The Population Control Unit

Having a threesome has always been one of my biggest fantasies. Since I’m approaching my 40s, I also feel the time to do it is now or never.

I want to be physically fit enough to whistend the hours I would be spending being pounded by two different men taking turns on me. I want to still feel at my peak sexiness and I want these two men to desire me more than they wanted anything else.

I want to feel their heavy breathing on my neck while on the elevator; I want to feel their hard cocks in their jeans pressed against my legs and ass simultaneously. I want one of them to look me in the eyes while I take in my mouth his best friend. I want them to leave my house thinking they will NEVER have better sex in their life.

But right now, this will do. I feel awesome, actually. We have just started. The windows of the room are open and in the distance you can see the sea; the salty air breezes inside the room and hits our sweaty bodies, providing some refreshment to our overheated skins.

One of them is behind me. It could be my boyfriend, why not. He should be a part of this. Or maybe not. It could be Francesco, that would be even hotter. It’s my BFF friend boyfriend, and I have noticed that when we have dinner at their place he always touches my hand while handing me a glass of wine.

When we kiss goodbye on the cheeks (we Italians love to do that) he always uses his lips on my skin, and he almost goes for my lips. It’s very brief, totally unnoticeable by our partners, and makes me wet.

Yes, he is definitely the one fucking me from behind. In fact, he’s doing it without a condom. Better. He has spitted on my ass and he’s preparing me for anal. And once we start anal, the road to being double penetrated is open and I’m so fucking ready for it. In fact, I’m trying to deepthroat the other guy to the best of my abilities.

Unless he is my boyfriend. He doesn’t really like a deepthroat. He likes to be sucked on the tip more. I think I want to deepthroat this cock and so this guy I’m sucking is for sure someone else. I have to make up my mind, because I feel I’m about to come.

Francesco starts to make his way in my ass with his fingers. One, two, almost immediately three. I’m so fucking ready.

The doorbell rings. It’s a strong, decise ringing. It’s not a friendly ring.The noise of my vibrator is very noticeable. Outside it’s raining. In my bedroom it’s very dark, because I have closed all the windows so I can masturbate naked and not be seen by the people living in the building next door.

This morning I checked my distance to the sea: it’s exactly 257,869 miles.

“Who is it? I’m coming” pun intended, motherfuckers!

“PCU. You have been selected”.

I switch off my vibrator. The temperature in my room drops below zero. My skin itches.

I’m dead.

The population control unit, or PCU, is the latest and most desperate action our government’s took to try and stop climate change. As every human being produces two tonnes of carbon dioxide a year just to eat, the painful, most direct solution to reducing pollution was to reduce humans.

First, it was people in jail serving for life; then it was people above the age of 80 being put to sleep with pills in a holiday that became known as sleepday (as opposed to your birthday).

But when all these deaths didn’t really made a dent in global warming, the random selection process was started and the PCU became everyone's worst fear. The number of executions per day was not really known; everyday a group of people were randomly selected, picked up at their home, and executed.

I was actually convinced they were starting to slow down executions: a couple of years after the PCU started the random selection, I was able to regularly park my car in front of my building, something that was like winning the lottery back in the days. And the air quality seemed to be improving a lot.

It didn’t really made any difference in any case. They are outside my door to collect me. And there’s no getting out of it. I guess I could jump out of the window right now; living on the 8th floor will guarantee to kill me quite fast in any case. Maybe I could finish masturbating, and jump to my death naked.

“PCU, open the door or we will have to activate the resistance protocol”

I quickly dress up with my underwear, yoga pants, a worn out t-shirt and my beloved white Adidas sneakers.

Two operators in blue uniforms are waiting for me outside. The lady, short, chubby and with her hair tightly pulled around her head and under her hat is checking back and forth between my face and her clipboard. She doesn’t want to screw up and execute the wrong Daniela.

The photo matches, clearly, as she nods to her partner: a tall, strong, black man that talks with a voice deeper than hell.

“Walk in between us. Not faster or slower. Look down at your feet the whole time. Don’t speak, don’t make gestures, and get in the car as soon as we get there”.

“Shall I close the door?” I say pointing at my apartment door, still open.

“Don’t speak,” the chubby woman replied.

And I do as I’m told. You have to consider yourself dead when you are interacting with the PCU. It’s written on all the informational material. On all the billboards. On the tv advertising. I am dead. If I don’t consider myself dead, if I try to run away, if I make them force me in the car, then a lot more people will have to consider themself dead.

