Please see original story () for warnings and copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights reserved. Included dominant/submissive, BDSM 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
As a final measure of subjugation, the nigger reaches over to the tray left by Top Toy and pulls a blunted-spearhead-shaped thing. It is black and rubbery with a narrow tip and flared girth, narrowing again to a tiny shaft atop a large, round base. I scream anew as he plunges it into my ravaged ass. The pain is intense, but more emasculating is the fact that the nigger's semen is now inescapably trapped in my bowels, to soak into every part of me and penetrate my entire body with his conquering seed.
I feel a stirring at the base of my neck, without the pain but with the same sensation as the earlier incapacitation as I ran to the elevator. I puzzle as I hear, "Good night, Pee-Pee Boy. Dream of this and nothing else. Relive it, Pee-Pee Boy, it is the first of many such experiences. And you will come to crave it above all else." Blackness falls during that and the world dissolves.
***** Turntable Rehabilitation Services - Chapter 5: Lunch with Floor Show By Bear Pup
M/M/M+; piss; BDSM; anal stim; public humiliation
And I do. I dream and dream. Being taken by that black stud, his cum washing through me. Being taken by that Asian snake and feeling it slither inside me. That shaved faggot taking me again and again and again. That is the dream. The nightmare is that each time, their assault on me drives my own screaming and breathless orgasm, like nothing I'd ever felt before.
I awake to see that fucking ceiling faggot naked and hard, coated in his own wet-dream cum. I rage at my bonds, awaiting the appearance of Ian. I am still utterly cowed by the way my attempts to better him came out, but dreams of freedom and retribution are never far from my mind.
I have nothing to look at but the disgusting ceiling fag as his own cum liquefies and drips. Memory of the Voice keeps intruding, mocking me and pounding against the walls of my self-knowledge and resolve. "It's a mirror." It's NOT! "That guy is you." Impossible! "His body is your body." I could NEVER have done what he did! "His reactions are your reactions." My body and my mind are straight, righteous, healthy and normal. I could never, never have responded the way that fucking queer did. "His orgasms are yours." The dripping wetness on my abs aside, I never orgasmed, never. Not possible. "And you know it." I'm weeping and attacking the restraints when Ian finally arrives.
He first wipes away the mess, clinically and disinterestedly. He waits until I meet his eyes and he sees my acquiescence before releasing my wrists and locking them to one another. He takes me again to the squat-toilet, but does not sit me. He turns me and I bend at his insistence, utterly bemused. I cry out when he quickly pulls the forgotten and horrifying butt-plug from my ass.
I am again weeping when he sits me in that emasculating position and I release the night's (?) piss and weep as I realise that I am not dripping out nigger sperm; his diseased little swimmers really did soak into me. Ian exaggeratedly wipes me the way one would a particularly slow-witted child. I feel like a toddler and hate it. Suddenly, something smaller and more-comfortable than the butt plug rams home and somehow locks in place. I gasp, but there is no real pain. My shock is ignored.
Ian escorts me out the door, but turns me in a different direction. About a third of the way down the hall, that fucking sinister queer meets us.
"Well, it's time to get you into a routine, Pee-Pee Boy." I silently rage at the infernal name. "In the mornings, you'll work to regain and improve your physical fitness. Each afternoon, you will be tutored in a variety of subjects."
"FUCK THAT and fuck you!"
An excruciating stab of pain courses through me, originating at the base of my skull, and I feel Ian supporting me.
The man sighs deeply. "I am heartily sick of your outbursts, Pee-Pee Boy. They are no longer appropriate and will not be tolerated. You need to be exercised and you need to be taught. You will be. Ian, please take Pee-Pee Boy to the gym." He shakes his head and walks away. Ian guides me a bit further, again opening the formidable door by inserting his hand in a slot.
I walk in and see a truly impressive gym with the latest equipment. Digital screens sprout from every device. All of the uniformed trainers are fit, but some look more like ripped geeks than athletes. I realise suddenly that every man in the place except for the trainers is naked, and most are hard. I drop my eyes in disgust and shame.
