The Culling - Part Two

The Culling

Part Two

Still with me?

Somewhere in the Auzealand Territories are an elderly lady mugged of her pension; a businessman unable to work because his laptop has been stolen, and a cyclist thrown off her bike by an intoxicated driver. In Killymaloo boys face retribution for such crimes, and there is no intention it be easy, fair or compassionate. The only secret here is the fusion of sex and termination, and the only lie told to grieving parents is the story of their son’s clean execution.

If it helps, forget Billy and think of AZ43. Then put aside ethics, and enjoy the strangled eroticism.

*******

The pen is just a small cupboard, with bench seating on either side. Four naked and depilated boys contemplate their end, thighs touching the youth alongside and kneecaps entwined with the lad opposite, such is the crush. 

There is plenty of space down here, and thus no need for physical intimacy, but the Governor enjoys the induced claustrophobia of the pen. Whilst the walls are windowless, a pane in the door permits a view of the occupants, until it becomes misted with their heavy breath. 

Throw four boys together, previously strangers, and you might expect ice-breaking talk of favourite soccer teams and hot girls. In the pen there is no such idle chat, for as soon as the door is closed, stories are cross-checked.

‘What have you been told?’

‘Do you know what’s going to happen to us?’

‘Did they say anything to you about a sex death?’

Billy, Theo, Shayne and Jon establish their handlers have delivered a consistent message: Not one lad has received a different programme, or additional detail. The other matter called-out amongst the group is whether any of their number has been given a glimmer of hope, or has a plan to evade the culling.  On that point, there is not a crumb of comfort.

Panicking in the pen, fists rap upon the door whilst boy flesh slides together in the melee, damp with perspiration.

‘Let us fuckin’ go!’

‘You can’t do this, man!’

One of the quartet sprays fear piss over the others, involuntarily, although in the scrum it is impossible to identify the culprit. Eight feet slosh over warm urine as the lads hammer on the door.

The Governor watches through the pane and listens, turning to us handlers when he speaks.

‘This is a nice batch, gentlemen. We have variety in the torso meat, and plenty of desperation. Well done!’

‘Thank you, Sir!’ we chorus.

‘I think I should introduce myself, and tell them about the game.’

The Governor manages a thin smile, as two gun-toting warders unlock the pen.

The boys quieten upon sight of the pistol barrels and retreat to the rear of the cell, crushing two of them in the process.

Staring, the black-clothed Governor waits to speak until all eyes are focused upon him, silent and still. Then, he clears his throat.

‘Scared?’ he asks.

There is no response.

‘Intrigued?’

Silence.

‘Excited?’ The Governor tries to stir the foursome with provocation.  

‘Fuck you!’ shouts Theo, a cocoa-skinned Jamaican lad and, at twenty-three, the oldest of the group.

‘Tell me about snuff, boys. What do you know?’ The Governor asks, ignoring Theo’s curse.

Their eyes fall to their floor and there is mumbling, but not a coherent answer, so the Governor explains. 

‘Well, where execution is straightforward, snuff is a messy and highly sexualised death. It’s exciting for those who watch, and it can be a thrill for you in the noose – if you approach it with inhibitions shed.’

‘How can you fuckin’ say that?!’ blurts my charge, Billy, trembling with rage.

‘Because it’s true, Billy,’ the Governor says. ‘Not only that, but you go down with three other fit boys alongside. It’s uniquely intense, and that’s why a group snuff movie is worth a fortune.’

‘That ain’t no turn on!’ says the leanly muscular Theo.

‘It’s incredibly erotic, losing multiple boys in that way, believe me.’

Shayne, twenty-two, exchanges a disbelieving glance with the Governor and shakes his head. Over his piercing blue eyes are brows dark and thick, suggestive of jet black hair before he was shaven. That impression is reinforced by the fluff on Shayne’s forearms and legs, where a boy may go to the noose with a light down on his limbs, but nothing more.

From his right elbow, up to and over his shoulder, Shayne wears an elaborate tattoo of prickly leaves or serpent’s tongues, curling from a central stem. He looks more of a villain than my boy, Billy, but would no doubt protest his own innocence. It hardly matters anymore, for Shayne is just another young male with a terminal sentence, to be cut down in his prime.

