To disconnected terror

Jesse did not wake up to the soft sheets and clean practicality of the school’s infirmary. It had been a long while since he had last been delivered into unconsciousness by a session of lovemaking… not since the last set of quarterly ‘Endurance Trials’ in fact. Yet he blearily recognised the same disjointed feeling of hours that had been swept out from under him and a body just waiting to catch up with all the aches and soreness he might have missed.

A cool, dampness brushed against his forehead, bringing back memories of being tended and cared for through rare bouts of fever and sickness, back in the simplicity of Home 23.

“...Betsy?” The sissy even murmured aloud, though half-aware he hadn’t seen that once inseparable mopper of his brow in weeks.

“Fraid not, kiddo.” Came the reply, in a voice that Jesse did still recognise. He opened his eyes to see Fran looking down on him, soggy rag in hand. She looked tired. Worn thin almost to the degree that Binita had seemed. With a guilty start, Jesse realised he hadn’t seen much of her at all in the madness of the last week; a vague presence in lessons, but nothing of the usual friendly interactions that their close knit group had been built on.

A drip fell on him from above. For the first time, the rest of their surroundings slowly settled in. Jesse sat up with a start, then regretted it… his head banging and asshole stinging from the trauma both had received. They were in some sort of warehouse, and a half-abandoned one at that. Stacks of old containers rusted away under the leaking roof, presumably full of supplies the Algorithm still deemed necessary, but not on any regular basis. Yet between these stacks, or on top of them and in some cases inside them; were dishevelled young people. Dropouts… at least a hundred of them. Muttering to each other in low voices, huddling around small fires or jostling to get a better look at the sissy in his now quite dirty and ragged swimsuit.

“Fran? Where are we-?!” He began to ask, before falling short. Over to one side, and being given a wide berth, was the still naked form of Binita… pounding her hips down onto the cock of a middle aged man who was clearly handcuffed to a table. The trainee slutwife instantly recognised the same style of lab coat that Mr Carter’s researchers wore, along with what looked like a hodge-podged collection of similar equipment.

“Jess… I can explain everything!” Franceska offered, trying to get him to lie back down. But a sinking feeling had already begun in the pit of Jesse’s stomach and his little heart was beginning to thump behind his breasts. He reached up a hand to tug at his collar, and found it silent and inert.

“Why isn’t the alarm going?!” He squeaked, ramping up towards full blown panic. “Where are the School Security team?! I was used without payment! They should’ve been there in minutes!”

The horror that proper procedures had not been followed seemed to rise up and consume Jesse far more than the thought of what Binita had done to him. With everything else that had been happening, the thought that the most fundamental rules of his existence were being undermined was just too much. If people didn’t have to pay to use and **** him, then they could get away with anything! He might as well be a dirty, useless Dropout himself!

Fran was trying to calm him down: “Shhh, shhh. It’s okay… It’s okay. We managed to get there in time to block the signal. She got away from us for a bit… but some of the boys found the two of you and brought you back here. You’re safe now. They don’t know where you are.”

The words cut into Jesse like an icy cleaver to the chest. They didn’t know where he was! The Algorithm and his teachers and clients and all the powers that ruled over him in the world. They didn’t know where he was, or what was being done to him, or whether he was doing a good job at living up to his role as a human sex toy. They weren’t recording his current homework assignment of ‘flirting with thirty commuters a day’ or checking whether he was getting better at walking with shoulders back to fully present his growing cleavage. He was a piece of lost property alone and off-grid and unavailable for bookings if any had come in. The terrifying enormity of it roared between his ears. All his hard work and steadily increasing grades, put at risk through no fault of his own because he had been stolen. Stolen by someone he’d thought was a close friend and her collection of cowardly, purposeless layabouts who’d ran away from their every chance to be somebody, to contribute something. Despite all his unease about the changes that had been occurring at Stanfield’s… this sickened him so much more.