Date: Wed, 1 Feb 2017 13:25:40 -0500
From: Bear Pup <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Turntable Rehabilitation Services

This story and its characters are fiction. It is a personal fantasy which I
am sharing with you. If any character or scene resembles you or someone you
know, I WANT DETAILS, you lucky fucker, preferably with photos! It is, of
course, copyrighted by the author with all rights reserved and very, very
negotiable. Also, keep the cum coming. I'm an old guy (>30). I know what it
was like when you had to BUY porn. Five miles uphill both ways in the snow
just to GET to the XXX store. You whippersnapper don't know how good you've
got it -- Donate to Nifty **TODAY** at donate.nifty.org/donate.html!

This involves intense sadomasochism and sex between adult males; if that is
illegal for who/where you may be right now, fuck off and get thee to a
monastery (where you might just find scenes similar to some below). Also,
please note that all my stories exist in a world where STDs are neither
common nor deadly. Don't be a fucking idiot; use protection. 'To die for'
sex should never lead to your actual death.

I like hearing from people but I also hate spam. If you get off on flaming
people, please know that you will HATE the results. I will read your
missive and weave you and your comments into my next story to the point
that you cry like a little girl. Bullies get as bullies give.

***** Turntable Rehabilitation Services - Chapter 1: Belated Introductions
By Bear Pup

M/M, M/M(M); *intense* S&M/BDSM; CBT; retribution

"No, Lord Connelly. Your request is not at all uncommon for our firm. It's
why we're called Turntable Rehabilitation; we rehabilitate people by
turning the tables, showing men what it is like to be victimised in the
ways they victimised others. You have really presented us a 'poster-boy'
example. If you are satisfied with the result, we'll discuss a fee-rebate
in exchange for using this in our most-discreet promotional materials."

"I'll consider it, as long as my son and his pain are never even hinted
at."

"Of course, milord! We would never use the footage otherwise."

"I've agreed to the fee. When do you expect to start, and when can I see
real results?"

"Frankly, as soon as the wire transfers clear the various layers of
obfuscation, the operation will commence. We actually started the process
when we first received your... rehab referral. Target acquisition,
background, cover story; all are in place. We will, of course, explain to
the patient what will happen (in detail) and secure his consent, then roll
back his memory so he will experience the disorientation and fear just as
his victims did. It is the key component in our highly-successful track
record. We'll invite you back for the subject's sessions (attend those that
are convenient) and you should expect actual results within the first week
and complete rehabilitation and placement in under three months."

"Excellent. Excellent..."

*****

I walk toward a bar that often I use for 'collecting'. It is a pit, a
suitable place for the fags and scum that frequent it. There is really very
little that I loathe more than a pussy-boy or butch wannabe-man lesbian,
but this bar is special. It attracts the kind of man who wants, even begs,
to be demeaned and abused. I am nothing if not compassionate; I am simply
giving them the extreme version of what they crave.

I spend a few minutes drinking in the bar. Straight scotch, as I don't
trust anything they might pour otherwise. Several of these pathetic
pseudo-males approach, but I can't even bring myself to acknowledge them. I
spot my target across the room, watching a game of pool.

He is young, probably 22 or 23. He wears skinny jeans with
strategically-ripped patches and a shirt several sizes too small. He is
advertising himself. He screams his need for what I can deliver. He wants a
"straight-looking" stud. What he will get is an actually-straight stud to
make his dreams come true. My prick thickens and snakes down my leg with
the visions of what I'll give this tender, disgusting abomination of a boy.

He wants dominance? Yeah. He'll get that! He wants rough trade? None
rougher. He wants the fantasy of savage sex without boundaries? He he. He
won't get the fantasy, he'll get the reality. When this night ends, he will
be a blubbering mass of a former faggot-man, begging for delivery from his
"fantasy". I'll give him everything he dreams and nothing that he wants.

The little slut flirts his way through the night, drinking beers and sodas,
keeping his wits about him. He leaves a trail of hard-ons, the disgusting
little tease. He collects numbers that he throws out when he heads to the
pisser. The faggot's faggot. The ultimate waste of oxygen. The one who
needs to understand that actions have consequences and that *I* am the
ultimate consequence.

