The Blob Chapter 3: Into the Managerie Evan Andrews 2021
This set of stories is a change from what I've written before in that it is not a fan fiction. To be honest, it's based off a fantasy I concocted back in high school, updated as the passage of time required.
The story depicts males in sci-fi sexual situations with other males, oh, and an alien. If this offends you, if you are underage, or if reading such is illegal where you are please stop reading now. Thank you.
If you enjoy this story, or even if you hate it, please contribute to keeping Nifty going at http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html
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When Gary woke, he was lying on his back on a "bed". The bed was not really a piece of furniture; rather, it was a shelf, pressed out of the material of the left-hard wall (looking out) and the floor. Prefab prison, Gary thought, how Gitmo. Three of the walls (left, right, and forward) were made of some clear material he wasn't familiar with, while the back wall was opaque. Languidly, Gary reached up and stroked the wall above his head. The feel alone told him that there was no way he would be getting through any of them on his own. Yeah this was definitely a cell, and with the clear walls it was a cell that afforded him no privacy and in which there could be nothing done secretly. This might not have been so disturbing if he hadn't been jaybird naked.
(Gary was deeply curious about that. Why couldn't his abductors have left him with a pair of shorts, of briefs, or even a fucking jock-strap? Why keep him naked?)
The ceiling glowed an opalescent pearl, illuminating every inch of the cell. Gary let the strength run back into his limbs before trying to sit up. His head reeled from the effort, but only for a second. Whatever drugs his keepers had dosed him with seemed to be working their way out of his system. He blinked a time or two and then looked to the right. He was in the second cell of a sort of prison complex. The first cell, the one to his right, held similarly naked young man with an athletic body, shoulder-length dark hair, and a close-trimmed beard and mustache. Or at least they had been trim. From the degree of the beard's scragginess, Gary figured this guy must have been here for a few days, maybe as much as a week. The guy sat on his bed with his legs pulled up against his chest. If the dark head had been bent down, Gary would have said he was in the fetal position. As it was though, he simply looked like a study for another "The Thinker". Oddly, though, he was oblivious to Gary, even as the blond sat up fully and leaned back against the wall of his cell.
Twisting round, Gary looked to the cell on his left side. Greg (How did he know that name?) had been dumped onto his back on the bed there just as Gary had, and he still lay there, insensible. Gary glanced up and down the athlete's body and ended staring at his tumescent cock. For a second, memories (if they were memories and not fantasies his brain had cooked up under the drugs) of Greg's ordeal, of his impressive cock being sucked into the blob's luminous flesh, flooded Gary's mind. For reasons he couldn't understand, his cock plumped out sympathetically, just enough to disconcert the straight Midwest boy.
"The fuck?" Gary thought, "Why should that memory turn me on?"
Maybe the memory of his own violation was still fresh in his mind. But no. It hadn't really been a violation. That was the wrong word. He had been forced, true, but what the blob had given him had been pleasure, a pleasure more intense that he had ever known or imagined. Brain and body were definitely on different pages, but maybe that was why the half-woody.
Beyond Greg's sprawled nudity, Gary could make out three more cells, but if there were six cells here, what...?
Gary stared out the front of the cell and saw, across a ten-foot separation, six more cells just like his all in a row. A quick glance upwards showed him a second level with six more cells, which meant six more should be sitting on top of his row. In the cell catty-cornered to his right a shorter guy like him, but dark-haired and with a wrestler's build, stood leaning against the front wall. His arms over his head braced him up as he stared at the blond newcomer. When he saw that Gary had noticed him, werestler boy managed a grin. Catty-cornered to the left, another guy, shaggy-haired and at a guess younger than him by a year or two, sat fetal-balled up on his own bed.
It was the guy directly across from him, however, that gave Gary pause. Tall and blond, with a swimmer's build (not an Olympic swimmer's body, but one meant to cut through water as if it were born to the task), the guy looked to be a year or two older than Gary. He was naked, of course, but what alarmed Gary more was the fact that the guy was strapped belly down on some sort of freestanding bench. Gary didn't have to wonder about why this guy was restrained, though. One look at the anger burning in the other's eyes told him this guy was ready to lash out at the first person who got within his range -- if only he could.
