Goodwin Prescott
For obvious reasons, Jacob and Todd contributed their narrations to my doctoral thesis with the condition that my thesis would be kept sealed and never published without their approval.
xxxxIt was easy to accede to that reasonable caveat because both I and the professors supervising my study are fully sympathetic to the group of moderates in our society who hope that one day the system can be reformed.
xxxxUntil then, the selection will continue and, as each new high school class completes their education, the hordes of young teener males will be meted out the fates recorded so graphically in my study.
This report is part of my doctoral thesis, a study of the disposition of the members of the high school class of 2042 based upon study of the two hundred thirty-eight eighteen year old boys "evaluated" at the conclusion of their education at Fort Ridge High School in Des Moines, Iowa. I tracked specific boys who were evaluated differently, much as representative specimens of animal groups are "tagged" and studied in the wild, drawing on interviews with these individuals to document their thoughts, emotions and experiences.

I initially tracked more than twenty of the young males, but ultimately found that just three proved adequate to preserve the collective experience of the class, including the "anomolies" resulting from individual personality and emotion. No matter how rigidly a system may be designed to function, the human "spirit" is always an unknown factor. This was graphically demonstrated by the interesting interaction that occured when two of our three primary subjects crossed paths after supposedly being settled into the niches decreed for them by the evaluation process. One simply did not behave as he was "supposed to," which was, of course, an utterly predictable phenomenon. He behaved as his own impulses dictated, rather than adhere to the dictates of "the system."

Certain "evaluation" groups could not be dealt with directly due to their treatment or early termination, but the narrations of the three primary subjects served very well to describe what happened with the others in their class.

As a forward, it will be helpful to review the conditions that rule our world and the history that has created the society faced by the class of '42.

Over the past seventy years, the advent of computerization and the resulting information explosion, the destruction of the family unit and the mushrooming numbers of the human race, made it inevitable that prevalent views of individual worth had to change. We persisted, nonetheless, in overpopulating our limited planet with hordes of people who were utterly superfluous and who could have no expectation of a meaningul life in an ultra-tech society. The gulf between the technologically "elite" and the "lower" classes became an abyss by early in the twenty-first century and led to a series of horrorific class wars that devestated vast segments of the planet, reaching a climax with the shocking, bloody uprising in the United States of 2012. Since the ruling elite controlled the weaponry, it was inevitable who would prevail, but from this frightening discontent came the end of divisive nationalism as the ruling classes banded together for their common good. A vital component of the subsequent global economic and political system established was, of course, population control.

It was first contemplated that only the elite would reproduce, but it was quickly recognized that the gene pool would become dangerously limited. Further, despite progress in genetics, it was not possible to accurately predict the mental and emotional qualities of a male of the species until the organism had matured. Females could be much more accurately tested and classified while still in infancy. Thus, under the system adopted, females are sorted into the those few who are reared to be part of the elite and those to be lobotocised and reared as"breeders," their eggs harvested at in vitro farms where all human reproduction occurs. Breeders are euthanized after six months of ovulation to keep their numbers manageable and constantly "cleanse" the dna supply. Since ninety-five percent of the eggs are engineered to produce males, the female segment of the population is numerically insignificant anyway. All males are milked for sperm at age eighteen and then laser sterilized, just before they are "evaluated." The eggs are randomly fertilized from this vast supply of semen, thus guaranteeing the genetic pool's vital diversity.

The male organisms, engineered to be physically superior ... muscular, healthy and attractive ... are reared in state nurseries and given basic education through age eighteen. Then their "evaluation" occurs, a turning point in their lives much like the "graduation" ceremony of old. Computers study the records of each boy, complete with physical, intellectual and emotional testing and scans of his dna strand. Each young male is tentatively assigned to his "highest and best" use. Expert panels then review the decision of the computer for possible anomolies and approve the proposed assignment with rare exception. There is no appeal.

Naturally there was some opposition to the new reproductive process even within the ranks of the elite (noone cared what the views were of the defeated lower classes), but the system, as it is called, is now just the "accepted" norm, as occurs over time in human society after quantum change in dominant philosophy. The furor and debate that occasionally had to be violently suppressed by the authorities back a scant twenty-five years ago now seems almost humorous. The "last gasp of the neanderthals" it has sometimes been dubbed. Of course, the engineered children pouring out of the farms are reared from birth in the new order and most cannot imagine any other system making sense.

Boys are sorted into five general categories upon being evaluated. Each year a small "replenishment" percentage for the male ranks of the elite is determined, seven percent in 2042. In that year, another three percent were needed to fill police and military positions and five percent assigned for training as domestic "pets" to serve the needs of their elite masters. Ten percent would be lobotocised and neutered and used as slave "drones" for the small manual labor force still needed, primarily in agricultural and mineral production. The remaining seventy-five percent were disposed of, about ten percent given to the military for use in training and weapons experimentation, five percent to medical and science facilities as guinea pigs or vivisection specimens. The majority were simply destroyed and their carcasses processed into animal food.

-The author

I suppose I approached my evaluation with the same curiosity and well-disguised trepidation as all the other boys in my class at Fort Ridge High. We all tried to "macho" our way through a terrifying time pretending not to be afraid.

We were so similar that few of us could be sure what our assigned use would be. For starters, though we were ethnically diverse, we were all caucasian. Races produced by the farms were assigned geographic zones for rearing. Black children went to three states in the deep south, Asians to Oregon and Washington, and, because of their huge numbers, Hispanics went to Florida, Texas and the Southwest. The rest of us were parcelled out randomly across the balance of the nation. Off course, none of us had "parents," as revered as that discredited, quaint notion still seems to be among some of the older people. Having two untrained, unqualified persons breed us out as "theirs", then raise us privately and instill in us their weakesses, biases and superstitions or damage us psychologically or even physically seems patently absurd, but I guess that's how they used to do it!

We were all sturdy, healthy young jocks, genetically engineered for that and reared on perfect regimens of diet and exercise. "Inappropriate" infants with clear defects were disposed of at birth. There were no overweight kids or weaklings among us. Over the years, the few who exhibited such traits, became lamed, or were otherwise misfits were quietly removed from our ranks and gently put to sleep by lethal injection.

Real rebels or troublemakers were dealt with harshly. They were strangled on ropes or burned alive at assemblies to set "examples" for us. Though these were rare occasions, they were mildly disturbing to some of the guys and only of passing entertainment interest to most. I frankly relished and looked forward to the executions, even deriving erotic pleasure from them. I once even turned in two of my football teammates who had been stirring up trouble in the lockerroom, suggesting that if we all stood together and refused to be evaluated or sterilized, the system would collapse. Nonsense of course and noone was paying any attention to them, but I felt I had to do the right thing and report them. The day they were executed in the gym I was singled out for praise and got a standing ovation. I was given the right to choose their execution mode and, without hesitation, had them burned. That was so very much more agonizing than the strangulation.

Naturally we had diversity in such variables as height, actual build, hair and eye color, facial features, intelligence and personality, but not so dramatically that it was really easy to guess where we stood as we approached the end of our twelfth year of education. Because of our programmed grouping after our creation, we all turned eighteen within a few weeks before the time for evaluation.

Another problem in trying to figure our fates were the quotas to be applied to our class across the nation. Though any number of us might be qualified for a particular use, only those deemed most ideal by the computer would be assigned until the quota was reached. Needless to say, we were abuzz when the figures were announced just days before evaluation. There were groans when we saw our percentages for the elite and military categories were lower than last year.

Underscoring the coming quantum changes in our young lives ... or, for most of us, the termination of those lives ... was our visit to the mobile sperm lab brought to school the same day the quotas came out. We reported in alphabetized groups to be milked and then sterilized and were somewhat edgy.

Of course, none of us attached any significance to continued, useless sperm production. We'd have done our part to perpetuate mankind when we squirted into the sucking tube of the milking machine. It was just that it was rumored that the laser sterilization that followed was painful. As I stood in the line outside the van, I mentally debated whether most of us qualified as being "virgin." Of course, if that meant having had relations with a girl, we were all utterly pure. Most of us had never even seen a young female. The ones going into the elite were isolated for rearing in separate facilities until, as would shortly occur, a select few of us mingled with them to couple, if desired, for so long as was convenient. Formal "marriage" was about as outdated and rare as parenting.

