Face in the Mirror

Face In The Mirror

Day 4--Part 4

[SUGGESTION: This part will make a lot more sense if you go back and skim the last three pieces of this section. ALSO this last bit is EXTREME, so prepare yourself for some rough stuff. If I believed the violence was gratuitous I wouldn't have included it. It's not my style. You will get a lot of information about the Organization in this episode. I hope you can see its purpose.]

Scott looked up into Sam's face, "Please Sam, please just kill me. I don't care anymore. Please let Jack go and just kill me. Please Sam, please. I have nothing to bargain with, nothing you want. You got your revenge. I'm done, you broke me. I'll do anything you ask if only you'll kill me."

Sam smiled, "You'll do anything I ask whether I kill you or not, and besides, killing you would be far too easy. There's no sport in killing a fucked out jizbag whore. Tell you what, maybe later; after I'm sure you've learned your lesson; before your SURGERY, maybe then I'll show some mercy and kill you. You miserable fuck. LOOK AT ME YOU SUCKING FUCK!! You messed with my livelihood. Nobody does that and lives. You screwed with the wrong motherfucker Scott. You grabbed the tail, now you get the teeth."

Scott wanted to beg Sam some more but the room was spinning and he couldn't focus his eyes. That's when the cockroaches started appearing all over his skin, crawling out of his mouth and his asshole and his ears......AND HE BEGAN TO SCREAM!!!

Six hours later Scott's voice was little more than a breeze blowing through a rusty screen door. He lay in a heap, opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water dying in the afternoon sun. His mind was hallucinating, forcing his eyes to witness the real dream of his flesh falling away from his bones. The room was green, then garishly orange, then terribly violet. The colors were always too intense and hurt his horror stricken eyes. His mind was mush. He tried to remember his name or where he was and in the next second he was clawing at the inside of his casket. Then he was being gang raped by huge sadistic college boys; next Jack was being penetrated with a dildo as men with orange hair stood around in a circle and cheered; then he saw his brother David hanging by his wrists, his body contorted; he was dead; Scott watched his brother's body shrivel up and disappear; he saw his father crying at a funeral. When Scott hardened his will and looked into the casket, he saw himself, maniacally grinning and in the last moment his face changed to the face of Fat Sam and the eyes opened and the mouth became a gaping maw that opened wide and as Scott saw the teeth they engulfed him and ate him alive.

It went on for almost eleven hours, an endless parade of death, destruction, and pestilence; misery, screams, and the thick smell of rotting flesh, repulsion heaped upon revulsion. Finally, Sam sent one of his blond boys to give Scott a shot that neutralized the hallucinogen. It left the rest of the gruesome mix of nasty chemicals in tact. As the visions began to abate Scott felt like he might die from the monstrous anxiety that was eating at his nerves and gnawing at his bones. He had an intense feeling of emptiness; he was desolate; he wanted to die; he was broken.

An hour after he got the neutralizing injection Sam's guys came and dragged Scott back to the primary torture room. The remaining chemicals overpowered his brain till he lost all control and became a raving child huddled on the floor. Naked he grabbed his knees and buried his head between them.

Fat Sam strolled in pulling Jack behind him on a leash. Jack was very unsteady on his feet and still very disoriented. He looked worn out but higher than a kite. Sam had to keep pulling on the chain lead to keep Jack from nodding off and falling over. When Sam saw Scott huddled up on the floor his mood brightened, "I do believe you've had a bit of an epiphany, seen the error of your ways. Now dear Scottie you are mine, truly my boy, my pussy, and I own you. You're no longer Scott, a Senior Control with the Organization; now you're shit; no; lower than shit, you're nothing, you're "that thing" that used to be a fucked out senior control. Oh yes that's it you're my "thing," my own sweet "thing" that I keep around because it pleases me to see "thing" and remember that he used to be so much more. Then when I take "thing" and turn him into "she-thing" just think how grateful you'll be, to be more than just my "thing"...... then you can be something else, maybe "thing with hole and tits"... Oh I like that. I do like that.

So `thing' one more little... adventure and we can call it a weekend. Perhaps when this is over I will indeed kill you and end your pain OR maybe I'll just schedule your surgery and have your tits installed and that large offensive cock and its oversexed appendages removed. Who knows? What is life without surprise?"

Scott, with no discernable voice, was babbling. Sam was not pleased with his scattered attention. He took a small stun gun out of his pocket and zapped Scott in the shoulder. Scott's body seized and he flopped around on the floor. Sam had his Latino blond slap him over and over till he stopped jumping. But he continued blathering incoherently. Sam was at a loss. He had more plans for Scott. This wouldn't do, not at all.

Sam started giving directions, "Get me a couple buckets of ice water and 50 mg of valium. I need to calm Thing's mind a bit or he'll be no good to me. Fuck!! I hate giving him any comfort, but I don't see a choice."

Sam had his guys douse Scott with the freezing water. He barely responded, so reluctantly, Sam injected him with the valium. Five minutes after the injection Scott's body ceased trembling and his shoulders began to relax. He stopped holding onto his legs so forcefully. He discontinued the voiceless babbling. Sam slapped him a few times and thought he saw an attempt at eye contact. He needed to test Scott. Was this now an act? Was Scott trying to play at being incoherent? Was he being coy?

Sam said, "Thing is no good to us. Go and get me the lightning rod. I'm going to play with Jack for a while."

Sam saw Scott's face change. He'd understood what Sam had just said. Sam reached over with the stun gun and zapped Jack under his ear. The poor kid nearly broke his neck. He hit the deck and his body spasmed. Scott raised his hand and waved it back and forth; motioning for Sam to stop.

Sam smiled broadly, "Boys rejoice `thing' is back among the living. Time to prepare thing for the evening's activities."

Sam had Scott placed on the restraint table. He didn't bother strapping him down; it wasn't necessary. Scott was done. Sam was ready for the last part of his "payback" to begin.

Scott's jaw dropped when he saw what Sam had in his hands. It was a bright purple metallic box with candy cane stripes around the middle. The hasp had been broken open. The file container was marked "TOP SECRET........ SENIOR CONTROL...FIRST LEVEL ... EYES ONLY DOCUMENT... SCOTT FIRESTONE" God in heaven it was Scott's file, his complete record in the Organization. It held everything there was to know about him, his test scores, his medical history, his training, a thorough biography, his hopes, his dreams, his entire life was in that box along with .............. HIS GREATEST FEARS, HIS GREATEST FEARS, HIS GREATEST FEARS, HIS GREATEST FEARS, HIS GREATEST FEARS, HIS GREATEST FEARS, HIS GREATEST FEARS, HIS GREATEST FEARS, HIS GREATEST FEARS, HIS GREATEST FEARS, HIS GREATEST FEARS, HIS GREATEST FEARS, HIS GREATEST FEARS, HIS GREATEST FEARS, HIS GREATEST FEARS, HIS GREATEST FEARS, HIS GREATEST FEARS, HIS GREATEST FEARS, HIS GREATEST FEARS, HIS GREATEST FEARS, HIS GREATEST FEARS, HIS GREATEST FEARS, HIS GREATEST FEARS, HIS GREATEST FEARS, HIS GREATEST FEARS, HIS GREATEST FEARS, HIS GREATEST FEARS, HIS GREATEST FEARS, HIS GREATEST FEARS, HIS GREATEST FEARS, HIS GREATEST FEARS, HIS GREATEST FEARS, HIS GREATEST FEARS.

Scott had only one thought, "Does he know the details of my `Yield? Christ Almighty does that file have an account of my "Yield" in it? Scott knew if Sam had a description of his Yield everything was lost; Scott had no hope of any kind of redemption. Sam could crush his soul; and having witnessed Sam's cruelty and complete lack of empathy Scott was certain that Sam would do just that... crush his soul... ruin Scott beyond recognition.

The "Yield" was every candidate's final test. It stood between him and his move to Junior Controller. A successful Yield marked the end of a candidate's submissive training; the end of months of deep hypnotically controlled activity, the end of his total domination by his teacher-controllers. Under most circumstances a Yield, any candidate's Yield, would kill the average man, kill him or leave him a babbling idiot. That final test was the ultimate battle of the psyche, the anima vs. the animus; it was the mind set upon itself; doing battle with itself because every candidate's Yield was the supreme sacrifice. It marked the day he surrendered his will for the sake of his soul.

A Yield was a selfless act carried out in the real world in real time. The day of a candidate's Yield he was confronted with a choice, different for each, never the same twice, planned and formulated by a board of three senior controllers, and never ever revealed or spoken of once it was over.

