every day.  Field Work, out with the Masses – that’s for me.

            Anyway, there I was, Mike Wilson – 23 years old, with brown hair, a cleft chin, and the start of a few wrinkles around my eyes.  No girlfriend, but then again few of us men wanted or needed a steady woman back then.

            I was sitting at my desk that morning, drinking a cup of coffee and chatting with Jimmy, who worked down the hall in the Information Studies division.  His job was to keep an eye on underground and radical newspapers.  Not that we talked about work that often – he was a huge TV fan, so that Monday, as usual, the talk focused on the latest episode of the Government Broadcasting System (GBS) program Wife Swap – the number one hit back in 2251.

            Jimmy disagreed with me about the best part of the show.  He claimed it was when Linda got dropped off in the alley at 12:30 AM.  Still wearing her tennis whites, it took this rich bitch at least 10 minutes to realize that the swap she was experiencing – from suburban trophy wife to inner city crack whore – might not be as fun as she had thought! 

            Me?  I told Jimmy he was full of it.  The best part was when the lesbian feminist from SF got swapped to the polygamist in Utah.

            “She’s going to love being Wife Number 11!”

            “Come on – at least she’s got a roof over her head.”

            “Yeah, I’ll give you that.  But she hates cock … really hates it.  Linda was probably getting it a bit at home already.”

            “Whatever.”

            Just then the hologram console on my desk came to life, and up popped my boss’ head.  Roger Spencer was a Marine war vet, and he looked the part still.  53 years old, not an inch of fat, with an iron-gray crew cut and piercing brown eyes. 

            “Wilson!” he barked.

            “Yessir.”  He liked his team to sound military.

            “You can read Government documents, can’t you?”

            “Um, yessir.” 

            “They taught this to you at your fancy Academy?  Then get in here, double-time!”

I grimaced to Jimmy and headed out the door.  I didn’t run, because this was our office building, but I didn’t waste time either.  As I got near to Mr. Spencer’s office, his door swung open.  The boss must have been watching me through one of the in-house cameras.

            “Get in here, Wilson, and take a chair.”  I sat down across from his immaculate desk, marred today by one fat binder of papers.  “Look at this crap.”  He gestured towards the binder.  “This is the sort of thing that I have to put up with now.”  He got a distant look in his eyes, and I knew we were in for a reminiscence about the days of the War.  I tried to get in ahead of that.

            “What’s in the binder, Sir?”

            “What’s that?  Oh.  It’s the latest report from the Department of Rehabilitation.”  ‘Rehabilitation’ – that’s what we call the department in charge of our prison system.

            “What does it say, Sir?”

            “Our prisons are overcrowded, Wilson.  And with the terrorist attacks still continuing, we need to make some room.”

            “What is our role in this?”

            “We are the Department of Administration.  Our job is to do the job.”  I nodded, wondering whether the boss was being sarcastic when he repeated the Department’s official motto.

            “And what does that mean this time?”  I asked.

            “Simple.  We need to come up with some Alternative Incarceration Methods, and do it by yesterday.  We need to find a way to get the non-violent offenders out of prison.”

            “The Government getting soft on crime?”

            “No, that’s just it.  These women still need to be punished, just not by prison.  Here.”  He handed me a ScanDisk.  “This is my plan.  Go home, review it, and tomorrow we start implementing it.”

            “Go home now?”

            “No time like the present.  I like you Wilson.  If you can get on board with this Program, you’ll go far.”

            So, home I went, and what I saw that night changed not just my life, but the lives of tens of thousands of women since.

            At home in my pod, it was a simple matter to insert the ScanDisk into my retinal feed.  I settled back with a squeeze bag of dinner, and watched the show.

 

            A government logo faded out on the screen, to be replaced by a shot of the center of Washington DC 150 years ago.  The voice-over began:

            In the dark years before the advent of our Glorious Leader, shameless women walked the streets of power, taunting men with their sexuality.  Men became weakened, and women grew in power.

            The screen changed to show a montage of clips from the early 23rd Century.  By 2300, women were in the ascendant.  Our people, blinded by the evil temptress’, were led astray, and managed to elect a woman – Blanche Finley – to be President of the United States.

            Even though I had grown up seeing her face in news reports and history books, I still gasped at the sight of the Evil Bitch (as she was known!) being sworn in at the old Capitol building.  The voice over continued.  Within months of her election, funding for our military had been slashed and destroyed.  Brave men, warriors one and all, were cast adrift.  The screen showed images of homeless men dressed in remnants of military uniforms.  But among these poor, impoverished souls, arose a bright light – the light of our Glorious Leader.

