This story and its characters are fiction. It is a personal fantasy which I am sharing with you. If any character or scene resembles you or someone you know, I WANT DETAILS, you lucky fucker, preferably with photos! It is, of course, copyrighted by the author with all rights reserved and very, very negotiable. Also, keep the cum coming. I'm an old guy (>30). I know what it was like when you had to BUY porn. Five miles uphill both ways in the snow just to GET to the XXX store. You whippersnapper don't know how good you've got it -- Donate to Nifty TODAY at donate.nifty.org/donate.html!
This involves intense sadomasochism and sex between adult males; if that is illegal for who/where you may be right now, fuck off and get thee to a monastery (where you might just find scenes similar to some below). Also, please note that all my stories exist in a world where STDs are neither common nor deadly. Don't be a fucking idiot; use protection. 'To die for' sex should never lead to your actual death.
I like hearing from people but I also hate spam. If you get off on flaming people, please know that you will HATE the results. I will read your missive and weave you and your comments into my next story to the point that you cry like a little girl. Bullies get as bullies give.
***** Turntable Rehabilitation Services - Chapter 1: Belated Introductions By Bear Pup
M/M, M/M(M); intense S&M/BDSM; CBT; retribution
"No, Lord Connelly. Your request is not at all uncommon for our firm. It's why we're called Turntable Rehabilitation; we rehabilitate people by turning the tables, showing men what it is like to be victimised in the ways they victimised others. You have really presented us a 'poster-boy' example. If you are satisfied with the result, we'll discuss a fee-rebate in exchange for using this in our most-discreet promotional materials."
"I'll consider it, as long as my son and his pain are never even hinted at."
"Of course, milord! We would never use the footage otherwise."
"I've agreed to the fee. When do you expect to start, and when can I see real results?"
"Frankly, as soon as the wire transfers clear the various layers of obfuscation, the operation will commence. We actually started the process when we first received your... rehab referral. Target acquisition, background, cover story; all are in place. We will, of course, explain to the patient what will happen (in detail) and secure his consent, then roll back his memory so he will experience the disorientation and fear just as his victims did. It is the key component in our highly-successful track record. We'll invite you back for the subject's sessions (attend those that are convenient) and you should expect actual results within the first week and complete rehabilitation and placement in under three months."
"Excellent. Excellent..."
I walk toward a bar that often I use for 'collecting'. It is a pit, a suitable place for the fags and scum that frequent it. There is really very little that I loathe more than a pussy-boy or butch wannabe-man lesbian, but this bar is special. It attracts the kind of man who wants, even begs, to be demeaned and abused. I am nothing if not compassionate; I am simply giving them the extreme version of what they crave.
I spend a few minutes drinking in the bar. Straight scotch, as I don't trust anything they might pour otherwise. Several of these pathetic pseudo-males approach, but I can't even bring myself to acknowledge them. I spot my target across the room, watching a game of pool.
He is young, probably 22 or 23. He wears skinny jeans with strategically-ripped patches and a shirt several sizes too small. He is advertising himself. He screams his need for what I can deliver. He wants a "straight-looking" stud. What he will get is an actually-straight stud to make his dreams come true. My prick thickens and snakes down my leg with the visions of what I'll give this tender, disgusting abomination of a boy.
He wants dominance? Yeah. He'll get that! He wants rough trade? None rougher. He wants the fantasy of savage sex without boundaries? He he. He won't get the fantasy, he'll get the reality. When this night ends, he will be a blubbering mass of a former faggot-man, begging for delivery from his "fantasy". I'll give him everything he dreams and nothing that he wants.
The little slut flirts his way through the night, drinking beers and sodas, keeping his wits about him. He leaves a trail of hard-ons, the disgusting little tease. He collects numbers that he throws out when he heads to the pisser. The faggot's faggot. The ultimate waste of oxygen. The one who needs to understand that actions have consequences and that I am the ultimate consequence.
He finally decides that none of the tops are worthy of his repulsive attentions and leaves. Several men try to draw him into staying, or at least leaving with them. He laughs and demurs. What a loathsome creature. He exits the bar and I follow a few moment later, unobserved. I see his unsteadily approach the driver's side of a Saab. What a fucking fag-mobile. He unlocks the door and never sees me approach. My breath thickens in anticipation and my cock is rock-hard as the chase ends. I have him!
