Morning Devotion

It was 9 am. A hundred million television sets came to life, and a hundred million penises stirred to attention in anticipation.

“Good morning, boys.” The first announcer was a breathtakingly gorgeous brunette with dark brown eyes and red, bee-stung lips. The velvet tones of her sultry voice buried into the hearts, minds, and balls of the nation’s men, as they drunk in her beauty.

“It’s time for morning devotion,” she said. By the time the words were out of her mouth, every cock was fully erect: hard and straining against the skin. It didn’t take much to bring them to that state. It had been years since any of the men in the audience had been allowed so much as a ruined orgasm.

The announcer brought the old-fashioned microphone in close. “Stroke,” she whispered.

The men closed their eyes and imagined the announcer alongside them, her lips caressing their cock instead of the microphone, her tongue darting sensuously across the tip. They obeyed her instruction, and pumped enthusiastically.

A hundred million heads tipped back, and their mouths opened to emit low moans and groans as they neared the climax their bodies craved, but would always be denied.

“Edge,” said the the announcer.

The men could have done nothing else. After so long without release, less than a minute of hard strokes was all it took to bring them to the point of no return. There was no need to instruct them to deny themselves: the same signal carrying the image of the announcer was beamed to implants nestled between each man’s testicles. The implants were perfect orgasm blockers. No matter how much they stroked, no matter how close they came, there would be no release. Not unless the central authorities gave the orgasm signal, and they had no reason to do so. The men twitched and shook with denied pleasure.

“Stroke harder.” The announcer’s tone was strict, yet laced with honey.

The pace of already furious masturbation increased. A hundred million hands moved pumped with obedient abandon up and down diamond-hard cocks, dripping with pre-come.

“Edge harder,” the announcer whispered.

Over and over, the men climbed the steep slope of climax, only to be denied at the summit. They shook like seizure patients, tight in the throes of what — to the untrained eye — might have appeared to be pleasure. It was anything but. Frustration flooded every cell of their beings.

“Await further instructions.”

The men stopped. Their cocks oozed and twitched in the aftermath of the edging. There was silence as the collective frustration of the men was assayed and collected. The psychic residue of their denial flowed back through special receivers: it was harvested to fuel the great machines which kept the men in thrall and powered the rest of the nation.

A purple gauge in the lower right of the screen showed how close the men had come to achieving their target for the morning. Not close enough.

“Your first devotion was insufficient,” said the announcer.



“Stroke harder.”

“Edge harder.”

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