            I pressed fast-forward, skipping through the bits of more recent history I knew so well … the valiant revolution led by General Johnson … the overthrow and execution of Evil Bitch Finley … the removal of women’s suffrage, followed by the restrictions that banned women from most professions … then the War, and the increased need for internal security … all around the country, women were rounded up and given ID tags and restricted to local areas … by now we were almost to the present day … women were removed from school at 13 years old, and worked as domestics or day laborers until the age of 18.  At 18, they were sold as wives.  Those who did not receive offers as wives were placed into the State Brothel System, where they worked to service unmarried men, as well as married men who were growing bored.  Even with the reintroduction of polygamy, men liked to wander.  Once married, women were expected to bear three male children and two female … genders were naturally pre-selected.  The girls were placed in State Homes to be educated, and the boys stayed at home until Academy Selection.  At 35, women were automatically divorced and returned to work as domestics and day laborers.  A decent and understandable system.

            Nevertheless, according to this Disk, and my boss, the system was breaking down.  Although men were encouraged to discipline the female members of their households, the State still played a large punitive role.  Any serious breach – women who refused sexual favors, who tried to escape State Brothels, or refused to be bred – resulted in incarceration. 

            While this seemed like a reasonable solution, the end result was chaotic.  Our prisons were bursting at the seams and we needed to find a way to leave prison for the truly wicked – women who were caught in secret education programs, or who struck a man, or committed any number of old-fashioned crimes such as robbery or assault.

            And this was the genius of my boss’ idea – an Alternative Incarceration Method (AIM) – run by the Department of Administration.  Why lock up women who could be punished swiftly and publicly, without the expense and bother of creating a prison system? 

This would be the start of a new career for me.

 

Chapter 1

The Chamberlain Wedding

 

            So here I was, five years later, an official AIM Facilitator for the Department of Administration.  I had a few more wrinkles, a few more pounds, a bigger pod, and a bright assistant named Harry Yarrel working under me.

It was a Monday, and I came into work by Jet Pack around 8:15 to check e-mail and catch up on the weekend news. 

First though, I double-checked my day screen.  Sure enough, there was the Chamberlain Wedding listed for 10 AM at City Hall Plaza.  I loved facilitating Wedding Ceremonies – it was one of the best parts of my new job, and, if I can boast for a minute, it was one of the areas of AIM that I had helped develop.

Before long, a good chunk of the morning had passed, and it was time to get changed for the Chamberlain Wedding.  Ten minutes later, carrying my official briefcase and wearing the white-banded collar of an Facilitator, I left the office and lined up at the nearest Jet-Pack stop.  Even now, in 2247, the Jet Pack is still the best way to get around downtown.  Moments later, the hack at the stand was helping me fit my arms into the straps of a fairly new Pack, and punching the destination – City Hall Plaza – into the Pack’s console device.

The familiar kick in my pants was felt, the ears popping as the pack soared up to 500 feet, and for a brief moment, my city’s downtown hung below me.  It’s not the most scenic place in the country, but at least most of the damage from the War has been repaired.  Even at 500 feet, I could see the crowd forming in the Plaza.  As the Pack dropped down towards City Hall stop I could see more and more details.  At the front, lining the ropes, were a couple of classes of Academy students, brought by their teachers to witness the ceremony.  These young men – 18, 19 years old, were among the best and brightest of our youth – and, incidentally, the same age as our blushing bride, Lisa Chamberlain.

Behind them were gathered the curious – the crowds that always gathered, even though the Government provided close to 100% employment these days.  I guess some bosses had decided to let their workers take a break for the Ceremony.

In front of the ropes were the pews for the families, mostly still empty, the central aisle, and then the platform itself.  Above the pews soared a beautiful white canopy, matching the lovely flowers that trailed down the sides and twined along the oaken seats.

As I landed and shucked the pack, I squinted up at the sky – it was a beautiful blue, 70 degrees – perfect for a wedding – I was sure that Lisa would be happy to get through this.  Harry Yarrel loped up.

            “Hey, Mike.”

            “Morning, Harry.”  I craned my neck and looked past him.  “Is the van safely locked up?”

            “I just opened it up a few minutes ago.  Everything’s still in there.”

            “Good.”  About six months ago, a couple of colleagues doing a Wedding had their van broken into just before by protesters, and the entire event had to be cancelled.  They had both been demoted.  We take our jobs seriously.

            “You’re looking good, boss.”

            “Thanks.”

            “How long do you think this will take?”

            “Well, they’re a lot of people here … but I think she’s just having the 30 minute Ceremony, right?”

            “Are you counting the Reading as well?”

            “No, sorry – just the Ceremony.  The Reading will take about 15 minutes.  Let’s plan on an hour, Harry.”

            “You got it, Mike.”

            “Alright, let’s get our stuff unloaded and set up.”  We went over to the van together and Harry slid open the side door and pulled down the ramp.  As usual, the lectern was a devil to move into place, but we managed. 

            “How many different Types are we doing in the Ceremony, Mike?”

