Billy the Poet (Universal Denial, )

This is Welcome to the Monkey House by Kurt Vonnegut adapted to be more erotic and focussed on the orgasm denial kink.

Summary: A dystopian government uses universal orgasm denial as birth control. Billy the Poet has a plan.

So Pete Crocker, the sheriff of Barnstable County, which was the whole of Cape Cod, came into the Federal Ethical Suicide Parlor in Hyannis one May afternoon--and he told the two six-foot Hostesses there that they weren't to be alarmed, but that a notorious nothinghead named Billy the Poet was believed headed for the Cape.

A nothinghead was a person who refused to use the only ethical form of birth control, the Neuralink implant. The penalty for that was $10,000 and ten years in jail.

This was at a time when the population of Earth was 17 billion human beings. That was far too many mammals that big for a planet that small. The people were virtually packed together like drupelets.

Drupelets are the pulpy little knobs that compose the outside of a raspberry.

So the World Government was making a two-pronged attack on overpopulation. One pronging was the encouragement of ethical suicide, which consisted of going to the nearest Suicide Parlor and asking a Hostess to kill you painlessly while you lay on a Barcalounger. The other pronging was the compulsory installation of the Neuralink birth control system.

The sheriff told the Hostesses, who were pretty, tough-minded, highly intelligent girls, that roadblocks were being set up and house-to-house searches were being conducted to catch Billy the Poet. The main difficulty was that the police didn't know what he looked like. The few people who had seen him and known him for what he was were women--and they disagreed fantastically as to his height, his hair color, his voice, his weight, the color of his skin.

"I don't need to remind you girls," the sheriff went on, "that a nothinghead can feel their genitals, and they're very sensitive. If Billy the Poet somehow slips in here and starts making trouble, one good kick in the balls will do wonders."

He was referring to the fact that the Neuralink, the only legal form of birth control, completely blocked any sensations from any erogenous zone.

Most men said their dicks felt like cold iron or balsa-wood. Most women said their pussies felt like wet cotton or stale ginger ale. The implant was so effective that you could blindfold a man who had one installed, tell him to recite the Gettysburg Address, kick him in the balls while he was doing it, and he wouldn't miss a syllable.

The Neuralink was ethical because it didn't interfere with a person's ability to reproduce, which would have been unnatural and immoral. Men could still get an erection and rub it around inside a woman until it triggered a purely mechanical and sensationless orgasm to dispense the sperm. So all the implant did was take every bit of pleasure out of sex.

Thus did science and morals go hand in hand.

The two Hostesses there in Hyannis were Nancy McLuhan and Mary Kraft. Nancy was a strawberry blonde. Mary was a glossy brunette. Their uniforms were white lipstick, heavy eye makeup, ultra-short skirts with purple lingerie and nothing else underneath, and black leather boots. They ran a small operation--with only six suicide booths. In a really good week, say the one before Christmas, they might put sixty people to sleep. It was done with poisonous lipstick.

"My main message to you girls," said Sheriff Crocker, "is that everything's well under control. You can just go about your business here."

"Didn't you leave out part of your main message?" Nancy asked him.

"I don't get you."

"I didn't hear you say he was probably headed straight for us."

He shrugged in clumsy innocence. "We don't know that for sure."

"I thought that was all anybody did know about Billy the Poet: that he specializes in deflowering Hostesses in Ethical Suicide Parlors." Nancy was a virgin. All Hostesses were virgins. They also had to hold advanced degrees in psychology and nursing. They also had to be fit and highly attractive with perfectly sculpted bodies at least six feet tall.

America had changed in many ways, but it had yet to adopt the metric system.

Nancy McLuhan was burned up that the sheriff would try to protect her and Mary from the full truth about Billy the Poet--as though they might panic if they heard it. She told the sheriff so.

"How long do you think a girl would last in the E. S. S.," she said, meaning the Ethical Suicide Service, "if she scared that easy?"

The sheriff took a step backward, pulled in his chin. "Not very long, I guess."

"That's very true," said Nancy, closing the distance between them and offering him a sniff of the edge of her hand, which was poised for a karate chop. All Hostesses were experts at judo and karate. "If you'd like to find out how helpless we are, just come toward me, pretending you're Billy the Poet."

The sheriff shook his head, gave her a glassy smile. "I'd rather not."

"That's the smartest thing you've said today," said Nancy, turning her back on him while Mary laughed. "We're not scared--we're angry. Or we're not even that. He isn't worth that. We're bored. How boring that he should come a great distance, should cause all this fuss, in order to--" She let the sentence die there. "It's just too absurd."

"I'm not as mad at him as I am at the women who let him fuck them without a struggle"--said Mary--"who let him cum inside them and then couldn't even tell the police what he looked like. Suicide Hostesses at that!"

"Somebody hasn't been keeping up with her karate," said Nancy.

It wasn't just Billy the Poet who was attracted to Hostesses in Ethical Suicide Parlors. All nothingheads were. Bombed out of their skulls with the sex madness that came from being able to feel sexual pleasure, they thought the white lips and big tits and lingerie and boots of a Hostess spelled sex, sex, sex.

The truth was, of course, that sex was the last thing any Hostess ever had in mind.

"If Billy follows his usual M.O.," said the sheriff, "he'll study your habits and the neighborhood. And then he'll pick one or the other of you and he'll send her a dirty poem in the mail. "

"Charming," said Nancy.

"He has also been known to use the phone."

"How brave," said Nancy. Over the sheriff's shoulder, she could see the mailman coming.