Sausages for the Slave Ch. 07

After you were done, the massager was pulled unceremoniously out of your ass and dunked into a bucket of disinfectant and the vacuum tube pulled off your deflating cock. You were expected to clear the station rapidly, scrambling forward over the shelf and out toward the exit area as fast as the onesie down around your knees would allow you. A jab of a cattle prod would move you along if you weren't quick enough. The only reminder of your milking was a dull tingling up your ass from the disinfectant and a slight ach in your prostate from the forced pumping.

You had hardly pulled your pink outfit back up and zipped up the front before you were back out on the street. Women passing by the exit looked at you with a slight sneer. They knew you had just been drained of your manhood, or what there was left of it, and that it was they who collectively had decided that you should be so drained. You knew your place and kept your eyes on the pavement as you got back to doing your daily chores.

Of course, the weekly sperm bank wasn't the only occasion in the week you got to come, far from it. First, there was your owner's desire to have you spill your seed for procreation purposes, and there were big government grants for having a child. Those performances were tied to your owner's fertility cycle. The three days at the top of the cycle were set aside for systematic repeated insemination until pregnancy was achieved.

Often there was one of the sterile male slaves on hand to stuff the prostate massager up your ass as you lay on and entered your owner. Sometimes it was the owner's sterile husband managing your entry. They made a point of making sure you got no fun out of it. After you had delivered your load, the owner would lie on her back with her legs in the air, like that scene in The Big Lebowski; "It increases the chances of conception," to try and make sure that your seed - her seed as far as she was concerned - stayed inside her longer, so as to give the sperm every chance of doing the job.

The second, and most draining, literally, occasion for ejaculation was in the private trading of sperm. There was serious money to be made by your owner in this legitimate business. Depending on the official readout from your last public donation - which could be accessed online, your owner could sell a shot of your sperm for up to 500 euro. A daily supervised ejaculation into a suitable test tube-like receptacle was the norm.

TV and radio stations ran adverts constantly on about how to maintain and improve your male's sperm count and productivity. 'Get the most out of your male!' screamed a big billboard on the side of the road into town that I had to walk under every day. Below the banner headline, a cartoon figure in a pink onesie sported a giant penis higher than his head, aiming skywards and shooting gallons of cum up into the top corner of the billboard. Call such-and-such a number for more information; probably a scam.

Some company advertised devices for keeping testicles at the optimum temperature for producing sperm; little bags containing a cooling chemical in an inner lining that were slipped over the ball sac and the chemicals were slowly mixed and reacted together to cool the sac for 'up to 12 hours,' believe it if you will. Others offered patented mechanical devices; stiff expanding collars or stretchers that claimed they kept the ball sac away from the body's heat so more sperm would be produced.

Another outfit suggested attaching their little sensors to your male's ball sac that could send a digital read-out of testicular temperature to the owners phone, or worse, would make an audible alarm if the temperature fell outside the optimum. There were documentaries on TV about attempts to keep testicles functioning in the laboratory without being attached to a male; test-tube testicles they called them. They were the great hope for the future, but they weren't quite there yet, thankfully. Otherwise or they'd have our balls cut off and handed over to a laboratory for safe productive use for years to come while we'd all join the altos in the choir.

This constant barrage of media fascination about growing sperm and minding your man's sperm got to you. Everybody was either looking at your balls- which showed up as two clear bumps through your pink nylon onesie, or was thinking about buying your balls, or wishing they had your balls. Special diets and supplements abounded. You never knew what it was you were being made to eat. When they started giving you daily injections you guessed the sperm count was not looking good.

The radio adverts for these cases were the ones with the solicitous voices; 'Has your male lost his drive? Is he letting you down? Your income doesn't need to suffer. Here at Spermalab we can help,' and on and on they went.

There were fines for wearing out a virile male. Auditors monitored the returns from the public sperm banks. Worst case scenario would see an owner losing their male to the State. He would be held in custody, treated and rested until his sperm count recovered. Then he was auctioned off again.

