Ryan Author
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The Culling
Part One
Communique – dated 17 January 2023
The Human Rights Committee of the United Nations has passed a motion of condemnation on the Auzealand Territories, where sentences of capital punishment have risen by 700% since 2015.
The Committee further notes, and deplores, evidence of capital punishment carried out prior to appeal processes being exhausted.
Finally, the Committee condemns the concentration of sentences of capital punishment upon the young, and particularly young men. We urge the Government of the Auzealand Territories to pursue alternative strategies to deal with troubling crime rates, which the Committee acknowledges are causing widespread public concern.
*******
Killymaloo Correctional Facility, Auzealand Territories
November 2022
I feel desperately sorry for Billy, who was expecting a low-ranking warder to unlock his cell, as per the 07.30 routine. Gathered with the other young residents of his landing, Billy would be escorted to a breakfast he was hungry for, and then on to exercise in the yard. Bathed in late spring sunshine, Billy might jog around the perimeter fence sixty times, stretching his lithe torso.
Instead I arrive with my clipboard and storage box, and Billy knows what that means. For three months he avoided the cull, but this morning his card is marked.
‘Please, don’t say it’s me,’ Billy whispers as I fill his cell doorway, my shadow enveloping him.
‘It’s you,’ I confirm, without hesitation.
‘Please, don’t do this,’ he says.
‘We need to prepare,’ I tell him.
*******
I have three boys to process today, so cannot dally indefinitely with Billy.
The culling has been stepped-up, for until last week I readied one boy in the morning and another in the afternoon. Now there is an evening session, too. In total, twelve male youth a day are being despatched – the process slickly efficient through repetition.
Upon arrival at 07.00 I was handed the daily list by the Governor, telling me which boys I needed to collect at 07.30, 11.00 and 16.00, and where they might be found. Only the first duty was of immediate interest:
Billy Cox – serial number AZ43 – cell number 817.
There was enough time to grab a strong coffee, but I was careful to be walking the corridors by 07.15, as cell 817 is in a far block on the top floor. This is a vast institution, totalling 1200 cells: the kind of place where new warders are given site plans to assist navigation.
I moved briskly as ever, darting amongst patrolling guards, my boots stomping the metal staircases. Billy was unknown to me but that is not unusual, for in addition to a roll of 1200 inmates, those of you sharp at mathematics will have noted the twelve terminations and the churn rate of one percent, each day.
Keep that number in mind and you will understand the psychological pressure of being a young prisoner here, each and every one with a death sentence. When the culling increased from eight to twelve a day, no announcement was made, but the gossip spread like wildfire around the prison wings. Clever boys – not a majority contingent, here – re-calculated the average survival period and passed on the bad news to their landing, but averages can be so very cruel. There have been lads selected for the noose within three days of arrival, but the longest-serving inmate has racked-up almost two years of fearful incarceration.
The older lags suffer the trauma of forming a bond of friendship, only to ascertain their new mate has disappeared in the daily selection. In the canteen there is an empty seat, and in the communal shower there is a head flowing with soothing hot water, but without a boy underneath it. For some of the youths, this is an experience they live through a dozen times before their own number is called.
Killymaloo is a place of simmering tension, fostered by the terror of selection. There are fights and injuries, but there have been no deaths aside from those officially sanctioned. There have been escape attempts, but none successful. There are meetings between inmates and their lawyers, but the appeal paper-chase grinds slowly whilst the culling proceeds at pace.
Killymaloo is an experiment in managing boys through to their sex deaths: sold to the world as judicial executions.
None of the living knows precisely what awaits them, but they have seen chosen boys marched naked from their cells, and wondered why. In the exercise yard they may have noticed the Governor leering at them from his watch tower and found it spine-chillingly creepy, but their appearance on the next day’s list ensures they do not have long to fret over the meaning of it.
*******
Billy delves into a ragged work of science fiction from the prison library, and pulls out a $20 bill concealed between the pages.
‘Please… take this, and swap me for someone else. Give me another chance, yeah?’
I stare into his deep brown eyes, a little sunken and baggy in a physical manifestation of the pressure he has been under.
‘That’s been your planned strategy, yes? A bribe?’
‘Yeah. Please, take it and move on,’ Billy stammers.
‘I’m sorry, Billy, but I can’t be corrupted.’
‘Please… or… what else could I do to make you go away?’
‘I don’t know. What do you suggest?’ I ask.
The boy’s face flushes crimson, but he doesn’t cloak his answer in subtlety.
‘Sex stuff, maybe?’
I take a moment of apparent reflection.
‘That would be more attractive than twenty bucks. This place pays quite well, already.’
‘Yeah?’ Billy probes.
‘What’s on offer?’ I ask.
‘I could suck you.’
‘Long and deep?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And what about anal?’ I ask, and it hits him like a brick.
Billy ponders, but not for long.
‘Yeah… you could ass fuck me… if you went away and chose some other boy.’
‘You’d let me breed you, until your rump squelched with my cum?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Are you straight, Billy?’
‘Yeah, of course.’
‘Then you must be feeling pretty desperate, right now?’
‘Wouldn’t you be?’ Billy shoots back.
‘Yes. I would,’ I concede.
‘Do you wanna fuck my tight ring, then?’ he asks.
‘Like I said, Billy: I can’t be corrupted.’
The handsome youth with dark brown hair slumps to his cot, covering his tearful face with his palms, and I use the opportunity to start filling my storage box with his possessions.
*******
From the single wooden shelf above his desk, I clear half a dozen unframed photographs as Billy watches me between spread fingers.
‘Is this your girlfriend?’ I ask, pointing to a portrait image.
‘Yes.’
‘She’s pretty: lovely blonde hair. What’s her name?’
‘Megan… she’s nineteen.’
‘Ah-ha. So that makes her a couple of years younger than you, I’m guessing?’
‘Only a year: I’m twenty,’ Billy says.
‘I see. And how long have you two been dating?’
‘Five years,’ Billy sniffs. ‘We’ve been seeing each other since high school.’
‘That’s quite sweet,’ I say, arranging the photographs in a pile within the opaque plastic box.
‘She’s pregnant,’ Billy says, abruptly.
It is not the first time I’ve heard that line, but still, I freeze at the revelation.
‘Yours?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, of course!’ He blurts, angry at my angle.
‘When’s it due?’
‘A couple of months – and it’s a boy.’
Billy moves his hands from his face, instead using them as fists to prop his chiselled chin.
‘Congratulations,’ I say.
‘For what?’
‘Fatherhood.’
‘Are you going to let me go, then, so that I can be a father?’
‘No, because justice must be done, but it’s an achievement nobody can deny you. Part of you will live on, in that child.’
‘Please… let me stay a while longer, at least to hear the news about the birth.’
‘It’s really important to you, isn’t it, Billy?’
‘Yeah. Please… don’t take me now,’ he begs, eyes following me around the cell as I clear the contents.
*******
Into the box go a battery powered transistor radio, toothbrush and toothpaste, and a worn bar of soap onto which a brown pubic hair clings.
