Chapter 6 Whore & Order. The qed. (Rapture 2)
Disclaimer: This is a fictional soap that contains tales of graphic homoerotic control and authoritarian domination. These may not be legal in your area or you may be under age. If so, or if the material is likely to offend (this tale attempts to be sacrilegious) please leave now.
As the story is coming together slowly and in a fragmented way I will start a chapter list to help readers. The first part of each chapter is a continuous story of Judge's PRIC. Six chapters in, as yet not a full day has gone by. The latter half of each chapter is a first person profile an individual. These are also beginning to intermesh. I welcome feedback. W&O Chapter list: 1; Rapture
2; Sea-bitch 1, Perfidious
3; Sea-bitch 2, Perdition
4; None but themselves to blame.
5; Revenge
6; Rapture 2: The qed.
As I finish reading prisoner #157 confession I am desperately trying to take stock of the huge amount of activity that has happening around the PRIC (Private Regional Institution for Correction) in the past few hours. It is mid afternoon on a Sunday that began in the early hours with me being called to the house of a major PRICKorp shareholder and it has been hectic since. I check how #157 conditioning is progressing. The screen above him is active, consistently giving him images that are proper or improper to his new dirt `d' (prisoner/slave) status. Positive images of slave dedication bring positive stimulus from my patented cock-cage butt-plug, disobedience, violent pain. He writhes between pleasure and pain on the operating table he is bound to.
I look at the various monitors before me and flick between cams to get coverage of the gaol. I see that prisoner #160 is still chained in the induction room. This is the big black bloke that Hemming brought in with the pom, #158 and cock rule, #159 whom I just convicted. I note Hemming is still enjoying a deserved relaxation in the showers with those two and various other inmates. Thank god I was able to get hold of Wagner and ask him to work for a few days. He has just arrived, so I call down to the staff change room and get him to deal with #160 and #157, steering him away from the showers. Wagner is in navy jocks when he comes to the phone. He is wiry, hairy, tanned by sun, tatted by amateur and pro.
"Move the nigger from the induction room too the interrogation room. Call if ya need help though a charged baton prod should be enough to control him." I expect my men to handle prisoners one on one given my staffing. "Then go start oral training the prisoner in the infirmary." He adjusts the cotton hump of his jocks as he receives the type of instructions that make up for this jobs relatively poor pay when compared to his usual mining contracting. I start to compile a list of VICTIMS (Various Inmates and Convict to be Trained Intensively for Money or Staff). The difference between Inmates and Convicts is that the former are within the PRIC while the latter are rented out to people or businesses for profit.
When Wagner enters the induction room he is wearing only boots, gloves and shorts with belt. I do not like this sloppiness but it is getting hot and sweaty in the prison. While my room is air-conditioned the rest of the establishment is not and the `wet' has lingered late this year. Sweat has made his hirsuted torso glisten like black wool. The man he is about to deal with shines like black velvet. I keep a monitor on but I doubt Wagner will need help. He has the prod-baton in one hand, fist in the other. He gets the backman to the interrogation room with only three prods. "Is that all the fight in ya coon," he enquires of the prisoner as gets him to lock himself onto the chain hanging from the ceiling. I keep a keen eye once he has him suspended from the drop chain. Copses and medical expenses are to be avoided but he leaves his toes on the floor and only prods him a couple more times for fun.
He has saved the horn in his shorts for the second task I set him. He leaves #160 hanging and goes to the infirmary. Given the influx of new VICTIMS I plan to send a dozen on a COCS. The Correction and Orient Camps Scheme is a government program to promote army style boot camps for young offenders. Some of the prisoners under my control are excluded because they are over twenty–five or have gone on one before.
There are butt-convict's I could send. There is one leased out to our town's gym. I am sure Shy Yang would let him go to the type of training he would receive from my men at a COCS. I turn off the infirmary visual display because #157 is no longer able to see it. Instead his face is at ninety degrees to his body as Wagner's cock begins to make the d's oral orifice compliant.