Shayne copes with apparent serenity – or maybe it is deep introspection. His pale, gym-trained torso does not shudder at the prospect of snuff, unlike the other boys, but his chin drops to his chest as though accepting of the end we have planned.

I suspect Shayne is a streetwise boy, with more exposure to human darkness than his batch. I think he knows of snuff, and maybe even searched for it online. If it were a petite American girl in the noose, downloaded via high speed broadband in the small hours, it would be the most guilty of pleasures and an addictive one, at that.

It does not surprise Shayne that boys die for the sexual pleasure of others, too. Distraught at being chosen, Shayne will nevertheless walk to the gallows without a fight to avoid giving us the thrill of dragging him, kicking and screaming. There is space for a reconciled boy like Shayne within every culling group, but it would be tedious if all were like him.

‘So, who would like a way out?’ the Governor asks.

The question is heard, but not immediately understood. The boss rocks on the soles of his boots, impatient. 

‘None of you? Well then, I’m wasting my breath just as you’ll soon be struggling for yours.’

The Governor clicks his fingers, and we handlers surge forward to collect our boys.

‘Wait! What did you say? What did you mean?’ asks Jon.

‘Interested to hear more?’ the Governor says.

‘Yes… please tell us if there’s a way out of this!’

The others look on suspiciously, suspecting a trick, and to all intents and purposes they are right. Jon, however, retains a naivety befitting his eighteen years. His thighs squirm on the bench, their appearance enhanced by a fair down glistening under the fluorescent strip light. Jon was a special blue-eyed blond, now relegated to anonymity, though his erect tit nubs remain satisfying points of interest.

‘What would motivate you to work for the escape route then, Jon? You’re too young to have a serious girlfriend, surely?’ the Governor asks.

‘I’ve got my whole life ahead of me!’ he says, and that’s a good answer couched in the wrong tense, duly noted by the Governor. 

‘You had that life ahead of you, and now you want it back, yes?’

‘Yeah!’ Jon exclaims – hands clasped over his denuded genitalia.

‘You had ideas about a college education?’

‘Sure.’

‘A sports scholarship, perhaps? You have a swimmers build?’

‘Maybe.’

‘But you fucked it all up with what crime, Jon?’

‘I didn’t do it!’

‘So you say, but I think your comrades in rope should hear about the deviant they’re going to hang-out with.’

‘I was set-up!’ Jon bleats.

‘And remind me of the offence, boy.’

‘You already fucking know!’ Jon says, covering face with hands as the other lads gaze upon him.

‘But I want you to tell us, Jon. That’s if you’re still interested in earning a passage out of this chamber?’

‘It was sexual molestation… but I didn’t fuckin’ do it!’

‘And how old was the girl, Jon?’

‘You know… you fuckin’ know!’

‘How old?’

‘Thirteen… but she said she was seventeen!’

From Theo and Billy come a few tuts and under the breath curses:

‘Fuckin’ paedo!’

‘Please, tell me how I avoid this!’ Jon says, fingers picking-up splinters from his nervous scratching of the bench.

‘I’ll tell you when you’re noosed-up. That goes for all four of you, but your side of the bargain is that you go to the gallows without fuss, eyes straight ahead, moving confidently and enthusiastically for the cameras.’

‘Yeah… cameras… thought as much!’ sighs Shayne, leaning back against the pen wall and looking in need of a chilling last smoke.

‘Nothing sinister,’ says the Governor. ‘We need to keep a video record of every batch processed here. It’s for the authorities, you see?’

‘Yeah, right!’ Shayne snorts.

‘Just a few cameras, dotted around, to document your search for the way out of rope, Shayne.’

‘Oh, don’t worry, I’ll go quietly. What choice is there, with armed goons at your ass?’ the tattooed boy says: ever the pragmatist.

‘And the rest of you?’ the Governor asks.

‘I’ll walk.’ (Jon)

‘Yeah, it’s like Shayne says. I’ll go without trouble.’ (Theo)

‘Same here.’ (My boy, Billy)

‘Very good, boys, but don’t forget: I’m offering one final opportunity, and I’m not required to do even that. Please listen carefully to your instructions, and don’t fail yourselves in the noose.’

The Governor turns to me and my co-worker handlers, with our instructions. 

‘The usual prep, please, then we’ll push this lot through quickly. Don’t forget, there’s another set later this morning.’

