The Copulator License
A satirical erotic fantasy in three chapters, in the PeterFiles series, for adult masturbators.
by Richard Lovel – Copyright 2025 – All rights reserved
Peter and his girlfriend Tricia have spent months preparing for their state-mandated Copulator License exam. Now, inside the sterile walls of the Department of Sexual Safety, they face the demanding practical assessment that will determine their intimate futures. As their results diverge dramatically, so too do their paths forward—in ways neither could have anticipated.
Chapter 1 – The Waiting Room
Peter’s thighs stuck to the plastic chair, the thin medical gown riding up despite his efforts to pull it down. The waiting room in beige monotony, linoleum tiles, scuffed and yellowed at the edges, overhead fluorescent lighting. The sharp tang of industrial disinfectant, overlaying a humid, organic hint of locker rooms.
Besides Peter and Trisha, other couples sat maintaining uncomfortable distance. A poster of a smiling man directly in front of Peter proclaimed “I’M LICENSED TO COPULATE!”. Another in bold red letters above an image of a man and woman shaking hands with a uniformed official “COPULATION IS EVERYBODY’S RESPONSIBILITY”. Another showed a cross-section diagram of proper penetration angles with clinical precision. “COPULATE WITH CARE,” it read, followed by smaller text about emotional preparedness and physical competence standards. Another read “FRIENDS DON’T LET FRIENDS COPULATE WITHOUT A LICENSE”. Another of a woman wagging her finger “no” to a man “NO LICENSE / NO PUSSY”.
Through the thin walls of the exam rooms came cries, whispers, and moans. A slow thump, thump, thump. A bead of sweat rolled down Peter’s spine — the gown stuck to his skin — he could feel his heart beating too fast. The waiting was agony.
Trisha leaned closer to him. “Try to relax.” Peter nodded, his throat too tight to reply. “Just try to remember our practice.” She whispered, her breath tickling his ear. “All those sessions in my bedroom. How it felt. Concentrate on that.”
Peter took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and thought back. All those sessions. It had been quite a summer.
= = =
Shortly after high school graduation, Peter Stroker and Trisha Primly were sitting on her bed, dressed only in pajamas, as she read aloud from the Department of Sexual Safety manual. They had obtained Student Copulator Licenses, and were beginning their preparation to become fully licensed adult copulators. Both were still virgins, and Peter was amazed that she had chosen him as partner in this crucial right of passage to adult sexuality. Trisha was an intelligent and beautiful girl who attracted many admirers. But her strict upbringing and high standards had led her to postpone sex until she obtained an Adult Copulator License, and she valued Peter’s respect for her choice.
“The Department of Sexual Safety was established in the early 2030s after women fighting against the patriarchy demanded protection from from incompetent sexual partners. Through public education campaigns, counseling resources, and most importantly, licensing and standardized evaluations, the DSS seeks to ensure that sexual intercourse is safe and effective for all parties. The Adult Copulation License certifies that the holder has demonstrated skills in managing arousal, performing safe penetration, and ensuring partner satisfaction.
“The examination process eliminates most applicants with performance issues such as premature ejaculation, anxiety-related erectile dysfunction or chronic masturbation.”
Peter’s stomach tightened. “I need to tell you something, Trisha. I—I might have trouble with the exam.”
“You mean because of masturbating so much?” She said it so matter-of-factly. “I know. I realized it long ago—the way you blush, how shy you are around girls. That’s what I liked about you. You never tried anything with me like other boys.”
Peter’s face flushed red. “I’ve tried to stop… doing it so much after meeting you, but… I can’t help it.”
“The DSS manual outlines protocols for retraining sexually dysfunctional subjects,” Trisha reassured him, turning to a bookmarked page. “Progressive desensitization, arousal control, realistic expectation adjustment. We can handle this together.”
Trisha stood and pulled her curtains closed, dimming the room to soft twilight. “We should start with simulated copulation. Clothed friction exercises to establish baseline response patterns without direct genital contact.” She lay on her back, arms at her sides. “Mount me in missionary position. We’ll start with basic dry humping through our clothing. Try to maintain steady rhythm and monitor your arousal level.”
They had kissed and touched a bit before, but this was different. Their thin pajamas were the only barrier as he began gently moving his hips against hers. “Go slow, keep it steady,” Trisha guided him with a calm voice. Peter followed her advice, imitating what he’d seen in porn, feeling the cotton brush against his growing erection.
At first, she maintained objectivity, “Interesting. I can feel your penis erecting.” But soon, her breathing became heavier, and she started to moan softly, pulling him closer and matching his movements.
Peter felt his arousal surge. His past experiences with masturbation hadn’t prepared him for the sensation of a girl’s body beneath him. Trying to control himself, he took deep breaths, but the pleasure was overwhelming. “Trisha, stop, I’m about to—” he managed to say before his body surrendered to an intense orgasm, soaking his pajamas.
“Two minutes to orgasm. We need to work on that,” Trisha noted, reaching for a tissue. Her face showed her usual thoughtful look, but her voice carried a trace of hidden annoyance.