Officer Renal, undercover in the surfies' camp, flashes in his latest report. The image is of Renal having a smoke outside. "Success boss, the boy squealed like the little piss pig he is. What I'm sending ya is not finished because Crosser arrived with his mate."
He turns the phone to show a Caucasian hulk in bodybuilder singlet, "this guy dwarfs me. There wasn't room left inside the van for the five of us, so I left it to them." Crosser is the PRICKorp shareholder these accused ripped off. The Russian Tank is his type of mate. "No probs! It's only right he gets a chance to deal with them. Given how crowded the PRIC is at the moment, I am glad I don't have to entertain two more internees tonight." "I'll show ya how I left them."
He flashed me a picture of his latest interrogation set up. He has both suspects shackled, upside down, next to each other, hanging from the van's high-top extension columns by their feet. The newcomer to the macabre scene is a tall, skinny youth. Like his he-bitch, his boadies and swimmers are around his knees. The rag covering his face I recognize as having been his boyfriends tee shirt. The three hundred mil. circular mouth bit is now in the new lad's mouth. The piss-boarding centres on him with two plastic fuel siphoning tubes running to this orifice, ones taped to his prick, the other to his comrade's. There is still room around this tight squeeze for Renal to aim his bladder's brew though most of it has drenched the rag over the boy's face.
The distress is evident in the eyes of his bottom as his master chokes and splutters the caramel-piss flood in his gullet. "Just tell Crosser to finish getting the confession and drop it and both of them round here first thing tomorrow. Go home and get an early night. Tomorrow's gunna be as busy as today." "Thanks boss. I'll download the confession. Oh yeh, I reckon that that he-bitch genuinely believes his butch boy's name is David." The youth has a history, we know he is Rick Antright. "He believes anything the guy tells him." "Such is love"
I met him on my eighteenth birthday. My father trusted me enough to go away for the weekend. I went to Adam's house, a fellow church friend, for some celebrations which finished bout nine. Tomorrow was Sunday which meant there would be service and missionary work of some sort, so an early night made sense. I am the last to leave but as Adam shuts the door and I am about to walk home, he turns up. He is getting out of a surfing mate's panel van. I tend to look down so I saw his sandshoes first. They were ancient, filthy and huge. I looked up but he did no look at me as he lugged his board girded under one arm; his ancient gym bag dangling, bulging off the other. I have met him before, a couple of years ago at a church camp.
Adam's dad has let the guy the self contained flat at the back off his house for months now. This guy and his dad did not get on and to the disappointment of church elders he had pretty much dropped out. A naked DVD drops from his bag and rolls towards me. I bent and pick it up. It had `porn' scrawled across it in texta. "Thanks, you're John aren't ya, the birthday boy," he said, grinning, as he struggled to take the disk. His lips struggled to cover his mouth full of teeth that he licks with a flamboyant tongue. Like his teeth his bones are growing so fast his skin, muscle and clothes struggle to cover them. "Jonathan," I apologized, amazed he knew me at all. I do not even remember his name.
"Kool, want a drink." He said dragging out and holding up a bottle of spirits. I should of course go home, then again, one is only eighteen once, I want to go on celebrating. I made a promise to the Lord not to drink till I was eighteen, here I am at that milestone and all night no one had offered me my first drink. I took his bag and followed him around the back. He is suddenly silhouetted like a ringbarked tree trunk in the glare of an automatic security light as we pass the garage to the small unit near the back fence. Inside I sit while he poured me a Bundy and Coke in a dirty glass. "Sorry it's warm, I forgot to make ice cubs. Ya like games," he asked flicking on the TV and handing me a consol.
The game is a strange one of balls carrying guns to blow up other balls. I burst before I know what I am suppose to do while he goes on through levels. I try to drink the ruined Coke in my hand, it tastes disgusting. But I am not bored watching and soon the drink plus sitting next to this bloke makes me feel real good, birthdayish for the first time today. I have a second drink as he goes to the third level. The couch we sit on, though wide, has only two cushions and he plays the game with such energy that at one point he has one of his slender hands clawing my half of the couch's head rest for purchase. A maneuver in the game means he has his armpit inches from my face. My tongue lashes amphibian like out at the salt encrusted hair that stank of ozone, youth camps and man.