Our boss exits rapidly – off to check his cameramen are ready to shoot. Were the boys equally prepared to do the same, they would be on the verge of an astonishing redemption.

But, this is not a game a boy is expected to win.

*******  

If drama queens amuse you, forget stroppy gay lads. Instead, gather a bunch of straight boys – anal virgins, all – and force nine inch vibrators into their asses. As they shout protests and slam their fists on the table, carry on jamming the silver toys as though you are mute to their objections. Make their sphincters accommodate the chrome torpedoes as you push the vibrators through outer and inner ass rings, then stand back and watch as the buzzing love machines drill their prostates, causing sensations so inappropriate at this tragic time.

Flat on his back, knees folded alongside his trunk, Billy grimaces as I propel the vibrator up his chute.

‘You’ve seen Megan use these, I guess?’

‘Yeah… but smaller,’ Billy says, facial features contorted.

‘Never thought you’d be getting ass poked like a queer, though?’

‘Ahh… no!’

‘Don’t worry: all of your friends here are taking the same,’ I reassure him.

On adjacent tables, bodies arranged identically, Theo, Shayne and Jon are stuffed by their own handlers. Culturally this is worst for the Jamaican boy, for whom the back door is most definitively off-limits. Certainly, Theo’s complaints to his handler bounce loudest around the prep room. 

Individual groans and sighs orchestrate into a symphony of objection from the four tables, as the worst of the girth is levered home. Then we have a quartet of boys, invited to stimulation as they contemplate death.

I tug hard at Billy’s shaven ball sac and wrap a collar around the fleshy neck, locking it shut with a click. On each side of the scrotal steel are D-rings, to which I fasten chains in lengths of eight inches. At the other end of those chains are individual wrist cuffs – left and right.

‘Slip your hands in these,’ I say to Billy.

‘Why?’ he asks, because incarceration is one thing, but bondage is a new and unwelcome demand.

‘We don’t want you to paw at your neck.’

‘I won’t!’

‘It would be instinctive, Billy. So I’m afraid we have to restrict the movement in your arms.’

He offers me his left wrist and I let my thumb stroke the knuckle, before placing it in the cuff and closing the circle tightly. The procedure is repeated with Billy’s right wrist, such that he can get to his dick shaft but little further. And, of course, that is our intention.

*******

When they see the Termination Chamber, they know this is real. We have not been playing a morbid practical joke, for there hang the nooses in this high-ceilinged, grey-walled place of boy death.

There are spotlights but no daylight, and the far wall – in front of the gallows – is covered entirely with a mirror. The boys will pay witness to their own struggle and the falling of comrades, one by one.

In some quarters there is stunned silence and in others violent, raging language. One common theme is the quivering butt, and it is stark to see over-confident youth reduced to this state. A few shades lighter than the boy’s thighs, in every case, four sets of mounds tremble in awe of the rope. 

The Termination Chamber is all about purposeful efficiency, and there are no consolatory gestures. The walls are not used to exhibit calming paintings in pastel shades, and there are no flowers. There is no music, but a chorus of asphyxia will ensue. The floor is tiled in black whilst the nooses look worn, for they are worked hard.

It is kept chill, down here – too cold to be naked, really – whilst the only background noises are the hums of electrical equipment: air conditioning and a computer server dealing with the spotlights and cameras. The Termination Chamber is a very ‘technical’ place for a boy to be batch-process ended.

Below each noose is a free-standing platform, one metre square. The platforms rise and fall on hydraulic jacks, centred on floor-mounted bases. To start, the jacks are almost fully extended and the platforms rest two metres above the Chamber floor. Surfaced in wipe-down tiles that feel cold to boy soles, contact with the platforms will not be maintained indefinitely.

I fix shackles around Billy’s ankles, and join them with a short spreader bar. Spasms are entertaining, but the Governor does not wish to see high-kicking dancing, this time.

‘Up the steps,’ I say, nudging Billy’s ass cheeks.

Alongside each platform is a mobile staircase with handrails, like a miniaturised version of those used to board private jets.

‘Please… tell us about the way out,’ Billy says.

‘Later,’ I say, but as his frown returns, I know what the boy is thinking:

The time for ‘later’ is running short.  

Billy ascends his staircase carefully: one step at a time, as that is all his ankle bondage allows. The other boys do likewise, and the Chamber is filled with the sound of creaking metal.

