The Night They Exhibited Me as Their Trophy

The main hall breathed softly. Beneath the glass dome, the light from the suspended chandeliers fell over the crystal goblets and drew golden flashes from every polished surface. The tables stretched in a semicircle, occupied by women from every continent: scientists, investors, diplomats, executives from biomedical corporations and genetic fashion houses. None raised her voice. There, power had no need to shout.

The gala dinner following the symposium had begun, and we—the four finalists, the “cases”—were the central pieces of the evening.

Each of us entered escorted by his sponsor, like a newly discovered work of art. Or, to be exact, like a trophy. They all knew that after the symposium our value had risen, that their accounts would swell, that their investment had paid off. The other three walked in line behind their owners, obedient, heads bowed. I did not. I, Case 22.118, having received the highest rating of the edition, advanced beside Mrs. Velarde.

She wore a midnight-blue velvet tuxedo, a white blouse, and a matching bow tie. She smiled with that slightly calculated elegance I knew far too well. Her hand rested on my waist with calm firmness, and her fingers, cold and precise, reminded me whom I belonged to. The slightest pressure was enough to tell me whom to greet more courteously, whom to reward with one of my practiced smiles. Beneath the dress, with no underwear—she had ordered me to go without it before leaving the suite—my cock hung heavy and half-hard, brushing my thigh with every step. My ass was still slippery from the plug she had put inside me that afternoon and made me remove ten minutes before we went downstairs, “so you won’t forget that I’ve just emptied you and that tonight you’re going to be open for whatever I decide.”

“Keep your eyes lowered, but don’t hide,” she whispered, barely moving her lips. “Tonight you’re the center of everything. Don’t hide.”

Something new throbbed inside me, a pulse low in my belly that I still didn’t quite understand. I held my breath. The echo of heels against the marble faded among the stone arches, as though the entire hall beat to the same rhythm as I did, and to the rhythm of the warm moisture beginning to trickle between my buttocks.

They seated us at the central table, facing the dais where the grand hostess waited, standing erect like a queen without a crown. Glasses tinkled. The scent of exotic spices mingled with perfumes of sandalwood, dark vanilla, and something metallic and sterilized that I had learned to associate with laboratories. On the tablecloth, the gold cutlery barely reflected the warm lights, as though it too were keeping silent.

A woman from the neighboring table, young, her hands heavy with rings, leaned toward me while the first course was served. She did not address me directly; they never did. She spoke to my sponsor.

“His skin is softer than the reports indicate,” she said, running a finger along my arm as though checking the quality of a fabric. “Is it treatment, or is it natural?”

“Both,” Mrs. Velarde replied with a brief smile. “The rest is work. A great deal of work.”

“May I?” the stranger asked, and without waiting for an answer slid her hand beneath the tablecloth. Her ringed fingers found my thigh, moved upward without hurry, and closed directly around my cock. She weighed it, pulled back the foreskin, and ran her thumb over the already-wet glans. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from moaning. She squeezed my balls with technical delicacy and smiled. “Dense. And already lubricating. Congratulations, Mrs. Velarde—the endocrine reprogramming has worked wonderfully. He gets hard from the slightest touch.”

“He gets hard when they merely look at him,” my sponsor corrected without stopping her smile. “Show the lady, 22.118.”

I lowered my gaze to the plate. Beneath the tablecloth, the stranger spread my legs with her free hand, wrapped the other around my swollen cock, and massaged it slowly, two, three leisurely strokes, drawing strings of precum that wet my groin. I felt it harden completely in her fist, heavy and throbbing, and felt my empty ass contract, searching for something that was not there.

I kept my eyes on the plate. I had learned that silence was interpreted as elegance, and that any gesture of mine could be read as an invitation or a transgression. I felt the stranger’s finger move down to my wrist, linger over my pulse, and finally withdraw with calculated slowness after she put her thumb, smeared with my fluid, into her mouth and sucked it in front of my sponsor. I am a surface on which other women write their desire, I thought, and the most disturbing thing was that thinking it no longer hurt. The most disturbing thing was that my cock remained hard against the fabric of my dress, and my ass throbbed like a hungry mouth.

At a signal from the hostess, every conversation stopped at once.

“Ladies,” she announced, raising her glass, “tonight we celebrate not only the success of a symposium. We celebrate the confirmation of a new fertility canon and a sustainable improvement in our quality of life—and in that of men.”

The discreet flashes of the holographic cameras began blinking over us, cold as crystal fireflies.

