Male World Order
Part 1
The Masculinity Assessment
**This story is a work of fiction and all characters, events, and locations described in it are purely fictional. No resemblance or connection to any living or deceased person or real-world event or location is intended.**
**This story contains elements of institutionalized discrimination and persecution of gay men that may be disturbing for some readers. This story also contains an intergenerational sexual encounter, forced nudity, forced masturbation, forced body modifications, slavery, and forced labor. If any of this offends you, do not read on.**
The old repurposed school bus bounced along the winding mountain road. Small patches of the old yellow paint were visible where the newer blue had chipped away. The interior smelled vaguely of burnt rubber and oil. The sun had not yet started to peek over the hills, but the sky was lightening up. Darren Parcell sat in the back behind 18 other recent male high school graduates on their way to the Eastern Kentucky Federal Male Assessment Center. All of them wore identical white sweatsuits with identical looks of dread on their faces. They were on their way to take the Primary Occupational Masculinity Assessment, or POMA.
The POMA became a required battery of tests for all 18 year old boys in the US years before, when the Patriarchal Order Party took power. The results of the POMA determined a man's official place in the male hierarchy, and thus his chances and possibilities in society. There were twelve possible outcomes: A for Alpha was the highest, followed by B1 (First Beta) through B10. B9 and B10 were required to fulfill a period of indentured servitude before legally becoming men. At the bottom of the scale was C, for Compelled Laborer. Slaves. Those who cannot be trusted to look after themselves, and were legally considered boys for life.
The minimum rank to be accepted for University education was B5. Darren tried not to be too worried about it. He believed himself to be at least Fourth Beta, maybe even Third. Though in the back recesses of his mind there was another worry. A worry he tried very hard not to think about on this bus ride: that an 'H' might be appended to his score. Life with an 'H' before your 'B' was difficult.
Darren tried not to be too anxious about it. He did fine with the ladies, or so he told himself. There was no way he was going home a registered homosexual.
Darren's brown eyes squinted behind his dark mop of bangs as the sun finally made its appearance. The bus pulled into a parking lot at what appeared from the outside to be a suburban office park. Four bland brick buildings with large tinted windows surrounded an artificial pond. A man boarded the bus. A very fit man in his 50s. Blond, with a natural tan. Darren could tell by the man's slightly longer-than-usual hairstyle and the fact he was permitted to have a moustache that this man was at least a Third Beta.
"Good morning boys! Welcome to your POMA! My name is Dr. Foster and I'll be one of your assessors for the day. The assessment is scheduled to take 12 hours, but with your help and cooperation, we'll try and get you home a bit quicker than that. If your last name begins with L through R, I'll also be your post-POMA guidance counselor. Do you all have any questions?"
There was a moment of silence, then "No, Master," replied Kurt Alberts, the handsome muscular redhead at the front of the bus, after glancing back at the others.
"All right then. First things first, off the bus!," Dr. Foster ordered.
Dr. Foster jumped out and the boys filed out after him. He started walking around the back of the building and gestured for the boys to follow him. They did, and around back was a quarter-mile track. Dr. Foster led them to the edge of the track, and without further ado, turned around and barked, "EIGHT LAPS. GO!"
The boys did not need to be told twice. They ran like none of them ever had before. Darren was doing well. He was the second boy to finish the first lap. He knew his whole life was counting on this. As exhausted as he was from getting up at 4:00 that morning, he found a reserve of energy he didn't know he had. The burning in his chest almost felt good, and he was glad he took the advice to quit smoking months before the POMA. His friend Paul remained in the lead. Some of the chubbier boys were struggling, but even they forced themselves to keep up. Eric Hashmore, the tall skinny ginger boy with welfare-issue yellow-framed eyeglasses lagged at the end. Kurt Alberts and Dean Blount overtook Darren, and he collapsed on the dewy grass after finishing fourth out of 19, his face pale and blue, gasping for breath. "That's one test down," he thought. He had no idea what was coming the rest of the day.