I follow Billy, his butt near my face several steps higher, and we manage to co-habit the small platform whilst I arrange his body, facing the mirrored wall and principle cameras squarely.

I reach for the noose, which hangs level with Billy’s shoulders offering plenty of slack for the ringing. 

‘Don’t!’ he says.

‘Ssshh,’ I bid him, easing the fibrous circle over his head. Surely, thick rope represents the finest necklace an athletic young man might wear? 

Billy has a great neck for our purposes: Sturdy without being bull-like, a decent length and covered in velvety-smooth flesh, lightly tanned.

‘Comfortable?’ I ask him.

‘Tight,’ he sniffs.

‘It’s just secure at the moment. It will get tighter, though.’

Above the noose is a coiled knot to give strength under load, whilst beyond the straw-coloured rope disappears into the rafters, to its anchorage.

The Governor reaches up and passes me two long wires, ending with alligator clips. Billy looks to ascertain my intentions as I move close to his pectorals.

‘I’m wiring you, for the hand-crank generator,’ I say, because secrets are unnecessary, now.

‘Why?’ he whispers.

‘Literally, it will get you charged and fired-up for this.’

I clasp Billy’s right tit nub, rolling the teat rubber between my fingers as I pull. Opening one of the jaws wide, I snap the alligator clip over the elongated flesh and he gasps.

With the second clip it is Billy’s ball sac I yank, roughly. Squeezing a fold of gonad flesh, I secure it in the sharp jaws.

‘Fuck! Please, help me!’ Billy snivels.

Finally, the Governor passes me an open tub of sexual lubricant.

‘Which hand do you wank with?’ I ask Billy, holding the clear jelly near his groin.

‘Why?’

‘I’m getting bored with questions, Billy. Just tell me, which is your masturbatory paw?’

‘Right,’ he says.

‘Okay, then dip it in the jelly, all the way to the wrist.’

I get a close-up of those lean digits for the last time as they push into the lube, wallow a bit and withdraw, soggy. 

‘Please, tell me…’

‘Yeah, I know: the way out. Not long to be patient, now,’ I tell Billy.

He screws his elegant toes on the platform and I note his long feet make an XL set, with his fingers and that generous dick shaft.

‘Fuck!’ Billy says, closing his eyes with the rope encircling his neck, coarse.

*******

Centrally controlled, the platform jacks drop in a sudden movement, and there is panic as the previously slack nooses become genuinely tight around boy necks.

This feels like an emergency but is not, for none of the lads is on tiptoes, yet.

Only Shayne looks placid, working his neck muscles to check what little movement is still possible.

‘Another three centimetres,’ orders the Governor, and the hydraulics hiss.

There are no words from the boys this time, merely shocked and stressed noises:

Aww.

Ahh.

Each handler observes his own boy as faces redden and soles scramble on tile.

‘Again,’ the Governor instructs, and now there are urgent, garbled objections from within the nooses. 

Deliberately, the order is not carried out for ten chilling seconds. Then, with a jolt, the platforms drop again.

The boys find a need to restrict the pressure on their necks, and move to the front of their feet for a little extra height.

‘This is how it ends you see, boys? Centimetre by centimetre, or inch by inch if we feel bold, until you swing free like pendulums,’ the Governor says.

In the mirror wall, the condemned youth look along their line and find equal suffering in the puffed faces and stretched legs of their co-snuffees.

With a nod from the Governor, we handlers give each boy a half-turn on the magneto generator and they cry as the pain surges through them.

‘When your nubs and nuts burn with current, boys, you understand why this is so much more than an execution,’ says the boss. 

I look back at Billy, and find a tear running from each eye.

‘Now, if you want to hear of your escape route, raise a leg.’

Spreader bars rattle and, delicately, each boy pulls a sole from the platform whilst transferring his weight to the other. Apart from Shayne, that is, who has ceased to care or is prepared to freeload on the effort of the others.

‘Okay: some enthusiastic participants,’ the Governor says. ‘So, the deal is quite simple. If you want out of the noose, I need furious masturbation and orgasm from you. A dribble of cum will not be good enough, I stress.  Your jizz must shoot over the edge of your platform and shower the floor below.’

The Governor pauses, and we hunt fresh flickers of life in those bloodshot eyes.