The details of that selfless act would give the average man nightmares for the rest of his life. It usually involved superhuman acts of courage and heroism, in the face of his GREATEST FEAR BROUGHT TO LIFE; which is why the candidate training program was the most extensive and rigorous of any in the history of mankind. It's why the candidates slaved, for a minimum of one year (candidacy is always tailored to fit the needs of the student and can last for as little as 12 months or as much as two years); it's why their bodies were honed to perfection; it's why they were required to be experts in the martial arts; it's why they were required to be proficient in hypnosis, both as subjects and practitioners; it's why they had to have total control over their psyche and their emotions; and finally it's why they had to have absolute control over their physical body, including utter mastery of their sexuality (through sexual training meant to put every candidate in touch with his submissive side, training in how to confront that submissive part and glorify it, love it, bow to it, learn from it.)

Candidate training was a thousand times more rigorous than anything done by any branch of any military anywhere in the world, and when it came to developing the mind and its control over the body AND the psyche, well there was nothing like it anywhere, ever. Candidate training produced supermen bonded to each other as if they'd come from the same womb at the same time; bonds stronger than steel, stronger, and absolutely selfless.

But in point of fact the Yield always exposed a candidate's greatest weakness. The Yield exploited that weakness and was designed to test it; to see if a candidate could give over his will under the most horrific of circumstances, in the face of great danger. Each Yield was designed to confront a candidate with his greatest fears. To win out in the end and finally graduate the student had to surrender himself to that very fear; he had to bend, to give in to it, and he had to do it believing that the circumstances were real, and that he would be bound by his surrender; that it was actual.

Candidates didn't know about Yields. They had no idea that they were coming or what they were. When the board of Controllers decided it was time, that a candidate was ready, the Yield, often months in the making, was set in motion and the candidate in question was confronted by a set of circumstances that called for an act of pure courage... for the greater good. Once the Yield was successfully executed the candidate was informed of the truth; he breathed a great sigh of relief; was frequently angry beyond words; often cried buckets for simple frustration and fear and love and resignation; then gradually came to see the simple truth involved. Always, given time, he saw the Yield's necessity; hated that there was no other way; and then it was NEVER spoken of again. NEVER EVER. The details of candidate Yields were so guarded that only C, his counterpart in the East and Pax knew the specifics of all the Yields and where they were kept.

(The Organization, as it is currently structured, has been in existence for several centuries. Out of the tens of thousands of Yields fulfilled over those years only a few hundred failed. Most unsuccessful Yields resulted in the candidate's release and reintroduction into society, i.e. regardless of cost he was returned to his life, albeit outside the Organization. In 27 cases candidates lost their lives "in service to their fellow men," and were honored for their courage and heroism.)

Scott knew if the details of his Yield were in that file that Sam would have total dominion over his body and soul. He hoped that the information was elsewhere under lock and key where no one would ever see it; either that or he prayed the report was in ashes sent to Valhalla in a ceremonial bonfire ages ago.

Sam said, "Thing, I have your history, body and soul, in this folder. I know details of your life that your own mother would find shocking. I must say I was appalled at how you treated your date the night of your senior prom, imagine puking on her pretty blue party dress. And this psych report; it says you have issues with your anima, your female side, that you are terribly afraid of being made to feel like a woman. I must say "thing" that I don't see how that would actually bother a man like... you used to be, but then who am I to judge. And then there is this....."

Scott held his breath.

"It says thing, that the details of your `Yield' are contained elsewhere. What exactly is a Yield?"

Scott had never felt quite so relieved, still Sam knew the roots of his greatest fears, that the idea of losing his manhood, of being feminized was anathema to him. Scott in a hoarse, gravelly, barely-there voice, whispered, "I don't know Sam."

Sam sent one of his men to fetch the voice stress analyzer. When Scott heard him he counted backwards from five; entered his unconscious; found the post hypnotic suggestion he was looking for; and put it into effect. He prayed it would work.

Sam took the gadget put it under Scott's nose and asked again, "WHAT IS A `YIELD' THING AND I WANT THE TRUTH."

Scott hoped his hypnotic abilities would work considering the level of his anxiety. With fear sweat pouring off his body he steadied his nerves as best he could, looked Sam in the eye and said, "Sam...I don't know what a Yield is. Maybe it's some new test. If it's not in the file it can't be very important. Maybe it's some new method of psych evaluation. Like I said, it can't be too important. You have my fucking life in your hands." and with that Scott looked at the floor and tried his best to muster up a few tears. It wasn't difficult.

Sam was perplexed; he gave Scott the mother of all slaps across his face; then he shook the analyzer, "Damn thing isn't telling me anything." Sam threw it on the floor and smashed it under his foot.

He got happier when he saw that Scott was crying. "Oh look thing is having an emotional moment. Well enjoy it thing. Soon with the surgery and the drugs and the torture you won't be doing much more than the occasional scream or plea. I'm afraid in a few months there won't be much left of your mind at all; by then you'll be `thing with hole and tits,' earning your keep on your back."

Sam gestured to his boys, "Get thing prettied up. I want him all cute and hot for his big debut."

The blonds wrestled Scott off the table and made him stand up straight. There he stood, totally naked, completely unfettered, arms at his sides, aching like hell, covered in bruises and lacerations, bleeding from a thousand cuts and scrapes and scratches. Scott's body, even his cock and balls were striped from all the whip marks, and he had some major welts, as well as dozens of black and blue marks. A greater cause for concern were the areas that had begun to swell; his shoulder where the rotator cuff had been badly abused; his groin on both sides from the kicking; his right knee from one of the falls; a nasty bulge on right side of his belly; and his bloody, stretched out, very raw asshole.

Scott felt done for. The bastards kept slapping him for swaying back and forth. It took all his effort to resist the drugs... to keep from going wildly insane... but he was a fighter at heart and there was Jack to consider. So Scott did his best to stand up. They pulled him into an adjoining bathroom, pushed him into a shower stall, tied his wrists together and attached them to a hook in the ceiling. As he hung there like a side of beef he was assaulted on three sides by heavy streams of steaming hot water. If he hadn't been tethered to the ceiling the force of the water would have plastered Scott to the floor; as it was, it hurt like hell against his badly damaged skin. Sam's goons couldn't have cared less. Three of them had stripped bare to help things along.

In a matter of minutes Sam's men had Scott covered in suds from head to foot. That's when the razors and tools appeared. For a brief moment Scott actually hoped they were about to cut his throat. Then he realized that Sam would never have been that kind... or unimaginative. They intended to use the razors to shave Scott from his chin to his toes.

The Latino blond said, "OK guys, before we shave him smooth the master wants us to pull out as much of this hair as we can grab hold of. Use your hands, use the pliers, or use the large and small forceps. Pluck him like a fucking chicken."

A moment later Scott was jolted into a whole new world of pain; there were hands everywhere, with pliers and forceps tearing the hair out of his skin. Scott's fevered brain was yanked from one center of pain to another as the hair was ripped from his flesh. One second the agony was in his groin, the next inside his thigh, the next around his asshole. One creep began to remove the hair from Scott's armpits by pulling it out, one curl at a time. Scott thought he was numbed from his torture; then they started yanking the hair out of his pits and he found himself in a yet another kind of misery...... so he opened his mouth and tried to cry out with what little voice he had remaining. It took Sam's men several minutes to tear the hair out from under Scott's arms. Each time he thought his tortured body was finally at the end of its ability to feel any more anguish...... more came. All the while they prepped Scott; Sam's creeps took pleasure in his suffering. They poked at his bruises and slapped his still erect cock. Scott tried his best to scream, and when his very small voice gave out he continued to bellow inside his head... It continued for almost an hour.

There were deep seated reasons for Scott's terror, his enormous aversion to feminization. When he was barely two, before his parents thought he could "understand" such things his family had taken a cabin in the Rockies for a ski vacation. They chose a very remote location out in the wild, away from all civilization...... so they thought.

In fact there was a group of men in the same general area who were up there, out of public scrutiny, high in the mountains, in the great outdoors, training dogs... to fight... to fight to the death... to kill. One sunny afternoon while the rest of the family was cross country skiing Scott was outside with his sweet nineteen year old Dutch an au pair. She had bundled up little Scottie for a short trip outside on that cold white sunny day. It was her intention to pull Scott in his sled over to the enormous pile of split Cherry and load up for a roaring afternoon fire and perhaps a long nap.

One second Scott was mesmerized by the sun and the rosy cheeks of his pretty baby sitter and the next he was in the middle of a fierce, life and death, dog attack. Four of the wild-eyed, savage beasts had bested their confinement and headed out, as a pack, which was their nature, looking for sport in the wild. When they came upon this lovely young woman and her charge their instincts took over and they were on them. Scott's unconscious recorded the sounds of tearing flesh and the high pitched wail of a sweet girl as the dogs mauled her to death. She was indeed a brave young woman because with her last ounces of life she wrestled Scott's ravaged body away from the jaws of certain death and managed to push him behind the cabin's door before being overpowered and killed.