"WHooow!" he yells as the game crashes and he jumps up glaring at me. I am mortified, I cannot think what to say or get the courage to leave. We stay like statues for an eternity, my eyes on the floor, him staring down at me. "Want another drink," he asks? "Yes please, sir." I say automatically, hopping that the whole thing is forgotten. "'Sir', oh, now I see the type ya are," he says heading to the kitchenette. He brings back what is left of the Coke and most of a Bundy bottle. Do I want a drink given my stomach is woozy; did I call him sir' because I do not know his name; what type' am I? He is telling me how it is about me. He puts the bottles in front of us. I am tired and determined to apologize and go but all I can do is yawn. "I am s-so sorry, I I," I stutter as he sits down next to me.
"I understand; I'm sorry I reacted like ya a perve or something; fuck I don't mind ya licking my pits," he laughed removing his tank top. I shiver with excitement as he puts an arm around me to take my game consol then lays back on his side of the couch. He lifts the arm with the console behind his head. The tug on the console means the cord around my body drags my head towards him. He has the Bundy in the other hand and tips a little in a rivulet down his sinuous bis. to the hollow of his arm pit. "Here ya go pit-pig, lick it up." I ignore his language and felt duty bound to lick him to make amends. I do so ravenously as he twists his slender body to direct the pungent, caramel elixir across his ribs so it cascaded down them and then his abs. "Mindja, it's kinky shit I wouldn't do," he sneers as I slurp up the lake round his navel.
He swigs from the bottle and drips more via his chest into my lake. I lick it up, up to the tit and he forces my face into his pec. I gently nip the nipple and he coos: `Oohh yehhh!' The bitter of the rum, the sweet of the coke, the salt of the ocean and the sour of his sweat is an epiphany. He laughs at me but not to scorn and condemn but to encourage my debauched delirium. As I lap the last of the drink from around the bump of his navel he giggles like a new born. "Shit, my dacks are wet." They are from the booze. He stands. I do too, untangling the console cord. He slips his boardies down his legs like he is peeling the cover off a couple of icy-poles. They were at his shoes. "I saw how ya stared at my shoes all night. I bet you're into feet too." He smiles his crowd of ivory and winks at me. "Ya can pull them off."
How can I explain why I am immediately kneeling beside him pulling off his filthy smelly sandshoes while he lolls back on the couch? He needs help to get his wet pants off? My naturally downward glances have stared at his shod feet for much of the evening. As I take the shoes and pants off in a bundle the stink of rum gives way to a blast of miasma. No ozone nuance to aroma, only odor'. "Ya can lick them for me but hay man," he says spreading his arms towards me kneeling at his feet, "look, I'm down to my Speedos, ya fully dressed. I mean, I'm not junna take ya clothes off but ya should strip to ya briefs buddy." The logic of my friend's argument I could not fault but there is a pressing problem that made me resist, my penis. In my loose slacks my 100mil erection is not noticeable but stripped to my underpants. "Forget it," he says, sitting back, picking up his console, tucking his bare feet into the couch. He plays on, yelling abuse at the game.
I undress slowly.
In the past when the devil has tempted me to self-abuse I have thought of my sweetheart Marther and believed the Lord calmed my member so I could be faithful to her until we wed. But I am beginning to wonder about the power of the Lord as the presence of this new lord made my penis painfully hard. I slip my slacks off last, sitting on the floor so I can hide the pole of my tented briefs from him. He shifts his filthy feet towards me. `Get a washer,' I think when confronted by the overwhelming stench and grit but if I got up my hard-on would be obvious. Instead I poke my tongue between the left foot's fat big and long thin second toe. I do not look up till I suck the toejam from under his big toe. I see his face as I taste corruption. It is in delight but distracted by the game. It is at a distance over a sensuous terrain of fossil foot, blond-fluff calf, white thigh, golden Speedos and tanned torso. "Ya more a ped-queen than Jesus at the last supper," he mocks not even looking at me. I feel sinfully proud.