‘Give me a sign if you’d like to know more, boys,’ the Governor says.

Ankle spreaders rattle, and there are noises around crushed windpipes.

‘Mmm!’

‘Well, this is a search for a boy who can harness the sexual power of asphyxia and hard genital electro-torture. Combined with stimulation from the vibrator, the objective is a massive cum load like you’ve never shot before.’

Truth be told, there is little hope but much hurt in the eyes of those who listen.

‘The motivators, if needed, will be personal, like the family and girlfriends you’ve left behind, or even your unborn children,’ the Governor continues, looking to Billy as he concludes his sentence.

‘Now, this is optional, so think for a moment and let me know whether this is a game you’d like to play.’

Not in unison, but with little delay, gurgles from the nooses indicate assent all-round.

‘Because this isn’t something for nothing, boys: The way out will entail a suffocating hanging, and require a volcanic orgasm, understood?’

‘Mmm!’

‘And, I need to stretch your necks a little more before I allow hands upon dicks.’

‘Mmm!’

‘You’re not competing with each other, because all of you might be successful, or none. But I encourage you to look in the mirror at your dying criminal friends, and will yourself to do better.’

Momentary silence allows the boys to absorb the Governor’s words, broken by familiar pained ‘ahhs’.

‘Drop the platforms by two centimetres,’ the boss instructs.

*******

Billy balances on the front of his feet – his heels pointing near-vertically skyward.

The noose bites hard into his neck, fashioning a raw ring of flesh.

Breathing is difficult now, and air is taken in short inhalations both by necessity and to preserve energy. 

I crank the generator handle and make Billy’s torso jerk with electrical energy. He throws his arms towards his right tit nub in the hope of pulling off the alligator clip, but his reach in bondage does not allow it. Neither is he able to interfere with the jaw sending fire through the back of his ball sac.

Billy would scream, but there is too much pressure upon his neck. Instead, he gabbles wide-eyed.

‘Another centimetre,’ says the Governor.

The Chamber moans and drools collectively, like a spastics’ conference, but still the platforms drop.

On his toes, Billy retains a tenuous connection with his only means of support.

‘Thank you for your patience, boys, and you may masturbate, now,’ the Governor says.

The four brains no longer compute speedily, and lubed hands drift rather than rush for dick meat.

Billy finds a rhythm and jerks his sausage hard. We can speculate on whether he is spurred by the vibrator buzzing his prostate, providing illicit excitement for a straight father-to-be.

Around the Chamber there is squelching, as half-hung boys pump their cock shafts as though their lives depended upon it: literally.

‘Five millimetres,’ says the Governor, and the jack hydraulics process the small adjustment.

Toenails scratch at tile and dig grout from between the squares, because that is the margin between contact and hanging free. Nooses ride high at the front of each neck and drop to the rear, forcing heads back such that each boy sees more of the rafters than the mirror in front of him. As the Governor promised, however, there are corner-of-the-eye glances available of other boys in serious difficulty.

Without warning Billy sprays from his semi-hard dick, but it is piss that surges rather than cum. His flow is urgent and clear in colour, arcing up before pattering down as chemical rain on the floor below. No matter: this is the reason for the use of wipe-clean tiles in the Termination Chamber.

Billy runs with perspiration, exacerbated by this setback, and I consider him a boy displayed at his very best: Legs arrow-straight, pectorals high and puffed, and neck hung almost to snapping point. The glory is crowned by his boy dick, erect even as the youth is starved of the essence of life.

I crank the magneto generator several turns, and Billy squeals at the savage electrocution. His wrist bondage jangles but his wanking hand soon returns to his shaft, pumping like crazy.

‘Think of Megan, think of your unborn, and make this happen, Billy,’ I encourage.

Unscripted, I push the staircase back beside the platform and climb it. I wish to remind myself of the slipperiness of flesh in the throes of snuff, and the definition in hung muscle.

I am able to cup Billy’s buttocks as he glimpses Jon, the sex offender of eighteen, droop limp and lifeless in the noose, his dick pointing horizontal with the masturbatory hand still at his groin.

‘Don’t let that be you, Billy,’ I whisper in his ear, and the jerking of piss-wet cock resumes at a pace.

