Calvin C

Elite Academy
The Trial of Tristan 440

I never played poker, but I get the idea. Sometimes you get crappy cards, and you have to decide what to do with them. Do you fold quick and lose something small or do you hang on and try to bluff your way to winning.

I guess that if I played poker I would be the kind of person to bluff. Only judging by my life so far, I would go on to lose my shirt. Because life dealt me a pretty raw hand. Nothing much unusual about that. Nine out of ten people are born as plebeians, and if you work hard and don't care that you are ruled by the elite, nor that you will never be a scientist or engineer or government worker, then life is not so bad. There are entertainment channels and limited network access rights and once a year you get a week's holiday in the countryside or by the sea.

I should have been happy with that, but then life dealt me what I thought was a good hand – only it turned out to be crappy. I got on the Elite Academy Training Programme. One of just 20 boys in the whole country to be chosen. I remember the day the letter arrived, and my dad was thrilled. This, he told me, was the answer to our prayers. If I got through the training then the whole family would benefit, and I could do whatever I wanted with my life.

Mum was not so sure about the odds.

"One boy in four ends up a slave in that programme." She complained. I remember how she did not use the eunuch word in front of me, but you could tell she was scared sick that I would be one of them. But dad wouldn't hear of it. And I was happy to go forward too.

A curious thing happens when you are top of the class in all your subjects in school. You start thinking that there really is no one better than you. I could outperform adults in maths tests, I loved sports and I just loved science and engineering. So much so that I had earned my first major spanking from dad the time I took the TV apart. He almost never knew I did it – but unfortunately I had messed with the voltage regulator and forgot to put it right, so he guessed when he saw the smoke pouring out the back panel.

So there I was, full of confidence, with dad supporting me and mum outvoted. Well Mary was not happy either, but she was seven so her vote didn't count for much. Which is how I ended up on the programme.

Only things did not work out so well on the programme. I soon realised that I might be top of my school, but when you take the 20 best 11 year olds in the country and put them together it is an altogether different story. I was average at best, and got so scared I would cry myself to sleep.

And there was this one boy who I fell in love with the day I saw him.

No, that is not quite true. But he was awesome in the gymnastics, and he and Alex would goof off and be such a good laugh that I just wanted to be a part of that. Only there was some weird stuff went on and he and Alex ended up nearly being the first to get chucked off the programme. Alex failed and Jacob succeeded, and lots of people blamed him for that – but I just thought that here was a boy to stick close to.

Jacob was always so calm and confident. I wish I could have been more like him. When the chance came to get close to him, I took it. Well, wouldn't you?

In the survival skills exercise though, things got real bad and a boy died. Skippy died, and it was my fault. I got angry, I lost control and he died.

And that was that, I was off the programme.

Now I am not Tristan anymore, I am boy 440, and I heard the video of my castration now has cult status. I blew that hand alright.

So then life threw me another crappy hand. Skippy's parents pulled some strings and wanted me brought to trial for murder. So I was told about it and told that if I just admitted murder, they would probably go easy on me. I had not been a slave when I murdered Skippy. I had been punished already, and I was still young. They reckoned I could maybe be given to Skippy's family as a personal slave after a few years in jail, and that would be enough.

But like I say, I would be the gambler in poker. I did not want to go to jail, and I did not want to be the slave to Skippy's useless stuck up family. And even if I pleaded innocent and lost, then I might get no worse than that. So that is what I did.

The court was the second worst experience of my life though. Not helped by having to watch a video of the worst experience. In the proceedings everyone watched the way I had been strapped down in public in the hall in front of the other boys on the programme, and had my balls cut off, without the aid of anaesthetic, and in a deliberately painful way. I found myself cringing at the remembered pain and my eyes were wet when it was over.

But that was not all. I had to hear about what a wonderful boy Skippy had been. I heard about all his potential and all the people who loved him, and the great loss to the Elite Academy itself.

I had to sit through arguments about what I intended or did not. I had to hear people call me a murderer, and all the time I was not allowed to even speak. I was a slave now, and not entitled to speak in court. I had a defence lawyer to do that for me, but he obviously thought defending a slave was beneath him because he never challenged anything.

So it was that when the Judge delivered his verdict, "Guilty on the charge of murder", I felt no surprise. None at all. Just a numb resignation.

I expect mum was crying. But she was not at court. I was property now – and not her property, so she was not allowed in. The people who were present in the court murmured. It was not an ugly murmur, but one that registered their approval.

"440, strip and kneel before the court." Announced the judge as the murmur died away. I did as I was told. A few months ago I would have balked at being naked in public, and to be honest it still embarrassed me – but I was used to it now. So many people had poked, prodded and examined me since my exit from the programme that I was now quite used to it. I pulled off the short white cotton tunic they had allowed me in the trial, and revealed my naked body. I had turned 12 a few weeks ago, but the injections and treatments I had been given had arrested my development, as they were meant to. My small penis hung limp over the empty space where my balls had been, and the number 440 was emblazoned in blue-black ink on my right bum cheek.

I knelt as ordered and hung my head, knowing contrition was expected.

"Does the slave have any requests before we pass sentence?"