"Have you got a hard-on?" He has stopped playing the game and is staring at me. In my now squatting position he had a clear view of my tented briefs. "This shit really turns you on doesn't." He starts to prattle, "Ya know it's all new to me. Bit queer, but it's your birthday." This makes it easier for me to just listen and lick, all over his left foot and toes. "Ah ha, that tickles." I am running my tongue along the foot's grimy arch. He picks up the consol again while I wonder where his cock is in his Speedos. They hang in folds of a loose pouch that could be solid gonads or air and pubic bush. As I moved to the second foot he passes me the Bundy so my senses are quenched of the left foot and the experience of the right becomes a new, equal sensation. He does not play the game anymore but flicks on the TV. I have my back to the screen but hear he is watching a DVD of porn. For a long-time I resist peeking, concentrating on my duty to a dirty foot that made me feel dirty.
"Open-up!" he tells me when I had licked all over the right. He tips the rum into my mouth from half a metre up. I gag, cough, splutter, spray. All up his legs. I need not to be told. I start to lick my sputum, my host's sweat and the oceans salt from above his feet, on up his calves. I am kneeling before him when my tongue touches the inside of his thigh, he stops the vid playing and looks at me. He ruffles my hair. I am reminded of the hard-ons one of my dad's slobbering dogs got when ever he was begging me to pat him. "If ya gunna go there with me ya gunna have to get those briefs off," he explained. This is my most embarrassing moment so far. It has been years since even a doctor had seen me utterly nude but this bloke is expecting me to expose myself, stiff.
As I touch my briefs I feel a damp patch. I do not know what it is. "Ya really dripping the precum aren't ya." Precum? I have never noticed I leak like this before. I stand and pull the underpants down. Stand stripped bare, rigid before him. He giggles. I anticipate a view of his cock. By the time he releases his penis and scrotum from his Speedos I had what could be candle-wax hanging from stiffy. He stays seated as he slides his togs down his legs, with a wriggle and then kicks them off his wonderful feet. His cock is like another ball, a lump of fat, no wonder it was invisible in the swimmers. Once released it flops to hang then engorge as he gently plays with it. When I touch my stiffy he slaps my hand hard. "No self-abuse unless I say so. If ya following my orders it is not a sin," he tells me. I do not know if he is serious or joking. I obey.
I watch his manhood unfurling like a huge petal before me. It swells between his fingers, an orb of maroon against burnet pubes. The hair on his head must be salt bleached. His cock is twice the length of mine, half way along it is as wide as my cock is long. I must swallow not to drown, my mouth waters so. He sits back on the couch waiting for me. I am still standing, transfixed. "Fucken suck it ya tease," he cries in exasperation. Again I am kneeling at his service. The surfboard shaped cock jumps dramatically as my lips and tongue touch its head. His foreskin has hardly pulled from its acute end. It is the first time I have ever seen a foreskin, let alone tasted smegma. I thought the toejam I had just sucked was the essence of my new friend but this little dollop of slimy cream is divine manner.
He grabs my hair, dragging me onto his orb, forcing the hard weapon into my throat. It easily fills my mouth, stretched my lips at its middle then narrows to its hairy base. I am choking but he is away in his own fucking adventure that gave me little chance to breath. "Shit I can't believe ya aint done this before, ya a natural," he told a delighted, suffocating supplicant as he push/pulls his two hundred mil dagger between lips, into mouth, down throat, held there, then out again. As the rhythm came he talks: "It's appropriate that ya name's Jonathan. Here I am, oooh, your David, just like the ahhaa the bible." So that is his name but what is he alluding to? David and Jonathan, as in 1 Samuel 20., I have never heard it discussed at bible class. Biblical speculation is difficult when ones mouth is being cock pumped but is impossible when a salty, creamy excretion unrepentantly floods ones plugged mouth. "That's riiiight Johno, gobble it allll down," my provider orders. I have sperm dribbling from my nostrils as he lets me lick the clotted last of it from his shivering cock.