= = =
The next day, Peter arrived to find towels on the bed, lubricant on the nightstand, a timer, and extra tissues ready. Trisha, holding a checklist, said, “Today, we’re focusing on manual genital contact. DSS recommends controlled masturbation to ease performance anxiety. I’ll remain clothed and we will concentrate on the male genitals.”
Trisha settled next to Peter on the towels and unbuttoned his pants, pulling down his underwear to expose him. She took a ruler, noted the modest size, but didn’t seem disappointed. “Somewhat below average, but DSS data shows size doesn’t strongly relate to satisfaction.”
“We’ll begin with controlled penile stimulation,” she said. “Tell me if you’re nearing climax, and I’ll stop.” Her fingers brushed lightly along the shaft, gliding gently from base to tip. She traced the ridge below the head, wrapped her hand around the shaft, and applied a gentle squeeze. Checking her notes, she softly massaged the frenulum. “This spot is usually sensitive for most men. How does it feel for you?”
Peter struggled to control himself but Trisha’s touch sent him over the edge before he could warn her. His body responded with a sudden forcefull ejaculation, leaving ropes of semen on his abdomen and chest. Peter watched in horror as spurts even struck Trisha’s cheek and tangled in her hair. She slowly released his penis and reached for tissues, irritation clear on her face.
“I’m sorry,” he stammered. “Forty-five seconds,” she noted, checking her timer. “That’s well below the minimum standards.”
= = =
Trisha held up a flesh-colored tube. The outer office was shaped in irregular folds, provoking images that Peter fixed on during his masturbatory reveries. “We’re using a penetration simulator today,” she informed Peter. “The DSS manual recommends it for dealing with masturbation dependency. It closely mimics sexual intercourse and examination conditions.”
Peter’s eyes widened when Trisha took off her shirt and shorts, leaving only pantyhose. She reclined, her pussy clearly visible through the sheer material, and placed the artificial vagina snugly between her legs. “Climb on top of me and attempt insertion,” she said. “Don’t worry, the pantyhose will prevent accidental penetration.”
Peter got into position. Using the plastic simulator felt both pathetic and humiliating, but the proximity of Trisha’s real body kept him excited. He lined up and slid his penis into the plastic vagina with a deep sigh, and began slowly thrusting. Trisha reminded him: “You need to thrust for at least eight minutes after entry. Keep your pace.”
Peter felt the difference—this wasn’t his hand. It was passive, but passive more enveloping. His urge to thrust took charge. He imagined himself as the dominant guy from his porn videos, pleasuring a willing partner. As Trisha lay beneath him, the fantasy took hold — pride and a sense of manly achievement. Was this what it was to be a man? Would it feel the same with the real Trisha once he got his Adult Copulator License? Would she react like the women in his videos? Suddenly, he realized he’d let the fantasy go too far. He tried to slow down, but the simulator had a mind of its own. The familiar tension of release was close.
“I can’t— I’m going to—” he began, but climax overtook him mid-sentence. He thrust frantically, filling the plastic cavity with spurts of semen. Trisha lay still beneath him until his convulsions subsided. As he lay spent, she removed the simulator and examined the evidence of his failure with clinical detachment.
“Two minutes thirty seconds including insertion time,” she said, a note of exasperation finally creeping into her voice. “This approach isn’t working. We need to change strategy completely.”
= = =
“Continence training,” she said, pointing to a section in the DSS manual for Peter. “We induce arousal cycles that stop before orgasm. The idea is to train you to handle more stimulation without ejaculating.” Peter read the clinical details, feeling uneasy. The protocol involved daily sessions for at least eight weeks, with multiple arousal and denial cycles. Initially, subjects experienced intense physical and emotional stress, but data showed they gained better control over time.
Peter recalled how Trisha timed their sessions perfectly. She would expertly bring him close to release, then stop, extreme pleasure followed by excruciating frustration in endless cycles. By week seven, Peter was constantly on edge, but he was able to last much longer. His life now centered around their sessions, with her skillful control keeping him perpetually on the verge.
= = =
Furtive voices, suppressed laughter in the waiting room snapped Peter back to reality. He became acutely aware of his erection pressing against the thin medical gown. A dark patch of moisture spread at the tip. Peter crossed his legs, but that only highlighted his erection. The couple to his left noticed him, the girl disapprovingly, and her boyfriend smirking at Peter’s condition. He whispered in her ear, prompting her to roll her eyes in exaggerated disgust. Peter caught fragments of their conversation: “…can’t even control himself…” and “…how pathetic…”… “Look at him. Probably hasn’t even been with a girl before.”
Trisha’s elbow found his ribs. “Settle down,” she hissed. “You’re making a spectacle.Think about something else. Multiplication tables. Sports statistics. Anything …”
As door swung open to one of the examination rooms, Trisha halted in mid sentence, staring in speechless recognition of the imposing figure boldly framed in the doorway. Peter’s bold erection instantly shriveled.
= = =
(Continue to the next chapter with the link below)
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The Copulator License | by Richard Lovel | Copyright 2025 | All rights reserved
RL-2025-05-29 revised 2025-10-20