My Job Was to Decide Which Men Could Reproduce

In that world, society had been rewritten from the ground up. The genes considered good were welcomed and passed on to the next generation; those considered defective were left stalled, with no future. It made no difference whether you were a man or a woman: if you were marked negative, they made sure you would never reproduce. And that was the job of women like Renata.

She had what she considered the best job in the world. A redhead, with freckles sprinkled across her nose and clear eyes that seemed unfazed by anything, her body was the kind that went unnoticed in the street but looked far better stuffed into the Department’s fitted uniform. That morning, while tying her hair into a tight ponytail in front of the mirror, she mentally reviewed the schedule. The first case of the day was no routine inspection.

It was a punishment.

The file made it clear: repeat rapist, genes marked as negative, a life of drugs, alcohol, and fights. He had tried to impregnate several women against their will. In cases like that, the method was never persuasion.

The man was waiting in the central room, naked, with his hands and feet bound to a metal structure. The room functioned like an amphitheater: in the upper tiers, a dozen trainees watched in silence, notebooks in hand, learning the trade. Renata came in with the file open and her heels clicking over the polished floor.

—Let’s see… a rapist… negative genes… violent history —she read aloud, without looking up—. It’s been a while since we got someone with such a complete profile.

—Suck my dick, you fucking bitch! —he spat, straining against the straps, his voice ripping out of his throat.

Renata didn’t even blink. She had heard that phrase, or worse variations of it, hundreds of times. She closed the folder calmly and signaled to the two guards. Between them they dragged the man to a machine in the center of the room, got him onto his knees after a brief struggle, and immobilized his hips against a steel base. Then, with almost clinical precision, they settled his testicles onto a metal plate and secured them with a strap so they wouldn’t move.

The man looked up and saw what was above him: a second iron plate suspended overhead, ready to come down. The idea needed no explanation. He swallowed. In that instant, his courage evaporated.

—Wait… wait, please —he stammered—. I’d rather have a vasectomy… anything… I’m begging you.

Renata stepped closer and leaned down until she was at his ear. She smelled of sweat and fear.

—Begging is for people who never denied it to their victims —she murmured—. You’re not on that list.

She straightened, rested her hand on the lever, and glanced sideways at the trainees so they would take notes.

—Three… two… one.

The iron fell. The crunch was sharp, crushing, and the scream that followed echoed off the walls until one of the guards activated the emergency healing system. They unstrapped him, loaded him onto a stretcher, and took him out through the side corridor. Renata peeled off her gloves with two precise pulls and allowed herself a pause.

***

While drinking coffee by the window, she watched the trainees whisper among themselves, some of them pale. She remembered her own first time. The first execution she had witnessed turned her stomach for days; she had even felt pity for those broken men. But then they had shown her the victims’ faces, the reports, the photographs. The pity vanished quickly. Now she saw it with the naturalness of someone who knows exactly what their job is for. What those men received was simply what they deserved.

On her way back to the sleeping quarters, she crossed the wing where her coworkers relaxed between shifts. Some had their torsos bare, breasts exposed, nipples hard with arousal, riding the men and women of Area S, the sector for voluntary submissives, with harnesses and thick dildos. Renata paused for a moment to watch: one of her colleagues, dark-haired with big tits, had a guy face down on a bench and was pounding a dildo into his ass at a brutal rhythm, gripping him by the hair, spitting between his shoulder blades. Another, kneeling, forced a submissive woman to suck her harness as if it were a real cock, holding her by the nape until the girl choked and a string of saliva hung from her chin. Those bodies offered themselves without resistance, moaning, panting, their faces transformed by a pleasure that came close to devotion. For them, serving was a reward, not a punishment.

