© Copyright 2018 - Tonya Souther - Used by permission
Storycodes: Solo-M; MF+/m; war; change; testing; mast; captive; drug; prepare; depilate; intubate; sendep; encase; resin; objectify; tease; climax; stuck; cons/nc; X
Jerome would never forget the words that ended his life:
“Congratulations, Donor 896. You’re still fertile.”
Everyone had been so concerned about the Nork nukes. There was lots of saber rattling, lots of heated rhetoric, lots of back and forth accusations. The missile launches were almost anticlimactic. The lack of nuclear fire was almost expected. Everyone knew the Norks couldn’t have gotten a nuclear warhead on a missile. It was simply beyond them.
It took several months for people to realize that the payload wasn’t nuclear at all, but biological. By that time, the retaliation strikes had wiped Pyongyang off the face of the planet, as well as most of North Korea, bits of South Korea, and China, but things had seemed to settle down after that. The Chinese pulled back from the brink, and everyone let out the breath they’d been holding.
Only several months later did someone notice that the pregnancy rate had dropped off of a cliff. Research programs swung into high gear in a remarkably short time after that; it only took another year to discover that nearly every male in the US had been rendered infertile. Only one in a hundred thousand escaped the effects of the bioweapon.
The speed of the research program that discovered the cause was nothing compared to the speed with which Congress moved to do something, anything. Drastic measures were called for. It only took a week to pass the Repopulating America by Paternity Enhancement Act. The Act mandated fertility testing for every male over the age of 18, and those found to be fertile were to be compelled to father as many children as possible until the birth rate had returned to pre-attack levels. The courts moved as quickly as Congress had. “Habeas corpus? The Constitution is not a suicide pact.” Legal challenges quickly went down in flames.
Jerome went in for his mandatory wank into a vial one sunny Tuesday morning. The clinic had, by now, learned to run through the process quickly. He was brought in, identified, admitted, labeled, undressed, strapped to a gurney, and plugged into the milking machine in minutes. The process was impersonal, deliberately so. Those found to be fertile lost their personhood immediately, and nobody wanted to get too attached to them.
The milking machine’s attentions were pleasant, and intense. The orgasm came quickly, the seed sucked away and his cock cleaned. Then came the waiting. Jerome wished they’d let him walk around, at least, but nobody even came in to look at him. He finally dozed off.
He woke up as a man in a lab coat came in, holding a Taser. “Congratulations, Donor 896. You’re still fertile.” Before he could say anything, the Taser hit him. He went out cold.
The new donor was likely unconscious, but just to make sure, a catheter went into a vein, delivering a dose of a powerful sedative. The milker was unstrapped and removed, and orderlies, all of whom had already been tested and found infertile, wheeled him into the preparation room.
The first thing done was to tattoo “DONOR 896” across the pelvis, just above the genitals. There was no way they were going to let this one escape without being marked, as had happened in the beginning. A very, very small dose of IV thallium, to cause the hair to fall out but not poison the donor enough to damage his reproductive system. Large tubes into the mouth, one down the windpipe, one into the stomach, both cemented in place so there was no risk of air or fluids going where they shouldn’t. A bite pad filling the mouth, around the tubes, with a small tube to collect saliva and drain it away. A plug into the rectum, twisted to open wide at the inner end. A catheter into the bladder, cemented in place like the rest.
The hair began to fall out; it was swept away, into a bin. Ears cleaned thoroughly, plugs placed carefully into the canal, resting against the eardrums, wires to allow audio to be fed in. Injections at the bases of the nails, to kill the roots and prevent the nails from growing. Clear covers cemented over the eyes, small fittings to allow air to be circulated past them to keep the corneas in good health. Finally, a permanent milker, fixed in place by a rod piercing the base of the penile shaft, then sealed with more cement to ensure none of the precious seed would be wasted.
The donor was still out, of course. He could not be allowed to interfere.
The gurney was rolled into the encasement room. A cylindrical tank, about a third full of a clear, thick liquid, lay on its side, top half hinged open. Wires and tubes were held out of the liquid by wires from a rack above. One by one, they were connected to the donor and tucked behind him. A black plastic shield covered the lower face and nostrils, cemented in place. One more dose of sedative, then a dose of pancuronium bromide into the IV, which was then pulled out of the donor’s arm, a ventilator taking over his breathing, shallow and rapid to cause as little chest movement as possible. Finally, the tank sealed closed and pumped full of the clear, thick resin, encasing the donor.
An hour passed, to allow the resin to harden. The tank was lifted upright, then opened, revealing the donor, now suspended forever in hard resin. The tubes and wires from the back were connected to a box, mounted to the cylinder with stainless steel bolts into drilled and tapped holes.
The preparations completed, the cylinder with the new donor was placed on a hand truck and rolled into a small, well lighted room, in front of a mirror.
Jerome came to, fuzzy. It didn’t take him long to discover he couldn’t move a muscle. He couldn’t take a deep breath, either; it seemed that he was panting and couldn’t stop. He struggled, panicking, for a few moments, until a voice filled his head.
“Jerome Marcus Williams, pursuant to Public Law 117-1465, you have been found to be reproductively fertile. You are now legally dead, and no longer a person. Your body has been designated Donor 896. It is now the legal property of the United States Department of Health and Human Services, Office of Repopulation. It will be maintained in its current condition as long as it remains fertile, at which time it will be disposed of humanely and respectfully.”
He’d heard stories of what happened to those who entered the testing clinic and never came out. They didn’t begin to match the truth. He looked at himself in the mirror, felt the fullness in his ass and throat, the pain in his cock, saw the silver cover over it with the tubes coming out of the base.
He relaxed. What else could he do?
After a while, an orderly loaded him up on another hand truck and carried him to the storage room. The cylinder was mounted to a base on a track, and an umbilical plugged into the connector box. Right away, his stomach filled, and then his ass, full of warm water, then pumped out, filled, emptied, over and over again.
His cock stiffened inside the covering, throbbing against it. The sensations weren’t uncomfortable, just different. Why was he feeling turned on by it all? He realized what he wanted most of all right now was to cum. He tried moving his hips to hump the silver sheath. Nothing. He couldn’t move, couldn’t make a sound, couldn’t relieve the growing need.
Right about the time he thought he was going to go nuts with lust, his cylinder started moving, down the track, through a door, into a room with a saddle in the center, a dildo sticking up out of it, a naked woman standing beside it, looking him over. His cylinder rolled up to the saddle, then tilted onto its back and slid under it, his cock beneath the dildo.
Jerome watched the woman look him over, then climb up onto the saddle, impaling herself. As she did, tingling and vibrations filled his cock and his ass. He’d thought he couldn’t take any more, but take it he did, as the woman humped the dildo. Finally, the devices let him cum, and he spurted into the covering. He didn’t feel it trickle down his cock. Must have been flushed away. He was allowed to relax as the woman above him kept riding the dildo. finally screaming out her own orgasm. She sagged, then got up, a very small amount of wetness trickling down her inner thighs. He was surprised when she bent over and kissed the surface of the cylinder above his mouth before walking out.
The cylinder slid back out from under the saddle, then upright, and back to its storage slot. Jerome looked around at the other cylinders, each with a man embedded in it, watching as another was trundled out on its track, and sagged into his confinement. He wondered how long he could stand this before going utterly insane, or how long he would remain fertile - and which would end first, his life or his sanity.