Dr. Foster applied some NanoHeal tape to a nasty scrape on Casey Wilkins' arm. He had fallen on the last lap, but still finished in somewhat decent time. The wound would be gone by dinnertime. He then instructed the boy to strip. Any tiny injury was taken very seriously and a full inspection was necessary for the incident report. Casey's face turned bright red. "Come on, get that suit off." Foster ordered. The doctor had the ability to go from paternally charismatic and friendly to menacingly dominant at a snap. Casey immediately jumped to and removed his shoes, followed by his sweatshirt and pants. He stood on the grass in his bright white briefs. "Those too."
"Yes, Master," Casey tried to sound normal. Off they came. Dr. Foster performed a visual head to toe inspection on the slightly pudgy brown-haired boy. Two attendants in lab coats came out of the building and crossed the grass to the track. One documented Casey's vital signs while another took a series of photographs. Casey felt humiliated. He didn't see a reason for so much fuss over such an insignificant injury. At least he would not be alone in his nudity for long.
Foster guided the boys inside and into a large locker room. They were instructed to discard their white sweatsuits and shower. Darren Parcell did not hesitate in doing exactly as he was told. He had always been quite shy about his body, but the words his father told him before he left that morning still rang loud in his head: "Every single thing you do there is part of the test. They're gonna be watching every move you make." Darren's father was a B3; he knew what he was talking about.
Darren stripped. His 5'10", 160-pound frame was fit enough, but not overly muscular. He had a little bit of a soft belly under his moderately developed pectorals. His pale white complexion contrasted nicely with the thick dark coat of body hair nature had blessed him with. He had smallish but respectable genitals that on very cold days were sometimes obscured by his thick bramble of pubic hair. The hair in his crack and around his buttocks made them look like two perfect round boulders in the grass. Darren was an avid cyclist and his legs and large thighs were much more developed than his upper body.
Darren walked past Dr. Foster on his way to the showers, those boulders bouncing. On the way he got a good look at Foster's ID badge. 'B1' it said. B1! Darren had seen a few First Betas from a distance over the years, but had never met one in person. "That's as much man as a beta can be," he thought. Almost as masculine as an Alpha. Darren had never met an Alpha at all. He briefly wondered if Alphas actually existed before biting his tongue to punish himself for such a blasphemous thought.
There were a number of showerheads hanging vertically from overhead pipes. They were high up enough that it was more like one giant shower than multiple individual ones. The boys crowded into the spray. Several plastic dispensers of dark green soap were hung about the space. Darren entered the tepid water and soaped up. It smelled vaguely like Christmas. His eyes could not help but glance over the other boys and their bodies. Some of them lean, some of them chubby, some of them rippling with plump muscles. His gaze grazed their genitals too. All sizes, all shapes. All of them uncircumcised. Well, for now at least. He knew B5 through B10 would be going home with a fresh tight cut.
His eyes kept going back to Paul Krause. Paul was the only boy there Darren knew before that day. They went to high school together. Darren was reliving those showers after gym class when he would admire Paul's generous musculature and meaty, swinging genitalia. Paul was even more breathtaking now than in high school.
He became acutely aware of his own penis. It was plumping. It was firming. Darren knew his genitals were on the small side, but he had been told that was just a tiny part of the assessment. He wasn't so sure about that. Every high-ranking Beta he had ever seen nude had some serious meat. Darren worried about what his erection could signal. In male etiquette, he had been taught that a casually semi-erect phallus was a sign of healthy virility in any social situation, but a FULLY erect penis might be construed as a sign of homosexuality or hostility. Thankfully his penis seemed content to stop at about 2/3 hard. A respectable display of maleness.
Dr. Foster flicked a switch on the wall. The lights brightened and the water became ice cold. He came to the edge of the shower area and looked over the boys. "Hand at your sides!" he ordered. "Everyone stand apart and face me, but keep fully in the water!" The boys turned to face him, some gasping from the cold. His eyes examined them one by one. Darren could feel a sense of electricity as Dr. Foster's eyes scanned up and down his body, and a sense of relief when his eyes went on to the next boy. It was short-lived relief. Dr. Foster's gaze returned to Darren. They scanned up and down, and then unmistakably on his genitals. The water stopped.