‘What are you in for?’ I ask.
‘Robbery, but I didn’t do it!’ Billy says.
It’s the same in every prison: nobody ever ‘did it’ and the place is supposedly heaving with miscarriages of justice. I can’t afford to care whether this one is guilty or not, but the judge said yes.
‘Did you appeal?’
‘Yes, but it’s caught up in some delay. I’m not really sure what’s going on.’
‘Well, I heard they’re giving posthumous pardons in a few cases now, so it won’t necessarily be the end of it, when you’re gone.’
‘But how the fuck can they do that? They should hear the appeal before…’
‘Before the noose encircles your neck?’
‘Yeah, of course. It’s sick, to treat guys this way.’
‘It’s not personal, Billy,’ I say. ‘Don’t go to that dark chamber thinking this is you against the world, kid. You’re in a process, and that’s how it is.’
‘How does that make it better?’ the boy asks.
‘I can’t make it better, but I can tell you the best frame of mind in which to face this.’
‘Yeah?’ he says, incredulous.
‘Yeah. Calm, dignified and brave.’
‘Please, don’t go through with this!’
*******
‘Can I finish my letter?’ Billy asks.
The boy watches me leaf through a pile of correspondence on the desk. Most are letters received, bearing the stamp of the Facility Censor, but uppermost is a pencil-scrawled missive, the flow of which I interrupted upon arrival at cell 817.
‘We don’t have time, I’m afraid.’
‘It would mean so much to me,’ Billy says.
‘I see it’s to Megan.’
‘Yeah.’
‘What did you intend to say?’
‘Well now… I can forget the routine news, I suppose. I want to tell her how much I love her, and how much our baby means to me.’
‘I do understand,’ I say, towering over him, solemn.
‘It wouldn’t take long.’
I pause, as though the matter were more complex than it is, and I sense Billy feels I will deny him.
‘If you get naked, immediately and without a fuss, you will have saved us time. You can reinvest that time in your letter,’ I propose.
‘I don’t understand why I have to get naked,’ Billy murmurs.
‘You’ll be let into a privileged secret soon, Billy,’ I say. ‘You’ll get to experience the difference between an execution and a snuff, and then, you’ll see the need for nakedness.’
*******
‘Fuck!’ the boy says, gripping the neck of his red T-shirt.
‘The time for the strip is now, Billy,’ I say.
Nine years his senior, I face the boy with just a foot between us: too close for his comfort. The T-shirt is overly tight, and hugs Billy’s figure. The athletic definition of his pectoral rack stretches the upper half of the garment, whilst his tit nubs push hard at the fabric – so enticing as pert little pleasure points. Below, slack in the material suggests a flat tummy and narrow hips, whilst the sleeves are curtailed mid-bicep so as to exhibit the muscular tone.
Killymaloo boys have a great diet and access to a gymnasium, in addition to the exercise yard. They are well kept, until it is decided they are no longer ‘keepers’ whereupon they hang, fit and taut as a boy should be.
Billy tugs the T-shirt over his head and throws it upon the cot. I scoop it up, fold it neatly, and place it in the box of his possessions. With the corner of an eye I enjoy the revealed flesh, as Billy kicks off his scuffed white sneakers.
‘Now the pants,’ I encourage, but having commenced the journey to nudity, the kid’s long fingers are already poised.
‘Fuck!’ he sighs, hauling down the elasticated waist of the gray jogging bottoms. Belts, of course, are banned at Killymaloo to avoid the tragedy and intrusive investigation of a suicide. Over smooth and defined legs the polyester is peeled like a banana. Billy is 180 centimetres in height but carries it disproportionately in those pins, lean and strong. With an entangled fuss he steps from the joggers bunched at his ankles, shedding his black socks whilst in the vicinity.
So there comes a time when straight boy must bare himself in front of complex, overbearing man. This is a time when girl-poking, baby-making sexual equipment must hang free for that man to devour visually, with the youth persuaded to spread his legs wide and let the genitalia unfurl to its full glory. The path to that point is rarely smooth.
‘I don’t want this,’ Billy whines.
‘I appreciate your difficulty,’ I say, without concession, as I fold and pack his joggers.
‘Do I have to walk through the prison, like I’ve seen other naked lads do?’
‘Yes, but we’ll move together. You’ll stride with me, almost the length of this facility. I’m sorry your final destination is such a distance.’
‘It’s a sex thing, isn’t it? That’s the only reason you make boys walk naked through the crowds. It’s a fucking humiliation.’
‘Yeah, that’s true. It is a sex thing to get a boy bare, and walk him through the wings to his noose. It sends a powerful message to him, and to those watching.’
‘What message am I supposed to get?’ Billy mumbles, as his dewy eyes drop to the cell floor.
‘That you’re being hustled to a sexual termination,’ I confirm, as casually as answering a query on the time of day.
‘And what happens if I won’t take my briefs off?’
‘I’ll call for back-up, you’ll be pinned down, and they’ll be ripped and shred with a knife.’
‘I bet you have to do that a lot. Fucking bastard!’
‘Not at all, Billy. Most boys are sensible about it – in the end.’
The twenty year-old gulps, fingers hooked preparedly at the waist of his unbranded white briefs. To the front, the pouch bulge suggests ample tackle being constrained.
Billy tries one last time, his tone more reasonable.
‘I really don’t want to get naked, and… to have to walk past friends. I’ve seen other boys do it, but… I didn’t think it would be this difficult when it was my turn. They’ll all be out of their cells, going to breakfast.’
‘You’re looking at the busy wings as a negative,’ I say, leaving the converse for Billy to decipher.
‘So, what the fuck is the positive?’
‘It’s an opportunity to look your mates in the eye as you walk by, nonchalant, and say your goodbyes.’
‘It’s like you think I should be proud, rather than degraded.’
‘Absolutely, I’d say that’s the best way you can handle this.’
‘It’s fucking cruel. I’ve been praying this place would be found out and closed down, before it was my turn.’
‘It’s very cruel, yeah. It’s not fair, and it’s sadistic, but it’s the best way to do sexualised death in bulk,’ I say, bludgeoning Billy with my candidness, because it’s turning me on to watch him react.
‘Is that how you get a thrill, you fucking queers?’
‘It thrills the Governor, and his friends in the military and Government.’
‘You’re fucking with our minds. All along, this place has been one big headfuck!’
‘I need your briefs now, Billy,’ I say, closing the debate.
‘You’re fucking sick!’ he yells, temples swollen.
‘The briefs please, Billy, or your letter stays unfinished.’
Remembering Megan, his girlfriend and baby mother, the thin underwear is pulled down from the rear first over firm, pale, ass mounds. The pouch is leveraged off his sex equipment in a single movement, and the modest garment cascades down his legs. Billy steps from the briefs, wiping his tear-stained face with a forearm, and I collect them quickly, for their lingering presence on the floor would serve only to taunt the butt naked youth.
‘Good lad,’ I say, for this preparatory role is more about persuasion and confidence-giving than barking orders.
