Futareich Ch. 03

And then she came. Her titanic testes pulsed, and then shot upward. There was a sound of a large amount of thick, dense fluid being pumped at high pressure into a very small space, that not even the wild, ecstatic cries of the Futa and her slut could quite drown out. Again and again Greta's gigantic Futa balls pumped and pumped cum into the womb of her wriggling, fertile little slut. For over two minutes her orgasm kept on going, until finally her scrotum was visibly empty. For a few moments after that, she kept holding the girl aloft, impaled and full of cum. Then finally her colossal rod softened enough to flop free of the girl's gaping, saturated sheath. It fell in an arc, flinging droplets of semen that barely missed Dylan's head, and settled back between her thighs into a still massive, still extremely intimidating flaccid state. She lowered the girl to the ground. As soon as Greta let go, the exhausted, pleasure drunk female collapsed face-down to the floor. With a sigh, she bent down, grabbing a fistful of the girl's hair, pulling her up to her knees to face the crowd.

Was she conscious? Hard to tell. Her hair was plastered to her scalp with sweat, her tongue lolling from her mouth as she gasped for air, eyes glazed and unfocused, staring off blankly into space. Any human dignity she might have possessed was long gone. She was broken. Owned. Crushed. And completely and totally satisfied.

"If any of you boys think you can fuck her better than me, feel free to come up and try!" Greta roared. A hundred and fifty men squirmed in their seats. Within their minds, months of pent-up masculine desire warred with the awe and dread inspired by the Futa's hour-long demonstration of sexual power... and lost. No one stood. "That's what I thought," declared the Futa smugly. She released her grip on the girl's hair, letting her fall limply to the ground. "Class dismissed."

--

After the Show, Dylan restlessly roamed the perimeter of the camp, gazing out at the land beyond the razor wire. He'd hoped silence might help him clear his mind, but no such luck. Ecstatic feminine moans and the sound of slapping flesh still rang in his ears. The terrible sight of the Futanari phallus standing destructively erect seemed seared into his retinas. The stench of sex (sex he wasn't allowed to ever have) still filled his nostrils. Over and over again, he tried to remind himself there were much worse places to be, but he was beginning to wonder what could possibly be worse. A battlefield? Death would at least be a quick release. A manual labor camp? At least there he'd be able to work until he collapsed from exhaustion, blotting out the terrible mental torments that came with being a male in the Futareich.

What he really wanted was to jack off. That was a problem, though, because males in the camp weren't permitted to masturbate without permission. And who would actually ask permission to masturbate?

Frustrated nearly to tears he gazed between the links of the fence. Could he escape? Not just from Verstandshieb, but from the Futareich itself? After all, the Futareich was hardly the whole world. For now, the Empire of the Futanari encompassed only old Vemar, Frankia, and a few of the smaller southern states, plus some minor territories to the east and north. Dylan's native Albion was still free, as well as the rest of the world. If he could just get out somehow... Evade the Hingmact patrols... the Shwantz Staffel hunting teams...

His pondering was cut short when two very large, soft objects made contact with his shoulder blades. "Hey cutie," said a soft, husky voice in his ear. "Gazing off into the distance are we?"

It was Greta Mitarbeit. Thankfully her awe-inspiring body was crammed back into the tight military uniform of a camp guard. Still, the sheer size and power of her body was totally overwhelming. Her scent filled his nostrils, subtle and not unpleasant, but... dangerous. Like the scent of a Jaguar just before it pounces, it's fangs severing the spine of its prey.

Dylan's mind raced. He tried to get away from her, but he was effectively pinned between the impressive expanse of her bosom and the fence. "I... excuse me, Mistress. I just... just wanted some air and..."

"Relax," cooed the Futa guard. "You aren't in trouble. Dylan, right? The mathematician?"

"Y-yes Mistress, that's me," he stuttered. Um... what can I do for you, Mistress?

"Oh, nothing much." She giggled. "I saw you walking around out here kicking rocks around, all forlorn, gazing off into the distance..." Her arms encircled him. He tried to suppress a shudder of sheer terror as she continued. "Thought you might enjoy some company."

"A-actually I was just about to head back to the dorms for the night, Mistress," he said quickly. "I'm tired and... and..."

"And backed up? Frustrated? Tense? You feel pretty tense to me."

