Date: Sun, 15 Oct 2023 19:32:51 +0000 From: kinked88 Subject: The Lost Generation - 12 Finally returned with another chapter -- thank you one and all for your messages. If that's not you yet, then why not!? Get on it! I welcome all feedback, dialogue and criticism at kinked88@protonmail.com! Thank you, again, for reading (and being patient) and please consider showing Nifty your appreciation of its existence with a donation, however small. Head along to http://donate.nifty.org/ and do what you can to help keep this amazing resource alive. Thanks. 12 The room they eventually came to was large and square and half-populated. As they entered at the rear, Sam was almost reassured by the view -- it did look a lot like a school classroom. There were three rows of six individual desks -- one-armed, American-type where the desktop was fixed to the chair, but with a second one offset and attached behind it. All the white-suited boys were sitting in the front chairs, with the black-suited ones behind them. Jacob led him to one in the middle of the third row and steered him into the gap between seat and desk. "Sit there and be fucking sensible," he said coldly. Sam sank into the seat dejectedly. The plastic thing on his crotch made a soft `thunk' against it. He stayed still and let Jacob readjust his restraints -- each wrist attached to a short chain either side of the desk, and each ankle cuff clipped to the frame of the seat itself -- as he took in the surroundings. The other pairings were largely quiet. A couple of those in white had slumped, head-in-arms, on the desk. Two in black stood together talking, occasionally involving a third across the room. The wall in front was largely taken up by a whiteboard -- above which there hung an obvious projector screen -- and to the right of it, a sturdy-looking red door. Weirdly, what struck Sam was the absence of a normal door handle, appearing to have a keypad instead. There was a desk and chair to the side of the whiteboard -- for the teacher he assumed, because of the computer it held -- but was puzzled about the solitary desk in the middle of the floor between the desks and the board. It was only as he looked around that he realised there were, again, no windows. The expansive mirror across the back wall reflected the harsh flurorescent lighting more than enough. Others piled in -- each white-wearing boy being led meekly by their cock and balls -- and took a seat. Some in black were speaking in a low, firm voice to their counterpart in white; Jacob had ignored Sam entirely, which was fine by him. He was still bitter about this morning, and especially about not having eaten. The hushed chatter was interrupted by a click, followed by a clunk and a beep, and the red door to side of the whiteboard swung open. The scattered people sat down hurriedly as a short, brown-haired man in glasses, dress trousers and a shirt strode into the room and took a position behind the desk to the side. The red door closed itself with a meaningful `thunk'. "Good morning, boys" he began, in a rich, well-spoken voice. "Good morning Sir," replied approximately half of the congregation. Sam cringed inwardly as echoes of primary school assemblies rang in his ears. "I am Mr. C -- what the C stands for is not your concern and--" "Cunt probably!" someone shouted, from behind Sam. Eyes widened and necks craned as much as the desk restraints would allow as the man moved across the room at lightning speed and delivered a thunderous backhanded blow across a boy's face. The noise punctured the silence like a gunshot. Barely a moment later the boy lunged, trying to stand, the chains rattling furiously, "WHO THE FUCK - -" but the man, without missing a beat or saying a word, hit him again across the face. The boy crumpled into his seat. "Control your boy, 164," the man said to the boy in black sat behind. "Yes Sir," he replied, reaching over, opening the lid of the desk and retrieving a ball gag to wrestle into his partner's mouth. The man returned to the front of the class and continued. "What the C stands for is not your concern, just as your names are not my concern. Indeed, to all intents and purposes you have no name to speak of now -- you are wiped from record; a non-person." Sam trembled involuntarily. "You will be referred to by your assigned numerical code. You will call your superiors `Sir'. For those of you in black, that is all teachers, Staff and guests. For those of you wearing white, that is also your Partner. Do you understand?" There was a faint, reluctant murmur of assent. "Very good. Now then," he said, pulling down the projector screen and returning to the computer. "Today we'll watch an Introduction video, then we'll talk about appropriate language and behaviour." He added a loud "Room B85, lights OFF!" and the film started to play. The navy-and-white Government logo illuminated the room, followed by a title screen that read: "Introduction: Boys" in the same colours, white-on-navy. A woman's smiling face appeared and Sam recognised her as the same woman from the first video he saw; red lipstick, blonde hair and big, white teeth. "Hello!" she began, cheerily. "Welcome to an introduction, for boys, to your new life within the PR Programme. You should, by now, have been issued with a full Uniform Kit, so let's look at that first." Her sickly grinning face slid to the side and a revolving graphic of a body appeared next to it. "Made of premium Lycra, these suits are lightweight, breathable and fitted to your very own specific measurements," she declared proudly. "And with incorporated gloves, socks and hood, they are designed with comfort in mind!" Red circles popped up, highlighting each part as she said it. "Open access to the front and rear makes toileting possible without removing the garment, and means less delay in fun-times with your Partner. Right boys?" she said, winking. Some