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Message-ID: <48434asstr$1089342602@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Carlos Malenkov <cmalenkov@linuxwaves.com>
Reply-To: cmalenkov@linuxwaves.com
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Subject: {ASSM} Balancing Act  (MF MM bi anal mc nc rape reluc viol humil)
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Date: Thu,  8 Jul 2004 23:10:02 -0400
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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BALANCING ACT
by Carlos Malenkov (writing as Kien Reti)
Word Count: 2570
Copyright (c) 2004 by Kien Reti
Posting and archive rights granted to ASSM. All other rights reserved.



Rape is our business.

We're the Balancers, a select group of professionals who balance the
scales of justice. Our clients are victims, the victims of rape: the coed
date raped by a classmate, the secretary physically coerced into sex by
her supervisor, the housewife overpowered by a drunken brother-in-law,
the woman minding her own business assaulted by a stranger.

Calling in the Authorities in such cases is often counterproductive,
if not downright futile. Rape is difficult to prove in a court of law
-- it's your word against his, after all -- and even when a conviction
results, the victim's reputation is dismantled by the defense lawyers,
not to mention the press.

Obviously, we don't advertise our services. It's unnecessary. Word of
mouth brings in more work than we can handle, and we're continually
hiring new associates to help us handle the overload.

Here I must confess that I enjoy the "down and dirty" stuff. Sure, I
could make like a supervisor and content myself with shuffling papers
and setting policy, and delegate "finalizing the deal" -- the actual act
of physically penetrating the rapist -- to lower level employees. As it
happens, though, I *like* fucking men -- fucking them in the ass, that
is. Especially Alpha men, aggressive top-dog types who have been used to
getting their own way all their life and taking, by force if necessary,
what they want from others. Men accustomed to compelling *others* do their
bidding. Men who give orders. Men who *dominate*. Even more satisfying
than the friction on my hard cock as it forces open their asshole is
the look on their face when they realize what's being done to them.

Take, for example, the job we handled last month. The perp was a biker,
a real gem of a human being. He was a six-foot-four, 280-pound bruiser
who was quite adept with knives, brass knucks, and chains. The guy had
a rap sheet as long as your arm -- rape, robbery, aggravated assault,
and various other forms of mayhem. A real sweetheart.

It seems that he and his buddies had gotten drunk and rowdy on a Saturday
night, an unremarkable occurrence in their milieu. But on this one
particular night, it was the misfortune of our client, Marianne G.,
to cross paths with this fine specimen of humanity. She was a single
parent working weekend evenings at her second job in order to make ends
meet. The walk home was only three blocks, and it was through what was
considered a safe neighborhood. Unfortunately, Barabbas "Monk" Monkton,
leader of the Satan's Swordsmen Riding Association, happened to be
tooling down that same street on his iron steed.

He brutally raped and sodomized Marianne and might have done worse had
not neighbors, alerted by her screams, called the police. Based on her
description, Monkton was arrested all right, but ten of his fellow gang
members adamantly insisted that he was sitting next to them on a barstool
chugalugging a bottle of Ripple at the time of the occurrence. The best
the local DA could do was to plea bargain the case down to disorderly
conduct, and Monkton served all of three days jail time. Justice.

Monkton got drunk to celebrate his release from the county jail, and
that made it easy for our organization to take him into custody. No one
gets unduly concerned if scumbags and lowlifes "disappear" for a week or
so. In any case, we normally have an arrangement with the local police
in most jurisdictions, and this lets us operate with impunity as long
as we stay reasonably discreet.

Monkton regained consciousness in a sensory deprivation chamber. He would
still be feeling muzzy from the tranquilizer dart that had knocked him
out, and this would boost the perception of floating in nothingness, of
being in a state between alive nor dead. He was, in fact, submerged in
a tank of lukewarm water, with eyes and ears sealed shut, with breathing
tubes in his nose and mouth, with IVs inserted in his veins and a catheter
in his ureter.

Only those with a strong and stable sense of self can survive more than
a few hours in a Blank Tank and emerge with their mind intact. Not
being able to see, hear, or feel for extended periods is so terribly
disorienting that it undermines and erodes the core ego structure. It
puts the subject in a trance-like state of shock and suggestibility that
makes possible what is popularly known as brainwashing.

