The Final Alignment
The Weight of Standing Still
Sleep wouldn't settle that night. The dorm beds creaked close, bodies shifting restless under thin sheets. I lay on my back, staring at the dim ceiling, legs too warm, then too cold. Every turn brought the mattress frame digging in, sharp against hip or shoulder. Breath came uneven—short, then held too long. Around me, others did the same: rustle of fabric, quick sighs, a mattress groan from the bunk above. Imer across the aisle flipped sudden, arm thudding down. No one spoke. Just the weight of it, each in his own skin, pressing separate.
The air hung thick, not moving. My chest tightened without reason, like something sat there, waiting. I shifted again, thigh muscle twitching. Wanted to stretch full, but the space didn't allow. Body wouldn't quiet. Heat pooled low once, unasked—gone quick, leaving ache faint. Strange. Heavy.
Dark stretched. No clock. Just breaths, overlapping wrong.
. . .
Signal pierced early, before light. Buzzer sharp, lights harsh overhead. No time to linger. Feet hit floor cold, body folding automatic—bed made tight, line forming fast. Instructors at ends, nods only. "Move."
Corridor to showers narrow, steps quick. Steam already thick inside, water hissing rows. No stalls. Just nozzles, tile slick. Undress fast—shirt off, pants down, hasty fold on bench. Skin hit cooler air, prickling. Eyes down, avoiding. Others same—bodies pale in light, moving mechanical.
Water hot sudden, spray pounding shoulders, chest. Soap passed silent, lather quick over arms, back. No glances held. Turn to wall when heat stirred low—unwanted, stiffening brief. Gone under rush. Instructors paced edge, voices flat. "Rinse full. No rush."
Out dripping, towels small, rubbing rough. Air cooler again, skin tight. Dressed in yesterday's—damp clinging. No words. Line reformed, steps echoing empty.
. . .
Bottles waited in alcove—no food. Clear liquid, cool in hand. Drink slow, metallic on tongue. Stomach quieted fraction, but empty stayed.
New clothes stacked next—same cut, gray fabric soft, no marks. Pull on quick: shirt loose, pants fitted, no choice. Fit strange—too smooth, like not mine. Others dressed same, faces blank, bodies straightening as one.
Instructor clapped once. "Line. Straight."
Formed up. Shoulders aligned, breaths syncing without try. Moved out smooth, feet even on tile.
. . .
Hall opened vast—high stone, echoes faint from whispers ahead. Rows already half-full: parents standing calm, backs straight, hands loose at sides. Us funneled in, filling gaps. Air cooler here, pressing chest subtle.
Stood between Mother and Father. Their bodies different—posture steady, breaths deep even. No sway. Mother's hand brushed mine once, gone. Father's gaze front, jaw set quiet.
Around, others like me: legs shifting, hands unsure—clench, unclench. Breath caught uneven, sips swallowed loud in quiet. One boy rocked heel to toe, stopped sudden. Girl beside chewed lip, shoulders hunching then pulling back. Hour stretched—no signal, just stand. Whispers threaded low from adults: "Hold," "Easy."
My feet ached first, then calves. Wanted lean, but straightened. Heat built slow in face, neck—strange under eyes watching nowhere. Mother exhaled soft beside, body still as wall. Father blinked slow, no fidget. Contrast hit body— theirs settled, mine pulling wrong.
. . .
Throat dry despite water. Words slipped low. "Why no food?"
Mother's eyes side-glance, brief. "Big day. Holds steady."
Father nodded chin. "Control. Emotions tight. No slip."
Short. Done. Hands stayed sides. Their calm heavier now.
. . .
Name called—mine. Clear over quiet.
Stood. Mother rose smooth beside, Father too. No touch, no word. Walked front—steps measured, backs of others parting.
Rest stayed standing. Whispers faded behind. Corridor waited narrow ahead, air shifting cooler.
Body pulled forward.
