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Subject: The Boy Breeding Chronicles – Chapter 1 Hello you horny men. Welcome to my new story, The Boy Breeding Chronicles. This is a new dystopian fantasy story about a world where young boys are tested for breedability, and of course frequently bred by older, hairy, adult men. I have a poll that will help me decide where to take the story next, so be sure to check that out! https://www.supersurvey/QCH26TJR3 You can also come follow or contact me: Telegram: @Dilf_Fantasy NEW Twitter: @Land_of_Dilfs NewTumbl: Email: ail Remember to donate to Nifty! And don’t cum until you finish the chapter. I pull into the school parking lot at 11:07 PM. Usually when I was in this lot, it was bustling with parents and teachers and kids all trying to either get into the school or get out. But tonight, there were only a few cars in the lot, and most of the lights in the school were dark. I pull down the visor of my car and give myself one more look in the mirror. I felt a little silly, dressed in a shirt and tie so late at night. But I heard that to these people, first impressions mattered. I was fighting an uphill battle tonight, I needed every scrap of help I could get. So if that meant ironing a clean shirt and putting on a tie and jacket, so be it. Speaking of which, I’m late. So as much as I didn’t want to do it, I pull myself out of the car and step out into the night air. I make my way across the elementary school parking lot and inside the front door. The lights in the hallways were on, at least, but there was no one else around. It reminds me of how I feel on parent-teacher night, though even then there’d been other parents milling around. They had repurposed the signs from parent-teacher night. After I enter the door, there was a little metal stand with a paper sign on top. It read: “FATHER/GUARDIAN LAST NAME A — M with a left arrow” “FATHER/GUARDIAN LAST NAME N — Z with a right arrow” I sighed and took a turn to the left, down the long hallway of empty and dark classrooms. Any time I had to visit my son’s school, I always felt so cramped. I’m a tall guy, and the way everything is miniature� –lockers low to the ground, colorful murals painted low on the walls� –made me feel like a giant walking in a little boy’s world. But just moments after I had that thought, I was reminded that this wasn’t the school I remembered� –not the world I remembered from a couple years ago. Because as I made my way down the hall, someone else appeared from around the corner. It was someone I’d never seen in my son’s school before. This guy was huge� –taller than me, with broad shoulders and a totally bald head. His square jaw looked like it could cut glass, and he had a mean snarl on his face. He was dressed somewhere halfway between a cop and a bouncer, and he stepped into the colorful hallway to block my passage as I got closer. “Name?” the man grunted at me as I got closer. “Massimo,” I said. “Dave Massimo.” The broad, muscular man consulted a clipboard he had at his side. He seemed to find my name, and his eyebrows lifted. He seemed to relax for a moment, and even gave me a slight smile. “I see. Downstairs and to the right.” He nodded and stepped aside, and I swallowed deeply and followed his directions. I went down into the basement of the school and followed a few more signs to… what had this been before the change? He’d definitely been down here before, but there was no way… Yes, it definitely was. This had been the old nurse’s wing. This is where I’d go to pick up my son when he wasn’t feeling well or got knocked down in gym class. Had they really given up the sick ward to… to… “WARD ELEMENTARY BREEDING & FERTILITY CLINIC” The sign hanging above the door to the old nurse’s room finished my thought for me. They really had done it. Right here in my own son’s school, one of the new government clinics. I remember when they first announced the opening of the clinics. The news kept changing, and no one could get a straight answer. First they said there would just be one fertility clinic dedicated to researching boy breeding. Then it became one in every region of the country, and then one in every state. Then they announced moving them into a few of the big hospitals, and also converting a few of the “traditional fertility clinics”� –the ones men and women used to use to get pregnant� –into facilities for researching boy breeding. Of course, there had been a lot of uproar when the government announced the in-school breeding clinics. For a lot of people, that was a line too far. So as the government always does, they gave a little bit of freedom back. They announced they’d only be rolling out the in-school clinics to 10% of America’s elementary schools. That calmed people down, though the math was still staggering� –that was over 8,000 elementary schools. And of course, my son’s school had been one of the ones selected. To add salt to the wound, the government had informed us through our own kids. My boy came tottering off the bus this September with a few pieces of paper. That was nothing new� –I was used to signing forms at the start of the school year. Except this year, there was one form that made my heart sink. “Teacher said to make sure you saw this one, daddy,” my son said, showing me the simple one page sheet informing me of his school’s selection. My eyes scanned the page, feeling almost faint as I read the words… …all boys will be screened ..plete physical inspections …social and psychiatric observations And that dreadful final line: “All fathers or male guardians will be informed of their son’s screening results through the Save Humanity app.” That goddamn