Please see original story (www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/authoritarian/turntable-rehabilitation-services/) for warnings and copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights reserved. Included dominant/submissive, BDSM and 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 have never screamed with such need, such animalist demand, such primordial lust. Each zap sends me to heaven, zipping and jumping from piss-slit around the head and back. It is when he finally gets to the very rear surface of my flared and purplish head, though, that my world explodes. He runs the zapping, electric torment across the most-protected nerves in my body and my entire body cums. It is rapture. My nipples shoot wad after wad. My fingers and toes ejaculate. Every muscle cooperates to expel the endless orgasm. It is more than all-encompassing, it is all-consuming. And then, like a light switch thrown, it is nothing at all.
Turntable Rehabilitation Services 7: Good Morning Sunshine By Bear Pup
M+; piss; humiliation; gym; anal/remote-control orgasm
I wake, staring at the person I've come to hate most in the universe, the ceiling faggot, nude as always. He wriggles and writhes seductively as If I, a real man, would fucking care. I watch as he gets harder and harder watching me, his fantasy man, lying strapped to this bed. His dick, I'll admit, is nearly as large as my own and his swollen, abused nuts churn as he drinks in my appearance.
I jump as Ceiling-Ian steps next to his bed just as Real-Ian moves to collect me for my morning bathroom break. After the humiliating ritual of him wiping my ass and inserting the pacifier thing, I am really looking forward to the breakfast that Ian normally brings. Dinner the night before had been light and I was ravenous, but the morning tray was nowhere to be seen
Instead, Ian escorts me to the place where we'd had that horrific, mortifying lunch the day before. As before, the room is filled with people in street clothes and uniforms, with a scattering of naked men like me. Ian turns me over to an Attendant who ushers me to the line in front of the serving window.
He points to the keypad and says, "This is Dining Room 6. You'll eat here from now on. Every meal is custom. Many include medications, so we have to be careful that you get yours and only yours. You need to enter your name here and then say it aloud clearly so we can match your voice-print to the records and ensure you get the right breakfast."
I step up and type in, 'Damian Goratto' and say my name aloud. The screen changes to, 'No Matching Record. Enter and Say Your Name.' I try twice more with the same result, baffled.
"Do you mind?" A rich, soft but annoyed southern drawl purrs over my shoulder. I turn and see a voluptuous negress, immaculately dressed, perhaps 5 feet tall; I blush in horror and try to cover myself. She just sighs and steps to the screen, types a moment and says clearly, "Latisha Owens." The screen flashes from black to green and a breakfast tray appears. With a final contemptuous frown for me, she heads to a nearby table and I return to the screen.
I try 'damian goratto', 'Goratto, Damian' even various misspellings like 'Damien'. Nothing.
I feel a huge hand on my shoulder and jump. An incredibly tall, thin nigger, like coal-black, stands there. He is wearing a white doctor's coat with an illegible name stitched in blue. His face, at least a foot or so above mine, has a sincere look of concern and compassion, perhaps tinged with pity. His voice is soft, gentle, melodious with a very 'not from around here' accent and amazingly deep, "Son, you can't read or write, can you? Poor boy, it's okay, just get an attendant to help."
I am apoplectic with rage. This fucking nigger thinks I can't even type my own fucking name!?! "F-f-f-f-f-f" I can't even form the words.
I could kill him if I wasn't paralysed with fury when he pats me on the head, "It's okay, boy. Attendant! Here Please!" He steps around me and types then says, "Dr Gregory Mbutu." His tray appears. Just as I am about to explode in screaming abuse, the attendant is between me and the nigger doctor.
He looks down then checks his tablet. "There is no one in the facility by the name you keep typing. It's really very simple. First name, then if you have one, a last name." His voice is calm, bored, like a playground attendant at a school for the terminally stupid. "You can, um, spell your name, right?" he asks with a raised brow. By this point, my stomach is growling as much as my anger. Then it hits me. That queer's sinister fucking voice comes back in my head and I blanch, every corpuscle of blood dropping from my face and brain. No. No. No, no, no, NOOOO!
My hands shake powerfully as I type in 'Pee-Pee Boy'. With increasing dread, I lean close to the microphone and whisper, "Pee-Pee Boy". The screen changes to, 'Voice Print Not Recognisable. Re-Enter Name and Speak Clearly.'
I type again, speak softly by clearly. 'Voice Print Not Recognisable. Re-Enter Name and Speak Clearly.' Weeping in residual rage and new humiliation, I enter 'Pee-Pee Boy' again, choke on my own sob and say loudly, "Pee-Pee Boy!" Sniggers and laughs echoed around me. The negress who'd pushed past me earlier turns with a look of such disgust; the doctor with a smirking sneer.
I grab the tray that comes out and flee, only to find there are no empty tables. Crimson in the face, shaking so badly the cup rattles on the tray, eyes clouded with unshed tears of shame and anger, I finally find a table with only a few guys, two in uniforms and one in street clothes. I sit and hang my head, unable to look up, much less think about food.
