Please see original story for warnings and copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights reserved. Included dominant/submissive and occasionally coercive sex between men. Go away if any of that is against your local rules. Practice safer sex than my characters. Write if you like but I will write you into the nasty bits of a future story if you flame me. Donate to Nifty TODAY at http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html
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 cancelled... or just delayed?
***** Turntable Rehabilitation Services - Chapter 2: Taking & Giving By Bear Pup
M/M, M/M/M; torture; piss
"I'm sorry you have to leave, Lord Connelly. We were just about to revive him and continue."
"Unavoidable, I'm afraid. I'm disappointed, but..."
"If I may, sir, the unique nature of this man's perversion might make a, ahem, change in schedule appropriate. Ignorance of what is next, especially if that suspense is a matter of several days, might make the lesson much more effective. We've discussed such a protocol internally, but this person is a nearly-ideal subject and since you have to leave... "
"An excellent suggestion. Yes. Quite."
"Simply call and let us know the next convenient time for your Lordship. We will ensure that any other interventions are moved to accommodate you."
"Yes... Quite... I will call later today and set an appointment."
"In your own time, sir, without urgency. Part of the, um, process will be to determine how such a span of uncertain dread enhances or detracts from the speed of the overall rehabilitation. We will, of course, end up at the same place, but this could give us a chance to reduce the overall time to market. Good day, Milord."
I awake in the blinding-white again. Everything hurts. My hands are in agony and I feel as if molten lead has been dripped upon my nuts. Each breath hurts. Turning my head spins me back into an oblivion of pain.
On my second (third?) rise to consciousness, I realise that the blinding-white surrounding is the hospital bed. I weep with relief. It really was some sort of accident or explosion. What I... what I remember was a fever dream or drug-induced hallucination. A wash of solace rushes through me...
...and turns to ice in my veins. I am again shackled to the bed. I roll my eyes (even that hurts!) and see my swollen, cramped hands bound in the wide wrist-restraints attached to the bedrail.
I jump and scream with the pain when my leg is shaken. Ian is here. Through the pain, an old friend blazes through. I could always count on my eternal burning rage to allow me to push through anything; any setback, any disappointment, any pain. RAGE! A thousand images flashed before me of what I would do to Ian when he frees me. Oh, and that fucking little effete and sinister faggot who orchestrated this? The things I will do.
Ian uses a small contraption to free my left hand. I try to swing as the fucker but the wooziness robs the punch of strength or accuracy. The happy and helpful expression on his face never changes. He grabs my hand and uses its own momentum to propel it toward my other arm. I sharp SNAP and it is locked next to my right.
He pulls a length of metal cord with large discs on each end. Ian moved down and I can feel the SNAP as each is attached to an ankle-restraint. The cord is barely the width of the bed. Ian does something else and my legs are free, shackled together. I try to kick. Without flicker of expression, Ian brings his open palm down for a sharp smack. My balls and cock explode in agony and I scream. When my vision clears, my arms are no longer locked to the bedrail; instead, they are locked to each other, wrist to wrist, both palms forward. A man handcuffed palms-together has quite a lot of reach and leverage. In this position, have neither.
Ian pulls me to a sitting positon and steadies me whilst my nausea and dizziness pass. The pain in my nuts is unbearable, but sitting up adds a rich chorus of screaming complaints from the rest of my tortured body. Ian walks me, shuffling, to the W/C and sits me on the commode. I look at this freak, murder in my eyes, but my body needs what is on offer. I void myself. Even that act sends waves of sickening pain through my gut. When he has decided that I am through, he compounds the humiliation by rolling me forwards and slowly, as if I was an infant, to clean my ass. As his paper-swathed hand touches me there, the end of the previous session rushes back. Everything, every pain, humiliation, outrage, loathing and abuse floods my mind in the final stressor.
Leaned forward and being wiped by a guy, I begin to sick-up a mass of bile onto the tile floor. Pain rips through my guts, my stomach, my chest. That triggers more memories -- what sparked my puking earlier: the indescribable pain in my nuts as the reed struck again and again and again; what I did to those disgusting faggots who vomited when I beat them). Wave after wave tries to expel something that my body does not even contain. I dry heave myself into exhaustion, vaguely aware that Ian has cleaned my face and chest as he did my ass before returning me to the bed.
I sleep, fitfully. My dreams are a parade of horrors. In one, I feel every blow that I deliver to a fucking faggot in an alleyway. In another, the diseased abominations from one of my 'bait bars' take turns using me. In all of them, I am weak, ineffectual, helpless. I wake leaking tears. To my horror, I am also leaking pre; the top-sheet is sticking to my rampant cock. To be fair, I had edged myself for a couple days before my interrupted hunting session, but to 'rise' to those dreams? I was confused and scared.