"What're you staring at, Goldenrod?" the restrained blond demanded.
"Uh..."
"What?! You don't like what you see? Well, fucking get used to it. If you stand up to the keepers, this is your punishment."
"Uh... Who are they?"
"Government men," wrestler guy said with the zeal of a dyed-in-the-wool conspiracy nut. "I saw some insignia on the chamber guards' uniforms while they were wheeling me to the exam room after... well, you know. But I didn't recognize it. Must be some black ops thing that they're hiding from the public."
"Mark's got it all figured out," swimmer blond said, "What's your name, Fresh Meat? I'm Paul, and that's Matt in the next cell along."
"Uh, hi. I'm Gary."
"Gary. Where you from, Gary?"
"Ohio, but I go to ESU. You?"
"Indiana," Paul said, "Just like Matt. Mark's..."
"Iowa," Mark chimed in, "Hawkeye through and through. Best collegiate wrestling program in the country."
All eyes (except Matt's and Greg's) turned to Charlie.
"Kentucky," Charlie said absently, still not focusing on them.
"And that's Greg," Gary said, shrugging in the basketballer's direction. "He's from ESU, too. So, did they..."
"Yeah, they threw each and every one of us into one of those fucking chambers for their pet monster to suck off. Just like you."
There was something in Paul's face, a wistfulness under the anger, that made Gary wonder if these other you men had experienced the same incredible orgasm he had when the blob had robbed him of his cum.
"So, six of us..."
"With room for eighteen more," said Mark. "They're not running any penny-ante operation here,"
Fuck, Gary thought as his jaw dropped. Why would the government need to abduct a couple of dozen virile young men? Just so they could pump their jizz into... into the blob? Why?
"What is that thing?" Gary asked.
"Who the fuck knows?" Paul said. "Does it matter."
"It's an alien," Mark said. "Totally Area 51 Roswell shit. MUFON would cream their shorts if they knew about it."
In his cell, Charlie muttered something about elder beings from beyond the dark beyond the stars come to earth to feast on humanity. Great, Gary was trapped with a Cthulhu fanboy. Fetal Matt simply shuddered, and Gary lay back down to consider what he'd been told.
So much for Gary's original theory that he'd been snagged by Homeland Security by mistake, a case of mistaken identity. Now it as obvious there had been no mistake. His kidnappers had targeted him, not because of politics or anything like that, but to serve as a... food source? No, that couldn't be right. Even if they had a full two dozen studs jizzing their balls out, the volume of cum wouldn't be enough to nurture a creature as big as the blob seemed to be. So then, what?
Gary was about to ask about that when the door at the end of the cellblock opened. Two keepers entered pushing a cart with covered trays. Two guards followed them with what Gary guessed were stun guns. (Had to be stun weapons, because there was no way the powers that be would go to this much trouble and then let their flunkies kill their prisoners.)
"Feeding time," one of the guards said cheerfully.
"Feeding?" Gary said.
"Of course, boy. Your balls can't churn out jizz unless we feed you. Stand back from the door now."
The keepers brought trays to the clear front wall, one of the guards derezzed a slot next to the floor, and the tray was slid through. Gary looked down at the tray. Six depressions held six different-colored pastes. Gary though he might have seen something like it in an old book, one dealing with space travel. Of course, if alien, then space food. It figured.
Once they all (except for Paul) had a tray, the guard said, "Eat, and when you're done put the tray back next to the door."
Charlie and Matt unfurled enough to pick up their trays and start fingering paste into their mouths. Mark picked his up and instead raised it to his face where he licked away at the depressions.
"You enjoying the show?" he leered at the guards who seemed fixated by his tongue at work.
"Get fucked, but."
Mark shrugged and sat down on the bed to finish his meal. Gary couldn't figure out what game Mark was playing. Instead he just started at his tray.
"Not hungry, blondie?" the second guard said, "Well, let me put it this way. If you don't eat, we'll have to feed you, and I promise you won't enjoy that. Will he, Paul?"
"Go screw yourself," the swimmer blond growled defiantly.
"You saying you won't eat if we let you loose from the bench?"
"Fuck you, and the horse you rode in on."
"Okay," the first guard was grinning, "You know what that means."