            “Um, two.  No, three.  Better get the stuff for Types 1 to 3.  Nothing fancy.”

            “You got it.”  Harry rolled out three large flat brown packs, and pushing them over to the platform, unlocked and began to assemble the material.  In the meantime, I glanced at a small knot of protesters beginning to chant.

            “WHAT DO WE WANT?  JUSTICE!  WHEN DO WE WANT IT?  NOW!”

Annoying.  What did they think this was?  I was pleased to see a small squad of Peace Officers moving towards them, recording devices running.

Just then, I saw a small group of people coming towards the ropes.  An older couple walked in front, the man’s arm wrapped protectively around his wife, who was shorter and frailer than him.  This was clearly one of the family’s in the wedding party.  I approached them.

            “Good morning, Sir, Ma’am.  My name is Michael Wilson, and I am the Officiant at today’s ceremony.”  The older man reached out and shook my hand with a firm grip. 

            “Good morning, Michael.  We have looked forward to this great day for a long time now.”  The older woman bestowed a shaky smile on me.

            “Michael,” she whispered.  “Do you think this will be a special day?”

            I smiled back at her.  “Don’t worry, we’ll all do our best.”

            She raised her gaze to mine.  “I can never forget what occurred between them … but I know this is what should happen.  I just wish Bill could be here to see it.” I nodded.  Secretly, I agreed with her, but I couldn’t say that.

            “I don’t make the rules, Ma’am.  The Government does.  I am just the Facilitator.”

The family moved down the aisle and took their seats on the right side of the aisle.  That was one family taken care of … now where was the bride’s?  Ah, here they came now – the Mother of the Bride wearing a violet dress and hat that must have cost six month’s salary, and assorted other relatives.  I moved towards them, reaching them as they arrived at the start of the aisle and looked around nervously.

“Mrs. Chamberlain!” I cried, joyfully, reaching out and embracing Lisa’s mother.  “What a wonderful day!”  She stiffened a bit, and then hugged back.  She seemed nervous. 

            “Don’t worry,” I told her.  “It’s normal to feel nervous and emotional at this moment.  But it will be over before long!”  She gave me a shaky smile.

            “I just wish … I just …” she began to cry.

            “There, there.” I said.  “Did you get a chance to see Lisa this morning?”

            “Y … yes,” she gulped.  “She looked …” she burst into sobs again.  I laughed kindly and guided her towards the front row on the left. 

            “Here you are, Mrs. Chamberlain.  You’ll get a perfect view from here.”

I looked at my watch – 10:13 AM.  I looked over towards Harry, who had seated himself at the Electrics Console and was checking various feeds.  “The Groom?” I mouthed towards him.  He saw me, grinned, and gave a thumbs-up.  We were set.  It was time for Lisa Chamberlain’s special day … Right on cue, the bells in the clock tower of City Hall began to peal the Wedding March.  The crowd in the back towards City Hall itself gave a cheer, and there she was – the beautiful bride.

            She was about 5’3”, a blonde rose.  Some men like women with huge breasts, but not me – she was just right, from what I could tell under the dress.  Breasts that were young and firm, without wobbling too much.  She wore a classic white wedding dress – a fairly demure sweetheart neckline, scalloped with the finest lace.  On her golden hair lay a jeweled tiara, from which descended a silken, filmy veil that just barely obscured her features before falling behind her elfin neck to descend halfway down her back.

            On her feet she wore small shoes with just enough heel to tauten her legs and calves under the long train of her dress.  Her dress came down to just above her ankles, which were encased in white silk stockings.  In a slightly daring touch, her arms were bare.  Not one bit of excess fat could be seen on them, and they glowed with a healthy tan.  Clearly, Lisa was one of those young ladies who had worked hard to look her best for this important day.

            Her father, dressed in a top hat and morning coat, held her arm.  He stared grimly ahead, white-faced with embarrassment and suppressed rage.  I always felt sorriest for the fathers of the brides – but you know what?  If they had been more involved with making sure that their daughters were well-trained at the State Schools, then they wouldn’t have to do this.

            I stood at the head of the aisle, my hands clasped in front of me, a beatific smile of welcome on my face.  Lisa walked with small steps, her eyes downcast and a slight flush tinting her pale skin.  When the pair reached me, I held her briefly by the shoulders and smiled down at her veiled face.

            “What a blooming bride.  What a wonderful day for you and your family.”  My words, amplified by one of the many microphones hidden in the platform, reached the crowd.  I nodded imperceptibly at Harry and raised one eyebrow.  He fiddled with a knob on the console, and the volume went up slightly.  The crowd, meanwhile, having heard my words of welcome, roared appreciatively.

            In the old days, and at some traditional weddings now, the groom is already there when the bride walks down the aisle.  But at AIM Weddings, we reverse this, and like for the bride to be standing on the platform when the groom arrives.  And now that moment had come.  I gestured towards Harry, and he pressed a green button on his console.  I kept my eyes focused on Lisa.