By the time Scott's family returned home all that remained were the bloody remnants of the carnage... everywhere... The girl was quite literally torn to pieces, her head barely remained connected to her ravaged body by a few ligaments and some strips of muscle tissue... Inside the cabin Scott's mother found her two year old son hovering near death bleeding profusely from two deep wounds to his groin. And there lay the key to Scott's greatest fear. Over the next fourteen months of reconstructive surgery Scott's two then three year old psyche wrestled with the idea that his manhood was transient; that it had almost been eaten by dogs; that the doctors might lop off his masculinity if the need arose, and as patently untrue as those "imprints" were, they found their way into Scott's "wiring" till the thought of emasculation became synonymous with death and destruction; till the idea of feminization wrestled up images of his young "nurse" being ripped to bits and his unconscious fear of spending his life without his impressive cock and magnificent balls.

These thoughts raced through Scott's fevered brain as Sam's cookie-cutter blonds dried him roughly and wrestled him out of the shower and back into the chamber of horror. Minutes later he was once again hanging by his wrists from a hook in the ceiling. The guys began applying some kind of goop all over Scott's skin... some kind of makeup. It covered the whip marks and camouflaged the bruises. They used crazy glue to close the larger cuts; then covered them with heavy flesh colored powder. In a few minutes Scott's body looked much improved. He began to look like the muscled stud he was. Then they lowered him to the floor and began to apply more makeup and glitter; then lipstick. They dragged him over to a restraint kneeler and strapped his hands flat to the table top. The blond-blond began to apply nail polish.

It took Scott a few minutes to figure out what Sam's men were doing. They were trying their level best to turn him into a she-male. Sam was serious. He was going to prey on Scott's greatest fears. He was going to begin that night. Sam was going to give Scott a taste of his future; his new life as a woman, a transsexual whore, a cockless, balless, cunt with plastic tits. Tonight Sam was going to let Scott see how his future was going to feel. More than anything he wanted to die. His mind raced from pillar to post yelling, "TIME TO DIE... TIME TO DIE... TIME TO GIVE UP AND FUCKING DIE... ."

He scanned the room and noted where every sharp, or heavy, or blunt object was located, where every pipe and table and cabinet were placed. He saw chains and scalpels and hammers and lots of other tools. In an instant he had two, no three different ways to bring about his death. It would be fast and relatively pain free AND he might even be able to take a few of Sam's creeps with him. But what about Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack? He kept coming back to the guy he loved; the guy who'd been an innocent bystander; a guy who was warm and sweet and so damned cute. He couldn't leave Jack here to suffer. That was the first time he thought about taking them both out, killing them both. Scott realized, with deep dark resignation that if he could, he had to get them out of this mess in the only way possible. Scott was a senior control he'd been trained for this. If he saw no way out by the end of the night he'd kill them both, and bring Sam and as many of his goons as possible along for the ride.

When the Latino blond rolled over a full length mirror for Scott to see himself he nearly passed out. As they sprayed and teased his hair his only wish was to fall at their feet and plead for his death. He could handle the drugs. He could deal with the beatings and the physical torture. THIS was too much. THIS he could not take. His head began to throb. He thought, "Sam is serious. He's going to cut off my cock and my balls. He's going to tear open my groin and make a fuckhole... And after that men will use me like a cunt. I WANT TO DIE. I NEED TO DIE. PLEASE GOD, PLEASE KILL ME. LORD, WHERE IS YOUR MERCY? WHERE ARE YOU GOD? WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?"

Sam came prancing into the room as the blonds were lifting Scott off the kneeler.

Sam was ebullient, "Oh my god... Thing is gorgeous! Once his cock and balls are history all those big muscles will turn to curves; his body will reshape itself. Then with hormones and implants this thing's gonna make me a fortune! Oh Thing, you bring tears to this businessman's eyes. I'm going to get one hell of a return on this investment!"

Scott didn't speak; he stared at the floor, limp, held up by Sam's goons, praying for death.

Sam remained gleeful, "I brought you a little gift... your outfit for the evening." And with that he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of pink panties. He threw them to his Latino who in turn bent down, lifted Scott's legs, one at a time, got the silk panties past both ankles and finally stood and pulled them up and over Scott's hips. They fit well with plenty of room in the front for Scott's stiff prick to tent them out. In truth he looked ridiculous; a big, strong, muscled, beautifully defined man with red lips and pink panties. He looked like a Halloween mistake.

Sam grinned, "Not quite finished, not yet."

Sam walked over and unlocked the drug cabinet. He pulled out two huge 50 cc syringes; each filled with an ominous greenish yellow concoction.

"This Thing is my own mix. It's made up of several irritants and a whole passel of hormones designed to make your pecs swell up and get two, maybe three times their normal size. It won't turn them into tits, but it will make them grow and bounce and probably hurt like bloody hell...... Ready Thing?"

Sam snapped his fingers and Jack was dragged into the room. He looked like shit; drugged to the gills leaning on two more of Sam's degenerate "Orange-hairs."

Sam winked, "Just a little insurance Thing. If you move I'll hurt Jack. I'll hurt him bad. I promise. Now take your tits like a man. STICK OUT YOUR FUCKING CHEST!!"

Without any further preparation Sam began plunging the long needle on the first syringe in and out and all around Scott's right pec. At first there was an intense burning, then it started to itch, then it began to pound, then the real pain sunk in and the aching felt like his chest muscle was going to explode. Sam emptied the first syringe and plunged the second into Scott's left pec. Again Sam's arms worked like pistons pushing and pulling and repositioning the needle all around the left side of Scott's chest.

Scott was determined to remain strong. Inside he was struggling to hold onto his sanity. He was losing the battle. It felt like he was hanging off a fifty story building with only his fingernails gripping the ledge around the roof's perimeter. And his brain was howling, "WHERE ARE YOU GOD? WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?"

Sam stood back and surveyed his work, "Not bad... not bad at all... and they'll keep swelling all night long... as you entertain the troops. Ready Thing? Ready for your big entrance?"

As they dragged Scott out of the room he could indeed feel his pecs/tits bouncing with every step. There were times, after a good session with free weights, when he would enjoy the feeling of his chest muscles moving up and down as he walked, heavy with flesh, new sinew...... bigger... stronger... and more masculine. Now all he felt was intense shame and the desire to be dust.

Moments later Scott found himself in the same anteroom; the one leading to the large showroom where he had "entertained" the college boys. The door was halfway open and he could see how things had been rearranged. The tables were more orderly, the pole in the middle of the room stood unadorned and unlighted, just something holding up the ceiling. Sam took the back of Scott's neck and pushed him toward the door. Now he could see the stage at the end of the room. It was well lit from behind and there were several different colored spot light trained on various parts. What the fuck did Sam have in mind now? What new torment was coming? Scott was close to a mental breakdown; Sam was pushing all the right buttons. Scott felt disoriented; his intense anxiety was pushing him toward dissociation and psychosis; he shook from head to foot, his body spasming uncontrollably; his bladder gave way and piss shot out of his hard cock, filling the silk panties, then running down his leg. Sam jumped back a step to avoid getting wet and he grinned from ear to ear. One more push and Scott would be Jello, exactly what Sam had in mind... Scott with no mind...eventually three fuckholes with oversized tits who'd stand where he was told, lie where he was told, do what he was told... whatever he was told... whatever...

Sam gave his barman a signal and the doors were opened. In a couple minutes the room began filling up with an odd conglomerate of people... mostly men... and a few women... with a taste for the unusual... dressed in a variety of costumes... some pulling others on leashes... all quite wealthy... They liked blood, carnage, cruelty with a sexual element... and suffering... lots and lots of suffering... Sam NEVER disappointed them.

Two new blonds, with the requisite orange highlights and gold alpha earrings, dressed only in skin tight black leather pants, took Scott and marched him to the elevated stage. These well oiled muscle guys were unmistakably part of Sam's army of brassy headed thugs, who were once human but now automated to do his will. They held Scott upright while Sam spoke over the PA system.

"Ladies and gentlemen, tonight for your pleasure I bring you my latest acquisition... a former Senior Control with that group of queer boy scouts who call themselves the Organization. My friends the Thing' you see on stage is in the process of transition. I have decided to convert this Thing with its oversized cock and big balls into a she-Thing with big fake tits and a nice tight cunt. Very soon this he-Thing will be Thing with tits and hole.' "

The crowd gave Sam a polite round of applause.