app. I hated it so much. It was that stupid app that told me, only yesterday, that my time was up. My appointment was set for 11pm. Which meant I was a full 10 minutes late when I knocked on the door of the office, fighting with every fiber of my being not to turn down the hallway and run. There was no answer at the door, so I peered through the glass. I could see the open area of the nurse’s station, where there were two medical tables and a counter with medical supplies. And there in the office, where that kind old woman used to sit, was another man I’d never seen before. And this man appeared to be… sleeping? At his desk? Yes, indeed. The man was bent over and resting his face on the desk, and his back was rising and falling as he slept. Most of the office was dim, save for a pool of light from the overhead lamp hanging above him. Not knowing what else to do, I knocked again, louder. This woke the man inside, who sad up from his desk and blinked in the light When he saw me, he straightened the black plastic-framed glasses on his square face, straightened the papers on his desk, and stood to open the door. “Come in,” he said, still blinking. He held open the door for me and gestured into the small office off from the medical area. “Have a seat. Last Name?” I stared at the seat across the desk. I’d sat there before, just a few weeks ago when my son had a stomach ache and needed to come home early. I sat there again, this time under such different circumstances. “Massimo,” I said again. “I’m Counsellor Philips,” the man said. Then he turned around to the wall of filing cabinets behind him. Of course they’d use physical files. I’d heard rumors from some of the other dads in my neighborhood that these people were meticulous and loved bureaucracy. The man reached down to a drawer and began to flip through the files. It gave me a moment to look him over. If I didn’t know what his true role was, I’d assume he was just another one of the teachers here at the school. He was probably in his early 40s, and he wore dark brown slacks with a button-down plaid t-shirt. I couldn’t help but notice that he was pretty stacked� –he filled out those pants nicely, and I could see his biceps flexing with an ugly barbed wire tattoo around one of them. Actually, the more I looked at him, the more he looked like some sort of weird porn star in a teacher’s costume. Or maybe that was just because I knew what this man’s intentions were. Eventually the man turned around with a manila folder in his hand, which he plopped down on his desk and flipped it open. He read over it for a moment, and then said, “Ah, yes. Little Josh Massimo.” I swallowed hard again. It sent a stabbing pain into my heart, hearing this man say my son’s name out loud. “Of course they schedule you as one of the last interviews of the day,” the man grumbled, rolling his eyes “I tell you, the admin guys have to get their shit together. I’ve been interviewing upper 60-percenters all day, and then they send in the 1-percenter just before midnight. I mean fuck.” My head was spinning. What the hell was this guy talking about? He must have seen the confusion on my face, because he breathed in and loosened his tie a bit more. “Sorry, buddy. Been a long day.” He sighed again and looked down at the file. “Yes, so little Joshy is a one-percenter. I bet that’s a surprise, eh?” “Wh� –what’s a one-percenter?” My head was spinning. Wasn’t this supposed to be more formal? This guy seemed burnt out already. “Did you get the pamphlets?” he asked, blinking at me. “I can send you home with some more, but I don’t have the time tonight to explain it all to you in detail.” He paused, and reached down into his desk drawer. He pulled out a bottle of brown liquid and two small glasses. “And since this is my last meeting of the night, and you’re the father of a one-percenter, I suggest we both have a drink.” Without asking, he poured me a glass half full of the brown liquor, and the same amount for himself. I wanted to keep my wits about me, but I couldn’t resist a sip. I needed to settle my nerves. “So… you were saying my Joshy is a one-percenter? What does that mean?” I asked, already feeling the booze in my blood. Counsellor Phillips looked me square in the eye again. “I’ll lay it on straight,” he said. “We ran the tests on all the boys in this school. Your son is what’s known as highly breedable. A one-percenter is the term we use for boys who are in the top 1% fertility class within their student body. So in this case…” the man clicked a few things on his computer screen, then looked back at me, “there are 844 male students at Ward Elementary right now. And your son is one of 9 students who ranked the highest. It’s quite an accomplishment.” I felt a cold sweat break out on my forehead. This wasn’t what I was expecting at all. This late at night, I figured maybe he would have a few small remarks…maybe they’d tell me they’d check again in a year. But a… one-percenter? How could it be? “There has to be some sort of mistake,” I croaked out. “My Joshy is just a normal kid!” “Not according to this file,” the man said, patting the manila folder still splayed out on his desk. “Our screenings are very sophisticated. And something about little Joshy here set off our radar. Not sure what, but anyway…” The man typed decisively on his computer, moving on to whatever screen was next. “Now hold on a minute,” I said, sitting forward in my chair. I was no longer feeling pale and sickly� –I was feeling hot and angyr. “You can’t just sit there and tell me my only son is `breedable’ and not tell me why!” Doctor Phillips rolled his eyes at me. “You parents are so self-riteous…” şişli