"I..." he shuddered as her hands slid down his abdomen.

"Lucky for you I'm in a good mood tonight," she hissed, fingertips sliding into the waistband of his shorts. "Thought I'd relieve that tension a bit."

"T-thank you Mistress, but I don't want-"

She nipped his earlobe with her teeth. "As always, what you want doesn't matter, boy," she hissed in his ear. Her fingers pulled down the zipper at the front of his shorts. A moment later her soft hand encircled his stiff manhood, pulling him free of the tight confines of his shorts and into the shockingly cool evening air. "See?" she cooed, grazing the tips of her fingers along the modest length of his erection. "All wound up. Bet you've been hard since my little show huh?"

He bit his lip. Knowing he had no choice but to admit it, he rasped, "Yes, mistress."

She chuckled. "Bet you were all embarrassed and intimidated when you saw my cock, huh? So, so much bigger than your boy penis. Don't worry though." She held her hand over his erect rod as if measuring it. "Five inches is a perfectly normal and healthy length for a boy." Then her hand encircled him again, gripping lightly, stroking up and down. "Did you see that slut's face when I came inside her? I think she probably forgot her own name for a minute there. She was ovulating, you know. So now she's basically guaranteed to be pregnant." Her grip got a little firmer, her strokes a little faster. He felt as if all the blood in his body was being pulled toward his groin.

"Since you're a math boy, I've got a math problem for you," Greta whispered as her hand pumped up and down his rod. "While I was nutting in that bitch I got to wondering how many babies I'll manage to sire before I die. Why don't you calculate it for me?"

"I..." he gasped. "That would depend... on... a lot of variables... Mistress..." He groaned, barely managing to suppress an immediate orgasm.

"Hmmm," she considered. "Let's make a conservative estimate and assume I get laid about once every three days, not including boys or already pregnant girls. If the girl is ovulating, impregnation is basically guaranteed, but of course girls aren't always in heat. Plus there will always be other Futas putting their swimmers in the race. Let's make a really conservative guess again and say that about twenty-five percent of the sluts I unload into get knocked up by me.

"Now we just have to figure out how long I'll be alive..." she paused a moment, considering. "You know, we don't really know the average lifespan of a Futa yet, do we? The oldest Futa alive is the Progenitor, and she's only forty-five. She's still swinging her dick around as much as any of us young she-bucks, knocking up sluts left and right. I'm twenty now, and I think we can assume I'll make it to at least fifty while fully sexually active. So that's at least thirty more years of wet, tight pussy, of girls drooling and boys cowering in fear whenever I pull my zipper down, of power and glory and pleasure, victory, and reproductive success. God damn, I love being a Futa!"

She nipped at his ear playfully. "I want you to imagine it, Dylan. Imagine my seed pumping into fertile womb after fertile womb, their tight little pussys spasming helplessly on my massive cock as I stretch and fertilize them, moaning, drooling, eyes rolling, orgasming as they're impregnated... all for me..." Her grip tightened, making him grunt in slight discomfort, and her tone changed from mockingly playful to something close to hostile. "And none for you. Cum in my hand,boy! Spill your seed fruitlessly for me, for my entertainment. Do it now, this instant. Cum! That is an order!"

Dylan groaned deep in his chest as he went over the edge. To him, his orgasm felt like an explosion. His vision went white and his hearing was overwhelmed by the sound of his own rushing blood. Vaguely, he felt his hips bucking into Greta's strong grip, the soft but irresistible pressure of her enormous bosom pressed against his back, the links of the fence digging into his chest. Mostly he felt waves of white-hot pleasure, so intense they were a hair's breadth from crossing the threshold into pain, washing over him, pulling toward his groin and then exploding outward.

To him, his orgasm felt like an explosion. But he knew Greta didn't find it all that impressive, and objectively, neither did he. It lasted maybe thirty seconds. The involuntary spasms that wracked his body were easily contained within the circle of the Futa's strong arms. His load was by far the biggest he'd ever shot, but the pool of sticky white fluid didn't even overflow Greta's cupped hand. With a giggle she flicked her wrist, sending the majority of his sperm to the dirt, then brought her hand up to her mouth to lick up the remainder.