            She saw the groom, and gave a gasping moan, stumbling slightly, so that her father had to hold her up.  Her father in turn looked ready to murder somebody.  The crowd, in contrast, broke into sustained applause, as did the groom’s family.

            Well, maybe I should be clearer.  The groom didn’t really have a family.  The groom today was a seven foot tall robot, with pneumatic wheels for feet, pincers for hands, an insectoid head, and a smooth cylinder for a body.  The GR-115 Model was one of the Department of Administration’s finest creations.

            Looking at Lisa, I knew – I just knew – that she was finally regretting her actions of a year ago.  Back then, Miss Lisa Chamberlain was an 18 year old Certified Virgin, on the auction block for a husband.  Since she came from good stock, Bill Harper’s family paid excellent money -- $500 New Dollars – for her to be their son’s bride.

            He took her to Upstate New York for a honeymoon at a Pony Girl Resort, and there, on their wedding night, she refused to pleasure him sexually.  Some men would have dealt with this in their own way, or asked for their money back, but Bill’s family was Government through and through.  Bill had evidently turned around, left the resort, and within three hours, Lisa was in custody.

            She was a classic example of someone who didn’t need to be in the prison system, though.  No previous offenses, low grades in academic subjects (therefore less of a future threat), and with the chance of rehabilitation.

            After six months in isolation, she was ready to plead guilty and receive her sentence.  This sentence, in fact, was what I was about to read.  I cleared my throat.

            “Dearly Beloved, We are gathered here today” I began.  The crowd shouted with laughter.  “To witness the marriage of Lisa Chamberlain and GR-115 Serial Number 83450968.”  The crowd and the Harper Family stood and cheered.  Lisa, as well as her mother, were sobbing silent tears.

            “Lisa Chamberlain.  You have plead guilty to one count of Refusing Matrimonial Privileges, a felony under the laws of the New States of America.  The Court, having heard your plea, has passed sentence.  Today, that sentence is Facilitated.  Miss Chamberlain, you are sentenced as follows:

15 Minutes Type 1 interaction with GR-115

15 Minutes Type 2 interaction with GR-115”

            The crowd jeered and hooted gleefully, while Lisa shook with fear.  I hadn’t been present today at the pre-ceremony explanation, but I knew enough to imagine exactly what her lawyer had told her.  Type 1 was straight missionary-style fucking – Lisa would be on her back on the platform, legs spread, while her “husband” ploughed her deeply.  Probably, the GR-115 would take her long legs and lift them above her head, so that it could stick its 10” animatronic penis as far as possible inside her virgin pussy.  A Type 1 ended after the allotted time with a lovely orgasm for the GR-115.  She probably wouldn’t enjoy the feeling of her husband’s cum, however – it was a blast of half a pint of scalding fluid.

            Since Lisa had plead guilty, she would get a spray of Nu-Skin 5 minutes after the first orgasm, so that the burns inside of her would heal immediately.  Lucky little devil.

            Type 2 would be next.  Many brides hated this Type the most.  Their lucky husband would recline on the platform, and they were forced to mount the phallus and push themselves up and down, at the rate of ten thrusts/minute.  Rather than have an orgasm, the GR-115 would send an electric pulse at random intervals, frying the delicate inside of Lisa’s once-virgin pussy.

            It could have been worse … much worse.  Lisa could also have faced Type 3 – anal sex.  And worst of all, if the Ceremony was set to last longer – 60 or 90 minutes, then Lisa might end up with permanent genital damage.  Some women found themselves unable to ever orgasm again after their wedding, while others were able to orgasm but suffered from serious pain during intercourse. 

            The decision to sentence her to a 30 Minute Ceremony was made far above my pay grade.  But I can only imagine that some Judge took pity on something – either her truly virginal looks, or her family’s money.  Either way, Lisa was getting off very easily.

            She probably didn’t think so right now.  After all, her marriage was about to be consummated.  And worst of all, perhaps, was that she was not going to be forced in any way.  Since this was a Wedding Ceremony, bondage and restraint devices were not used.  Rather, the blushing bride was supposed to take her new husband to bed, attempting to be as romantic and loving as possible.

            I nodded to Harry and stepped back.  “Let the Ceremony Commence!” I cried, and the crowd roared back its appreciation.  Harry manipulated a lever on his console, and the Hovercams closed in, zooming in to catch all the detail for those who preferred to watch the live feed on their consoles at work or home, or were too busy and had to wait for the highlight show at 11 tonight.

            Lisa’s hands were shaking.  Her father stepped back and collapsed into the front pew, barely able to look at the scene before him.  Lisa cried “Daddy!” as her father pulled away, but he could not help her now.