"Everyone out but Campbell, Parcell, and Zumanski." The others bolted out. Darren stood there with the other two boys, suddenly aware of how cold it was. And how his breath was still recovering from the run. He was shivering visibly. His erection receded to a gumdrop, and his scrotum tightened. It was one of those moments he appeared to be all pubes down there.
Dr. Foster entered the shower area and approached Hunter Zumanski. He got inches from the 6'8", obese, but very muscular moose of a boy and eyed him over, head to toe. Then he stood back and gestured for Hunter to follow the others. "Yes, Master," Hunter said before carrying his huge frame out of there, beer-can like cock bouncing over balls the size of lemons.
He came over to Darren. Dr. Foster performed the same close up examination of Darren's fairly average body. Darren wished he knew what this was about. Dr. Foster reached out the back of his hand and very gently grazed the soaking dark pelt of hair that covered Darren's torso. Foster's fingers found their way to Darren's unruly mop of pubic hair and he just barely ran them through it. Darren's heart was racing. Not just from the run. Finally Dr. Foster said he could go get dressed. Darren left the shower area and saw Dr. Foster go over to the delicate, slender, Justin Campbell.
Darren could not help but pause and watch as Dr. Foster eyed Justin's tanned and nearly hairless body over. Darren saw Dr. Foster lift his hands and place them upon Justin's soft, rounded hips. His diminutive cock began to perk up under its narrow brow of sparse light brown pubic hair.
Justin gasped. It was the first time he had ever been touched by a man. Dr. Foster rubbed Justin's stomach before moving up his torso to cup his puffy, plump chest tissue. Foster guided Justin to turn around. "Hold your ankles," he ordered.
"Yes, Master." Justin tried to butch his voice up as best he could. He tried to get control of his quivering body, but Dr. Foster was the most attractive man he had ever seen. Foster's touch sent pulses of ecstasy through him. He bent over and Foster gently spread the young man's buttocks apart, revealing a perfectly pale pink anus between those golden cheeks. His touch felt like elecricity. Despite how nervous and downtright terrified he was, he couldn't help but react to the waves of pleasure and animal instinct he felt. As hard as he tried to suppress it, his anus puckered and pouted with desire. Doctor Foster moved his face within an inch Justin's hole and exhaled a gentle stream of hot, moist breath onto it. Justin's face winced in horror as his penis bounced to full erection, and ejected a gush of prostatic fluid that hit the tile floor with an audible "SPLAT!"
Darren's own cock bounced up too and suddenly he realized he had been spying. He ran to join the other boys.
They would not see Justin again until the bus ride home. The rest of Justin's POMA would be conducted separately for the safety of the other boys. He would end up HB9/I25. Ninth Beta, Registered Homosexual. Indentured with eligibility for free male citizenship at age 25. He would get two weeks to spend with his family after the POMA, and then he would be placed with a wealthy older couple in Manhattan as a domestic servant, or "floor boy," as New Yorkers called indentured or enslaved males. Justin had always wanted to see the Big Apple.
After they donned the flimsy, silky white shorts and tank tops that had been provided. Dr. Foster led the remaining eighteen barefoot boys down the hall. They had breakfast. Followed by a long multiple-choice examination. Darren tried as best he could but every question seemed like a trick question. Then there was an essay portion. The questions seemed just as cryptic and multi-meaningful. This was followed by a long series of questions in which they were asked to choose from a selection of abstract shapes. Which shape makes you happy? Which shape makes you angry? "Don't think too hard, just pick," Darren's father had warned him. "First instinct."
The boys were then marched into a gym with weight machines. They were instructed to do a series of different lifting exercises with increasing weights. Darren didn't find any of it too difficult. At least not any more than most of the other boys. Most of them had been lifting at school in preparation for this day. One seemed to struggle. Tall, skinny, freckled, ginger Eric Hashmore. "Everybody out but Hashmore."
