Futareich Ch. 03

Dylan Martin was in the least awful circle of hell.

That hell was the Futareich, a militaristic, authoritarian war-state dominated by a genetically engineered superhuman third sex on the basis of an ideology of their own total supremacy. As a male, Dylan was at the lowest rung of that society, more or less enslaved.

Nevertheless, Dylan considered himself lucky. The least awful circle of that hell was almost certainly the Verstandshieb labor camp, his current place of residence. Well, it was more like his prison, really. Still, even though he'd rather be back home in Albion or in the University dorms in Paras than within the razor-wired boundaries of Verstandshieb, if he absolutelyhad to be an enslaved captive in the Futareich, better here than anywhere else.

Chalk clacked pleasantly against his chalkboard as he continued his calculations. He'd done math like this so often he didn't need to give it his full attention, so as he scrawled his equations he continued to contemplate his situation. He'd been a grad student at the University of Paras when the city had fallen to the Futareich. That was a day he didn't like to remember. Futa soldiers marching into the city unopposed. Mass rapes which his female classmates didn't particularly seem eager to avoid. Men, including himself, stripped, beaten, and loaded onto trains bound for the heart of old Vemar, the core of the Futareich. While he shivered in that train car, naked and afraid, apparently some Futa official read his name on one of the university's lists of exemplary students, and moved his name from one list to another. And so, instead of being sent to bash rocks with a pickaxe in the Bodenshieb iron production labor camp, Dylan was here, doing pretty much the same thing he'd done at university: Advanced Mathematics.

Verstandshieb was unique in the Futareich. Like all Labor camps, its purpose was to forcefully extract male labor on behalf of the State. Unlike the others, however, the labor extracted here was mental rather than physical. In practice, it really was almost like he was still in University. The grounds were set up like one, with long brick buildings built around a broad, open grassy space in the center. The Chief Warden even preferred to be addressed as "Professor" rather than the normal "Mistress".

"You forgot to carry a two, there," purred a soft voice in his ear. Dylan practically jumped, frantically turning to look up at the imposing figure standing disconcertingly close behind him.

"Um, Professor! I... uh, sorry, I just..."

"Calm down," she said evenly. "Everyone makes mistakes."

Sofia Braut technically had the rank of Lieutenant Colonel within the Hingmact, the largest branch of the Futareich's armed forces, but she didn't act, dress or speak like a military commander. For a Futanari she was practically diminutive at a mere six foot six, almost short enough to pass for a female. Unlike every Futa soldier or guard he'd seen, she wore a dress instead of a military uniform, an embroidered dark purple garment that covered her from ankles to neck, quite conservative in cut, though the way it clung to her curves was certainly provocative. That said, curves like hers would have been provocative in a burka. She had the body type typical of the Futanari. Toned, athletic arms, slim, feminine shoulders, massive, obscene, unbelievably large breasts, a tight toned waist, broad hips with a powerful yet well padded posterior, and finally thighs that could generate more force than a hydraulic press. A single slit ran from the hem of her skirt to the side of her hip, which, if she shifted her weight in a certain way, would reveal an intimidating glimpse of one of those terrifyingly powerful legs.

Oh, and of course somewhere under that skirt, between those thighs, lurked a monster. As of yet, Dylan had never glimpsed even a hint of the thing, thankfully. The camp guards seemed to take any opportunity to wave their Futahoods around, but Sofia kept hers completely shrouded in cloth and mystery.

"I'm sorry, Professor," he repeated dumbly.

Her auburn ponytail swayed as she shook her head slightly in exasperation. "You're plenty clever, Dylan, but you need to develop some focus." Her eyes scanned his chalkboard. "Are those the equations I set you on this morning? The solutions look plausible but the process looks... different than I expected."

"I figured out a faster way to sort the matrices," he explained, pointing.

"I see," she said, sounding moderately impressed. "I've never thought of that. Does that short cut always work?"

"As long as A is greater than zero," he clarified. Otherwise your denominator for this part winds up being zero, and well, that's bad. If you give me any problems where A is less than or equal to zero I'll use the old fashioned way."

"That's actually quite brilliant. Well done."

"I... well... thank you," he stammered. To his shame he felt a small ember of pride glowing in his chest at her praise.