The question was asked of my defence lawyer, not of me. He answered with the standard phrase, "My client throws himself on the mercy of the court." He almost managed to hide his boredom as he intoned the words, but not quite.

"Very well. In view of the slave's age, and the fact he was not a slave at the time of the offence, this court is minded to be merciful. The death sentence will be commuted to a whole life licence. Does your client understand what this means?"

My lawyer asserted that I knew, although he never checked with me. Luckily I was not top of my school year for nothing, and I had some idea. A whole life licence meant that for the rest of my life I must live by the terms of the licence. Failure to do so would mean withdrawal of the licence, which would in turn mean my execution. I shivered as I kneeled – this was already worse than the plea bargain I had been offered, but everything now rested on the terms of my licence. What else could they take from me now I was a eunuch and a slave?

I did not have to wait long to find out.

"Your licence terms are as follows. Firstly, you shall be handed over to be the slave of the family whose son you murdered." That one was not unexpected, but I noted the lack of a timescale. I was to be made their property permanently. They must be a well connected family if they could have personal slaves. The good news was they were not even speaking of holding me in prison, so maybe things were not so bad. My hopes lifted for just a few seconds before the judge continued.

"You will be required to undertake all the modifications that your new master requires of you. Testimony reveals that your homosexual attraction for another boy lay behind your motivation to attack your victim. Your new master has therefore requested that, in view of your desire for boys, you should be modified in a more appropriate manner for your station in life, serving boys and men."

As the judge continued to speak, my knees went week and a dribble of pee escaped my bladder and ran down my leg, to the amusement of those in court. Skippy's parents were there. His mother was stony faced – maybe almost sympathetic, but his father was smiling, grinning, enjoying my growing terror as the judge described exactly what was to happen to me over the next hours and days.

The room was growing blurred from my tears, and I could not help the moan of fear that escaped my lips as the judge finished describing the conditions imposed.

Two strong hands seized me and I started to struggle. This was not right. This could not be happening. Sure the world was a screwed up place, but this was too much. As I heard the judge order me to be taken away I voided the rest of my bladder, and started to beg for mercy, and all I saw was Skippy's father – my new owner, laughing at my distress.

It was thirty minutes before they were ready for the first of my operations. In that time I had been strapped down in a medical chamber, bright lights shining, warm on my skin. Machines bleeping and instruments gleaming and clean, being laid out neatly. They had injected me with something – they said it was to calm me, and certainly I felt calmer but no less despairing. I also could not lift my limbs. It was not exactly like they were paralised – more like the feeling when you wake up having slept with your arm above your head and the limb has gone to sleep and won't move. They had fastened straps but I doubt they needed them.

At last a surgen came over, dressed in green overalls. There were three surgeons in all and someone monitoring the machines. The one who aproached me spoke.

"Hello 440. That is quite a list of improvements we have been asked to perform today. We are going to start with the easier changes. My speciality is auditory work, and then my colleagues here will assist with the other modifications. Some of this will hurt, so we decided your voice should be first. We don't want you screaming too much, as we find it off putting and tends to give us a headache.

I swallowed and tried to shake my head, but it seemed it had been clamped between two large soft supports and I could only look at the man, blinking away tears of shame and despair.

"Now then, " he said, pointing to a camera, "Do you have any last words?"

The surgeon smiled at his own jest, and my eyes followed his direction to the camera. I was horrified, knowing this was being televised. Knowing that my parents were probably watching. What could I say? What should I say? Tears ran freely as I looked at the camera, and then looked away from it and mumbled. "I am Sorry... please don't do this. Please. I am so sorry... oh god... please... please don't...".

The surgeon laughed and then one of the others came over and held my mouth open as he inserted something in there that seemed to clamp it wide.

I tried feebly and impotently to struggle as a tube was pushed into my mouth, the surgeon depressing my tongue to force the tube down my throat, making me want to gag.

"You will be pleased to hear that we won't cut your vocal cords right out as that will give you breathing difficulties. Instead you will feel just a little prick now..." and as he spoke I felt a sudden sharp pain in my throat, like I was swallowing glass. I gasped, feeling like I wanted to choke...hearing some suction tube sucking up my saliva. Again tried to move my limbs. In vain I tried to get up and run away.

"And that is that. The toxin we have injected will ensure that the vocal cord can open and constrict but the tissues that vibrate will be killed. In a few seconds your voice will be gone."

With the arrival of the cutting pain in my throat I felt terrible loss. My voice swapped for the worst case of tonsilitis imaginable. When the judge had said I would be silenced I had not known what that would mean, but the reality was terrifying. I tried to moan and even now all that came out was a sight exhalation of breath. Already the tissues were dying and I would never speak another word again.

"Before I hand over to my dental colleagues, I will see to your ears." The surgeon continued and as he moved to the side of my head, I saw him pick up another tube like instrument and in it went into my left ear, working carefully through a prepared hole in the head restraint they had placed beside me.

Having something pushed in your ear can hurt, but worse, it is loud! I could hear the tube slide its way in and then I again felt terrible despair as there was a sudden banging sound as he cut away my ear drump with a laser scalpel.