            With a hiss of air, GR-115 rolled forward.  It and Lisa were now standing at the foot of the bed that dominated the front platform.  I, meanwhile, retired to the side, where I could keep an eye on both the happy couple and on Harry, who was running the Console today for only the 2nd time.

            Lisa blushed as the crowd whistled.  She knew that if she didn’t begin soon, the sentence would be cancelled, and she would be remanded for trial.  A trial that could result in 20 years imprisonment – imprisonment that would make even the horrors she was about to endure seem a walk in the park.

            Trembling hands lifted a gauzy, silken veil from a blushing face.

            She reached out and caressed the cold metal of GR-115’s frightening features.  I began to count backwards from 100.  When I reached 1, I signaled Harry, and he pressed the first of three buttons on the top row of the console.  GR-115 responded smoothly.  Its pincers reached out, arms telescoping upwards, and closed none-too-gently on the zipper at the back of Lisa’s ivory dress.

            She shuddered as the zipper was pulled down.  The pincers retracted.  She took a deep breath, and shrugged out of the dress.  This was one of the great side-benefits of the job – the view of virginal bodies like Lisa’s.

            Her breasts were close to perfect – 34B, by the look of them, pale and slightly freckled.  At the moment, a red dash of shame was spreading across them, matching the look on her face.  Her nipples were upturned, proudly erect, and had been rouged, as per orders.

            Her dress continued its slow fall to the ground, revealing a flat, taut stomach, whose muscles rippled slightly as Lisa struggled to control her breathing and maintain some composure.

            And then, the most glorious slight of all – a plump mound of venus, surmounted by only the faintest of rosy-blonde curls – and a pair of perfectly formed legs encased in white silk stockings. 

            As for a normal wedding, Lisa’s family had to go into debt to pay for the Ceremony.  It would probably take her family six months at least to pay off the cost of her dress and lingerie. 

            There she stood in her virginal glory, waiting to be violated.

            Harry pushed the second button, and GR-115’s pride and joy emerged from a hidden hole in its torso.  10 inches long, modeled realistically, the robot’s phallus was designed for maximum impact.  Long and wide, knobbed and ridged, it contained attachments that could vary depending on the sentence.  Today, I could see, along with the console viewers watching through the Hovercams’ eyes, a plastic canister underneath carrying the bubbling Type 1 orgasm liquid, and immediately next to that, a TENS-type unit set at Level 6 for the Type 2 shocks.  A small wire led up to the phallus’ head from the TENS unit, and I knew that the plastic canister contained a nano-pump and flow-valve inside of the canister.  The liquid itself I had helped Harry decant last night – it was a mixture of capsicum, cinnamon oil, and filtered water.  It would be heated to exactly 195 degrees Fahrenheit before ejaculation, enough to cause serious internal burns. 

            In a way, not having restraint devices was worse for Lisa.  She actually had to seduce the robotic monster that stood before her.  And on top of that, the only lubrication she would have when losing her virginity was moisture her body provided on its own.

            She walked, swaying slightly, to the large double bed with white satin sheets bolted to the platform.  She glanced back at her parents, and an opalescent tear cut a path down her rouged cheek.  Her eyes went to the sky, hoping for some miraculous intervention.  But there was none.  Our Glorious Leader had no desire to see her pardoned.

            Desperately mastering her tears, she lay on her back and spread her legs.  I could see a muscle along the inside of her smooth right thigh twitching with tension, and small goose-pimples all across her flesh.  She raised her head from the pillow.

            “Darling,” she murmured.  “Darling, I’m ready for you.  Please, love, take me now.”  The crowd’s noise rose even higher as her amplified voice echoed around the Plaza.  I knew that this moment would reach every highlight show in the New States tonight.

            GR-115’s processors took over, and it began to roll towards the bed, its pincers snapping excitedly, and its phallus glowing.  In a pained simulacrum of ecstasy, Lisa began to spit on her hands and rub them against her pussy.  She had clearly been warned by some veteran brides inside of the necessity of creating lubrication.  Unsurprisingly, her body itself could not yet create sexual lubrication.  Her saliva would help somewhat, although the next 30 minutes would still be bloody awful for her – probably the worst 30 minutes of her heretofore sheltered life.

            Lisa’s groom levered itself on to the bed and braced itself on top of her.  Cameras mounted on the head of the bed swiveled and zoomed inward to give Console watchers a bride’s-eye view of the violation.  Other cameras focused on the close-ups of the imminent penetration.

            “Lisa Chamberlain,” I cried in my best Facilitator voice.  “Let the Wedding be consummated!”

            GR-115 thrust its phallus forward, and there was a ripping and sucking sound.  And then Mrs. GR-115 screamed, long and loud, convulsing on the bed.  I glanced back towards the family pews and saw that the mother of the bride had fainted.  GR-115 paused, its 10 inches thrust fully into Lisa’s flower.  I knew that the phallus’ end was pushing roughly against the entrance to her womb, forcing the inelastic cervix to dilate more than this young lady thought possible.  Then GR-115 withdrew.