He knew more about math than she did, of course. Her knowledge was broad, but not particularly deep. Still, she knew enough to ask engaging, challenging questions. To answer he had to think about what he was doing in new ways. Most days when they spoke he could pretend for a while that Sofia really was just a professor and not the chief demon of this particular circle of hell. But that wasn't going to happen today.

"Time to stop for the day," She said abruptly.

He glanced at the clock. "Really? But it isn't even four o'clock yet."

"You're forgetting the date. It's the first of the month.."

"Oh, right," he said. "I'd forgotten." He hadn't actually forgotten.

"Yes, well please remember that the Practical Sexual Education seminar ismandatory. And now that I've reminded you I will consider non-attendance to be direct disobedience. Do I make myself clear?"

He paled. "Yes Professor," he replied quickly.

One of the reasons Verstandshieb Labor Camp was the best place for a male to be in the Futareich was because it was one of the few places he could be reasonably certain he wouldn't be raped by Futas. Technically, every labor camp offered some degree of protection to the men within it. In camps, rape is only used as a punishment for infractions, wheras a man anywhere else could be legally raped at will. However, the guards in most camps had a great degree of discretion regarding the identification and punishment of infractions. In practice that meant you could be raped if a guard didn't like the way you looked at her or the tone of your voice, or if you made eye contact with her when she didn't want you to, or a dozen other things. Even if you did everything perfectly you weren't safe. If she really wanted she could just trump up some charges and rape you anyway. In Verstandshieb on the other hand, all punitive rapes had to be explicitly approved by the camp superintendent, Colonel Sofia Braut. Furthermore only three crimes could be punished by rape: Open Defiance of Futanari Authority, Direct Dissobediance of Explicit Orders, and Physical Contact with a Female.

So as long as he wasn't hot-headed or stupid, a man had a decent chance of not being raped at Verstandshieb. Of course that didn't mean he shouldn't fear the guards. On the slightest of pretexts they could still beat him, strip him, humiliate him, molest him and perform all sorts of unholy acts upon him that technically weren't rape because technically their phalli never technically penetrated his body. So far Dylan had managed to avoid the worst of it. The trick was to keep his head down and say "Yes Mistress," and "No Mistress" at appropriate times.

In the Futareich, compliance was the key to not getting destroyed. So, he figured he'd better comply with the Professor's orders and attend the Show. He turned to leave, but then paused. "Professor," he said, "May I ask you a question?"

The Futa raised an eyebrow. "I approve of curiosity, Dylan, but not tardiness. Ask your question but make it quick."

"Why are there Shows? I mean, what purpose do they serve?"

"Officially? The Practical Sexual Demonstration Seminars, or 'Shows' as you call them, are part of the Mandatory Sexual Re-education Program for Boys. Their purpose is to demonstrate the sexual superiority of the Futanari Master Sex in a concrete way so that boys don't entertain false notions of their own viability as potential sexual partners for females."

"And... unofficially?"

The Professor smiled wanly. "Because the guards like to show off. Now get going. If you're late, I'll smack you with my dick." She said that lightly, as if it was a joke, but he knew it probably wasn't.

He went.

--

The auditorium was practically full by the time he arrived. That was unfortunate, because it meant he would have to sit in the front row. More than a hundred and fifty men filled the theatre-like space. All were adults, though most were younger than thirty and all were under forty. Some of them were from the Futareich itself, brought to Verstandshieb because of their high scores on mental aptitude tests. A few of the older ones had been students in Vemarian universities before the fall of the Republic and the establishment of the Futareich. The rest were like Dylan, swept up by the wave of Futanari expansionist conquest, torn from their homes to toil in servitude for the benefit of their exploiters. They sat silently in their seats, squirming in the uncomfortably tight schoolboy uniforms they were forced to wear, filled with dread and sick anticipation for the coming spectacle.