"Tonight Thing will be given some rather strange and difficult tasks to perform. We intend to put Thing through his paces on stage and delight you with every comic pratfall, acrobatic stunt, and cry of pain; and when the games are over he will be available to please each and every one of you in ANY WAY you choose. As always we wish to know your desires in advance in order to arrive at a mutually agreeable fee. My only request is that he be alive at the end of the evenings festivities; BUT my friends, as you know well, EVERYTHING has its price so NEVER be afraid to make me an offer as long as the number is OBSCENE!"

The audience laughed and applauded at the word obscene. Of course that's exactly why they were there; to indulge in the obscene; to experience what was forbidden; to do as they pleased as long as it tickled their... fancy. There were no police at Sam's no laws to worry about... absolutely no rules. If you had enough money all things were possible... every form of human degradation was on the menu.

Sam went on, "We have gone to great lengths to insure you can hear every gasp and see every scratch as it occurs. The stage has been wired for sound and there are four stationary cameras to catch every action. There are large screens on either side of the stage and monitors every few tables. You will witness every jolt of pain, every cry of fear."

Then the audience gave Sam a big round of applause and there were shouts of, "We can always count on you Sam"and"You're one sick mother fucker."

Sam continued, "Thing is a bit out of it at the moment but I assure you we will have his complete attention momentarily. As you can see his transformation from man to woman has only just begun.

Take note of Thing's growing bust. I need to apologize for his powerfully masculine physique, but rest assured that in a few months that will all change. His chest has been treated with an irritant that will cause the tissue to continue to swell with fluid till it literally breaks through the surface, but have no concern that won't happen for many hours. This thing has a thick skin! I only tell you this so that you can give his chest plenty of attention when he's passed among you. I assure you, with all that pressure building in his tits, the touch of a finger will feel like a hammer's blow.

Our first event of the evening will be a race against the clock. Our he,' soon to be she,' is about to be fucked with a very nasty rubber cock. You see the lube we're using is a combination of five different chilies... OUCH!! The combination is caustic enough to burn its way through a man's intestine in about forty-five minutes. Oh Dear, Oh Dear...

But there's no sport in that. No my friends, I call your attention to the short wall being rolled onto the stage. On it are five hideously large dildoes... five chilies, five dildoes. Two of those cocks are the answer to our boy's troubles. You see it takes two different chemical agents to `turn off the heat,' and save his sorry ass. All Thing has to do is fuck himself on the right two dicks and he's home free.

I know the question on everyone's mind: What's on those other three cocks? Well folks to keep things interesting one of them has nothing on it... no lube... nothing... It's just big and hard and dry as hell... another has more of the caustic chili mix... and the third mystery dick has a powerful sexual stimulant on it. If our boy fucks himself on that sexy prick he's in for the ride of his life. This is one hell of a powerful aphrodisiac, the kind that drives men wild... drives them out of their minds... makes them fuck till they drop... It will make Thing hotter than hell... like a bull in heat... if he hits that magic dick we'll see which is stronger... the urge to save his ass or the incredibly strong need to fuck himself to orgasm....

So my friends in a minute Thing will be racing against time to fuck the right two cocks. The betting pool will open in a minute. You can wager on the order of cocks he chooses, you may also bet on the number of cocks he'll fuck before he manages to neutralize the fire in his ass... you never know he might just find the correct two immediately and cut our entertainment short... you never know...you can also play the odds on whether or not he'll hit the cock with the sexual kick, and finally you may gamble on whether or not, in the process of fucking himself crazy, he will have a crashing orgasm. My men will now move among you to take your money and place your bets."

Scott watched as the "wall" was wheeled onto the stage and fastened to the bolts in the floor. He saw the five huge protruding dildoes. He even noticed that some were dripping with colored slime... But none of it registered. He could hear Sam droning on and on in the background, but he had no idea what he was saying. Scott was locked up in his head battling his own psyche. He could no longer remember why it was important to stay sane, to hold on. Thoughts of feminization echoed in his brain, over and over; his fear and anxiety were overpowering. Sam was going to take his manhood... remove his cock... cut off his balls... carve a vagina, and implant breasts... It would be better to be insane... It would be better to be dead.

A minute later the men holding his arms were cuffing his hands behind his back and pulling the pink panties down his legs and off his feet. Scott's iron cock bounced up and hit his abs with a loud SLAPPPPP! His keepers tried to get his attention, but it was no use. Scott's mind was fracturing, going somewhere far away from here.

The robotic blonds bent Scott over at the waist... he made no attempt to resist. The goon to Scott's right was handed a twelve inch dildo (three inches in diameter) covered in a translucent red jelly. The pungent smell was so strong that it brought tears to the eyes of anyone in a twenty foot radius. Before the acrid substance could further pollute the air Sam's man slammed the rubber dick into Scott's asshole. There was almost no resistance, and Scott barely felt it.

Once more the goons were pointing at the wall and telling Scott something, but it didn't matter... nothing mattered any more. A minute passed and a radiating warmth filled Scott's ass... another minute and the chilies began to have their effect. A minute later part of Scott's mind was wrestled back to the present, back to his growing misery... Jesus Christ... more pain. Half in, half out of his mind, his bowels radiating an increasing burn, full of new panic, Scott looked around for some kind of help. The fire in his guts was growing every second.

Sam's man, for the third time, explained to Scott that he could stop the pain, turn off the fire if he fucked himself on the cocks sticking out of the wall. Even before he understood the directions he forced his wobbly legs to walk him back to the wall. Scott didn't stop to debate which cock to choose; the second rubber dick was the closest so he turned himself around and backed his ass onto the slightly angled dildo. Christ the goddamned thing was huge... the dick's head had to be four inches across and the shaft's diameter got bigger and bigger. There was some gunk on it but it wasn't a lubricant. Scott held his breath, and fell back. The cock's head hit his stretched out asshole and stopped dead. It was too large. Scott pushed harder. His swollen bloody anal ring gaped wider. He pushed harder and harder and harder and the head popped past the sphincter. MORE PAIN!! He used his last ounces of strength together with the weight of his body to push the massive prick up his ass... It went in about seven inches and stopped... That wasn't deep enough the fire extended further in. Scott dug into the floor with his heels and put his back into the task; his calf muscles swelled and strained; his thighs turned to stone. The fire was getting worse... he was now covered head to toe in sweat. He began to rock himself back and forth... over and over and over. The goddamned thing tore through his guts and came closer and closer to puncturing them... and the muscle around his asshole had to keep giving way to accommodate the growing size...After a minute or two he had thirteen inches of the offensive rubber dick in his ass... NO RELIEF!! NONE AT ALL!! and the pain was intensifying... he could feel his stomach clenching and the chills rising up and down his back. He was losing his mind in another new and different way.

One of Sam's blond fucks was telling him something... telling him that he needed to keep trying... telling him it would take two of these rubber dicks to turn off the toxic chilies. Jesus Christ... he had to keep going.

Scott tried to pull himself off the cock. It didn't want to move... so he pushed his weight forward and for a moment he was stuck there, facing the very amused audience... leaning forward... suspended in space... held there by the big fat dick stuck all the way in his ass... A few moments later the latex pole began to slowly edge itself out inch by inch.

The fire was shooting deep into his bowels... every couple seconds it felt like a Molotov cocktail was exploding in a new part of his abdomen... He wanted to scream sooo much. He needed to scream sooo much... but there was no voice left... nothing... just air.

Scott didn't have time to wonder about which prick to choose next. He looked over his shoulder aimed his asshole at the first in line and backed onto it. Holy Fuck! This one didn't seem to have anything on it... nothing. He pushed and pushed; he planted his heels as best he could and pushed some more. This fucking fucker moved a millimeter at a time. It seemed like hours passed... and with each minute the urgency grew, the fire spread, the heat got more intense, and the dildo inched its way toward Scott's Adam's apple.

(The first dildo had nothing on it... no chemicals... no lubricants... it was just a great big fuck.)

Scott was compelled once more to pull and tug and wrench his ass off the cock wedged up his butt. With the tears streaming down his face and the fire exploding in his guts he was again confronted with his next choice of pain and humiliation. For a moment he lined himself up with the second cock... the one he'd started on.

Laughter broke out in the audience... someone yelled out, "Pay attention numb-nuts! You already fucked him. Find yourself a new cock... PRINCESS!"

Others were calling out the numbers they'd bet on, "Do number five next Fuckwad." and "Go fuck number four... number four's your lucky fuck."

Scott didn't hear them; he was close to collapse, grunting and groaning and growling from his core, but the flames consuming him pushed him forward... the pain drove him on... So without any finesse he slumped back onto rubber cock number three, but he hadn't lined it up right and he fell back, hit the wall and landed hard on his ass on the floor.

The air filled with hoots and hollers and the stomping of feet, and endless jeers... "God this one's dumber than the rest... and a lot funnier."... "This is better than the guy who got fucked by the Great Danes."... "and more entertaining than the kid trying to outrun the pit bulls."