The Density
The corridor stretched long and functional, bodies filling it end to end—families moving in steady streams, steps muffled on the smooth floor. Kael walked ahead, shoulders squared from the gallery drills, his parents a half-pace behind. Their presence registered low in his back, a faint warmth without comfort. Air started even, but thickened with every dozen steps. Not heavier exactly—denser, like threads pulling into lungs on each inhale. Breath shallowed without choice. Dizziness edged in, faint sway at temples. He kept pace, eyes front, refusing the wobble.
Behind him, Father's breaths grew ragged first—deeper pulls, body leaning fraction into Mother's shoulder for balance. She held steady but gripped his arm white-knuckled, no words passing. Their reactions amplified his own, heat flushing Kael's neck unbidden, legs leaden under the press.
Father leaned close as the stream narrowed, mouth to ear, whisper dry and flat.
"Hold your back straight. Don’t look him in the eyes. Listen."
No warmth in it. Protocol dropped like stone. Kael's spine snapped straighter, pulse kicking harder.
The door ahead hummed automatic, sliding wide without touch. Dense air rushed out—saturated, thick as oil—striking chest first, then face. Breath caught, body rocked back half-step. Inhale pulled it deep, haze blooming instant behind eyes. Kael stepped through anyway, once, twice, three times, legs mechanical. Stopped center. Door sealed behind with soft click, parents flanking silent.
Room neutral, walls pale, floor unmarked. No chairs. No details pulling eye. The master stood at far wall, back turned, shoulders level under dark shirt. Silence dropped heavy, thicker than air. No movement. No sound but breaths—Kael's quickening, parents' labored.
Density built slow. Heaviness first in chest, sinking to gut. Knees trembled faint, nausea curling low. Wanted sit, but body locked upright. Parents worse—Father swaying visible now, Mother's hand twitching at thigh, faces slick with sudden sweat. They held, grips tightening air between them. Kael's vision blurred edges, pulse loud in throat, skin prickling slick. Throb started unasked between legs, body betraying under the wait.
The master turned slow, calm. Face even, eyes direct.
Kael stepped forward—two, three—then overload hit sharp. Gaze dropped automatic, refusing contact. Body swayed heavy, knees buckling fraction before lock held. No collapse. Just sharp, delayed surrender, slick heat crawling skin.
The master noted the sway, the dropped eyes—clean response, no excess flail. Material held frame under pressure. Suitable.
"Good boy," the master said, voice low and even, flowing unbroken. "My name is Rian. I live in the central zone, and my work is to direct world restoration and explain its structure to those encountering it for the first time. What you feel now is natural: pressure, loss of stability, narrowing attention. Most get lost at this stage, but you hold better than many and accept my scent quickly and correctly."
Words washed over, body still humming overload. Heat throbbed insistent, haze thickening.
"Our city built on old civilization remnants after catastrophe," the master continued seamless, pace steady. "World not saved but balanced. Center took restoration: ecology, population, tech preservation. Complex system held by function distribution. Outer ring provides labor and plan execution, wastelands supply bodies and DNA diversity, center holds direction and stability. Without interdependence, civilization gone long ago."
Kael's lips parted dry. "My parents… they slaves?"
"Post-catastrophe virus released," the master flowed on, absorbing without pause. "Found treatment changed human interaction nature, forcing pheromones production. World divided masters and slaves, hierarchy DNA-embedded. I and my ancestors masters by function, not whim. You and your ancestors slaves. Speaking slaves as thinking animals precise, not contempt: bodies whose reactions and submission form basis of system stability. We select pairs for healthy offspring and care. Not cruelty, resource management for world survival."
"Us… bred like animals?"
"Slaves," the master called, sharp, eyes shifting past Kael.
Parents moved instant—Father dropping knees wide, back straight, head bowed. Mother mirroring fluid, thighs spread, gaze floor. No flinch. Bodies animal-tuned, submission etched deep.
The master stepped to Father, palm flat back of neck, finger pressing pulse point steady. Father held rigid, no tremor. Master's scent thickened air sharper, Kael's body clenching unbidden—throb pulsing traitor heat.
"As you see," the master said, releasing slow, "proximity to my scent deprives will, but even without, they remain thinking animals, bodies tuned to submission."