A single Futa stood in a wide stance in the center of the stage, clad only in a towel wrapped about her waist. She was Greta Mitarbeit, one of the camp's twelve guards. The eyes of the crowd were mostly glued to her magnificent bare chest. Greta affected not to notice this, keeping her piercing blue gaze fixed straight ahead, but the ghost of a smile kept creeping into the corners of her mouth. Clearly she was enjoying the attention. She threw her shoulders back, taking a slow, deep breath, causing her massive mounds of soft, feminine flesh to heave in a most provocative way. The boys practically drooled. They knew what she was, and what lurked beneath her towel, but theform of her! The shape! The curves! The sight of her exposed flesh lit up their nervous systems like Christmas trees, activating an erotic response in them whether they liked it or not.

The lights in the auditorium dimmed. A single spotlight shone on the entrance to the hall opposite the stage. Then, through the doors came a girl. The first actual female Dylan had laid eyes on in an entire month.

She too was bare breasted, clad only in a pair of lacy black panties. There was a sort of purity to her slim feminine beauty (in contrast to the hypersexual curves of the Futas) that made his heart and body ache with longing. Her short brown hair framed a delicate featured, beautiful face. Slowly she walked down the center aisle to the stage, eyes glassy, expression distant.

The front of her panties were soaked through, and with each step a drop of her arousal fell from her barely-clad groin to the floor. On her way to the stage she passed through the crowd of captive, deprived men who stared at her with desperate hungry eyes. Totally unaware of their presence, the girl kept her glossy gaze fixed upon Greta, the half-naked Futa who stood confidently on the stage. None of the men so much as touched her, of course. None dared. They knew the consequences.

As soon as the girl climbed onto the stage, Greta stepped forward, seized her by the hair and leaned forward, capturing her mouth with her own. The girl melted into the kiss as the Futa's tongue plunged into her mouth.

Dylan was struck by the contrast between the two figures. Though the Futanari was feminine in form, together like this, the differences were extremely stark. Greta was more than two feet taller. Her body was thick, robust, powerful, and overflowing with aggressive, hypersexual curves. The girl was diminutive, slim, her curves subtle. Trembling with desire and possibly fear, she moaned helplessly into her Futa dominator's mouth as the kiss stole her breath. She radiated vulnerability out into the air of the silent auditorium, yanking the heartstrings of the watching males who watched in horror, knowing what would come next.

Finally Greta pulled her mouth away from the girl's ravished lips. As the poor thing gasped for breath, the dominant Futa whispered a command in her ear, then stepped back.

The girl turned, facing away from the crowd. She bent over, touching her toes, sticking her perky posterior toward the horde of sex-starved males. Slowly she ran her hands from her ankles, up her calves, her inner thighs, and over the soaked-through fabric of her skimpy undergarment. Then her hands slipped up and around to the hem of the flimsy black panties and slowly, slowly pulled them down and down the curve of her ass. Slowly, slowly, her perfect, pink, shaved, soaking pussy was revealed. For that sight it was almost worth it to come here. Except Dylan knew what would happen next.

Greta pulled off her towel. For three solid seconds she held the scrap of cloth out before her, hanging from her clenched fist as she scanned the crowd. Then, with a smirk, she dropped it to the floor. Hands on hips, she thrust her pelvis forward as the attention of the audience shifted involuntarily from something they desired with all their hearts to something they feared in the marrow of their bones. It was a weapon of war, a rod of total dominion, the monstrous core of everything the Futanari did and were. The symbol of Futa supremacy and also its greatest instrument, it ruled over males with absolute terror and women with complete addiction. There, down from the junction of Greta's powerful thighs it hung. A huge, thick, monstrous, brutal, powerful Futa cock, accompanied by a similarly impressively-sized, swollen sack, at the bottom of which hung two heavy, massive, full testes.

For a moment the beast hung flaccid, its tip swinging at the level of Greta's knee. Then it rapidly began to engorge, lengthening... thickening... rising. Within three seconds the cock was fully erect, pointing upward and outward from the Futa's body at a rigid forty-five degree angle. With theatrical slowness, Greta raised her arm, fist balled, until it was fully extended outward, parallel to her cock. Then in a cold, clear voice she spoke the words that were spoken at each and every such demonstration.

"All pussy belongs to the Futareich!" she called into the silence. A hundred and fifty men trembled in their seats. With total confidence she declared her kind's total monopolization of every single female on the planet. And what man could stand in their way?