Dylan gasped raggedly for air in the aftermath of his orgasm. If he hadn't been pinned between Greta's tits and the fence he surely would have fallen down.

"Feel any better?" the Futa asked brightly after a moment.

He did, actually. All the frantic, frustrated tension he'd felt minutes before seemed to have gone right out the end of his dick. "Yes Mistress," he replied. "Thank you, Mistress."

"You're welcome," she said, taking a step back and finally releasing him from his pinned position. He turned around and leaned against the fence, still not entirely ready to trust his legs with his weight.

"Nine hundred and thirteen," he said absently.

Greta quirked an eyebrow at him.

"That's assuming you have sex with a fertile woman once every three days," he continued, which seems pretty dubious to me, Mistress. Not a lot of women around here."

She threw back her head and laughed, then still shaking with mirth, bent forward to kiss him on the forehead. "You actually did the math!"

"You ordered me to."

"I suppose I did at that. Anyway, I'm transferring out in a few days to a front line unit. We'll be swimming in fresh poon soon enough. The invasion of Albion is coming up in just a month or two."

He fought to keep his expression neutral, but she seemed to read something on his face because she gave him a wide, predatory grin. "That's right! You're from Albion, aren't you? I'll say hi to your mother while I'm there. And your sisters too, if you have any. Now run along boy! It's past your bedtime, and we'll need that big brain of yours working at full speed in the morning." She gave him a rather firm slap on the behind to send him on his way.

Dylan went, wobbling on shaky legs, back to the dorm, but he didn't sleep. In his post-nut clarity he'd realized something terrible. Until now he'd assumed the calculations the Professor had set for him were just abstract. They were not. In his mind, integers became miles, parabolic curves became firing trajectories, exponential expansion equations became blast radii. He saw salvoes of rockets launching from Hingmact bases on the Frankian coast, streaking across the water toward an island, his home. Albion. In his mind's eye the rockets fell upon the coastal forts that guarded his home country. Fire. Destruction. Death. The defenders, thrown into confusion, would not be able to resist the Futareich invasion force. Rape and slavery would follow.

They were using Dylan to destroy Albion.

Comply and submit, that had been Dylan's strategy for surviving life at Verstandsheib, but... He couldn't just let them dothat!

Coldly, he considered his options. Escape was impossible, resistance, futile. If he simply refused to perform the calculations they could break him, of that he had no doubt. There was only really one possible way: he had to falsify his results without being caught.

He'd have to be subtle. Very, very subtle.

---

"Penetration is only rendered possible due to the unique enzymes produced in every Futanari's testes and exuded in her pre-ejaculate.'' Sofia was in full educator mode, her voice droning away happily as she delivered her Mandatory Sexual Re-education course to her audience of captive male students. Dylan listened with half an ear. He'd heard all this before. Mostly it was for the 'benefit' of the five new boys who'd been shipped in yesterday. "These enzymes elastize human tissue, allowing the various orifices to stretch to accommodate the Phallus of the Futanari without tearing or otherwise becoming damaged," the Professor continued.

Three weeks had passed since the night of the last show, when Dylan had finally put together the awful truth of how his math was being used to calculate a missile strike against his home country of Albion.

"Because of this, no males or females have ever suffered death or significant injury from trauma related to penetration by Futa Phalli, despite the impressive size of said organs," Sofia droned on. "That's more than can be said for male penises, even though they are much smaller. Of course, there are a few fatalities every year that occur during intercourse, due to heart attacks or dehydration. Nevertheless, if you wind up on the receiving end of a Futa's Phallus (and sooner or later, you probably will) rest assured that you almost certainly won't suffer any permanent injury."

And yet, Dylan and his fellow males feared the Futanari more than death. Sometimes he wondered why he had such a powerful instinctive reaction to something that was, after all, really just a piece of floppy meat. Why should a penis cause him such existential dread? He had one himself, after all, even if it wasn't so impressively sized. But no matter how he tried to rationalize away his terror, it lurked deep within his soul, ready to spring forth and seize him whenever his rational mind was weakened..

"... just one more example of the clear superiority of Futanari physiology in comparison to the lesser sexes. Alright, that's all for today, boys" Sofia concluded. "You may return to your normal activities. Give it your all for the glory of the Futareich." The men stood and began to shuffle out of the room. "Except you, Dylan. I want a word with you. Come to my office."