My boyfriend, for sure. Francesco, my dear Francesco who knows how fucking wet he gets me everytime he touches my skin with no reason in front of everyone, he will be dead as well. God I wished I tasted his cum at least once.

Instead, I’m dead and I’m walking towards the elevator. I feel the black man breathing on top of me. He’s using more than half the space in the elevator. I’m so close to chubby woman that I smell her make up and feel her arm against the side of my body. I wish the black man could just punch my head with all his strength and kill me instantly. But I know he won’t.

I exit the building. They have double parked their car right where mine is. In front of the building. I told you, now that there are less people around, I park in front of my building all the time. They have left the door to the backseats open. A 20-something woman rushes out of the open door and runs away laughing with her friends: a selfie on the death-mobile. What a thrill.

The PCU operators smile it off. I sit on the backseat, they sit in front, and we are off.

“Wear your seatbelts” they tell me.

Let’s keep the dead woman in one piece before we kill her. We don’t want her to be in pain when we hang her body to a rope by her neck and wait until the oxygen deprivation makes her go unconscious until the damage to the brain is so extensive she won’t be a person anymore.

Let’s not bury her body with more marks than a huge red ring around her neck, her tongue sticking out of her face, her bladder released on her legs and feet.

Fucking bureaucrats.

Our car joins a line of other, similar, cars. On the backseat of each of them, someone who’s about to be executed. One by one, our cars enter the metallic gate of the processing facility, an anonymous hangar in the outskirts of the city.

On the other side of the road, cheap housing is home for a lot of working-class men and women. I wonder if they look outside the window to look at us. If they made peace with the fact that while they eat dinner, or watch TV, we get hanged, killed, and disposed of. Would you still fuck your wife, if you knew I’m suffocating at the end of a rope, naked, cold, and scared shitless? Would you fuck her harder?I

It’s my turn. My car approaches a square made with hurdles where all the other women selected for execution are kept before entering the facility. I get out of the car and into the square. On the opposite side of where I got in, a new check for identity is performed on each of us before being allowed inside. That’s our final moment in the outside world.

The weather is still overcast, but the rain has stopped. While I wait for my final check, I take a peek outside the metal fences, where a small group of people that will not die today is looking at us.

“Hey blondie! BLONDIE!” someone screams at me. “Hey you! Throw me your shoes! PLEASE!”.

Of course that’s the kind of people that waits outside the facility on a day like this. He wants my white sneakers to go home and jerk off thinking that I’m dead.“Come on! You won’t need those anymore”. His friends laugh loudly.Another woman, approximately my age, but with long red hair, hugs me.“It’s ok, it’s going to be over soon” she whispers in my ears.We are going to be over soon. She and I will be finished in a matter of minutes. Violently.

I don’t throw the guy my shoes. I am too fucking scared of getting a bad behaviour mark on my death report. That would mean a lot more death reports among my friends.My identity check is good. It’s me you want to kill. I enter the facility. I will exit it in less than 1 hour as a lifeless corpse.

Our small group joins a larger bunch of women in a huge room with benches and showers. It’s no different than a classic gym locker room. There isn’t any closet, or room for your personal belongings. Only a bunch of trash bins right in the center of the room: shoes, clothes, underwear. On the bin designated for shoes collection a sign asks kindly to tie the shoes together, so that they don’t get lost. I buy some time looking at some more signs on the wall: another sign gives simple, direct instructions, just like the ones of an Ikea bookshelves.

Strip naked, put your clothes and shoes in the appropriate bin and then, if you want, take a final shower. That word, “final”, strikes me. Everything we do now is final.

Another sign, the bigger one, points at a red door on the other side of the room: once naked, please join the queue.

The showers are running. It’s a good excuse to stay alive a bit longer. Alive in the locker room, with no way out, and a noose waiting for you behind the red door. I won’t shower. My stomach hurts, my head is spinning, my heart is racing. I want to get this over with. I want to be on the other side of it.I don’t want to die and I really want to be already dead because this wait is… killing me I guess? Or is the wait keeping me alive, and the moment I stop waiting is the moment I start dying? Consider yourself already dead, remember?

I am naked. The shoes are gone, sorry wank-man. No smelling my shoes for you today.Maybe tomorrow you will smell the sweat of some other feet from some other woman that will be hanged and killed. Not mine.

