Date: Fri, 14 Aug 2009 12:51:05 +0800
From: mike lynch <lynch.um@gmail.com>
Subject: Whore & Order Chapter 6

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.