FRICTION FICTION: AT THE BUREAU OF NON-PERSONS by Paul Martin (1990)

[monshanjik]

AT THE BUREAU OF NON-PERSONS
By Paul Martin
(Drummer 145, December 1990)

He is a "sleeper" — an agent planted in a high position in The
Bureaucracy. Someday, he knows, he will be called into action. But when
this sleeper wakes, he finds that the nightmare is only beginning . . .

The phone rang at three a.m. Normally a light sleeper, Anton was deep in
nightmare, wrestling with some creature that seemed to be trying to
completely envelop him, a many-armed, tireless, smothering thing. At
first he thought the sound was the cry of the beast, and he struggled
even more desperately as it bleated in his ear.

He woke thrashing in his sheets. The phone was still "ringing," the
ringer actually an electronic buzz. Still groggy from coming so quickly
from a deep sleep, he fumbled for the handset and brought it to his ear.
"Yuri."

A pleasant, carefully modulated male voice spoke. This is Tatya."

Anton felt a cold hand clutch his bowels. He was instantly awake. This
was The Call. "Yes."

"You will go to your office this morning as usual. At ten fifteen, there
will be a courier. You will give him the Metschnikov papers." The voice
coolly listed file numbers of doents Anton knew to carry clearance
levels of T-3 or higher. Anton himself had only barely enough clearance
to see them. He committed the file numbers to memory.

"Of course, the missing doents will be traced to me," he said.

"You have been provided for," the voice replied. "At eleven thirty, when
you normally leave for lunch, you will go to the following cafe." It was
one he knew well. "You will be contacted."

"How will this courier pass security? The doents are clearly marked
as to their sensitivity."

"That is no concern of yours," Tatya replied. "I am sure you are aware
that we have our methods of working within the Bureaucracy."

Anton was. "I will need protection. My cover will be blown. I cannot
stay in the country — I will need forged passports, a new identity — "

The carefully controlled voice revealed a hint of irritation. "You have
been provided for," it repeated. Anton was left listening to the dial
tone.

Anton was not precisely an "agent."

He led a quiet, normal life. His position was not especially exalted,
but his diligence and attention to detail had earned him a fairly high
security clearance in the Bureaucracy. Sensitive government papers
passed through his hands daily, and so far, his complete loyalty to the
Bureau had never been questioned.

But years ago — almost fifteen years, in fact, just as he had graduated
from the University, he had been approached. No, perhaps "approached" is
too direct a word. Say, instead, "seduced."

For no reasons he could divine, small favors had been done for him,
easing his passage from academia into the highly competitive
Bureaucracy. He did not ask for preferential treatment, and yet, in
small ways, he received it. Delicate queries were posed to him. At first
he thought his loyalty was being tested, and, no fool, he professed
staunch loyalty to the Bureaucracy. But he found the favoritism
addicting, as he rose steadily — not meteorically, but certainly with
unusual ease, through the complicated labyrinth of the Bureaucracy's
system of ranking.

He was given to know that he had attracted the attention of Someone High
Up. Nothing more specific. Only that, perhaps, if he showed certain . .
. qualities, his unique abilities might be rewarded. Handsomely.

By the time he learned that the Someone High Up was not Someone High Up
in his own Bureaucracy, but in that of another nation entirely, he had
already compromised himself too much. They never threatened, but he
knew. His advancement had been too smooth. There were those who would
use any pretext to oust him, so that they might themselves climb the
ladder of the Bureaucracy. And if there were any hint that he had
received preferential treatment and aid from an illicit network of
foreign spies . . . His position, at least — and likely his life — would
be finished.

Finally he was approached directly. His directions were simple. Wait.
When you are needed, Tatya will call. You will do exactly as he says.
You will be rewarded.

So he had waited. Years. Leading a normal life. Going about his work.
His diligence, discretion, and loyalty had never come under question.
His security rating grew ever higher: though, to be truthful, he did not
care in the least what information was contained in the many doents
which passed through his hands. In the Bureaucracy, it did not do to be
so concerned. Much of the information he processed was false. He knew
this. Everyone knew this. The false information was mixed in with the
true so that, if there were spies, they would as likely be leaking false
information as true. To know what was true and what was false required a
much higher security rating than Anton's, a rating so lofty that he
wondered if more than one or two Bureaucrats in the entire nation might
have such clearance.