Scott tried to pull himself off the floor but he was soaking wet, dripping sweat, and the floor was slippery, and he was so utterly tired, and so damned weak. Finally Sam signaled to Scott's keepers to help him up and the game continued.

On his second try Scott was able to line up the cock head with his asshole and as he stepped/fell back he felt the giant mushroom head pop past his wear-worn, torn-up sphincter and enter his burning pipeline. It seemed to be moving more easily... two inches... three... four... And Scott felt something else... something new. His own chemically erected prick got much harder and began to pound like a kettle drum. There was a new, more pleasant heat rising from the base of his abdomen and his balls began to rumble... then his scrotum contracted and pulled his nuts up close to the base of his steely rod. Scott felt a groan rising from the bottom of his spine. Jesus Christ he needed to come...he wanted to come... HE HAD TO COME. Sex came tumbling into his brain as a wickedly sensual excitement rose and resonated in the pit of his stomach. He could sense the come churning in his balls; he could feel a growing expanding vibration that was making his cock pulse and his dick head swell with blood till it felt like it was about to explode.

A war broke out in his gut between his instinctive need to assuage the fire in his ass... to stop the caustic chemicals from rotting through his intestines AND this equally intense need to give in to the pressing desire he felt in his crotch. His cock lurched and lurched again. His dick burped up glob after glob of prejizz... so much that it began to drool off the head of his cock. Scott's eyes rolled up, his eyelids closed and began to flutter. Without thinking he pulled himself off the dildo and them plunged himself back on with all his strenght. The cock buried itself and Scott's glutes hit the wall with a loud SPLAT!!

The action was all caught on the close-up cameras and the crowd hushed to catch every grunt and groan.

Scott used his cuffed arms to push himself away from the wall; then he put his weight onto his feet and came all the way off the rubber prick. It PLOPPED as it came out; then he let go, fell back, and let the dildo plunge back in to the hilt and he hit the wall again... and again... and again... and again... and again. And his own dick continued to grow and jump and pulse and drool and drool and drool. His attention was focused on the red hot sensitive spot on the underside of his prick stem; it was glowing with the heat of the sun. Something was coming... something good... something waaaaaas cooooooming! He grew frenzied, shifted a bit, moving his weight back and forth he began to short fuck himself on the head of the enormous prick... in and out with a sucking PLOP... and in and out... PLOP... and in and out PLOP... then he let go and hit the wall... SPLAT... and all the way off the rubber cock and more short fucks... and again and again and again...

The fire in his loins was approaching the fire in his ass. His thinking mind was gone... far away... on vacation... out to lunch... but his sense of NEED had never been more acute, so he fucked and fucked and fucked his ass... and he fucked and fucked and fucked it some more... and he snorted and groaned and moaned like a whore on Saturday night till after several minutes of a super screw Scott inhaled with all his might... filling his lungs to capacity... then filling them some more till his chest was about to burst... and with his eyes open as wide as they could, he lifted his head toward the heavens and CAME LIKE HE'D NEVER COME BEFORE.

The first volley of jizz shot fifteen feet, Fffsssst, and hit the forehead of a man sitting at the second table. He immediately stood, gathered up the sizeable dollop of cum with his index finger and sucked it clean between his lips. The audience applauded as shot after shot after shot of thick, gooey, milky white ball cream pumped out of Scott's pulsing prick. Again and again and again.

When he was spent there was no time to rest. The second his orgasm was over the pain and fire overtook Scott like a tidal wave that has been waiting to strike. Wild eyed he forced himself off the third dildo and without thinking he lined himself up with the fifth. He didn't even notice he's passed prick number four. What the fuck did it matter? He was now quite desperate. He could feel a new kind of pain... like a thousand paper cuts eating into his bowels... the caustic chemicals were chewing through the tissue... In a matter of minutes Scott's intestinal wall would be breached and he'd die very slowly over the next two or three days of peritonitis. He didn't know any of this consciously, but he was a smart, well educated man and on some level his unconscious recognized it was in a life and death race against time.

Scott plunged himself onto the fifth dildo. The gunky slime covering it didn't make it go in any easier and he found himself once more struggling to impale himself on the giant fuck stick... and slowly inch by inch it sank into Scott's asshole... slowly... inch by inch.

And something happened. Jesus Christ the pain was actually intensifying... the flames were shooting even deeper into his guts. Scott's chest began to heave. HHHUGGHH HHHUGGHH... HHHUGGHH... HHHUGGHH... HHHUGGHH......

But... wait... after another moment... could it be... was the fire moving back... pulling out... slowly lessening... the horrible explosions of flames began to abate... the intensity of the pain began to diminish... Thank God he'd finally fucked the correct cocks... the first... and the fifth... Leave it to that fat fuck Sam to make it as difficult as possible... But Scott had found the pair he needed. As the flames turned to embers Scott's whole body relaxed and he fell back against the wall... the fifth fake prick slid all the way into his asshole... but Scott didn't care... it pushed the calming chemicals deep into his guts and it felt good... so he rested his butt cheeks against the wall as the dildo stretched his anal ring, filled him up, and tickled his liver.

There was one small change in Scott's demeanor. This last ordeal had pulled part of his psyche back into the present. In some strange way his instinctive struggle to turn off the pain and in effect remain alive had put him in touch with reality... for the moment.

Scott didn't get to rest for long. His keepers grabbed his arms and unceremoniously yanked him off the rubber prick that had ended his torment. As it SLLLLLURPPPTTT out of him he got slammed with a very cold chill. Now that the fire was out all his old miseries returned with a vengeance... the aches... the pains... the cuts and bruises... the freezing cold fear sweat that covered him head to foot... the inhumanity... the indecency... the depravity... came back FULL FORCE... and tried to crush him. Scott's keepers roughly pulled him around and forced the pissy pink panties back over his feet, up his legs... till they once again stuck to his cock, balls, and ass like a layer of cold wet slime......

Then WHAM!! Scott's old adversary came back at the speed of anguish... his blind revulsion of being emasculated was there again, next to him, clawing at his soul, threatening his sanity. He felt a wave of darkness envelope his body... he felt the pull of the bottomless well of depression... he wanted to die. WHERE WAS JUSTICE? WHERE WAS HUMANITY? WHERE WAS THE GOOD? WHERE WAS GOD? WHERE WAS GOD? WHERE WAS GOD? WHERE WAS GOD? WHERE WAS GOD? WHERE WAS GOD?

Sam's blondies dragged Scott center stage for a camera close-up and a hearty round of applause. Scott raised his head to look out at the faces of the depraved, but with all the spotlights aimed at him, he was blinded by the darkness.

A minute later Fat Sam was back, "Thank you my loyal fans for that outpouring of affection... But we're not finished..."

There was an uneasy rumbling among the patrons.

Sam continued, "I know that sound. You're anxious to get your hands on this fine specimen of... specimen of... Hmmmmm I guess you'd have to say that this sweet young Thing is still in transition... "

And they were laughing once again.

"... And in light of that transition we are about to help him remove another useless appendage. Please take note of the new wall being rolled onto the stage and bolted to the floor... no rubber cocks here... but it does have a rather odd covering. The left portion of the plasterboard has been overlaid with fine industrial sandpaper; the middle section with medium, and the right side with a very coarse variety of the same material. We are about to give our Thing something to scratch about."

With that Sam signaled a third man who raced up onto the stage carrying some utensils. He knelt in front of Scott, pulled the sodden panties down to his knees, and began to tongue his balls.

Sam spoke, "We're going to give our boy a bit of fun before we toss him back into torment."

Scott became aware of the intense pleasure he was feeling in his groin. He'd felt excruciating pain for what seemed like months, so the warm moist lips and tongue on his balls felt intensely good. Scott pulled his attention away from all the pain in his body, especially the growing pressure in his chest; he sent his whole mind into his crotch. He cherished every second. The guy on his knees was GOOD at his job, a dedicated licker who took his time over every square centimeter of skin. It felt warm and luxurious. Scott swooned and needed full support under his arms as the kneeling man sucked his balls into his hot mouth and then filled it with spit. It was like his nuts were being bathed by the gentle fingers of his lover Jack, and around and around and around. The guy let one orb slowly slip out between his lips while he tenderly attended to the other... back and forth, back and forth... then both balls at once again. A deep moan arose from Scott's bowels as he closed his eyes and dreamt of better times, in a warm bed, with Jack between his legs.

