The Province Ch. 01

Daphne Sloane felt Dr. Graham's cock spasm inside her pussy. He was usually a good fuck, with solid technique and a well-proportioned organ; it hit all the right spots along her vaginal canal. Today, however, she was too distracted to climax, despite the pleasurable physical sensations.

"So to make a long story longer, I do think it's time to give up, Daphne. I've been covering for you for, fuck, six months now." He grunted as he ejaculated.

"Could I get another chance? I've just been kind of..." Daphne trailed off, as she felt the familiar sensation of warm sperm flowing into her vaginal canal. She didn't feel like inventing with a new excuse, especially given that both she and Dr. Graham would be aware that whatever she said would be a lie.

"I've -- we've -- given you enough chances," Dr. Graham said, pulling out of her and flipping her miniskirt back down over her ass. "Like, y'know, every day last week?" Cum dripped off of his softening cock, onto the stained carpet of his office. "Clean me up?" he asked her, in a neutral tone of voice.

"Sure," she said, in a tone that matched his.

"Thanks," he said, politely.

He was a well-built man with a plain face and scratchy, graying beard. Daphne found him neither particularly attractive nor unattractive, although some of her fellow TAs thought he was cute, and actively sought out his attention. Daphne, who had been bent over his desk, turned around and squatted, in a single, smooth motion. Cum oozed out of her pussy, but she just let it drip down. Of course, she was not wearing panties, so some fell down adding yet another stain to the countless patches of discoloration already there. She took his dick into her mouth and began to suck hard, taking most of it inside. After suctioning off what she could, she withdrew his cock, and, with one hand holding it in various positions, licked off every trace of sperm she could find on his shaft and balls.

"More than enough chances," he said, continuing the first of their parallel conversations. "I mean, you've missed, what 30 classes by this point? Look, if you get your act together and can hold a job down for a while -- I mean a long while -- then maybe -- maybe -- I can get the board to let you come back."

Daphne, who had just finished swallowing the last of his cum, was licking her lips and running her tongue along her front teeth to make sure she hadn't missed any. She had nothing to say. She felt nothing.

"Also, can I suggest you branch out? There's more out there than Joyce," Dr. Graham added in a gentle, caring voice. Daphne felt a brief surge of hot anger at his words, despite the lack of ill-intent behind them. It was a warm sensation that radiated from her heart like ripples in a pond. It was a welcome change from the persistent gray gloom that had been dominating her thoughts lately. Sadly, the red seed of anger faded as soon as it came.

As Daphne stood up, she noted that a line of cum was visible on her left inner thigh, beneath the short hemline of her miniskirt. It seemed like too much trouble to clean up, so she simply walked out of her advisor's office and into the bustling hallway of the third floor of Pueblo City University's Anglo-Gaelic Literature building. At twenty-three years of age, with a Master's Degree in AGLit and absolutely zero interest in teaching, she had no idea what she wanted to do with her life, and, perhaps more distressingly, couldn't muster the energy to give a damn.

X X X X

Marcus barely took in his surroundings. He was seated in an antique wooden chair, which creaked every time he shifted. Motes of dust were highlighted throughout the room by the late afternoon light, which streamed in through a floor-to-ceiling window. Marcus could have been in the middle of 30th Street Station, at the height of rush hour, and he would not have noticed any difference from the staid law office.

Behind an imposing antique desk sat the reedy, smiling figure of Jonathan Lampkin, Solicitor-at-Law. "And so I do think it is truly the best option, if extreme," he concluded. He had been talking for the better part of fifteen minutes, without interruption.

"What?" Marcus asked. He had been numb for days now, and barely took in the details of what the solicitor told him. Lampkin's face relaxed, sympathetically, and he let out a long breath.

"I'm sorry, I cannot imagine what the last few weeks have been like for you," he said. "I was saying, although as a solicitor I am not supposed to give advice of this nature, I really must urge you to return to the enclave."

"The only other choice is foster care?" Marcus asked.

"Given your age, yes. You would enter the Philadelphia County foster care system, which, as I mentioned earlier, I have some personal experience with. I know you don't remember your aunt at all, but I can say, with a high degree of certainty, that living with her will be better than anything you might find if you stay here."