“Tonight we have the four most outstanding cases of the edition,” she continued. “But among them, as the result of the enormous scientific and financial effort of their sponsors, there is one who has achieved the highest score ever recorded. Case 22.118, stand and come stand beside me.”

A shudder ran through me from head to toe. Shame, first; then the unmistakable pressure of my sponsor’s hand on my back, gently pushing me forward.

Several heads turned toward me. Not with surprise, but with interest. Predatory interest. My number—for I no longer had a name, only a number—was repeated in low voices, in foreign accents, like the price of an object one wished to acquire.

I rose slowly, with the humility they had taught me. I sketched a smile, walked to the place they indicated, raised my eyes just enough to look at everyone present, offered one of my most sensual smiles, and lowered my gaze again. My still-hard cock showed beneath the silk of the dress, and I noticed dozens of eyes drop to that obscene bulge before rising to my pregnant belly.

A businesswoman with almond-shaped eyes and silver hair leaned toward Mrs. Velarde.

“Is he available? My foundation would pay twice as much for reproductive exclusivity. I want all his semen for a year, undiluted, unshared.”

Another woman, dark-skinned and dressed in an immaculate white suit, did not wait her turn.

“We could finance his lifetime maintenance. Turn him into living cultural heritage. And fuck him every solstice in a public ceremony.”

My sponsor smiled, though her gaze hardened for an instant. The hostess tactfully intervened.

“I’m sorry, ladies. He is not for sale. Not yet.”

A murmur of disappointment and curiosity passed around the table. A baroness from some old European country swirled her glass with calculated elegance.

“Then what is his purpose?” she asked. “A specimen like that is not preserved without reason.”

Mrs. Velarde looked at the hostess, asking permission with her eyes, and took the floor from her seat.

“If you’ll allow me, I would rather answer that myself,” she said. “For the moment, he is not for sale. Just a few minutes ago, I was invited to the World Congress taking place next month in Stockholm, to present 22.118 alongside the other finalist cases. And before that, I had already committed to visiting several countries in the East, whose royal houses wish to meet him in person. And try him. Each will have one night with him, and all of them will be impregnated with his seed before we return.”

A chill ran down my back. They spoke of me as though I were a piece of furniture, a collectible item to be lent out and transported, a stud rented by the night. I decided to remain motionless. My icy hands rested on my already-swollen belly, my obvious pregnancy, which the dress revealed through a strategic, sensual opening designed as the perfect frame for that tender, rounded curve. Beneath that curve, my cock continued to throb, never fully softening, displaying itself on its own.

The questions continued for a while, all of them answered by one or the other of the two women. Minutes later they allowed me to return to my seat and dine quietly beside my sponsor, while the other cases were presented in much the same way. In some instances, the women were already securing reservations and agreeing to negotiate the sale later, in private, wineglass still in hand.

When I sat down, Mrs. Velarde slipped her hand beneath the tablecloth and placed it directly over my sex. She stroked my cock twice, slowly, to make sure it was still hard, then lowered her fingers to my still-slippery ass. She pushed her index finger in to the knuckle without warning. I swallowed and held my glass firmly so no one would notice anything.

“Good,” she whispered beside my ear, moving her finger inside me with medical slowness. “You’re still open. You’re still wet. Don’t close up, 22.118. Tonight you’re going to need to stay this way.”

She withdrew her finger, put it in her mouth, and sucked it slowly in front of the baroness, who watched from the neighboring table with a knowing, hungry smile.

***

When dinner ended, the hostess called the four of us over and removed us from the central table. She led us in a kind of slow parade around the entire hall while the guests congratulated us and brushed against us as we passed. Anonymous hands slipped between the folds of the dresses: fingers pinching my nipples through the silk, palms closing around one buttock and squeezing hard, nails scratching my lower belly. A tall woman in a burgundy suit brazenly crouched down as I passed and slid two fingers between my buttocks beneath the dress; she crooked them inside me, found my prostate almost without looking, and drew a muffled moan from me that vanished into the music. She brought them to her lips without taking her eyes off me, while I walked with trembling legs and my cock dripping.

We expected them to take us outside. Instead, the lights dimmed as we passed until a single circle of light remained, with four platforms at its center.

We were invited to climb up. 05.117, calm, almost translucent; 14.640, with an imperious yet domesticated gaze; 26.071, small, his lips trembling; and me. The platforms slowly rose to a height of one meter. Our dresses, activated by the platforms’ heels, opened in front and behind, stripping us from the waist down and leaving only a transparent veil over our chests. Our torsos were exposed beneath the translucent fabric, living symbols of obedience and transformation. The four cocks hung on display, mine still half-erect and gleaming with precum; 26.071’s shriveled with fear; the other two swollen from some stimulant injected into them before they went up. Our anuses, already prepared, gleamed with lubricant beneath the spotlights.