He finally decides that none of the tops are worthy of his repulsive
attentions and leaves. Several men try to draw him into staying, or at
least leaving with them. He laughs and demurs. What a loathsome
creature. He exits the bar and I follow a few moment later, unobserved. I
see his unsteadily approach the driver's side of a Saab. What a fucking
fag-mobile. He unlocks the door and never sees me approach. My breath
thickens in anticipation and my cock is rock-hard as the chase ends. I have
him!

And everything goes black.

*****

The world spins crazily as I surface to consciousness. The barrage of
light/sound/sensation overwhelms me and I sink back into oblivion. I
resurface, and take in some details before fading once again. White
walls. Curtains. Bright fluorescent lights. The cycle
repeats. White. Bright. People in green smocks. A hospital? Did
I... Oblivion returns. Again; white, bright, efficient people moving
purposefully. "Are you awake?"

'No.'

Swirling black gives way to swirling colour. "Are you with us this time?
Can you blink?" I blink and it's one of the hardest things I've ever
accomplished. "Good. You need to rest. Rest."

Whether at his command or my own body's demands, I return to
unconsciousness. This time, I dream, so real sleep must be involved. I
dream of the fairy twink and what he needed me to do to him. To all of
them. To fix a society derailed from What Should Be.

I finally come to my actual senses in a bright, windowless room. I feel the
bindings at wrist and ankle, hip and chest. I start to test my bonds,
instinctually repelled by the captivity.

"You're awake. Good. You'll get some food soon. You'll need to take care of
bathroom needs. Nurse Ian will help with that. I'll be back in a few
hours."

Some guy comes to the bedside. Name tag reads 'Ian'. He loosens my
bindings. I am relieved and wait for him to finish. Oddly, the cuffs at
wrist and ankle stay, but are released from the frame of the hospital
bed. Ian helps me to my feet. I nearly fall. What the fuck happened to me?
Was I in an accident? An explosion? My body is both weak and uncoordinated
as Ian guides my stumbling body to the can.

I suddenly realise just how desperately I need to piss. Ian pulls my gown
forward (it is, as all hospital gowns, open at the back instead of
front). I try to protest that I need to piss, not shit, and could do it
standing. Ian ignores me. I release and find that I have a little watery
discharge from my ass. I blush furiously but helplessly as Ian leans me
forward and wipes my ass. A comedic interlude ensues as I return to an
upright position and Ian puts me to bed. I am instantly asleep.

I am also annoyed as hell as Ian pokes and prods me awake. He feeds me soft
foods. Some sort of jiggly Fruit Jelly, I think. Milk. And a custard,
perhaps. I am asleep again before the tray goes away.

I awake at some point far more in command of my senses and mad as hell. Ian
comes in and I began to lob questions at him. "Where am I? What happened?
How long was I out? WHAT HAPPENED?"

I belatedly realise that Ian is deaf. The louder I shout the more he smiles
and nods. I weep with frustration as he spoon-feeds me oatmeal and orange
juice. He takes me back to the washroom and sits me again on the commode,
even though I have no need other than to piss. I do so, like some twat,
crouched over the bowl. Ian returns me to bed and I sleep again.

Ian shakes me awake and I am more alert than I'd been since... whatever the
fuck had happened. He starts to feed me and I clamp my jaws shut. He frowns
and continues to try, but I refuse him. Finally, he leaves.

I stare at the white tiled walls and apparently fall back into sleep from
sheer lack of stimulation.

I awake this time in full possession of my faculties. I am once again
firmly restrained at wrist, ankle, thigh and chest. A man with the
most-evil chuckle I'd ever imagined enters my field of view. He is small,
lean, effete and bald. I tentatively labelled him, 'probable faggot'.

"Damian? Damian Goratto?" I nod mutely.  "Good. You know who you are. Do
you, perchance, know WHAT you are?" I shake my head and frown. What does
this little queer mean?

"You are, or at least you WERE, a cauldron of hate and self-loathing." I
stare, confused. "You hurt people because they are what you wish to be,
free and happy. You've never been free, have you? You've never been happy
since your father died?"

I am struck dumb, then erupt in a scream, "YOU KNOW NOTHING ABOUT ME YOU
FUCKING QUEER! Where am I? What have you done? What is GOING ON??"

The little faggot doesn't even bat an eyelash.

"Exactly. You never understood what was 'going on' or what you were
doing. Do you remember David Hayes?"

I unconsciously pull up a vision of my pre-teen friend. He was my
confidant, my co-conspirator, my bud. He tried to kiss me one day when we
had swiped a playboy and were pleasuring ourselves under a spray of
honeysuckle. I'd beat him senseless and never spoken to him again.