travesti “Excuse me!” I roared, jumping to my feet. “I’m here because you violated� –” “Calm down, Mr. Musili-.” “It’s MASSIMO! ” I roared. “Calm down, Mr. Massimo, or I will have to call security in here.” I started to shout, but then thought again about the bouncer I’d seen down the hall. And I remembered what people said about first impressions. Don’t rock the boat� –it only makes it worse. So I took a deep breath and sat down again. “That’s better,” the man said. “Now, if you really must know the details� –not that you’ll understand the science…” My son’s caseworker trailed off as he read through the book. “Hmmm interesting… shallow cunting space. Not surprising, given his small size. And a 50% increased chance of orgasm, so that definitely weighs into it. But his egg sacs are at 0, that’s strainge…” “Wait… hold on, slow down!” I cried. All of this science talk, but no answers! It was infuriating. “What do you mean his egg sacs are at 0?” I said, latching on to the last thing the man had said. “Wouldn’t that mean he’s infertile?” “No, not necessarily,” the man said. “I mean, yes, it does mean he can’t conceive right now. But few boys his age and size can. That doesn’t mean he can’t be cunted before he’s fully fertile. Bu then that brings up the question of breedability versus fertility and…” The man shook his head. “Ah, never mind. It’s too complicated.” “What… what exactly is cunting?” The man rolled his eyes at me again. “Do ANY of you fathers read the fucking pamphlets we send out?” I bit my tongue, trying not to scream at the man. “I read the goddamn pamphlets. I still don’t understand how a boy his age can be… what even is it?” “Cunting,” the man said, almost through gritted teeth, “is an important, vital phase of the breeding experimentation process. It occurs when a full sized adult male penis� –” “No, I saw the video,” the man said. “Everyone did. They wont stop playing it on the news.” “Ah, then you know already that it is part of the breeding process, when a fat adult cock breaches a certain space with in the child’s rectum. We often look for shallow cunting spaces during the sonograms, and it looks like Joshy has one. But that’s not all… look at this,” I was still processing what the man had just said when he turned his computer monitor around so I could see it. And what I saw there was so shocking, I forgot all about the man’s admission that he’d used a sonogram on my son. Because the large, blown-up image on the screen made it clear that he’d done far more than a sonogram. The image on the screen showed the room next door� –the medical area where kids with headaches and scraped knees would get iced packs and band aids. But now, it was just my little son Josh, laying on his back on the medical table, with his legs in the air. And he was completely naked. “What?” I stammer in disbelief. “When was this filmed?” “During his screenings earlier today,” the man said blandly. I watched in horror as a man� –different from Dr. Phillips� –stepped into the frame. I couldn’t see this man’s face, but saw he was wearing a lab coat and even had on purple rubber latex gloves. As he stepped toward my son, the camera zoomed in, giving all of us a close up view of my son’s naked ass. I wanted to look away but was glued to the screen in horror as my son’s small, pale, hairless ass filled the screen. My heart cried out for the boy as I noticed he was trembling there spread out on the table like that. And he was SPREAD. I suddenly noticed that my only son was actually restrained on the table, both his ankles strapped down and wide. This had the effect of showing off the tiny pink button tucked inside the boy’s plump white cheeks. The hole that, if this man was to believed, could hold the secret to humankind’s salvation. Somehow, letting a man put his penis inside that hole and ejaculate would potentially save us from certain doom. But it was my son’s hole we were talking about here. I had no idea that when I voted for President Longley, that I’d end up here, talking about my son’s cuntability or whatever with a total stranger. My stream of consciousness was thought as the man clicks a button to turn up the volume. “Watch this,” he commands, as if I could look away from the screen. The other man in the video approaches my son and reaches forward with a single purple-gloved finger extended. I feel shock and horror as the man runs his finger down my son’s spread cheeks, pausing only for a moment on top of his quivering little pink hole. And then I hear it. That high-pitched giggle I’ve heard so many times, when tickling my boy or chasing him around the house. But this time he appeared to be giggling only because a stranger had ever so gently caressed his pink little hole. “See, that sort of reaction is exactly what we’re looking for during these screenings,” the man said. “Little boys who react positively to the first touch of their pussy opening are far more likely to… take to semen.” “He’s just ticklish!” I exclaimed. “It’s not just the reaction,” the man said calmly. He then paused the movie on his computer screen and zoomed in even more on the hole. “It’s also the look of your son’s hole. Smooth, pink, tiny, welcoming.” The man paused for a second. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, but there are certain signals animals give off when in heat. Color, texture, smell� –these are all things that animals use to encourage reproduction.” “Are you comparing my Joshy to an animal?” I said, feeling myself get red in the face. This was making me so angry… and terrified. “Well, in a way, I suppose I am,” the man said. “Of course, I know there is more to Joshy than his body. I know he gets good test grades, that his teachers like him, that he’s well adjusted. But when it comes to his pussy, well, there’s no denying that this is the type of boy pussy that begs for fucking. It calls out to men, not unlike a dog in heat will do. In fact, I’m getting a little worked up myself just looking at it.” The man smiled but I could see he was shifting uncomfortably in his chair. Did he really have a hard on talking about all this? An image popped into my mind� –the last time I’d seen Joshy, less than an hour ago. He was lying on the carpet in the living room, on his stomach, watching some cartoon on his iPad. He’d finished all his homework like a good boy, and I had to keep him distracted while I had this unfortunate meeting. And then, completely unbidden, another image appears almost superimposed over that one. In it, I see Joshy in the same position, on the carpet on his stomach. But he’s not dressed in the cute little blue sweatpants and dinosaur t-shirt I left him in. No, in this horrible, unwanted image, my little son is buck naked, underneath the body of some faceless, hairy, beefy man. I can see the man’s chunky ass flexing which each thrust, and can hear the contrasting sound of my son’s high-pitched squeals and the man’s guttural moans as he gets closer to� — I slam my hand on the desk. I’m so angry I could scream. “So� –so what does all this mean?” I blurt out. “You government types are always going on about the amazing technology you have and how this could save the world. But you don’t ever give us any fucking details about how you actually plan to.. to…” “Breed your son?” the man asks, a look of both annoyance and evil arousal on his face. “You’ll have to forgive my assumptions, but seeing as you are a father yourself, I figured you were fairly familiar with the mechanics of breeding.” The man let’s out a sigh, as if discussing the weather. “But I suppose there are some more questions to be asked, and fortunately, you don’t have to wait long for the answers.” The man stands from the desk, his erection clearly visible in his khaki pants. “Do you know how to get to the gym?” I nod. I’ve been to the gym for a number of bad school Christmas concerts and even worse elementary school sporting events. “Good. You better get a move on. The rest of the fathers have been waiting for a while, since you were the last appointment of the night. *** When I first peer through the window into the gym, it looks more or less like a regular parent-teacher night. It’s brightly lit by those ugly orange lights, and there are some tables set up in the back with snacks and a punch bowl. There are about 20 chairs lined up facing what appears to be a large projection screen in the middle of the gym floor. When I push open the door, it’s pretty quiet, despite the fact that there are about 10 other adults in the room with me. And as I walk into the room, I realize that there are definitely some elements to this setting that would NOT be present in a normal parent-teacher night. For example, there are no women here at all. Every other person in the room is a man like me. Also, there appear to of those strange new security forces the government had brought in to apparently help with the new laws and all that. They wore gray suits and had what looked to be firearms, or at least tazers, at their hips. I was trying to decide what was safer� –the seats or the table with snacks? I was strangely finding myself a little uh…bloated below the waist. I had no idea why, but I figured I could go over by the table and get something to hold in front of my crotch until this mysterious swelling went down. As I approached the table, I received a few awkward stares from some of the other dads that had been called in tonight. I had to skip most of the parent-teacher nights myself, and judging by the blank looks on these other dads faces, it seems they aren’t too familiar with each other. They part as I approach the table, and that’s when I see that there’s a lot more on there than just cookies and tea. In addition to those traditional snacks you get served at school night, there are several rows of beer, and a few bottles of liquor that seem to be available in a serve-yourself capacity. There also seems to be a bowl of what appear to be well-rolled joints and blunts, and at one end of the table are rows of little brown bottles that I don’t recognize. I’m deciding whether I can stomach eating one of the little pink cookies on the table when I feel a head on my shoulder. I wheel around, and I’m looking right in the face of… “Bob?” “Dave…?” I’m staring right in the face of my neighbor, Bob Whittaker, or was it Whiteman? We’d been neighbors for years, but I barely knew anything about the man. We’d crossed paths at a few barbecues, but I’d found him dreadfully boring. He was an accountant or something like that, and a bit on the nerdy side despite his lean body. Our sons also weren’t the same age� –his twin boys were just a couple years older than my son, but at this age, those couple of years can make a big difference in what the boys can do. He may have bored me at those barbecues. But seeing him here, that was interesting. “You can’t be here because of J� –” Bob started to say my son’s name, and bit his tongue. His face turns beat red. I wince as well, almost forgetting that he had the same amount of reason to see my presence here as shocking. Perhaps even more shocking, because while his twins were within what the doctors considered “normal breeding age” for boys, my son was well under that threshold. beylikdüzü travesti I nod solemnly, and he looks away. I waited for a few more moments of awkward silence, before I