Chapter Text
She has her eyes closed and her head pillowed on an open book on the table. Not quite asleep. She enjoys the floating sensation, the lightness that comes with mid-day drowsiness, and the ambient low noises of a school library around her. The book is under her cheek is old, musty and dusty that tickles her nose, just a little so her nostril itches but not enough for her to sneeze. She doesn't love the scent of old books like some other book-fiends, but they are earthy enough to ground her, kind enough to calm her.
"Spending your last day of the semester sleeping."
A voice, attached to a hand, weighing down on her left shoulder.
She groans and wishes she can really sleep through the speech that is about to follow. What good does last day of a semester does if not to practice sleeping in for the foreseeable future? And it's not a given that she will be able to return next semester, either. Which would be a shame, she thinks, because it'll be her senior year.
Somehow that thought makes her feel sleepier, as though everything could just be a bad dream.
"Fistus VI," the voice, sounding so far away, comments about her choice of book-pillow. "Hardly the sort of philosopher for someone nice like you."
A usurper king. A short-lived dynasty. A peasant. Smart enough, cunning enough, to rise high enough only so the nobility could delight in his fall from great heights. Literally. Fistus the Tale of Caution.
"Time to go home." The voice is annoying her. Telling her what she already knows. But the book, the table, the sunlight streaming from the tall window in front of the table, gently warming her. She's too comfortable. "Five minutes?"
"Okay." And has the sense to give her space as well. "Okay."
She shows her ID Card to the guard at the front of the library, who makes a show of trying to find her name in the log list on the computer. It takes a while to match her identity with the person picking her up, but the third door to her left finally opens to a small reception box where her guardian is already waiting. "Thanks," she tells the guard, who nods at her. She notices how the guard's dry grey lips crack when attempting what seems to be a smile.
Everything feels so tedious, from the ID checks to the door opening too slowly for her taste. But they can't be too careful. They take safety above all else, especially following the kidnapping scare a few years back.
She hitches the strap of her bag more snugly on her shoulders, stepping into the box. "Hi," she greets, hugging the man already waiting inside.
"Hello, how's last day of school?" her uncle asks.
"Like any other day of school," she drawls as the door behind her closes, so that the door in front of them can open.
But the day is not like any other day. They aren't heading home like they usually do. Nor are they going to get ice cream like the days when they decide to do detours. The roads her uncle takes aren't familiar to her, but not entirely foreign. She's taken this route a few times, mostly accompanying her older sisters and even a few cousins closer to her age when they went to do what she's now about to do.
"Nervous?" her uncle asks as they take a left turn at the town's main crossroads.
"No..." she drags the tail of the word. She wasn't, because she's mostly forgotten about this. Now though... "Not really."
There's really no reason for her to worry. While it was a concerning procedure even as early as twenty-five years ago, society as a whole has streamlined everything, removed all the unnecessary frills and superstitions. They have made it rather cold and clinical, almost bureaucratic. "Nothing to worry about," her uncle says, pats her knee reassuringly, without taking his eyes of the road.
"Sure, sure." She sniffs, turning her head to watch buildings and cars pass by. "It can't be that bad. In and out, right?"
In and out and in and out and in and out.
There's no clock on the walls visible to her from this angle. No telling how long she's been f*cking herself in front of the men peering at her c*nt. No telling how long she's been on display like a pinned moth, with her feet splayed on stirrups spread so far up and apart her knees are as close as they can be to her breasts covered from gaze by thin clinic-issue scrubs.
The thin side of a metal scraper scoops up the juices dripping out of her snatch. "Good thickness and consistency," one man remarks.
"I think we can switch up the wand now." Then suddenly there's no longer the buzzing of the baton-like thing in her hand. It stops so abruptly she has to bite down her moan and stop her hips from moving by itself, humping air.
Large fingers peel her fingers off the now-still wand, chuckling at her strong grip. "Last one, dear," the man says. "It's bigger and longer than the wand, but we'll need it to measure the depth of your cervix and collect some tissue samples from it. After that, all done!" The stick, more like a rod, is body temperature and it slides easily between her throbbing puss* lips, slotting inside her sopping hole.
She's lost count how many rods she's put inside her during the past how many minutes or has it been hours?
It feels like it has been hours since they broke past her virginity with the first stick. The Breaching Bar, it is called colloquially. It has some medical name she doesn't care tob remember. Collects her virgin blood for sample and specimen. Next comes the different sticks of every shape and size. To collect specimens of her vagin*l flora, to keep tabs of the different states of her vagin*l fluids during different stages of arousal.
"All right, now you need to push the Cervix Rod as far inside your vagin* as you can, until you meet a bit of resistance, that's the mouth of the cervix...." they watch her with expectant eyes, waiting for her to do as she's told. "Good," one of the men says when she stops. He peers very close to her crotch until she can feel his breath feathering her sensitive skin, even through the thin layer of surgical mask he wears. "Good depth," he notes, as if speaking directly to her c*nt.
"Alright, now you will need to push past the breach. There will be a little bit of discomfort because your virgin cervix would be closed up tight. But we need you to f*ck past your cervix."
It hurts more than she expects. More than her first deflowering not an hour or so ago. She grits her teeth and pushes the rod inside her. Her legs fall open even more, obscenely so as she tries to push the rod inside herself.
