New World Order: Wilson, 2 of 3

“OB 98798945.” The Director read the number tattooed on the boy’s arm, checked it against records and photographs to verify his identity, and then asked him his common name.

“Wilson, sir.” The boy replied, eying the Cruncher as the Director put it away, wondering what it was used for.

Wilson had been born about thirteen years ago, and like all boys born in The New World Order he had been allowed to live with his mother only until he was two years old before being sent to live with another family. He had changed families every year since then, as the Empress felt that a variety of different experiences and environments were good for a boy, and also that the separation that must occur at puberty would be too traumatic for blood relatives to bear.

His latest guardian had noticed stains on the boy’s bedding early that morning, and as required by law wasted no time in taking him to a doctor for evaluation. The doctor had determined that the boy was pubescent, so he was immediately transferred to the nearest internment center where he would stay until the length of his beard equaled the width of his thumb, at which time he would test himself against another internee for the right to join the Empress’s army, and perhaps win an opportunity to marry.

“I’m sure that you’ll get along okay here, Wilson.” The Director counseled. “Concentrate on learning or improving your Chess game, and try to get in as good of physical condition as you can in the next few years. We have the highest ratio of people passing the their tests of all the centers in the district, so you should be fine. Do your share of the chores and you’ll get along with the other boys. There are only two things that are strictly forbidden: One, you must never touch another boy’s genitals or allow another boy to touch your own in any manner. Two, you must never masturbate. Do you know what that means?” He wished that the boy had arrived a few hours earlier, so he could have seen the consequences of disobeying this order.

“Yes.” The boy answered, embarrassingly. He had discovered things that his body was suddenly capable of a few weeks ago, and had been able to keep it secret from his guardians until last night when his body betrayed him. The news that he wouldn’t be allowed to practice what he had learned disturbed him. There wasn’t any way that he could see that he could keep himself from doing it.

“Don’t worry,” said the Director, as if reading the boy’s mind. “Your needs will be taken care of. Now, go ahead and strip down and join the other boys, you can’t wear those clothes in here.

“Sir?” The boy questioned. “I have no other clothes.”

“There are bins of clothes in the locker room. You can find some there that fit you. Turn them in every few days and get clean ones. The other boys will show you what to do.”

“Can’t I just change in the locker room?” The boy asked. Public nudity was forbidden, and he had never been in a situation where it was expected.

“Do we have a problem here, Wilson?” The Director asked. Most of the new boys were shy to start with, but they quickly learned in the showers that their bodies were no different than anyone else’s

“Uh, no sir!” The boy replied, catching the menace in the Director’s tone of voice.

He stood and reluctantly removed first his shirt, and then his trousers and underwear. This wasn’t the first time today that he had been humiliated. Earlier the doctor had also requested that he strip. A simple blood test would have revealed the presence of testosterone, but the doctor, a nutless pervert, had stroked the boy until he was erect, and then had him bend over so he could insert a lubricated finger into his rectum. The stimulation to his youthful prostate immediately produced a gush of semen which the doctor collected and microscopically examined, conforming that the boy was becoming a man.

The Director surveyed the nude, embarrassed boy that stood before him. He was obviously well fed and under worked, as he was quite a bit overweight. He had the start of a pubic bush but the rolls of fat on his belly and his chubby thighs dwarfed his small genitals and made them seem almost infantile. This boy would need to get into shape or he would not stand a chance of passing his test.

The embarrassed boy left the Director’s office and entered the gym, only to be confronted with the sight of another naked boy, this one being helped to his feet by two clothed companions while another mopped the floor where he had lain. The boy couldn’t stand up alone, and his hands were clutched tight to his groin.

“What happened to him?” Wilson enquired.

“He just got his nuts crunched.” One of the boys answered.

“ What? Why?” Wilson asked, not fully aware of what had happened.

“He got caught beating his meat, so the director castrated him. Grab his feet, and help us drag him to the locker room.” The boy ordered. “We have to get him cleaned up so he can be milked.”

Wilson could not believe what he had just heard, but he complied and helped drag the suffering youth to the locker room, where Wilson could not believe what he was seeing

Two groups of four boys were huddled closely together with a menacing looking apparatus attached to their cocks.

Masturbation being prohibited, the boys were relieved of their sperm weekly by an old-fashioned cow milking machine.