And everything goes black.
The world spins crazily as I surface to consciousness. The barrage of light/sound/sensation overwhelms me and I sink back into oblivion. I resurface, and take in some details before fading once again. White walls. Curtains. Bright fluorescent lights. The cycle repeats. White. Bright. People in green smocks. A hospital? Did I... Oblivion returns. Again; white, bright, efficient people moving purposefully. "Are you awake?"
'No.'
Swirling black gives way to swirling colour. "Are you with us this time? Can you blink?" I blink and it's one of the hardest things I've ever accomplished. "Good. You need to rest. Rest."
Whether at his command or my own body's demands, I return to unconsciousness. This time, I dream, so real sleep must be involved. I dream of the fairy twink and what he needed me to do to him. To all of them. To fix a society derailed from What Should Be.
I finally come to my actual senses in a bright, windowless room. I feel the bindings at wrist and ankle, hip and chest. I start to test my bonds, instinctually repelled by the captivity.
"You're awake. Good. You'll get some food soon. You'll need to take care of bathroom needs. Nurse Ian will help with that. I'll be back in a few hours."
Some guy comes to the bedside. Name tag reads 'Ian'. He loosens my bindings. I am relieved and wait for him to finish. Oddly, the cuffs at wrist and ankle stay, but are released from the frame of the hospital bed. Ian helps me to my feet. I nearly fall. What the fuck happened to me? Was I in an accident? An explosion? My body is both weak and uncoordinated as Ian guides my stumbling body to the can.
I suddenly realise just how desperately I need to piss. Ian pulls my gown forward (it is, as all hospital gowns, open at the back instead of front). I try to protest that I need to piss, not shit, and could do it standing. Ian ignores me. I release and find that I have a little watery discharge from my ass. I blush furiously but helplessly as Ian leans me forward and wipes my ass. A comedic interlude ensues as I return to an upright position and Ian puts me to bed. I am instantly asleep.
I am also annoyed as hell as Ian pokes and prods me awake. He feeds me soft foods. Some sort of jiggly Fruit Jelly, I think. Milk. And a custard, perhaps. I am asleep again before the tray goes away.
I awake at some point far more in command of my senses and mad as hell. Ian comes in and I began to lob questions at him. "Where am I? What happened? How long was I out? WHAT HAPPENED?"
I belatedly realise that Ian is deaf. The louder I shout the more he smiles and nods. I weep with frustration as he spoon-feeds me oatmeal and orange juice. He takes me back to the washroom and sits me again on the commode, even though I have no need other than to piss. I do so, like some twat, crouched over the bowl. Ian returns me to bed and I sleep again.
Ian shakes me awake and I am more alert than I'd been since... whatever the fuck had happened. He starts to feed me and I clamp my jaws shut. He frowns and continues to try, but I refuse him. Finally, he leaves.
I stare at the white tiled walls and apparently fall back into sleep from sheer lack of stimulation.
I awake this time in full possession of my faculties. I am once again firmly restrained at wrist, ankle, thigh and chest. A man with the most-evil chuckle I'd ever imagined enters my field of view. He is small, lean, effete and bald. I tentatively labelled him, 'probable faggot'.
"Damian? Damian Goratto?" I nod mutely. "Good. You know who you are. Do you, perchance, know WHAT you are?" I shake my head and frown. What does this little queer mean?
"You are, or at least you WERE, a cauldron of hate and self-loathing." I stare, confused. "You hurt people because they are what you wish to be, free and happy. You've never been free, have you? You've never been happy since your father died?"
I am struck dumb, then erupt in a scream, "YOU KNOW NOTHING ABOUT ME YOU FUCKING QUEER! Where am I? What have you done? What is GOING ON??"
The little faggot doesn't even bat an eyelash.
"Exactly. You never understood what was 'going on' or what you were doing. Do you remember David Hayes?"
I unconsciously pull up a vision of my pre-teen friend. He was my confidant, my co-conspirator, my bud. He tried to kiss me one day when we had swiped a playboy and were pleasuring ourselves under a spray of honeysuckle. I'd beat him senseless and never spoken to him again.
"I see you do. Do you remember Patrick Front?"