"I know you..." Paul started, but suddenly the clear wall on the front of his cell slid open and the guards rushed inside. One guard forced the blond's jaws open while the other one slapped some sort of metallic spreader device between his jaws.
"Does that hurt, boy?" the second guard said, "Well, you know you only have to eat like everybody else to make me stop using it."
"Gimme some food, guys," the first guard said to the keepers, "In a bowl."
The keepers, clearly used to the drill, emptied the sixth tray's paste into a bowl and handed it to the first guard.
"Lolph," he said to his cohort, "Your turn to do the honors."
Gary watched, shocked, as Lolph unzipped and pulled out a fat dick. Holding it to the lip of the bowl, he let loose with a jet of golden piss.
"Ah!" he sighed.
Seconds later he was shaking his wiener, and the first guard said, "That's it? You knew we were on this detail, and that's all the piss you have stored up?"
"Yeah," Lolph snarled back, "Chill out, Dundgren; it's enough."
To prove his point, Lolph took a spoon and stirred the piss and paste until they formed a gruel of sorts. As he did, Dundgren pulled out a plastic tube and fed it down Paul's throat, past his gag reflex and presumably into his stomach. Then he held up the far end of the tube while Lolph filled a large syringe with some of the revolting goo from the bowl. Slowly, while clearly enjoying Paul's futile struggles, Lolph pressed down on the plunger and forced the slop past Paul's oral defenses into his guts. Then the guard went back for another syringeful. And another until the bowl was finally empty.
While Lolph did this, Dundgren looked over at Gary with an evil grin and said, "See. It's your turn to choose now, boy. Either you eat what we serve you, or we'll force feed you, too. I came with a full bladder just in case."
Gary stared at the tray and then at Paul's face as his stomach was filled with abhomination. After a second, Gary made his decision and ran a finger through the paste. It didn't taste bad, he decided as he licked his finger clean. Artificial flavors, but hey space food, and something that left a curious aftertaste on the back of his tongue. Looking back at Paul still being force-fed his revolting meal, the blond proceeded to finger the food into his mouth.
The guards watched Gary out of the corner of their eyes and grinned. Clearly the new boy had recognized their authority and their power over him, accepted it, and made the right choice. Good. Submissive prisoners were always less trouble. And the kid didn't need to know that the drugs the food was laced with would in short order have his balls churning, working overtime, to build up a store of sperm so he would be ready for his next visit to the chambers.
When Gary had the tray clean (it took less time than he thought it might), he set it down by the door and stepped back.
"Yo," he said, "Can a guy get something to drink?"
"See the footprints by the back wall?" Lolph said as Dundgren pulled the tube out of Paul's ravaged esophagus. "Stand on them and face the wall."
Gary did, and a short spiggot emerged. The captive stepped back though; the spiggot was shaped like the end of a man's dick. Jesus, these bastards wanted him to suck on a cockhead for water. What the fuck?!
"You've got to be kidding," Gary said.
"If you don't like it, then go thirsty," Lolph said, "Charlie tried that, but in the end it was too much for him. Now he wraps his lips around that dick-spiggot and sucks like he was born to it."
But Charlie was back into his meditative state and apparently didn't hear what the guard said.
"Oh," Dundgren said, "And to shit or piss, stand in that same spot, but with your back to the wall, and a toilet'll pop out. Do your business and the toilet will bidet your crack clean and melt back into the wall when you're done."
"See? Bidets. We're fucking cultured down here," Lolph laughed.
The guards finished with Paul. Having chased his gruel with a few squeezes of (drugged) water, they wiped his face clean and removed the jaw-spreader. The tall blond coughed and gasped.
"Damn you!"
Gary watched as the guards got ready to leave the cell.
"Aren't you going to let him go?" Gary asked.
"Oh, Paul here won't get unstrapped until he proves he's learned his lesson," Dundgren said, "And if he doesn't do it and submit soon, we'll have to move on to more extreme methods of persuasion."
"Extreme?"
"Very extreme. "You really don't want to find out" extreme. And if you're a good boy, like you have been so far, you'll never have to find out how extreme that is."
They dumped their tools on the cart and followed the silent keepers out of the cellblock.
"Oh," Lolph said, before he shut the door, "And, by the way, welcome to the Managerie."