He froze. His heart skipped a beat.

"Dylan?" Sofia repeated. "Did you hear me?"

"Y-yes, Professor," he stammered. "I... I'll be right there."

"Well, don't dawdle. Come on." She held the door open for him. Dylan took a deep breath to calm himself and stepped through.

Sofia's office was spacious but sparsely decorated. One wall was covered in shelves stacked with countless volumes of varied subjects. Some were classical histories, some treatises on philosophy, math, fluid dynamics, thermodynamics, psychology, biology and genetics. The opposite wall was covered in maps and charts. Behind her desk hung a propaganda poster depicting a stylized Futa soldier with a defeated man prone beneath her foot and a kneeling woman clinging to her leg. The caption read "New Natural Order" in bold, red letters. The desk itself was made of polished hardwood, austere but well made.

Upon the desk were a set of papers. Sofia rounded the desk, pushing this stack across toward him. He recognized them immediately. They were his calculations. At the bottom were three red circles. His heart leapt into his throat. She knew! She knew! She... No. Calm. He took a deep breath to steady his nerves.

He made a show of looking over the sheets of calculations, blinking when he saw the errors circled in red pen. "Oh dear," he said. Iam sorry, professor. I double-checked my math of course, but with so many calculations a mistake or two was bound to slip through. I'll fix it right away."

"You certainly will," she said. Her voice was disturbingly flat. Something about the way she was gazing, unblinkingly at him was making his skin crawl.

"May... May I go then?" he asked hopefully.

"Absolutely not."

With difficulty he choked down another spasm of panic. "Well then... what else can I... can I... what do you want with... me.." He trailed off awkwardly under her stony, accusing glare. The silence stretched for ten seconds, twenty, thirty. With each second the gnawing fear in the back of Dylan's brain got stronger.

Finally Sofia took off her glasses. She folded them carefully, setting them on her desk. "Did you know," she said conversationally, "that women are much better than men at determining when someone isn't telling the truth?"

"I... I mean, what-"

"On average, of course." She cut him off. "There is plenty of variation in individuals. But on average females are considerably more skilled than males both at spotting deception, and perpetrating deception on others."

"Deception? What are you talking-"

"Futanari are even better at it. Better at spotting lies than females, to about the same degree as females are to males."

"Are you implying that I-"

"Again, on average. And naturally as the Chief Warden of one of the Futareich's most important Labor Camps, I am much, much better than average Futanari at that particular cognitive task."

"If I understand you correctly," he said, choosing his words very, very carefully, "You seem to be implying that... someone... has attempted to... to deceive you." He swallowed nervously. "I... I wouldn't know anything about that. I'm just... just a guy who does math. This is... look, can you just come out and say what you mean?!" That last sentence was an angry outburst he regretted immediately.

Sofia just smiled. "I've known you were up to something for weeks. I just didn't know what. You hid your "errors" very cleverly, pet. I went over the whole set three times before I found them. Probably there were more I didn't find."

"I... look, I'm sorry I made those mistakes, but you don't actually think... I did it onpurpose did you?"

"You did." She folded her arms beneath her impressive bust.

"But these are simple errors anyone might make! Nobody's perfect! How can you say that I... that Ifalsified my own math! Thats ridiculous!" He laughed nervously.

Sofia tapped the papers with her nail. "If we use these calculations all our missiles will fall short of their targets. Not to the left of the targets. Not to the right. Not behind. In front. That tells me two things. First, you understood that you were in fact calculating ballistic missile trajectories, which I never told you. Second, you had at least a pretty good guess about where the target was. Trying to drop our missiles into the sea, were you? Nice try. Take off your clothes."

"Wait!" he protested. "That's just a coincidence. All of this is just a hunch of yours! You have no proof that I intended to sabotage your calculations! You can't know any of this for certain! You can't... can't punish me without proof!"

For a long moment she regarded him silently, her eyes glinting like a panther's. Finally, she spoke, and said, apropo of nothing, "Very well then, let us discuss epistemology."

"I'm sorry... what?" The sudden change of topic was so abrupt his mind swam for a second. "Epistemology?"

"Epistemology. It's the philosophical discipline that deals with the theory of knowledge. How do we know things, and how do we know if we actuallyknow what we know? Fascinating subject..."