As the other boys clustered together in the corridor outside the gym Eric stayed behind. "On the floor. Pushups," Dr. Foster barked at him. Eric got in position and began pushups. Or what he thought were pushups. "Keep your back straight!" Eric tried and tried, but with all his effort could only get out six proper pushups. "Stand and disrobe." Dr. Foster held out his hand as Eric handed over his shorts and tank top. He stood there nude, panting and sweating, as Foster radioed for security.
Eric's POMA was over. TB10/PT/RA. Temporary Tenth Beta, eligible for re-assessment upon completion of a physical fitness training course and nutritional program. Two grim looking guards escorted the scrawny copper-topped boy up to the third floor for outprocessing.
"Don't you all think harshly of Eric. This does not read on his masculinity in the least. Part of being masculine is not judging others who haven't had the same advantages. He's gonna get his second chance and he deserves it. I think he'll do well." Darren knew from Eric's bright yellow sneakers and glasses that he was from a poor family and therefore would get a do-over. He still felt sorry for the boy. He had heard about those fitness camps. They were no joke.
He led the boys into a large, brightly lit room. There were a number of men in lab coats. The boys were once again instructed to strip down. Around the room separate stations were set up to take vital signs and measurements. Darren was assigned to go the the blood pressure station first. He had his BP taken, then onto the temperature station. Both oral and rectal, then weight & height, and then body measurements.
Body measurements had three attendants with tape measures who quickly went about measuring every dimension of his body: neck, waist, hips, legs, thighs, arms, chest -- you name it. Then to his surprise one attendant grabbed Darren's foreskin and pulled it taught while another measured his flaccid penis. "Two point nine," he said to the third attendant with the notebook. Then circumference: Three even. The short fat one who measured his penis then reached behind his testicles with two fingers and massaged deep into his taint. It worked. His penis inflated almost instantly to full erection. He got measured again. "Four point six," barked the attendant. He then took the circumference again, "three point two." Darren had always believed himself to be at least five inches long. Oh well. The attendant then grasped his testicles firmly in his fist and said simply, "C." Darren didn't have the foggiest clue what that meant.
He was then directed to the next and last station to have his heart & respiration rates taken along with his blood oxygen level, first resting, then again after 50 jumping jacks. His throbbing member bounced as he counted out those jumping jacks and he didn't notice as a wad of precum flew out of him and hit the freshly waxed floor. He was too distracted watching Paul at the measurement station.
The boys were led back to the cafeteria without getting dressed again. They had lunch. The choices were beef stew or a mixed green salad with chicken and citrus vinaigrette. Even the lunch choices seemed an obvious test and every boy got the beef stew. It tasted very institutional. While they were eating, a kitchen worker came out with a bucket of hot soapy rags. "Please wipe up any sweat, urine, ejaculate, or pre-ejaculate from the seats, tables, and floors before you leave." With a group of naked 18-year-olds, there was bound to be some of each.
After lunch they were taken to a very strange auditorium with what looked like dentist's chairs instead of theatre seats. Each boy was seated and attendants went around the room attaching electrodes to the boys' temples, chests, and stomachs. Around the base of each boy's penis they secured a small black band with a blue wire coming out. Finally the attendants inserted a black bulb-shaped device about the size of a golf ball into each boy's anus. There were some grunts and groans from the crowd -- the attendants didn't put a lot of effort into being gentle. The bulbs had a green wire. Along with blue blue wires from the penis bands, they were plugged into the left arms of the chairs. They were instructed to lean back and get comfortable and over each boy's head a tiny camera came down from the ceiling, trained on their eyes.
The lights went out. On the screen a series of videos played. The videos were all very short. None of them made much sense to Darren. The first one was a clown juggling, the next a film of a car accident in black & white. Some of the videos were pornographic. Some that weren't seemed oddly erotic, like one of a man with hairy arms kneading pizza dough. Some were very violent. A great many of them looked like clips of contraband TV shows and movies from before the war. Darren recognized the hairstyles and clothes from old family photos. Some people in the videos had old personal comms devices. Ubiquitous in those days, highly illegal now. Hundreds of these clips played while they just lay there and watched.