Kael's gut twisted nausea-sharp, parents' forms blurring haze. Own hardness strained pants filthy, unwanted slick beading tip.
"If you agree to become slave," the master continued even, turning full back to Kael, "in week bound to me. One to two years body and mind broken and restructured. Hardest years—prior training soft, no punishments. Pain, humiliation, discipline not cruelty, brain adaptation to scent authority and life in pressure-norm environment."
"What if I fail?"
"Rare," the master said seamless. "System humane: failures euthanized painlessly, functionless gone without drag."
"By laws you choose slavery," the master went on, calm layering. "Refusal: live center, but few endure high scents—maddening, most to wastelands. Dangerous, less comfort, more freedom; real path with price. Agreement: life no decisions. Scents stabilize and happify; service clear meaning, benefit to world."
"Take off shirt, boy."
Hands moved before thought—shirt peeled up, fabric dragging skin sensitive. Dropped floor. Instinct snapped arms behind head, elbows wide, chest thrust bare. Nipples peaked air, flush crawling ribs.
The master assessed slow—clean instinctive pose, torso lean and unmarked, reactions flushing true. Correct material, body yielding proper.
"Suitable body for slave, boy."
"You should be ripe next week," the master said to Mother, tone shifting command flat. "This pill will help."
Hand extended small white pill. Mother crawled forward on knees, mouth opening devoted—tongue out flat, accepting as it placed direct. Swallowed visible throat work, eyes up brief worship.
The master turned to Father, hand stroking head firm. "Care for your wench. Warm her this week."
"Then I await you in a week."
Kael turned, shirt forgotten floor, body stunned heavy—overload crashing waves, legs numb. Corridor swallowed, air thinning sudden. Hands fumbled shirt up finally, pulling over slick skin. Density lingered trace—alien musk clinging pores, body fact now, throbbing reminder etched deep.
Corner Hold
Kael pushed through the door into the familiar press of the family zone, the low buildings repeating in endless rows beyond the narrow courtyard, their shared kitchens humming faint in the evening air. His body moved on legs that felt too heavy, skin still slick from the corridor's thinning density, the master's scent clinging low in his lungs like a residue he could not cough free. The room inside closed around him immediately—four beds pushed close, thin mattresses sagging under remembered weights, walls the same unyielding gray. Mother stood at the table, cloth in hand, her movements quiet and contained. She looked up once, eyes steady, then spoke without pause or warmth.
"Sleep in our room tonight. No housework. This is your last free week."
The words landed flat, functional, carrying no explanation or softening edge. Kael stopped in the center of the space, body locking still as the meaning seeped in slow. Heat bloomed under his skin again, not from the air but from inside—chest tightening, breath catching shallow in his throat. His heart slammed hard against ribs, each beat pulling slick sweat to bead at his temples, his neck. Legs rooted to the floor, refusing bend or step. Shame twisted low in his gut, arousal stirring unbidden, thick and hot between his thighs, the fabric of his pants growing damp at the tip. He stood there, immobile, the room's narrow confines amplifying every pulse, every filthy throb of betrayal as his body reacted to her words before thought could form.
Mother turned back to the table, cloth moving steady over the surface. No glance back. No touch. The silence stretched, his body heavy in it, sweat trickling slow down his spine, pooling at the base where flesh met cloth.
Night came without warning, the room's dim light fading to black, siblings' breaths even in the shared beds beyond the thin wall. Kael rose silent, sheets sliding off skin still damp from the day's residue. The impulse pulled him toward the door—no plan, just shame driving legs forward, a deep need to vanish into the courtyard's shadows, away from the press of walls and bodies. He slipped out, feet bare on cool stone, the repeated houses looming dark and identical under the strung lights. Air outside thinner, but his body dragged—sweat fresh under arms, thighs trembling with each step. The throb returned sharper, erection straining half-hard, pre-cum slicking the front of his pants in filthy betrayal.