‘Fuck!’ Billy repeats to no particular end, his nine inch dick hose swinging free.
*******
Now flesh is uncovered, the smell of terror fills the cell. A cocktail of vinegary, funky and fetid, when Billy moves the aroma of boy fear follows him like a shadow.
Pushing the pencil hard, Billy rushes to finish his letter in the five minutes I allowed, as I complete the cell clearance.
Removing his sheet from the mattress I find a patch of dried semen, yellow and crusty against the white cotton.
‘When did this happen?’ I ask Billy, and he spins on the stool by the desk.
He blushes.
‘Two, maybe three nights ago.’
‘It looks like it was quite an eruption?’ I suggest.
‘Yeah.’
‘Who were you thinking of? Megan?’
The blush spreads down his neck.
‘No, it was another girl,’ Billy admits. Really, he should have kept things simple for me.
‘Your fantasy lady, or ladies?’
‘Yeah.’
‘It’s self-indulgent,’ I say. ‘But then again, in this place there’s no point saving the best wank-bank scenes to enjoy another day.’
‘No.’
‘You still enjoy the sexual release, I guess?’
‘Yeah… I can forget about everything else, for half an hour or so.’
‘And do you feel a twinge of post-climax guilt about Megan, when you cum to some lesbian romp tableau featuring your favourite porn stars?’
‘Yeah I do, actually. Always have. It feels unfaithful although it isn’t, really.’
‘I think it’s forgivable. But have you shot your wad since then, two or three nights ago?’
Billy shakes his head.
‘That’s helpful,’ I say, leaving it there.
I fold the sheet and pillow case, whilst Billy returns to the letter I have interrupted again. With the bed linen removed, the plastic-coated waterproof mattress awaits re-dressing for a new boy. Given the pressure on places at Killymaloo, there should be another resident by tea time.
The steel bars at the window were painted black, but through being held and rubbed – habitually – the coating has worn back to bare metal. I suspect Billy spent much time at this slit of daylight, standing on tiptoe to catch a glimpse of the comings and goings at the perimeter gate. Maybe his lawyer would turn up, with good news, or an international delegation to investigate the multiple breaches of human rights conventions?
Billy maintained a presence at this window, hoping someone might see the peeping eyes of an expectant father, and care enough to take action to end the savage regime. With a sweep of his binoculars the Governor saw those brown eyes in cell 817, searching for humanity, and took his own action when the next list came to be drawn up.
On the cell walls, painted cream, Billy’s unsettled mind is expressed in pencil graffiti:
LET ME GO! – in block capitals, just like that.
HELL HOLE
They fucking kill us! TELL SOMEONE! We need help!
Over his bed, the passing days have been marked off in a count. Adding the blocks of five, I get to one hundred and four: almost an average stay.
Later today, the decorators will visit and erase all trace of Billy’s graffiti, for that is standard procedure between inmates. Beforehand, I will tip-off the Governor, who likes to view desperate scrawling personally in solitary moments, post-snuff.
I watch Billy mark kisses at the bottom of his letter to Megan.
‘Finished?’ I ask, but my tone and outstretched hand suggest an order rather than an enquiry. It’s my job to move Billy on from soppy sentimentality, now.
‘Will you make sure it gets sent?’ Billy asks, passing me the paper.
‘Sure,’ I say, popping it in the box with the entire contents of his cell. The lid is secured by way of four plastic clips, and all trace of Billy Cox’s stay in number 817 is erased.
*******
On each landing warders corral groups of prisoners in identikit uniform, ready for the shuffle to breakfast.
Billy marches naked past and between them, whilst I follow closely to his rear. Chest puffed, chin up and ass mounds clenched firm, Billy has taken the pride thing to heart. Hundreds of eyes identify the latest youth to be snatched, in sorrow but also relief at their further evasion of the terminal remedy. Amongst the masses, a few raise their voices:
‘Fuck, it’s Billy!’
‘You were one of the best, mate!’
‘So sorry it’s you, dude!’
‘Be strong, bro!’
It hits them doubly hard when, every so often, one of the most popular boys on the wing is taken from them without warning. Lads such as Billy with character and presence, who establish themselves quickly amongst peers, are plucked quite deliberately when complacency sets in, or when rumours of planned insurrection are heard. Extinguish the leaders – the big boys – and the confidence of the troops is drained.
There are sideways glances at Billy’s dick meat and nut sac as he pushes on, arms swinging, and I see him bristle at the leering eyes. Statistically, there must be some gay boys amongst the oglers, but Billy is aware he is a spectacle for all. Never again will Billy share a shower with these youths, so what’s the harm now in taking a good look – appalled, but also curious?
And then there is the matter of Billy’s foes, few in number but vociferous:
‘Looking hot, man!’
‘Goodbye, pencil dick!’ (An entirely invalid ‘observational’ taunt.)
‘Damn noose is gonna grip so tight, honey!’
The sarcastic whistles, though, annoy more than the catcalls.
Ass melons flexing and his bare feet slapping the floor, Billy hurries along. It says something of the barbarity we have created here that boy prisoners jeer one of their own, on his way to the Termination Centre.
‘Can I start fucking your girl, tomorrow?’ shouts a Moroccan meathead, and his hangers-on dissolve into raucous laughter.
‘I want to put another bun in her oven!’ the African continues.
Billy stops, twirls around and squares-up to the lewd joker.
‘You think this is funny, yeah?’ he spits, fists clenched.
‘Looks amusing from where I’m standing, gorgeous!’ the Moroccan fires back.
‘You cunt! It will be you, next, and then see how your smug face drops!’
‘White motherfucker!’
As Billy shakes with rage, I guide him away by the hips. Still shouting as he looks back, I press him forward with a palm upon his quivering ass meat.
‘I ain’t gonna stop, anymore,’ Billy says, almost at a jog as he tears along the corridor, furious at the insults and his loss of self-control.
‘I think that’s wise,’ I say.
There is a furled flogger attached to my belt, but clever boys such as Billy deliver themselves to the Termination Centre without a public cracking of the whip over their nudity.
*******
The motor strains, causing the plastic case to warm in my hand.
Whining monotonously, my clippers work through Billy’s hair, severing chunks that fall to the floor around his feet. The twenty year-old has – or had – long brown locks, layered densely. From the photographs I have just seen, he wore it in a dozen styles over the last couple of years. Gone are the days when only girls would visit the hairdresser once a fortnight.
Roughly, the number 000 blade ploughs over Billy’s scalp, leaving bare skin where it passes. I continue methodically over his head in long runs, as though harvesting. Mid-way through the job the boy can feel the lop-sidedness of a bald half and a grown half, but there is no mirror to amplify the humiliation. He sits passive on a wooden chair as I strip his head of hair, well beyond a military buzz cut.
‘Why are you doing this?’ Billy whines, his tone in harmony with the clipper motor.
‘I’m taking your identity – what makes you unique – prior to your sex death,’ I say.
‘Are you going to tell me what sex death means?’ he asks.
‘It will become clear soon, Billy. It’s the execution you’ve been sentenced to, turned into a thrill for all concerned.’