When the lights came up, Michael Romano was gone. His POMA was over. C/CIIS. Compelled Laborer, Criminal Inclinations Incompatible with Society. He would spend the rest of his days as a farm hand in Iowa. He would not be getting two weeks with his family and he would not be eligible for reassessment. The boys were shocked there had been a pre-criminal among them all day. After the electrodes were removed and bulbs were roughly extracted, they huddled together and prayed thanks to the Alphas for protecting them.
The remaining boys were once again marched to the cafeteria. Still nude. This time it was not to eat. They were each given a piece of blank paper and told two write down what masculinity meant to them. They were given sixty seconds.
In Darren's head, he heard something else his father had said. He wrote one word: Duty.
From there, the boys were called one by one to leave the cafeteria. Darren was the fourth called. An attendant led him to an office. Dr. Foster was waiting inside.
"Congratulations, Parcell. You are a Fifth Beta!" It was not what Darren was hoping for on the bus ride up there, but his heart still swelled with pride upon hearing it. God and the Alphas bless America. He could go to college after all! Dr. Foster reached out to shake Darren's hand.
"Thank you ma..." Darren almost said 'Master,' the word unassigned boys use for citizen men. But he was a citizen man now himself. And a B5 calls a B1 'Sir.' "Thank you, Sir!" Darren said. Proud of his first use of the word.
"Now let's talk about what B5 means!" Dr. Foster gestured for Darren to sit. "You may apply for universities now, and you are eligible for certain management positions. You may frequent establishments that serve alcohol, and may keep up to six liters of alcohol on your property. You may purchase firearms and ammunition, but they must be stored in a public armory. You may freely marry and procreate with a woman of the Respectable Class, but the Esteemed Class is off-limits. As a B5, you can register as a member of the Patriarchal order Party and vote in POP primaries. But you cannot vote in state or federal elections, you cannot own more than one half-acre of land, and you cannot travel overseas without an escort of at least B3. Do you understand?"
"Of course, Sir." Darren had been educated on all these matters since he was a kid. He eyed the huge stack of manila folders on Dr. Foster's desk. He saw a note from his eight grade algebra teacher. There was a picture of a soldier he drew in third grade. He recognized a photo of himself at his first job at an ice cream shop. When did this assessment actually begin?
"If you own a home, you may be blessed with the honor of providing room and board to men A through B4 for periods of up to 21 consecutive days, up to three times per year. They are the master of the house when this occurs. You may wear no facial hair, no jewelry of any kind, no tattoos. You must obey full sumptuary laws, so dress safe and conservatively. And you wear the standard crew cut of the middle Betas at all times. We'll get that taken care of today. I am also required by law to tell you the following: it is your legal right to register and associate with political parties other than the Patriarchal Order Party. You will face no repercussions or reprisal for doing so."
"Yes, sir."
"What was I required by law to say?"
"That it is my legal right to register and associate with parties other than the POP, without repercussions."
The men broke out in boisterous laughter and winked at each other over that bit of theatre.
"What do you know about reassessment?"
Darren paused for a moment, "uh, I know I can optionally reassess when I'm 21, and I know if I get a lower score I'm stuck with it for life, and if I get a higher score I havd to take a leadership course for it to be valid." He had been tested on this subject at school just months before.
"That's right. You can also apply for an additional reassessment if you complete four years of military service."
"What about law enforcement?"
"Well, that's correct too, but B5s are not eligible for police work. Even in the military you are barred from certain specialties, but there's still a lot open to you. There's also the chance of mandatory reassessment after prison time, major illness, divorce, and certain other reasons we keep to ourselves. We'll be watching." He gently smacked the pile of manila folders.
They both held their thumbs and forefingers in the shape of an 'O' in front of their chests. The sign of obedience. "THE ALPHAS SEE ALL," the two said in unison.
Dr. Foster slid a new brown sweatsuit across the desk to Darren. "You can get dressed on the bus." They stood and shook hands once more. "And one more thing," Dr. Foster's fingers reached down and gently pinched Darren's foreskin.