boys were shaking their heads. Sam cringed. "Next, your restraints. These are soft and durable leather, perfect for long-term wearing, with a sturdy locking buckle of galvanised steel. These are necessary for the safety and security of both yourself and others, to prevent injury whilst you work, learn and play. Thigh restraints and a waist-belt are optional additions to this kit. Lastly, your chastity device..." Sam's ears pricked at this, having not known what it was actually called. "As a designated Bottom, you will be trained in servitude and sacrifice. We here at the PR Programme recognise that, for boys of your age, you will require support in pursuing such skills so have invested heavily in sleek, comfortable devices, custom-built to fit your own intimate measurements that are low-maintenance and look great! No need to worry about those annoying unwanted erections!" Her stupid beaming face hovered imposingly next to the zoomed-in graphic detailing the components and application of the chastity device to a limp, drawn dick. Sam was just confused by the word "unwanted". The woman continued. "You have also, by now, met your Partner." The screen filled with an image of two good-looking men smiling and hugging. "Hang on to him, he's a keeper!" she joked, with a fake laugh. The room remained silent. "The boy you have been paired with has been assessed to be your most suitable Partner, and you will spend the next several years with him, learning from him how to please and obey a man. He, in turn, has spent years being trained in his role so he really knows his stuff! From all of us here at the PR Programme, we wish you every success in your new lifestyle and I speak for everyone when I say we are grateful for your sacrifice." The screen faded to black. A heaviness hung in the air. The man at the front punctured it by calling for the lights to turn back on, followed with a short round of clapping. Several boys jolted from a kind of fugue and Sam wondered if it was sarcastic. "There we are, then, an introduction," the man said curtly."I, however, am here to tell you that life in this Facility does not look like that." He seemed angry. "You will not be skipping around smiling, hugging and holding hands, you are here to work. You are here to learn and change, and to sacrifice for the good of others. You are not on holiday; you are not at a holiday camp. This will be hard. This will hurt. You will be broken down and rebuilt in the image of something better." He seemed to be on a roll, oblivious or indifferent to the growing agitation in the small crowd before him. "To that end, you own nothing -- are nothing -- any more. Your future, your body, your every.. waking.. thought.. now belongs to this Facility. To the Government. To me. And to your partner. I offer the same advice to each and every group of boys that comes through here: none of them take it and they regret it. Start now... And let go of your previous life! Who you were. Your family; your friends; your goddamn baby pictures and the perky tits of your boring fucking girlfriend FORGET IT ALL!!!" he roared, his face contorted. Even in the heady fog of battle-cry triumphalism, Sam found himself wondering if the guy was getting off on either the concept of what he was talking of, the delivery of it, or both. Others had started openly crying, or swearing and rattling the desks. The man simply shouted over them. "You are ALL... Now... Just holes to be used for the pleasure of Real Men. And the sooner you get on board with it, THE EASIER LIFE WILL BE FOR YOU!!! NOW THEN...!!!" he yelled, banging on his table loudly until the general din lowered. "Firstly, vocabulary." He reached into a drawer and set off round the room placing a sheet of paper on each table. Sam turned to look at Jacob -- for what he wasn't sure -- but Jacob just glared back, pointed forwards and said, "Front!". The paper landed on his desk and Sam almost laughed as he read it. It was titled "Vocabulary Adjustment". He was about to turn and exclaim something to Jacob when the teacher spoke once again, loud and crisp above the muttering. "You are here to become humble, respectful and submissive members of society. As such, you must learn how to speak to others and communicate in the appropriate way -- which means no vulgarity; no slang; and absolute respect at all times. Look through this list of words, words I know you boys all use, and write next to them a more acceptable term. Your Partner knows these, and will help." At this, Jacob passed a pen from behind and Sam read down the list. Cock/dick [noun]. Arsehole [noun]. Cunt/fanny [noun]. Tits [noun]. Fuck [verb]. Balls [noun]. Cum [verb]... On and on it went, almost amusingly in its solemnity. He looked around at the other boys at tables; few of them were studiously completing the form. The one in front was being slapped across the back of the head repeatedly. The boy next to Sam was remonstrating loudly with his Partner, until suddenly the boy in black reached and grabbed his nipple, causing him to scream loudly and thrash. Sam turned to read Jacob's face... Body language... Anything. Jacob flicked him in the middle of the forehead and said simply, `Come on. It isn't hard." Tired, embattled, scared and overstimulated, Sam turned and jotted down some words. Soon after the man shouted again and the noise died. "I understand some of you did not take that task seriously, and I trust -- Partners -- that that will be dealt with accordingly following this class. For those who did make an effort, the correct answers are penis; anus; vagina; breasts, or more specifically nipples; penetrate; testicles; ejaculate; urine; masturbate; semen; defecate..." Sam zoned out, wondering what the Hell he meant by "dealt with". Was he maybe... Glad, that he'd just done it and not argued? He supposed he wouldn't know either way. "... at all times, and