He did not even care to speculate that, in fact, no one had such
clearance at all.

But at last The Call had come. It was time to pay for his many "lucky
breaks."

He lay awake in his bed, hugging his knees to his chest, until gradually
his room lightened with the dawn. Mechanically he rose, boiled water for
instant coffee (another luxury of the rank provided by his mysterious
"friends,") showered, shaved, dressed.

Nothing seemed real. He felt a vague discomfort in the pit of his
stomach, for which he took antacids. They did not help, of course. He
knew it was nerves, but a part of his mind stayed cool. That part knew
that he could not afford to show any signs of nervousness. Today must be
as routine as yesterday, as though yesterday and today and tomorrow
would be no different from each other than any other days in the endless
blur that was time in the Bureaucracy. There had been no phone call. He
knew nothing.

At the corner cafe he ate a breakfast that he did not taste, examining a
newspaper he did not read. At ten minutes before nine, not unusually
early, not unusually late, he paid, leaving his waitress a moderate tip,
left the cafe, and walked the two blocks to his office.

His morning was routine. The Metschnikov papers, as Tatya had obviously
known they would be, were on his desk. He stamped them, initialed them,
processed them in every way he would normally process them. He did not
read them. His curiosity was outweighed by the certainty that, the less
he knew, the less his danger. He was wrong, of course. Nonetheless, he
did not read the papers.

At ten fifteen, the courier appeared — a young man who had transported
doents many times for Anton's office, a young man whose credentials,
as far as Anton knew, were impeccable. The young man tapped politely at
Anton's doorframe (while his rank was somewhat privileged, it did not
entitle him to a door for his office,) and Anton gave him the papers.

And that was that.

At eleven thirty he rose, glanced out the tiny window of his office to
check the weather. It looked warm, so he knew that it might look
suspicious if he took his coat; as though he did not plan to come back.
In his shirtsleeves, then, he exited the building, casually producing
his identification and reciting the day's passwords at each security
check on the way out.

At the designated cafe he took a table, and when he was not immediately
approached, (except by the waitress,) he decided to eat lunch. He
ordered a bowl of soup, bread, and beer.

As he was finishing up, his waitress brought him his check. He did not
look at it immediately, preferring to finish the last of his beer. When
he did turn over the check, he saw that it was signed, Tatya."

Involuntarily his eyes sought the waitress. Their eyes met, and though
her face betrayed nothing, he made out an almost imperceptible nod. Her
eyes flickered to another table. Then back to him. He understood.
Unhurriedly he turned to see who was sitting at that other table: two
men, dressed as office workers. One blond, the other of dark complexion
and black hair. He would follow them when they left the cafe.

They took no apparent notice of him. He waited as they finished their
food and paid. When they left the cafe, he left also. He saw them get
into a van, one in the driver's seat, the other in the passenger seat.
As he watched, unsure of what to do, the side door of the van was
unlatched from the inside and it slid open about an inch.

He could not help but glance around to see if he was being watched. He
did so, though he felt foolish for giving in to the urge. He was no
professional. He could be under any number of kinds of surveillance and
he would never know. So he shrugged off his uncertainty, opened the van
door and climbed inside.

From the back of the van Anton could not see where they were driving.
The two men did not speak. He asked no questions. There seemed no point.
After a long drive (he had no wristwatch and could not estimate the
time) the van stopped and the side door was opened. He was directed into
a doorway in a nondescript building.

The air inside had almost the flavor of a hospital, a faint medicinal
odor. He was led down a hall lit by indirect lighting which somehow
still managed to be too white, too harsh. The walls were painted a
neutral shade upon which Anton found it was hard to focus. The only
sounds were the sounds of recirculating air and his and his hosts'
footsteps.

He was brought into a small room and directed to remove his clothing. He
did so, expecting that they would give him something else to wear,
perhaps as the first step toward giving him a new identity. Instead,
when he was completely naked, they picked up his clothes and left the
room, locking the door behind them.

At last, he began to fear for his life. He had been acting in a fog
since last night's Call, passively accepting instructions which came
from he knew not who, leading him toward he knew not what. Now he found
the block of ice that seemed to have taken the place of his brain
beginning to thaw.