"Ah, yeah, I understand, Sir. THAT has to go."
"Before you go upstairs," Dr. Foster looked Darren square in the eye. "You came this close to walking out of here with a big 'H' on your neck today." He gestured with his fingers. "Watch yourself, and don't make me regret it."
Darren was dumbfounded. He gulped and nodded, "yes, Sir."
"I noticed you ogling Krause all day, even if the other assessors missed it. Keep that shit under control, son. I know you can. Registered H is more than just no college. It's no management work, it's no air travel, it's no staying out past 8:00 p.m. Hell, it's no public bathrooms! You wanna live like that?"
"No, Sir!"
"Good! Now take care of that before the other boys see it." Dr. Foster had been gently pinching and playing with Darren's foreskin and glans since he mentioned the circumcision, and through his little speech about being registered H. Darren's mind had been distracted by the subject matter, but his body had not. He was now throbbing erect.
"Sir?"
"Rub it out. Can't have you roaming the halls like that."
Darren's instinct to obey a B1 overcame his embarrassment at the situation and he began to masturbate. Dr. Foster reached out and caressed Darren's torso as he pleasured himself. He closed the inches between them and tweaked at Darren's nipples. Darren squealed. Dr. Foster knelt down. He dipped his fingers into some precum Darren had left on his chair and expertly maneuvered his index and middle fingers into Darren's anus. As he gently massaged Darren's prostate he whispered "You know son, I'm gonna tell you a little secret that doesn't leave this room. Being registered H has nothing to do with what you do with other men in private. It has everything to do with how you conduct yourself in public. Do you understand?"
"But Sir, the private is public!" Darren moaned that mantra from his school days as Dr. Foster worked harder into his g-spot, but he was in fact beginning to understand.
"The difference between you and that bitch Justin is you know how to control yourself. You know how to be a man. Feels good to be a man, doesn't it?"
"Yes, Sir!"
"Say it!"
"It feels so fucking good to be a man!" Precum that had only oozed before was now spritzing in tiny jets. Dr. Foster's ring finger joined its bigger siblings, and Darren's rectum was happy to accommodate.
"Now the private is public, of course. But it's not public public, you get me? You are a respectable heterosexual man and the public can see that. That's what counts. Understand?"
"Yes, Sir!" Darren groaned. It would not be much longer.
His legs were quaking. Dr. Foster continued his internal massage with one hand and caressed Darren's furry backside with the other. Soon thick ropes of cum spilled out and over the dark lawn of Darren's chest. He collapsed back into the chair. It felt good to be a man. Foster opened a cabinet and pulled out a pink sweatshirt and cleaned his fingers off, along with some cum that landed on his forearm. He tossed the shirt to Darren.
"Clean yourself up with that. It's just gonna go to a faggot anyway." Darren chuckled and wiped himself down. When he was acceptably tidy, Dr. Foster instructed him to go to the third floor for outprocessing. The men stood and shook hands. "Good luck, Darren. You're going to go onto great things for your rank."
"Thanks so much, Sir. That means a lot." The men were totally composed and professional. There was no awkwardness. There was no hint or acknowledgement of the physical interaction that had just taken place in either of their voices. The act had been compartmentalized in both men's minds, totally and immediately.
Darren made his way up to the third floor. Another group of nude man-candidates in the middle of their own POMA passed him on the stairs, some rubbing their backsides. "Must've just finished the video portion," Darren thought. On the processing floor he reunited with the other new men, all with their sweatsuits under their arms. Mostly brown. Kurt Alberts had a pink, but he was an impressive HB2 nonetheless. That '2' overrode many of the restrictions attached to the 'H.' A '5' doesn't protect you that way, and Darren suspected that was why Dr. Foster had been generous in overlooking certain things. Darren reached out to shake his hand. "Congratulations..." Darren almost forgot the basic etiquette rule that you never call a homosexual 'sir,' even if he outranks you. "Congratulations Second Beta!" He then noticed Paul Krause was missing.