*******

In snuff fantasy art, a dying youth spurts cum as he breathes his last. The noosed boy sporting a stiff cock has become a cliché, albeit a beautiful one. These fantasy lads are straight – captured soldiers, for example – and we are invited to believe their final involuntary orgasms give rise to competing emotions of ecstasy, bewilderment and disgust. Then, with a snap of the neck, their feelings become irrelevant.

Reality is sadder, for the stimulus of asphyxiation is overstated. The half-hung boy is terrorised, his world beginning and ending with the fight for the next breath. Constrictions at his neck do strange things to the blood supply, and dick meat might become engorged, but that is not suggestive of orgasmic sexual pleasure.  

Billy, Theo and Shayne nurture erections despite, not because of their punishment. The Governor’s game is a sick one, but also their only hope. Cameras capture the three of them red in the face, going for it with lubed-up hands, and this is a scene which sells. It is a noisy group masturbation as palms encircle shafts and pump furiously, rolling uncut helmets back and forth until sore.

In any circumstances a straight boy group wank is hot, but when the lads are strung by their necks with a dead friend in the line, well, that just takes things to another level.

The Termination Chamber smells of sex, and of death. It will be cleaned before the next batch of boys in order they make the climb to their platforms without undue panic, but this is an aroma the Governor would love to bottle. 

‘Raise the platforms,’ the boss says.

Wheezing and drooling, the boys are restored from tiptoe to the flats of their soles. With a little more oxygen feeding their brains, dick swords are attended to at greater pace and we see three masts erect, beyond the horizontal.

‘Considering the stakes, I’m not seeing enough urgency,’ the Governor says. ‘You need to be thinking of hot porn, kink, anal: whatever turns you on and can make this happen for you.’

‘Mmm… no!’ Shayne says, with some difficulty.

‘Mmm!’ my boy Billy follows-up.

‘You weren’t expecting this respite, and it won’t be repeated. You’ll be dropped again, in a moment, and from there the platforms will continue to fall. The window for explosive orgasm is closing, boys.’

‘Mmm… fuck!’ says Theo, through his rope necklace.

‘Your handlers will support you through this, whichever way it goes,’ the Governor concludes.

Sinewy torso meat suffers, running with sweat over pectorals and muscular thighs as the dick jerking continues.

‘Put them back upon tiptoe,’ the Governor says, and jack motors whir once again.

*******

  

Beneath his scrotal shackle, Billy’s nut pommel is blue.

‘Keep it hard, and quit the ambivalence towards Megan and your kid,’ I taunt.

To his left, Jon’s torso is cold, whilst to his right Theo has just expired from the trauma at his neck. This is a theatre of death, where the choice is passive acceptance of fate or playing the game, no matter how slim the odds.

I crank the magneto generator several turns and watch Billy thrash in his bondage. When he calms I repeat the electro torture once, and then again, to hear the animalistic howls.  

‘Use the pain in a positive way,’ I say. ‘Think filthy, intense thoughts as the oxygen runs out.’

From a door to the rear, the butcher steps into the Chamber. We are running late, and the rotund shaven-headed man is eager to get on. Ready in his white apron, the adjoining Cutting House is already prepared with tools laid out beside the slab: cleavers, saws, knives and hooks.

In the cities of Auzealand, metropolitan housewives clamour for the latest delicacy. Liberal in outlook, these ladies take coffee together whilst reviewing recipes covertly. Pausing to sign an animal rights petition on the way home, they rush back to warm their ovens for the contents of the fridge. 

Billy’s left thigh is under offer, in a single lot to include his nuts as an edible garnish. The meat will be stamped AZ43 and the purchaser will know it’s age: a prime tender cut, to impress the husband and get the children salivating over the roast. Billy’s tougher calves, meanwhile, will attract interest for the casserole pot: an indulgent winter warmer.

Snuff movies and meat supply maintain the Governor’s enviable lifestyle, with his salary almost incidental.

‘Keep strumming,’ I tell my boy.

Eyes wide and glazed, Billy masturbates single-mindedly even as we take the breath from him. At the end of the line Shayne pushes himself too, despite his earlier resignation.

‘Drop another centimetre,’ the Governor says.

Billy still hears and understands, and I see an ill-judged attempt at a shake of the head. Soles pointed vertical like the perfect ballerina, with every muscle in his shimmering legs stretched, Billy balances on his toes.   