But that certainly had not meant we horny young bucks had been without sex. With rare exception we had found relief and pleasure with each other. Most of our cocks had popped loads into sucking mouths and a high percentage of our assholes had been nicely stretched from steady use. Our rampant homosexual behavior was, if not openly condoned, studiously ignored and certainly not condemned. We were aware that those too overtly gay were less likely to become elitists, so we claimed that we really didn't like or prefer what we did with each other with such abandon, but had no normal outlet for our urgent jock libidos.

What bullshit! Doing another guy was normal for us. Sex was no longer a reproductive thing ... just a matter of taking pleasure in that neat physical act of orgasm. And none of us had ever had a girl around to test that out. Whatever.

So, as far as I was concerned, I was not remotely a virgin as I stepped into the lab for my processing and rather proud of that fact. I'd sucked and fucked and been sucked and fucked like a satyr from the time I could first get my substantial dick to stand up and squirt off a load. Hell, I might not live much past eighteen anyway and I had wanted to enjoy what might be all too brief a life as much as I could. I think most of us felt that way. Live for the day.

I had had a real fear of embarrassing myself by being unable to get my rod up to perform my bit for humanity, but need have had no such concern. I watched a couple of guys go through it while I waited in the door of the trailer. We had been told to report clad only in our briefs and these came off as soon as we entered the lab. You hopped on a padded table, splayed your thighs and a plastic tube was slipped over your cock, whether flaccid or hard. There was a soft THWUMP as it was activated and a powerful sucking vacuum got you hard as a rock almost instantly. The guys gasped and flexed at the sensation, then writhed in mixed agony and ecstasy as a low alternating current played up and down their steely shafts like a vise-like, velvet-gloved fist stroking them.

After a dude popped his load, he came off the table and stood over the sterilization equipment. He was told to thrust his balls into a plastic tube jutting up between his thighs. As soon as he did, a vacuum sucked them down and drew them out in a most painful-looking style. That stretched and exposed the vas deferens tubes which were spotted and targeted by an x-ray guided laser.

PZAAP! With a soft spit the laser was fired into your scrotal bag. When it reached the programmed site of the tubes, it incinerated an inch of them, permanently sterilizing your young ass beyond any chance of surgical repair. You'd be shooting blanks the rest of your life, however long or short that might be.

Of course his pain turned me on and the technician grinned as he slipped the tube over my throbbing hunk of meat. I noticed he coded my sperm tube as number 1876589. Funny, I learned that number instantly. I guess I'll always wonder if it got used or was eventually flushed down a toilet with the rest of the unused stock somewhere down the road.
I got off powerfully. Then, trying to look nonchalant but probably not succeeding too well, I positioned my ass over the sterilization device and shoved my big set of orbs down the tube. The kid ahead of me was right. When the vacuum seized my nuts and jerked them down into the laser's field, it hurt bad enough. When the laser fired, there was this sudden sensation of heat deep inside my bag as the searing light beam evaporated my seed tubes.

I was tender and tingly down there for hours. That night I got with a buddy who'd also gotten his balls zapped and we experimented in a cozy 69 in my bed. To our relief, we both had no trouble getting our rods up and off, so there was no reduction in our ability to enjoy.

Then came evaluation day. They held a big assembly and we each had an assigned seat and number. Mine was 167.

They called the sixteen guys who had gotten elite status and would enjoy long, priviliged lives of luxury, starting with a college education ... a coed facility if they were really interested in experiencing cunt. We dutifully applauded each as he was brought forward as if we wished him well. Really, we all hated his lucky guts, though I had not really expected to be in that group. I had thought all along that, if anything, I might make the military cut. I was bigger and tougher than most of my classmates and had a reputation of being a bit nuts and daring. I kinda hoped, too, that my turning in the two rebels the year before would give me a leg up on my record review.

It was sure sweaty. Only seven guys were going into the para-military police or actual military guard units. One by one the numbers were called. Shit! Six down! I was really getting tense. I figured I wasn't cute enough to become a domestic "puppy." It was more likely with my muscles I'd wind up with an electric lobotomy, my genitals lasered off, working to death as a field slave on some fucking farm or laboring in a damn pit mine.

The last military number rang out.

Number 167!

I just about fainted with relief. Military life these days is pretty cushy and you get loads of special education. You enjoy a status not far removed from being an elitist, especially if you should be selected for officer school after basic training. Even as a trooper, you're fair game for fucking with any elite women so desiring, and most do, if you are interested in that kind of sex. We were the power protecting the ruling technocrats and they treated us with respect, knowing that if we weren't included in the "action" we might turn on them. Retired military were permitted the same long life span as a true elitist.

For this assembly, we were all naked. They wanted us feeling very vulnerable as we were alotted our fates knowing a naked guy is less likely to get too feisty. Me and my six jubilant military buddies, congratulating ourselves, were whisked from the auditorium as they read off the numbers of the kids who'd be doing "pet" duty in the homes of the elite, at least for a short while. Pet dudes only get to live until they're twenty-two and then have to be put to sleep. They've found that as a guy gets older, he tends to become less manageable as a household slave. Most owners actually get new boys much sooner than required anyway, so few pets make it past twenty.

Still, I guess it was preferable to the other choices which were immediately very, very bad. A lot of the boys remaining in the stands were getting real pale and a few even crying. Not very "manly" but understandable.

A contingent of military police equipped with electro-wands were deploying and keeping a wary eye on the rest of my class as the eleven puppies were selected and hauled off to the van that would take them to their training facility. Then the twenty-two who would become slave drones were announced and removed, some having to be forced along by threats of the brutal cattle prods wielded by the guards. Twenty-four more were removed as "military fodder" and an even dozen selected for use at the nearby medical school and its related research facilities.

We new military recruits were given thin kevlar-chain vests with signs reading "police" on the back and chest. That wasn't because we needed the bullet-proof protection but just to identify us since we were still as butt naked as our classmates whom we were now assigned to help control. We'd get our uniforms when they got us on base, but for the moment they needed our extra manpower. We each got one of the super-nasty electric prods and were shown how to fire them.

Then we re-entered the auditorium where the remaining hundred fifty-nine "garbage" hunks were still sitting, looking stunned. We started herding them through the doors into the parking lot where they were to be destroyed. Though they knew what was coming, it was remarkable how cooperative most of them were, like sheep to the slaughter. One boy, Jake Randall, a fellow football jock, did panic and bolted from the group, running out onto the nearby football field. They let him get a ways while one of the officers unholstered his nine millimeter sidearm, seeming to be in no great hurry. He drew a rough bead on the naked, running boy. He was using the lastest computer-laser tracking (CLT) weapon. You just pointed it at what you wanted to target, pulled the trigger and the system did the rest. With a moving target, you held the pistol loosely and it tracked the identified subject, firing when the hit was properly vectored. It would continue to track and fire automatically until the target was taken out. It was just about foolproof with a ninty-seven percent success record.

 The shot echoed loudly. A red hole appeared magically between Jake's shoulder blades and a great burst of blood and tissue exploded out the front of his body, just below his pecs. He was hurled forward, arms thrown up, legs akimbo, to collapse face-down and still on the grass of the athletic field where not long before he'd been a game-winning hero.

He looked dead but just to be sure the cop strolled over to him and fired another round square into the back of his skull. Returning to the shaken, silent lines of prisoners, he let the muzzle of his gun move back and forth over them.

No-one answered, but noone else tried to run.

Another jock buddy of mine, Chad Devers, was next to me in the line of condemned about-to-be-dogfood hunks, a guy whom I had fucked repeatedly and who gave some of the best head I'd ever had. He caught my arm and whined.

I did feel for him a little, but it pissed me off something fierce that he'd put me in that spot. He knew as well as I how the game was played ... what the "order" of our society was. We couldn't all be allowed to live; it would have reverted things back to the "bad old days." Almost instinctively, I thrust my electric prod square between his thighs, right into his big, dangling balls and let him have a burst at full power.

The sound of the juice discharging crackled loudly. There was even a little puff of smoke from his crotch and his scream was demented.
As he fell writhing and flexing on the ground, one of the MP NCO's hustled over to see what had happened. I was worried that I might have violated some rule, but when I explained why I had popped Chad, the NCO gave me a hard, analytical look, then smiled, obviously pleased.