"I see you do. Do you remember Patrick Front?"

No, not really. Oh! Wait! He was the first faggot I'd lured out of a bar. I
gave him what he wanted and needed and deserved, a beating and a brutal
fuck and another beating. He'd cried and screamed and loved every minute.

"No, Damian, he didn't want that and never accepted it. He killed himself
two months later."

So the little faggot had ended his miserable existence. GOOD RIDDANCE!

"Lastly, do you remember Charles Maxwell?"

I rack my brains. No Charles or Maxwell pops up. I gaze in confusion at the
little man.

"Sad, because that's why you are here." The little man pulls out two
photos. I recognise the first; it is another fucking little twink who got
from me what the world needed to give him and what he secretly craved. The
second photo, no. A bit older, very different face. Looks like an accident
victim after reconstruction. I shake my head at that picture.

"I am not surprised. This photo is Charles Maxwell a few months before you
attacked him and left him for dead. Luckily, a passer-by heard him choking
to death on his own blood and the paramedics saved his life. The elder
Charles Maxwell, better known as Lord Connelly, is a wealthy and powerful
man. That fortune and influence bought his son a second chance at life, a
life you tried and failed to destroy.

"The second picture, the one you don't recognise? Well, that's Charles
today after nearly a year of surgeries to repair the damage that you
did. What you did to Charles Maxwell earned you a place in our
rehabilitation programme. No, you didn't suffer an accident, wreck or
fall. We intervened seconds before you succeeded in murdering a young
man. The evidence we collected would have you in prison for life and you
were given a choice. Rehabilitation and a new life -- or prison where, for
the type of crime you would have been convicted, you would have been passed
from reprobate to reprobate as a sexual toy.

Needless to say, you listened to our offer. When we finally got you to
realise just how twisted your mind and life had become, you were begging
for our help." A video comes up on the wall behind him. I look like shit,
sobbing and crying like a fucking faggot. I hear myself commit to the rehab
programme and sign any number of papers.

"That's a lie! I never did that! I never, NEVER cry. What the fuck did you
do to me?!?"

"No, Damian, that is very much you. We took complete biometric scans to
ensure that there could be no mistake. However, a key component of our
treatment is to give you something close to experience your victims
endured. We used a new medication to prevent temporary memory from being
stored, so the last thing you remember was just before we intervened. That
medication has now flushed out of your system.

"You are here to understand what you did to Charles, and a host of others,
so you can be returned to society no longer a threat to yourself or
others. You became an 'Angel of Justice', but an angel in service to a
'justice' so demented and twisted as to be unrecognisable. Here we will
remove your ignorance of what your victims suffered, and we will also take
away the block that allowed you to become what you are. We will then build
you into a productive and, eventually, fulfilled man.

"Sleep now. Tomorrow will start your treatment. Sleep and be ready."

I fade from consciousness less from his suggestion than my own fatigue.

*****

"So which view would you prefer, my Lord?" It is nice to know that the old
privilege is still respected at some level. "Rear can show to subjugation;
Front can show the realisation of the man's new status, or profile can show
a little of both."

"Front. I want to see the face of the man who tried to destroy my son."

"Excellent, sir, excellent. Video of all three will, of course, be
presented to you at the end of the treatment."

*****

When I wake, I am no longer in the hospital bed. I feel rested, healthy,
awake and aware. I am about to decide the whole things was a fever-dream
when I feel the restraints. Wrist. Ankle. My head is immobilised, facing
straight forward. I can't even see my hands. I am face down (technically,
though, my face is cranked upwards) leaned over something. Bench?
Taller. Table? Maybe. I rear up and find other restraints at neck, back and
hips. "WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?"

That evil little chuckle is back. That effete little faggot is someplace
behind me. I can't move my head but realise that I don't need to. In front
of me is a mirror and I can see the little fucker standing behind me and to
the right. I frantically scan the rest of the room, but see nothing but the
mirror; I am in a.... spotlight? Something. Enough light splashes to show
me that fucktard, but the rest is in shadows.

"Damian? I trust that you recall our chat? And Charles Maxwell?
Excellent. Please try to keep in mind that everything that is about to
happen, Mr Damian Goratto, will happen solely because of choices that you
yourself made at the time, and the releases you signed when you joined the
programme. Nothing will be done to you that you did not choose to do to
others; nothing that we did not explain when you consented."