He stopped at the courtyard edge, breath heaving, when the image slammed back: Father on knees in that room, thighs spread wide, back straight as the master's palm pressed firm into the nape of his neck. The sway of submission, body animal-tuned, no tremor under the hold. Kael's own knees buckled fraction, hand pressing instinctive against the bulge, rubbing once through cloth before pulling away in horror. Shame burned hotter than arousal, flesh pulsing insistent, demanding touch he denied. He turned back, legs carrying him inside before thought caught up, door clicking soft behind.
The family room pressed tighter in the dark, bunks stacked against walls, dim light filtering from the single bulb. Siblings slept deep, breaths soft and even. Kael lingered in the doorway, body half in shadow, when movement caught—Father rising from the alcove bed, shirtless, skin marked faint from old labors. Mother stirred beside, nightdress hiked to thighs, breasts heavy and exposed as Father leaned in. His mouth closed over one nipple, sucking slow and deep, tongue working the flesh wet and audible in the quiet. Mother's hand in his hair, no sound but breath deepening.
Father's hand slid lower, parting her thighs wide, fingers—two, then three—sliding in slick and easy, pumping steady as his mouth switched nipples, licking broad and filthy across sweat-slick skin. Her hips lifted into it, folds glistening under the low light, musk thick in the close air. She saw Kael then, eyes open steady in the doorway, but made no move to cover—body open, Father's fingers thrusting deeper, wet sounds filling the space.
Boy's erection surged full, leaking hot against his pants, thighs trembling as body leaned forward unbidden, craving the sight. "What are you doing?" The words escaped hoarse, low.
Father lifted mouth brief, saliva stringing from nipple to lips. "Executing the master's order. Week in heat. She produces children. Yours soon."
"Come warm her breasts while I lick," Father added, fingers curling inside her, drawing a soft gasp.
Kael fled, legs carrying to the cold shower stall, water blasting icy over clothes and skin, soaking through to chill the throbbing heat between his legs. Slick pre-cum mixed with runoff, body shaking under the spray, horror twisting into unwanted ache.
Days blurred in the corner of the parents' room, doorway framing it perfect—visible from hall, alcove bed, shared space. Kael stood there first, back to wall, body settling unasked into stillness. Parents moved past mornings, steps to kitchen, no comment on his place. Evenings same—return heavy, bodies tired, alcove claiming them again with wet sounds and gasps. Light stayed artificial flat, no sun mark, no night sharp. Steps out, steps in. He stood. Watched fragments. Slept gaps in the corner, heavy pulls erasing edges.
One cycle—day? Mother paused door, cloth drying hands. "Today?"
Kael shifted fraction. Shame burned later alone, body sinking deeper into pose.
More sleep came, prowl-like, no restoration. Body heavier each rise.
Waiting filled spaces now. Corner first—body stood unbidden, shoulders square, hands loose at sides. Irritation spiked brief—why here?—then faded as breath slowed even. Sat straight next, knees together, hands palms-up on thighs. No command needed. Body returned each time, irritation draining to peace. Breath evened full, time lost without press. Silence held.
Street pulled inertial one stretch, familiar route to training zones unwinding under feet. Choices constant—left at fork, slow for group ahead, dodge cart rumbling low. Overload built quick: visibility raw, no belonging between zones, too open. Peers status-less passed, noise excess—laughs sharp, steps clashing rhythm. Freedom grated sensory, unprotected. Return dropped noise sudden, relief flooding as courtyard walls closed.
Past steadied fragments. Routines at fourteen—morning inspections, lines straight, breaths shared deep. Repeat gathered then, body denser, known full. Conscious now—first self forming in order. Present blurred soft against it.
Siblings spilled chaos one evening, courtyard games tumbling indoors—shouts, pushes, toys clattering shared floor. Rhythm clashed hard, overload instant. Withdrawal came quiet, no fight—corner reclaimed, body stilling. Smallest tugged sleeve. "Fix this." Hand moved before thought, toy aligned perfect. Relief post-action, noise dropping clean. Older asked water—stood, poured steady. Same pull, no power from them, reaction uniform.
Requests triggered same now. Any voice—sibling shout, parent murmur—body acted pre-thought. Relief trailed each, noise falling silent. Irritation edged waiting, but pose repeated, neutral settling.