I tried to wail, but even though I still could hear with the other ear for a few seconds more, I could not hear any sound that I made. My howl was just a slient exhalation.

I saw the camera trained on me and sobbed, my mouth still clamped open and silent as the surgeon cut away my other ear drum, and my world fell silent forever.

And then it was the dentist's turn. The first thing he did was to make a mould of my teeth, which he did by pushing some kind of foul tasting plastic sealant into my mouth. That was left to set for a few minutes while the TV feed cut to commercial breaks. In the wider world my operation would be prime viewing no doubt, and messages the government wanted broadcast would find a ready audience in this slot.

When the break was over, the mould was extracted from my teeth and placed to one side. I could see, even through their masks, that the surgeons were speaking to each other – no doubt discussing the purpose of the mould – to create me a set of false teeth for aesthetic puposes. I heard none of that now though, and my world was blurring up with fresh tears.

If I could have screamed still, I would have screamed to high heaven as they started pulling my teeth. The soreness on my throat was excrutiating, but losing even one tooth trumped that pain. This was worse than my castration now. Pliers gripped a tooth and with a hand placed on my head for support the surgeon pulled sharply and ripped the tooth from my gums.

I began to convulse with the pain as he ripped first the front teeth out, one by one and slowly worked his way back. My canines were still new and not fully grown so when he pulled those it seemed to take extra effort to wrench them free and sweat glistened on his forehead as he deposited tooth after tooth in a silver tray.

Worse was to come though, because my molars were still first teeth. These he pulled free without too much effort, and perhaps less pain than the other teeth had been, but then he picked up a drill and I struggled and writhed but to no avail as he switched it on.

I could not hear the whine of the drill anynore but as it touched my teeth I felt it in my skull – the terrible vibration of the drill as my gum was opened up and my second teeth exposed. More pliers, more drilling and ever so slowly my teeth came free.

They used some suction device to keep me from choking on my blood but I still tasted it, and my mouth was dry and the pain immense.

At last they were done, and my mouth was as impotent as my genitals since my castration.

But they were not done with me yet. One last major modification remained. As the dental surgeon applied swabs in my mouth to staunch the bleeding and removed the suction tube, I saw the last surgeon pick up a scalpel that flashed in the bright lights. The camera was moved now so it was pointing at my genitals, and I felt a horrified knot of tension in my stomach.

The surgeon picked up my flaccid penis, and inspected the castration scars. Then he swabbed the area and without further ado, or any anaesthetics, he set to work – the scalpel cutting away my foreskin, and then with a flash, severing the now exposed head of my penis.

The knife was so sharp that the pain did not hit me at first, and my head restraints did not allow me a good view of what was happening, but the initial sharp pain started to become an insistent throb that again had me silently howling with pain. I closed my eyes, so did not see the knife slice down the length of my small penis, but I certainly felt it. I writhed in agony, and mercifully my brain decided I had had enough, and I passed out.

I came to sometime later. The lights were gone, and the only camera was a security systems now. I was lying in a bed with a single sheet for a cover, and my mouth and throat hurt terribly. I could see equipment around but could hear no beep beep, no hissing or rattling. All was silent to me now.

I seemed to be wearing a dressing that looked much like a baby's nappy around my middle, holding dressings between my legs. I could not see what they had done to me, but I could tell from the pain down there and the lack of any discernible bulge what they had taken.

I lay back and wept.

It was two days before they eventually removed the dressings. Two days of not knowing what they had left me. Two days of imagining, but when they removed the bandages, I realised the imagining was not so far from the truth.

As a nurse prised off the dressing, I saw for the first time the raw pink flesh of a girl's cunt sitting between my legs. It was still red and a long way from healed, but unmistakable for what it was. That was what they had meant about making me serve boys.

I wept again.

My new master, Skippy's father, was the first to rape me. When I left the hospital I was brought straight to his study. He looked at me, relieved me of the false teeth I had been given and the skirt and panties I had been allowed to make me decent to travel. Then he punched me hard in the stomach.

I fell to the floor and he kicked m in the head, and the back. As I writhed silently in pain he stamped on me, spat on me and then dropped his trousers, and forced my legs apart.

He looked into my face as his cock pushed against my virgin cunt and the spat on me again as he thrusted, and I felt the cock slide inside me, stretching the little space painfully as his meat filled me completely.

I tried to scream, to beg, to shout, to do anything to object but no sound came from my lips as he quickly thrusted and fucked and in a few minutes of intense pain, came inside me, his seed filling me as he pleasured himself on me.

When he was done he pissed on my prone body as I sobbed, kicked me again and stalked from the room

That was months ago now. Now I never see my master. He had me taken to a whorehouse and I open my legs for clients several times a night, or if they want a boy, I am allowed to put on a pair of shorts and tie my hair in a more boyish way and I suck them off.

It was hard at first but I have come to accept that all I am now is a brothel whore.

Each night I take off the few clothes I am allowed, lie sown and try to forget all the men who have used me that day and dream of Jacob instead. Sometimes I hope Jacob will walk in and ask for me, but then I know I would never want him to see me like this.

And then I cry myself to sleep.