He chuckled, The sergeant pulled his pistol from his holster, chambered a round and handed it butt first to me. I just about choked. I'd never offed another guy before. What the fuck, I thought. There's a first time for everything. How hard can it be to snuff this dude writhing on the ground naked at my feet. In fact ... I like the way it's making me feel! I lowered the muzzle a few inches from my ex-fuck buddy's flat gut, just above his pubic hair line. Then squeezed the trigger.


I jumped a little at the recoil of the pistol but loved the way the round hole appeared magically in Chad's skin, blood splattering out and forming a faint mist in the air around his wound.

He shrieked with renewed vigor and grabbed at the wound with both hands. I could only nod enthusiastically. That was precisely what I wanted to do. I shoved the pistol's business end directly against Chad's huge balls and squeezed the trigger.


The nads seemed to vaporize in an explosion of crimson and tissue. This time he fainted and I finished it by pressing the barrel to his chest, just below and to the center of his left pec, following the sergeant's directions. Then I fired again, directly into Chad's heart.

Immensely pleased and still savoring the heady thrill of Chad's execution, I helped herd the remaining naked boys into the two big semi vans waiting for them, cramming about seventy-five into each so tightly pressed standing together that they couldn't move. The doors were closed and locked and I noticed they were hermetically sealed. A thick rubber hose was then slipped over the top of each truck's exhaust stack and the loose ends screwed into holes in the sides of the trailers.

The sergeant sought me out and had me get behind the wheel of one of the semis. He showed me how to start the ignition.

Without the slightest hesitation, I cranked up the truck and sent the thick bursts of carbon monoxide pouring into the makeshift gas chamber. I jammed my foot on the gas petal to rev the engine and keep the flow going real good and steady. At first you could hear the guys screaming hysterically and thrashing around inside the trailers, rocking them around on their wheels. But after a couple of minutes it died down and soon it was completely still inside the rigs.

So much for sixty percent of my high school class! Hell, I'd just offed thirty percent of them with a flick of my wrist and press of my foot.

Roger's narrative will continue, but for chronological continuity, we will now digress to another account from a member of the class of '42. -author


I know I sound like an egotistical little shit, but I never really had any doubt I would be one of those elevated to the elite on evaluation day. There were sixteen to be selected after all and I could think of no more than four who might overall have qualifications rivalling mine. I had excelled, even over-achieved, in the classroom, on the athletic field and in political mechanizations.

Mr. Penrod, the principal, behaved like a real bastard at the selection assembly. He seemed to be going in order from most qualified down as he called out the names of the "sweet sixteen" as they had been dubbed. I spotted that at once and calmly waited for my number, surely at least the fourth or fifth that would be called. When eight were down and I was still not designated, I sat up in irritation. What the fuck was going on?

Twelve down! A cold chill ran down my spine. For the very first time in my eighteen years I actually entertained the thought that for some unknown and monstrous reason I might not be elevated. As humiliating as it would be to be among the last named, the alternative was unthinkable. Fourteen down! Fifteen! I was dying inside as fear gnawed at my guts. Penrod paused before calling the last number.

Though I was relieved, I wanted to kill Penrod. I knew it was no accident he had put me through this hell. It was bad enough that I had had to submit to the indignity and pain of being sperm milked and sterilized along with my classmates, but now this! He had repeatedly chided me for my "lack of humility," but I knew he was privy to my records and suspected his attitude towards me was because he knew my secret and was jealous. I even suspected that he was the one who had started the rumor my senior year that had led to my social isolation among my peers, though none had ever been able to determine the truth behind the rumor.

In truth, I am indeed a "known."

Despite the supposed ironclad new order on reproduction, some of the most powerful and wealthy among the elite were able to work the magic of having a child. Unlike all of the others in my class, I had parents! A special egg from an elite woman had been quietly brought to the in vitro farm to be fertilized with sperm from sample l78665, that woman's husband. They had actually entered into a marriage, as rare as that was. Though unused sperm is supposed to be destroyed each year, somehow he had arranged for his sperm to be preserved until he had the power to arrange for its programmed use. I was the result of that process and knew and loved them and they loved me. Since, by that time, "dad" was the governor of New York, I guess it was all perfectly acceptable to the small number of people who were aware.

That had been another reason I was pretty certain of selection. A "known" son of an elite couple almost always was elevated. If the computer didn't do it, the review panel quietly accomplished the desired result, usually in exchange for favors or cash. Human nature in 2042 was still venal. It was that factor that had lead to such resentment among my fellow seniors when the rumor of my being a "known" spread.

After we dressed, there was a reception in our honor by the faculty and underclassmen. We also got a briefing from college officials on our upcoming entry into higher educational facilities selected for us based on our assessed abilities and special talents. I was to go to medical school, which pleased me a great deal. All of us were also assigned elite mentors, older uncoupled men in our fields of study with whom we would live while going to school. Influence had again intervened in my case and I would go to Dr. Jonas Green, a close friend of my "parents" who lived near to them. After "dad" left the governor's office, they had moved from New York to Iowa just to be near me.

Before leaving for our new homes, however, it had been determined that it would be useful for us to see what happened to some of the less fortunate members of our class, underscoring to us just how fortunate we were. As if we really needed that! We made a brief excursion as a group to the DPC in the suburbs of des Moines ... the Drone Preparation Center. Here the guys from school who were to becomes slave laborers would undergo the agonizing treatment required for them. Some of my fellow new elitists were unhappy, a few regarding this as a "bore" and others showing a squeamish side. I was actually quite delighted, thinking it would be interesting to witness the transformation of our peers whose rejection had made my senior year so socially miserable and whom I resented in turn.

Ours was a new state-of-the-art DPC and they were obviously proud of their operation. Some of the older facilities are receiving criticism about poor sanitation and unusually high mortality rates during the drone conversions.

The first stop on our tour was at the lobotomy department. Our guide began his narration.

Ten naked guys at a time were brought into the room, each isolated in a small plexi-glass booth until it was his turn. All of them were super-buff studs, bulging with finely toned muscle. None of these were any of our school's selectees. High schools from all over Iowa shipped their drones-to-be here for processing, so there were several hundred on the premises at a given time, selection dates being staggered at different schools to keep the flow even. Ours would begin processing shortly we were told. We watched as a buzz-haired golden hunk was strapped into the lobotomy chair and a metal device locked about his forehead. There was a soft static buzz as the device was fired into the boy's head. It lasted for about three seconds and every muscle in his hard body contracted into rigid bands and cords. He shuddered all over convulsively and even after the device ended its blast of current, he continued to twitch and flex involuntarily against the straps of the chair. His eyes looked glazed and blank and saliva drooled from his mouth. There was a very slight scorchy smell in the air and when the band was removed from his head he had a bright red burn mark where it had been positioned. The hair to either side of his forehead had been singed. Interesting. I would have liked to stay and watch more of the hunks zapped, but the tour moved on into the department that actually interested me even more. The castration facility. We watched with great interest as a group of lobotocised drones were brought in, hands loosely manacled behind their backs. They rather dully cooperated as they were made to straddle a narrow, shallow pit in the floor and their ankles were manacled to steel posts positioned evenly along its edges. That splayed their thighs widely apart, leaving their heavy hung crotches vulnerable and fully exposed for the emasculation process.

Although the drones remained outwardly calm, I detected tension in their bodies and faces. I have read that cattle entering a slaughterhouse sense the nature of the place and become frightened. I think that was the case here. In some deep recess of their reduced intelligence these young bulls sensed something very unpleasant was about to be done to them and were restive.
The pit was a working bay for the technicians. In it they were on an ideal operating level and angle with the genital packages they were to remove, sort of the way auto mechanics function beneath an elevated car from below. As one completed his function with the first boy in line and moved on, the next technician began his processing on number one. Very efficient and effective.

The first technician inserted the tip of a thin tube into the slit lips of each penis and forced it on up the length of the piss tube.

He pressed a trigger-like control on the handle of the device and there was a very faint click. He pulled the tube back out. He moved with the assured practice of long experience and made no effort to be at all gentle with the delicate man shafts. It was pretty clear that it was a very painful experience for the drones, whose ability to experience pain was obviously intact, but none offered any resistence. They did emit grunting little cries and flexed their muscles..

The second technician entered the pit and reached up to seize each drone's big balls, jerking the sac down brutally to stretch it out. Up came a laser knife and the gonads were deftly sliced off, scrotum and all. There was a soft hiss and puff of smoke as the wound was instantly cauterized even as it was inflicted. There was virtually no blood spilled.