A trainer comes over and signs to Ian that he takes responsibility(?) duty(?) ownership(?) of/for me. Ian leaves and the trainer and I look at each other. He is about my size, fractionally shorter but broader. The look in his eyes is steely and firm. I wonder if he is one of those who read of me and had "extraordinarily-intense reactions" and bid to take me. The thought is... daunting, damning and disgusting at once.
He sits me on a weight bench and I gasp aloud. Whatever Ian had replaced the butt plug with is certainly noticeable when seated! It sends a jolt of pleasu... PAIN through my ass. I fight against the idea that it is making me hard. I am hard from, well, from... I looked frantically at the uber-masculine room filled with hot, sweaty guys, half of the naked and hard and realise nothing in here should make me hard. I feel tears well at my eyes.
"Today," the trainer intones, his voice relatively deep and forbidding, "we'll find out where you are and what we need to work on."
We start with leg presses and he frowns. I've been in a bed for fuck knows how long, so I give myself a break. Same with other leg-related exercises. My arms, though, and my chest are as impressive as ever. I lift and push myself to the limits. By the end, I am exhausted.
The trainer looks at the results and sighs, resigned. "At least your deltoids and pectorals are not a complete waste, Pee-Pee Boy. Everything else, well, we'll do what we can." He shakes his head and I am outraged, but have no breath to really respond. "Runner!"
A lean, powerful and naked young man appears. "Take Pee-Pee Boy to lunch, please. His code is 73764 if he need a lesson." The youth glows in anticipation that he might deliver the kind of pain I'd experience before and I resolve to ignore any provocation.
But there is none. 'Runner' escorts me to another door that leads into a mess hall or cafeteria. He leads me to a table near the centre where two other men are sitting. I look around. Men and women in all sorts of dress surround me, most in some sort of uniform. The table is clear with a steel tube as an edge, and the seats are also of bent and sinuous steel. I can see that my two companions are as naked as I am, and no more comfortable in the hall filled with clothed people of both sexes.
Fuck it! I've got this. I've never been shy about my body and am not about to start now! I sit and gasp loudly. The cold steel is one thing, but the whatever in my ass plunges and wriggles at a strange angle. Quickly, three other men are escorted to the table. One has his back to me briefly; what sticking out there looks like pacifier more than anything else. I take a quick mental inventory around the table.
To my right is a big, beefy, bruiser type. He's blond and looks like he probably grew to his huge size on a farm in Iowa or some shit. He never once looks at me or the others. Interesting.
To his right is a Mexican. He is, like so many lower races, mad at the word. I can see that he has firm and dangerous biceps, but his real asset is the chorizo dangling off the seat. He glares, daring anyone to say a word.
To his right is a pale and violently-red-headed guy. He is one that I would never dare cross. I don't know why, but the anger, cruelty, and rage shine through. He is the type who might not win a bar fight, but by fuck he'll never lose one.
To his right is a black giant. Not like the nigger who raped me, but big. His abs are formidable, but his thighs are stunning. His glowering expression would stun even the most-daring of jungle beasts. Obviously inferior to real people, but dangerous nonetheless.
Lastly, to his right and my left, is a small and scrappy man. He is older, perhaps 26? 28? and his musculature is coated in a thin layer of fat. I know in an instant that he is a forceful, vicious and masculine stud. He is what all of the fags that I help really dream of (other than me), a violent and brutal abuser looking for his next victim. I like him.
A pair of waiters bring our lunches. Each is unique. Mine is a chicken-loaded pasta with something lemony. Going clockwise, Scrappy has a huge salad with a small amount of grilled chicken. Nigger has what looks to be a slab of thick, cheesy lasagne. Red has cottage cheese and salmon and looks at it with revulsion. Wetback had a medley of celery, carrots and other veggies with a dipping sauce. Finally, Bruiser has what looks to be a burrito stuffed with beef and beans.
We all dive in, obviously ravenous. I recognise two of the guys, Nigger and Red, from the gym. The other are strangers. Wetback keeps looking around like I do, but the others just pretended they are alone.