Marcus shrugged. "Okay," he said. When his mom had died unexpectedly, he had been placed, by a social worker, with a local family. They were nice enough, but it was a temporary arrangement. He had no reason to doubt Mr. Lampkin, who had been handling his mother's modest estate, and, in any case, he could not muster the will to feel strongly about anything.

"Excellent!" Lampkin exclaimed. "You're lucky your birthday is a ways off, thirteen is the cut-off for repatriation."

Marcus nodded mechanically.

"Sorry, I suppose you'd like for all this to be over, but there's a substantial amount of paperwork required by the enclave, and we should submit it today." They spent the next hour filling out forms. Lampkin explained each one carefully. To the extent Marcus could understand, the forms authorized an extensive set of background checks to validate his identity, academic record, and medical history, and also allowed a comprehensive medical exam. Marcus signed and dated each form mindlessly, after which Lampkin would add his own signature, as well as a seal made by dripping a burgundy candle onto the paper, then pressing a brass device into the still-hot wax.

X X X X

The smooth, light brown wall extended, Marcus guessed, four or five stories into the cloudless, blue Kansas sky. The bus from Wichita had swung thru Johnson City, picked up a few passengers, then continued westward for about ten miles, down an increasingly narrow and ill-kept road, before dropping him off. He was the only person to alight. He watched the bus disappear down the road, heading south, kicking up a trail of dust.

In front of him was a sturdy, stainless steel door. It had a vertical seam down the middle, and Marcus guessed the bus could have driven through it if it were opened fully. He waited in the hot sun for fifteen minutes without hearing a sound. Under normal circumstances he would have begun to fret, but even now, over a month after his mother's passing, he felt like he was going through life surrounded by an inscrutable haze that muted both sensation and emotion. The matter of whether the door would ever open, or if he'd have to eventually give up and walk back to Johnson City, never even crossed his mind.

The door did open, at last, sliding noiselessly on an unseen track, revealing a quartet of tall soliders. Based on body language and positioning, they seemed to be in pairs, one a man and a woman, the other two men. They were wearing green fatigues and each carried a semi-automatic rifle. They fanned outward, scanning the area, then a woman wearing a gray business suit emerged from inside.

"Marcus De Laurentis?" she asked, proferring a hand. Marcus nodded and extended his own.

"My, um, solicitor said you'd need this?" Marcus told her, before she could introduce herself. He handed over a thick manila envelope containing his birth certificate, all the forms he had signed, and many other documents whose contents were a mystery to him.

"Thanks," the woman said, as she took the papers from him. "My name is Laura Stetson; I'm your immigration officer. Would you come this way? Your aunt is here too, of course, but some formalities have to be gotten out of the way first."

Marcus didn't get to see much of the cavernous room on the other side of the steel doors, as Laura soon took a left turn down a brightly-lit corridor. They walked past a number of doors, finally entering thru one marked with her name. Inside was an office, nondescript save for an enormous, high-resolution screen on the wall behind Laura's desk, which depicted a slowly-shifting series of outdoor scenes, so realistic Marcus forgot where he was on several occasions.

His immigration officer took about an hour to sift through his paperwork, scanning each document with some kind of optical device, and periodically tapping away at a keyboard. Marcus was surprised to see that Laura's computer was embedded in her desk, including the screen. He was used to laptops, smartphone and the like. It struck him as odd that her device couldn't be moved around. Later, she took his picture, a headshot, using a camera embedded in the back of her screen.

"Your paperwork is in order," she said brightly, at last. "Now let's get your medical exam out of the way, and you can be done with all this boring stuff!" Now that she was certain she wouldn't be having to send this young man back to the greater American States, at least not for reasons of false identity, she was trying to sound like less of a bureaucrat. "Oh yeah, would you prefer a man or woman doctor?"

"I guess, uh, woman?" Marcus said.

The exam was conducted in a medical office, about a five-minute walk from Laura's office.

"I'm afraid I'll have to take that," Laura informed Marcus, gesturing to the duffel bag that was slung over his shoulder. "The Province doesn't allow any outside goods to be imported."

"Oh," Marcus said, "my phone's in there. Can I get it out first?"

"Sorry," Laura said sympathetically, "we don't allow personal phones. And also the rule is literal: nothing is allowed to be imported at all."

"Wait, you mean my clothes too?"