‘No thrills here!’ he claims, with certainty.
‘Don’t jump to conclusions. It’s a more exciting way to go, I promise.’
‘Fuck: I’m bald.’
‘Yeah, pretty damn smooth,’ I admit.
‘You’ll pay for this, one day.’
‘Maybe, but in the meantime, place your palms behind your neck, so I can get the clippers into your pit bushes.’
*******
With scissors, I hack away at Billy’s pubic bush.
Snip, Snip, Snip.
His dick mat is shorn, with the forest becoming a tidy lawn.
‘These curls are surprisingly tight,’ I say. ‘Have they become permanently matted through Megan’s regular drooling around your root?’
‘Fuck off!’
‘But seriously, you encouraged deep throat attention, I guess?’
‘None of your fucking business!’
‘And what about here at Killymaloo, Billy? Have you been milked by mouth in the shower block?’
‘No!’
‘It’s just, there are so many studs here, and so much frustration, we know boy-on-boy sex happens.’
‘Well, not to me!’
‘And you’ve never bent for the soap, and been on the end of an anal drilling from some huge nigger dude?’
‘No! Nobody would dare to bust me like that.’
‘I see. It’s just a gay fantasy, of course, but this is the kind of place where fantasies become reality.’
‘I’ve never been fucked. Clear?’
‘Fine. So, do you keep that virginal rosebud and ass crevice free of hair?’ I ask.
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean, do I need to get the razor blade and shaving cream between those butt cheeks, Billy?’
‘No, you keep away from there, fucker!’
‘Are you hairy or smooth down there, though?’ I press.
‘Smooth. I’ve never trimmed down there, ‘cos I don’t need to and wouldn’t want to.’
‘All the same, I can’t take your word for it I’m afraid, Billy. I need to prove the position.’
‘Why does it even fucking matter anymore!?’
‘It’s important a boy goes to the noose denuded.’
‘I don’t understand any of this, now,’ Billy says, biting his bottom lip and throwing back his bald head.
‘So, I need to ask you to bend at the waist, and spread those muscular buns nice and wide, as though Megan had just offered to rim you,’ I taunt.
‘You’re loving this, aren’t you?’
‘Yeah, it’s a good job. Now, bend and spread like a good boy, Billy.’
‘I don’t want a blade, up there.’
‘Then prove to me it isn’t necessary,’ I say.
*******
It’s passage assisted by fluffy clouds of shaving cream, I manoeuvre the razor blade around Billy’s un-popped cherry.
He was lying, of course: there was work to be done between those mounds he now prises apart for me with his long digits.
Standing in a pile of his head and pubic hair, the boy sniffs and pretends he is not on the verge of tears. Shaved and shorn back to a smooth torso, Billy will go to his noose as respectable meat. The same goes for his co-snuffees, for death is a great leveller. I wouldn’t expect Billy to understand, but at the very end there is no room for style or individuality: Whatever their backgrounds, four boys per culling walk to the gallows as equals – humble in their termination and thankful, maybe, they are with company as the ultimate judicial sanction of the State is deployed.
Up and down Billy’s perineum my razor blade scratches, the edge ridged with shaving cream laced with the wiry dark crack hair Billy sought to deny. I turn the cutter at the boy’s ass lips and watch him wince as I get far too close for comfort.
‘Sorry, the steel must be cold against your bud,’ I say.
‘Yeah,’ he whispers, not wanting to antagonise me at such a delicate time.
‘I see your nut sac requires attention to.’
‘By razor?’ Billy asks.
‘Ah-ha.’
‘Fuck!’
‘Just a few strokes over sac leather should have you clear. Will this be the first time a guy has man-handled your gonads?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Okay, well, stay nice and still for me as I work the blade, Billy, and then you won’t get any nicks.’
And so, I make a snowball of Billy Cox’s nut pouch. As he steadies himself on the back of the chair, I use my palms to encourage a wider parting of his legs, such that I may twist the razor freely.
Gasping as I tug and mould his low-hangers, Billy freezes whilst I depilate his jock nuts.
‘Pretty lively eggs you have, here,’ I note.
‘Yeah,’ Billy agrees.
‘They’ve never been cracked for fun, under Megan’s feet or fists?’
‘No! Why the fuck would we do that?’
‘Like I say: for the fun of seeing your agonised face, with your nuts crushed.’
‘You’re sick, man!’
‘I’m sexually exploratory,’ I suggest, by way of alternative.
When Billy’s balls are bare I return to his armpits and dick root with the razor, eliminating the stubble left by clippers and scissors respectively. Smooth as a baby in his masculine places, Billy ceases trying to conceal his weeping.
‘Hey, it’s okay. It’s just a process,’ I say, placing a hand upon his left butt cheek and cupping it into a squeeze.
‘I know,’ Billy says, taking some comfort – apparently – from my caress.
I grip his ass muscle tighter and allow a silent, private moment for his tears to flow.
*******
Billy takes a supervised shower, underneath the centremost of five heads. I watch and wait, at a point just beyond water’s edge.
I stare as the boy of twenty lathers his torso with unscented soap, and washes away remnants of shaving foam.
The water temperature dial is set high, verging on scalding, and the flow rate is also maximised.
‘Can I turn it down?’ Billy had asked, stepping into the steaming deluge.
‘It’s fine as it is,’ I replied.
Yet despite his protestations and red raw skin, Billy lingers under the jet, soaping each long limb diligently and probing his ass crack with fingers.
Leaning against the tiled wall I enjoy the way Billy’s hands slide freely over his torso, his eyes shut tight to protect against the hot spray. Yet he knows am I here, enjoying his nudity and his shaven readiness for a snuff experience.
The boy handles his dick tube, rolling the uncut head for a while, and I touch myself likewise though it is unprofessional.
As time passes Billy is almost lost in the steam, his head resting on a forearm lodged against the wall, beside the shower head. His back arched, Billy’s rump is thrust provocatively in my direction.
I whip that ass with the coarse towel Billy will dry himself with, chosen so as not to shed cotton fluff over his prepared flesh.
‘We need to get moving,’ I say.
Billy drops to his knees under the searing waterfall, and faces me.
‘Please, I beg you, don’t go through with this. I’ve got so much to live for.’
The boy clasps his hands, as though in prayer.
‘It’s time to be strong,’ I tell him.
*******
When dried, I write over Billy’s torso in black permanent marker:
AZ43 appears at the top of his back, in four inch tall capitals.
Post-snuff, the butcher needs an audit trail of the stock he has dealt with. Billy, I know, will generate some prime cuts of boy beef.
As I marshal Billy Cox towards the holding pen, he loses it. The chair is picked up and thrown across the room, one of the legs shattering against the far wall as the boy rages:
‘You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me, yeah?’
‘I haven’t done anything to deserve this, motherfuckers! ‘
‘Have some fuckin’ mercy, and stop this madness!’
Such an explosion of emotion is not unusual at this point, and I let it fizzle whilst also unfurling my flogger, lest it is necessary to drive Billy Cox towards his sex death at whip point.