It was almost a relief when The Fucking Chuckle (my new name for the sinister little faggot who whispered into my soul as Top-Toy broke my body) arrived.
"Yes, Damian, it all happened. It all was real. You felt what your victims felt, or at least a pale and non-destructive version. The pain you have now is a mere shadow of what they endured for weeks in hospital, at least those who survived. But you did so very much more."
I felt more than heard myself whimper.
"Yes, you have guessed correctly; you have so much more to experience."
I screamed and screamed, thrashing against my bonds. It hurt me so bad, but nothing like the emotional anguish of what they had done and yet planned to do to and with me. I eventually ran out of everything but tears.
"One of the problems that we have here, Damian, is that we don't really want to destroy your body. That would completely defeat the purpose of your future life and value. How, we asked, do we inflict the same level of trauma without the damage? And we answered ourselves, maybe Damian just needs time to reflect. Reflect on what he did to others. What if felt like to be done to him. What it will feel like when we do all the rest to you. Sleep well, Damian."
I sobbed and begged and pleaded and screamed. Eventually, I fade into unconsciousness.
I awake next in less agony, but the pain is there. Ian takes care to cuff me in a way that leaves me with few options as he guides me to the commode. The humiliating and emasculating process repeated. He feeds me, lets me drink, the injects something that sends me to sleepy-land.
I next wake far more alert, and far more pissed than ever. What they have done to me WILL end. It WILL be avenged. It WILL be over and I will go back to delivering the righteous retribution that those fucking little half-males need and want. I need to take a leak and have the inevitable piss-hard, but a plan forms.
Ian comes and cuffs me as before. I allow him to guide me to the commode. As I sit, however, I launch upwards into his solar plexus, hoping to disable this fucking deaf faggot quickly and effectively. My next realisation is that the sink and commode look very strange upside down. I have no idea how, but Ian has turned my thrust into my doom. My head aches and my arms are on fire. Ian drags me back to the bed and locks me in. He sprays something in my face and it's like a light switch being...
I come awake confused and anxious. I know that I fucked up, but am not sure the consequences. I look up and see Ian smiling at me. Oh, good, I think. I desperately need a piss. I needed one earlier, but now I need one soooooo bad. I wait for Ian to start the process of unhooking me. He just smiles widely and moves back a bit.
Five more guys move forward, lining the side of the bed. Ian smiles even more as I look at the new dudes. Top Toy, the guy who tortured me in the last session was there and I look quickly to the next. He is shaved, like, completely shaved, even the eyebrows. His Latino skin is slick with oil and his dark eyes lock to mine. Next on my left is another monster of a man, this one hairier than a lumberjack with massive paws where his hands would be.
To my right, at my face, is Ian. He smiles with the most wicked grin I've ever seen, other than Fucking Chuckle Man. Next is a small guy, Asian, like a martial arts guy from a movie. All whipcord muscles and grave expression. Last is another black man, smaller than Top Toy but ripped like no human I'd ever seen. Lithe and lean, with every tendon and muscle in sharp relief.
I look from the two I'd seen before, Ian and Top Toy, unsure which worries me more. It is then that I heard That Fucking Voice, sinister and smug.
"You're wondering, Damian, what we're going to do to you. The answer is simple. Nothing at all." He chuckles, that insufferable and terrifying sound rips my heart as I look wildly about me.
Ian reaches down. My head is unbound and I find that my chest and legs are also free. Only my wrists and ankles are locked. Ian slowly pulls down the sheet and tucks it between my legs. He then inches the gown up until my piss-hard dick is not just visible, but framed by the sheet and gown. He tucks the gown beneath my rick-hard dick, eliciting a gasp when he moves past the head, then tucks the sheet tight against my taint.
I brace for the pain, for the cruelty. But I never did anything like this to the faggots that I'd given what they wanted, needed and deserved. This is new, strange, sick. They simply look at me with various expressions of smug enjoyment, interest or loathing. I keep wondering what is next as my need to piss increases.
I try to move in a way that will reduce the pressure, but every movement simply makes it worse. With a suddenness that startled me, an image appears on the ceiling above me. A well-built man is strapped to a gurney, his rampant dick well on display. I realise it is me in the picture and look away. To the left is the same scene, but from Ian's perspective. The right is Top Toy's viewpoint. The giant screen I can see between my feet is like a reflection, a view up my body with my massive and desperate dick on full display.
I look back to the ceiling, the least-disturbing of the options. I watch as my own dick pulses and twitches. Without warning, I start to hear faint sounds that get gradually louder. First is the drip of a faucet. Next is the rush of a mountain stream. A waterfall. A man, moaning in ecstasy. The crashing surf. Rain on a tin roof. A man begging for more, more of what he never said. The gush of a fountain. The splash of a man (boy?) pissing in a pool.