No, not really. Oh! Wait! He was the first faggot I'd lured out of a bar. I gave him what he wanted and needed and deserved, a beating and a brutal fuck and another beating. He'd cried and screamed and loved every minute.
"No, Damian, he didn't want that and never accepted it. He killed himself two months later."
So the little faggot had ended his miserable existence. GOOD RIDDANCE!
"Lastly, do you remember Charles Maxwell?"
I rack my brains. No Charles or Maxwell pops up. I gaze in confusion at the little man.
"Sad, because that's why you are here." The little man pulls out two photos. I recognise the first; it is another fucking little twink who got from me what the world needed to give him and what he secretly craved. The second photo, no. A bit older, very different face. Looks like an accident victim after reconstruction. I shake my head at that picture.
"I am not surprised. This photo is Charles Maxwell a few months before you attacked him and left him for dead. Luckily, a passer-by heard him choking to death on his own blood and the paramedics saved his life. The elder Charles Maxwell, better known as Lord Connelly, is a wealthy and powerful man. That fortune and influence bought his son a second chance at life, a life you tried and failed to destroy.
"The second picture, the one you don't recognise? Well, that's Charles today after nearly a year of surgeries to repair the damage that you did. What you did to Charles Maxwell earned you a place in our rehabilitation programme. No, you didn't suffer an accident, wreck or fall. We intervened seconds before you succeeded in murdering a young man. The evidence we collected would have you in prison for life and you were given a choice. Rehabilitation and a new life -- or prison where, for the type of crime you would have been convicted, you would have been passed from reprobate to reprobate as a sexual toy.
Needless to say, you listened to our offer. When we finally got you to realise just how twisted your mind and life had become, you were begging for our help." A video comes up on the wall behind him. I look like shit, sobbing and crying like a fucking faggot. I hear myself commit to the rehab programme and sign any number of papers.
"That's a lie! I never did that! I never, NEVER cry. What the fuck did you do to me?!?"
"No, Damian, that is very much you. We took complete biometric scans to ensure that there could be no mistake. However, a key component of our treatment is to give you something close to experience your victims endured. We used a new medication to prevent temporary memory from being stored, so the last thing you remember was just before we intervened. That medication has now flushed out of your system.
"You are here to understand what you did to Charles, and a host of others, so you can be returned to society no longer a threat to yourself or others. You became an 'Angel of Justice', but an angel in service to a 'justice' so demented and twisted as to be unrecognisable. Here we will remove your ignorance of what your victims suffered, and we will also take away the block that allowed you to become what you are. We will then build you into a productive and, eventually, fulfilled man.
"Sleep now. Tomorrow will start your treatment. Sleep and be ready."
I fade from consciousness less from his suggestion than my own fatigue.
"So which view would you prefer, my Lord?" It is nice to know that the old privilege is still respected at some level. "Rear can show to subjugation; Front can show the realisation of the man's new status, or profile can show a little of both."
"Front. I want to see the face of the man who tried to destroy my son."
"Excellent, sir, excellent. Video of all three will, of course, be presented to you at the end of the treatment."
When I wake, I am no longer in the hospital bed. I feel rested, healthy, awake and aware. I am about to decide the whole things was a fever-dream when I feel the restraints. Wrist. Ankle. My head is immobilised, facing straight forward. I can't even see my hands. I am face down (technically, though, my face is cranked upwards) leaned over something. Bench? Taller. Table? Maybe. I rear up and find other restraints at neck, back and hips. "WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?"
That evil little chuckle is back. That effete little faggot is someplace behind me. I can't move my head but realise that I don't need to. In front of me is a mirror and I can see the little fucker standing behind me and to the right. I frantically scan the rest of the room, but see nothing but the mirror; I am in a.... spotlight? Something. Enough light splashes to show me that fucktard, but the rest is in shadows.
"Damian? I trust that you recall our chat? And Charles Maxwell? Excellent. Please try to keep in mind that everything that is about to happen, Mr Damian Goratto, will happen solely because of choices that you yourself made at the time, and the releases you signed when you joined the programme. Nothing will be done to you that you did not choose to do to others; nothing that we did not explain when you consented."
That smile and that voice are really pissing me off. I go all Hulk in an effort to burst my bonds, screaming and cussing. Even at my most physical, my body barely moves. Whatever my chest is resting on is firmly bolted to the floor and although open below my stomach, the bindings are both thorough and effective.
