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Not everyone is happy with the way things are in Jefferson, the fifty-first state. Some die-hards refuse to accept the high taxes that fuel the lavish lifestyles of the elite, and some object to the mandate that only allows the upper class to breed, and while just about everyone likes the free state run bordellos there are whole groups of citizens that object to the televised castrations that are doled out to sex offenders. Some of these dissenters have banded together in groups and are living in the mountains and secluded valleys, subsiding on growing and selling untaxed bootleg marijuana. They tell themselves that they are free, but it is only a matter of time before they will all be tracked down and brought to justice, at which time the wives and daughters will be sent to the bordellos and the husbands and sons will surrender their balls to the state castrator. In the mean time they eke out their existence and raise their children as community property, nurturing and educating them the best they can.
“He’s really carrying on, isn’t he?” Sixteen-year-old Clay commented to his fraternal, but not identical twin brother, Colt. “Yeah, and it’s not like he has anything special either.” Colt replied as they watched the castrator cut the bottom off of the screaming guy’s scrotum, tie off each nut, and finally snip them free. The boys, like all males in Jefferson, watched the televised castrations when they could, which wasn’t very often for these youths. They were part of an itinerate band of nomads wanted by the law and forced to live in remote valleys where TV signals were a rarity. “That might be you up there someday, if I get the certificate.” Clay commented as the castration continued. “I might still be pronging Layla while you’ll have the end of your cock cut off.” Colt responded, and then added. “What makes you think you’ll get the certificate anyway?” “Age. Dad says that I’m two minutes older than you.” Ron Romez, the boy’s father, had been born in Oregon like his own father also had been, and was a successful young ochardist when the new state was formed. His success had earned him a certificate to father one child despite his dark skin and Spanish name and soon thereafter his wife had become pregnant. With twins. The certificate for one child only, so protocol demanded that one boy be castrated at birth or surrendered for elimination. This wasn’t acceptable to the young parents, so they took both boys and fled, not even waiting for either of them to be circumcised. They had successfully eluded the law and lived in peace until a few months ago when another of their group had given a pencil pushing wannabe cop a twelve-gauge vasectomy. The certificate was still valid, and either boy’s name could be entered, and once his foreskin had been removed he would be entitled to a college education. The father and the other boy would both be castrated if apprehended and the girls and women sent to bordellos. The boys had both been home schooled and were both very sharp but continuation of the family name depended on one of them fathering a legitimate heir, and that would require a college education. The situation was further complicated by the presence of Layla. She was fourteen and both boys were smitten by her blonde beauty, airy personality, and the accessibility of her ever-hungry twat. She was the only unattached post-pubescent female in the group, and while one of the boys would likely become her wife the other would have to leave before the situation became to intense. “Layla may just come with me when I take the certificate and leave.” Clay observed. “It won’t take her long to get tired of your stubby little cock.” Colt had entered puberty first, but Clay had continued to grow and now he was both taller and better endowed than his twin. “The only reason yours’ is bigger is because you spend so much time pulling on it.” Colt countered. “And I might get the certificate instead of you, and as dumb as you are you’ll get caught and wind up strapped to the table getting your nuts cut off. After that you’ll be the one getting pronged out at the work camp” “Ouch!” Clay agreed, remembering the one time that he and his brother had experimentally shared each other’s assholes. “I’d rather be dead than have to spend the rest of my life nutless with some guy fucking my ass.” He summed it up for both of them “Hey! He doesn’t look any older than we are!” Colt said, as the second castration of the day was about to start. A young man was strapped to the table. He had no discernable beard, and although his crotch had been shaved only soft, downy, hair adorned his thighs and he still had the slightly chubby build of a boy instead of the firmer muscularity of an adult. His long, limp cock, encased in a rubber sheath, was taped to his hairless belly and his bulging balls, segregated from his body by a green tourniquet, glistened with a fresh coat of disinfectant. Illegitimate children and youths’ castrations are immediate and never televised, but those convicted of criminal offenses are not cut until they turn eighteen. “He must be eighteen, I wonder what he did.” Clay pointed out. “Hey, look, his nuts are tied off. Someone else is going to do it to him. I like it better when some guy uses a knife or something and cuts them off.” A large, hairy arm holding a hunting knife appeared in the picture, and another gloved hand grasped the youth’s ball sack. The cutter, probably the father or husband of the victim, pulled out on the screaming youths manhood and brought the knife close. “Whoa, check out his cock!” Colt said. “I’ll bet he even has you beat when he gets it up.” “He’ll never get it up again, that’s for sure!” Cay said as the knife touched the scrotum just below the band. “Okay, here it comes, it’s bye bye balls!” The screen flickered and went dark before the boys could witness the consequences of flouting the law, and the sudden silence was soon punctuated by the brassy sound of the alarm gong. “Helicopters!” The boy’s father blurted out as he rushed into the tent. “And five trucks! This looks like the big one. That damned Paul should never have shot the nuts off of that cop. They never forget.” He commented, while rummaging around through a locker, finally extracting a rolled up document. “Here Colt! Take this. It is your birth certificate. Go out through the old mining shaft, and get yourself to Medford. Contact Uncle Jason. He’ll find someone to circumcise you and help you register the certificate. Good Luck, son, and take this with you.” He said, handing Colt the same old .243 Winchester deer rifle that he and his father had both packed as boys. Those final words having been said, Clay and his father prepared to make their stand with the police, and hopefully to evade and eventually escape the valley, while Colt entered the bowels of the earth through a system of long abandon mining tunnels. Colt knew the tunnels well, or at least thought he did; they had lived in this are once or twice before, and after they had been forced here again a few months ago he had explored them even further. That was then, when he was calm and collected. Now, with his mind in turmoil he quickly became disoriented and confused, or in other words; lost. His flashlight expired shortly after dawn the next morning, and he had lain down on the cold floor to ponder his fate when he felt the cool draft of air. Knowing that it indicated an opening, Clay slowly made his way towards the source, fumbling in the blackness of the mine, hoping he wouldn’t blunder into a shaft. He was hungry and thirsty, and his luminous watch told him it was noon when he saw the faint glimmer of light ahead of him. He paused outside the opening to let his eyes adjust to the harsh light before carefully looking around. He was high on the side of the mountain, several miles from their campsite. A Jeep was parked below him, possibly three hundred yards away, and there were three men with it. He peered through the powerful scope on the rifle, and was immediately shocked at what he saw. His father lay on the ground, naked, and with his head bent at an impossible angle he was obviously dead. A mat of flies hovered around the bloody mess between his legs. Clay, also naked, was on the hood of the Jeep, with his hands tied to the windshield frame and his ankles to the corners of the bumpers, writhing against his bonds. The whiteness of his groin was a marked contrast to the tan of his body, as was the redness of his blood against the dirty paint of the Jeep. A man, whom Colt recognized as being the cop that Paul had shot in the nuts, was holding a knife in one hand and Clay’s severed credentials of manhood in the other, studying them intently. He finally placed them on the hood of the Jeep and reached for Clay’s cock to further add to his disfigurement. Colt quickly placed the crosshairs of the scope over the sadist’s heart, but then lowered it to just below his navel before calmly pulling the trigger. A .243 is a speedy little cartridge, and its’ report is a sharp crack as opposed to the deep boom of a larger rifle. Clay heard the solid thump of the bullet striking home and then this sharp crack, and looking around he could see the gleam of sunlight on the riflescope, and he smiled, and was still smiling when Colt’s second shot humanely ended his misery. Colt threw the heirloom rifle down the mineshaft and went down the hill to bury his dead, and to piss in the face of his dying, gutshot enemy before hiking to Medford to start his new life.
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