The drones all screamed and shuddered violently as they were castrated. The raw burn wounds where balls had hung were sprayed with disinfectant. The severed balls were dumped unceremoniously into a quick freeze solution. Boy balls, referred to as "boysters", were a popular appetizer in many restaurants serving the elite and the DPC's provided a steady source for the trendy, pricy delicacy.

The final attendant exercised greater care. He ran his laser knife in a slow steady circle around the base of the stretched-out penis of each screaming drone. The amputated cock was slipped free , exposing half of the embedded steel rod inserted previously. The purpose became clear. The laser would not cut it as it severed the flesh all around, cauterizing as it went, the rod keeping the piss tube open.

One of the tour group raised a hand. I raised my hand, The guide looked at me and nodded happily. That brought laughter and nods of agreement.

They showed us the reception area where incoming drone-selectees are kept while being registered. Each high school group was kept in its own enclosure, not unlike cattle pens. I studied them and finally chose Mark Alby. The husky dude had pissed me off last year by getting a higher grade in one of our classes while generally being a mediocre student. Looking shaky and bewildered, Mark was taken from the pen and escorted naked with us to a small chamber off the main hallway. The guide led Mark into the room while we looked on through observation windows.

The room was empty except for two slim metal posts jutting up five feet high from the floor, three feet apart. There was a metal circle in the floor between them upon which Mark was positioned. His body was briefly sprayed with a light mist to moisten it. The guide stepped back and told him next to reach out with his hands and take a good grip on both of the posts. Trembling, Mark obeyed. As both of his hands made contact, he apparantly closed a programmed power circuit. With awesome violence, the naked body was seized in the grip of a dazzling burst of electricity. Crackling bands of white lightning circled him like a gauze curtain, coursing in and out of his ruggedly buff body like a fluid.
He contracted so powerfully that I thought he might rip muscle through his smooth skin. He started reddening all over and I realized he actually was cooking as he was electrocuted. His features were frozen in an agonized looking scream but no sound emitted.

After fifteen seconds the juice ceased but before Mark's seemingly lifeless form could collapse, the steel circle beneath his feet slid open and the corpse plummeted through the floor.

The guide explained that the remains were dropped into a high instensity acid pool to be totally dissolved in a few hours. Though there had briefly been a burning stench, powerful fans had ventilated the room so effectively that the smell departed with Mark's corpse.

It was clever. The set up looked pretty non-threatening, making it easy to have the full cooperation of the condemned. The killing itself was swift, sure and cheap. Mark, unrestrained and unwitting, had been cleanly executed without the slightest fuss and his body disposed of within less than thirty seconds after he entered the death chamber.

Isn't modern technology great!

There will be some final notes from Jacob's narration further on. -author


I was a good athlete, but always hated being just a bit smaller than most of my classmates. I also was endowed with a dimpled face that was considered "cute", one of those guys who'll keep "boyish" looks late into life, looking to be twenty when thirty, the ideal "pet".

Except pets don't reach thirty.

At the selection assembly, I wasn't really too surprised when I was chosen for "pet" service. I had mixed emotions. You hear bad things about how they train you for domestic use and I thought it might be better to just be snuffed and get it over with, rather than cling to a demeaning life for a few more years, only to then be "put to sleep." I'd been a really good student and otherwise well-rounded but obviously the computer hadn't found me impressive enough to include in the "sweet sixteen." It was hard not to be bitter. I'd always been a good person, tried hard and done well and could see little reason why the others selected should live and I die just because some computer arbitrarily decided that should be the case. You might guess, although I had always kept such thoughts strictly to myself, lest I be hanged or burned as a rebel, that I am not a blind supporter of "the system."

Frankly the system sucks.

In restrospect, of course, it proved very good that I was selected to be a "puppy," as we are often sneeringly referred to, but I sure didn't believe that while I was at the training center! It was awful what was done to "domesticate" us, worse even than I'd expected and that had been bad enough. From the time we entered the facility, the intent was clearly to break our spirit and drive out any inclination towards feelings of individual worth. Near constant pain, draconian punishment, and terror were the devices employed by the brutal trainers who had control of every aspect of our existence.

I've always had a lot of self control and discipline and know how to play the game, so I really sailed through it all in fairly good shape, though hating every minute. I felt so sorry for the poor kids who, for whatever reason, just couldn't adapt very well.

Training lasted a month, then you were put into the sales display area for prospective customers to view, just like in the pet stores in the malls. If you didn't find an owner within ten days of being put on display, you were put to sleep. That actually happened pretty rarely as there is a high demand for fresh boy pets, but the killing facility was still in daily use disposing of discarded pets brought in by owners coming to replace them with a fresh puppy. As a warning to us about what would happen if we failed to cooperate in our training, shortly after we arrived we were taken to that dreadful room to witness an unwanted puppy being put to sleep.

He was just twenty, two years younger than mandatory destruction age, and a really good-looking, nicely built guy. He was naked and so we could see he was also beautifully hung, a pretty common attribute we all shared. Consistent with human treatment of other species, it is just expected that boy pets stay naked. Only the rarest owner ever allows even a pair of sandals. Few owners of real dogs clothe those creatures and are regarded as a bit eccentric when they do.

His name was Kelly and I was a little startled to recognize him. With chance coincidence he had graduated two years ago from my own Fort Ridge High School and I recalled him being a pretty decent guy. He looked sad and depressed as he was brought in for his killing, but offered no resistence or objection as he was made to step into the small, round titanium-glass decompression chamber , having to squat down to fit. The door was hermetically sealed behind him. We all craned forward to get a good view as, with a soft hiss, the chamber went into operation to suck out the air from within.

Within less than a minute, Kelly started exhibiting discomfort and breathing distress, his eyes widening and his mouth pursing into an "O" shape. His fingers curled up as he raised his hands off his knees where they had been resting.

As he struggled to suck air into his straining lungs, a surprised, panicky look registered in his eyes as if he just now really understood that he was being put to death.

I mean, really understood. I realized he must have sat right where we were two years ago and watched as this was done to another guy and I wondered what he had thought back then. I swallowed hard as I imagined myself inside that awful chamber being slowly asphyxiated.

Shit, I thought, maybe I'll luck out and get an owner who'll pay to have me put down mercifully.

And I imagined that was what Kelly probably thought back two years ago. The odds were against it.

Decompression is an agonizing death. Especially as practiced by the bastards running the pet training center. They draw the air from the chamber very slowly so that the guy inside suffers for a long time. That's done intentionally to encourage owners discarding a pet to pay the twenty-five dollar fee for a quick injection death rather than condemning him to the agonizing free decompression chamber. Still, only a small minority of owners are decent enough to reward faithful service by sparing their boys extended pain and humiliation in dying.

So much for loyalty, huh?

It took Kelly fully fifteen minutes of obviously increasing agony and anguish before he was finally dead. Blood ran from his nose and ears from burst blood vessals and ruptured ear drums. With no air in the chamber you couldn't hear him, but you could tell he was screaming towards the end. All of us were very quiet and tense as we filed out of the killing room.

We were housed in cramped dorm rooms with hard, multi-tiered slabs of wood to sleep on with no bedding. As if that weren't uncomfortable enough, starting the first night we were each rigged up with a vicious device. When I first saw "the bit" I was puzzled about its purpose, but learned quickly enough after mine was attached between my thighs. A leather strap goes tightly around the neck of your genitals and holds in place a set of curving steel rods within which your balls are inserted. A control "rein" is affixed to an eye bolt on the surface of the bed-slab. If you pull against that damned rein even a little bit, the rings chomp down around your balls like a vise, crushing them, and the pressure is relieved only as the bars very slowly ease back once the pull on the rein ceases.

I'd love to meet the diabolical son of a bitch who invented that little toy! Of course most guys, especially when miserably uncomfortable, will thrash around as they sleep. As hard as we all tried to sleep perfectly still, we nonetheless would be awakened repeatedly during those endless nights by the screams of boys who had rolled over and paid the agonizing price. I was no exception and my balls would ache horribly for hours afterwards. If you attempted to remove the device or detach the rein, you set off an alarm in the monitoring office and would receive a truly horrible whipping.