*******
Part One
Communique – dated 17 January 2023
The Human Rights Committee of the United Nations has passed a motion of condemnation on the Auzealand Territories, where sentences of capital punishment have risen by 700% since 2015.
The Committee further notes, and deplores, evidence of capital punishment carried out prior to appeal processes being exhausted.
Finally, the Committee condemns the concentration of sentences of capital punishment upon the young, and particularly young men. We urge the Government of the Auzealand Territories to pursue alternative strategies to deal with troubling crime rates, which the Committee acknowledges are causing widespread public concern.
*******
Killymaloo Correctional Facility, Auzealand Territories
November 2022
I feel desperately sorry for Billy, who was expecting a low-ranking warder to unlock his cell, as per the 07.30 routine. Gathered with the other young residents of his landing, Billy would be escorted to a breakfast he was hungry for, and then on to exercise in the yard. Bathed in late spring sunshine, Billy might jog around the perimeter fence sixty times, stretching his lithe torso.
Instead I arrive with my clipboard and storage box, and Billy knows what that means. For three months he avoided the cull, but this morning his card is marked.
‘Please, don’t say it’s me,’ Billy whispers as I fill his cell doorway, my shadow enveloping him.
‘It’s you,’ I confirm, without hesitation.
‘Please, don’t do this,’ he says.
‘We need to prepare,’ I tell him.
*******
I have three boys to process today, so cannot dally indefinitely with Billy.
The culling has been stepped-up, for until last week I readied one boy in the morning and another in the afternoon. Now there is an evening session, too. In total, twelve male youth a day are being despatched – the process slickly efficient through repetition.
Upon arrival at 07.00 I was handed the daily list by the Governor, telling me which boys I needed to collect at 07.30, 11.00 and 16.00, and where they might be found. Only the first duty was of immediate interest:
Billy Cox – serial number AZ43 – cell number 817.
There was enough time to grab a strong coffee, but I was careful to be walking the corridors by 07.15, as cell 817 is in a far block on the top floor. This is a vast institution, totalling 1200 cells: the kind of place where new warders are given site plans to assist navigation.
I moved briskly as ever, darting amongst patrolling guards, my boots stomping the metal staircases. Billy was unknown to me but that is not unusual, for in addition to a roll of 1200 inmates, those of you sharp at mathematics will have noted the twelve terminations and the churn rate of one percent, each day.
Keep that number in mind and you will understand the psychological pressure of being a young prisoner here, each and every one with a death sentence. When the culling increased from eight to twelve a day, no announcement was made, but the gossip spread like wildfire around the prison wings. Clever boys – not a majority contingent, here – re-calculated the average survival period and passed on the bad news to their landing, but averages can be so very cruel. There have been lads selected for the noose within three days of arrival, but the longest-serving inmate has racked-up almost two years of fearful incarceration.
The older lags suffer the trauma of forming a bond of friendship, only to ascertain their new mate has disappeared in the daily selection. In the canteen there is an empty seat, and in the communal shower there is a head flowing with soothing hot water, but without a boy underneath it. For some of the youths, this is an experience they live through a dozen times before their own number is called.
Killymaloo is a place of simmering tension, fostered by the terror of selection. There are fights and injuries, but there have been no deaths aside from those officially sanctioned. There have been escape attempts, but none successful. There are meetings between inmates and their lawyers, but the appeal paper-chase grinds slowly whilst the culling proceeds at pace.
Killymaloo is an experiment in managing boys through to their sex deaths: sold to the world as judicial executions.
None of the living knows precisely what awaits them, but they have seen chosen boys marched naked from their cells, and wondered why. In the exercise yard they may have noticed the Governor leering at them from his watch tower and found it spine-chillingly creepy, but their appearance on the next day’s list ensures they do not have long to fret over the meaning of it.
*******
Billy delves into a ragged work of science fiction from the prison library, and pulls out a $20 bill concealed between the pages.
‘Please… take this, and swap me for someone else. Give me another chance, yeah?’
I stare into his deep brown eyes, a little sunken and baggy in a physical manifestation of the pressure he has been under.
‘That’s been your planned strategy, yes? A bribe?’
‘Yeah. Please, take it and move on,’ Billy stammers.
‘I’m sorry, Billy, but I can’t be corrupted.’
‘Please… or… what else could I do to make you go away?’
‘I don’t know. What do you suggest?’ I ask.
The boy’s face flushes crimson, but he doesn’t cloak his answer in subtlety.
‘Sex stuff, maybe?’
I take a moment of apparent reflection.
‘That would be more attractive than twenty bucks. This place pays quite well, already.’
‘Yeah?’ Billy probes.
‘What’s on offer?’ I ask.
‘I could suck you.’
‘Long and deep?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And what about anal?’ I ask, and it hits him like a brick.
Billy ponders, but not for long.
‘Yeah… you could ass fuck me… if you went away and chose some other boy.’
‘You’d let me breed you, until your rump squelched with my cum?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Are you straight, Billy?’
‘Yeah, of course.’
‘Then you must be feeling pretty desperate, right now?’
‘Wouldn’t you be?’ Billy shoots back.
‘Yes. I would,’ I concede.
‘Do you wanna fuck my tight ring, then?’ he asks.
‘Like I said, Billy: I can’t be corrupted.’
The handsome youth with dark brown hair slumps to his cot, covering his tearful face with his palms, and I use the opportunity to start filling my storage box with his possessions.
*******
From the single wooden shelf above his desk, I clear half a dozen unframed photographs as Billy watches me between spread fingers.
‘Is this your girlfriend?’ I ask, pointing to a portrait image.
‘Yes.’
‘She’s pretty: lovely blonde hair. What’s her name?’
‘Megan… she’s nineteen.’
‘Ah-ha. So that makes her a couple of years younger than you, I’m guessing?’
‘Only a year: I’m twenty,’ Billy says.
‘I see. And how long have you two been dating?’
‘Five years,’ Billy sniffs. ‘We’ve been seeing each other since high school.’
‘That’s quite sweet,’ I say, arranging the photographs in a pile within the opaque plastic box.
‘She’s pregnant,’ Billy says, abruptly.
It is not the first time I’ve heard that line, but still, I freeze at the revelation.
‘Yours?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, of course!’ He blurts, angry at my angle.
‘When’s it due?’
‘A couple of months – and it’s a boy.’
Billy moves his hands from his face, instead using them as fists to prop his chiselled chin.
‘Congratulations,’ I say.
‘For what?’
‘Fatherhood.’
‘Are you going to let me go, then, so that I can be a father?’
‘No, because justice must be done, but it’s an achievement nobody can deny you. Part of you will live on, in that child.’
‘Please… let me stay a while longer, at least to hear the news about the birth.’
‘It’s really important to you, isn’t it, Billy?’
‘Yeah. Please… don’t take me now,’ he begs, eyes following me around the cell as I clear the contents.
*******
Into the box go a battery powered transistor radio, toothbrush and toothpaste, and a worn bar of soap onto which a brown pubic hair clings.