He could only begin to wonder: into whose hands had he fallen? Were
these the same people for whom he had, just today, committed a crime and
thus thrown away his entire career, perhaps his life? If so, he
certainly did not know who they were, and, he realized with such a chill
that he physically began shaking. He did not know if he could trust
them, neither did he know if perhaps he had actually fallen into the
hands of the secret police. Or perhaps, and this frightened him most of
all, perhaps it had been the Secret Police all along, spinning their web
about him for fifteen long years until now for some reason, they had
decided it was time to draw him in.

He was in an agony of not knowing. And worse, the room seemed to be
getting cooler. There was nothing in the tiny cell with which to cover
his nakedness; in fact, nothing at all but bare floor and walls and
locked door. Not even a switch to turn off or on the light. He tucked
his hands into his armpits, and, standing in one corner, leaned against
the two walls and lowered himself to the floor so that he could sit
curled up, almost in a fetal position. And he waited.

Despite the cold, despite his discomfort, despite the fears which raced
through his mind, eventually he dozed. His sleep provided him with no
comfort; actually it only seemed to exhaust him more. He wondered if he
was to be fed. Perhaps there was no point in feeding him. Perhaps he was
to be executed. He spent a great deal of time thinking back over his
life, wondering how he might have gracefully refused the subtle
attentions he had received, so that he might never have been manipulated
to this point. But he knew he had been under their complete control from
the first. Probably — no, certainly — they knew him so well that they
could predict with absolute accuracy his every reaction, his every
thought. If fact, he will filled with the paranoid delusion that
someone, somewhere, knew EXACTLY what was going on in his mind at this
very moment. Someone whose purpose it served that he sit, shivering, on
the cold floor of this anonymous cell.

He was in such a state of discomfort and distress that when he heard the
latch on the door click, it practically stopped his heart As the door
opened, he struggled to his feet holding himself up against the walls
as his numb legs tried to collapse under him.

A very professional looking man in a white lab coat entered his cell. He
was carrying a bundle of clothing and he seemed to be most solicitous.
He apologized for Anton’s neglect, claiming that someone would ‘receive
demerits’ for it. He gave Anton a warm, loose, bathrobe-like garment
which he gratefully wrapped around himself. When Anton was dressed the
man picked up a clipboard and politely requested that he come along, for
"processing."

Anton had a million questions, but the man shrugged them off. "I'm
sorry, sir, but that is not my area of competence," he said. "I may not
comment." This was such a Bureaucratic answer that its sheer familiarity
quieted Anton. He followed willingly behind this man, the only one who
had so far even seemed to recognize his existence in this place.

"Processing," at least the next step of it, proved to be a haircut. He
was led into another small cubicle with a barber chair as its only piece
of furniture. The man in the lab coat seated him in the chair and set
its height, then produced a set of electric clippers. Without bothering
to cover Anton up with any kind of bib, the man began running the
clippers over his scalp. Anton looked around the room for a mirror and
saw none, but it certainly felt like the man was simply removing all his
hair. At his first faint protest, though, the man fixed him with a very
sharp glare and said, "Please, don't be difficult." His clinical tone of
voice completely stopped Anton, who had been conditioned all his life to
obey such seemingly innocuous orders.

In very short order, all of the hair from his head lay on the floor or
on his lap, and the barber told him to stand and disrobe. Anton
complied, but shied away as the clippers came at his chest. "What is the
meaning of this?" he cried.

The barber expelled a quick sound of disgust. Without replying, he
pushed a button next to the door. Almost instantly, the door opened, and
a large, muscular man entered. He wore a uniform, not one Anton had ever
seen before. Hanging from his belt Anton observed a holstered gun,
handcuffs, a nightstick, and a short cudgel. It was obvious though, that
even without this equipment, the huge man would be more than able to
overpower Anton with his bare hands.

He did not struggle. Instead he suffered the indignity of being shorn of
all his body hair, including that under his armpits and in his crotch.
The barber even had him turn around and bend over so that he could run
the clippers between his buttocks.