Whippings were, of course, very common, given for virtually any offense. They were administered with a thin rubber truncheon that was designed to leave the skin unmarked but deeply bruise the underlying muscle with excruciating effect. Sometimes they would even whip the soles of the feet of a particularly serious offender. Then, when he couldn't stand up to continue training, he would be deemed a "malingerer" and sent to the decompression chamber. You knew automatically that if they went after the soles of a boy's feet they had decided to kill him.

I think the forced exercise was the worst. I had always liked working out and was in fine shape, but the center wanted us to all be spectacular. They wanted perfectly proportioned, toned, sculpted physiques that would make us more attractive to the potential customers. They also wanted us exhausted to make us more psychologically susceptible to the constant diet of brainwashing to which we were subjected. That was a main purpose of the sleep deprivation created by "the bit" as well.

I guess the end purpose of it all was to make life at the center such hell that no pup in his right mind would ever want to set foot there again. Since pets that don't please are returned by their owners for a "refresher" training period, you left here determined to do everything in your power to please the master after you were purchased. You'd rather die than go back to the center for more training. They had a special, fenced-off compound where the "reruns" were "corrected." We didn't know what went on over there, but the screams constantly emitting from the enclosure didn't leave much doubt about how bad it was..

At first, exercise was a regimented group thing, especially the constant running required. You were yoked with two other boys to a spoke of a vast wheel that moved at a steady pace around and around.

You had to keep running at the pace selected and if you lagged or fell, you would be dragged and they never stopped the wheel when that happened. Your yoke mates, if agile and willing, were often able to help get you back on your feet, and most others made it on their own, but a number of boys were dragged until injured so badly that they had to be destroyed in the decompression chamber.
Running like that, manacled, naked and bare-footed in the hot sun, was sheer hell.

Once you were deemed strong enough and cooperative enough to suit the cadre, you were allowed to run individually, unmanacled and without being yoked to the wheel, which was a little less demeaning. It was no less painful, however. They equipped your crotch with a damned monitor that measured the pace of your run. If you dropped below the pace set for you, there would be a loud beeping warning.

If you dropped the pace again anytime within the next five minutes, you got a brutal dose of electricity square to your genitals that made you wish you were dead.

A boy would collapse on the track writhing and screaming in agony clutching his shocked manhood.

You had three minutes to recover and get running again, otherwise the device zapped you again. If you wound up getting more than three crotch zaps during an hour run, you were deemed "recalcitrant" and given a severe whipping.

Small wonder that Hank DeVaney decided to try to escape the dreadful place, though there was never any real chance of success. Even if he had succeeded, where the hell was he going to go?

I didn't know Hank well as he was from a different school, but we had been yoke mates on several occasions and he had seemed nice enough. Nice looking guy, tall and strong ... a track star.

One morning he just snapped or something and when they were getting ready to yoke him in place on the running wheel, he suddenly bolted and made a hard dash at the mound of coiled barbed wire on the perimeter of the training facility.

The vicious metal briar patch wasn't particularly high, just a few feet, but it was broad enough to serve its purpose of keeping us confined.

Hank's jump was spectacular. As he sailed high over the wire, he looked like a graceful, bounding buck in flight. I don't know that I've ever seen a more breath-taking leap. I held my breath and prayed for him.

He made it! He actually cleared the wire!

The guards were so caught off guard that none opened fire on him. Or maybe, like the rest of us, they were just mesmerized at the accomplishment of a feat that noone could have believed possible. He took off without losing a stride and made it to the nearby woods and dashed out of sight. We all wanted to cheer for the gutsy stud but didn't dare incur the wrath of the outraged, furious cadre who quickly organized a manhunt for the escapee. Noone had ever escaped from the facility before.

Sadly, they captured the champion broad-jumper within an hour. We were all confined to our quarters for most of the day and then late in the afternoon ordered to assemble to witness Hank's punishment. Clearly, an example was to be made of the poor jock.

A small pit had been hastily excavated and filled with strands and coils of barbed wire. Hank was placed on the edge of the pit and one of the trainers stepped behind him.

He gave Hank a shove that sent him flying off the edge of the excavation to plummet into the mesh of barbed wire waiting below and be pierced and gored in dozens of places. He flailed around screaming in his agony and succeeded in further entangling himself in the wire, lacerating himself deeply in the process. Shortly he could hardly move and just lay there suffering.
I figured they'd just leave him there to die a lingering death. Wrong! They intended to give us a graphic warning lest anyone else decide to try to escape. A guard brought out a can of gasoline and we all cringed as they poured it over the wire-entrapped naked boy in the pit.

Then with casual indifference, one of the chief trainers tossed a match down.


As he burned, Hank's screams rent the air over and over until he finally died, lasting a remarkably long time. He never lost consciousness before death took him. We learned later he'd been given a shot of a powerful anti-shock drug mixed with a nerve sensitizer, so that while being blocked from a merciful faint, he was made to experience the agony of being burned alive with his pain reception significantly enhanced.

As I listened to Hank's shrieks from the smoldering pit, I was consumed with angry hatred of the system and the elitists who foisted it upon us.

If an intractable dog at an obedience school was disposed of as Hank had been, every humane society activist in the country would have been outraged! With us, no-one cared one whit what was done.

I had a bad scare right after Hank's immolation. I was brought before the trainer who had ignited him.

He was holding one of the dreadful whipping truncheons and lightly slapping it on the palm of his free hand as he spoke. I swallowed hard. I was one of the few pets in the current cycle who had not yet screwed up enough to earn a whipping. I cursed my stupidity in allowing my thoughts about Hank to register in my features. I doubted the trainer believed me, but the real purpose of his summons of me was next made clear and I breathed a sigh of relief.

He shrugged and rose, stripping off his boots, socks, pants and underwear. He was powerfully erect between his muscular thighs.

Whenever a pet was brought into the admin area, his hands were manacled behind his back for cadre safety and the horny trainer didn't free me. Thus I had to lean down rather awkwardly to get at his crotch as he sat "Indian" style on the sofa in his office, the rubber truncheon still in his hand as a continuing threat. Still, he was a good-looking, well-hung stud and, despite my hatred of him, I had no trouble satisfying his urgent need to ejaculate.

I've always excelled at giving oral pleasure. I was in great demand among the little circle of intellectuals with whom I ran in high school. I'd earned the dubious nickname of "Todd the Tongue."

Afterwards, the salty taste of his cum lingering in my mouth and throat, his vast load of seed lodged in my belly, I left the trainer's office speculating about his comment about someone showing a special interest in me. I suspected that could be very good or very bad, depending on who it was and just what they had in mind for me.

Well fuck, I thought. Yet another element of frustrating uncertainty for me to worry about. Just what I needed!

Todd's narrative will continue. -author


I have found I love the military, or more specifically the military police, the elite unit that is the backbone for the entire social system. We are the hardest of the hard-core and rather universally hated, even by most of the elitists whom we protect. Nonetheless, even our harshest critics among the elite begrudgingly admit that we are an "unfortunate" necessity.

Screw them!

Having the kind of power we exercise means not giving a damn what anyone else thinks.

However, I will concede that we could be a bit more sensitive to "PR" and image.

In recent years, there has been a good deal of glorification of the Nazis from a century ago. Their ideas of rule by a "superior" group of humans has echoes in "the system," and there are noticeable disparities in the racial and ethnic make-up of the ruling elite within the United States. It is overwhelmingly white and there have been allegations that fewer minority infants are deliberately being bred out in the in vitro farms in an effort to gradually "homogenize" the population. Also, lower selection quotas are set in the "ghetto" states where minorities are located, ostensibly because fewer individuals are found "qualified" by the computers, not just because of race or ethnic origin, but noone is fooled much by that.

Certainly the brutal methods applied indiscriminately to all undesirable males after selection are fully consistent with Nazi methodology.

Those accusing the police of being fascists are needlessly given ammunition against us by the very trappings of the corps. For example, as much as I personally like our crisply tailored uniforms, which I find highly erotic, the gray and black cloth, silver decoration and high jack boots are strikingly reminiscent of Nazi attire. The single lightning bolt rune that is our corps insignia is almost undeniably a play on the SS symbol and likely ill advised, but the present commander is an unabashed fan of Heinrich Himmler so it is not surprising. I'm not in a position to change any of that.

Not yet.