quickly grabbed one of the cookies, stuffed it in my mouth, and made my way toward the seats. I found a spot near the back, and tried to disappear. Fortunately, in just a few moments, the lights dimmed and the projector started up with a whirring noise. The rest of the men still milling about quietly move to their seats. I can almost hear all of our heartbeats nervously pumping together in unison as the movie began. First the screen is all black, until big letters appear in what look like fridge magnet letters. They read: BOY BREEDING 101 Introduction for Soon-to-Be Grandfathers And then scribbled in chalk were the words, “We hope!” Then the screen showed a man in a lab coat, with dark hair and plastic-framed glasses, looking a heck of a lot like Clark Kent. He was seated at a table filled with bubbling beakers and bunson burners, and the colorful backdrop behind him made it look more like a kid’s science show I remembered from my childhood than an actual lab. I also notice that on the table there is a Hot Wheels car, a little Lego statue, and some messy drawings pinned up on the table’s edge. “Hello,” the man says, smiling as he looks straight into the camera. “Congratulations! If you’re watching this, it means that a young boy under your guardianship is going to be given an incredible chance� –a chance to save the world through breeding!” When he says this, one of the bubbling beakers on his desk boils over comically. “Now, I know you are probably not feeling too comfortable right now. After all, everything about the government’s Boy Breeding program is still so new and vague. But tonight is your lucky night, because you are going to learn A LOT more about how all of this is going to work, and what your role will be. So sit back, enjoy the refreshments we’ve provided, and let’s take a journey together through the new, slick government process of standardized child impregnation methodology.” He pushes up his glasses nerdily at this last statement. Somewhere to my left, I hear what is distinctly the sound of a beer being opened up. How can someone be drinking at a time like this, I think… though my throat is a little dry. “The first thing you should know is that, as the guardian of the breedable little boy in question, you have lots of options with how you’d like to proceed. While breeding of some variety will be absolutely mandatory for every man in this room� –for the good of humanity,” the scientist added with a wink, “…we want to make sure that you have some control and options when it comes to exactly when, how, and who will be involved with your baby boy’s little butthole. Or throat hole, for that matter!” he added with a weird little giggle. “This is fucking bullshit!” a voice called out from somewhere up front. I tried to peer at who had given the outburst, but decided to stay in my seat when one of the security offers suddenly appeared next to the TV. The man looked huge� –with thick muscles and a square jaw that told all of us that outbursts like that wouldn’t be tolerated. “When it comes to the style of breeding, the first choice you have to make will be between Home Breedings and one of the new government-run Breeding Camps or Farms. There are pros and cons to both options, so let’s take a deeper look at what choices you have!” The screen went black again, and the colorful letters appeared once more. This time, they read “Option 1: At-Home Breedings” And the chalk handwriting appeared at the bottom, reading: “Where your son’s Bulls come to you!” Next the movie shows what looks like an ordinary suburban house in the middle of the afternoon. It could honestly be a house on my street, though I didn’t recognize it exactly. The camera zooms in, and the door opens, and the man from the beginning appears there. Except this time, he’s dressed in a neat suit and slacks, looking more like a relic from the 1950s with slick hair. There’s sickly sweet music playing in the background. I sniff the air. I can smell weed. Is someone sparking up during this? Fuck, it smells good. I haven’t smoked in so long… stuff makes me too horny. That’s why my dick is chubbing up a little, right? “Welcome to the wonderful world of at-home breedings!” the man smiles. His words are barely audibly over the sounds of sex coming from the house behind him. “This option is a popular one for many of our families, given how simple it all is. Unlike the other option available, you and your child can stay right in your home for every single breeding he takes.” “For fuck’s sake!” someone else cries out in the audience. I can barely find my voice, but I respect whoever is doing this. It’s so ridiculous to make us watch this movie like prisoners! It’s sick! And yet, I can’t look away. The man in the doorway backs up a bit and welcomes the camera into the living room. Behind him, there are two more actors� –or at least I think they’re actors. They definitely look like they could be father and son. They sit on a couch next to each other, and the little boy appears almost like a miniature of the handsome man next to him. They both have sandy hair and tannish skin, though the son is slightly paler and obviously much smaller and less muscular than the handsome dad. They are dressed for bed� –the little boy is in pale blue onesie PJs with the word “SON” sewn on the front. The dad wears a dark blue bath robe, his hairy chest and legs visible, but fortunately everything else covered up. In his hand, the dad holds his phone, and though the actors don’t speak, you can see they are excitedly scrolling through the phone together. They both sport big, cheesy grins and pretend to chatter with each other as the narrator continues. “With