The voice is calm, authoritative, masculine and stern, "Excuse me? It's polite to introduce yourself and ask permission before just butting in at a tableful of strangers."
I look up, abject dismay plastered across my face. My mouth works like a fresh-caught fish but no sound comes out. All three men are now frowning at me, awaiting a response. "Well?"
The tears that had clouded my vision begin to streak my face, but I manage to stutter, "I'm Pee-Pee Boy. C-c-can I sit here?"
One looks at me with disgust and the other with contempt, but the authority figure who spoke first simply says, again in a singsong, slow-kid-playground voice, "Are you likely to live up to your name here at the table, Pee-Pee Boy?" One of the other two laughs as I shake my head, looking down at my plate, beyond the reach of degradation. "Then you're fine. Let us know, please, if you need to pee-pee. We'll get an attendant to help you to the potty." Another raucous laugh as they return to their breakfasts.
Perhaps ten minutes pass, and the only thing that changes about my tray is the occasional teardrop hitting it. Suddenly, there is an Attendant, female by the voice, at my shoulder.
"You will eat your breakfast, son. You will always eat what you are served as long as you're here. We know everything about your body's needs and take great care to keep you fit and healthy."
I don't look up, but just give my head a small shake. "Son, don't do this." I feel my shoulders shake as I sob silently. The woman sighs deeply and taps something into her pad. I stifle a groan as the thing in my ass begins to twist and throb. It goes on long enough for me to come to full, mortifying erection, blood rushing to cock and face in equal measures.
It stops just as suddenly. "Come on. Are you going to eat your breakfast like a good little boy or do we need to...?"
I grab my spoon and begin to shovel the porridge-like stuff in, swallowing when I actually want to retch. The taste is actually delicious, but I can't notice. It could have been ashes. The attendant leaves with a final, "Good boy," in the exact voice one would give a dog who'd just fetched a stick. My stomach clenches but I keep the stuff down. There is a small bowl of nuts that I don't recognise and a large glass of apple juice, the last item on my tray. I am halfway through it when I realise there is a second taste. Piss.
I come as close as I've ever done to vomiting in public, just barely holding it. The three men had left at some point. I am frozen mid-swallow, glass still to my lips as my belly writhes and recoils. I finally am able to finish the drink and simply sit, staring at the glass, lost and broken.
An Attendant notices and instructs me on clearing my tray and dishes. He checks his tablet and calls "Runner!" One magically appears and the Attendant recites "Code 73764. I've beamed the itinerary to you."
The Runner causes my wrists to snap together and walks me to a gym, similar to but different from yesterday. A half-dozen naked, straining men are at work on a variety of equipment that are strange but probably cardio. Another Trainer, this one clearly a dyke, takes charge of me. I look her spandex-covered form up and down. She's got a hell of a body. Hips to die for, nice if compact titties that beg for a rough touch. Do something with that lesbian haircut and add some makeup and she'd be hot. She sees my eyes roving her.
"Your name?"
My leer vanishes like smoke. I about die as I realise my lip is trembling and my knees are shaking like a little girl. But I know there is no escaping it. "I, I, I am p-p-Pee-Pee Boy." She barely blinks as the shame washes through me.
"Okay. Before we can get to building you up, we need to get your body back on track. Like a lot of patients new to the programme, you've spend too much time in bed and too little exercising, Pee-Pee Boy. That ends today."
She leads me to a space-age contraption of black and steel. She steps me up onto platforms like individual treadmills and fastens my ankle restraints to a pole beside each. This allows me to move them like I'm walking, but there would be no way to step anywhere but the treads. My wrists restraints leap to some handles slightly above head height.
The Trainer attaches some sensors around my upper arm and I jump hard when I feel her attach wires to the thing shoved up my ass. During the process she is explaining what will happen, stopping frequently to make sure I understand.
"The sensors monitor damn near everything about you, Pee-Pee Boy, and your training will adjust accordingly in real-time. Today is easy. It's a climbing runner. Pull down with one arm and push up with the other. The machine will guide you. Same with the feet, just keep up as the programme takes you through the paces. Fair warning: slack off and the machine knows. Treat this like a carnival ride, Pee-Pee Boy, and you will very, very quickly regret it. Okay, the programme will start when I walk away. If you need me, call out for Train Wreck, that is my name."
She's true to her word. The machine begins to move and I pull and push and walk at the pace it sets. As I feel my muscles loosen and get the rhythm it's setting, I just let my mind go onto Gym Rat mode. I tune out everything and simply live inside the private worlds of my muscles and they flex and tense. Before long, the machine is changing things up. The angle of the platforms change so it's a steep uphill or equally-challenging downhill slope. I begin to notice the tension on the hand-poles changes; sometimes it is as bad as pulling the string on a bow, others it is like lift free weights. This is a fucking cool machine!