"The friction will help the Rod collect samples of your cervix tissue, but no lasting damage don't worry." One of the men chuckles as he sees her body jolting; he recognizes a cervix breach behavior if he's ever seen one. "Some women grow to enjoy it, which helps the breeding process." Some women can't go without it, he doesn't say. Another man hums as if to second the thought. "Indeed. Now push a little bit more. Take that rod deep, and slide out a little... good girl, you're good at following instructions. A little bit more. But don't let it pop out. Keep it there. Now in... back in. That's it. Good girl. Now out... slowly..."
She doesn't realize when she's stopped hearing the instructions, when she began listening to the voices in her own brain, telling her own body, her own hands, her own fingers how to f*ck herself. She thinks she's close to pissing herself, or perhaps she's close to dying. The sensation entirely new to her. Alien and foreign. Her body moving outside of her experience. Her mind clouding and clearing in turns. Her desire waxing and waning only to crest even higher to places she never knew.
This is not taught in any of her classes. Not even in the very boring session of what everyone disdainfully calls the "If Pee Pee" (legally Intro to Federal Population Programs). Nothing in those taught her how to angle her hips or to bare her snatch, to arch her back or surrender to the dizzying buzz electrifying every ends of her nerves.
Even the way her heart races and her blood rushes is completely different to the thrill she feels when winning a race on the tracks. There's a tight knot forming at the pit of her stomach, something like an elusive ball of energy teasing her, asking her to chase it. She spreads her legs, pulls them up, until she feels her muscles strain, but all she cares is this strange enticing feeling forming like a ball of fire inside her. Burning her inside out. She sees sparks, red, white, blinding.
When she comes back to consciousness, she's already dressed in her school-clothes, neat as if everything is just a dream and she's still sleeping. But she's not in the library, and she's still on the examination table, only no longer splayed out. She jumps down gingerly and notices her crotch still throbbing against the thin fabric of her panties. Dry. Cool. Soft. She's suddenly very aware of it.
She has gone sixteen almost seventeen years without caring about that thing between her legs, outside of her menses. She's too preoccupied with school—of which she is behind compared to her peers. But now, her c*nt is the only thing she notices. She walks up to the group of men sitting near the clinician's table. She takes the empty seat next to her uncle who nods to her amiably.
The other men are busy filling in forms between them.
The state registrar, the red-headed middle-aged bloke with a thin goatee. The clinician, old as a hill with twinkling myopic eyes behind thick glasses. Which is probably why he has to almost put his face all the way against her c*nt to see anything displayed on the rods and sticks. Not the usual clinician who has been taking care of her since her First Blooding, her first menstruation so many years ago.
There's the community liaison, a glorified administrator. He is a youngish fella, probably not even five years out of Governance School. His fingers are uncalloused. Probably the same fingers that had not-so-accidentally brushed against her cl*t during prep. None of them are supposed to touch her, as per the Law. But who are they going to believe? And, if she's honest with herself, his touch isn't all that unwelcome.
She sits primly, as if she is still the virgin from a few hours ago. Returns the men's offhanded greetings.
"So. We note that she still has one year of schooling left."
"Yes, my niece is a year behind her peers."
The state registrar pushes some tabs around the screen of his computer, and finds the record of her traffic accident. The one that took away her parents and separated her from her older sisters. Her heart palpitates at the thought of her mom and dad, she almost missed the emotionless courtesy condolence from the registrar, "Yes, it does say right here. I'm sorry for your loss."
"Thank you," she pushes the words past her throat painfully.
"Normally, as you know, you'll have graduated school for your First Breaching." It might be her imagination but the registrar sounds annoyed. Probably because of added paperwork. "Well, no matter. We take all the specimens and run it through the system to find the right Matches for you and get you processed to the next step," the clinician explains.
"Matches..." she's heard about it.
"Is there any doubt you'll be fecund?" the doctor smiles at her like she's slow. "A good thing, too. Your puss* is too pretty to be barren." As if he expects her to take his words as compliment.
"Considering your circ*mstance, and I'm guessing you wouldliketo graduate before we cycle you through Pre-Breeding..." the registrar follows smoothly.
"...and which we do encourage," the young administrator cuts in, before hastily adding, "the graduating bit I mean. Breeding is important, but graduating is, too."
"We will have to find the best solution for you. A good thing we have the entire summer holiday to figure everything out and have you logged into the system," the registrar smiles, as if to placate her.
The young administrator is the first to rise to his feet. "We'll contact you and your guardian to set up everything." She knows it means more tests, and more of everything. They say it's part of growing up. The young man helps her up to her own feet. He handles her with a gentlemanly hand, such a different touch to when he touched her cl*t. The traitorous nub throbsat the memory. She can't hide her gasp when he runs a discreet thumb across the vein of her underwrist. He smiles when she looks at him, knowingly.
"Now that you've had your first successful Breaching," the clinician is the next to stand up, putting a big-ish white paper bag into her uncle's hands, "there are regimens you should do while you wait for Matching."
"The tools and instructions are in there," the registrar says, pointing at the bag. "Be diligent. Ask if you're unsure. Your guardian will help."
She can only nod, her body and awareness going through changes right there, that she wonders if she was made to ingest anything without her realizing. The young administrator still has his hand around hers, outwardly innocent, but making sensuous patterns, like lust in morse, to her wrist and palms.
"Not so bad," her uncle quips as they pull out of the clinic's parking lot. "Ice cream?"
"Sure," she says, now sitting with the paper bag on her lap. There's weight to it. So it must be full of things. She wants to peek, but these things can wait. "Triple scoop?"
"Greedy!" her uncle chides. "But why not. Let's celebrate. You're a big girl now."