But even then he was not through. Anton was next slathered with shaving
cream from head to toe, and the barber went over it all again with a
straight razor. Through all of this, the guard stood just inside the
door watching, his face not registering amusement or any other emotion,
only alert disinterest. Anton found that the worst: the dispassionate
gaze of this man as Anton meekly turned this way and that, bent over, or
lifted his arms or legs at the direction of the barber. His shame was
even greater that, when the barber's attentions were applied to shaving
his crotch, the handling of his shaving-cream-slick cock and balls
caused an erection. Neither of the other two men seemed to find it
remarkable, but Anton felt profoundly humiliated, as though pages of his
diary were being read out loud, secrets being revealed.

When his entire body and head had been shaved, including eyebrows, the
barber ran his hands over every square inch of Anton's body in a way
that he would have found insultingly familiar had it not been so
clinical and dispassionate. Even so, he did not like the way the
barber's hands lingered at his balls, feeling for the slightest stubble,
or the way he ran his finger down the crack of Anton's ass, fingering
the anus somewhat more than was necessary.

Anton wished that there was a mirror. He had a feeling he looked even
worse than he imagined. He felt more naked than he had ever been in his
life. His freshly denuded skin could feel tiny currents of air in places
he had never felt such things before. And even though, with consummate
skill, the barber had shaved his entire body with a straight razor
without cutting him once, many portions of his skin felt warm from razor
burn.

The barber pronounced his work done. Without giving him his robe back,
he ordered Anton to follow him. The three, the barber, Anton, and the
guard, walked down seemingly endless corridors, making turns and twists
until Anton's sense of direction was completely confused. He began to
suspect, though, that their next destination was actually very close to
the room in which he had lost his hair, and that the long, circuitous
route had only been an excuse to make Anton parade, naked and hairless,
throughout the halls and past many open, occupied offices.

At the next stop in this humiliating tour, Anton was smeared with
pediculicide, a step which he protested as unnecessary. His protests, of
course, were ignored. The chemical stung rather sharply on his freshly
scraped skin, but he was made to wait for thirty minutes before he was
allowed to shower it off.

He showered alone in a large communal shower room. When he had done,
and, dripping, was looking for a towel, the security guard entered the
shower room. Wordlessly he grabbed Anton's left wrist and twisted, so
that in an instant Anton was spun around and bent over. The guard
maintained the armlock effortlessly with one hand. With his other hand
he took one of the hoses which dangled from each shower head. He dripped
a little soap on its tip from a wall dispenser and dispassionately
stuffed it up Anton's ass.

Anton was so surprised at the rush of hot water into his bowels that he
made no effort to hold it in. Shitty hot water blasted out of his
asshole, a ludicrous series of obscene wet farting noises echoing in the
tiled shower room. A stiff swat to his buttocks warned him to be more
careful, and so he squeezed his sphincter as tight around the hose as he
could as it pumped more and more hot water up his gut.

It hardly mattered that the burly guard's grip prevented Anton from
straightening up. The cramps that seized him would have left him doubled
over anyway. In fact he probably would have just fallen over entirely if
the guard had not had him securely in his grasp. At the first cramp he
cried out, but again he received a warning swat to the ass. After that
he clenched his mouth shut and only a faint grunting issued from tightly
pressed lips each time he was racked with a spasm.

At last the flow of water ceased and he was released. He could not stand
up straight, but he leaned against the wall of the shower so that he
would not fall over.

For the first time, the guard spoke. "Release."

Gratefully, Anton obeyed, not caring that the shitty water from his
asshole was dripping down his legs, not hearing the disgusting sounds
issuing from his anus as water, gas, and shit sputtered out onto the
floor.

When he was through the guard spoke again. "Once more."

Instantly Anton bent over and grabbed his ankles. His obedience would
have surprised even him, if he had thought about it. But his brain did
not seem to be functioning.

This time the guard flooded his interior with cold water. He hissed at
the initial shock, but remained silent as the process was repeated. This
time the water which he was finally allowed to expel was mostly clear,
and the guard directed Anton to rinse off his entire body beneath the
shower.

When he finished, the guard was there, holding a towel. He reached for
it, gratefully, but the guard grabbed his hand. In a level but menacing
tone, he directed Anton's attention to the spots of shitty water which
had splashed on the guard's boots and uniform pants. "You have soiled my
uniform."

In a moment of heart-stopping panic, Anton imagined that he was going to
be forced to lick his own shit from the guard's boots!

But the guard simply thrust the small towel into his hands and said,
"Use this. Clean me up."