"Where's Paul?"
"Upstairs. Paul's an Alpha-Select. He's going to the Leadership Academy," Kurt answered.
"After a six month all-expenses-included world cruise with the other new Alphas," Casey Wilkins added, with an air of disapproval.
Kurt's eyes shot daggers at Casey. He sensed sarcasm from the B7. "Well they certainly deserve it," Kurt said, looking Casey straight in the eye.
"Oh, of course! Of course, Second Beta!" Casey dared not imply he meant otherwise. As a child Casey was a class clown that everybody liked. That popularity (along with his family money) always made him assume he would attain a high rank as an adult. He was going through an adjustment now. He could feel Kurt's dominance in the pit of his stomach.
"No harm done. Just mind your tone, all right?" Kurt tried to sound gentle about this, even as his already generously-sized cock was beginning to swell and lift at this first little exercise in authority. As he spoke, Kurt flexed his pelvic muscles to bounce his semi-erection rhythmically at the Seventh Beta. Even for homosexual Kurt, this was purely a display of authority. "Alphas earn every privilege they get." The message got across. Casey's body tensed and his own genitals shrank and retreated inward in reaction to the admonition. The male hierarchy was on full display for anyone to see. Any wild mammal would have understood that interaction.
"Yes, Second Beta." He choked.
"Wow," was all Darren could say. He had met an Alpha after all. That muscled Adonis from his own high school would be one of their rulers someday. On reflection, it made sense. Paul always had the bearing and the presence. He always commanded the respect of those around him, even full grown men.
Darren got his crew cut. Goodbye to the shaggy mop traditionally worn by boys. And like the other men who needed it, he wore a brave face as the circumcision clamp closed down on his unanaesthetized penis. A little tear came to his eye, but he bore it well. The others cheered as the clamp came off and his new cock made its debut. It was a bit swollen, but he liked the look.
The men rallied around Kurt for support as he got his 'H' tattoo right on the centerline of his throat. Pink with a thick black outline, three inches high. Whatever else, he was still a Second Beta. He bore the pain well as a Second Beta should, and the men respected him for that. "Don't think of it as a mark of shame," the tattoo technician told Kurt "it's not that at all. It's just an open signal to others about what's what. They have a right to know." He paused before adding, "Sir."
The men were given adult boots to wear for the first time. It would take some getting used to after 18 years of sneakers. They were led out to the bus. Justin and Eric were waiting for them. As the old bus driver returned from his break, the two of them jumped up straight and wished him a "good afternoon, Sir!" as the only two of his passengers the driver outranked. The bus driver simply nodded. He was in his late 60s and therefore did not grow up in a proper hierarchy to love and cherish it the way the new men did.
They all wished Eric good luck for his reassessment. They knew he had it in him. Eric congratulated them. Justin, on the other was still a boy, and for the next seven years an object of shame and pity. The others did not look him in the face. It was not cruelty. It was hierarchy. Hierarchy had lifted them out of the chaos of the 2020s and into a prosperous and peaceful new world.
The men lined up by rank and boarded the bus. Kurt was first, followed by Lance, who made B3 and was proud to still have his foreskin and the two remaining inches of his blond curls. Lance had fully expected to go home a B6 or B5 today, but the assessors were impressed by his physical fitness, no-fuss attitude, quiet confidence and calm demeanor. They always had been impressed. Lance was not a natural leader, like Paul or Kurt, but he was a natural organizer and manager. He also scored a perfect '0' on the Kinsey Scale test. That was a rare achievement for any man, especially a man who took the receptive role in 29 of his 34 documented same-sex penetrative encounters. He was one to keep an eye on.
Lance took a seat behind Kurt. It was not considered proper to sit directly next to a registered homosexual, no matter his rank.