            And the crowd saw the first-hand evidence of why this particular AIM was limited to certified virgins.  Glistening along the ridged edges of GR-115’s phallus was Lisa’s hymenal blood – her pearl, her price beyond prices, had just been given away to this robotic instrument of torture. 

            Closer to the action, I could see that the GR-115 had done its duty brutally and coarsely.  Flaps of Lisa’s hymen, literally torn apart, hung as far as her inner labia.  Losing virginity was never pleasant, but this … this was agony – and that was just how it was supposed to be.

            The robot began to penetrate again and soon picked up a rhythm.  The bed creaked and groaned as Lisa gasped with pain.  I noticed that the new bride seemed unwilling to respond to her husband, lying fairly passively under his assaultive thrusts.  Her legs, while spread, were not using their strong, aerobicized muscles to thrust the pussy upwards, and I knew from the Console readouts fed to my wrist pad that she was not using her internal muscles to squeeze GR-115.  This was unacceptable.  She had been trained in Kegel exercises at her school, and knew very well that she was to use these techniques on her Wedding Day.  I spoke into my wrist pad.

            “Harry, are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

            “Yes, boss.  She’s pretty still.”

            “Let’s give her the corkscrew for two minutes – up it to level 8.”

            “You got it.”  He began to manipulate levers.  I approached the head of the bed, and knelt down next to her tortured face.

            “Lisa, listen to me.”  My voice was still amplified, and the crowd hushed to listen.  Viewers loved when Facilitators had to intervene.  “I’m afraid this isn’t good enough.  This robot is your husband, and I expect to see you show your love, even before Type 2 begins.  Now, in about 30 seconds, you are going to have a couple of corkscrew minutes.  That is going to hurt you even more.  If you can start responding sexually, then we’ll go back to what it’s doing now … if not, then we may have to cancel this AIM and send you back to Court.”

            She opened her pain-filled eyes and nodded her understanding.  “Please sir,” she murmured.  “It hurts … it hurts so much.  Please.”  I shook my head.  

            “This is your decision.  Two minutes of the corkscrew, and then I want to see some results.”

            I straightened back up as GR-115 withdrew.  It turned to the crowd, giving it a perfect view as the sides of its phallus attachment slid to one side, and a twisted piece of poly-metal appeared, shaped like an antique corkscrew.  As the crowd screamed, it began to spin, faster and faster.  The sides were blunted, so Lisa would not be cut to shreds, but she would still feel agonizing pain for two minutes as the spinning poly-metal was forced past the sensitive nerves at the lip of her vagina. 

            “Oh, God,” she prayed, and then her prayers turned to inarticulate screaming as the corkscrew entered her.  GR-115 swayed its hips from side to side as it pummeled her, maximizing the impact zone.  The corkscrew combined fast down-thrusts with agonizingly slow pulls out, scraping across the labia.

            Somewhere in her deepest limbic brain, however, Lisa remembered how to get the corkscrew to stop.  Desperately, hopelessly, Lisa began to rub her clitoris with one hand while the other played with her nipples.  After 45 seconds or so, she began to buck slightly underneath the GR-115.  I didn’t expect miracles – I knew she was a virgin – but this was still more like it.  And the readings backed me up – somehow, someway, Mrs. GR-115 was beginning to get sexually aroused from her horrific experience.

            Happily, therefore, I was able to signal Harry after two minutes, and GR-115 withdrew and showed the crowd the corkscrew disappearing back inside the phallus.  The crowd hissed good-naturedly, but they were pleased that I had not stepped in and ended the AIM early.

            But while Lisa might have been pleased to see the end of the corkscrew, her agony of Type 1 had not ended by a long shot.  I looked at the countdown on my watch pad – she still had 5 minutes and 30 seconds to go.

            The next minutes must have seemed like an eternity to her.  As the crowd whistled and her ex-husband’s family cheered, GR-115 reached its level 6 pace – 80 TPM (thrusts per minute) and grabbed her ankles in its pincers.  Without any discernible effort, the GR-115 lifted her legs above her head, raising her ass completely off the bed and turning her young body into the shape of a capital “L”.  Without forgetting to respond sexually, she began to moan quietly and rhythmically, beginning to lose herself in the pain and embarrassment. 

            This was one of the glories of the Wedding Ceremony – because the woman had a minimum of three different positions, she couldn’t zone out for too long.  In fact, it was about time to get the fluid heating.  I glanced towards the console and saw Harry already pressing the heat button.  He was on top of things today – I had to remember to compliment him after, and possibly even tell Mr. Sinclair about his performance.