Dylan experienced a moment of insanity then, no doubt a product of his tormented, overstimulated brain. For just a moment it seemed Greta's cock was even more preposterously large than it actually was, as if it loomed over the entire crowd of terrified boys, casting them all in its terrible phallic shadow, blotting out all the light and hope in the world. He trembled, certain in his overtaxed, deranged mind that at any moment that colossal monolith of meat would come crashing down, crushing him to death beneath its terrible weight. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking several deep breaths to calm himself, and the madness passed.

He wished he could have kept his eyes closed, but that was psychologically impossible. His gaze, along with every other man's in the hall, was pulled irresistibly to Greta's massive, dominant Futa rod.

The smug futa guard at last lowered her arm, turning first left, then right to show off her ludicrous endowment in profile, preening beneath the terror of her audience. Then, finally, she stepped up behind the shivering, dripping, bent-over girl who still stood center stage with her wet pussy totally exposed. The girl seemed unaware of the auditorium full of males behind her. Her cloudy eyes were locked onto Greta's massive cock like everyone else's, except her cloudy expression was full of longing, rather than terror.

Greta, on the other hand, was quite conscious of her audience. She reached down to grab the girl by the hair, pulling her to a precise angle where the crowd had a clear view of the girl's dripping, twitching, vulnerable little vagina, and the Futa's massive, powerful, predatory cock sliding forward, pressing harder and harder against the tiny opening until...

The loud moan of ecstasy that tore from the girl's throat didn't quite drown out the loudsquelch of the broad head finally slamming home into her wet little slit. But Greta didn't stop there. In one slow, continuous, merciless thrust, the dominant futa pushed the entire preposterous length of her shaft into the moaning, trembling, orgasming slut until hips touched hips.

For a moment Greta held her new bitch close, impaled on her giant cock, turning her head to scan the crowd, grinning smugly. Then the fucking really began. Without any further preamble, the powerful Futa pulled her pelvis back and slammed it forward again with all the strength of her mighty ass and thighs. She plowed the pussy of the young slut with a fiendish, animalistic energy, at a rate no man could match.

The girl moaned and screamed and squirmed and squirted, the smell of her arousal and satisfaction permeating the hall. Sometimes she frantically, eagerly pounded her hips back into the Futa's rapid thrusts, impaling her body on the Futa's thick cock with abandon. Sometimes she was practically limp except for involuntary spasms in her leg muscles. Sometimes it seemed only the force of Greta's erection was holding the girl upright, as if she would collapse and fall right on her face if the Futa pulled out.

The demonstration went on for over an hour. During that time, Greta's jack-hammering hips paused only long enough for the Futa to occasionally pull her eager victim into a new position. After dicking her from behind for a while, Greta pulled her prey to the ground, pushing her legs wide. From above, she slammed the slut's quivering quim in missionary for twenty solid minutes, holding her pinned to the floor with a dominant hand wrapped around her neck. After that it was face-down ass-up doggy style, Greta's bare foot planted squarely on the girl's head as her cock rammed home repeatedly.

Finally, Greta scooped up the girl's still trembling body, carrying her to the very edge of the stage. Powerful legs planted wide, the Futa held her slut up effortlessly before the crowd, spread-eagled and totally exposed. Then she lowered her onto her cock.

At the center of the front row, Dylan was barely three feet from the terrible, arousing sight. He could clearly see the girl's eyes roll up in her head, her slack, empty grin, her tongue lolling from the side of her mouth, the slight bulge in her stomach as the Futa slid her cock in balls-deep. When she squirted, a single drop of feminine nectar hit him in the forehead. Greta looked him right in the eye and smirked. Then the studly Futa guard proceeded to bounce the helpless squirming slut at a fever pitch, hauling her up and down the full length of her cock with apparent ease.

A full hour after Greta's mighty phallus had first stretched out the girl's quivering slit, the powerful Futa finally started to show signs of an impending orgasm. First, a small muscle in her left thigh began to twitch rapidly. Her stance got even wider, her pace even faster, slamming her hips up to meet the girl's hungry pussy on the way down. Greta's balls, each the size of a tennis ball, began to visiblythrob in their swollen, gallon-sized sack. Then she let out a loud, surprisingly girly moan, not all that different from the ragged cries of the slut bouncing on her dick. Three final thrusts, delivered out of rhythm, with long pauses in between.