I queue in front of the red door. The red-haired woman, the one that hugged me outside, is right in front of me. Then the red door opens and we get into another waiting room: only nine of us enter the new waiting room, then the red door gets closed again. A green door is waiting for us on the other side of the waiting room. Me and eight other naked women stand in the room, closely guarded by a PCU operator.She grabs metal handcuffs from a plastic box and starts cuffing our hands behind our back.

The green door briefly opens and another operator enters the room. She is carrying another plastic box full of handcuffs. Of course these are not single-use handcuffs. These are coming from other dead women, in the execution room behind the green door. They take handcuffs off the dead bodies and put it on us; then we die, and they take the handcuffs off again. How many have died with these handcuffs on? In a matter of minutes, there’s going to be one more. I’m the new dead woman.We exit the final waiting room and queue in a line. At the end of the line, a gallows with nine nooses is facing us. At the end of each noose, a woman is dying, hanging from the neck.

Each noose has a number, from 1 to 9, nailed on top of the wooden frame supporting the ropes. There are no ladders to climb, no trap-doors, nothing else. A winch controls each noose: when the woman at the end of a rope dies, her body is winched down, and the number of that noose is called out. The first one in line then makes her way to that noose, and by the time she has completed the journey the noose is free and ready to take her life.

I’m forth in line.

“Eight!”

The first woman in our line is released from the queue and makes her way to the gallows. With almost perfect timing, the operators have released the corpse from the noose and, by the time she’s there, the noose is already up and ready. She gets noosed up and the winch motor pulls her high. She was with me on the queue. She is dying now.

“Three!”

The red hair woman, the one that hugged me before, is released from the queue. She appears to walk in slow motion. She gets helped to speed up by a PCU operator. Don’t slow down the process. We don’t want to delay your death. We need you to suffocate at the end of this rope quickly, or the ones behind you will die later and we won’t go home in time. Can you just all die when you are asked to? That would make a huge difference for all the PCU operators that have to go on with their life. Go on with your death, please.

“Seven!”

Last one before me. Number 3, the red-haired woman, is up in the air and kicking like mad. What did she tell me before? I can’t remember. It doesn’t matter.

Number 8 is twitching. She was in my group and now her brain is shutting down. Number 4 was hanging when I got here and she’s gently dangling. I think I might be the new Number 4.Come on, Number 4. Kick again. Give me another 30 seconds. I really don’t want to experience hanging to death.Just as she could hear my thought, Number 4 gives another kick out of nowhere.

“Six!”

I was so focused on Number 4 that I didn’t look at anyone else. I am released from the queue. The cement floor under my soles is cold. The former Number 6 is winched down. I can see she has drooled on herself and on the noose. Gross.

I get there as she gets put on a trolley with the bodies of the former Number 8, Number 3 and Number 7.

“Face the queue”, I get told.

I look at the queue I was just released from.

“Two and Three”

Two at once. Number 3 was the red-haired woman. She’s dead now. I am about to.

As I get noosed up, I feel the rope is warm. Warmed by the bodies of the women hanged before me. The saliva of former Number 6 wets my neck.

I feel a finger sliding between my pussy and my ass, leaving in me a warm, thick substance.

“It’s superglue. So you don’t shit yourself” someone whispers in my ears.

I don’t have time to process the information. I don’t get asked any last words. I don’t get molested on the noose. The winch motor starts and I get pulled up by the neck. Just enough that I can’t touch the ground. A couple of hours ago I was at home, masturbating, and now I am naked, hanged by the neck, dying.

Those were the last words I will hear? “Shit yourself”? What were my last words? Why is this in my mind right now?

Life sucks. Being hanged sucks too. The skin of my neck is burning like it’s on fire. I didn’t even get a chance to take a last breath, so I’m already out of air and drooling on the noose. Sorry, future Number 6.

Please let me die soon. Please. Why am I still conscious? I want to breathe. Let me down and let me breathe again.

Please. Do I have to kick? I am kicking. Is this amusing to you? I keep trying to suck air in my lungs and nothing happens. My head hurts, my heart is about to pop out of my chest. I am still alive.

Consider yourself dead. Please let me die now. I don’t want to dangle at the end of the rope.

I don’t want to be put on that trolley, on top of dead bodies. I will be a dead body soon. Dead bodies will be placed on top of me.

I am back in the house on the beach in the threesome. The two men are strangling me.

Francesco, is that you? I’m dreaming? I’m dying. Are you happy I’m dying?

Then I consider myself dead. For you.

“Six!”