That fucking chuckle! It's like ice down the spine. "Now that you have that out of your system, I will tell..."
I begin to hurl every filthy curse I can imagine at the placid, smiling face behind me. His expression of interest and amusement doesn't shift, but he does shrug. I see him move forward. FINALLY. He's coming to his senses and is gonna get me out of this thing. Instead, he reaches down and clamps something HARD on my nipple. My howl of pain and rage stops abruptly and the little fucker steps back. He's forced a rubber ball gag into my mouth, stretching my jaws and locking my tongue below it.
No amount of screaming loosens the gag and I finally give up trying.
"Let's start over, shall we? Now that you have that out of your system, I will tell you what you were, what you are and what we will rehabilitate you into. I'll explain some of the things that will happen to you over the next few hours, then few weeks, then the rest of your life."
I switch from looking at that face that I want so desperately to smash and then to myself. Immobile, gagged. In a sudden rush, I take in more of myself. I hadn't been looking earlier. My eyes pop like a cartoon character. I am naked. The table isn't level, but slanted just enough that, in the mirror, I can see my cock and balls hanging between spread-wide thighs. My wrists are secured to the top of the table and each ankle is stretched to the bottom of each rear table-leg. I writhe but nothing moves other than my swaying eggs and I can't make any real sound.
"As I mentioned, you need to understand what you did to Charles Maxwell, to so many young and promising men. It has been researched in close detail. In most cases, you lured them from a bar or similar gathering place to a remote and secure location. In the case of Charles, a deserted warehouse. Since this is a very secluded and oh-so-secure place, let's say that step is complete."
Sudden realisation strikes. To "understand what I did" they plan to force a real man, me, through the righteous treatment those fucking little queers got! The unfairness of that shocks me to the core. I should probably be afraid, but all I have is rage. They were FAGS! They ASKED FOR what I gave them! They DESERVED what I gave them! I am a normal man, not some twisted freak! Nothing comes out past the gag, however and that sinister-calm voice continues.
"Next, you struck them so they could not fight back. We're a little off script there. We don't want you missing out, and frequently your victims were dazed or nearly-unconscious as you beat them. Instead, we have made it so you are just as helpless, just as at the mercy of some powerful and unknown person, but also able to appreciate the nuance."
I glare at him with pure murder, hatred, defiance. FUCK THEM!
A figure steps forward, slowly resolving as he enters the pool of light. The man is huge, a freak of nature. He holds a black satchel.
"Whilst I have your undivided (and unimpaired) attention, let me be more specific about your future. I promised to explain what will happen in the immediate, mid-term and long-term future. Today, for quite a long time today, actually, you begin to appreciate what your victims felt. A lot of that was physical and, oh yes, you'll feel every sensation you gave them over the next few sessions.
"Most importantly, though, as you beat and raped and beat them again, the other thing they felt was the despair knowing that the life they'd been living, enjoying, planning, was at an end. That what you were doing to them might well kill them, but even if the survived they would be scarred and ruined. You beat and raped their futures as much as their body.
"You will never, ever, leave our control for the rest of your life."
All breath leaves my lungs. My face drains of colour and my eyes go wide and white.
"Yes, you feel that? That is just a tiny taste of what they felt. Why only a fraction? Because you might hold a delusion that you could eventually find a way to return to your life. They knew that what you were doing destroyed that chance for them. Don't worry, over the next few weeks you will come to appreciate that same loss, that grief for a future you will never have. You will have a future, though, and become a productive and happy contributor to society. It may be inconceivable to you now, but you will come to love your position in society.
"Aren't I a Chatty Cathy today? Top-Toy, the slave behind you, will take it from here. I will, of course, provide commentary. Oh, and Top-Toy is actually a graduate of the programme you have chosen to join."
I watch in mounting horror as the little faggot pulls forward a chair and sits down to my left, basically even with my head. His voice is a purr, dripping retribution and disgust. "You won't need the gag any longer." That fucking sinister chuckle, "although I promise that you'll soon wish you had it. I am normally quite professional about these things," he leans close to my ear, "but this one I am so going to enjoy."
He extracts the gag and I feel a jab in my thigh and can see Top-Toy moving away with a syringe. I try to ask a question but the gag's effects make it hard to find my voice.