Renata was no stranger to that custom. She put on a harness with a hint of reluctance, tightened the straps over her hips until the thick black dildo, veined and rigid, sat firmly between her legs, and sat down in a high-backed chair. She took out her phone. A man from Area S approached on his knees, his half-hard cock bobbing between his thighs, asked permission with his eyes and, at her indifferent gesture, spit on his hand, lubed his ass with two fingers he shoved in to the knuckles, and sat down on the dildo. A rough moan escaped him when the tip opened his sphincter. He started moving up and down like a dog desperate to please, his buttocks slapping against Renata’s thighs, his cock lashing against his own belly with each descent. She kept reading the screen, ignoring him completely, idly swiping with her thumb, half listening to the broken pants, the wet slosh of the harness sliding in and out, the whispered “thank you, ma’am, thank you” between thrusts. Giving them that little pleasure was part of the job; enjoying it was not mandatory, and that afternoon she didn’t feel like it. The man came on his own, without touching himself, his load splattering his own chest and the tiles, thanking her in a broken whisper before crawling away, leaving a shining trail behind him.

***

Another of her usual tasks was damage inspection. When a submissive took an accidental blow or a kick from some overly enthusiastic instructor, it was necessary to check that there were no serious injuries. Renata palpated that fragile area with firm fingers, rolling the testicles between thumb and forefinger, squeezing the base of the cock to see how it reacted, fascinated by how vulnerable that part of a man’s body was, by how much power it gave her to press just a little harder than necessary. The curious thing was that they seemed to like it too: no matter how much they complained about the pain, their cocks gave them away, hard as stone under her hand, the tip swollen and a bead of precum sliding over the glans.

But her favorite task, without question, was in the measuring room.

There the candidates filed in. Men of every age, all naked from the waist down, waiting for the verdict that would decide whether they were allowed to reproduce. Renata examined them one by one. Thick cocks, thin, long, short, pale or curved; she had seen them in every imaginable shape. At first it had been hard to keep her cool, but she soon understood that the only way to do the inspection properly was to take it all the way. She masturbated each candidate with her latex-gloved hand, setting a slow, firm rhythm, feeling the cock swell against her palm, and according to the response, the hardness, stamina, volume of the cum, and the reaction under pressure, she selected the fit ones. She especially adored the moment of refusal: watching their faces break, seeing how some held back tears the instant she shook her head or gave a little laugh when they lowered their underwear.

—Next —she ordered, settling onto the stool.

The man who came in stripped with rehearsed arrogance, self-assured. He stood in front of her with his legs apart, his cock already half-erect and hanging heavy between his thighs, as if the exam were nothing more than a formality. Renata took it in her gloved hand, weighed it, ran her thumb beneath the glans, and started pumping with expert wristwork. The guy closed his eyes, smiling. His cock hardened quickly, thick, but Renata noticed what she was looking for: the vein pulsing irregularly, the loose skin of the scrotum, that rancid smell beneath the foreskin. He lasted barely two minutes before starting to pant as if he were about to cum, and she suddenly let go, leaving him halfway there, his dick twitching in the air, red and angry. She watched him for a few seconds and, with a bored sigh, shook her head.

—Bad genes —she said, noting something on the tablet—. Terrible stamina. Probably low-quality sperm. Mandatory vasectomy.

—What the fuck are you talking about, bitch? —He grabbed her by the throat with his free hand, fingers digging into her skin, while with the other he clutched his cock as if he still expected to finish.

She didn’t flinch. She looked down at the hand holding her, almost curiously, and then, in one swift motion, trapped his testicles with her gloved hand and squeezed. She squeezed with brutal, sustained force, feeling the sac flatten between her fingers, feeling the glands give with a wet crunch under the pressure. She looked him in the eye as the man’s arrogance turned first to surprise, then to panic, and finally to a muffled groan as he sank to the floor. His cock deflated at once, hanging limp, while his balls swelled purple inside the skin. No vasectomy or anesthesia was needed: she left him sterile right there, and almost impotent besides.

—I learned how to defend myself a long time ago —she said, letting him go and wiping her hand on a towel—. And I’m stronger than I look.

Two guards took the man away, still curled in on himself, hands between his legs. Renata yawned.

—Next.

The one who came after was the exact opposite: skinny, with glasses, slumped shoulders, gaze fixed on the floor. The typical guy nobody looked at twice. Renata was already starting to write the refusal out of habit, convinced this would be another disappointment. Then the boy took off his clothes.

She raised her eyebrows.

Between his legs hung an enormous cock, thick as a doll, with heavy, dense testicles the size of two plums, one a little lower than the other. Even flaccid, the tip swayed halfway down his thigh. Renata licked her lips without realizing it.