So Anton dampened the towel with a trickle of water from the shower and
carefully dabbed and scrubbed at the wet spots of the guard's pants,
then wiped the boots down. The guard was not satisfied until he had
buffed them almost to a gloss.

He was not given another towel, so he was forced to wipe himself off
with this one, damp and soiled as it was with his own shit and the
guard's boot polish. Then the guard hustled him out of the shower room,
down another short hall, and into an office.

It was a good sized office, much larger than his own, which had barely
been large enough for his desk and chair. There was no name on the door,
and no sign anywhere of its occupant's rank. In the convoluted system of
the Bureaucracy, this would almost always indicate high rank. Possibly
very high.

In this office sat an undistinguished looking middle aged man who was
perusing a stack of papers. The guard gestured for him to take a seat
and then left.

The man behind the desk ignored him completely. The scene — windowless
office, desk covered with obscure stacks of papers, silence except for
the slight hum of the lighting fixture overhead — was so familiar that,
despite his recent trials, despite sitting naked, damp, and hairless in
an uncomfortable chair, Anton began to feel at home.

Then, glancing up, the ordinary looking man spoke. "I'll be with you in
just a moment." He buried his head once more in his paperwork.

The innocuous phrase froze his blood.

Tatya!

His mind went empty. He simply could not think. He could not understand.
The events of this day — he thought it was only one day, he could not be
sure, however, in this timeless interior — had no meaning. He had been
moved about like a piece of meat. Subjected to this and that. Given no
explanations. He could not imagine a purpose for all this.

Or perhaps he only dared not.

At any rate he simply sat meekly on the hard, uncomfortable chair and
waited to be noticed. He was in no hurry. He felt no curiousity. He
preferred not to think beyond this very second. He had a feeling — no,
more a CERTAINTY — that his future had been mapped out, approved, signed
in triplicate, countersigned in quadruplicate, stamped, counter-stamped,
encrypted, classified, micro-imaged, and filed. Curiosity, at this
point, seemed counterproductive.

Rather, what seemed called for was dread.

Therefore Anton did not mind that it was a very long time before the man
behind the desk — Tatya! — deigned to notice him again. In fact, he
wished the man would simply go on scrutinizing his doents and making
marginal notes forever, and simply never take notice of Anton at all.
Ever. But it was not to be.

The man took off his reading glasses and leaned back in his chair,
pushing aside a stack of paper like a plateful of food of which he had
had his fill. Anton bore his mild regard in silence.

"Well."

For a moment, nothing more. Then: "Well. We shall not call you 'Anton,'
as that person no longer exists. If you would like to see the Non-Person
Authorization Forms, it could easily be arranged, however, it seems
pointless. The Bureaucracy has disowned you, in fact claims that you
were never born. The traces of your life were pathetically easy to
erase, although, to be fair, the same might be said for almost anyone."

Anton had no comment.

"Since the Bureaucracy no longer claims to own you, there is the slight
problem of your identity. For the moment, I suggest you get used to
being referred to as 'Hey, You!' I might also suggest that WHEN you are
addressed, whether as 'Hey, You!' or not, you do whatever you are told,
and with as much speed and precision as you can possibly muster. Our
standards here are rather high, and we adhere to them rigidly. We make
no allowances for inexperience, ignorance, fatigue, or laziness."

All this was expressed in a completely emotionless, controlled tone of
voice. It sounded like a speech that had been rendered many times.
Briefly, Anton wondered how many other 'Hey, You!'s had sat in this
chair, in this office.

Tatya stood and came around to the front of his desk. Leaning casually
against it, he surveyed the hairless, nameless nonperson before him.

"Sit up straight." Immediately Anton complied. The slight ripples of fat
that had marred his abdomen flattened out. He was not overweight.
Neither was he remarkably thin. The fashion of the Bureaucracy called
for a certain ascetic, pale flabbiness which suggested that the person
took nothing to excess: neither food, nor drink, nor exercise.

Tatya's voice remained cool as he ordered, "Stand up." Then, "Turn
around." And finally, "Bend over."

Without being ordered, Anton spread his legs wide as he bent down to
clutch his ankles. After his handling today, he no longer felt
humiliation from this posture. He was only aware of Tatya's gaze, almost
like a physical touch, roaming this way and that over his body.

— Did Tatya want his body?

— Something about that thought . . .