‘What are you in for?’ I ask.
‘Robbery, but I didn’t do it!’ Billy says.
It’s the same in every prison: nobody ever ‘did it’ and the place is supposedly heaving with miscarriages of justice. I can’t afford to care whether this one is guilty or not, but the judge said yes.
‘Did you appeal?’
‘Yes, but it’s caught up in some delay. I’m not really sure what’s going on.’
‘Well, I heard they’re giving posthumous pardons in a few cases now, so it won’t necessarily be the end of it, when you’re gone.’
‘But how the fuck can they do that? They should hear the appeal before…’
‘Before the noose encircles your neck?’
‘Yeah, of course. It’s sick, to treat guys this way.’
‘It’s not personal, Billy,’ I say. ‘Don’t go to that dark chamber thinking this is you against the world, kid. You’re in a process, and that’s how it is.’
‘How does that make it better?’ the boy asks.
‘I can’t make it better, but I can tell you the best frame of mind in which to face this.’
‘Yeah?’ he says, incredulous.
‘Yeah. Calm, dignified and brave.’
‘Please, don’t go through with this!’
*******
‘Can I finish my letter?’ Billy asks.
The boy watches me leaf through a pile of correspondence on the desk. Most are letters received, bearing the stamp of the Facility Censor, but uppermost is a pencil-scrawled missive, the flow of which I interrupted upon arrival at cell 817.
‘We don’t have time, I’m afraid.’
‘It would mean so much to me,’ Billy says.
‘I see it’s to Megan.’
‘Yeah.’
‘What did you intend to say?’
‘Well now… I can forget the routine news, I suppose. I want to tell her how much I love her, and how much our baby means to me.’
‘I do understand,’ I say, towering over him, solemn.
‘It wouldn’t take long.’
I pause, as though the matter were more complex than it is, and I sense Billy feels I will deny him.
‘If you get naked, immediately and without a fuss, you will have saved us time. You can reinvest that time in your letter,’ I propose.
‘I don’t understand why I have to get naked,’ Billy murmurs.
‘You’ll be let into a privileged secret soon, Billy,’ I say. ‘You’ll get to experience the difference between an execution and a snuff, and then, you’ll see the need for nakedness.’
*******
‘Fuck!’ the boy says, gripping the neck of his red T-shirt.
‘The time for the strip is now, Billy,’ I say.
Nine years his senior, I face the boy with just a foot between us: too close for his comfort. The T-shirt is overly tight, and hugs Billy’s figure. The athletic definition of his pectoral rack stretches the upper half of the garment, whilst his tit nubs push hard at the fabric – so enticing as pert little pleasure points. Below, slack in the material suggests a flat tummy and narrow hips, whilst the sleeves are curtailed mid-bicep so as to exhibit the muscular tone.
Killymaloo boys have a great diet and access to a gymnasium, in addition to the exercise yard. They are well kept, until it is decided they are no longer ‘keepers’ whereupon they hang, fit and taut as a boy should be.
Billy tugs the T-shirt over his head and throws it upon the cot. I scoop it up, fold it neatly, and place it in the box of his possessions. With the corner of an eye I enjoy the revealed flesh, as Billy kicks off his scuffed white sneakers.
‘Now the pants,’ I encourage, but having commenced the journey to nudity, the kid’s long fingers are already poised.
‘Fuck!’ he sighs, hauling down the elasticated waist of the gray jogging bottoms. Belts, of course, are banned at Killymaloo to avoid the tragedy and intrusive investigation of a suicide. Over smooth and defined legs the polyester is peeled like a banana. Billy is 180 centimetres in height but carries it disproportionately in those pins, lean and strong. With an entangled fuss he steps from the joggers bunched at his ankles, shedding his black socks whilst in the vicinity.
So there comes a time when straight boy must bare himself in front of complex, overbearing man. This is a time when girl-poking, baby-making sexual equipment must hang free for that man to devour visually, with the youth persuaded to spread his legs wide and let the genitalia unfurl to its full glory. The path to that point is rarely smooth.
‘I don’t want this,’ Billy whines.
‘I appreciate your difficulty,’ I say, without concession, as I fold and pack his joggers.
‘Do I have to walk through the prison, like I’ve seen other naked lads do?’
‘Yes, but we’ll move together. You’ll stride with me, almost the length of this facility. I’m sorry your final destination is such a distance.’
‘It’s a sex thing, isn’t it? That’s the only reason you make boys walk naked through the crowds. It’s a fucking humiliation.’
‘Yeah, that’s true. It is a sex thing to get a boy bare, and walk him through the wings to his noose. It sends a powerful message to him, and to those watching.’
‘What message am I supposed to get?’ Billy mumbles, as his dewy eyes drop to the cell floor.
‘That you’re being hustled to a sexual termination,’ I confirm, as casually as answering a query on the time of day.
‘And what happens if I won’t take my briefs off?’
‘I’ll call for back-up, you’ll be pinned down, and they’ll be ripped and shred with a knife.’
‘I bet you have to do that a lot. Fucking bastard!’
‘Not at all, Billy. Most boys are sensible about it – in the end.’
The twenty year-old gulps, fingers hooked preparedly at the waist of his unbranded white briefs. To the front, the pouch bulge suggests ample tackle being constrained.
Billy tries one last time, his tone more reasonable.
‘I really don’t want to get naked, and… to have to walk past friends. I’ve seen other boys do it, but… I didn’t think it would be this difficult when it was my turn. They’ll all be out of their cells, going to breakfast.’
‘You’re looking at the busy wings as a negative,’ I say, leaving the converse for Billy to decipher.
‘So, what the fuck is the positive?’
‘It’s an opportunity to look your mates in the eye as you walk by, nonchalant, and say your goodbyes.’
‘It’s like you think I should be proud, rather than degraded.’
‘Absolutely, I’d say that’s the best way you can handle this.’
‘It’s fucking cruel. I’ve been praying this place would be found out and closed down, before it was my turn.’
‘It’s very cruel, yeah. It’s not fair, and it’s sadistic, but it’s the best way to do sexualised death in bulk,’ I say, bludgeoning Billy with my candidness, because it’s turning me on to watch him react.
‘Is that how you get a thrill, you fucking queers?’
‘It thrills the Governor, and his friends in the military and Government.’
‘You’re fucking with our minds. All along, this place has been one big headfuck!’
‘I need your briefs now, Billy,’ I say, closing the debate.
‘You’re fucking sick!’ he yells, temples swollen.
‘The briefs please, Billy, or your letter stays unfinished.’
Remembering Megan, his girlfriend and baby mother, the thin underwear is pulled down from the rear first over firm, pale, ass mounds. The pouch is leveraged off his sex equipment in a single movement, and the modest garment cascades down his legs. Billy steps from the briefs, wiping his tear-stained face with a forearm, and I collect them quickly, for their lingering presence on the floor would serve only to taunt the butt naked youth.
‘Good lad,’ I say, for this preparatory role is more about persuasion and confidence-giving than barking orders.
‘Fuck!’ Billy repeats to no particular end, his nine inch dick hose swinging free.
