Story: The Bill, Part 3
This is part of a series of micro-stories about a fictional scenario where the UK implements a circumcision program for men.
I'm thinking I will make one more part after this one with a couple remaining ideas. Open to suggestions!
This is Part 3 and covers Chapters 7 to 8.
DISCLAIMERS
This story is entirely fictional.
It does not reflect the author's views, and is not
intended to represent real people or organisations.
No AI was used in the writing of this story.
CW: (CW: MM, MF, very soft description of
circumcision operation)
CHAPTER 7: DAVE & ELLIE
Dave is lying against the wall by his bed, idly browsing true crime stories on Reddit. Ellie is sat cross legged against the headboard she bought for him, because she kept knocking her head. The room around them is spartan cream walls, the only décor a small spider plant on the IKEA desk.
Ellie taps away at her laptop, and hums. Dave doesn't respond, comatose.
"You know, this sexual health drive the government is doing is interesting." Ellie raises.
"Mhm." Dave replies, not taking the bait.
"The Gov website says men who get circumcised get a bonus, some kind of grant"
That garners a raised eyebrow, Dave looking back at her, still silent.
"At least £1,000, and a reduction in your student loan."
This time, Dave shrugs. "Could use that."
"Yeah, babe" she replies. "Could get that PowerDeck you wanted. Or maybe make this place a little nicer. Or… take me somewhere really nice."
Dave chuckles, and leans back onto the bed, next to Ellie's legs. She starts stroking his wavy brown hair.
"I don't know, though. Seems like effort. And I thought you liked it?" Dave asks.
She smiles, and looks into his eyes. "I do, babe. Like, yeah, I do. But like, you've always had issues pulling it back. We have to go slow so you don't tear it sometimes. And they say it's apparently really quick and easy, even the recovery."
Dave huffs. "I guess."
"Just seems like a no-brainer to me."
She stops for a moment, and the two sit quietly for a bit, Ellie occasionally typing away. She's the one to break the silence.
"How about I book it, we go together and if you're not feeling it on the day, we cancel?"
Dave exhales, clearly not wanting to think about it too much.
"Yeah, sure."
Ellie perks up a little, and navigates to the registration tab she had pinned. And bookmarked.
"They have… a slot at two PM on Thursday 12? That's about two weeks from now."
Dave looks back, and at the screen for a moment. There's the faintest spark of consideration, of doubt.
"Sounds good to me. Nothing on then anyway."
Ellie clicks the button and kisses Dave on his forehead.
"I'll go look for deals on a PowerDeck."
CHAPTER 8: HARRY
The words come slow and painfully, three hours into the session. One white page, half-filled, with no clue how to write the rest. Harry feels like his brain is blocked up. By this point, he's tried everything. Going for a walk just gave him more to think about. Speaking with his flatmate lost him an hour. Trying the pomodoro method was an excuse to fuck around twice as long as writing. He taps away a few words, then deletes them.
This time towards the end of each semester was always like this for Harry. A painful, grinding experience, trying to write thousands of words with a looming deadline and a world full of distractions. Coffee only seems to make things worse, and his usual place to buckle down and focus, the uni library, is currently filled with people who had the exact same idea as him.
He leans back in his desk chair, hands toying with the adjustable armrests emblazoned with the garish red gaming logo that meant he landed it cheap. There was one thing that always worked. In his first three years, it was his saviour. Ever-reliable, the silver bullet for procrastination. He'd turn on his laptop, and open his assignment. Then he'd get into his bed, turn off the lights, and start wanking furiously. On a good day, he could finish in two minutes flat, and it never took longer than five.
It would give him a huge rush of endorphins, enough to focus him and give him a solid ten minutes of iron focus to write in, which would usually give him enough momentum to continue working for an hour or two, after which he could just rinse and repeat. A little unorthodox as productivity hacks go, but it worked.
But Harry hasn't tried this since his Masters began. Not since he signed up for his Sexual Health Grant and got circumcised. Wanking now is a full ordeal, just as much of an investment of thought and energy as writing. When he was uncut, he knew exactly what pleasure points to target in his cock, and the glide of his skin made it so easy to just jackhammer away until he felt the pressure build. Now he's lucky if he can finish in thirty minutes. It's thrown off his whole approach, and this is the latest he's left an assignment, with only two days remaining to write five thousand words.
He looks down at his crotch, his telltale head visible even through the pyjama bottoms.
Worth a try.
Harry gets up and moves to his bed, leaving his PJs in a heap on the floor along with his white briefs. He turns off the blinding high-temperature room light, and taps his bedside lamp, bathing the room in orange light. It's about as close to mood lighting as he can afford.
It's not long before he's rock hard, and his impressive mushroom head rises seven inches from his crotch. His cock is fairly girthy, but pales in comparison to his glans, which is about the size of a tangerine, but far more rough and dry. The recovery pamphlet said to use oils and creams to keep the head moisturised so it didn't dry out and keratinise, but those all irritated him, so he was like this. Further down, there is a thick brown scar, about 2mm wide and dead straight. By now, maybe half of guys his age have one just like it, placed with mathematical precision about 10mm beneath his head. Veins on the surface of his shaft pulse in anticipation.
He reaches into his end table, to find his only bottle of lube empty but for a few dregs.
Fuck, he thinks. Harry hasn't been able to wank dry since his op. Apparently some guys have it easier or loose enough that they don't need it, and others find a way, but he isn't one of them.
Harry spits into his palm, and begins working his head. After he got cut, it took him a couple months to work out how to get off with his new penis, and palming his head with one hand like he is polishing it whilst holding the base with his thumb and index finger seemed to work well.
Except it was a painfully slow burn, taking him twenty minutes to feel any pleasure. It was more intense in the end, but it took so much effort that he stopped jerking off daily, which is impressive, given he was a prolific gooner before.
Regardless, he tugs and palms away, always conscious that with each passing minute, his energy to write is waning, and the deadline creeps ever closer. It's enough to sap some of the pleasure from it. Worse, without any real lube, progress is even slower.
Five minutes pass. Then ten. Then a full-half hour.
By now, Harry is grunting, hand pushing harder into his aching cock, willing it desperately to shoot, to give him the release he needs to finish his assignment. He can feel the pleasure building by now, a low heat, but it still feels so far away. He moans, and it sounds less like enjoyment than like frustration.
"Fuuuuuuck… COME ON!"
A full hour wasted on this, and he finally feels it. He knows it's cumming, and he pushes harder with the finish line in sight, twisting his hand around his engorged glans at speed, spitting into it often to keep it lubed.
His journey to orgasm had been a fight, plodding along for an age trying to work himself to orgasm. It was hard fought, but when it came, it was incredible. When he was uncut, Harry was a silent cummer, never one to moan or even groan when he finished. But as his climax shakes his circumcised cock now, his whole body reacts to the fireworks. He arches his back up, so much so that he bumps his head into the wood behind him, but it's not enough to distract. His legs tense, his toes curl, and his balls pull up either side of his shaft.
"AAH! F- SHIIIT!" he cries, not caring if his flatmates hear.
Cum launches from his roughened head, splurting string after string of cum onto Harry, onto the bed, onto the wall, despite his feeble attempts to move his torso to catch it.
He feels comatose, like he's on another plane of existence for what feels like an age.
Thirty seconds pass before he even lowers himself onto the bed, and two minutes before he gets up and cleans himself off. Harry sighs, contented, and makes his way over to the glowing rectangle on his desk, dressed only in his briefs.
The next three thousand words came easy.