That smile and that voice are really pissing me off. I go all Hulk in an
effort to burst my bonds, screaming and cussing. Even at my most physical,
my body barely moves. Whatever my chest is resting on is firmly bolted to
the floor and although open below my stomach, the bindings are both
thorough and effective.

That fucking chuckle! It's like ice down the spine. "Now that you have that
out of your system, I will tell..."

I begin to hurl every filthy curse I can imagine at the placid, smiling
face behind me. His expression of interest and amusement doesn't shift, but
he does shrug. I see him move forward. FINALLY. He's coming to his senses
and is gonna get me out of this thing. Instead, he reaches down and clamps
something HARD on my nipple. My howl of pain and rage stops abruptly and
the little fucker steps back. He's forced a rubber ball gag into my mouth,
stretching my jaws and locking my tongue below it.

No amount of screaming loosens the gag and I finally give up trying.

"Let's start over, shall we? Now that you have that out of your system, I
will tell you what you were, what you are and what we will rehabilitate you
into. I'll explain some of the things that will happen to you over the next
few hours, then few weeks, then the rest of your life."

I switch from looking at that face that I want so desperately to smash and
then to myself. Immobile, gagged. In a sudden rush, I take in more of
myself. I hadn't been looking earlier. My eyes pop like a cartoon
character. I am naked. The table isn't level, but slanted just enough that,
in the mirror, I can see my cock and balls hanging between spread-wide
thighs. My wrists are secured to the top of the table and each ankle is
stretched to the bottom of each rear table-leg. I writhe but nothing moves
other than my swaying eggs and I can't make any real sound.

"As I mentioned, you need to understand what you did to Charles Maxwell, to
so many young and promising men. It has been researched in close detail. In
most cases, you lured them from a bar or similar gathering place to a
remote and secure location. In the case of Charles, a deserted
warehouse. Since this is a very secluded and oh-so-secure place, let's say
that step is complete."

Sudden realisation strikes. To "understand what I did" they plan to force a
real man, me, through the righteous treatment those fucking little queers
got! The unfairness of that shocks me to the core. I should probably be
afraid, but all I have is rage. They were FAGS! They ASKED FOR what I gave
them! They DESERVED what I gave them! I am a normal man, not some twisted
freak! Nothing comes out past the gag, however and that sinister-calm voice
continues.

"Next, you struck them so they could not fight back. We're a little off
script there. We don't want you missing out, and frequently your victims
were dazed or nearly-unconscious as you beat them. Instead, we have made it
so you are just as helpless, just as at the mercy of some powerful and
unknown person, but also able to appreciate the nuance."

I glare at him with pure murder, hatred, defiance. FUCK THEM!

A figure steps forward, slowly resolving as he enters the pool of
light. The man is huge, a freak of nature. He holds a black satchel.

"Whilst I have your undivided (and unimpaired) attention, let me be more
specific about your future. I promised to explain what will happen in the
immediate, mid-term and long-term future. Today, for quite a long time
today, actually, you begin to appreciate what your victims felt. A lot of
that was physical and, oh yes, you'll feel every sensation you gave them
over the next few sessions.

"Most importantly, though, as you beat and raped and beat them again, the
other thing they felt was the despair knowing that the life they'd been
living, enjoying, planning, was at an end. That what you were doing to them
might well kill them, but even if the survived they would be scarred and
ruined. You beat and raped their futures as much as their body.

"You will never, ever, leave our control for the rest of your life."

All breath leaves my lungs. My face drains of colour and my eyes go wide
and white.

"Yes, you feel that? That is just a tiny taste of what they felt. Why only
a fraction? Because you might hold a delusion that you could eventually
find a way to return to your life. They *knew* that what you were doing
destroyed that chance for them. Don't worry, over the next few weeks you
will come to appreciate that same loss, that grief for a future you will
never have. You will have a future, though, and become a productive and
happy contributor to society. It may be inconceivable to you now, but you
will come to love your position in society.

"Aren't I a Chatty Cathy today? Top-Toy, the slave behind you, will take it
from here. I will, of course, provide commentary. Oh, and Top-Toy is
actually a graduate of the programme you have chosen to join."

