A New Order

A New Order

The world has changed. Four hundred years ago there was a nuclear holocaust. Civilization was destroyed. Small, scattered groups of people, living primitively in tribes segregated by race, religion, and tribal identity, totaling less than 2,000,000, are all that remains of the United States, and, because of the nuclear winter that followed, most of those are in the southern most part of the United States, which, as a governmental entity, no longer exists. Europe, except for around the Mediterranean, is only populated by small groups of wondering nomads. Russia and China are frozen wastelands. The only region to escape devastation was equatorial Africa. It’s the only part of the world that could be considered to be civilized, and its level of civilization is similar to fifteenth century Europe.

Julio Cortez was a slave trader. His fort, at the mouth of the Rio Bravo (which was once the boundary between Texas and Mexico) gave him access to the villages of the whites to the north, and the Blacks from across the sea preferred the Whites for slaves. Although the Blacks considered Cortez and his brown people to be an inferior race, they considered the whites to be little better than animals-animals, which, with the proper use of cruelty and discipline, could be domesticated. They even gelded most of the males, reserving only the strongest and most virile among them for breeding.

Julio didn’t like having to geld the slaves, not out of any sympathy for the Whites, but because so many of them died from being gelded. With the exception of a few breeders, he could only sell to the Blacks those males who had fully recovered from their gelding. Although the white tribes warred against each other, and didn’t have firearms such as those furnished to Cortez by the Blacks, it was still dangerous to raid one of their villages. It was far easier to purchase white slaves from other Whites. Always raiding each other’s villages, the Whites took captives, which they often sold to Cortez and other traders. Still, he had to occasionally raid villages to fill out his quota, and that always resulted in the loss of some of his men. To then lose some of such costly obtained slaves to infection or uncontrollable bleeding, which often resulted from their castration, was a waste of valuable resources. Although the Blacks paid well for the slaves, they demanded a sufficient quantity to fill their ships, occasionally taking those slavers who couldn’t fill their quotas.

A ship was due within six weeks, and, although Julio thought that he had a sufficient number of slaves, the last batch hadn’t yet been castrated. He would lose some of them. He always did. If too many of them died-If he didn’t have the four hundred required to fill the holds of their ship, the Blacks would be angry; it never paid to anger the Blacks. Although Cortez had a few guns, the Blacks had many, and cannon lined the sides of their great sailing ships-cannon which could reduce his fort to cinders. Julio decided to do the castrations himself. His subordinates were sometimes careless. If there had been a sufficient quantity, it wouldn’t have mattered; they were only whites; but, this time, his men hadn’t returned from their foray north with enough white males.

The Blacks would accept some females, and even some prepubescent boys, who after being nullified, were to be used as sex slaves, but demanded that the ratio of men to the others be at least ten to one. To maintain the purity of their race, there were strict laws against intercourse between black men and white women, and, with the exception of breeders-never more than one per shipload-only castrated white males were allowed into Africa. The breeders were confined under heavy guard, the white women brought to them.

Looking over his merchandise-the latest group of slaves brought back by his men, Cortez was dismayed. There were too many boys and women. Even if all the males survived, there wouldn’t be enough to satisfy his black masters. After he castrated this group, there would have to be another trip north to obtain more, and time was short. The ship would arrive soon. This time, he’d go, himself, to make certain that they procured enough. His disappointment was only partially mitigated by the presence of two men, both blond. One of them would be his breeder. The Blacks preferred their slaves to have fair hair and skin.

“Carlos,” he said, calling to his lieutenant, “get them ready. We’ve got to cut this group, then make another trip.”

While Carlos was having everything prepared for the geldings, he sent Jose back to his house for his son, Esteban, who, at ten years-old, was old enough to watch the geldings. Someday, he, Julio’s only son, would be the Jefe. It was time he began to learn what that meant. Jose returned with Esteban as the first of the slaves was being tied, naked to a pole, his splayed legs, tied by the ankles to iron rings set in the stone at his feet.

Julio felt his throat tighten as he looked at his son, who, resembling his mother, was beautiful. Although Julio loved the mother, that love didn’t compare to that he felt for the son. Of course he had wanted more children, but Esteban’s birth had almost killed his wife; she never again became pregnant. Taking Esteban’s hand, Julio leaned over to kiss him on the cheek.

“Hello, my son.”

“What is happening, Papa?” asked Esteban.

“I am going to cut some slaves-to take the eggs that lie below their cocks.”

“Why, Papa?”

“The eggs contain the seed that makes children,” explained Julio. “The Blacks don’t want to take the chance that a White could ever make a child with one of their women, and, besides, cut slaves make better slaves. Just as we cut the balls off of dogs and other animals, except for the ones we use for breeding, we cut them off the Whites, who are little better than animals. They are more docile after their balls are removed.”

Then he knelt down, and, taking Esteban’s shoulders in his hands, placed his mouth close to the boy’s ear.

“There will be much blood and much screaming,” he whispered, “but I want you to remember that they aren’t men-they are animals. You will one day be Jefe. Today, you must act like a man. You must not cry. The men will be watching. Can you do that for me?” The boy, his eyes wide, nodded.