the at-home option, you’ll manage all of your son’s bareback sex through our handy Breedin’ Time App, which will be force-loaded onto your phone once you select this choice. You’ll easily be able to see any Bulls available within a 50-mile radius of your home, as well as Bulls who may be visiting your area soon. And even better, they’ll also automatically be alerted of your son’s location at all times, once he’s fitted with his cute little BreedingBracelet.” There was an audible groan from several men in the audience at the mention of those controversial bracelets. I’d only seen a few boys wearing them since the new laws came in� –those tiny little beaded bracelets in different colors that no one seemed willing to explain. There had been weeks of protests about those bracelets, saying it violated privacy. But this videos is just underscoring how little the new administration cares about all that, seeing that all of us are here in this room together. “Now, you may be wondering, just who are these `Bulls’ we speak of? Surely you’ve heard the term before. Bulls are the men designated by our trusted administration to be prime candidates for boy impregnation. I could explain, but why don’t we meet one of these Bulls now!” Right on cue, the doorbell rings. As the man marches over to the door, I quickly sneak back to the table and grab two shots of tequila, downing them as I go back to my chair. My heart is racing like I’m watching a horror movie, waiting to see who is behind the door. When it opens, the man dressed there is so surprising, someone in the audience actually lets out one short laugh. The man standing there smiling on the stoop is dressed in the traditional costume of an old-timey milkman� –white pants and a white button-down shirt, with a black belt and a stupid matching hat. But the man wearing the costume doesn’t look like the milkmen from those old TV shows. This guy looks to be about 6’5, with skin nearly as dark as the black belt around his waist. His sleeves are cut off to reveal his large, dark arms. “Well howdy,” he says, tipping his hat and smiling. “Hello there kind sir. Are you here for the breeding?” “I sure am!” the man says, smiling and stepping into the house. “Say, I’m teaching some men out there,” the narrator nods his head toward the camera, “just what makes a good Bull! Would you mind showing them?” “Sure thing!” the man says. Then there is the sound of a zipper opening, and everyone in the crowd groans once again. I’m thankful for that tequila at what I see. The camera zooms in on the man’s crotch. He’s unzipped, and apparently wasn’t wearing any underwear, because his black-as-night package is in full view for the camera. “Take a look at that meat, gentlemen!” says the narrator’s voice from off camera. As if we have any choice. The man’s penis is so large, it takes up the entire screen. It’s mostly flacid, hanging low down below his zipper. It pules quietly, threatening to get thicker, and the thick foreskin hanging at the head pulls back ever so slightly to reveal a glistening pink piss slit. The man’s heavy, egg-shaped testicles are also filling up the screen, hanging in a sack that, like the base of the cock, is coated in short, wiry hairs. “As you can see, our friend here is quite well endowed. He’s equipped with a piece of meat that is long enough to go deep into your sons orifices, and thick enough to plug them up when he’s done inseminating, so that none of his precious seed escapes. Speaking of which, you can also see he’s the owner of two over-sized testicles, filled with what we know to be the most viscous, thick, heavy load of cum perfect for boy impregnation. Or… at least that’s the theory.” “If it’s just a theory, then why� –” comes a voice from the front of the stage. But it’s silenced when the hulking officer up front slowly moves his hand to the tool at his waist. The camera zooms back to show the full room, just as the milkman walks over to the couch and crouches down to smile at the little boy. The two chat silently, and then the man takes the little boy by the hand, shakes the father’s hand, and leads the little boy up the stairs and off camera. The dad remains on the couch, flipping through his phone. “This dad here has decided to stay downstairs, perhaps lining up his son’s next Bull. But it’s entirely up to you if you would prefer to witness your child’s breeding, or feel that the Bull who has come into your home needs supervision. As long as you don’t stop him from planting his seed deep inside your child, then you can have some say in how things go down! Or not!” I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn around. One of the men leans forward and offers me a joint. I start to say no, but realizing that there’s still more of this movie they’re going to force us to watch, I let myself in and accept it. I take a long few puffs, then pass it down to the man on my right. I’m instantly high, and now unfortunately twice as horny, as I turn back to the screen. We’re back in the lab setting now, and that awful man with his stupid smirk is back in his lab coat. “Well, that was exciting! But it’s not your only option. Let’s check out the “Out of Home” breeding opportunities that your sons can enjoy!” The camera cuts again, this time showing a vibrant outdoor scene. There are some rolling green hills in front of a large, beautiful lake. On the far shore are some small, handsome little cabins, and on the shore closest to the screen there istanbul travesti is a dock, where young boys are running, splashing, and diving into the lake. The narrator of the film suddenly pops into frame, and he’s somehow wearing an even more ridiculous