The Lost Generation Chapter 9
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9
He stood in front of the mirror, numbed. For the first time, Sam saw himself since being in the hands of the Programme. He trembled and choked. His eyes brimmed as he took himself in... Tall. Slim. White. Encased. Barely sight of any skin save for the pale and pointless patch exposed at the crotch, above... Above where his cock was, squashed into a translucent plastic shell with a hole at the end. He sobbed a little. He was unrecognizable; not... Himself.The black figure appeared behind him; reached for Sam's wrists and clipped them together behind his back. He slumped as two arms snaked between his own and folded over his stomach. The boy's mouth was at his ear; the hot breath permeating the spandex hood.
"You need to calm down 661," it whispered. "I've got you."
After the trauma of the last however-many hours, exhausted from the relentlessly heightened state of tension and worry, these words -- this perceived kindness or warmth, from a total and semi-naked stranger no less -- were the final straw for Sam and he collapsed into great, wracking cries. Jacob bore his weight, steadied him then withdrew his arms and turned Sam round. Instinctively, Sam buried his head into the vacant shoulder and tried to stem his tears. The gloved hands once more threaded between his powerless arms; rose to rub his shoulder blades then glided downwards, to his backside, where they stroked a little then dug in, squeezing uncomfortably hard.
At this, Sam looked up. The boy was staring at him. A shiny, featureless face, but for two inquisitive brown eyes, a bump of a nose, and his small pink lips. Sam stared back, trying to regain his composure and process the shock and discomfort of having his barely-covered arse grabbed. Alarmingly, the face slowly inched closer and gently kissed his nose.
"You look really good, 661," Jacob said, smiling. "Let's get going."
After fastening a chain between Sam's ankles cuffs -- and looping a much shorter one around his genitals to which he attached a dog lead -- Jacob reached for a small box on the `Fun Shelf' (as he called it) and produced a little red disc, the size of a bottle-top. He added it to a split ring and threaded it onto a D-ring on Sam's collar. He volunteered its purpose before Sam could ask.
"You subs all have identifier tags -- there's a whole load of them. Red means `no entry'... No-go... New; fresh meat; not to be messed with; not happening."
Sam had no real idea what any of that meant, and was unable to process a response quickly enough as Jacob tugged sharply on the lead and he jerked painfully into shuffling forward to keep up with him.
"Where are we going?" he asked through gritted teeth, Jacob keeping his genitals and the stupid plastic thing pulled conspicuously away from his body.
"Dinner," was all Jacob replied.
Almost as soon as they left their room and rounded the corner, Sam was taken aback and unconsciously slowed his awkward gait -- inadvertently punishing his own crotch. There were other people milling around, other pairs of black and white Lycra-clad boys trudging the corridors, each identical to him and Jacob.
He tried to pick up his pace, to spare his burning balls and also to catch Jacob up enough to ask a question subtly.
"Jacob? Hey... Jacob," he hissed, scurrying as best as his shackles would allow.
Jacob did not slow, nor turn, but spoke back in a low, hard voice.
"Call me Sir."
"Er.. Yeah. OK. Sir. Why doesn't everyone have those things on their dicks?" he queried.
"We're Tops," Jacob replied. "We don't have to have our penis locked away because we're superior to you. We also use our penis more than you'll ever be allowed to, so..."
Sam could hardly comprehend the sentence... _Locked away? Use it? What... What the fuck?
_
He looked keenly at every other boy in white but none would meet his eyes. Some they passed were shouting and swearing, resisting being led painfully by their cock and balls. Guards soon appeared and intervened, but how it was resolved Sam never saw, as Jacob tugged him along by the lead, round another corner, through another door. There were lots of doors. And metal rings dotting the walls and various apparatus littering the corridors including, bizarrely, a urinal mounted in almost every one.
Eventually they reached a door with "Food Hall" printed on it stern red lettering. As Jacob opened it and led him through, Sam was cowed by the assault on his senses -- the intense smell of food; the warmth; the hubbub and clattering of metal; the mere sight of... Dozens of boys, in black and white Lycra, sitting at tables, some with food some without. It was surreal. Sam's mind raced. Where was the anger? Where was the rioting? Why were they behaving like this was the most normal thing in the world!? He stopped still, flushed and agog, the lead yanking painfully on his genitals. Jacob looked round.
"Come on, move," he said, jerking the lead.
Reluctantly Sam did so and followed him to a long metal picnic table, with two attached benches. To his horror there were already four boys in white suits sitting at it, with space for a couple more. Jacob unclipped the lead from Sam's crotch then bent and unshackled his ankles before steering him by the arm into one of the gaps. With a forceful push, Sam understood what was being asked of him and awkwardly obliged, stepping over and sitting on the bench. From behind, Jacob crouched and reattached the ankle cuffs together, then unclipped Sam's wrists from behind his back, bringing them forward and attaching each cuff to the table itself via a short length of chain. Sam quickly worked out that this meant he could use a knife and fork to navigate food but he would have to stoop and crane his neck for it to reach his mouth. With a shake of the chains and a pat on the head, the cruel black-clad boy left.
As Sam looked around nervously at the other boys, only one met his eyes.
"This is fucking... Weird, right?" the masked face said, his voice low and wobbly beneath the bustle of the room.
"Yeah," Sam mustered, feeling he might burst into tears if he spoke too much.
"I'm Ryan," the boy volunteered.
"Sam."
"Ash," came a voice from next to him, as Ryan switched his gaze expectantly.
"Layton," mumbled another. The fourth didn't look up and didn't speak. Nobody challenged him.
"Are you... OK?" Ryan continued, seemingly to all of them.
Sam shrugged. "I dunno."
"My balls hurt," Layton said, shifting in his seat. This immediately made Sam feel simultaneously self-conscious yet glad they were sat and nobody could see his balls.
Ryan nodded, "Yeah, definitely. I don't even get it...."
"Did a doctor like... Wank you off?" Ash blurted, then stared at the table embarrassed.
"With a machine, yeah," Sam replied, quietly.
The others nodded and mumbled.
Sam looked at each of them, still numb. They were featureless; anonymous. Their eyes and mouths were different but otherwise they were all identical, even down to their thick white collars each adorned with a red disc.
The unceremonious clatter of a plate in front of him broke his focus and he looked up to see a boy in black at the table. It was only when he spoke that Sam realised it was Jacob.
"Here, eat. Bedtime after this."
Sam looked down: sausage and mashed potato. Some broccoli and miserly dribble of gravy. It looked stodgy and pale but even as he thought this his stomach growled and he was suddenly very aware of how long it had been since he'd eaten. He started into it, his wrist chains clanking and clattering. Plates soon arrived for the other restrained boys, delivered by other boys in black, and the stilted chat was done as they each tucked in greedily.