Something about that thought, as he bent over, allowing scrutiny of his
newly shaven, just-reamed asshole . . . Something about that thought
triggered a strange, illogical response in Anton. The thought that Tatya
might want his body, disquieting as that might seem, still suggested
that, non-person or not, he still had SOME value.

His own thought processes alarmed Anton. But, almost against his will —
or as though his will in this case did not matter — he found himself
drawing the strangest conclusion: His body was his only remaining asset.
He had no hope, no hope at all, of getting out of this ghastly
situation, unless someone desired his body and he surrendered it to that
person. Perhaps even that had no point, perhaps he would simply be used
and given nothing in return. But it was a chance. Slim — but a chance.

And so, against logic, against fear, against his resentment at the rough
though impersonal treatment he had been receiving, he found himself
hoping that Tatya liked what he saw. That Tatya's dick was swelling.
That soon he might feel Tatya's hands upon him, perhaps caressing,
perhaps abusing, but at least human touch. Human need. Was Tatya human?
Did he need? If he did, let him touch, let him slake his need with this
piece of hairless, nameless, property-less flesh. Perhaps — perhaps — if
Tatya were capable of emotion, the act of sex would lead to some feeling
of — what? Not love. Surely that was too much. But — concern? Some care
for his future wellbeing?

It sounded farfetched but it was the only straw at which he could grasp.
And suddenly it did not seem so impossible, as Anton felt a
feather-light touch at his tailbone.

The voice betrayed nothing. "You are beginning to accept your
situation." The light touch became a soft, circular massage, as Tatya
worked his fingers in and out of the exposed asscrack, smoothing the
tense buttocks and then working back into the crack, caressing the
puckered asshole. The touch sent electric thrills throughout Anton's
body. He felt his dick growing heavier, and his ass involuntarily
quivered. The attention of the gentle fingers was so personal, so — he
had never, never in his life been touched so.

Sex for Anton had always been a lonely exercise. He had never married,
always considering himself married to the Bureaucracy. He had dated,
infrequently, while in school. Almost always the young women had sought
him out. It had never occurred to him to ask them out. He had never felt
any stirrings of passion for any of them.

When he DID feel stirrings, he very quickly hid them. For what made his
cock hard was the thought of lying with another man. He did not even
know, really what two men might do together. In the Bureaucracy,
homosexuality was a capital, or worse, offense. He was not foolish
enough to defy the law. His release came only infrequently, alone in his
room, in the dark. Face in his pillow, so that his cries would be
muffled.

And this touch . . . This touch set off feelings he had been repressing
for years — all his life.

Softly, so softly, like the probing fingers, Tatya spoke, and perhaps
the tenderness he heard was not only in his mind. "I have known about
you for a long time." His finger penetrated the ring of the anus and
began to twist and turn, moving in and out gently, gently. "About your .
. . tendencies. Two fingers. "Someone I know, in University," he
continued. Fingers twisting about his prostate. "Keeps his eye out for
me. For certain . . . traits." Anton's asshole was opening and closing,
like a thirsty throat gulping for water. "I can be . . . patient. My
gratification need not be instant." Anton did not even realize he was
drooling on the floor. "I have a certain . . . influence."Anton's cock
was drooling, too, a clear fluid that dripped slowly, slowly.

The voice was still the smooth, carefully modulated voice that had
spoken over the phone. It brooked no argument and betrayed no feeling.
Each word was carefully and precisely enunciated, and no word was given
undue emphasis. But what was being said!

"You," Tatya said, and Anton felt a warm object pressed against his
asscrack. "Are," and a steady pressure drove Tatya's cock into his
begging asshole. "Mine."

Anton screamed as the cock entered him and began to pound in and out,
contradicting the lack of violence in Tatya's voice. He didn't scream in
pain. He screamed because, as the Bureaucrat's cock pierced him, and the
significance of that simple statement — "You are mine," — drove home
into his brain, his own hard, aching, dripping cock exploded. He could
not contain what filled him: not just the cock, but the ravaging emotion
that swelled from everywhere and demanded release. His scream was a
sound both of despair — and fulfillment.

For a moment, he heard again the voice that had spoken over the phone,
just a day ago: "You have been provided for." Tatya had not lied.

-------------------------
Thanks to original poster in Yahoo! gaymagazinefiction group!
Enjoy!