outfit. He’s dressed like a camp counselor, in khaki clothing, complete with a whistle around his neck and a stupid wide-brimmed hat on his head. “Welcome to Camp Bareback! One of the many fine breeding camps in our system. This is the perfect solution for fathers who would prefer to keep their noses out of their son’s bareback business!” He chuckles at this sick joke. But for some reason, it makes me want to rub my cock, hearing him say that. “If you’re watching this video, it means that your son is eligible to attend one of these camps for his period of fertility� –however long that may last. Here, they’ll have all of their most basic needs taken care of� –they’ll be well looked after, fed nutritious food, and of course they’ll be free to go into heat and…” “Go into heat?” I look back to see who is yelling. It’s a man I don’t recognize� –a younger dad, with a scruffy beard and a lean build. “Why don’t you just call it what it is? It’s not a camp! It’s a farm! It’s a fucking dairy farm! Some hell hole where you will strap our sons down and force them to take cock and cum up their� –ARRGH!” The man’s tirade is interrupted by the large guard in his gray uniform, who has lunged out with what appears to be a cattle prod. “You will remain in your seat, and quiet, until the film is over.” The calmness in his voice is terrifying, even as he drags the man to his feet and puts him in his chair. That keeps the man’s outburst down, except seconds later, the entire audience erupts in outrage. Because as the narrator has been speaking, the camera has panned backward, and now there are some shocking images on the screen. On one end of the dock, a large, muscular, dark-skinned latino man is stretched out on a towel, his arms behind his head. He’s fully nude except for the whistle around his neck and some white sunscreen on his nose. He looks like a lifeguard perhaps, but without the telltale red shorts to hid his massive erection, there’s no way to know. Though it would be unlikely a camp counselor would have such obscene words tattooed on his abdomen and chest. But I don’t even have time to focus on what’s written on the man’s body, because what’s going on between his legs is so obscene. A small boy, not much older than my Joshy, is kneeling between the man’s legs and using both of his little hands lather what looks like a lot more sunscreen all over the man’s bobbing uncut schlong. The naked little child is giggling as he does this obscene act. The camera pans back a little more, to reveal another shocking scene. Two boys with straight black hair and brownish skin are at a picnic bench, side by side. They aren’t sitting at it normally, though� –the boys (Good god, they are twins!) are bent over the top of it, sticking their asses into the faces of two men whose backs are to the camera. The boys high-pitched moans and squeals fill the gym as they get their little cunts eaten out by men who appear to be old enough to be their grandfathers. Shit, did I just think “cunt”? This propaganda is getting to me… The camera pans out a bit more, and we see a wooded area…and what at first appears to be a large animal grinding up against a large pine tree. The camera swings in that direction, and begins to zoom in, and I realize that it’s not a bear or anything� –it’s another naked adult man. He’s a thick man� –wide shoulders, thick thighs and legs, and all of his backside covered in dark hair. Why is he humping that tree? I think, and as soon as the thought passes through my brain, I see what’s really going on. Because now I can see, between the man’s spread legs, I see another set of legs that look like they’re practically from a different species as the man. These legs are impossibly small, pale, hairless. That’s all I can see of the poor little boy who is presumably getting raw fucked by the beast of a man behind him. But I can tell by the way the boy is standing on his very tippy toes, and the way his rhythmic high-pitched grunts and squeals, that this man also FUCKS like an animal. The men in the room with me are shouting and pleading to turn it off, but the guards seem to ignore them and just let the scene play out. Finally, we can hear the man grunt, “Time to fuckin’ BREED.” Somewhere from beneath the man’s hairy stomach, the boy’s voice could be heard, trying desperately to say his one line while he’s actually GETTING a breeding. “Yes!” he cries, “Please! UNGH! Give me your babies! FUCK! FOR THE GOOD OF HUMANITY, IMPREGNATE ME!” he screams. The camera lingers long enough for us to watch the mean grunt his way through an impressively long orgasm. And then, suddenly, we’re back in the lab. “So there you have it!” the man says, smiling. “Your two options: Will you have your son’s breedings happen at home, or in one of our happy breeding camps? The choice is yours!” He gives the camera a thumbs up, and then it cuts to black. As soon as it’s done, the men start to shout and argue again. But the guard zaps his prod in his hand, and the crowd quiets. Then the guard steps forward, a horrific grin on his face as he brandishes his tazer. “Ok, gentlemen. Thank you for watching that video. I hope you all found it to be educational. You’ll be happy to know, our session tonight is nearly finished, and soon you can all go home to your families. Including your sons. But before you leave, you’ll need to register your selection of breeding options with your counselor. We’ll be calling you in over the next hour to sign the forms. Until then, enjoy the refreshments.” And with that, the guard turns on his heels and marches toward the door. The other guards posted at the double doors follow him, and we all can hear the sound of