I have had a wonderful run of good fortune. The helpful NCO who took me under his wing made sure I got plum assignments guaranteed to bring me to the attention of the power structure. Just recently I was notified that I will be attending the next cycle at the officer academy, which just about clinches a bright future in the corps. In the meantime, I was temporarily commissioned a lieutenant and assigned to the staff at the Blue Lake commando training and weapons research facility. I had only recently completed the commando course myself and to return in this capacity was a sure sign that I was viewed as a real "comer."

Blue Lake is a rough place designed to produce our toughest special force. The detractors call them "storm troopers."

Whatever. We want guys that no-one in their right mind is going to want to confront and who will follow any order instantly.

For starters, it is deemed important that these men be willing to kill, and kill with enthusiasm. Not all men can do so, and you really don't know for sure until the time comes. I guess I wasn't positive about myself until that day at the selection assembly when I executed Chad Devers, eyeball to eyeball, down and dirty. I discovered that I not only could kill, but that I deeply enjoyed it.

In later stages of the training program, cadets engage in weapons exercises in which they kill live "dummies" culled for that purpose from the high school herd at selection day. If a cadet proves too squeamish, he will be washed out and reassigned. Upon arrival at Blue Lake I pointed out that it wastes a lot of valuable staff time training a cadet to that point only to discover he lacks the killer instincts needed. I suggested that early in the program, as part of his initial combat training, each cadet be required to prove his killing ability by snuffing one of the dummies in a method of his choosing.

To my delight, my suggestion was received with interest and shortly adopted. I was assigned to supervise the program as part of my duties. I enjoyed it immensely.

I had not noticed Josh particularly until the morning I was monitoring his class as they started their "test kill" day. He was just another new cadet and most of them are really good-looking, superbly built young studs. With an endless supply of dummies available for any sexual purpose imaginable, I had not gone after any of the cadets. It wasn't against any rule, it just seemed more professional.

But when Josh caught my eye that morning, I was instantly aroused. He was above the rest. Though somewhat smaller physically, his body was pure perfection and his oval face beneath his blond hair was breath-taking. Of course the fact that the boy was damned near nude didn't detract from his extreme sensuality. The bared limbs and torso had an almost feline, predatory grace in every movement.

The cadets were clad only in little g-strings for this exercise. If they chose gorier killing methods, there was no particular reason to ruin uniforms with blood splatters. Josh was the first one up and moved with confidence and seemed eager , unlike some of his classmates who looked pretty nervous. He surveyed the line of dummies chained by their wrists to posts before them, feet closely manacled to the floor and then made his choice, a husky young specimen who looked like he'd be a challenge to snuff.

Most of the cadets had a device in hand for when their turn came ... knives, strangulation cords, even clubs. Guns were not permitted both because of the risk of stray bullets and the somewhat impersonal nature of shooting someone. We wanted the cadets to get personal with their victims. I noticed Josh had no weapon in hand and my pulse quickened. The hunky boy apparently planned to kill with his bare hands. I liked that ... it's the way I would have approached this assignment to make the best impression on the instructor.

I was stunned at the speed with which the action unfolded. The pinioned dummy was looking real jittery and watching Josh the way a mouse eyes a snake. Seeming to just be surveying the subject, Josh idly circled the guy, making no threatening movements. When he was in his blind corner for just a moment, Josh darted in from behind and had an arm around the thick neck before the dummy knew what was happening. I figured he'd just pop the neck, but instead he drew the man back until his arms were tightly stretched from the post to which they were bound and arched his back, slowly dropping to a crouching position himself as he stressed the spinal column.

Further and further the back was curved. Josh was clearly very strong and knew precisely what he was doing. After a short while, nature's limits were violated. The loud crunching snap as the spine broke was clearly audible and at that exact moment Josh jerked the guy's head to the side and broke his neck as well. He stood back and surveyed the limp corpse, obviously pleased with himself. The kill had been accomplished in less than thirty seconds!

.I walked over and congratulated him on a fine demonstration of skill and determination. He beamed. My next action really surprised me because I hadn't planned it. I reached out and let my hand lightly admire his broad, deep chest, running the fingers down over the washboarded belly below. His eyes widened in surprise and his adam's apple bobbed, but he immediately nodded eagerly. My impulsivity bothered me just a bit, but the thought of having Josh as a playmate ... and not just for purely sexual activity ... was highly appealing. In fact, my lusts were so heated as I left the class that I knew I'd never last the day without a severe case of blue balls. I had one of the dummies brought to my office and stripped except for my officer's cap. Any item of uniform apparel, no matter what it is, lends the most powerfully erotic and intimidating aura to an otherwise naked man. I settled in and let him service me with his mouth at length, savoring the exquisite pleasure and imagining it was Josh down there between my thighs.
The boy proved quite good and gave me some of the best head I'd had in quite a while.

Afterwards I had him sent to the weapons development facility to be used in the gas chamber as a guinea pig for a new quick-acting deadly gas that was proving promising. The stuff killed in just seconds.

The boy wouldn't suffer. It was the least I could do for him as a reward for sucking me off so well and enthusiastically.

After dressing I went over to the research wing of the operation. This section pretty well ran itself, but I was technically in charge and wanted to see if there were any un-met support needs for the researchers on their various projects.

A large number of the dummies sent to Blue Lake are consumed in this part of the facility and the things done to them often pretty horrendous.

Prolonged suffering was often called for to test various products and theories and was not stuff for the squeamish!

I found it extremely erotic and enjoyed just watching when I had the time.

In the weapons area, they were preparing to run another test of the Ml67 assassination grenade, intended to take out a group of targets in a confined space, say a conference room or military headquarters briefing chamber, when you wanted a guaranteed hundred percent kill. The Ml67 imploded a phosphorous-based core that sucked air into its maw and in turn expanded out explosively into a high temperature fire ball. The initial blast also loosed a dense shower of thousands of razor-edged titanium steel shrapnel fragments no bigger than the head of a pin tumbling and turning like little buzz saws. What wasn't chewed into raw meat was burned to a crisp a split second later as the fireball filled the room.

This was the final test in the series, an utter waste of time. Not even the technicians were taking it seriously, laughing and sipping coffee, though they tightened up a bit when I came in. The manufacturer had specified a run of fifteen tests on live subjects, a minimum of five per test and seventy dummies had been assigned for the project. Seventy had been utterly destroyed in the fourteen tests already run. The grenade worked flawlessly every time, obviously a superbly designed and manufactured product. The only real "hitch" had been that they were supposed to autopsy the cadavers to study the effects of the explosion, but there was seldom much left for that purpose.

By now, they knew everything they needed to know, but you know the way the bureaucracy works. The plan called for fifteen tests, not fourteen, so there damned well better be fifteen fucking tests or the world would come to an end!

I watched as the five last guinea pigs were transferred from their holding cell to the concrete testing chamber. They were naked but unrestrained. It was part of the test to see if subjects, once they realized what was coming down, could react quickly enough to blunt the attack. You know, the heroism stuff with some dude throwing himself on the damned grenade. One had actually done that. They only identified the slightest traces of his body and, although the trauma to the others in the chamber was slightly lessened, they were all reduced to bloody, burned meat. Small wonder. In some tests, the subjects had been provided heavy wooden or metal desks to hide behind if they reacted quickly enough, but the grenade still got them all. Hell, just the concussion was enough to kill a lot of guys.

I watched through the blast-proof windows admiring the stark beauty of the naked young teen jocks. Each was a superb specimen in the full blossom of powerful virility, just what they wanted here for testing. I guess they reasoned that if a system worked on powerful hunks like these, lesser men would be no problem. When the technician stepped in through the control door and pulled the pin on that damned grenade, as usual the looks on the five faces were priceless. Terror swept over some countenances while others just got this surprised look of disbelief as they entered the last seconds of existence.
The pin pulled, the grenade was tossed out into the room and bounced on the concrete floor.

A pandemonium of shouts and screams echoed from the chamber as the technician stepped to safety and slammed the reinforced steel door. Three seconds later the blast shook even the outer room where we were located and I jerked back from the window by sheer reflex.

Blood, gore and body parts splattered everywhere within the test chamber, only to instantly disappear in the swirling rage of a blistering inferno that lasted less than four seconds but was so intense you could feel it radiating through the viewing glass.

This lab area would now be re-worked for use in a project slated to start testing next week. Entomologists had hybridized a wasp to produce a toxic dose of oxalic acid ... fire-ant venom ... and be brutally aggressive, but to die after delivering a sting.