            Thirty seconds to go, and Harry gave me the ‘OK’ sign to show that the robot’s “Cum” had reached appropriate temperature.  I nodded back, and the GR-115 increased its pace to a frantic 140 TPM.  I saw fear flash across Lisa’s face, and then she remembered the lessons, and began to coo at her husband.

            “Yes, darling, yes.  I love how you feel inside of me.  Now, love, now.  Cum for me.  Cum deep in me.”  The crowd roared with laughter.

            The GR-115 model paused, and then drove further in than ever before, reaching into Lisa’s womb itself.  The canister of fluid glowed red, a little trick that I especially enjoyed.  And then, in a foaming torrent, out poured the GR-115’s cum – and the screams began and went on and on and on as the hot oils and near-boiling water scalded her womb and flooded down and out through her vagina.

            The robot withdrew and sprang backwards off the bed, its phallus retracting.  It began to roll around the platform waving to the crowd, as hundreds of flash cameras went off.  Strangely, the GR-115’s had numerous fans – tech-heads and webbies who filled the Nanonet with bulletin board postings comparing the performance ratings of different models and traded Holocards of the best –performing robots. 

            GR’s bride, meanwhile, writhed screaming on the bed.  I liked to give her a minute or so of the pain – not long enough to go into shock, but enough to make her welcome the Nu-Skin spray I was scheduled to deliver.  Nu-Skin was a wonderful invention, although I used a modified form.  Law-abiding citizens were able to receive Nu-Skin sprays and injections at full strength, which bonded a replacement enzyme to the wound site, reducing infections by 95%, and blocking out an equal amount of discomfort.  Developed during the War, the commercial application of this device has led to a 72% productivity increase, since people injured in Jet-Pack wrecks etc. now did not need to miss as much work to recover.

            The modified form we used was watered down to approximately 50% strength – it would place a layer of protective skin over the wound, and cut the pain, but left the recipient with severe itching for approximately three weeks after application.  Nevertheless, I had never known a bride refuse the chance if they had been awarded a Nu-Skin spray, and a couple of them were even so grateful that I had to stop them giving me their Nanonumbers!

            “Lisa!”  I stood near the foot of the bed.  “Lisa, spread your legs for me.”

            “But, but … please Sir, I can’t do this.”

            “You have no choice.  But this will help, I promise.”  She nodded.  I leaned in and pressed the nozzle of the Nu-Skin into her torn lips.  She screamed, and I pushed the spray release lever.  Her eyes rolled up in her head as the narcotic and ply-skin bonded.  I drew a knobbed device out of my belt.  It had a cylindrical shape to it, and was designed to test the Nu-Skin and the elasticity of the wounded area.  A few times, a woman will not heal properly with the Nu-Skin, and the Ceremony has to be cancelled.  If these women are lucky, the burns will heal on their own without too much lasting damage.  If they are really lucky, the Court will take mercy on them, and allow them to have another Wedding Ceremony.  If not, it’s off to incarceration.

            Luckily for Lisa, the EMD showed that her vaginal muscular structure would withstand the remainder of the ceremony.  It wouldn’t be that much fun for her, but hey – she could have been happily married to Bill Harper!

            The crowd was already starting to get impatient.  I leaned down and helped Lisa sit up on the bed.  “Go on, sweetheart,” I urged her.  “Your husband’s waiting.”  She shuddered.

GR-115 turned eagerly and rolled back towards the bed.  She knew that she had to seduce him, and didn’t know what it would take.  In large part this depended on how merciful I was feeling.  I wanted to see what she would do.

As in Type 1, she began by caressing the robot’s shiny exoskeleton.  I stifled a laugh at how differently she already looked from the proud virgin who had stood defiantly 15 minutes before.  Now, her stockings laddered, her makeup ruined by tears, and her inner thighs streaming with her own blood, she could barely stand on her high heels.

And this time, caressing would not be enough.  The throat mike she wore, cunningly disguised inside a jeweled locket, carried her words to the waiting crowd.

            “Please, dearest.  Please.  Let me take you.  Let me feel … let me take you deep inside.  I want you in me.”

            GR-115 did not respond.  I knew what I was waiting to see.

            And slowly but surely, realization dawned.  She knelt down in front of the machine, further soiling her white stockings, and began to kiss and lick the covered hole from which GR-115’s phallus had emerged earlier.  Now she was getting the idea. 

            Harry, thinking laterally, had GR-115 reach out and grab her nipples with his pincers.  It twisted, hard, and she shrieked, but kept licking and cooing to the monster.

            I looked at wrist pad.  Time was marching on.  I signaled to Harry, and after the right buttons were pressed, GR-115 pushed her back, and majestically lay back on the bed.  Its phallus emerged, cleaned by nanobots inside the robot, and, (just for effect), its electrified end spat sparks into the air.  Lisa yelped, but brave girl that she was turning out to be, still approached the bed.

