I hurried through the crowds up the steep stairs of the impressive, neoclassical government building. My time slot was coming in ten minutes and I knew how strict they were about being late here. If I'm not on time, I will have to wait two weeks for the next appointment. And I'm not sure I can wait another two weeks.

I punched my appointment number into the information panel and out came a small piece of paper saying:

Office 207
Your number: 1796
Please be seated and wait for your number to be called up before entering

Office 207 was only a few steps down the hallway. A screen above the door said "1789" in an official, impersonal font. I nodded a vague hello at the other men in the hallway and took a free spot on the bench opposite the door. The benches weren't comfortable at all. I was used to it by now, but you could tell the younger men weren't. They were trying to find a comfortable position to sit, an impossible task until you got used both to the piece of cold metal in between your legs and to the anxiety of waiting to see what your fate would be. The administrators were assigned cases randomly and... well, you know how bureaucracy works. You never know what kind of a person you'll meet and if they'll be interested in helping you out or making your life miserable.

The number changed to 1790 and one of the men got up and entered the office. Someone muttered "Good luck!" while the rest of us waited, deep in thought. Just like all men, I've been coming to the biweekly appointments since I turned 18 and was fitted with a cage, well over a decade ago. I felt like I'd seen it all by now. No-nonsense, no-imagination administrators who would review your file, unlock you if they thought the time was right, and gave you a methodical, medical milking (or had you do it yourself while they barely looked up from your file). Attractive, horny ones who realized work could be fun, immediately unlocked you and fucked your brains out. Dominant ones who enjoyed the power their job gave them to use the men for their pleasure or abuse them for their entertainment, rarely bothering to unlock them afterward. And everything in between.

There were few rules and no appeal process. The administrator's decision to give the man a release or not to was final and she could come up with any conditions or hoops she felt like. And if the man protested? Not only would there be no release, but the administrator would frown ominously and write a little note in the file for a coworker of hers to find in two weeks. I got a note like that in my file, three months ago, just because it was Monday morning and the administrator was in a terrible mood. As a result, seven appointments in a row now, the administrator opened my file, read the note, gave me a disappointed look, made me do whatever it was she wanted from me, but refused to give me a release in the end. By now, I was a horny, frustrated mess. I needed this to end today.

When my number finally appeared on the screen, I got up and reached for the door handle, hoping today, my luck would finally change.