The guy to my left finishes first. "So, you guys signed up for this, huh?"
Mexican, Bruiser and Nigger drop their heads. Scrappy sneers. "Well, at least we have three, you know, actual men at the table." He laughs a raucous and cruel laugh.
Without warning, that fucking Sinister Voice rises behind him. "Yes. You're right. Tell them your name, please."
The scrappy guy pales and shrinks, but then leaps up, spinning to growl at the prissy fucker.
"Tell them your NAME! Do it NOW!"
He starts twice with a tiny voice, then screams in defiance. "I am Da..."
His wrists suddenly lurch. Left one to the metal edge of the table and right to the back of the chair he's been sitting on. "I am Dan..."
His back arches and he moans. Through the clear table-top, all of us can clearly see his rampant cock. It isn't large or impressive, but it is not to be ignored. It begins to throb and leak precum.
"NO! I am..."
Scrappy began to writhe and squirm. His hips begin to thrust. We can see the torment and desperation on his face.
"No, stop! Please! I am Dani... OH MY GOD!"
I don't know how I know, but I suddenly realise that Scrappy, like me, has something in his ass. Unlike mine, though, I can hear it whine or buzz as it does something torturous up in there, making him crazy. As I think that, I feel the thing in my own ass move, hard, insistent and on-target. I jump and see four of the other five with the same reaction and same look of shock.
"Oh God! Oh God! Oh FUCK! No. No, no, NO! I am Da... AGGHH!"
Suddenly, the five of us (excluding Scrappy) are looking at each other in horror. What they are doing to him, they can do to us.
"No! No! NO! I am... I am... I, I, I am... OH FUCK! I am Cum-Breath! Oh, fuck, please! Stop! Stop! I am Cum Breath! I am Cum Breath!"
It is too late. Scrappy / Cum Breath explodes. His cum largely coats the floor, but at least one long, hot streamer lands on my leg; he'd been turned in my direction. As his orgasm subsides, he is weeping openly and the rest of us notice that the room has exploded in applause and derision. Everyone, every single person, had turned to watch Scrappy scream that his name is Cum Breath. As the laughter dies away, the voice returns. The cuffs release and he slumps to the floor in humiliation, a broken man.
"And what do you do now, Cum Breath?"
The formidable stud of a man looks in torment at the sinister queer, murderous hatred in his eyes. But fear as well. Over everything, though, he exudes a desperate plea to avoid... whatever it is.
"Shall we try again? Look at the others at your table, tell them your name, and then show them what comes with it... Or do you want to do another floor show?"
Horrified terror consumes the man kneeling on the floor next to me. He takes a long, shuddering, broken breath and looks at each of us, fleetingly, desperately trying to avoid eye contact. "I, I, I am c-c-Cum Breath." He sobs once then lowers his face to the floor and begins to lick up his own mess. We watch in mesmerised horror as he finished the floor and moves to my foot and leg, sucking and licking every single drop of his own load from my hairy calf.
"Excellent! Have a seat Cum Breath."
Each the rest of us sit in dread. Eyes on the wreckage that was Cum Breath and unable to look at anyone else. Each of us thinking, 'That could be me.'
The Voice moves. Circling the table. Whenever he approaches or pauses behind one of us, the blood drains from another face; when he moves on, the relief is palpable.
He stops behind the giant black man and says, "Who are you. Tell us and show us."
I've seen movies from the good old days when the lower races could be accurately portrayed. This nigger gets that white-eyed look of terror straight from old films. His eyes dart about, seeking an escape that simply does not exist.
"Or...?" Every eye at the table returns to the broken and weeping Cum Breath.
"I am. Oh GOD! I am... Titty Bitch." He is crying but brings each hand to his huge, prominent nipples and begins to pinch and pull. The Lead Queer moves on. He stops behind the redhead who freezes as if petrified. I see the tear-drenched Titty Bitch lower his hands, but the Sinister Voice cracks like a whip. "Do you need a... reminder, Titty Bitch?" The tables behind him in earshot erupt in whoops of laughter (from the guys) and disgusted muttering (from the gals).