If he didn't recover, one morning he would find a yellow outfit waiting for him at the end of his bed in the dormitory. He was then auctioned as a sterile slave. If he didn't sell at auction, and there was no shortage of steriles, it was off to the salt mines, or to a menial job in some distant local government office, never to be heard of again.

The third next ejaculation option was when your owner would hire you out to do a live insemination. Some women, the more superstitious ones, believed there was a better chance of conception from having a real live insemination, though the statistics showed a managed artificial insemination was better. A live insemination might cost up to 1,000 euro. For a live insemination job you really felt like a stallion covering a mare in a stud farm. You were taken to the destination in the back of a mini-van service that specialised in this job. You could not see out of the compartment in the back of the van and were blindfolded and led into the client's premises on a collar and leash.

Often you would hear numerous people in the room or venue - sometimes the place seemed quite big and hall-like judging from the echoes -as you were stripped off. Given the superstitious nature of the woman, or her family, who has paid for your service, there were either druid types, or high priestesses, or new age spiritualists droning out some sort chanting spells or charms, with jungle drums beating in the background and strange incense smells wafting about.

Regularly you had some magic potion rubbed on your member by a witch doctor or similar, sometimes nettles were used too. Either way, they wanted to make sure you had a good hard on, if necessary a vibrator up the ass and nipple clamps were included in the package - whatever it took.

When the time was considered right; the necessary planets aligned or the moon in its zenith, you were pulled down between the legs of whoever was to receive your sperm, often guided in by strange hands who pressed down on your butt, and even gripped your cock and inserted it up into the woman. Then other hands gripped your legs and thighs and thrust you in and out. Even more hands lightly touched your back, head and sides anxiously willing a positive result from the coupling. These hands may have belonged to relatives who had chipped in the cost of the cover and were on hand to help in the conception of a family heir who would secure their futures.

A collective gasp would go up as they would feel your muscles tense and spasm at the moment of ejaculation. Applause and a loud thrumming of the bongo drums would follow your final shudder and a happy babble would break out around the room as your effort was commented on, analysed and its outcome prognosticated on. You were usually left lying on top of the recipient for a while to allow the seed settle in the traditional manner and prayers were said and holy water - or something wet - sprinkled over the post coital couple.

A tug on your leash told you to remove yourself. You were led from the room leaving behind the lively beginnings of a fertility party. You could only imagine what takes place, and what juices were being lapped up, and how. Back in the van they usually didn't bother to take your blindfold off or dress you, and you were delivered back to your owner blindfold and naked. Job done.

Finally, there was the 'accidental' ejaculation. The chances of an accidental discharge were about the same as being hit by an asteroid. If you are being drained of sperm on a daily basis, and struggling to maintain that level of discharge, having an overflow is out of the question, unless maybe you are a teenager in the first full flush of manhood. But government was worried that sperm could be wasted due to accidental discharges. One possible incident was reported on sensationally - as in a headline screaming one hundred thousand good sperm spilled into the toilet - and before the report was even verified, an emergency ordinance was passed that allowed any authorised person who suspected a male of being about to accidentally discharge sperm to intervene to save the sperm that might otherwise go to waste.

What this came down to - and it happened to me - was a busybodies charter. You might be walking down a street and happen to get an erection, due to some passing thought, or in my case due to the noise of a pump at a building site reminded me of the milking station. Suddenly a concerned female citizen physically blocks your path and brazenly puts their hand on your crotch to check that it is what it looks like and you are not concealing a pistol in your onesie as Mae West might have put it. She instructs you stand still while she calls the police. Immediately a small crowd gathers round you. You are not going anywhere, and neither, for some psychological reason, is your erection. Instead it hardens. Within minutes a squad car screeches to a halt beside you. The onlookers pull back to form a narrow corridor between you and the squad car.

The passenger side door of the squad car opens and the police officer sitting in the passenger seat says, 'move over to me, Sonny,' beckoning with her finger and eyeing the protrusion in my crotch. The righteous lady, having turned you over to the law, goes on her way, beaming with civic pride, thrilled with having saved one hundred thousand sperm from imminent destruction. Meanwhile the cop who was driving slowly gets out of her side and comes around the car. She's a big lady who waddles as she walks, resting one hand on her holster and the other reaching into her equipment belt. She comes around behind me - as if I'm going to make a run for it - and puts her card reader up to my ear to capture my details from my tag.