Julio stood, glanced at his son-his precious son, standing with his mouth clenched in determination not to show fear, then looked to his task-to the cutting of the first slave.

The man-or boy-he was no older than nineteen, trembled-as much as he could, strapped as he was to the pole, his hands tied to a ring above his head, a strap around his chest and his waist, his feet tied to rings, spreading his legs, prominently displaying his sex: a cock hanging limply above balls, their sack distended in the heat of the noonday sun. He whimpered, a sound much like that made by a frightened puppy as Julio approached the small table, which, set next to the pole, held a brazier of hot coals in which the blades of several knives had been heated to an incandescent orange glow.

As Julio picked up one of the knives from the brazier, one of his men, stepping next to the boy, reached down, and, grasping the boy’s penis by its foreskin, which completely covered his cock’s head, raised it, pinning it to the boy’s stomach, out of Julio’s way.

Grasping the bottom of the boy’s scrotum by the loose skin, Julio pulled, stretching the boy’s scrotum; then, with a quick circular motion, sliced around the base of the sack. The sizzle of the hot knife searing the skin of his scrotum was drowned out by the boy’s screams, but the pungent smell of burning flesh hung in the air. His sack came away in Julio’s hand without much blood, the wound cauterized by the hot knife, revealing bluish white orbs-naked, glistening in the sun, hanging by their cords. The boy’s sobs were interrupted by a sharp intake of his breath when Julio grasped his bare, right nut and pulled, stretching the cords, As Julio applied another knife, freshly removed from the fire, to the testicle’s cords, the boy screamed, then fainted. Those standing nearby, plainly heard the sizzle of the knife burning its way through the second set of cords.

As the boy was being untied from the pole, Julio looked at his son, who, although there was a tear glistening at the corner of one eye, made no sound, his teeth clinched in his determination to be brave for his father. Julio’s pride in the boy was only exceeded by his love for him. He turned back toward the pole as another boy, possibly even younger than the first, was being tied to it.

Julio’s eyes were drawn to the boy’s cock, which, unlike the first’s, was erect, throbbing, making small bobbing motions, a speck of moisture dripping from its single eye. It didn’t often happen-usually they were too frightened, but, occasionally, one was aroused, either by the prospect of being castrated, or from having watched others being castrated. Julio smiled. At least the boy’s cock wouldn’t have to be held up-out of the way.

After picking up a knife from the brazier, Julio grasped a pinch of the skin at the bottom of the boy’s scrotum between his thumb and forefinger, but, as he did, cum erupted from the boy’s cock, shooting several feet, splashing onto Julio’s face. Laughter from several of his men was quickly stifled by his angry glare; then, with a downward slashing motion, he severed the boy’s cock, which fell to the stones at his feet, the boy’s seed, mingling with his blood, still seeping from its root. Angry, Julio didn’t take his usual care with the boy’s balls, but severed them, sack and all, with one stoke. The boy was dragged away, bleeding profusely-probably wouldn’t live-but it was no concern to Julio. He was just a White-and he had defiled Julio.

Although Julio worked quickly, castrating fifty slaves took several hours. Many struggled, fighting either to keep from being tied to the pole, or struggling against the restraints, twisting and turning enough that Julio required extra men to hold them while he went about his work. Their struggles, not only useless, imperiled them, often spoiling the cut, resulting in an excessive loss of blood; but they were Whites. How could one explain such things to Whites?

Looking over at his son when he finished, Julio saw that, although he had stood silently through it all, he was wavering, his knees shaking; but it was a hot day. It could have as easily been from the heat as from what he had witnessed. Julio, picking him up in his arms, kissed him on the mouth and carried him back to their house, saying, “You’re my son. I love you.”

The next morning, as Julio was preparing to leave on his slaving expedition, his wife and son stood outside his house to see him off. Julio kissed his wife, then, kneeling, hugged his son, saying, “I’m proud of you, my son. You did well yesterday. Someday you will be a great Jefe.”

He kissed him, then, standing, ruffled his hair, something, had it been done by anyone other than his father, would have angered the boy. Tears gathered at the corners of the boy’s eyes, but, although his chin quivered, no sob escaped his lips. A Jefe didn’t cry. He watched as his father, with seventy men on horseback, accompanied by ten wagons pulled by mules, rode off-north.

The nearer villages had long since been raided, so the party had to travel further north than Julio had intended. If he had the time, he would have paid, or in some other way, enticed one tribe to war upon another, buying the resulting captives, but time was short. The slaver ship would be arriving within six weeks. They would have to raid some village, or several villages, to obtain at least fifty men, but one not so large that his men might be overcome. Although he had seventy men, he hadn’t seventy guns. Most were armed with swords.

After traveling for three weeks, having bypassed several large villages, and negotiating with others for a hand full of captives, they came to a village inhabited by two hundred men women and children. With luck, counting the ones they already had, they would obtain enough slaves to fulfill Julio’s quota.