it is your Partner's role to promote and monitor your discipline in this until it becomes second-nature to you. Which, believe me, it will," the man continued. "I will now read out the incorrect terms, and you will all call out the correct term, from your new vocabulary. `Fuck'..." he said, looking round the room expectantly. Several of the Partners, in black, enthusiastically replied: "Penetrate!". The man was unimpressed. "Boys! Encourage your subjects to participate, please! Otherwise you will feel the consequences yourselves. Remember: from hereonin, these submissives are a reflection on you now. So let's try that again. `Arse'...". Jacob dug him in the ribs and Sam joined the sullen chorus saying "Bum" under various means of duress. "Well done!" the man beamed. "Now then, lastly for today...". He turned and moved to the red door behind him, pressed at the keypad and disappeared through it. Moments later it opened again and he reappeared, followed by another person, on a leash. Sharp inhalations of breath, dotted with outbursts of laughter, rippled across the room. Sam simply stared, agog. It was another boy. Lean, short in height but probably their age, too. He wore a similar outfit -- all Lycra, enclosed except at the crotch, collar, cuffs and cock cage and all -- but it was all... Pink. His head was different, Sam noticed. Hooded, but there was a thick, padded blindfold as part of his. He followed the man meekly, despite being unable to see his way, to the middle of the room. After commanding him to `stay' the man left him and produced a small set of steps from behind his own desk. He wheeled them over to the platform in the centre, took up the leash and led the boy to them. With a simple "up", the boy sank to all fours and tentatively ascended the stairs, stopping perfectly on the table, his gloved hands gripping one edge and his socked feet slightly over the other. Mr. C kicked the stairs away and turned to the shocked crowd of boys. "This... Is my Pet," he declared with a flourish. "It is a tool all teachers have here to help us demonstrate, in practice, the new and complex things you need to learn to be a good gay submissive. Pets are trained intensively to be obedient, loyal and dedicated." With this, he slapped the boy who did not flinch. With a chuckle, he then gave firm yank on the boy's genitals: again, no flicker. Sam's brain was struggling to comprehend what he was seeing. "You will notice..." the man continued, striding purposefully around the boy at the front. "The Pet's posture. Head proud; back arched; backside presented. This is its Display Position." He rubbed the boy's head, like a dog. "You will each, also, learn Positions -- so as to be respectful to your superiors and to ensure you are in the right place at the right time in order to be as useful as it is possible to be, for him!" The atmosphere felt cold and loaded as he barked these last words. "Do not talk to the Pet. It is a Pet and does not speak unless instructed to by its Owner. Me, in this instance. Indeed, we are currently training to eliminate all noise from the Pet altogether, unless given permission to make it. Isn't that right, Pet?" The pink-suited boy did not move. His tense body betraying nothing. "There's a good boy," Mr. C said, nasally. "The Pet..." he went on, by now clearly enjoying both the intimidation of his audience and the sound of his own voice, "... is below any of you here. It will be used to service each and every one of you, at some point, and so must be kept in tip-top condition. By me," he added, with an oily grin. "That said...! You DO NOT... Touch the Pet without EXPRESS instruction to do so... Your Partners know this. Punishment is severe. Anyway... It's about time I let you go..." He turned to the kneeling boy on the table and peeled the blindfold hood from him, revealing the standard open-mouthed, open-eyed pink hood beneath. "... my Pet will introduce itself before you leave, though." He leant to the boy's ear and muttered. Those close enough heard him reply only, "Yes Sir" before climbing off the table and walking to stand in front of the first table. The man sat down on the display table in his place, grinning wildly. "I am a Pet," the boy began in a clear but solemn voice. "I am a tool... In your education." At the pause after `tool' the man punched the air and exclaimed "Yes!", laughing. The boy continued, unperturbed: "Here is my hole", following which he turned on the spot, bent low, clasped his backside and pulled it apart. For the second or two it lasted, the entire room was stunned. The boy stood and moved to the next table, then began again: "I am a Pet. I am a tool... In your education. Here is my hole.", then turned, bent, and spread again. Sam suddenly felt panic. Fear. He wanted to run away, escape this. He didn't want his turn to come... What did he do? What did he say? It was all too awkward... The boy soon arrived, though, in front of his desk. He did not make eye-contact with Sam. He simply spoke calmly, turned round and revealed his hole. A fizz ran through Sam. It looked so... Clean. There was no hair there -- which Sam had. Still had, despite the barbers visit. It looked... Soft. Delicate. So pink; like the boy's suit. In a flash, it was over; gone. The boy moved to the next table to expose himself anew. Sam was confused -- exhausted. Jacob rose and set about unlocking each of the shackles, then pulled Sam to his feet and reattached both the chain between his ankles and his wrists behind his back. Lastly, he returned the lead to Sam's genitals. All around them, others were doing the same, with varying levels of resistance -- and subsequent physical intervention. Sam was too tired to argue. He wanted to lie down. He hoped they were going back to the bedroom. Jacob gave a sharp tug -- unnecessarily sharp, Sam felt -- and he shuffled meekly behind and out the room.