I stand close to the seated officer as directed. She is tearing open a condom packet while giving me some spiel about how under the provisions of the emergency ordinance of whenever year, number whatever, and it being in the interest of the common good to preserve sperm she is entitled to blah blah blah. She reaches in between my legs and pulls on the zip of my onesie. There is a two way zip that runs from the neck down and under the crotch. She had done this before, holding the zip well out so it doesn't snag in my foreskin, opening it up as far as my navel.

The crowd give a ragged cheer mixed with guffaws as my balls and erect penis spring out into the open. Without getting out of her seat she slips the condom over my prick and starts jacking me off; a nice steady rhythm, like she's got all day. The cop behind me has slid her hand between my legs and is now kneading and tugging my balls at the same time; a real tag team. I quickly come into the condom: Big cheer and round of applause.

The seated officer milks the last bit of cum out of my penis, slides the condom off and ties a knot in it. She waves the little bubble of cum over my shoulder at her colleague and says, 'It's the mother lode. We are eating out in style tonight, partner.' While they are high fiving, I'm getting my balls back into my onesie and zipping up. The audience drift away. The driver moves back around the car into her seat as the jack off artist gives me a lecture about not wasting sperm and how on this occasion they will let me off with a warning.

I know what this means. They are going to sell the sperm on the black market. They have my details and can access my donation record so it will be a fully verifiable sperm. They will pocket their gains and no record of this incident will ever appear on police files. Everybody is happy; the busybody who reported me, the poorly paid officers, myself for escaping a judicial process and the audience who enjoyed the show. Win, win, win, win. The squad car pulls away, I walk on up the street and twenty seconds later it's like nothing ever happened. Life goes on.

Now the trick, as you head out on your shopping trip, is not to think horny thoughts, and certainly not horny dystopian futures with sexy women police in charge thoughts, like the ones I've just had. There was a chill breeze this morning that rattled the brass tag on my collar against my neck and hardened my nipples before I even got to the security hut that guards our main gate.

There is a little side gate for pedestrians just past the door of the security hut. Getting past the security man can be a challenge. He can be a bastard when he feels like it and when he has the time to mess with me. The wife has told him to feel free to check I'm properly dressed. We know what that means. I stand there in the door of his little security hut while he handles my balls and cock through the pants flap, making sure they are properly positioned before I get out on the street proper. I've had to suck his cock on occasion before he lets me through. At that thought, a dull tingle started up in my rock hard nipples and began pushing my happy thoughts in the direction of horny thoughts. Not a good start to the shopping trip.

Fortunately there were a couple of cars going through the main gate and he was busy. I quickly slipped through the pedestrian gate. The cold breeze won out and my only thoughts were to get in out of the weather as I made my way towards Main Street. I'm not totally without a bit of common sense and as soon as I am outside the gate of our little gated community and out of sight of the cameras , I quickly pull my package out of the pants flap and let it sit normally inside the pants. And that's what I did this morning. It allows me to relax and enjoy the shopping trip a bit more without worry. If I do have an erection it is fairly well concealed. I started doing that after the first big supermarket showdown. I may be a slave, but I don't have to be a total martyr.

I humiliated myself as required in the supermarket. There is always some stranger passing through, or delivery person whose jaw drops when they see what is going on. I just ignore them now. Then the butcher performed his little random act of cruelty. He will always serve other people first, even when they clearly come in to his shop after me. This morning a shopper, maybe an out of towner, decided to be a good citizen and pointed at me saying, 'he was here first.' The butcher looked straight at the guy and said, 'Don't mind him. He wants to wait. He likes that.' 'Don't you, mutt?' he said in my direction. And I replied, 'Yes, Sir,' and shuffled to one side to let the other person go first. The shopper looked at me a bit funny.

