Date: Sat, 18 Feb 2017 09:15:31 -0500
From: Bear Pup <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Turntable Rehabilitation Services - Chapter 5

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.


<eof>

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.