Fragments rose unbidden in pauses—corner stands, solitude stretches, sleep borders. Short rhythms synced breath automatic: body given, service taken, fate held. Stabilized chest, filled absent command. No prayer form. Breath only.
Dream pulled seamless—no edge in, body already there. Positioned supine, arms loose at sides, legs parted slight. Master figure loomed calm, hands guiding thighs wider, flesh parting slick under touch. No pain. Use steady—fingers first, then more, body yielding open. Glass barrier gleamed between, body leaning toward it, craving pass-through. Calm filled, arousal thick but held. Woke residue heavy—rightness lingering skin, guilt pulsing low.
Last night dropped full. Supine pose found unasked—arms not covering, chest bare to dark. Impulse struck sudden: "I don't want". Breath held sharp, tension sought grip in muscles—chest, gut, thighs clenched hard. Body denied hold—no support rose, flesh slackened loose. Release came, thought dropping clean, breath evening familiar. Silence wrapped total.
The Handover Rite
The room was a spare chamber in the central zone, light filtering through high glass panels in a diffuse, neutral glow that made everything feel functional, inevitable. No shadows to hide in, no corners for doubt. The air was thicker here, closer to the core, carrying that subtle density Kael had only glimpsed before—now it pressed on his skin like a promise. He walked between his parents, their steps synchronized, his own lagging just enough to feel the pull. Eighteen today. The handover. The word hung unspoken, but his body knew.
Rian stood at the far end, his presence altering the space before words did. Tall, composed, in simple lines of fabric that clung without effort—quiet luxury, as always. Kael's parents stopped, and he with them, the floor cool under his feet through the thin soles of his transitional clothes: loose pants and shirt that emphasized form without naming it.
"Come forward," the master said, voice low, unhurried.
Kael's mother nudged him gently, her hand warm on his back. "Go on. This is right."
He stepped closer, the air shifting, heavier. The master reached out, his hand settling on Kael's head, fingers threading through his hair in a casual pat. Not rough, not possessive yet—just a pat, like rewarding a well-behaved animal. But the contact exploded inward. Scent flooded Kael's senses, a rush that started at his scalp and cascaded down: heat blooming in his chest, a tingling pull in his groin, his knees softening as if the floor had tilted. His breath hitched, vision blurring at the edges, a filthy wave of euphoria crashing against something deeper—guilt, sharp and unformed. Why did it feel so good? His cock twitched, half-hard already, leaking a spot into his pants. He wanted to lean in, to chase that warmth, but shame burned hot in his throat. This was the break, the first real one. Body betraying before mind could catch up.
The master smiled faintly, withdrawing his hand. "Good response. Now, undress him."
Kael froze, cheeks flushing. His clothes—still his, from the family zone—felt suddenly childish, constricting. His mother and father moved without hesitation, their own outfits simple, functional: loose tunics and pants that hid nothing of their conditioned forms. Mother's fingers tugged at his shirt, lifting it over his head, exposing his chest—smooth, flexible, not yet fully marked by use. Father knelt to pull down his pants, the fabric whispering against his skin, his half-erection springing free, bobbing in the cool air. Precum beaded at the tip, a clear thread dangling before snapping. The boy's hands twitched to cover himself, shame coiling in his gut like a fist, but his father caught his wrist. "No. Stand straight. This is how it must be."
Mother nodded, her voice soft, caring. "Your body knows. Let it show."
The world tunneled—fog in his mind, everything distant except the inspection. Riian circled him slowly, eyes clinical, fingers tracing lines: over his shoulders, down his back, cupping his ass briefly, then around to his front. A thumb brushed his nipple, hardening it instantly; another hand weighed his balls, rolling them gently, then gripped his shaft—firm, assessing. The boy gasped, hips bucking involuntarily, more precum oozing out, slick and warm on master's fingers. The touch was electric, pain-laced pleasure ripping through him: euphoria from the scent seeping skin-to-skin, guilt twisting like a knife because it felt right, because his slave parents watched without protest. "Responsive," Riian murmured. "Ripe."
The boy's vision swam, the light from the panels turning hazy, his skin prickling with sweat. He wanted to hide, to run, but his body leaned forward, craving more.