"Got any money," my new friend asks moments later, getting up and picking up my trousers. He takes out my wallet before I say anything.
"Kool!" he whistles when he finds more than a hundred dollars my father left me for my birthday weekend. "I'm gunna go spend this. Hay boy, don't want ya to cum, get off on cleaning this place up, OK. Make sure Adam doesn't see ya." "Yes sir," I reply automatically as he slips on the same clothing he wore yesterday and heads off on his bicycle to town. As I clean plenty for dad and me it no big deal that I can contentedly clean, what is a filthy hovel, thoroughly. He returns an hour latter with munches, booze and presents for me. "The place aint been this clean since I moved in. Happy birthday," he says putting a dog collar on me, "'nd congrates with ya cleaning efforts."
We eat sangers on rolls as we sit on the couch together and finish the porn he had been watching while he inseminated my mouth. It is a mixture of men and women screwing wildly a variety of orifices with cocks and dildos.
"Watch and learn what I will expect if ya my qedesham" he tells me. So I sit beside him puzzled, tense, nervous as I watch the degenerate, dissipation on the vid. Qedesham, 1 King XV.12., again we never dwelt on this passage at Sunday school. My stiffy is dribbling on my thigh because I am so close to him. His cock is small, satisfied. The porn ends abruptly. "David to Jonathan," he said reaching for the gym bag I had carried in, "time to breed you my qed." He pats his lap and I bend over it. He plays with my buttocks, running a hand around them and up my crack in a figure eight. He squeezes some sun lotion on one finger and pokes my rear hole. "Ya loaded with cargo up there I don't want to tangle with, come on."
He pushes me up as he stood and directs me to the small toilet cubical that is at the opposite end of the single room unit from the kitchenette. He bends me over the cistern and inserts the tip of his cock at my anal sphincter. My rectum swelled and I realize he is pissing up me in a solid stream. My virgin arse balloons, only his cock plugs it. When he finishes urinating he removes his cochhead and spins me onto the toilet seat in the same motion. I drop a douched gut full in the best shit of my life. I drop a large dollop of precum on the toilet seat. You can see why my previous life seems totally inadequate, suddenly shitting is transcendental. I decide to trust my new, dominant friend utterly. "Wash up," he orders pointing to the shower cubical next to the toilet, giving me a grubby towel. While I rinse myself thoroughly he pulls his bed out of the couch.
He is lying on the cover sheet playing with his hardening cock as I emerge. "Who said you could cover yaself before me?" he demands, pulling the towel off me and flipping my arse hard with it. My penis which had not totally receded sprung back to a hard doodle. I squeal as he uses it to pull me down beside him. He lays me on my side with my butt towards him. My arse is dry but his cock is well lobbed from his hand play so the pointy head easily slips into me. I gasp as my sphincter is stretched at the half way point of his convex dick's penetration, relived as it narrows only to scream as its length surfs in, reconfiguring the innocence of my arse-end. Though my first sodomising is quick to start, it lasts a long time. I learn that side on, back to front, is a gentle position.
He soon starts to spin me around, positioning my legs so his huge cock can feel out different angles in my guts. When we are face to face, him holding my legs over my shoulders we kiss for the first time. It is more like his tongue is raping my throat. I am wondering if he cock and tongue are meeting somewhere in my foodpipe when I suddenly orgasm. Those furtive wanks I had done in my life, those crusted sheets after devil dreams. I suddenly realize how sinful they are compared to the abandoned ecstasy of this divine experience. Till now I had been able to ignore the limited emissions of my limited penis but my pecker explodes in a splatter that hits my face, both our chins. I feel spent but my initiation to role of ganymede has hardly begun. He goes on fucking me, laughing as I cry from the new intensity rectumly delivered. I lie open mouthed, transfixed. My demon Zeus spits huge golly into my open mouth and we both laugh as I swallow it.