Poor Kurt had scored a 5.7 on his Kinsey Scale test, and the assessors could not sweep that under the rug, no matter how masculine his demeanor -- and it was impressively masculine. Which was a shame, because it was Kurt's DNA sequencing that returned with 25 of the 27 known Alpha traits, not Paul's. Paul was a very high beta with strong charisma and leadership skills, a high masculinity profile, and a very high physical fitness score, but he was no Alpha. Kurt was. But they couldn't send an Alpha home in pink, so decisions had to be made. The assessors switched the DNA records. Life for Kurt would be a mixed bag of privileges and authority, along with restrictions and harsh discrimination. He was an Alpha -- he could handle it. They'd be keeping an eye on him too.
Paul would be... fine as an Alpha. Just fine, the assessors told themselves. As long as he never worked too closely with other Alphas, he would not be found out. The assessors had infected him with a modified strain of dogpox to keep him off the cruise. He could go on his Alpha Grand Tour privately with a high beta guide at some other time. It would all be... fine.
Darren and two other B5s followed. Nearly identical with their crew cuts. Fifth betas straddled two worlds. Above the laborers and drones, but below the managers and leaders. They were the lowest rank that could go to college, but the highest rank still subject to random police strip searches. They were the lowest rank that could own land, and the highest rank expected to perform compulsory community service. Not high enough to own silver or gold, not low enough to eat in municipal food halls. It was a narrow and twisting path to walk. Darren remembered another bit of wisdom from his father: "The closer you are to the middle, the more you have to play the respectability game." He was learning what that meant.
Then four B6es and five B7s filed in. All nine had been told the same thing: they were "the backbone of society!" This filled most of them with pride and patriotism, but it did not console Casey Wilkins, who was going home to the old family estate to tell his B3 father, his B1 and B3 older brothers, and his certified 'Esteemed-Among-the-Obedient' old-money mother that he only made B7. More than them, he worried about how his beloved Alpha Uncle Jack would react. A B7 could not even sit at the same table as an Alpha. Casey relied upon every ounce of his aristocratic upbringing to hold back a flood of tears.
Then there was gentle giant Hunter Zumanski, the only B8 (other than the bus driver). His sweatsuit was not brown but grey. His head was shaven smooth instead of a crew cut. He and Justin had been given a different kind of circumcision than the other betas. The two of them had thick gauze bandages on their very sore and swollen members. The others just had a ring of clear NanoHeal tape, and seemed not to be in pain at all.
Hunter was dreading going home to tell his girlfriend he was not eligible for marriage and would be moving to a worker's dormitory in two weeks. He was glad for her sake they had never broken the rules of proper courtship. If she were accused of 'private communication' with a B8, her future would be very difficult. Maybe he could ask the driver for some advice about dorm life at the rest stop. He found comfort in the fact that he had become a man that day, even if a low-ranking one. He prayed thanks to the Alphas for their wisdom.
Justin and then Eric came last. All of them had been taught from a very young age that life was not fair, and nor should it be, but Justin had that lesson driven home the hardest that day. Even he was not bitter. At heart, Justin was a deeply lonely boy, but he was not beaten. He was too sweet and too gentle for this world. If only there were some place where he could meet others like him. He wondered what the next seven years would bring, where he was going. He said his own prayer to the Alphas. A prayer for their mercy and kindness. Perhaps they were listening.
Eric had heard stories about fitness camps. They were supposed to be grueling. Months of running around naked in the elements, eating protein paste and lifting and swimming and climbing. Eric resolved that he would be successful. Dr. Foster had arranged for a pair of glasses to be made for him that weren't welfare yellow. They were brown like a normal person's glasses. After 18 years of being raised with no father and a registered 'fallen woman' for a mother, it was nice to have something normal. Something not yellow. He promised himself he'd make a high score next time. His younger sisters were counting on it. He was the man of the house now and he could lift them up. Without a father, their only chance at decent marriages (and thus any future at all) depended on him. He wouldn't let them down.
The bus pulled away. And the men, who by this point had totally forgotten they were still nude, started to dress. On the roof, an air transport pod quietly landed to take Political Dissident Michael Romano to Compelled Laborer training. Just below, on the fourth floor, Darren could see Alpha Select Paul waving at them from the window. The men all made the sign of obedience to him. Darren felt as if God Himself had smiled upon them.