This was being studied as a potential weapon or assassination tool but had to be "live" tested. One objective of the testing would be to verify the speed and killing capacity of the venom, while another would be to determine whether marking a subject in a group with a tiny bit of wasp pheromone would cause the insects to single him out for attack.

Fifty dummies would be assigned as fodder for this round of testing and I made a note to come watch.

Sounded pretty hot and entertaining.

I next visited a section testing a new interrogation tool that fascinated me and I tarried to watch for quite a while, my rapidly recuperating lusts becoming more and more heated. I could hardly wait for my scheduled date with the hunky young cadet who would be coming to my quarters later on. I was going to need him badly.

Although the so-called "gringo killer," the habanero pepper of Mexico's Yucatan Peninsula , produces a dose of the caustic chemical capsaicin a thousand times more powerful than the jalapeno, an even nastier relative esists. The chiltepine pepper, bright red and no bigger than a pea, found in Latin America and the desert southwest, delivers a hell-fire of capsaicin ten times that of the habanero. Ingesting one "makes eyes cross and knees buckle" according to one report. Our scientists had created an extract of the chemical that so far was proving to be the "ultimate" torture tool that no man could seem to withstand.

Since capsaicin acts upon mucous membranes to produce its scalding sensation of heat, the genitals of a man had proven the ideal site for application of the pepper extract during interrogation. Not only are these organs super-sensitive to pain but there was the wonderful psychological effect that comes when a man's sex parts are subjected to attack. Testing had already shown the penis to be tremendously vulnerable to capsaicin, producing exquisite agony that reduced a subject to screaming putty, but introducing the chemical to the inside of the piss tube was sometimes time-consuming if the subject thrashed and fought. The thought was that injection into the balls might be as effective but faster and that was the nature of the current testing.

The guinea pigs were given a number to be extracted from them through the interrogation. As an incentive to hold out as long as they could, if a dummy succeeded in keeping the sanctity of his number, he would be transferred into the military. Hell, any guy who had that much self-control over pain would be useful to us, albeit as a castratee since a full run of capsaicin torture was certain to destroy his genitals beyond repair. It was no surprise that so far no test subject had been able to hold out.

They were, naturally, administered drugs that prevented them from lapsing into shock or unconsciousness under the torture and their genitals hyper-sensitized as well. That had the entertaining effect of causing involuntary erection in most of the young studs even as the excruciating capsaicin was administered to first one and then the second of their balls.
After this testing, broken subjects were transferred at once to the firing range for use as targets for cadets unless they attempted to beat the system by giving a false number.

If the number extracted from a supposedly capitulating dummy proved wrong, he was at once put to a particularly dramatic, agonizing death as his fellow test subjects watched. He would be slowly immersed to his upper thighs in a vat of boiling water.

He would be extracted and dipped in ice water, itself an absolutely excruciating sensation on his burned skin, only to then again be scalded.

It usually took a remarkably long time of hellish suffering, going back and forth between the vats, before he was cooked enough to caused death.

Just as I was about to leave, one of the younger technicians pulled me aside.

I was a bit leery as there are so many projects submitted for review but so few accepted, but I figured it couldn't hurt to find out more. I followed him into a little workroom off the main lab which he had obviously staked out for his own tinkering. I was a little surprised to find a fine hunk of a dummy all neatly strapped down on a table, legs widely splayed. Great looking youngster, maybe Italian from his dark looks and tawny brown skin, and hung like a fucking bull. I nodded. The suit had proven faulty and dummy after dummy had died in screaming agony in trying to make it function. The bends is a nasty way to go. I shrugged,

"That's cool. Double use of a dummy is good efficiency. So let's pretend stud boy has a big, dark secret that we need to pry from his hide. I think we know that a dose of capsaicin between his thighs will do the trick nicely, but show me how you'd get the same result."

I watched as the tech inserted the end of a length of sturdy, flexible copper wire into the piss slit of the fox's big cock and fed it all up inside the pole which instantly hardened into steely erection. He then wrapped the wire around the shaft in tight loops spaced an inch or so apart and then around the bulging balls. The other loose end of the wire was divided into two strands. One was drawn up over the steely cockroot and inserted into the guinea pig's puckered asshole. The other ended in a small plug that was now mated into a connector plug leading to a small transformer.

I figured it was an electro-shock device which I was looking forward to watching in use, but which was really hardly new. I was wrong. When switched on, the current did not flow through a circuit to shock the guy ... it heated the wire slowly, steadily to branding strength.

In moments the Italian hunk on the table began to moan and flex. Soon he was wildly contracting his muscles and crying out loudly. He began to scream about the time the first little wisps of smoke began to curl from between his legs where his sex meat was being bar-b-cued right on the hoof!

I enjoyed the show until the guy finally fainted. I nodded to the tech. He looked pleased indeed as I left him trying to revive the hunk on the table, the room reeking with the scorchy odor of the badly burned crotch.

After leaving the capsaicin lab, I visited the dummy holding pens and selected a particularly big, brawny, good-looking dark-haired stud who looked like he could take a lot of punishment. I had him brought to my quarters and positioned on a stool in my bedroom, his wrists bound above his head.

When Josh arrived, looking excited and eager, I chatted with him for a while as we stripped down and donned exercise g-strings. Damn but the kid was big down between his legs! I took him to my little private gym and we worked out together on various weights and trainers until suitably pumped up. I grinned at him.

I took him to the bedroom and his eyes widened in pleasure at the sight of the naked, bound super-hunk punching bag awaiting him. Josh cast a lecherous little leer my way, licking his lips in anticipation. He ran an admiring hand over the punching bag's flat gut just below his navel. His hand lovingly cradled the huge dangling genitals. I settled down on the bed, removed my g-string, and started slowly teasing myself as Josh studied the naked body before him. His horse cock was so starkly outlined in his confining g-string that I thought it would tear right through the cloth.
He drew back his right arm and gave the condemned stud a roundhouse punch to the ribs that I was sure fractured them. Even then his bunched fingers of the other hand was driving in for a mind-jarring judo thrust directly into the low-hanging balls. A FURTHER NOTE FROM JACOB'S NARRATIVE ...

As soon as I arrived at Dr. Green's home to take up residence, he and I began a series of secret, shocking meetings with my parents. I suppose, from their having gone against the system by marrying and creating me, a "known" child, that I should have realized I was the son of closet rebels. They were in a sort of contradictory hell, benefiting from the system as part of the elite, but feeling it to be fundamentally wrong. They were wise enough to be discrete, although dad had eventually betrayed enough of his true feelings that he was defeated for reelection as governor in a close race.

They did not want me to rebel either, but as I matured and pursued my medical career did want me to quietly recognize and avoid the corrupting influence of the system. They hoped that in my own dealings with people I would reject the system's underlying tenet of genetic superiority and refuse to personally further its cruelties.

When I remembered my behavior at the Drone Preparation Center and how I had relished watching the cruel treatment of other young guys, I realized what dad was telling me. In school, I had never behaved like that. It was only in the heady exhilaration of being elevated to elite status and the power trip that went with it that I had let my baser instincts take control, reveling in my new-found "superiority." I remembered my glee in condemning Mark to death because of a stupidly petty grievance against him and felt deeply ashamed. I thought too of other classmates whom I had regarded as friends, and even lovers, who in a moment of arbitrary "selection" had ceased to matter to me as I celebrated my own good fortune.

It was stunning to me to realize how quickly and easily the system corrupted and hardened those whom it favored and protected.

I turned into my dad's embrace with tears streaming down my cheeks.


I had imagined that nothing could match the tension of the selection day assembly, but when opening day of our "sale" period came, it was just as bad, maybe worse. Assigned to our little display cubicles, you could sense how scared and uptight we were. Although, there was that scary possibility of not being bought and going to the decompression chamber, the bigger concern on our minds was who our new masters would be.

Bad as the training center had been, we were aware that some purchasers would be worse, sadists who'd torture and kill their puppies just for the pleasure. Although cannibalism was still illegal the law was never enforced anymore and some pets were purchased just to be butchered and eaten, sometimes cooked alive. Although we weren't too expensive, it still made a fairly costly meal but apparently worth it to such gourmets. One of our trainers had attended a luau where pets were served up and told us that roast boy is really quite delicious and tender when cooked right.