*******
Now flesh is uncovered, the smell of terror fills the cell. A cocktail of vinegary, funky and fetid, when Billy moves the aroma of boy fear follows him like a shadow.
Pushing the pencil hard, Billy rushes to finish his letter in the five minutes I allowed, as I complete the cell clearance.
Removing his sheet from the mattress I find a patch of dried semen, yellow and crusty against the white cotton.
‘When did this happen?’ I ask Billy, and he spins on the stool by the desk.
He blushes.
‘Two, maybe three nights ago.’
‘It looks like it was quite an eruption?’ I suggest.
‘Yeah.’
‘Who were you thinking of? Megan?’
The blush spreads down his neck.
‘No, it was another girl,’ Billy admits. Really, he should have kept things simple for me.
‘Your fantasy lady, or ladies?’
‘Yeah.’
‘It’s self-indulgent,’ I say. ‘But then again, in this place there’s no point saving the best wank-bank scenes to enjoy another day.’
‘No.’
‘You still enjoy the sexual release, I guess?’
‘Yeah… I can forget about everything else, for half an hour or so.’
‘And do you feel a twinge of post-climax guilt about Megan, when you cum to some lesbian romp tableau featuring your favourite porn stars?’
‘Yeah I do, actually. Always have. It feels unfaithful although it isn’t, really.’
‘I think it’s forgivable. But have you shot your wad since then, two or three nights ago?’
Billy shakes his head.
‘That’s helpful,’ I say, leaving it there.
I fold the sheet and pillow case, whilst Billy returns to the letter I have interrupted again. With the bed linen removed, the plastic-coated waterproof mattress awaits re-dressing for a new boy. Given the pressure on places at Killymaloo, there should be another resident by tea time.
The steel bars at the window were painted black, but through being held and rubbed – habitually – the coating has worn back to bare metal. I suspect Billy spent much time at this slit of daylight, standing on tiptoe to catch a glimpse of the comings and goings at the perimeter gate. Maybe his lawyer would turn up, with good news, or an international delegation to investigate the multiple breaches of human rights conventions?
Billy maintained a presence at this window, hoping someone might see the peeping eyes of an expectant father, and care enough to take action to end the savage regime. With a sweep of his binoculars the Governor saw those brown eyes in cell 817, searching for humanity, and took his own action when the next list came to be drawn up.
On the cell walls, painted cream, Billy’s unsettled mind is expressed in pencil graffiti:
LET ME GO! – in block capitals, just like that.
HELL HOLE
They fucking kill us! TELL SOMEONE! We need help!
Over his bed, the passing days have been marked off in a count. Adding the blocks of five, I get to one hundred and four: almost an average stay.
Later today, the decorators will visit and erase all trace of Billy’s graffiti, for that is standard procedure between inmates. Beforehand, I will tip-off the Governor, who likes to view desperate scrawling personally in solitary moments, post-snuff.
I watch Billy mark kisses at the bottom of his letter to Megan.
‘Finished?’ I ask, but my tone and outstretched hand suggest an order rather than an enquiry. It’s my job to move Billy on from soppy sentimentality, now.
‘Will you make sure it gets sent?’ Billy asks, passing me the paper.
‘Sure,’ I say, popping it in the box with the entire contents of his cell. The lid is secured by way of four plastic clips, and all trace of Billy Cox’s stay in number 817 is erased.
*******
On each landing warders corral groups of prisoners in identikit uniform, ready for the shuffle to breakfast.
Billy marches naked past and between them, whilst I follow closely to his rear. Chest puffed, chin up and ass mounds clenched firm, Billy has taken the pride thing to heart. Hundreds of eyes identify the latest youth to be snatched, in sorrow but also relief at their further evasion of the terminal remedy. Amongst the masses, a few raise their voices:
‘Fuck, it’s Billy!’
‘You were one of the best, mate!’
‘So sorry it’s you, dude!’
‘Be strong, bro!’
It hits them doubly hard when, every so often, one of the most popular boys on the wing is taken from them without warning. Lads such as Billy with character and presence, who establish themselves quickly amongst peers, are plucked quite deliberately when complacency sets in, or when rumours of planned insurrection are heard. Extinguish the leaders – the big boys – and the confidence of the troops is drained.
There are sideways glances at Billy’s dick meat and nut sac as he pushes on, arms swinging, and I see him bristle at the leering eyes. Statistically, there must be some gay boys amongst the oglers, but Billy is aware he is a spectacle for all. Never again will Billy share a shower with these youths, so what’s the harm now in taking a good look – appalled, but also curious?
And then there is the matter of Billy’s foes, few in number but vociferous:
‘Looking hot, man!’
‘Goodbye, pencil dick!’ (An entirely invalid ‘observational’ taunt.)
‘Damn noose is gonna grip so tight, honey!’
The sarcastic whistles, though, annoy more than the catcalls.
Ass melons flexing and his bare feet slapping the floor, Billy hurries along. It says something of the barbarity we have created here that boy prisoners jeer one of their own, on his way to the Termination Centre.
‘Can I start fucking your girl, tomorrow?’ shouts a Moroccan meathead, and his hangers-on dissolve into raucous laughter.
‘I want to put another bun in her oven!’ the African continues.
Billy stops, twirls around and squares-up to the lewd joker.
‘You think this is funny, yeah?’ he spits, fists clenched.
‘Looks amusing from where I’m standing, gorgeous!’ the Moroccan fires back.
‘You cunt! It will be you, next, and then see how your smug face drops!’
‘White motherfucker!’
As Billy shakes with rage, I guide him away by the hips. Still shouting as he looks back, I press him forward with a palm upon his quivering ass meat.
‘I ain’t gonna stop, anymore,’ Billy says, almost at a jog as he tears along the corridor, furious at the insults and his loss of self-control.
‘I think that’s wise,’ I say.
There is a furled flogger attached to my belt, but clever boys such as Billy deliver themselves to the Termination Centre without a public cracking of the whip over their nudity.
*******
The motor strains, causing the plastic case to warm in my hand.
Whining monotonously, my clippers work through Billy’s hair, severing chunks that fall to the floor around his feet. The twenty year-old has – or had – long brown locks, layered densely. From the photographs I have just seen, he wore it in a dozen styles over the last couple of years. Gone are the days when only girls would visit the hairdresser once a fortnight.
Roughly, the number 000 blade ploughs over Billy’s scalp, leaving bare skin where it passes. I continue methodically over his head in long runs, as though harvesting. Mid-way through the job the boy can feel the lop-sidedness of a bald half and a grown half, but there is no mirror to amplify the humiliation. He sits passive on a wooden chair as I strip his head of hair, well beyond a military buzz cut.
‘Why are you doing this?’ Billy whines, his tone in harmony with the clipper motor.
‘I’m taking your identity – what makes you unique – prior to your sex death,’ I say.
‘Are you going to tell me what sex death means?’ he asks.
‘It will become clear soon, Billy. It’s the execution you’ve been sentenced to, turned into a thrill for all concerned.’