"Correct. You can change into the dressing gown in that room, and then you'll change into provincial clothes after that."

"Oh," Marcus said tonelessly. Dimly, in the back of his mind, he felt like he should protest the loss of his cellphone, in particular, but at the moment he felt too apathetic to care. Entering the exam room, he disrobed and donned a medical gown that opened in the front.

After a few minutes, a phlebotamist came in, a pretty dark-haired woman, to draw several vials of blood. Next, a dark-skinned woman with short, curly hair entered. She was wearing a white lab coat and had a stethoscope around her neck.

"I'm Dr. Wesson," she said. She shook Marcus' hand. "I'm sorry, this test wlll be a little invasive. If you feel uncomfortable at any point, please let me know, and I'll do my best to accomodate."

Marcus, true to Dr. Wesson's word, experienced the most thorough check-up of his life, including a hernia and prostate check. After this, she paused. "Excuse me a moment," she said, and walked over to one side of the room.

She depressed a button, and spoke into a small round grille. "This is Dr. Wesson. Please page Dr. Larsen," she said, "and ask her to come to exam room six?"

While waiting for her colleague, Dr. Wesson completed the rest of the physical. Just as she finished, Dr. Larsen, a freckled, red-haired woman, knocked briefly and entered without waiting for a response.

"What's up, Julie?" she asked.

"I thought you'd want to see this for yourself," Dr. Wesson said.

Both doctors performed a number of measurements of the area around Marcus' midsection. Dr. Wesson, using calipers, and called out several numbers, each paired with an inscrutable Latin phrase, which Dr. Larsen scribbled onto a piece of paper on her clipboard.

"Thanks Jules," Dr. Larsen said, when they'd finished up. "I do appreciate getting to see in person. I guess the GC know what they're doing; who'da thunk it?"

Marcus had to wait, alone, in the exam room, for another thirty minutes, while his blood panel was worked up. At last, Dr. Wesson returned with a white plastic bag, and a neatly folded set of clothes, with a pair of shoes on top. Sitting on one of the shoes was a plastic ID card that resembled a driver's license. It featured his picture, which Laura Steson had taken earlier.

"Here," the doctor said, "put your old stuff in this bag, then I'll leave, and you can change into the new clothes. Once you're ready, just head out that door."

Marcus, with some reluctance, placed his clothes in the plastic bag. The doctor left. Even in his dissociated stated, he felt sad about losing his high-top Ayre Jourdan basketball shoes, one of the few expensive things he had ever owned --- other than his phone, which had already been taken away. He put on the new clothes, which were disappointingly dull: baggy white boxer shorts, black linen slacks, a long-sleeved white dress shirt with buttons up the front, black cotton socks, and sturdy, plain black loafers.

X X X

Marcus left room six by the door opposite to the one he'd come in through, walked down a short corridor, and entered a waiting room. It was decorated with reproductions of famous abstract paintings, and featured several comfortable-looking couches. Sitting on a tall chair at the other end of the room was a woman. She was dressed conservatively, in a long black and white dress with a high neckline, and a hemline near her ankles. Later, it would occur to Marcus that she looked like the Pennsylvania Deutsch he had seen on a class field trip. But no such thoughts occured to him just then. The moment he laid eyes on her, Marcus felt like the invisible shell surrounding him almost tangibly break apart, into thousands of shards, and began to sob uncontrollably.

The woman, his aunt Sylvie, did not resemble his mother in every respect. She had fair skin and wavy blond hair, unlike his mom's darker coloring and straight black hair. Her eyes were blue, whereas his mom's were nearly black. The deep similarities, though, were hard to miss, even at distance. She had the same heart-shaped face, the same brow line, was the same height, and had a similar figure, to the extent one could tell under her conservative clothes. She rushed over to her distraught nephew and embraced him in a fierce hug.

"I'm so sorry, sweetie," she said, pulling his head onto her shoulder. He cried for a few minutes, before finally gaining some measure of control. "Sorry I couldn't be there for you," she added, just barely holding back her own tears. "Leaving the Province is a one-time thing; there was just no way." She sniffed loudly. Marcus burst into tears again, and only after a few minutes was able to form words.

"Thank you for taking me in," he said emphatically, as Lampkin had encouraged him to do.

