Abused by Design

The next four or five hours were everything, nothing and a blur for Jesse and his fellow whorish schoolmates. A sweaty, gasping, **** mess of colliding forms and stifling body heat. When finally the last of them collapsed out on the far side of the school’s closing bell; every muscle ached and not a single shaved leg could be trusted to hold weight. Across the room, one hundred and forty seven Stanfield uniforms lay scattered and tattered: not a single torn blouse or scrap of miniskirt worth recovering to try and cover their trembling limbs. The ‘1st Class’ slutwives lay in moaning, panting heaps… some of them still trying to fulfil their purpose in a limp, listless mockery of all they’d been taught. Eyes rolled in glazed shock at the devastation they each had left in wake of one another: Puddles of human fluids spilled everywhere across the cold, polished floor. Saliva and smeared lipstick frothing around every pair of lips and drooling from every chin. Manicured nails broken and perfected hairstyles turned to tangled haystacks.

Memories came flashing back to Jesse as if dragged out from behind decades, not mere hours and minutes before. He had felt a boiling, swelling eruption of desire well up from within his loins. A desire not for anyone or anything in particular… but for everything and anyone he could get his small, soft hands on. A need for sensation in any form: pleasure, pain, hot, cold… anything that might excite his yearning nerves even the slightest and then go on and on exciting them until they were burnt out and smouldering. Someone else had ripped off his clothing for him, Suzy probably… but none of them could have borne wearing any for a second longer anyway. The **** of that disrobing cast him straight to the ground, an impact he could feel the bruise blossoming from already, among many others. Yet at the time he barely noticed it before the others were upon him, and within him, ignoring all of the normal foreplay they were so practised in providing.

Cocks and cocks and vulvas. Breasts and lips and teeth. Feet and fingers; skin and sphincters. From that moment onwards the sissy had struggled to recognise any of his beloved classmates besides the genitalia they had shoved in his direction. Brief images emerged from the fog, like snapshots frozen from the madness: Him and Suzy slamming their hips together as they invaded both of Lizzy’s lower holes. Fran on her knees, gurgling down Beth’s penis in its entirety. Even majestic Selene, devoid of all her usual decorum, somehow managing to take three first year cocks into her rectum at once. Every collared slutwife, from brand new freshers to basically-graduated seniors, caught up in a tornado of insatiable lust. Unable to restrain their urges to fuck and suck and scratch and spank even in the slightest.

Jesse had been **** before, of course. It was quite common for their high-class clients to play around with clouds of aphrodisiac smoke or little packets of powder to slip into a plaything’s drink. Nothing that wasn’t accounted for by the Grand Algorithm’s own cocktail of behaviour nudges and physiologic enhancers. But none of that came anywhere close to the madness he had just been part of. Nearby he watched Franceska drag herself to kneeling... only to vomit up a creamy, sticky mass of what was presumably several people’s semen all over her own breasts. Looking around dazedly at the rest of the gurgling, groaning aftermath; he had never been more thankful, really, that they were who that machine mind had made them to be. Without all those physical alterations that Betsy had so excitedly pointed out he was growing, the femboy wasn’t sure he would have survived the last hour or so’s experience. Whatever miserable state the pupils of Stanfield’s academy had put each other in, it would certainly have been worse had their bodies not been effectively manipulated into machines for endless erotic usage.

Jesse could feel his own… elasticity shrinking back into place, as a veritable river of deposited seed dribbled out of him onto the floor. His own shrunken testicles throbbed at the question of how many times they might have spilled their own considerations onto or into some other student over the course of the afternoon. His milky thighs screamed at all the untenable positions they'd been **** into and his budding little chest bumps held scores of bite marks. Yet still, come tomorrow, he already knew not a single seat would be empty in any of his classes. They were resilient by design, the slutwives-to-be, and this change of scholarly ownership would mean little in the long run. It was perhaps that, that felt as galling as anything: No matter the loyalty they felt toward their departed headmistress. No matter what cruelties Mr Carter and his minions might inflict… They would all fall neatly back into line. Because that was who they were. Who they were built and trained and shaped to be.

Through the haze he saw Fran manage to clamber all the way up onto unsteady feet this time, an Amazonian effort for sure. “Fuck this…” He heard her murmur under croaking breaths… then stumble from the room clothed in nothing but the slime she had painted herself with.