Red, one of the most dangerous-looking men I'd ever seen, remains stock still like a rabbit thinking that immobility will somehow save it from the rattlesnake. The man behind him leans forward, his voice a highly-audible purr.
"And you, big boy?"
Red doesn't hesitate. He knows that he has no choice and no chance. His eyes fixed in horror at Com Breath, he intones, "My name is Dickhead!" He holds his hard shaft with one hand, pulling back his ample foreskin. His other hand, palm flat, begins to rub in rough, slow, intense circles over his glans. Being uncut myself, I cringe at the sensations that must produce. He doesn't stop, though, when the queer moves on. The guys in our lunch audience guffaw and cheer.
He moves around the entire table again, stalking like a cat, and I find myself trembling in terror. He stops, instead, behind the man to my right, the big-boned blond farm-boy. Everyone except him got a jolt in the ass during Cum Breath's torment and... I wonder.
"And you, boy?"
The huge blond is quaking in despair, and looks at the queer with the most pitiful countenance I've ever seen. No fag I ever taught had looked like that. His very soul begs... and is denied.
He stands, kneels with his ass toward us and folds himself forward. Sobbing, he pulls apart his ass-cheeks and I gasp. The pucker is painted a Mercurochrome-bright red. Around that is a ring of shocking-pink lipstick, making him look like he has a whore's mouth instead of a bunghole. He sobs out, "I, I am, am, I am AVAILABLE!" Available holds the pose as the queer circles the table and relishes the raucous derision of the audience.
He leans forward to the Mexican's ear and whispers. The look of disgust, horror and loathing on his face makes the wetback look almost human. Sinister Voice steps back and Wetback stands, shaking.
The queer then comes to me and whispers in my ear, "You will stand and shout your name, loud and clear so everyone can hear..." I shake my head and he replies. "Oh, you will. The question is, will you do it before or after I force you to shoot in front of these men and women... again... and again... and again?" I sob and nod my head. "Then you will then spray your piss all over your chest and sigh loudly in relief and release. Do you understand me?" I nod again, unable to hold the tears.
I stand and the Mexican stands in front of me, obviously as undone as I. I throw back my head and... nothing. I try again and again and again and... nothing. With a ferocity I never imagined, my ass is abruptly on fire with lust as whatever-it-is begins to tease and torment my secret places.
"I am. No! NO! Yes, OH GOD! I am, I am PEE-PEE BOY!" I scream out and watch the hall go quiet then erupt in derisive mirth. I aim my piss upwards, coating my chest as it wracks and writhes with my sobs.
The wetback cries out twice then screams, "And I am Piss Whore!" He begins liking and sucking my piss from my body, even as my bladder delivers more and more and more.
The audience erupts in applause. Even as my stream continues, the humiliation of this moment exceeds anything I'd ever experienced. Worse, the agile and forceful tongue of the Mexican on my chest, and especially my nips, is maddening me with lust and need.
I finally finish and stand there, allowing the wetback stud to slurp and lick as much of me as he want. He sobs loudly before cleaning my cock and again before doing my balls. Humiliation upon horror, I am completely erect throughout and throbbing, leaking dogwater, by the time he cleans my legs.
The lunchroom has emptied. The six of us are broken and crushed, longing for the privacy of our rooms. Denied. A handler comes to escort each of us, reeking and weeping, to our next class. I am done. I have nothing left. I am Pee-Pee Boy, Damian is defeated for this battle but undaunted. I walk meekly behind the minder to a classroom, and don't object as he secures my left wrist to the desk. Every humiliation and outrage at lunch flashes before me. As a woman comes in and announces that she will teach us, I allow my mind to slip away. But who slips? Damian and Pee-Pee Boy still struggle to be... me.
So, Rob- and Dav-, was that a good start on Pee-Pee Boy's humiliation? I invite everyone's thoughts, positive and negative, on the best way to rehabilitee Pee-Pee Boy.