The milking machine consisted of a vacuum pump, receiver bucket, and the milking cups. The milking cups were stainless steel tubes about six inches long and two inches wide and open at both ends. A rubber insert, called an inflation, with one open end and a hose on the other passed though this tube and wrapped around it to provide an airtight seal at each end. Four of these hoses joined together at a claw shaped manifold that was connected to the receiver bucket with a clear plastic hose. Vacuum supplied to the cups held them in place on the cow’s udder and transported the milk to the bucket. Each milker cup also had another smaller hose attached to a pulsing vacuum source that inflated and released the liner mimicking the suckling of a calf, and provided the stimulation required for the cow to release her milk.

Two of the machines were in use, one having been fitted with large cups as used on Holsteins and Brown Swiss cattle, the other having small Jersey or Guernsey sized cups. One group of boys were kneeling on the floor, while the other stood with their arms around each other’s shoulders seeking mutual support at the moment of orgasm. Their knees buckled a little, and they all sagged, and the plastic hose was suddenly filled with their white liquid.

“Next!” One of them said, as he removed the milker from himself and his companions.

“You’re up, Fatso.” Someone else called out, and shoved Wilson towards the machine.

“No!” He cried, lowering his hands to protect himself from the device.

“It’s okay, you’ll like it.” Another young boy reassured him.

The other boys had just witnessed the castration of the masturbator, and their bodies, raging with hormones, needed to be cleansed or the sleeping mats would be very slippery in the morning. Wilson, however, already had two orgasms within the last day and wasn’t feeling the urge. Two other boys abruptly grabbed him and pushed him forward, where the two boys he had helped and the one cleaning the floor waited, with jutting erections, for him so the milker could be attached. The cup was warm and slick from the residue of the last user, and despite his fear and revulsion Wilson felt his cock get hard as it methodically pumped him, and a few seconds later he was thrusting his hips trying to speed things along. He finally came with a force that left him light in the head and week in his knees.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” The Director had slipped back into the room to witness the final milking of the boy he had castrated.

“No sir, it wasn’t.” The embarrassed Wilson answered.

The newest eunuch had been taken to the shower and washed, and brought back so he could be relieved of any remaining sperm before his release from the center. It required four large boys to pry his hands from his crotch so the milker could be attached. His once proud scrotum was now black and blue, and hung between his legs like the mud flap of a truck. An hour ago it had contained two of the nicest balls the Director had ever felt, but now it held only soft mush. His cock, which normally would have been at least semi hard, was limp as a noodle as the Director slid it into the cup and started the machine.

The boy was still in immense pain, and nothing happened for at least five minutes, but eventually he began to stiffen, and eventually his bloody final emission flushed through the piping and into the container. Several of the boys had erections again, and the sight of them, plus that of the eunuch, also had the Director’s cock stirring.

“It’s been a long day, boys, and I’m going home. The machine will stay here tonight. Feel free to use it as often as you like. Reveille will be at noon tomorrow. Good night.” The Director left the cheering boys and headed home, hoping that his wife didn’t have one of her frequent headaches.

“I don’t often say this, Wilson,” the Director counseled the young man four years later, “but I think you should forfeit and not take the test.

Wilson, now seventeen, closed his legs tightly together and unconsciously slid his hand down to feel his balls. His beard was now as long as his thumb was wide, and he was to travel to District Headquarters in the morning to be tested.

“You are among the best Chess players that I have ever seen, and you’ll probably do okay there, but you are so far out of shape that you’ll never win your personal combat fight. The other test? Maybe, maybe not. None of us know what it will be, but if it is anything physical you’re sure to lose. You can leave here, accept castration, and with your brains you can become a doctor or something and have a good life even without balls. If you test and lose you’ll still be castrated, but then you’ll have to spend the rest of your life laboring in a mine or factory. Don’t take that chance.”

The Director liked Wilson and wanted the best for him, but he also had a personal stake: A fifty Dirkura standing bet with each of the other Directors of the internment centers. If Wilson lost he’d have to pay up but all bets were off if Wilson forfeited the test.

No one with any brains would bet on Wilson winning any physical contest, as the boys were paired only by weight, and the chance of Wilson coming up against another boy as out of shape as he was minuscule.

“No Way!” Wilson said, gently fondling his balls, “I’ll take the test.” Wilson had an agenda, a purpose to his life, which did not include being a nutless minion in one of the Empress’s hospitals.