The master stepped back, turning to mother. "Are you ripe for breeding?"
She nodded without hesitation, her face calm, loving—always loving, even now. "Yes, master."
"Both of you, then. Undress."
They complied seamlessly, clothes pooling at their feet. Wench's body: soft curves, breasts heavy from past births, hips wide and marked faintly from use. The slave father: lean, tired muscles, his cock already stirring, half-erect from the ambient density. No shame in them; this was function, accepted. The boy stared, his own erection throbbing painfully now, leaking steadily onto the floor in viscous drops. The air smelled of it—salt, musk, the underlying tang of scent thickening.
The master pointed to the platform against the wall—simple, low, unadorned. "Girl, here. Show your purpose."
The slave mother lay on her back, raising her legs high, knees bent wide, hands pulling thighs back. Her vagina opened fully before her son and his slave father: lips spread, slick and swollen, folds glistening with thick mucus, musky heat rising heavy, clit pulsing openly. Drops trickled down her perineum, pooling beneath her. The slave father stood beside, his cock tense, oozing a thread. The boy froze naked, his own shaft aching, head swollen, precum dripping hot beads down his thigh—sticky, traitorous.
The master leaned in, gathering spit deliberate on his tongue before hawking a thick glob straight onto the slave's spread folds. It landed heavy, stringing from clit to entrance, bubbling into her slick heat. She shivered, hips twitching up instinctive, the saliva mixing filthy with her arousal—clear strands stretching as the master smeared it in with two fingers, dipping shallow. "This'll heat you, boost odds on solid material," he said flat.
The master's scent thickened sharper, her body yielding deeper—moans low, submissive, haze of craving snaring her full, muscles clenching slick around invading fingers, squeezing out the filthy mix in sticky strings.
Those same fingers Riaan thrust toward slave father. He leaned forward eager, lips wrapping greedy, sucking thorough—salty glob slurped down, throat bobbing audible as his cock jerked, spurting fresh precum to the floor. "Full service," the master noted even.
"Control the boy," the master ordered his slave father.
The slave father stepped beside the boy, heavy palm clamping his shoulder. The boy sensed the ragged breathing closer, heavier, the hotter body heat radiating, fingers trembling faint from pent-up throb.
Rian gestured to a side door. It slid open, and in was led the black wild thinking animal: young, towering, black skin gleaming under the light, muscles rippling like coiled threats. Broad shoulders, thick thighs, a massive cock hanging heavy between his legs—uncut, veined, already twitching with restrained fury. An electric collar hummed around his neck, lights flickering blue for control. He snarled, eyes wild, body taut with aggression, chains on his wrists clinking as he strained forward. Spit flecked his lips; his chest heaved, sweat trickling down his abs.
The master approached without fear, grabbing the wild's jaw, forcing his mouth open. "Easy." He spat into the open mouth—a thick glob landing on the tongue. The wild thrashed once, then stilled, eyes glazing as scent hit: his body slackening, cock hardening instantly, rising thick and long, precum bubbling from the slit in a filthy stream. He swallowed, a low groan escaping, aggression melting into compelled obedience. Pain in his eyes—raw, unfiltered—but his hips rolled forward, seeking.
"Make a show," the master commanded, stepping aside. "For the new one to see."
The wild moved on white slave, pushing her down onto a low platform—simple, functional, like everything here. She spread her legs willingly, her cunt already glistening, lips parting wetly. The wild animal mounted her roughly, his massive cock slamming in with one thrust, stretching her wide. She gasped, back arching, but her face held that calm acceptance—pain mixing with the system's bliss. He fucked her hard, hips pounding, balls slapping against her ass in wet smacks. The boy's cock jerked in sync with the wild's thrusts, a fresh bead of his own precum splattering the floor—body mirroring the animal he feared becoming. Liquids everywhere: her juices squirting with each deep plunge, his sweat dripping onto her breasts, precum and her arousal mixing into a slick froth that coated his shaft, bubbling out around the stretch. Grunts filled the room—his animalistic, hers muffled, euphoric. The collar buzzed when he faltered, shocking him into rhythm, pain flashing across his face before euphoria drowned it.