"Oh, don't worry about that. Top-Toy just gave you a special cocktail we use. It heightens sensation but retards your ability to pass out. For you to move past the crippled state you are currently in and start your rehabilitation, you will need to really understand what your victims felt."
On that last word, something mammoth crashes into my arse-cheeks. I see Top-Toy draw back a large, black board pierced with holes. The huge paddle crashes down again before the screaming even starts. My screaming, I belatedly realise as the pain and humiliation mount. To be spanked is always humiliation; that's half the point. To know that it is simply the start is nearly unbearable. Pain upon pain upon PAIN! I am not even aware that he has stopped until I see the giant set the paddle aside; I sob with relief.
"One of the things you did to, let me see? James Vickers was especially cruel. He was an art student. You crushed his hands."
I start to scream long before the giant's rubber truncheon hits my smallest finger. He waits until I stop, or at least subside to blubbering sobs, before repeating it with each finger in turn. I am begging and pleading before he even finishes with my right hand. He then goes to the other hand and repeats the process, slowly and deliberately making sure that I have lots of time to anticipate and savour the pain.
"Was that fun for you, Damian?" My eyes and nose run with tears and snot and I can barely see myself in the mirror. I would hang my head if I could move it. "Did your most precious passion, to paint and draw, die before your eyes as each finger felt the mallet? Sadly, we decided not to maim you the way you did the young Mr Vickers. Top-Toy is extremely skilled. You got something similar to the pain James felt -- not completely since the agony broken bones cannot be replicated -- but I think you get the idea.
"You also beat all them in the..."
"NO! Please! I'll give you anything. I'll do ANYTHING! PLEASE! Please, oh God, please STOP!"
"Actually, that is precisely what one of your victims told us that he screamed and begged as you destroyed him. I certainly think you deserve the same tender mercy you gave him."
The words are not out of his mouth before I feel a crushing blow to my gut. I try to scream, but the blow to my solar plexus renders me mute. Blow after blow after blow. My gut, my back, my sides. I cannot specify how long it goes on, where I am struck or how hard, but I can answer qualitatively: Forever. Everywhere. Harder than I ever imagined.
When the beating stops, I have run out of tears. My mouth is gaping in a scream so intense that I can't breathe in without starting immediately. I see in the mirror a shiny wetness below me; I pissed myself at some point. My traitorous mind pops up the thought, 'How I laughed when the faggots pissed themselves. The rush! The power!' I weep to the depths of my being.
Once I catch my breath, that horrid and unbearable voice resumes.
"But let's not forget your favourite targets."
My eyes go saucer-wide as I realise what is about to happen. With every faggot, every time, I paid special attention to their... Top-Toy strikes just as I exhaled fully, so there is no scream to produce. Something thin and wicked slashes into my nuts, then my cockhead. I'm afraid to look because I think I've been castrated, but I am unable to look away as the mirror shows the blows flicking up (a cane? A reed? A switch?) over and over and over.
I taste the vomit before it begins to spew out before me. That horrific inner voice resumes, 'Oh, and when they started to puke! The absolute best! I made all of them wallow in it, and many eat it back. Nothing like that power rush!' The wail ripped from my throat is not just pain, but despair and remorse. Spasm after spasm empties my guts. The soft diet means that it drips down me. Suddenly the torture stops. Ragged and shuddering gasps of breath are all I can manage.
"What did you do then, Damian? After you'd made them piss themselves, begging for mercy or death, after they puked from the pain, what did you do, Damian? Did you walk away, leaving them broken of body? Tell me Damian, what did you do next?"
"No. No. Not that. No. Oh God let me die! Not that. Let me DIE!"
"Very good, Damian! The exact words some many of your victims screamed, those who could still scream. Top-Toy, are you prepared?"
I look in the mirror over my shoulder. The massive man stands like a relatively-bored employee proceeding with a necessary but not-really-interesting chore. I watch him stroking himself. The blunt and throbbing pole is a match for my own. Average length but thicker than the other guys in the locker room, soft or hard. And that is definitely hard. And I realise, I had never once used lube. My scream erupts and does not stop until I literally pass out from lack of oxygen. The violation I expect is escaped... or just delayed?
This is undeniably dark and disturbing, and I'm not sure (even as the author) that I like it. Let me know if this story should continue.