"It's my pleasure to have you live with us," his aunt said, kissing his forehead, "I only wish it were under happier circumstances."

As they made their way out of the building, Sylvie explained that she was married to a man named Lawrence Jerez and had a daughter named Celeste, of Marcus' age. He hadn't known either of these facts, as his mom had never talked much about The Province, and Lampkin had the barest of information. The only reason he'd known about Sylvie at all was a legal document Marie had prepared some years earlier, stating that, in the event of her death, Marcus should have the option of returning to The Province; this document mentioned her sister by name. The Provincial authorities had confirmed Sylvie's existence and subsequently allowed the limited written communication necessary to facilitate Marcus's immigration. Beyond that, the solicitor was in the dark.

Outside it was dusk, yet still hot. They were in a courtyard, entirely enclosed by a wall. A U-shaped section of road entered the courtyard via a sturdy gate, and exited through another gate. Both entrances had a guard tower next to them, and Marcus could see pairs of soliders with submachine guys pacing along their balconies.

"Is there, like, valet parking or something?" Marcus asked; he had expected them to head to a parking lot.

"What's that?" his aunt replied. Marcus thought she was joking, at first, but a glance at her face showed no signs of mirth or guile.

"Where they, like, park your car for you, and then get it?"

"Oh!" Sylvie said, understanding dawning on her face. "Yes, I've seen that in a movie. I think. No, Provincials don't have cars, sweetie; it's the bus for us!"

"Is that one ours?" Marcus asked, as a bus pulled up some minutes later. It was about the size of a Gradehound bus, and ground to a halt nearby without making much noise. He couldn't hear the engine at all. Sylvie pointed to an electronic sign on the front. It read, "Fort Colins."

"We're looking for one that says 'Pueblo', sweetie," his aunt informed him.

Several more buses arrived in the next half-hour: Danvers, Starling, Provincial Springs.

"Do all the buses go to just one city?"

"Yes, honey," Sylvie said. "It'll all make sense eventually."

The next bus was bound for Pueblo, and when she saw it pull up, his aunt finally stood up. Hot and sweaty in his heavy clothing, Marcus was eager to get on board, into what he assumed would be an air-conditioned interior. Striding ahead of Sylvie, he was approaching a door with a compass rose next to it. The point corresponding to north was highlighted in red.

"Wait, sweetie!" Sylvie called out, "We need the other door." Marcus followed her as she walked around to the other side. About three-quarters of the way down its length was another door, also labled with a compass rose, this time with the southern point highlighted.

The door was closed, and didn't open until his aunt held her right wrist up to a small black square near the door. Marcus hadn't noticed before that she had a circular band around her wrist that was giving off a white glow.

"Hold your ID card up to that square before you get on," she informed him. The door closed after her and did not reopen until he scanned his card.

The dark interior of the bus was, to his relief, heavily air-conditioned. Marcus sat next to his aunt in a plush, black leather seat. There were only a handful of other passengers, talking to each other in low tones.

"What was through that other door?" Marcus asked, as the bus began to pull away.

"That's if you're over eighteen. They'll get out in a different part of the city. Our door won't open when the bus stops there, and vice-versa."

"So their section is in the North?" Marcus asked, thinking back to the compass rose next to the other entrance.

"Someone's paying attention!" his aunt said. "Every city calls their adult section the North Side, even if it's not actually in the north. 'Cuz that's how it's laid out in Danvers. In Pueblo, the South Side is really the east side, if you wanna get technical about it."

"What's in the, uh, South Side then?"

"Families, like ours. Of course, Larry and I have a place on the North Side, too, but you and Celeste can't go there yet."

"Philly has a north and south side, but they don't mean anything like that."

"Philly?"

"Uh, Philadelphia? The city?"

"Oh right. Benjamin Franklynn and all that? It's in... um, Ohio?"

"Close. New York State," Marcus corrected, laughing for the first time in weeks. His aunt squeezed his hand unconsciously -- he hadn't realized she'd taken it -- pleased to see her nephew show any sign of levity, even such a minor one.

"Anyway, in Pueblo, the South Side is about a quarter of the city, which is pretty typical."

They rode in silence for a while. Marcus' thoughts drifted to his mom.

"How old was I when mom left The Province?" he asked, at last. Marie had been tight-lipped about her life before they moved to Philly.