It suddenly strikes me. I am desperate for a piss and every sound is of something where water flows. My eyes shoot wide, but I know that I can win. No matter what, I can control this.
A rainforest, runoff dripping from the leaves as birds chirp mournfully. A man moaning in need. A different waterfall, this one a constant stream of sound. The slow and inevitable drip... drip... drip of a leaking tap. A man crying, begging to be allowed to cum. Surf against rocks. Water over rocks. A pulsing fountain. A man, sighing as he pisses in a bowl.
I was writhing in agony now. I could see the bulge of my bladder in the projections. No position makes it better. The shift in sound continues, but a new torment arrives.
Each of the six men produces something that shimmers and shifts, transparent but visible. I feel them suddenly on my dick, balls and nipples and I groan. It is like feathers, but stiffer; like brushes but more ethereal; like a butterfly's touch but more insistent. I look at the various screens and scream. What they are tormenting me with show nowhere, other than the movement of their hands.
I am probably harder than I've ever been. My bladder screams in desperation; my dick screams in pleasure; my mind and voice cry out continually, torn in the conflict. I am transfixed with the vision above me, a bound man writhing and humping and crying out, to no avail.
It is then that the voices come up. The waterfalls and rain and surf and moans and faucets and drips and cries -- they become the backdrop. Each of the men alongside the bed, excepting the deaf-mute Ian who smiles and smiles and looks into my eyes, murmurs.
"Piss."
"Stallion."
"Shoot."
"Cum."
"Let go."
"Do it."
"Piss!"
"You can do it."
"Stud."
"You need it."
"You are dying for it."
"Release."
"Like a race horse."
I watch that helpless man on the ceiling twist and writhe, face contorted in need. He isn't me. He is a fucking faggot. He is the type of guy I "helped" and delivered what he, deep in his soul, wanted more than anything. When he starts to pant and gasp, I rejoice. When he starts to beg and plead, I delight. When he starts to cry and squirm, I feel fulfilled.
Then the best thing ever happens. That faggot on the ceiling loses control and starts to convulse. His piss jets out, soaking his skimpy hospital gown. It pours out and soaks the bunched sheets below his crotch. I laugh in derision with the studs around this pathetic little faggot. They stand, caressing themselves whilst titillating the useless faggot between them with near-invisible tools.
I watch the guy on the ceiling scream. Suddenly, horribly, unbelievably, I am that guy! I lay in the warm wetness of my own piss. I writhe in the shame of losing control. I wallow in the chuckles and laughter of the men on either side.
I long to die. To vanish. To dissolve in shame and horror. But no.
I finish pissing all over the bed and myself and the men redouble their efforts. This time with commentary.
"Oh, dear, look at the little faggot that loves feeling the piss he just released!"
"Wow, look at how he wallows in it and still is so hard you could drive nails with his, what would you call that? Clit? Dick?"
"Every time he moves, he seems to beg for more."
"Oh my goodness, How hard he is after all that. I think he loved it!"
"Look how he's leaking."
"Look how much he likes it."
The relentless teasing, probing, prodding, touching, tracing. All of it sending me mad. All of it mocking me. All of it killing me, enticing me, stimulating me, exciting me. I could no more hold back than I could grow another arm.
I explode cum across the sodden sheets, the piss-soaked gown, my face and hair, my cock and balls. Ian keeps directing my erupting cock back and forth to paint every part of me. I scream in release, I'll admit it, I scream in ecstasy and fulfilment and satisfaction. Fuck the world. Fuck the preconceptions. Fuck the people who never felt this! I am in heaven and long to give it to others. It is then that I crash back to myself. I weep and cry when I realised that guys have forced me to piss myself; that amazingly hot and lusty guys have brought me to the greatest orgasm of my life; that nothing I've ever believed was... real?
I wasn't sure whether I wanted to know what happened to Damian, but now I think he needs a lot more rehabilitation. Let me know your thoughts. The suggestions and "Kink Lists" of readers have seriously changed the course of several stories. Here are the stories I am currently working on:
Turntable Rehab (this one): 2 chapters, more coming, www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/authoritarian/turntable-rehabilitation-services Canvas Hell: 10 chapters, more coming, .../camping/canvas-hell/ Karl & Greg: 12 chapters, more coming, .../incest/karl-and-greg/ The Heathens: 2 chapters, more coming, .../historical/the-heathens/ Beaux Thibodaux: 2 chapters, LOTS more coming, .../adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/ Mud Lark Holler: 1 chapter, more coming, .../rural/mud-lark-holler Off the Magic Carpet: 1 chapter, not sure yet, .../military/off-the-magic-carpet Temple Street: 5 chapters (on hiatus), .../authoritarian/temple-street/ Virtual Master: 1 story (not a series), .../authoritarian/virtual-master