I have always been more for strength than cardio, and I am quickly huffing my breath and pouring sweat. I find that I am actually getting winded and, being in Gym Rat mode, moved to deescalate and start a cool-down cycle. The machine is with me for perhaps four paces before it becomes increasingly insistent. I slow further, letting the machine do the work.
That is my first truly horrifying mistake. It takes a moment for me to recognise the sensation with the sweat running down my crack, but the thing inside me has come to life again. It begins a rhythmic pulse timed with the machine's motions. I groan as it intensifies and suddenly recall Train Wrecks' words. I launch back into the routine, doing everything that machine wants me to, but the persistent throbbing remains.
I get to 'the wall' and feel my thighs and biceps begin to shake with the unaccustomed strain, and take a moment to pull back until I can push through it. Apparently, that is not what the machine has in mind. The throbbing in my ass changes, pulsing and probing against my prostate now. I cry out as I feel my cock bound to full erection and throw everything I have into the exercises as quickly as possible to prevent any more escalation.
As before, though, the new level of torment simply plateaus. It doesn't fade as I return to full-power. I live in torment, muscles screaming and ass throbbing and mind reeling. It goes on forever. Eventually, I reach my absolute limit and know there is not another ounce of energy left in me. I am weeping, knowing that whatever is next can neither be prevented nor escaped. I am suddenly a muscle-weary rag doll being manipulated by this monstrous machine.
It senses the change instantly and the pulsing and throbbing changes again. Now it is rhythmically pummelling my love nut, fucking me tirelessly and relentlessly. I cry out with each thrust, but cannot make my arms and legs respond to save my life or what tatters are left of my soul. The machine doesn't care. When I fail to return to the programme, I feel something new and revoltingly-wondrous.
Where the thing penetrates my ass, the thin little stem that keeps the whole unspeakably evil thing where it should never have been, a tickling begins. Suddenly I realise it is the sensation of zapping and zinging from yesterday, the electric sparks. Except now it is attacking the lips and rings of my asshole mercilessly. Far, far worse is that it is not synchronised with the pseudo-fuck inside. The jolts are random. I jump or cry out or squeal with each, then await in mounting horror not knowing when the next will strike.
I think it that suspense that drives me insane and toward an inevitable completion. I try, I really do, to move arms and legs again, but fail. The machine seems patient, waiting to see if I am really going to rejoin the programme. When it realises I'm not, everything -- jolts, thrusts, throbs, pulses -- escalate until I scream, throwing my head back in a howl even as my arms and legs are flung about. My cum erupts, painting the steel of the machine in front of me as the thing in my ass forces me to rapture. I wail in misery but my body is alive with the orgasm, revelling in the sensation even as my mind is tormented and my soul rended apart.
I have finally reached my limit when everything, ass and legs and arms, stops. I hang there, sobbing and utterly, irretrievably broken.
Train Wreck is suddenly in front of me, her voice amused and stern. "Sorry, Pee-Pee Boy, but I warned you. Maybe you'll take it seriously tomorrow. Now, clean up your mess." I still hang sobbing until I feel a lunging jolt against my abused prostate and I stiffen. My restraints come free suddenly and I fall back, caught by Train Wreck, her strength evident as she handles me easily.
"Pee-Pee Boy, I'll give you sixty seconds to recover. If you aren't cleaning up the mess you made by then, you'll have two messes." I suddenly hear the jeering laughter around me, "Do you really want to put on another show for the room, Pee-Pee Boy? Hmm?"
I pull my weeping self together quickly, horrified at the thought of that punishment. It had been torture, but the idea that the next time I'd realise that everyone, EVERYONE was watching and laughing make the concept unbearable. I look around for a rag with which to wipe down the sweat-soaked and cum-drenched machine. Train Wreck notices and sighs deeply, exasperated, almost broadcasting the thought, 'Why do I get the terminally stupid ones?'
"Suck it up, boy, literally. Use your tongue and lips, Pee-Pee Boy, but you want to make damn sure it's clean. There are worse things that anal orgasms..."
It takes me perhaps 15 minutes, lapping and slurping up a mixture of my sweat, my cum, and my constantly-dripping tears. Train Wreck is finally satisfied and yells, "Runner!" I am barely aware and can look at nothing but the floor that I'd so recently been licking.
"Code 73764. And he reeks. Get him hosed before lunch, please."
Ideas and suggestions are more than welcome; they are driving quite a bit of Pee-Pee Boy's rehabilitation: orson.cadell@gmail.com - Bear Pup
Active storelines, all at www.nifty.org/nifty/gay... Karl & Greg: 17 chapters .../incest/karl-and-greg/ Canvas Hell: 14 chapters .../camping/canvas-hell/ Beaux Thibodaux: 6 chapters .../adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/ The Heathens: 7 chapters .../historical/the-heathens/ Mud Lark Holler: 6 chapters .../rural/mud-lark-holler/ Turntable Rehab: 6 chapters .../authoritarian/turntable-rehabilitation-services/