The suck happy blond then swallowed Scott's dripping prick down to its thick root, and Scott was pumping Jack's ass... reaming his hole... making his day... fucking him into Eden. The kneeler sucked up and down the length of Scott's overheated prong. Twice he backed off and rested on his heels when Scott was ready to come, and twice he went back and gobbled Scott's cock down to its root all over again. Three times... four... five... Scott was moaning and begging his lover to be a good guy and let him shoot. They were on some beautiful tropical island rolling around in each other's arms for hours and Scott was pleading for Jack to let him come. He was promising to fuck Jack all day and all night if only he'd let him fire the enormous stockpile of jizz building up in his balls for what seemed like hours. He tried to free his hands and grab Jack's head to keep it working on his dick, but his wrists were cuffed behind his back. Scott thought, "Jack you miserable devil, when did you cuff my hands? Oh hell, it doesn't matter... just please man, let me cum already," and keeping his eyes closed he continued to plead.

On the edge of Scott's sixth attempt to climax the sucker's mouth was withdrawn; the same guy began to paint the underside of Scott's dick, up and down, with a thick milky fluid. After applying the offending gel to Scott's hot rod the goon stuffed it back into the soggy panties and the men holding Scott up immediately let him go. He wobbled back and forth, but managed to stay on his feet.

Sam came back, "Well folks that's the sweet, gentle, vanilla portion of tonight's event. My man has just covered the underside of Thing's oversized fuckwand with an extract from the exoskeleton of the Mexican Red Beetle. This "concoction" causes a slight irritation that slowly grows, over several minutes, into a crawling itch so strong that restrained men have dislocated limbs in an effort to free themselves and claw at whatever part of their body has been exposed. In previous experiments I've witnessed men, locked in a cage, go wild trying to stop the itch. They scratched and clawed and when that didn't work and itch continued to grow... well, my friends, I gave them a sharpened scalpel and watched them hack off the treated pieces of their manhood. As proof please look stage left."

At this point one of Sam's goons led two tall, well built naked young men up the aisle and onto the stage. They were chained together at the neck, and appeared to be drugged, either drugged or totally broken. As the spotlight illuminated their hairless bodies it was obvious that one had only a half inch stump left of his dick and the other had a long ragged uneven pink gash where his genitals once hung. When the audience saw them there was a moment of silence, a collective gasp and then wild applause.

As the two unfortunates were led away Sam came back: "For our former senior control,' now our Thing, we have provided the sandpaper wall so that she can scratch and rub and abrade and grind that organ till there's nothing left that's recognizable. I should mention the cock in question was injected with prostaglandins before the show began. This hormone cocktail will keep our boy's cock hard as stone until all that remains is ground beef... and prime beef at that. Our Thing,' soon to be Thing with tits and hole, is being told right now that there is one way to stop the itch, to end his torment... All he has to do is have a great big orgasm. Now doesn't that sound easy... quite generous... more than fair? All he needs to do is get that cock to explode for us. It's one more reason for the sandpaper wall at the back. If he can get his prick to fire I will happily provide the neutralizer that will instantly stop the growing itch.

We didn't want to make it too easy so some lubricant has been applied to the left side of the wall over the fine and medium grades of abrasive. They will still function as a sanding material they just won't seem' to provide much scratch,' and or `rub.' After all we do want a horse race... Giddy up!

As we are all sporting persons my men will circulate among you with a betting sheet. Starting in two minutes you may place a wager on when this discharge will occur if indeed it does. The time is divided into thirty second intervals. Each bet will cost you five thousand dollars, winner takes all. My men will give us the signal if and when the eruption takes place. Please enjoy your drinks for the next thirty or forty minutes as our boy on stage tries to relieve an itch that will not be calmed, and cannot be assuaged. Hors` d'oeuvres are about to be served. Take my word, the stuffed mushrooms are the best I've ever tasted. Enjoy!"

At first all Scott felt was a warm glow on the underside of his dick, so as Sam droned on and on he closed his eyes and thought of Jack and happier days. As his prick began to tingle the two Orange-hairs who had just handcuffed him began to tell Scott that he needed to come; that if he came they would stop the itching in his cock.

It was as if hearing about the itching induced it. As he heard the words Scott's prick began to tickle and pinch and vibrate and ITCH. He tried to rub it against goon #1's leather pants, but the bastard moved out of the way too quickly. The need to scratch grew. It felt like there were thousands of big black ants swarming all over his cock; it was getting very unpleasant. He wished he could get out of the stupid silk panties, they weren't helping.

Scott surveyed his space. Besides the two evil orange-heads there was nothing around him. He tried for the stairs... they restrained him and dragged him back center stage. And the laughter began. He tried to leap from the stage but he was weak as a kitten and they caught him easily, pulling him back where he started. Scott's eyes opened wider and wider as he became more and more desperate... he fell to the floor and tried to abrade his prick against the surface of the stage, but it was perfectly smooth and offered no help at all. He was getting desperate. He rolled around and around in a frenzy... they pulled him back to his feet. And the laughter grew. He tried again to rub himself against Sam's muscled goons, but they were fast and managed to dodge his attempts to make contact with their bodies, AND the audience ROARED.

Now there were a million mosquitoes all biting him at the same time. Scott's very hard cock felt like it was swelling, ready to explode and the itching got worse and spread to his balls. He felt every heartbeat as a growing need to have some relief...ANY RELIEF... ANYTHING AT ALL.

Sam's men pulled Scott to the wall and pushed him against the fine sandpaper. At first it felt like he'd gone to heaven... it felt so damned good... and Scott remembered being told that they would end the itch, stop it, if he would only come... how completely simple.

Scott rubbed his prick harder against the wall, but it was slippery and soon what comfort it offered seemed insignificant. And the fucking panties were making everything worse. They were in the way of better contact and they were spreading the itch further and further south. Scott wiggled his hips and tried everything he could think of to get the silk covering off his prong. Nothing worked, and the need to scratch just kept building.

The wall, the fine grade sand paper wasn't keeping up with the constantly increasing itch. THE MISERABLE FUCKING ITCH!! What Scott couldn't see was that the underside of his prick was very red and sprouting nasty purple nubs from all the irritation. He had no idea that the skin was being badly abraded. He couldn't feel anything past the incredible CRAWLING PRICKLING TICKLING PIERCING MOUNTING ITCH... THE FUCKING ITCH... THERE WAS ONLY THE ITCH!!

As he slid himself up and down and across the wall Scott noticed a difference in the feel of the paper; the stuff to his right was rougher and gave more resistance. FANTASTIC!! So Scott moved to his right, jammed his silk covered dick against the wall, and pushed for all he was worth. His ever swelling chest forced his very erect nipples to hit the paper as well and Scott tried to scream... For that instant his attention was diverted from his maddening dick to his chest. It felt like someone was using a blowtorch on his nipples... so he opened his mouth and all that came out was a gust of air and a squeak... He had no voice left... So he just screamed in his head. Watching Scott trying to scream got the audience laughing once again.

Pulling his tits away from the paper Scott went back to work rubbing. His cock had begun to bleed and the front of the panties was turning darker and darker crimson. He was seriously damaging his wonderful dick. He was rubbing away the flesh, but he couldn't have stopped himself if he had tried... He was now acting on instinct... there was no control. It didn't even occur to his ravaged mind to use his command of hypnosis to block the anguish... his mind was moving off into space... a psychotic break was coming closer and closer. The skin on Scott's prick was shredding, blood was dripping off the bottom of the garish scarlet silk panties. Still he grunted and groaned and pressed forward erasing his cock with every thrust. Finally, between the friction from the paper and the stickiness of the clotting blood the panties began to slide down his cock. When the camera operator zoomed in on that small event there was a round of applause.

Scott just continued to abrade his dick against the sandpaper. When one spot got too lubricated with oil and blood and skin he moved further to his right where there was less and less lubricant and coarser and coarser sand.

By the time Scott hit the center of the wall he was half out of his mind. If anything the itching was worse and even though he was distantly aware of a growing pain in his cock it was nothing compared to his enormous need to scratch. Somewhere in his fevered brain a voice was screaming COME! COME! COME! COME! COME! COME! It will stop if you COME. That part of his mind tried to focus on the rumbling in his balls and the pressure in his tits. Something sexual was happening... On some level his nervous system was responding to the vibrations in his groin, the pressure on his prick shaft, the slapping of his balls... Something sexual was happening... somewhere... on some level... if only he could concentrate on THAT... And WHAM!.... His attention was savagely wrenched back to the crawling, never ending need to tear at his groin, grind it to bits, HACK IT OFF... MAKE IT GO AWAY!!

In a moment of weakness Scott glanced down at his dick. The head was covered in nasty burgundy, bloody lumps and as he continued to scrub and rub it against the wall it left a wide bloody trail in its wake. Scott didn't pull himself away from the wall to get a better look; he couldn't stop this destructive stroking for anyone or anything. So he went on and on, all the while huffing and puffing and sweating profusely. His hands, cuffed behind his back were purple and numb; his chest was three times its normal size, the pressure building every minute; his legs were throbbing and wobbling, barely holding him up; his brain was struggling to hold onto reality while it suffered from lack of sleep and a drug combination that would have killed any other man. But Scott just kept pushing his dick up and down against the wall. He was wild eyed, grunting like a boar in heat, soaked head to foot in sweat, makeup running down his sides.