I shoot twice more. Once when my prick is ground into the bed by the relentless abuse of his grinding my butt hole, the other as I feel him blast his seed up my now hyper-stretched-sensitive fuck chute. I am on all fours. He slaps my butt hard a couple of times, before he roles me on my side and is soon snoring his dick still up me. I lie unable to sleep savoring the divinely evil barb invading my dirt hole.
Now is my chance to leave. I could put it down to the demon drink and beg the Lord's forgiveness. My sin of self-opinionated pride, that I am naturally chaste, waiting to marry, has turned into a realization that I cannot disturb a bloke who just buggered me. Acknowledging that I am an unwholesome pervert I fall into blissful sleep.
If I wanted to leave the following morning I do not have a chance. I am woken from sweet dreams by one of David's fingers disturbing the spunk load he left up me last night. My prick springs to attention and my hand goes to exploit it. "Hay, ya a slow learner," David says slapping my hand away then slaps my thigh hard. "Bitch position," he ordered. I am not a slow learner, I instinctively knew what he meant; I am on my hands and knees like a girl dog. "Good!" He continued to play with my arse with alternative hand, often up to three fingers. When he pushes them deep into me he uses the other hand to slap different bits of my bod. I groan painful pleasure. When his cock enters me in a sudden trust I nearly blow, as it is precum blobs to the sheet. "Ya a messy qed aren't ya, a Jezebel who could be anybodies," he laughs and grabs my hips to pound my butt hard.
He dumps his jizt in me after a couple of minutes and is up at the toilet pissing. I realize what a degenerate queer I have become when I am jealous of the toilet. He tells me to get us some breakfast. While I am making cornflakes with powdered milk he shows me another birthday present he bought me with my money. "Do ya know what this is?" he asks showing me a strange metal orb. It looked like a Christmas tree decoration. "It's a butt-plug. You will wear it to church today." It is Sunday but I had not given church a thought. If I cooperate he will not, I hope, come with me. My self-serving hypocrisy is clear to me as I think it. Mortified, I decide I must go to church under my new lord's terms. He will not let me wear underwear, and while the collar came off he tightens my tie so it chokes.
The service is a strange parody of my new life. Paul to the Corinthians sounds like so much nonsense. The only prayer I say is a thank you to the Lord for making my prick so small as I had an erection the whole time. It only goes down when I talk to Marther after the service. "What a good time we had last night," she states. I nod thinking `the best ever'. "Why are you just smiling silly like that?" I try to come back to relate to her but after a couple of : "Jonathan!" "Jonathan you must talk to me." "Talk to me!" "Talk to me or else... I'll.." "Ivvvee I've got a headache," I do not lie as I turn quickly run away.
Back to my David with his present up my butt-hole, his to fuck.
"Strip!" he orders as soon as I enter his unit. I do as I am told. He had jocks on. We are face to face. He pushes on my shoulders and I kneel before him. "Did ya receive communion?" he asks as he puts my dog collar back on. I am still plugged. "Of course not, you know we don't have communion." "Sir!" "Sir!" "Are but WE do." He pulls his half erection from his jocks and rests it in my open mouth. The urine spray hit the back of throat hard, hot and lot. I spluttered. "Guzzle my wine pig'." Understanding I drank deep. When his yellow vintage had run dry he turned around and presented his bum to me. The jocks framed his slight buttocks. He pulled my mouth and nose into his scat-crack then pulls his buttock wide a part. "Eat my bod slag'." My olfactory senses are affronted more than ever before as I lick his shit hole and the host shaped ring around it, up his crack, down to his ball. I cum spontaneously when he farts in my face.
"We'll never kiss again slag but as my qed there is plenty of ways ya can be of use to me," he says, patting me on the head with one hand, slapping my face hard with the other. I ignore the knowledge that his tongue fucking my mouth was a one off as I drown in glorious, post coitus rapture.