I watch in mounting horror as the little faggot pulls forward a chair and
sits down to my left, basically even with my head. His voice is a purr,
dripping retribution and disgust. "You won't need the gag any longer." That
fucking sinister chuckle, "although I promise that you'll soon wish you had
it. I am normally quite professional about these things," he leans close to
my ear, "but this one I am so going to enjoy."

He extracts the gag and I feel a jab in my thigh and can see Top-Toy moving
away with a syringe. I try to ask a question but the gag's effects make it
hard to find my voice.

"Oh, don't worry about that. Top-Toy just gave you a special cocktail we
use. It heightens sensation but retards your ability to pass out. For you
to move past the crippled state you are currently in and start your
rehabilitation, you will need to really understand what your victims felt."

On that last word, something mammoth crashes into my arse-cheeks. I see
Top-Toy draw back a large, black board pierced with holes. The huge paddle
crashes down again before the screaming even starts. *My* screaming, I
belatedly realise as the pain and humiliation mount. To be spanked is
always humiliation; that's half the point. To know that it is simply the
start is nearly unbearable. Pain upon pain upon PAIN! I am not even aware
that he has stopped until I see the giant set the paddle aside; I sob with
relief.

"One of the things you did to, let me see? James Vickers was especially
cruel. He was an art student. You crushed his hands."

I start to scream long before the giant's rubber truncheon hits my smallest
finger. He waits until I stop, or at least subside to blubbering sobs,
before repeating it with each finger in turn. I am begging and pleading
before he even finishes with my right hand. He then goes to the other hand
and repeats the process, slowly and deliberately making sure that I have
lots of time to anticipate and savour the pain.

"Was that fun for you, Damian?" My eyes and nose run with tears and snot
and I can barely see myself in the mirror. I would hang my head if I could
move it. "Did your most precious passion, to paint and draw, die before
your eyes as each finger felt the mallet? Sadly, we decided not to maim you
the way you did the young Mr Vickers. Top-Toy is extremely skilled. You got
something similar to the pain James felt -- not completely since the agony
broken bones cannot be replicated -- but I think you get the idea.

"You also beat all them in the..."

"NO! Please! I'll give you anything. I'll do ANYTHING! PLEASE! Please, oh
God, please STOP!"

"Actually, that is precisely what one of your victims told us that he
screamed and begged as you destroyed him. I certainly think you deserve the
same tender mercy you gave him."

The words are not out of his mouth before I feel a crushing blow to my
gut. I try to scream, but the blow to my solar plexus renders me mute. Blow
after blow after blow. My gut, my back, my sides. I cannot specify how long
it goes on, where I am struck or how hard, but I can answer qualitatively:
Forever. Everywhere. Harder than I ever imagined.

When the beating stops, I have run out of tears. My mouth is gaping in a
scream so intense that I can't breathe in without starting immediately. I
see in the mirror a shiny wetness below me; I pissed myself at some
point. My traitorous mind pops up the thought, 'How I laughed when the
faggots pissed themselves. The rush! The power!' I weep to the depths of my
being.

Once I catch my breath, that horrid and unbearable voice resumes.

"But let's not forget your favourite targets."

My eyes go saucer-wide as I realise what is about to happen. With every
faggot, every time, I paid special attention to their... Top-Toy strikes
just as I exhaled fully, so there is no scream to produce. Something thin
and wicked slashes into my nuts, then my cockhead. I'm afraid to look
because I think I've been castrated, but I am unable to look away as the
mirror shows the blows flicking up (a cane? A reed? A switch?) over and
over and over.

I taste the vomit before it begins to spew out before me. That horrific
inner voice resumes, 'Oh, and when they started to puke! The absolute
*best*! I made all of them wallow in it, and many eat it back. Nothing like
that power rush!' The wail ripped from my throat is not just pain, but
despair and remorse. Spasm after spasm empties my guts. The soft diet means
that it drips down me. Suddenly the torture stops. Ragged and shuddering
gasps of breath are all I can manage.

"What did you do then, Damian? After you'd made them piss themselves,
begging for mercy or death, after they puked from the pain, what did you
do, Damian? Did you walk away, leaving them broken of body? Tell me Damian,
what did you do next?"

"No. No. Not that. No. Oh God let me die! Not that. Let me DIE!"

"Very good, Damian! The exact words some many of your victims screamed,
those who could still scream. Top-Toy, are you prepared?"

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 escaped... or just delayed?

<eof>

This is undeniably dark and disturbing, and I'm not sure (even as the
author) that I like it. Let me know if this story should continue.