At the end of fifteen minutes Scott had moved past the middle portion of the wall and was on its far right side. To his left he'd left a growing darkening trail of blood and tissue. The doctors in the audience were guessing back and forth about the actual amount of blood, was it more or less than a pint yet... and there was wild speculation about whether or not he would actually orgasm.

Back on stage Scott was almost out of breath, but he still couldn't stop. He was acting like some deranged animal. Any thought of trying to have an orgasm had left his fevered brain many minutes ago. He wasn't thinking anything. He just kept rubbing against what was becoming more and more like a cheese grater. But the itch just kept on growing... and the psychosis got closer and closer.

Somewhere around twenty minutes Scott's head jerked back and his eyes rolled up as his mutilated prick began to jerk and jump. A stream of blood red cockcream shot out his ravaged pisshole and flew up past his chest landing near the top of the wall. Scott wanted to BELLOW!!!! IT HURTS!! IT HURTS!! IT HURTS!! And he shot and he shot and shot and shot... jizz and clots and meat and God knows what else.

Sam gave a signal and Scott's two "keepers" grabbed him roughly by the shoulders and dragged him away from the wall. Scott tried to pull away from them and continue what he'd been doing. The need to itch hadn't abated one tiny bit. Scott struggled like a madman. HE NEEDED THE WALL!! HE HAD TO KEEP SCRATCHING!! HE WANTED THE WALL! THE WALL! THE WALL! THE WALL! THE WALL!

A moment later the Latino blond came on stage pulling what looked like a small, two foot round, vinyl, blow-up, baby's pool. Sam's blond-blond appeared next and emptied two pitchers of a clear liquid into the tiny pool and stood back.

Sam was on the PA, "Congratulations Thing, you've won. The little plastic pool contains the elixir that will stop the itching... it's a common household product... quite good on french fries... IT'S VINEGAR!

Scott didn't hear or understand the words. Instinct told him the liquid in the round thing at his feet might stop the itching so the instant Sam's men let him go he dove for it. One second... Two seconds... Three seconds later Scott raised his head off the floor, his midsection in the "pool," with tears streaming down his child-like, sweet face. His eyes, his mournful, horror stricken, wretched, heartbroken eyes told the story.

SCOTT TRIED TO SCREAM AND SCREAM AND SCREAM TILL HE DIED...

Once more only air escaped his hollow body as he passed into unconsciousness.

While Scott was out Sam's men used the time to "fix" him up a bit. They pulled his crotch out of the vinegar and dried it off; they toweled off the rest of his sweat soaked body, and tried to comb his hair; they uncuffed his hands, pulled them in front of his body and recuffed them; they lowered the panties and applied a large amount of styptic gel to what remained of Scott's raw, bloody, badly damaged still erect prick. Once the bleeding was stopped they pulled the disgusting vinegar soaked, sweaty, pissy, bloody panties back over his hips.

Scott looked awful. He laid there like a broken doll... and yet his masculine beauty showed through. As broken and disheveled as he was, as bruised and battered, as black and blue and swollen, as cut and bloodied as he was; Scott remained a tall, well built, handsome man with a kind face. Some things even Fat Sam couldn't destroy. Under all the muck and mire it was still Scott a senior control with the Organization.

When Sam's men finished their "repair" work they brought out a rhinestone studded dog collar, fastened it around Scott's neck, and attached a leash. Scott was ready to be passed among this pack of degenerate vultures. God only knew what they had in mind.

One of the bare chested goons pulled smelling salts out of his pocket and began to revive their half dead charge. It was time to confront his next ordeal. Scott's eyes opened but he wasn't there... they were just black holes with nothing behind them... Scott was gone... only his body remained... Was there even a glimmer?

As they half carried half dragged Scott to the head table his next tormentor felt her blood begin to surge. Mistress Hamilton Winthrop sat in Chair #1. She was too old to be wearing a patent leather bikini with thigh boots and she looked ridiculous. Kneeling next to her chair was her lapdog, Winnie, AKA Hamilton Winthrop himself, president and chairman of the board of Winthrop Industries (whose subdivisions included Winthrop Air, Winthrop Pharmaceuticals, Winthrop Foods, and Winthrop Manufacturing). Winnie was a captain of industry by day, but at all other times he was a died-in-the-wool submissive/masochist, who lapped at his mistress's heels. As Scott's keepers brought him close to her table she called for someone to fetch her a "good sized" strap on.

Meanwhile she had them carefully place Scott on her lap. As she waited for her "accessories" to arrive she bounced Scott around on her knees. When she reached around and grabbed his nipples between her thumbs and index fingers a piece of Scott's mind was jolted into the room. His head was tilted sideways almost resting on his shoulder; as his eyes focused he saw out across the room. Fat Sam was on the far side sitting on a leather couch with Jack, poor sweet whacked out Jack, again on his lap.

As the torment in his nipples grew Scott pulled his head a bit more erect. He saw Sam playing with Jack's still erect, drooling prick, and whispering into his ear. Two of Sam's personal bodyguard blonds stood behind the couch, and next to him sat his man "Jaws." In front of Sam on a low coffee table was the remote for Jack's exploding collar and further to the right his suit coat was draped over a chair.

Scott was actually getting used to the pain shooting through his chest. He didn't care anymore. He closed his eyes and prepared to leave his body... go away once and for all. He'd be of no use to Jack. Any plans he'd made to kill them both were history. There was no longer anything he could do. He'd use his last ounce of strength to finally send his mind out of his body, once and for all, leaving only a psychotic shell behind.

Scott blinked and his head dropped back onto his shoulder... His eye was drawn to a rather tall Mexican wearing a wide brimmed sombrero and dirty serape, leaning against the farthest corner, at the back of the room. He looked totally out of place in this gathering of well-to-do rich filth. The tall guy raised the brim of his big hat ... HOLY SHIT, IT WAS DAVID!! ... IT WAS C... IT WAS HIS BROTHER!! As tears flooded Scott's eyes his adrenal glands began to pump out hormone by the gallon. Scott's heart began to pound. David was saying something with his hands... Scott lifted his cuffed wrists and used his fingers to sign, "Sam has a bomb... it has a remote control."

C signaled, "We're jamming every frequency."

In the flick of a viper's tongue Scott was up. Christ knows how he did it... where he found the energy... but before anyone could stop him he'd pulled the leash out of the Mistress's hand and naked except for the collar, cuffs, and panties he stepped from the floor to an empty chair to the top of one table... across to the next... and the next... For a moment Sam was frozen in amazement... a second later... FSSST...... FSSST... two Chinese throwing stars took out the guards behind that couch.

Sam pushed Jack off his lap with such force that the poor guy flew six feet and landed in a heap on the floor. Sam reached the remote at the same moment Scott landed on the floor and flung the coffee table out from between them. As Sam squeezed the button Scott looped the chain leash once, twice, three times around Sam's neck. Scott could have used his foot for leverage against Sam's chest but he chose to use his knee so he could stare down into Sam's eyes. Scott glared at Sam and what he saw made him look away. There was no fear in Sam's visage, no plea for mercy, only ice cold hate.

Sam struggled against Scott's irons fists; he clawed at the chain around his throat as his face went from beet red to blue to deep purple; he tried to reach out for Scott's head or body but Scott easily leaned back out of his reach and Sam's hands went back to tearing at Scott's fists.

Just as things seemed to be going so well Scott felt a wave of heat pass over his body; he got dizzy; Jesus Christ he felt like he might pass out... THIS WAS TAKING TOO LONG!! A moment later Scott released the leash, dropped his cuffed left hand below his right; opened his right hand, palm forward and using his last bit of strength he lunged forward bringing the heel of his right palm into contact with Sam's nose. As the action followed its course Scott's hand pushed Sam's nasal septum deep into his brain ending his miserable life.

As Fat Sam's world passed into darkness Scott quietly passed out and crumbled to the floor.

Fifteen minutes later, when Scott regained consciousness the carnage was over. The bodies of Sam's men and all his patrons littered the room. No one was left alive. The Organization had decided before they went into Sam's well protected compound that there wasn't a soul inside worth saving beyond Scott, Jack, and any captives they might rescue. Everyone else, male and female, guards, employees, guests, and patrons were all marked for death. The outside troops were taken out with silenced high powered rifle fire, and some hand to hand combat. Inside the showroom most of the corpses had broken necks, a handful had been dispatched with Chinese stars or balanced throwing knives and three of four had died from bullet wounds in a small exchange of gunfire.

