Masculinity 2033 Chapter 17

You arrive at The Hive Queen’s building in a carriage, and as one of the big, strong Hive soldiers takes your soft hand and helps down, you’ve never felt more beautiful. It’s not a movie premiere. There are no paparazzi with their flashing cameras, no adoring fans clamoring for a glimpse. Instead, there is a receiving line composed of the most elite members of The Hive Collective as well as heads of state, generals, judges–all women, all loyal to The Hive, the most elite of the elite.

Inside, you and the other pretty boys hoping to be selected by the queen mingle. You know this is part of the test, and you are bright, flirty, feminine, always smiling, modest but not meek. As you chat with this general or that judge, which means you mostly just smile and laugh at their jokes, you surreptitiously eye the competition. They are all pretty. Incredibly pretty. Of course, you hate the bitches. Hate them.

You also feel amused. You know you will be named consort to the Queen.

You can feel the device Red gave you nestled between your breasts. Activating it will change lives. There will be consequences for many, many people. You think of Red, Gray and Black, the three courageous, hard-eyed women. They and their team will be gathered out back by now, waiting, waiting. When you activate the device, your own life will change in ways you can’t even imagine. Do you really want that? On impulse, driven by your sudden fear of your future, you almost reach into your cleavage and activate the device that will spell the end of so many lives.

No. It’s not time yet.

Once the meet and greet ends, you and the other boys are lined up. You file into the throne room, and you gasp, they all gasp, as you lay eyes on the Queen for the first time. She sits on a throne at the head of the room, looking down, her eyes cold, her face impassive. You’ve never seen anyone more beautiful and yet she is more than beautiful. She melds beauty with an unmistakable air of steely command. She radiates power. She dominates this room like some sort of Other worldly Goddess. No. Not likea goddess. She is a goddess. Her eyes skim across you and the other boys, and you feel yourself blush, your heart races as you drop your eyes. It is not for you to look upon such a glorious being. No.

Music. Some sort of angular and discordant alien march. You and the other boys begin to walk forward and then file past the queen. As each one steps in front of the throne, he turns, offering the Queen a view of his profile, his back, and when your time comes you do the same, not even having to worry or think about being graceful. It comes naturally to you.

As the ceremony continues, your mind rushes back, images from the past flashing, like pictures from a slide show. You remember that other life, the one before the Hive, when you were as tall as a girl, with a hard, flat body. You remember those terrible days after your inoculation, finding yourself petite, tiny, wearing what you still thought of as women’s clothes. How ashamed you’d felt when you’d stepped into your first skirt, slipped into your first dress, hooked yourself into your first lacy bra. The women had all been so condescending and amused, watching you click around in high heels, your flirty spring dress fluttering around your smooth thighs.

Life, you’d thought, couldn’t get any worse, but then, you’d gotten your curves. First, a plump, heart-shaped ass and all the unwanted attention, the slaps and pinches from rude women, the pegging. Had you come to love it? Need it? Yes. Yes, but you knew it was only because the Hive had made you that way.

Finally, your chest had begun to ache and blossomed into a pair of big, soft inviting breasts, and you came to need and hate your bras, and then you’d had your first period, and the reality of your new future had come home to you as you slipped your first maxi-pad between your legs.

Oh, it had been so embarrassing, humiliating. You couldn’t even express the slightest bit of anger or annoyance at being ogled, pawed, that you didn’t hear the women laugh, “He must be on the rag.”

There was nothing worse, you’d decided, than being a boy, and more and more you found yourself fantasizing about being a woman, wishing you were a woman, that you could be free and confident and strut around without having to be afraid.

Women. They ruled the world, and you snap back to the present, glancing around at this room full of tall, confident women, Hive agents, regal in their arrogance. Someone is giving a speech. They are about to announce the winner, the Queen’s consort.

You glance toward the throne. The Queen holds her head high, her face still a mask of impassivity. She is now flanked by a pair of Hive Officers. One you don’t know. The other you have recently met. She is called 800, and she is the Executive Regent for all the planet.

“It is my pleasure,” the speaker, Governor Garvin of the North American territories says, finally getting to the big moment. “To announce The Queen’s selection, the Consort Supreme.”

The speaker calls your name. The crowd applauds, the measured, dignified applause of the elite. You let the tears flow, smiling, displaying proper boyish modesty, while the other boys all curtsey. They will now serve you directly as your court, because, of course, the wife of a Queen must have his entourage.

You glance at 800. She nods. It’s time. Bringing both hands to your chest, clasping them together over your bosom, you let the hidden, underhand slip between the soft crescents of your breasts, and you press the button.

Part Two

Red, Black and Grey stood side by side, faces blank as they stood at the gallows. A jeering crowd had packed what was once known as Times Square, and like a scene from some old movie set in the Middle Ages, they threw rotting vegetables at the three disgraced women.

“Omigod,” Jennifer, one of your boys says, slitting his eyes at the monitor. You’ve all gathered to watch the executions. “They were so stupid!”

Petra, a cute blonde who gently holds one of your feet while he paints your toenails, rolls his eyes. “I hate them!” He hisses. “I hate them so much!”

You smile.

Later, after your honeymoon, if a night of rough sex could even be called a honeymoon, 800 showed you the recording of their capture. The three of them had entered the building as planned, thinking they were about to take down the Hive only to find themselves surrounded. The look on their faces as they realized you’d betrayed them had been priceless.

The betrayal had all been arranged by 800 on orders from the Queen.

After you’d received your invitation, 800 had contacted you. She knew about the Resistance, and she had given you a choice: show the Queen your loyalty, bring down the resistance, and you would be named consort. “You will have a life beyond your wildest dreams,” she’d assured you. “Make any attempt to warn them, and you will have a life beyond your worst nightmares.”

It had been an easy choice, really. You’d wished you were a woman. Wanted the freedom, the power. You’d even dreamt of being a queen. You were not a queen, true, but being married to The Queen was almost as good. When you made your appearances now, not a woman on the planet would dare touch you. Most of them wouldn't even look at you directly. None dared look you in the eyes.

The three women’s heads were placed into nooses. Black hoods covered their faces. A trumpet blasted, and the executioner yanked on a lever, and all three dropped, their legs kicking as their bodies spun and went lifeless.

You and your boys cheer, your pretty voice sounding like a group of tween girls at a pep rally. It was over. “Turn that off,” you say waving a hand dismissively. “Let’s watch something fun.”

One of the three, you couldn’t remember which, had asked you once if you were a man or a brood mare. The Hive had given you an injection before your first night with The Queen, and though you weren’t showing yet, you knew you already carried the first of her babies. Had you chosen to be a broodmare? No.

The question had been flawed. You had, you felt, chosen wisely. You were neither boy nor broodmare. You were the Queen’s Supreme Consort.

You were special. And, you thought, smiling blissfully, placing a hand on your tummy, so would be your children. They would have the finest of everything and receive the best of educations. They would be first among the new generation. You had chosen right, made the only choice that made sense for a boy in this cold, hard woman’s world.

After all, what more could a boy want than a perfect life for his children?

.