the doors locking shut as they go. There are a few moments of awkward silence, and then one of the fathers in the room stands and says, “Well, fuck it. I need a drink.” We all watch him for a moment as he marches back to the refreshment table, and then all at once, the tension breaks, and the men begin standing and moving about the gym. I spend the next few minutes awkwardly moving around the gym. There are other men like me, who are keeping to themselves� –but some of the more gregarious fathers in the gym have formed little groups, where they are talking in hushed conversations. Every few minutes, a voice booms over the loudspeaker. “Abbots.” “Bennington.” “Beecher.” “Denton.” Every time the speaker static sounds, the room falls silent until the name is called. Then the unfortunate man slinks toward the door, where the guards allow him to leave. It feels remarkably like being summoned to the principal’s office, except the stakes are much, much darker. As the voice moves down the alphabet, I begin to feel more and more like I need a drink. So eventually I make my way back to the refreshments, where a group of men is standing. I recognize the man who was tazed, as well as the one who announced he needed a drink a few minutes ago. The others are strangers to me. I spend some time downing a few shots of tequila as I listen in on their conversation. “I dunno, the breeding camps seem like the better option,” one man is saying. “If my son is going to get fucked like some faggot, he may as well have some fun at a summer camp while he’s at it.” “I wouldn’t be so sure,” says another man’s voice� –I think it’s the guy who was tazed. “That movie was total propaganda! The camps aren’t like the boyscouts� –not from what I’ve heard.” “What did you hear?” another man asks. “I heard,” the tazed man says, “that the camps are really like factory farms. If you send your son there, he’s going to be strapped up to some sling or something, so that those awful men can breed him over and over and over…” I take my last shot of tequila� –was that six shots now?—and move away from that dark conversation. I half-stumble over to another group of men standing by the doors to the locker room. The smell of the smoke from the joint they’re sharing makes me feel even woozier. “Well, I’m definitely going for the at-home option,” one man in saying. I can’t help but notice that he’s pawing at his own crotch as he talks. “If some randoms are gonna be breeding MY kid, you better believe I’m gonna be there to supervise.” “Supervise?” the man next to him says, puffing out a big cloud of smoke. “More like watch and maybe film it!” The group of men all laugh at this, which makes me feel sick to my stomach. “I wouldn’t count on that,” another man says once the laughter has died down. “I heard a rumor that Bulls get-” I move away from them, and scan the room again. And then I spot something that brings me a bit of comfort. Bob, my only friend in the room, sitting by himself in the same folding chair he was in watching the movie. I make my way over to him and plop down next to him. “You doin’ ok, pal?” I say, hoping I don’t sound too slurred. Bob looks at me with bleary eyes� –I can’t tell if he’s been crying, or enjoying the refreshments. “Not really,” he says solemnly. “I’m kind of freaking out.” “Me too,” I say. “This is just… The camps, the app… it’s all happening so quickly.” Bob nods. “I’m just… I’m wondering… Do you think the dads can be Bulls?” This question catches me off guard. What exactly is he asking? I apparently take too long to respond, because Bob just continues. “Because, well, what they said in the video� –the Bulls are Bulls because they have, um, big members and large loads. And well…” Bob looks down at his own crotch. Oh. Now I understand. I shift uncomfortably, because now Bob has put these thoughts in my head. If he’s right, that to be a Bull all you need is a big cock and heavy loads, then I’m a shoe-in. But apparently Bob isn’t. I try hard to hide my erection in my pants at this realization, but it’s no use. And I’m sure Bob notices. “I… I don’t know…” “It doesn’t matter,” Bob says, sounding resigned. “Whether it’s you or me or not, someone is going to put their giant cock up our son’s asses. There’s no stopping it, and� –” “Massimo. Massimo please report to the Breeding Counselor’s office.” I feel my heart sink into my chest. Bob stares at me with wide eyes. “Good… good luck,” he says to me with a nod. I can’t think of anything to say back, so I just nod as well and stand to move toward the door. The walk across the gym seems like it’s 10 miles long, as wild thoughts race through my head. With every step, another image flashes across my mind’s eye, and each one features my innocent little son. I see Joshy’s little feet, the ones I’ve washed in the tub a million times, curling around the firm ass of some unknown negro man. I see my sweet baby boy bent over a log, crying out for me as some beefy beast of a man pumps a load into him right there in the open air. I see my only child in some weird sex dungeon, chained into some machine that keeps his cunt open for any random Bull who feels the need to seed. “FUCK”!” I cry out as I reach the door of the gym. “I know,” the guard says, smiling that disgusting smile of his. “But these kinds of parenting decisions are never easy.” Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! Don’t forget to check out the poll: https://www.supersurvey/QCH26TJR3 Want to talk about future chapters? You can contact me here: Telegram: @Dilf_Fantasy NEW Twitter: @Land_of_Dilfs NewTumbl: Email: ail Remember to donate to Nifty!

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