‘No thrills here!’ he claims, with certainty.
‘Don’t jump to conclusions. It’s a more exciting way to go, I promise.’
‘Fuck: I’m bald.’
‘Yeah, pretty damn smooth,’ I admit.
‘You’ll pay for this, one day.’
‘Maybe, but in the meantime, place your palms behind your neck, so I can get the clippers into your pit bushes.’
*******
With scissors, I hack away at Billy’s pubic bush.
Snip, Snip, Snip.
His dick mat is shorn, with the forest becoming a tidy lawn.
‘These curls are surprisingly tight,’ I say. ‘Have they become permanently matted through Megan’s regular drooling around your root?’
‘Fuck off!’
‘But seriously, you encouraged deep throat attention, I guess?’
‘None of your fucking business!’
‘And what about here at Killymaloo, Billy? Have you been milked by mouth in the shower block?’
‘No!’
‘It’s just, there are so many studs here, and so much frustration, we know boy-on-boy sex happens.’
‘Well, not to me!’
‘And you’ve never bent for the soap, and been on the end of an anal drilling from some huge nigger dude?’
‘No! Nobody would dare to bust me like that.’
‘I see. It’s just a gay fantasy, of course, but this is the kind of place where fantasies become reality.’
‘I’ve never been fucked. Clear?’
‘Fine. So, do you keep that virginal rosebud and ass crevice free of hair?’ I ask.
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean, do I need to get the razor blade and shaving cream between those butt cheeks, Billy?’
‘No, you keep away from there, fucker!’
‘Are you hairy or smooth down there, though?’ I press.
‘Smooth. I’ve never trimmed down there, ‘cos I don’t need to and wouldn’t want to.’
‘All the same, I can’t take your word for it I’m afraid, Billy. I need to prove the position.’
‘Why does it even fucking matter anymore!?’
‘It’s important a boy goes to the noose denuded.’
‘I don’t understand any of this, now,’ Billy says, biting his bottom lip and throwing back his bald head.
‘So, I need to ask you to bend at the waist, and spread those muscular buns nice and wide, as though Megan had just offered to rim you,’ I taunt.
‘You’re loving this, aren’t you?’
‘Yeah, it’s a good job. Now, bend and spread like a good boy, Billy.’
‘I don’t want a blade, up there.’
‘Then prove to me it isn’t necessary,’ I say.
*******
It’s passage assisted by fluffy clouds of shaving cream, I manoeuvre the razor blade around Billy’s un-popped cherry.
He was lying, of course: there was work to be done between those mounds he now prises apart for me with his long digits.
Standing in a pile of his head and pubic hair, the boy sniffs and pretends he is not on the verge of tears. Shaved and shorn back to a smooth torso, Billy will go to his noose as respectable meat. The same goes for his co-snuffees, for death is a great leveller. I wouldn’t expect Billy to understand, but at the very end there is no room for style or individuality: Whatever their backgrounds, four boys per culling walk to the gallows as equals – humble in their termination and thankful, maybe, they are with company as the ultimate judicial sanction of the State is deployed.
Up and down Billy’s perineum my razor blade scratches, the edge ridged with shaving cream laced with the wiry dark crack hair Billy sought to deny. I turn the cutter at the boy’s ass lips and watch him wince as I get far too close for comfort.
‘Sorry, the steel must be cold against your bud,’ I say.
‘Yeah,’ he whispers, not wanting to antagonise me at such a delicate time.
‘I see your nut sac requires attention to.’
‘By razor?’ Billy asks.
‘Ah-ha.’
‘Fuck!’
‘Just a few strokes over sac leather should have you clear. Will this be the first time a guy has man-handled your gonads?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Okay, well, stay nice and still for me as I work the blade, Billy, and then you won’t get any nicks.’
And so, I make a snowball of Billy Cox’s nut pouch. As he steadies himself on the back of the chair, I use my palms to encourage a wider parting of his legs, such that I may twist the razor freely.
Gasping as I tug and mould his low-hangers, Billy freezes whilst I depilate his jock nuts.
‘Pretty lively eggs you have, here,’ I note.
‘Yeah,’ Billy agrees.
‘They’ve never been cracked for fun, under Megan’s feet or fists?’
‘No! Why the fuck would we do that?’
‘Like I say: for the fun of seeing your agonised face, with your nuts crushed.’
‘You’re sick, man!’
‘I’m sexually exploratory,’ I suggest, by way of alternative.
When Billy’s balls are bare I return to his armpits and dick root with the razor, eliminating the stubble left by clippers and scissors respectively. Smooth as a baby in his masculine places, Billy ceases trying to conceal his weeping.
‘Hey, it’s okay. It’s just a process,’ I say, placing a hand upon his left butt cheek and cupping it into a squeeze.
‘I know,’ Billy says, taking some comfort – apparently – from my caress.
I grip his ass muscle tighter and allow a silent, private moment for his tears to flow.
*******
Billy takes a supervised shower, underneath the centremost of five heads. I watch and wait, at a point just beyond water’s edge.
I stare as the boy of twenty lathers his torso with unscented soap, and washes away remnants of shaving foam.
The water temperature dial is set high, verging on scalding, and the flow rate is also maximised.
‘Can I turn it down?’ Billy had asked, stepping into the steaming deluge.
‘It’s fine as it is,’ I replied.
Yet despite his protestations and red raw skin, Billy lingers under the jet, soaping each long limb diligently and probing his ass crack with fingers.
Leaning against the tiled wall I enjoy the way Billy’s hands slide freely over his torso, his eyes shut tight to protect against the hot spray. Yet he knows am I here, enjoying his nudity and his shaven readiness for a snuff experience.
The boy handles his dick tube, rolling the uncut head for a while, and I touch myself likewise though it is unprofessional.
As time passes Billy is almost lost in the steam, his head resting on a forearm lodged against the wall, beside the shower head. His back arched, Billy’s rump is thrust provocatively in my direction.
I whip that ass with the coarse towel Billy will dry himself with, chosen so as not to shed cotton fluff over his prepared flesh.
‘We need to get moving,’ I say.
Billy drops to his knees under the searing waterfall, and faces me.
‘Please, I beg you, don’t go through with this. I’ve got so much to live for.’
The boy clasps his hands, as though in prayer.
‘It’s time to be strong,’ I tell him.
*******
When dried, I write over Billy’s torso in black permanent marker:
AZ43 appears at the top of his back, in four inch tall capitals.
Post-snuff, the butcher needs an audit trail of the stock he has dealt with. Billy, I know, will generate some prime cuts of boy beef.
As I marshal Billy Cox towards the holding pen, he loses it. The chair is picked up and thrown across the room, one of the legs shattering against the far wall as the boy rages:
‘You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me, yeah?’
‘I haven’t done anything to deserve this, motherfuckers! ‘
‘Have some fuckin’ mercy, and stop this madness!’
Such an explosion of emotion is not unusual at this point, and I let it fizzle whilst also unfurling my flogger, lest it is necessary to drive Billy Cox towards his sex death at whip point.
*******