The boy stood naked beside his slave father, his cock aching, fully hard now, leaking in steady pulses that dripped down his thigh—hot, sticky, filthy. The sight tore at him: his slave mother writhing under the black wild's brutal thrusts, her body betraying the same bliss he felt stirring in himself. Guilt clawed his chest— this was wrong, this was her, but his body responded, euphoria building from the scent haze, pain from the betrayal of watching. He shifted, a whimper escaping, but his slave father's hand clamped on his shoulder, firm, holding him still.
"Quiet," his slave father whispered, his own cock rigid, leaking similarly, a thread of precum connecting tip to floor. "She is meant to be bred. Straighten your back. Don't look away. This is the sir's order."
The boy trembled, the hold grounding him, but the scene pulled harder—the wild's muscles flexing as he drove deeper, his slave mother's moans rising, her cunt clenching visibly around that thick length, fluids splashing with each withdrawal. Pain in boy's gut: this was his origin, his future mirrored. Euphoria crested unwanted, his balls tightening, precum flowing freer.
His slave father leaned closer, voice low, invoking the old rites—the religion of acceptance, whispered in halls of stone. "Body serves. Fate unfolds. Resistance is the error of form." The words, drilled since childhood, soothed like anesthesia, dulling the edge of horror. "You're lucky, son. To see your purpose so early. Hold it. Feel it."
The wild animal growled, thrusting faster, his collar humming as control wavered—aggression flickering back, making him ram harder, his slave mother crying out in mixed agony and bliss. The master watched the light casting his shadow long. Finally, the wild came with a roar, burying deep, pumping thick ropes of cum into her—visible pulses along his shaft, overflow spilling out in creamy rivulets down her thighs, pooling on the platform. She shuddered, her own orgasm ripping through, squirting around him in a messy arc.
Boy's knees buckled slightly, his slave father's grip the only anchor. Guilt flooded him—hot, visceral, twisting with the euphoria of the air, his cock throbbing untouched, on the edge. This was the break: watching, leaking, accepting. The family tie severing in this filthy display. No more returns. Only forward, into the density.
The room's light held steady, diffuse and unforgiving, turning every surface into a quiet witness. The platform gleamed faintly where fluids had pooled—thick, creamy streaks cooling on the smooth material. Wench lay still, legs parted, her cunt swollen and gaping slightly, the black wild's cum oozing out in slow, viscous rivulets, mixing with her own slick arousal into a filthy puddle beneath her. Her breath came even, accepting, breasts rising and falling with the aftermath's calm.
The wild stood over her, chest heaving, his massive black cock still half-hard, glistening with the mess of it all—coated in her juices, his own spend, strands of it dangling from the thick head. The electric collar hummed low, a faint blue pulse keeping the last flickers of aggression buried under compelled haze. Sweat traced the ridges of his muscles, dripping from his abs to the floor.
Rian watched, impassive, the density of the air thicker now, saturated. "Clean her," he said to Kael's father. "Properly."
The slave father released boy's shoulder and moved without pause, lowering himself to his knees beside the platform. Naked, his body lean and worn from years of function, his own cock rigid and leaking—a steady drip of precum falling from the tip in clear threads. He leaned in, face close to his wife's spread thighs, and began.
His tongue extended, flat and deliberate, lapping at the outer lips first—gathering the overflow, the mixed fluids warm and salty on his mouth, scooping deep, swallowing globs of wild seed mixed with her cream, his own cock spurting untouched ropes onto the platform in submissive echo. He swallowed audibly, throat working, then pressed deeper, tongue sliding inside her, scooping out the thicker loads the wild had pumped in. The slave mother sighed softly, one hand drifting to rest on her husband's head, fingers threading through his hair in that same caring stroke she had used on Kael moments ago. The slave father licks grew thorough, probing, cleaning every fold, every crease, the wet sounds filling the room—slurps and swallows, his tongue delving again and again until only her own wetness remained. His cock twitched with each swallow, precum pooling beneath him on the floor, his body trembling faintly but calm, useful.