            As if in a trance, she scooted her body up the robot’s ‘legs’, and straddled its phallus.  What was going through her mind?  Did she remember when she refused Bill the same favor a year before?  Did she have second thoughts and regrets?  Did she even hope against hope that she had plead innocent, and ended up one of the 1 in 200 women who was acquitted?  Perhaps … I doubt she realized that women in the prisons field-tested the GR robots – and other, worse things, as well.

            Whatever she was thinking, I saw her bite her lip and begin to lower herself inch by painful inch upon the giant pole.  She began to cry as the phallus rubbed against the Nu-Skin interior of the vagina.  Structurally functional it might be, but still pretty damn sore. 

            Finally, she had taken the entire monster phallus inside of her.  The tip rested actually inside her womb, and I could actually see a swelling alongside her pubic bone. 

            Being a virgin, as I’ve said before, I didn’t expect a filmstar performance from her.  And that was half the reason we often saved the electroshocks for Type 2 ceremonies.  30 seconds after the phallus came to rest in her womb, the GR-115 discharged the first 70 volt shock.  Imagine taking the batteries out of your wrist pad, rubbing them in salt water, and then pressing them to your tongue – now replace your tongue with the inside of your most intimate area, and you have some idea of the pain that must have coursed through Mrs. GR-115’s body.

            The shock had the requisite effect – she leapt into the air, naturally dragging the phallus along the inside of her birth canal.  And once she was at the top, gravity took over, and plummetted her back down.

            And so it continued, for 15 minutes – the GR-115 lay back, and if a robot could smile with an insectoid beak, it smiled.  Lisa screamed and cried, struggling to remember to keep on acting convincingly as if she was madly in love with her husband.  Meanwhile, her womb pulsed visibly from the repeated shocks, and muscles up and down her legs rippled with the after-effects.

            Finally, a bell sounded.  Lisa continued to thrust up and down, up and down – lost in a world of pain and shame.  The crowd yelled with glee at the sight, and I half-wished that I could just let this continue.  But I had a job to do – a responsible job for the State, so I signaled to Harry, and he pressed a large red button.

            With a sighing thump, the GR-115’s phallus retracted, spilling Lisa in a naked pile on the bed.  She lay there, chest heaving as it slowly dawned on her that her wedding was over at last.  The robot levered itself to its wheeled feet, and moved smoothly along the platform as the crowd chanted ‘G-R, G-R’.  It reached the console, and Harry, as the junior Facilitator, began the post-ceremony electronics check.

            My job was to deal with the post-ceremony bride check.  Most of the time, like today, that involved three simple things.  First, Lisa shakily signed a parchment acknowledging the completion of her Wedding Ceremony.  Next, I assisted her into a hover-chair.  Once seated, which she did most gingerly, poly-mesh bands snapped themselves around her wrists, ankles, waist, and throat.  She was, of course, still a prisoner – her out-processing would occur momentarily in the Detention Center underneath the Plaza.  In fact, I could see the two Judicial Marshals coming through the crowd now to take possession.  Finally, and unnecessarily, I spent a few minutes talking with Lisa’s parents.  This was never required of me, but I thought it wise to go the extra mile so that the family did not start to have any anti-State feelings.

            “Well, Mr. and Mrs. Chamberlain, you should be able to take Lisa home in about an hour.”

            “What will she be feeling, Sir?” asked her father, struggling to maintain his composure.  Her mother was too upset to speak.

            “That’s a fair question.  The Nu-Skin will give her a very bad rash for a few weeks, and unfortunately, as an ex-prisoner, she won’t have access to medical care in that time.  I might suggest that you keep her arms tied to avoid her doing any further damage to herself.”

            “But this … this rape … I apologize … this lovemaking … will she ever be whole again?”

            There were women who never recovered.  But I like to look at the bright side.  “That’s statistically likely.”

            “So, she can get married?  To a real human?”

            “Absolutely.”

            What I didn’t need to tell them was just how unlikely a third marriage was for Lisa.  Her parents didn’t realize that she was likely going to be the cover girl for Robot Bride magazine this week, and that the Nanoweb was already filling with pages dedicated to her Ceremony. 

            More likely, Lisa would be known as Mrs. GR-115 for a few years to come.  Her parents would find themselves unable – unwilling even – to bear the burden and the shame of having an unmarried felon in the house – and would cast her out.

            And that would mean only one thing:  the State Brothel System.  Had Lisa decided to enter the State Brothels at 18, she might well have found a fairly congenial house that catered to normal tastes.  But few men would enjoy her pussy now, it having been malformed by a robotic phallus.  Lisa, most likely, would live out her days in a Fetish House, catering to the oddest and most depraved of male desires.

            All in all, she should have married the boy, and gotten on with life.