I just kept my head down, staring at the display under the counter, like I'm desperately concentrating on what piece of meat I should choose. Sometimes, if nobody else comes into the shop as he is about to serve me, he calls me into the back to get my lips around what he describes as a big piece of red meat he had been keeping for me. Haw haw. No need to strain your imagination, dear reader. He was too busy this morning, so I escaped the worst predations of the butcher. All in all an incident free shopping trip.

"While you were out shopping I had a tech come around and make some modifications to Alexa," says my wife, hauling me back from my fond musings about dystopian futures and the shopping trip. "You will get to experience the new Alexa mark 3 in the morning. Let me know how it goes, OK?"

She often does that when I am out, or she has me locked in my room. She has her various skunk works projects that she trials in the house. I don't get to see the stuff happening, just get to trial run it afterwards.

"What exactly will the new Alexa be able to do?" I bravely asked, while quickly piling her potato peelings and broccoli stalks onto my plate.

"You'll find out. Let's just say we're trying for a more interactive experience. When I reviewed the tapes of your previous exchanges I thought you were taking Alexa a bit for granted. You were able to fob her off with your 'Alexa, I understand,' response and then you went on to do what you wanted to do anyway. Alexa has to learn to follow up on her requests or suggestions or orders or whatever. Any you, as the slave, have to learn to respect your Mistress, even if she is only a black box stuck on the wall."

"No problem, I'll give it a go," said I, all positivity, as I started getting some hot food into me.

"You'll more than give it a go. There will be changes for you as well. For a start I'm fitting you with a permanent shock collar before you go to bed tonight. That will allow you dispense with the butt plug from now on. That will leave your asshole more available."

"So thoughtful of you, my dear," I dryly replied, wondering what new trouble she is storing up for me.

"Don't be sarcastic, but that reminds me, speaking of your asshole, Tom is going to pay you a visit in tomorrow afternoon, so dress accordingly; the French maid outfit should do the trick. Delia called me at work today, she said he urgently needs relief. She's a bit of a nervous ninny. I don't think she lets him go near her for weeks at a time, and then only for a bit of gentle lovey dovey stuff. And we both know that Tom needs a bit of rough on a regular basis."

"We do indeed." Well I certainly do. But I wondered at her use of 'we both know.' Does that mean my wife enjoys a bit of rough with Tom from time to time? The thought cast a bit of a cloud over the rest of my meal. As I chewed on the hand tied sausage, I tried to visualise Tom and Delia going at it gently to take my mind of Tom going at me not so gently tomorrow afternoon.

I brought my wife her desert and she let me lick her spoon and desert dish when she had finished. Then, a surprising development, as I stood beside her at the table clearing up she slid her hand up my thigh and gave me my balls a squeeze. "Let's get you to bed and give you a good time. Tomorrow is going to be a full day," she says moving from squeezing to gentle stroking.

"Certainly, dear," seemed an appropriate response, though it was a bit early in the evening.

I waited for her, naked in the bedroom, after completing my ablutions. She arrived quickly carrying a cardboard box. 'This is your permanent collar,' she said, as she opened the box and showed me the thick round metal collar. It was thick, about an inch in diameter. She stood on tiptoe close to me as she reached behind my neck to press the dull metal ring closed. I could smell her perfume and feel her breath on my cheek. I wanted to hold her and kiss her then, my wife. It was that sort of moment. Clark Gable would have done it to Vivian Leigh on the old silver screen. The violins would have swelled and she would have closed her eyes and afterwards whispered a sweet nothing in my ear while stroking the back of my neck.

But that is not allowed. No kissing like that, not by me anyway. She takes her pleasure elsewhere. Still, my rising erection brushed against the soft cotton of her lounge suit and she didn't move away. The recessed lock within the ring clunked ominously shut as she reached her hand down and slowly stroked my penis. Two protruding rubber lumps with rounded metal ends pressed on either side of my larynx. These were the electrodes. No doubt I'd get to know them well. There hadn't appeared to be any opening for a key on the collar when she took it out of the box. I should ask her about that, but now was not the time.