The boy stood frozen, the light pressing on his bare skin, his own erection aching untouched, leaking in sympathy—hot drops sliding down his shaft, over his balls. Guilt twisted deep, visceral, a burn in his chest: this was his slave mother, his slave father reduced to this, swallowing another male's seed from her. But the scent flooded him heavier now, euphoria rising unbidden, making his hips shift forward involuntarily, craving the same dissolution. Pain and bliss braided tight—this was his future, already tasting it in the air.
The master stepped closer, his hand settling on his slave father's head mid-lick, fingers casual, approving. "And him," he added quietly. "Finish it."
Boy's father pulled back, lips shiny with the mess, and turned to the black wild. The towering figure loomed, cock still heavy and slick. White slave leaned forward, mouth opening, tongue tracing the underside first—long, slow licks from balls to tip, gathering the remnants: his wife's arousal, the wild's cum, the salty sheen of sweat. He took the head in briefly, sucking gently, cleaning the slit where more oozed out, swallowing again. The wild groaned low, hips rolling once, the collar buzzing a warning pulse that made him still. Slave father's own cock jerked harder, a fresh spurt of precum hitting the floor as he worked, thorough, unhurried.
The boy watched his slave father's throat bob with each swallow, saw the calm in his movements—the years of readiness etched in every lick. His own body mirrored it: leaking, throbbing, the edge of release hovering without touch. This was the break deepening, the family tie dissolving in fluids and acceptance.
The master withdrew his hand, eyes shifting to the boy. His voice cut soft through the wet sounds. "Look at your slave father, boy. This is what readiness looks like after years. Calm. Useful."
Slave finished with a final lick along the wild's shaft, then sat back on his heels, mouth glistening, breath steady. The slave mother reached out, touching his cheek tenderly. The light held them all in place, the air dense with spent scent, the handover complete.
Riian stepped back, surveying the three of them—his slave mother still on the platform, his slave father rising from his knees lips glistening from the cleaning, the black wild thinking animal standing nearby half-hard cock slick and dangling strands, electric collar humming low suppressing the fury in his eyes, body taut restrained sweat tracing muscles. The wild's chest heaved faintly, remnants of aggression flickering beneath the compelled haze.
The master nodded to an unseen handler beyond the glass panels, who entered silently chains clinking faint, leading the wild away—steps receding heavy, door sliding shut behind.
Now the family three centered: slave mother on platform legs parted calm in acceptance slick folds visible, slave father on feet own cock oozing steady submissive body relaxed useful, boy naked standing rigid shaft throbbing, guilt euphoria squeezing chest haze.
"On your knees before me," the master said quietly. "Line up. All of you."
Slave parents dropped instant thighs spread wide backs straight heads bowed perfect alignment before him. The boy hesitated fraction body heavy mind reeling fog—then sank down beside knees hitting cool floor hard. Position opened fully erection hard leaking steady onto smooth surface between legs filthy puddle forming.
The master moved among thinking animals hand settling on each head in turn. First slave mother—fingers threading hair gentle pat then light slap cheek she leaned into eyes shining quiet bliss. Then cuckold father—same stroke same approving slap body arching subtle toward touch soft exhale contentment. Finally the boy—Riian's palm warm on scalp thumb brushing temple before slap landed firm not cruel.
The boy flinched shock flooding: slave parents faces glowed happiness bodies leaning forward craving more. This joy for them. Service. Belonging.
"Good animals," the master murmured. "You've done your work well." His gaze lingered on wench's belly. "I expect you'll bring me new material soon."
The slave mother's smile deepened radiant. The slave father nodded calm pride eyes. The boy stared chest tight—horror something darker twisting inside: "Why did their bliss twist like betrayal in my gut? Truly." And his own body traitor leaned fractionally into Riian's retreating hand chasing warmth.
The master turned away. "Leave us," he said to slave parents. "The boy stays."
As slaves rose gathering clothes without haste the boy remained naked dripping taste future thick on tongue though swallowed nothing. Euphoria lingered guilt coiled beneath—ready already for what came next.
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