Even pets fortunate enough to be bought by a "decent" owner would find many of their masters didn't want "Fido" mounting other pets or masturbating all over the carpet. They paid the extra fifty dollars to have their boys "fixed" ... castrated or completely neutered ... before departing the center to their new homes. Anaesthesia was optional but since it cost more, most buyers declined to provide it, so for most puppies facing being fixed it was about the most agonizing ordeal a guy can undergo.

We tried to look our best to, hopefully, attract a decent owner who was primarily buying a pet for sexual purposes as most of these lucky puppies would avoid a trip to the castrating knife. Accordingly, I nervously stroked my penis to erection and kept it hard to let a prospective master looking for a big cock see what I had to offer. We had been furnished our studded black collars with the chain leashes that we would likely wear the rest of our short lives and I thought it really did make us look pretty erotic.
I had suggested to Jeff, who was stationed close by, that he try to maintain an erection too, but he was so nervous that he was having trouble keeping his big rod up.

Jeff! Fuck! How could I possibly have been so stupid!

After a whipping, a guy usually required assistance. I had first met Jeff when, a few days into the program, he had been whipped and I helped get him back to our dorm.

He was hurting horribly and I felt sorry for him. He seemed like such a nice kid and was so incredibly handsome and physically beautiful.

I tried to ease his pain as much as I could and put my arms around his naked form and held him close, not surprised when he began to cry, the sobs wracking his hard, muscular frame.

Well, fuck, we're only eighteen years old and going through hell, whatta you expect!

We talked and he said that he didn't think he could make it through the training cycle.

And so I became his sort of mentor and protector, trying to ease him through the roughest parts of the training. He did okay and his confidence grew though he still screwed up again and got another whipping for his trouble. As I again comforted and held him, he turned his anguished, tear-streaked face to me. The pretty blue eyes were just inches from mine, close-cropped blond hair so near I could see every strand, the warm male aroma of him filling my nostrils, his warmth radiating into my naked flesh. I suddenly wanted him so bad it nearly killed me. And then I kissed his lips.

Since a lot of us would become sex toys, we were encouraged to freely "hone" our skills at oral sex with each other and strech our assholes to accept even the biggest cocks. After that first time, Jeff and I set out to do that part of the training up right, becoming partners on a daily basis. I had not intended nor expected it, but gradually what we did ceased to be just sexual mating and became love making. I came to care for the sweet-natured young stud more than I'd ever thought I could care for another person.

And therein lay the hell. It was foolish to let myself get so emotionally attached to him knowing that inevitably we would be sold separately and never see each other again. For all I knew he'd be neutered, or even served up at some dinner party in a fashionable Des Moines mansion. I realized the real torment would come from never knowing what had happened to him or if he was even still alive.

As I strained to keep an eye on him as he was studied by browsing customers, I again cursed myself for letting myself get in this awful situation. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

But then I remembered the exquisite pleasure from our repeated mating as we strove to outdo each other in inducing the deepest possible orgasm. With a sigh I had to admit I'd do it all over again. I guess the brief beauty of our relationship was better than not having known such love at all, and I had even had the satisfaction of saving the boy.

He had indeed screwed up a third time, a pretty minor thing but with his record it was enough. The angry trainer who had announced he was writing Jeff up looked just as angry at me when I intervened, but gradually he listened as I pleaded for my friend's life. When I asked him to write me up instead, he looked startled. That was a very dangerous moment. It was late in the training cycle and any sign that you were still thinking "independently" could get you in deep trouble. He probably could have used my words to send me to the decompression chamber. Instead, to my amazement, his stern face softened.

I swallowed hard, but nodded. I knew what he said was true. Though we hated the entire cadre at the center and wished them to hell, I will be forever grateful to that one trainer. His brief moment of humanity did more than I could possibly imagine to boost my dim hope that there could still be decency and mercy in this crazy world into which we'd been in vitro bred.

That hope was sorely tested by the fate of many of my fellow pets bought by customers that day. For example, there was a group purchase of a dozen boys by a country club staging a huge awards banquet with hundreds of high-paying guests. These puppies ... live roasted over grills ... were to be the main entree.

A group of sporting enthusiasts bought some of the biggest hung stud hounds to stock a forest preserve for hunting, practically salivating over the "trophy bucks" they had obtained. A group called "Elitists Against Useless Pets" purchased a boy as the prize for a fund-raising raffle. The lucky winner would get the honor of snuffing the kid at one of their rallies on the steps of the state legislature in whatever dramatic manner he might desire.

A group of ugly hags claiming to be a coven of witches selected three pets to use as sacrifices in their bloody rituals. A movie company selected half a dozen guys for use in a new oater in which a group of young calvary troopers would be captured by Indians, tortured at length and burned alive. They intended to provide the real thing for the movie-goers.

With that kind of activity coming down, I was actually relieved that neither Jeff nor I had been purchased, but I was becoming very puzzled. As soon as a prospective customer approached one of us, the sales agent attending our area seemed to wave them off.

With rising concern, I remembered the comment weeks before from the trainer who had executed the escapee Hank. " ... you have someone showing special interest in you ... "

You could pre-purchase a particular pet for a handsome premium, but the pet still had to go on display for the first full day of the sale period, a bureaucratic rule that made little sense. I had a suspicion that we had been pre-purchased by someone. It wasn't long before that suspicion was verified when Jeff and I were taken to the sales office and turned over to a neatly groomed, well-dressed man in his late twenties who was said to be the agent for our buyer.

We had been trained not to speak unless spoken to, so Jeff and I kept silent and averted our gaze from our new custodian, again as taught, as he drove us to an unknown destination, but I knew Jeff was as consumed by curiosity and as fearful about our fate as I was. We eventually arrived at a luxuriant mansion in Ames, not far from Iowa State University, and were escorted in through a back entrance. The agent for our new master, probably himself a servant of some type, was not abusive or brusque and made no move to use the chain leashes dangling from our collars. I regarded that as a positive sign.

The positive "vibes" strengthened when he had us remove the heavy leather dog collars before showing us to a comfortable room on the second floor with its own bathroom. He told us to get into the shower and clean up.

Unbelievable! Hot water! ... and fragrant soap and shampoo! And thick, fluffy towels!

After a month of quick, cold showers, harsh lye soap and harsher burlap towels, this was sheer heaven and we luxuriated under the steamy water for as long as we dared. Jeff finished first, leaving me alone and I couldn't resist staying just a bit longer. This might just be some cruel trick to amuse the new master so I intended to enjoy this shower to the max just in case it was the last. It's amazing how treasured little things become when you're denied them. I could technically justify staying back because I had let my short-cropped hair grow back out in the final weeks of the training cycle and it was longer than Jeff's, which was still buzzed, and took longer to wash.

Drying off my skin, shuddering with pleasure at the feel of the soft downy towel, I stepped into the bedroom and froze as a remarkable sight greeted my eyes. Jeff was sliding a set of silky striped bikini briefs up his muscular legs. Other clothing, pants, shirts, shoes and socks, were neatly laid out on the double bed.
Even in the shower, Jeff and I, fearful that we might be under observation, had kept our stony silence, but I could do it no longer.

He looked at me with wonder in his eyes. After a month of absolute nudity, being clad was so strange as to be almost uncomfortable. After we had donned the expensive, stylish clothing, our custodian returned to lead us to a nearby dining room where a delicious-looking meal was set before us with something other to drink than tepid water. For the first time I felt brave enough to raise my eyes to his and I saw kindness and sympathy in them. Emboldened, I spoke to him. A voice came from behind us. Even before I turned my shocked head, I knew it who it was. When you've engaged in repeated sexual couplings with a guy over a prolonged period, you recognize his voice even when you haven't heard it for a month. I swallowed hard as I stared at the familiar, handsome face. Jacob shrugged, He went on, A light dawned and I interrupted. He nodded, His words stunned me. I had thought we would just be comfortably living out our legal allotment of four years, a precious enough gift, but now I understood the enormity of what Jacob was doing and the risks to himself. He intended to ignore the law dictating that we be "put to sleep" by age twenty-two! It was clear that Jeff understood too and he just sat there at the table with tears streaming down his silky cheeks. The boy cries easily which I frankly find to be one of his more touching, appealing qualities. He shrugged, He laughed. He frowned then and looked sober. I could see near hero worship in Jeff's eyes as he gazed at Jacob. I wasn't far behind in that.