Each sponsor positioned herself behind her case, with her hands on his shoulders, neck, or belly, like someone displaying an incomparable jewel.

I felt Mrs. Velarde’s palms settle on my belly, exactly where that foreign life I carried inside me was throbbing. It was not a tender gesture. It was a gesture of ownership, and it swept over my skin in a way I no longer knew how to name. Then one hand lowered, seized my cock at the base, and lifted it so the entire hall could see it properly. With the other, she spread one buttock with her thumb and exposed my shining hole to the flashes. When the applause came, it mingled with elegant whistles.

The hostess raised her voice above the murmur.

“From this night onward, Case 22.118 is recognized as the reference model for all future male-fertility protocols. His cock, his semen, and his ass are now the gold standard.”

There was applause. Not warm. Not human. Ceremonial, perfect, measured to the millimeter. My breathing fell into rhythm with the clicking of the flashes. Somewhere inside me, a silent question battered against the wall of my inner silence: what part of me is still left to give? Mrs. Velarde, as though she had heard it, pushed two fingers into my ass in front of everyone and moved them with deliberate, instructional slowness, demonstrating how my body opened without resistance.

The glasses were raised again. The crystal rang like a collective oath.

“To the future,” said the hostess. “To those women who create, possess, and choose to act.”

My sponsor did not drink immediately. She looked up at me from below, glass raised, and smiled without tenderness, her fingers still inside me.

“Enjoy tonight, 22.118,” she murmured, stepping away from the platform and pulling her fingers out with a wet snap. “Tomorrow…”

She did not finish the sentence. She did not need to.

And then the music began. The colored lights came alive, spinning wildly over the hall, and lasers drew shifting figures across the dance floor. Every woman left her place at the same time to dance. From our height, unable to move, we watched them embrace, kiss, and caress one another shamelessly, filling the hall with a bright, obscene joy. I saw the baroness unbutton the silver-haired businesswoman’s blouse and bite one of her nipples; I saw the stranger with the rings, the one who had jerked me off beneath the table, kneel before the hostess and bury her face between her thighs right there, against a column. No one hid. We were the altar, not the audience.

The party continued in front of us for hours. We remained up there, still, while some ladies, already drunk, danced at our feet and, without noticing us—or precisely because they noticed us too much—took turns climbing onto the platform. One after another they grabbed my cock, brought it to their mouths for two or three seconds, sucked the precum from the tip, and let it go. Another licked my ass from bottom to top, long and filthy, while the woman in the burgundy suit pushed her tongue into my mouth. Someone bit the dress, someone stained the edge with wine, someone spat on my chest and rubbed the saliva in with her palm. No one came up to clean us. No one looked at us as people anymore. I came without meaning to between the fingers of a woman whose face I never saw, with a small moan no one heard, and she licked the hand smeared with semen and went on dancing as though nothing had happened.

Beside me, on the neighboring platform, 26.071 was trembling. He was the youngest of the four, the one whose lips always seemed on the verge of breaking into a sob. I saw him close his eyes when a woman held his chin from below to show him to a friend, then seized his soft little cock to force an erection from him with the movement of her wrist. I knew he still had not learned what I already knew: that resisting was the only sure way to suffer, that spreading your legs and opening your ass before they forced you hurt less. I wanted to tell him. I could not speak. I only lowered my head a little, as though praying, and let the lights spin over me without touching me inside, while other men’s semen and my own slid down my thighs.

I thought of my belly, of that pulse growing without asking my permission, and of the sentence my sponsor had left unfinished. Tomorrow… Tomorrow there would be planes, new rooms, new hands, pussies and mouths belonging to queens that I would have to fill to the very last drop, countries whose names I would never say aloud. Tomorrow I would once again be a piece in transit, a show stud whose cock would be milked in beds with embroidered sheets. But tonight, beneath the circle of light, with my ass open and semen running down my thighs, I was the most valuable piece in the entire room, and a shameful part of me clung to that certainty like warmth.

I remained standing in the exact center of the hall, watched, admired, and more imprisoned than ever. I felt the weight of my belly, the chill of my mistress’s absent hands, the heat of hundreds of eyes roaming over me without permission, my cock once again half-hard, wet, ready.

And yet, in a way I did not dare confess even to myself, I was at peace.