They had been led to the village by one of their captives, who they had promised to free, if he led them there. Sneaking up on it at night, then, with screams, shouts, and the firing of guns, they rushed upon the sleeping village, killing the few guards set around its perimeter. Most of the inhabitants thought they’d been set upon by demons, unused as they were to guns, or to people with brown skins. There was little resistance, although some escaped into the brush.

When dawn brought enough light, Julio assessed the success of his raid. There were seventy men and boys old enough to satisfy his masters. With those he already had, it would probably be enough, even though he would lose many on the trip home. He would have to castrate them now, before the trip back, so that they would be sufficiently healed before the ship arrived. Normally, he would have taken women as well, but he had enough women captives at his fort already, and to make it back in time, he would have to travel light, so his men used the women for sport, those that would lower themselves enough to have sex with a White, fucking them, while others simply killed them, laughing as they attempted to run to avoid death. The children, those too young to take along, suffered a similar fate, except there was one boy, about ten years-old, about the same age as Julio’s son, that he decided to take along.

The boy was beautiful, even considering that he was a White, with pasty white skin. If his skin had been brown, his beauty would have rivaled Esteban’s. The Blacks would pay dearly for him. If a virgin, he was probably worth the price of three adult males. He would, of course, have to be nullified first. The Blacks wanted no genitalia on their sex slaves.

Julio’s men had set a pole in the center of the village, with stakes pounded in at the proper distance to splay the legs of the men being castrated. It wouldn’t, however, do for the boy. For him they brought out a table. Julio decided to start his work with the boy, who stood inside the crude stockade where the captives had been herded with his mother and father, holding his father’s hand, with his mother’s arm around his shoulder, but staring defiantly-no sign of fear on his face.

When his men went into the compound to get the boy, several of them had to first subdue the father, then, when the mother flew at the others, those dragging away her son, one of them skewered her with his sword. It was the first time the boy showed emotion, as he screamed, in the language of the Whites, “Mother-Mother.”

While those holding the boy carried him, kicking and screaming to the table, the others took his father to the pole. Since they already had him, his castration would follow his son’s. From the pole he screamed in his own language, one that Julio and a few of his men could understand, “Let the boy go. Do what you will with me, but, please, let the boy go.”

It always surprised Julio when Whites pretended to be able to love. They were animals, incapable of higher emotions. They were probably mimicking, having observed similar behavior among Browns, much as parrots mimic speech, speaking the words, but not understanding the meaning.

The man, although he continued to scream throughout his son’s nullification, was silent throughout his own castration, the only sound being a sharp inhalation of his breath when his scrotum was removed, and the grinding of his clenched teeth as the cords to each testicle was burned through by the hot knife. He was led away crying his son’s name.

Castrating the captives took most of the day. A few were killed when they resisted being taken from the compound-mostly as a lesson to those who remained. Julio did as many as he could, but had to be spelled by Carlos. Castrating almost seventy men was too much for one man. They remained in the village that night, but left the next day after killing those they wouldn’t be taking, and burning the village. Without the men, they would have probably died anyway, and the fewer that remembered them-what they had done-the better.

Julio pushed his men on the trip back. He had less than three weeks before the Black’s ship would arrive, and he didn’t know what they would do, if he wasn’t there with his quota of slaves-enough to fill their ship. They made good time. After only seventeen days they were approaching the fort, and although several of their captives had died, there was a sufficient number, who had survived their castrations and were healing nicely, to fulfill their quota, including the man and his son. All were, of course, naked, and the conspicuous absence of their balls drew taunts from Julio’s men.

The smoke on the horizon caused Julio and some of his men to spur their horses ahead of the slow moving wagons and race for the fort. The smoke could have only been coming from it. What could have happened wondered Julio? Could it have been attacked by rival slavers-surely no Whites could have raided it-or did the Blacks, arriving early and not finding him there, with enough slaves, burn the fort? When he rode close enough to see the fort, he had his answer. It must have been the Blacks. Only they had cannon to smash the walls of the fort-and smashed they were, especially those facing the sea.

They rode into the fort. Most of the buildings had also been smashed, but Julio’s house, remarkably-ironically-remained intact, virtually undamaged. What about his family, he wondered? What about his precious son?

As he rode toward his house, he passed the decaying bodies of men that he’d left behind at the fort strewn throughout the compound. Paying them little heed, he pressed on, leaping from his horse at his door, running inside, shouting his son’s name, “Esteban-Esteban.” There was no answer.

On the bed, in his bedroom, was his wife’s body, although the heat and the scavengers had made it almost unrecognizable. Her arms were folded across a small jewel box, one which had contained some of hers. Taking it from her body, Julio opened it. Inside was a letter addressed to him. It said, “You weren’t here with slaves to fill our ship, so we have taken what you had, and we have taken your gold-and the jewels from this box, but I’ve left, as a replacement for them, the jewels of your son-and something more besides.”

Beneath the letter was a small hairless scrotum with two shriveled testicles-and beside it a small penis. The letter continued, “Your son, if he survives the journey will serve well in a brothel. His lovely, brown skinned, body will be much in demand, but it will probably matter little to you. Browns are incapable of higher emotions-such as love.