The room was almost silent with conversation at a minimum. Controllers don't revel in victories that require killing. They celebrate life not death. BUT when it comes to their brothers in the Organization; the bond is absolute... hand to hand, heart to heart, soul to soul. They will gladly die in service to each other and they often have. It's who they are. It's what they are about. It's the code by which they live.

When Scott opened his eyes he was lying on a stretcher. He looked up into the face of his brother David (C) who in turn began to pet Scott's hair with his left hand. C gently placed his right palm on Scott's battered chest, bent down and ... very, very softly... very, very slowly... kissed him on the forehead ... after a couple seconds C pulled back slightly, leaned in once more and kissed his brother ever so gently on the lips.

Scott did his best to smile, as David with tears running down his cheeks, returned the gesture and whispered, "So, how's it goin' sailor-boy?" Then Dr. John, always along for the ride, injected Scott with a potent mix of antibiotics and morphine and he was carried away to never-never land in the arms of the men who loved him.

ELEVEN MONTHS LATER----------- THE PRESENT---------Day Five

C, Scott, and James climbed into the back of the stretch limo and headed out of the airport toward downtown LA. James was out of his clothes, naked, and at C's feet within seconds.

Scott said, "This kid is one hot number. Is it me or are the candidates getting better looking every year?"

C returned, "It's not something I spend a lot of time thinking about. This boy is not the `norm' by any stretch of the imagination. This one could have my job someday."

Scott smiled, "I thought I was next in line for Western Command."

C looked his brother in the eye, "You'd hate it. There'd be no time for sailing or music and you'd have to give up the dogs AND your lover. I spend most of my time traveling and getting my family out of trouble... getting YOU out of trouble. If you had this command you'd have to be responsible... like I said you'd hate it."

Scott frowned, "I was only kidding. There's no need to get snotty. What the fuck happened to your sense of humor?"

C grinned, "That WAS my sense of humor... wiseass... If I thought for one second you really wanted this job I'd spend the next two years grooming you to take over. I'd love you to inherit my job. I know you're not really interested. Christ, Pax would do hand springs if he heard you seriously wanted a position of leadership."

Scott shook his head, "How the hell did we get into a discussion of my vocational planning. I like being the suave, debonair, incredibly handsome, hot shot lawyer for the Organization, whose big brother keeps the world safe. More leadership would only cramp my style."

C changed the subject, "What ever became of that kid we rescued with you... Tommy?"

Scott answered, "You must mean Timmy... Oh God, Timmy... there's one hell of a story. He was out of the hospital two weeks before me which is pretty remarkable considering all the years of damage he survived... We couldn't just put the kid back on the street so my office found him a job in one of the our pharmaceutical warehouses... But that's not where the tale ends... Apparently he enjoyed fucking me sooo much that he became a Top... little five foot nothing Timmy. He hooked up with one of the drug company's field reps and they live together... You wouldn't believe Timmy's boyfriend Isaac. The guy is 6'2", 190 lbs, all muscle, a former Israeli commando, who follows Timmy around like a puppy dog... and jumps when his master calls. Timmy is still the same sweet kid. You can read his life story by staring into those deep dark eyes and looking at his battered face and misshapen ears. It brings him a lot of compassion and instant respect. Timmy's come up through the ranks and is now warehouse foreman, in charge of eleven or twelve men, all considerably larger. Those guys wouldn't think of questioning his authority... they love him too. The kid is an amazing success story."

C broached the obvious, "...and Jack?"

Scott's whole demeanor shifted, "Jack is another story. He's still in the Organization's clinic in the Italian Alps."

C looked deeply into his brother's eyes, "Have you seen him?"

Scott's voice tightened, "He still refuses... says he's too deeply embarrassed. He just can't get over being used the way he was. He was always sensitive about being too passive... never felt worthy of being a controller. After Mexico the roof caved in; he had a complete breakdown. Unfortunately, he remembered everything, every detail. You'd think all the drugs would have erased his memory, but his command of hypnosis worked against him, it gave him absolute recall. He thinks he capitulated; that he was responsible for what happened to me; that I put up with all the torture because of him."

C interjected, "Surely he knows how foolish that is."

Scott returned, "That's just it he doesn't, and it makes me crazy. I tell him over and over that I did what I did to survive. I didn't do anything solely for his well being, but like I said he remembers every fucking fact... everything that was said and he's recited chapter and verse of every time I begged that Fat Fuck to leave Jack alone and use me as his whipping boy. Jack just won't see that it was MY problem; that That Pig was angry with ME; that he'd have tortured me no matter what I said. I keep telling Jack that it's MY fault he got kidnapped in the first place, but he doesn't hear me. He thinks he failed. He thinks he's weak. He thinks he gave in and caused me harm...... and... the thing is... Oh Christ...... David, I think I love him... I don't know what the fuck to do."

C tried to smile, "Well at least he's talking to you."

Scott shook his head, "No, no that's just it... the things I've told you... what I know about Jack... I got from his doctors and from his letters. He's been writing to tell me to stay away, to leave him in peace and find someone else to care about."

C furrowed his brow, "Well, you can't give up. If you really care about this guy, you can't just fade away. Sailor-boy, I say, get off your over-exercised ass and high tail it to Italy. Camp out on the clinic lawn... break down his door... make him see you. You've got to face him down; see him eye to eye; tell him exactly how you feel; make him hear you. He'll see the light. Scott, listen to me, not just as your brother, as Control One, Jack went trough candidacy; he survived that ordeal, which means he's made of stronger stuff. Hell, if you want I'll go and see him. Give me five minutes with him. He'll see the truth."

Scott smiled, "Ya know David, you sometimes have delusions of grandeur. You can't hypnotize EVERYONE into understanding. Sometimes nature has to take its course BUT I think you're right about me going over there. I need to think about it, but hearing you say it made instant sense... Jesus, you didn't hypnotize me... did you?"

C considered his answer, "Of course not... I'd never do something that... unbrotherly."

Scott raised his eyebrow, "It's getting so I don't even want to shake your hand any more. Sometime you frighten me brother-of-mine."

C just smiled.

Scott looked into his C's face and realized he had no idea if he was telling the truth or if he had indeed used his considerable abilities to help Scott see the truth. Scott inclined his head toward James kneeling next to C and asked, "So how's this kid at blow jobs?"

C looked at James and gave him a quick hand signal. A moment later the kneeling naked candidate was staring up into Scott's eyes and gently opening his pants. James snaked his tongue into the open zipper and caressed Scott's growing prick through his jockey shorts. Scott relaxed and concentrated on the expert mouth that was softly kissing the head of his cock. A moment later Scott jumped up a foot pressing his back into the car seat; then using both his hands he grabbed James' head away from his groin and looked down into the boy's eyes, "Whoa kid... that's delicate territory!..... my cock is a lot more sensitive than it used to be... you've got to be very, very gentle... very gentle.."

C looked into Scott's lap. His cock was clearly illuminated by the morning sun; the underside was covered by fresh, bright red, scar tissue; it had been "sanded" quite flat. The head of Scott's cock was still large and mushroom shaped with the exception of one side which had been grated off. C forced himself to pull his glance away and back to his brother's face. C said, "Is this the first time you've..."

Scott finished his brother's sentence, "had my dick sucked... As a matter of fact yes. I've been out of the hospital for six months. They did a hell of a job putting me back together, but some things..." he looked down at his dick which James was delicately swallowing... "but some things are going to take longer than others... besides with Jack... away... I haven't had much of an appetite for blow jobs and fucking."

C reached over and squeezed his brother's shoulder, "You should get back to sex, sucking and fucking, as soon as possible... for your health. Scott, I am entirely serious. This isn't about love or intimacy; it's about healing your body. I expect you to use these next few days to regain control... It's all about control... and Sailor-boy I am absolutely serious. I'm not speaking as your brother; I'm talking as Control One. You are to reassert your sexuality over the next two days. Consider that an order."

Scott smiled broadly, "Aye, aye sir... Ooooooohhh kid now that's the way... Oh god, you've got a magic tongue... yes, that's it get waaaay under my balls... Oh god yes..."

For the rest of the ride Scott followed Control One's orders and put James through his paces. The kid did marvelously and gave Scott two great big orgasms.

Meanwhile C decided exactly how he was going to handle the punk reporter, Kenneth Fitzpatrick. One thing was certain; Fitzpatrick had chosen the wrong adversary to fuck with.

Day 5--Part 1

In the Organization's suite at the posh Los Angeles hotel, Roberto paced back and forth while his charge, the Latino boy singer knelt naked on the floor, wondering why his master seemed so distraught.

Well folks, I do apologize for the length of time it took me to finish this chapter. The next part gets back to "fun and games," so it should be a lot easier to write. As always let me know what you think.

controlone@adelphia.net