—Approved —she said at once.

The boy blinked behind his glasses, not believing it, and a shy smile lit up his face. Renata checked the schedule: he was the last one of the day. She had nobody waiting, no urgent reports to close. She bit her lip and set the tablet aside.

—Come closer —she ordered, standing up from the stool and circling him slowly—. The inspection won’t be complete until I say so.

She took off her latex gloves with her teeth and wrapped her bare hand around his cock, measuring it by touch alone. The skin was warm, soft, and beneath it she felt the blood begin to pump, felt the cock fill and stiffen against her palm until it was like iron. She ran her thumb over the glans, pressed a little, and a thick drop of precum welled out of the meatus. She spread it over the whole crown, drawing a tremor out of the boy’s knees.

—Very good —she murmured—. Very, very good.

She pulled the uniform pants down to her ankles and stepped out of one leg. She wasn’t wearing underwear: in the Department they didn’t use any, an unwritten rule to speed up the work. The boy stared at her cunt, shaved except for a fine red strip, already shining between swollen lips. Renata lowered her hand and touched herself, sliding two fingers between her folds and then showing them to him, soaked.

—See how wet I am? —she told him—. This is all because you’re so well endowed. Enjoy it, because this is the only time.

She gently pushed him against the cot, made him lie down on his back, and climbed on top of him, back to him, squatting over his waist. She grabbed his cock with one hand, positioned it, and slowly, very slowly, sank down, feeling the glans pry her cunt open wide, feeling each centimeter stretch her more than she was used to. She let out a deep, involuntary moan when she felt him hit bottom. She stayed there for a second, impaled to the base, feeling the heavy testicles pressed against her ass.

—Fuck… you’ve got quite a cock hiding down there —she panted.

She started moving. Slow at first, rising until only the glans stayed inside and then dropping back down hard to the bottom, with a wet slap that filled the room. The boy panted beneath her, hands trembling on her hips, not quite daring to hold her. Renata grabbed his wrists and planted them on her ass.

—Hold me, fuck’s sake. Spread them —she ordered.

He obeyed, awkward but eager, parting her butt cheeks while she moved. The new angle made his cock brush a spot that made her hiss between her teeth. She sped up. Each drop tore a gasp out of her, and the heavy testicles bounced against her clit, already slick with her own juices. The sloshing was obscene, rhythmic, and filled the empty measuring room.

And while she moved, Renata’s mind went back to the morning. To the dry crunch of the plate crushing the rapist’s balls. To the man who had grabbed her throat thinking himself superior and had ended up writhing at her feet with his testicles bursting in her hand. To the absolute power she had over every cock, every pair of balls, every body that walked into that building. The idea of deciding who reproduced and who didn’t, of crushing or rewarding with a single gesture, lit her up like nothing ever had. She brought one hand to her clit and started rubbing it in quick circles while she kept riding him, squeezing her cunt around his cock until she heard him whimper.

—Don’t even think about cumming before I do —she hissed over her shoulder—. Hold out, or I’ll lower your score.

The boy clenched his teeth, the tendons in his neck taut with effort. She kept riding him, faster and faster, her ass slapping against his thighs, her breasts bouncing under the half-open uniform. The orgasm hit her with an intensity she didn’t remember ever having felt before: her cunt contracted in waves around the boy’s cock, crushing him like a fist, and he let out a strangled moan at the spasm. Renata kept moving on top of him, lengthening the pleasure, until she gave him permission with a growl.

—Now. Inside. All of it.

The kid came in spurts, thrusting up from below, unloading a generous flood into her that Renata felt battering her walls, hot, thick. She stayed still for a moment, impaled to the hilt, catching her breath, her freckles lit by the flush, while the bespectacled boy dissolved into clumsy thanks beneath her. She stood up slowly and felt a warm thread of semen slide down her thigh. She wiped it with a finger, brought it to her mouth, and tasted it thoughtfully: dense, sweet. Good genes, confirmed.

Renata straightened, adjusted her uniform, and signed the approval with a quick stroke.

—You may go —she said, composed again, professional once more.

She gathered her things, turned off the light in the measuring room, and walked toward the exit with the faintest smile.

Without a doubt, the best job in the world.