A week in the Tank prepared Monkton for the next stage of his
"rehabilitation." For the next several days, the drug cocktail pumped into
his arms was altered to make him more receptive to suggestion. Every few
hours the tiny sound transducers implanted in his ears softly intoned
a prepared script designed to awaken in him the Anima, the hidden
feminine/vulnerable side embedded in every masculine personality, no
matter how polarized toward the macho end of the scale. Simultaneously,
a specially trained therapist would reach into the Tank and gently
massage Monkton's buttocks to enhance his sensitivity in his posterior
regions. In later sessions, this massage treatment included electrical
stimulation of his sphincter and the inner ring of his anus.

Monkton was ready for the final stage. He had to be supported under both
arms as he was led forth from the Tank and strapped bent over, face
forward over a waist-high padded bench. Injection of a mild stimulant
had brought him to a semi-conscious state of awareness.

"Attach the electrodes." This enhancement would, in fact, make
the treatment pleasurable for the subject. Exquisitely pleasurable.
Monkton would receive mild jolts of current directly into his brain's
pleasure center at a critical moment.

"Spread his legs." As regional vice president in charge of operations,
mine was the honor of the first insertion. I already had my penis out
and was in the process of lubing it.

"Turn on the mikes and zoom in the videocams." Of course, we keep a
complete record of the proceedings, as is required by our charter.

I gently separated his buttocks. A tight "virgo intacta" orifice, it
appeared. This rapist had never been taken anally. Now he would find
out what it felt like to be on the receiving end.

"Open up for me, baby." I pressed a certain spot on his lower spine and
his sphincter ring relaxed and dilated as I entered him.

There's nothing like the finely rippled texture of a virgin male rectum.
It imparts a special sensation to the liquid friction of lubricated
cock slowly moving in that tight, silky-smooth ass-cunt. A woman's pussy
can't compare.

And his face! Variations of disbelief and utter astonishment crawled
over Monkton's features before his face finally sagged into an idiot
grin of cheerful, mindless rapture. Yes, my dear Monk, this is what it
feels like to take it in the ass, to be well and truly fucked, to have
someone else control you, use you, *own* you. And you'll never be a
danger to women again. . . . We've made damn certain of that.


    It is generally assumed that a person's sexual orientation is set in
    stone by the time he reaches puberty. This may be true, so far as it
    goes, but underneath the hard crust of habit and memory a typical
    adult male is surprisingly malleable. Strip away the top layers of
    personality, whether by purely psychological means or by injection
    of RNA antagonists into the cerebral lobes, and the vulnerable raw
    psyche presents itself for editing and modification.


A procedure isn't fully successful until the subject, in this case
Mr. Monkton, has completely "flipped over" -- his gender identity
permanently reshaped to the point that the only way he can enjoy the
sex act is as a passive participant in anal sex, a "bottom." Our big
hulking biker would spend the rest of his all too short life scouring
gay bars for partners willing to satisfy him in this special way.

Generally a week or so of our standard treatment suffices to reprogram
the subject. In particularly stubborn cases, more rigorous methods
may be required. On a few subjects we need to resort to surgery -- a
partial prefrontal lobotomy -- in order to achieve satisfactory behavior
modification, but this is considered an extreme expedient because of
its unpredictable side-effects.

"Okay, this one's a wrap. Sedate him, and clean him up."

He'd wake up the next morning back in the dump where he usually slept,
wondering what had hit him. He might feel sore in his nether regions,
but he'd probably think that was just hemorrhoids acting up. Then he'd
find the DVD in his back pocket, the video record showing close-ups of
him being taken in the rear passage by ten of our operatives, myself
among them. A copy of the video would be sent to his biking buddies,
making sure he'd be unwelcome in their company from then on. And, as an
additional measure, the publication and broadcast rights for the video
would be sublicensed to a major porn distributor. A little extra profit
for the Agency is always welcome.


    Part of the training of every Balancer operative is a thorough
    grounding in the techniques of anal intercourse. This requires,
    among other things, learning how to function as the passive partner,
    as well as the active one. "Bottoming" develops and sharpens an acute
    sensitivity to the nuances and rhythms of human sexuality. Even
    experienced operatives undergo a refresher course in passive anal
    at twice-yearly intervals as part of their recertification and
    emotional recalibration.


I wasn't looking forward to the next case. It was going to be a tough
one. The subject's name was Iford Lakeland and he was a judge. A justice
on the Federal Appeals Court.