‘Precarious, isn’t it, living on the edge?’ the Governor says. ‘I hope you’re using this time to reflect on where and why you went off the rails.’

Billy must tune-out from the homilies, though, and focus on his semi-conscious masturbation. Around his noose, arteries clog dangerously. If there is any time for reflection, it is spent dwelling upon the kind of evil necessary to arrange this scene for sexual kicks. And how many other boys, none older than twenty-five, have hung with their hand stimulating their sex: All for the de-valued orgasms of this ageing man in black?

Shayne lives through a final bout of electro torture, only to succumb. Billy glimpses him, limp and lifeless, having made the mistake of lifting his feet in the electrical storm. Suspension by neck alone proved too much for the tattooed youth oozing pre-cum. And then, there was one.

‘You need to be cumming in torrents, before the platform is lowered again,’ I say.

‘Ahh!’ Billy manages, though it is just a whimper, really.

I crank the hand-powered generator once more, and make the boy spasm violently. From his dick crown, a string of cum thins as it falls to the platform floor.

The boy’s chest rises and falls in flutters, his respiration so very thin.

‘Do this for Megan, Billy,’ I tell him.

‘Mmm!’

‘In thirty seconds, the platform will drop another centimetre,’ the Governor says, his tone devoid of emotion.

‘Mmm! Mmm!’

‘Abuse that dick shaft, Billy. Make it hurt, make it work, and make it spurt,’ I say.

His hand slides back and forth with the slickness of a well-oiled piston, as his balls contract to their shackle. I force electricity through Billy in a continuous blast, and whilst his body jigs, his face is a picture of paralysed terror.

‘Ten seconds,’ the Governor says.

 Around the Termination Chamber, the dominant sound is the crackle of sticky masturbation.

‘Think of the baby!’ I shout.

Cheeks hollow, Billy Cox is desperate, and that is a fine state in which to see a boy. Neck and temples bulging, the kid’s face is purple.

‘Drop the platform,’ the Governor orders, and the instruction is carried out immediately.

Billy cannot stretch his legs further, nor retain a tenuous grip with his toenails. The boy of twenty hangs by his noose as a human pendulum – feet swinging agonisingly close to supportive safety.

I torture Billy’s torso with a final burst of electricity and, this time, he raises his knees to his abdomen at the searing pain. I watch his buttocks clench and sense an astonishing feat is possible.

Aiming his dick like a hose, Billy ejaculates in overwhelming waves that keep coming. The black tiles of the Termination Chamber pool with spilt milk and, even at a distance, the floor is flecked with cum sprayed at high pressure.

Eyes closed and head drooping, Billy’s hand falls away from his cock.

The Governor makes a call because he is a man of his word, although it would be easy to break his promise.

‘Raise the platform!’

*******

Epilogue

For Billy Cox, there will be a period of convalescence, followed by psychological assessment and re-education. He will never be the boy he was, but can be helped to make something of his life.

The Governor was specific in offering an escape from sex death, but freedom is a different matter entirely. Anyway, a boy who has survived the Termination Chamber will always be haunted, and never free of demons.  

Managing Billy Cox will be burdensome for the Governor, but his game had a winner and a deal is a deal.

In time, work will be found for the youth, and there is an obvious position. Handling three boys per day on their journey from cell to gallows requires a robust character, immune to tears and pleas and bribery. If such an employee believes in the capacity of a boy to achieve the impossible whilst asphyxiated and tortured, he will be doing that boy an incalculable favour. Along the way, more stunning footage will be created for distribution on the ‘dark’ internet.

When Billy starts work he will find his sense of compassion gone – like me. Billy will identify a desire, burning in his core, to strip, humiliate and hurt young men – like me. Billy will have no qualms about driving boys to their sex deaths, nor about persuading them to jerk as though they were getting off on their termination. With experience, Billy will become an accomplished sadist, and if he is in need of advice he can turn to me: the only other youth who won the Governor’s game, many years and several thousands of boys ago.

I had a girlfriend once, but now my thrills come thrice a day. Megan will be forgotten as the Governor allocates his favourite cases to Billy Cox and, in time, the culling will create another boy hero: triumphant, despite the blackest of sexual ordeals.  

  

Or should that be ‘because of’, rather than ‘despite’? The Governor will not pose the question, preferring to observe Billy as he tortures himself in resolving the matter.

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