The Right Honorable Judge Lakeland was something less than right and
honorable. In fact, he was a serial rapist. He had a long history of
trading judicial favors for sex with female defendants, but even that
didn't suffice him. He was a suspect in the "Boudoir Bandit" series of
rapes, where a ski-masked man would force entry through the bedroom window
and assault women at knifepoint. His network of friends and connections,
not to mention his position, protected him from prosecution. And it
was a touchy situation for us, because we couldn't simply temporarily
remove him from society for the duration of his treatment, i.e. simply
kidnap him like we would an ordinary scumbag. We'd have to get *creative*
on this one.


     On one memorable occasion we had permitted a female client to
     participate in the rehabilitation of her assailant. She was
     very insistent, and she agreed to pay a hefty surcharge for the
     privilege. She had brought her own equipment, a 15" strapon dildo,
     which she would be using to counter-rape the man who had brutalized
     her. This would help her exorcise the traumas and bad memories of
     her rape, or so her therapist alleged. Somehow it hadn't occurred
     to any of our operatives to examine her dildo. She had skilfully
     embedded razor blade shards into its surface, and we nearly lost
     our rapist to a massive rectal hemorrhage.


Careful surveillance uncovered some useful information. The judge was
a member of a cult-like self-improvement group. The Ashford Seminar
Program, or ASP, consisted of a series of intensive full-day "workshops"
designed to break down the ingrained childhood fears and inhibitions
of the participants. This would supposedly enable them to become more
effective in their daily social interactions, in other words, better
able to influence and manipulate people.

This ASP outfit turned out to be nothing but an elaborate scam. All the
better for us, since we could more easily infiltrate it and use it for
our purposes. Wes Ashford, the big honcho of Ashford New Age Enterprises,
Inc., became very cooperative when presented with evidence that would
result in his indictment for criminal fraud if brought to the attention
of the Attorney General.

The ASP directors announced that there would be a special weekend session
for initiates to the Inner Circle of the program. One of those selected
was, of course, the good judge.

They were in a circle, chanting. After fasting and going without
sleep for three days in preparation for this, the four men and three
women were bleary-eyed, fatigued beyond fatigue, floating in a trance
state. "You will choose among yourselves the one who will undergo the
Final Purification."

This little ritual had been set up in advance. It was, in fact, a set-up.
All the participants were our people, all Balancers, except for one --
the judge. And, of course, he was the one chosen for Purification.

Not much was required past that point. The judge had been reduced to
a hollow-eyed mindless zombie by lack of food and sleep deprivation,
not to mention the repetitive, hypnotic chanting. Getting him ready
for reprogramming was just a matter of giving him an injection of
thiopentamine and fastening the electrode helmet over his head.

"If it please the court, the judge will now be judged."

We had him shackled facedown in the back room of the ASP retreat cottage.
The video was rolling and we were getting ready for the sentencing.

"You have been adjudged guilty of abusing the authority of your office
to obtain sex from unwilling defendants in your court. Further, you are
guilty of multiple forcible rapes of innocent women. We are, however,
merciful. Consider the following procedure to be rehabilitation, rather
than punishment."

His whole body spasmed when the tip of my penis disappeared into him, and
he was buttery soft inside. Then came the inevitable moans of pleasure
as the current trickled from the electrodes and triggered his pleasure
center into overload. Ecstasy imprinted itself onto his brain circuits,
and conditioned him so he could never satisfy himself sexually in any
other way than this.


"Bury the evidence against him? After what he's done to me and all those
other women? You'll let this criminal, this rapist, this PIECE OF SHIT,
stay on as a judge? A Federal judge?"

The client was a bit upset. Time to set her to rights.

"You expect us to ruin his reputation? Destroy his career? What purpose
would that serve? He's actually a pretty good judge -- a fair arbiter and
a fine legal scholar. We have no intention of depriving the judiciary
of his talents.

"Our way is better. He'll never rape another woman again. In fact, he'll
be totally incapable of penetrating a woman. (His wife will be mightily
disappointed, but those are the breaks.) If that isn't enough, he'll
be tormented by guilt and self-loathing every time he submits *himself*
to being penetrated. And, he won't be able to abstain from that for very
long. His rechanneled libido will drive him to continually seek partners
willing to sodomize him. So, are you satisfied now?"

"No, but I guess it's the best I can expect, under the circumstances."

"Thank you for your understanding."

It was the optimum solution to a difficult problem. Not the ideal
solution, but the solution causing the least disruption. And that's
really the hard part of our job. Not defanging and reprogramming rapists,
but deciding how far we can go in the process without screwing things up.

This is why they call us Balancers  -- we continually balance on the
razor's edge between vindication and vengeance. It's a balancing act.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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