Date: Mon, 27 Feb 2017 11:48:48 -0500
From: Bear Pup <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Turntable Rehabilitation Services 7

Please see original story
(www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/authoritarian/turntable-rehabilitation-services/)
for warnings and copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights
reserved. Included dominant/submissive, BDSM and coercive sex between
men. Go away if any of that is against your local rules. Practice safer sex
than my characters. Write if you like but I will write you into the nasty
bits of a future story if you flame me. Donate to Nifty **TODAY** at
http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html

*****

I have never screamed with such need, such animalist demand, such
primordial lust. Each zap sends me to heaven, zipping and jumping from
piss-slit around the head and back. It is when he finally gets to the very
rear surface of my flared and purplish head, though, that my world
explodes. He runs the zapping, electric torment across the most-protected
nerves in my body and my entire body cums. It is rapture. My nipples shoot
wad after wad. My fingers and toes ejaculate. Every muscle cooperates to
expel the endless orgasm. It is more than all-encompassing, it is
all-consuming. And then, like a light switch thrown, it is nothing at all.

*****

Turntable Rehabilitation Services 7: Good Morning Sunshine By Bear Pup

M+; piss; humiliation; gym; anal/remote-control orgasm

I wake, staring at the person I've come to hate most in the universe, the
ceiling faggot, nude as always. He wriggles and writhes seductively as If
I, a real man, would fucking care. I watch as he gets harder and harder
watching me, his fantasy man, lying strapped to this bed. His dick, I'll
admit, is nearly as large as my own and his swollen, abused nuts churn as
he drinks in my appearance.

I jump as Ceiling-Ian steps next to his bed just as Real-Ian moves to
collect me for my morning bathroom break. After the humiliating ritual of
him wiping my ass and inserting the pacifier thing, I am really looking
forward to the breakfast that Ian normally brings. Dinner the night before
had been light and I was ravenous, but the morning tray was nowhere to be
seen

Instead, Ian escorts me to the place where we'd had that horrific,
mortifying lunch the day before. As before, the room is filled with people
in street clothes and uniforms, with a scattering of naked men like me. Ian
turns me over to an Attendant who ushers me to the line in front of the
serving window.

He points to the keypad and says, "This is Dining Room 6. You'll eat here
from now on. Every meal is custom. Many include medications, so we have to
be careful that you get yours and *only* yours. You need to enter your name
here and then say it aloud clearly so we can match your voice-print to the
records and ensure you get the right breakfast."

I step up and type in, 'Damian Goratto' and say my name aloud. The screen
changes to, 'No Matching Record. Enter and Say Your Name.' I try twice more
with the same result, baffled.

"Do you mind?" A rich, soft but annoyed southern drawl purrs over my
shoulder. I turn and see a voluptuous negress, immaculately dressed,
perhaps 5 feet tall; I blush in horror and try to cover myself. She just
sighs and steps to the screen, types a moment and says clearly, "Latisha
Owens." The screen flashes from black to green and a breakfast tray
appears. With a final contemptuous frown for me, she heads to a nearby
table and I return to the screen.

I try 'damian goratto', 'Goratto, Damian' even various misspellings like
'Damien'. Nothing.

I feel a huge hand on my shoulder and jump. An incredibly tall, thin
nigger, like coal-black, stands there. He is wearing a white doctor's coat
with an illegible name stitched in blue. His face, at least a foot or so
above mine, has a sincere look of concern and compassion, perhaps tinged
with pity. His voice is soft, gentle, melodious with a very 'not from
around here' accent and amazingly deep, "Son, you can't read or write, can
you? Poor boy, it's okay, just get an attendant to help."

I am apoplectic with rage. This fucking nigger thinks I can't even type my
own fucking name!?! "F-f-f-f-f-f" I can't even form the words.

I could kill him if I wasn't paralysed with fury when he pats me on the
head, "It's okay, boy. Attendant! Here Please!" He steps around me and
types then says, "Dr Gregory Mbutu." His tray appears. Just as I am about
to explode in screaming abuse, the attendant is between me and the nigger
doctor.

He looks down then checks his tablet. "There is no one in the facility by
the name you keep typing. It's really very simple. First name, then if you
have one, a last name." His voice is calm, bored, like a playground
attendant at a school for the terminally stupid. "You can, um, spell your
name, right?" he asks with a raised brow. By this point, my stomach is
growling as much as my anger. Then it hits me. That queer's sinister
fucking voice comes back in my head and I blanch, every corpuscle of blood
dropping from my face and brain. No. No. No, no, no, NOOOO!

My hands shake powerfully as I type in 'Pee-Pee Boy'. With increasing
dread, I lean close to the microphone and whisper, "Pee-Pee Boy". The
screen changes to, 'Voice Print Not Recognisable. Re-Enter Name and Speak
Clearly.'

I type again, speak softly by clearly. 'Voice Print Not
Recognisable. Re-Enter Name and Speak Clearly.' Weeping in residual rage
and new humiliation, I enter 'Pee-Pee Boy' again, choke on my own sob and
say loudly, "Pee-Pee Boy!" Sniggers and laughs echoed around me. The
negress who'd pushed past me earlier turns with a look of such disgust; the
doctor with a smirking sneer.

I grab the tray that comes out and flee, only to find there are no empty
tables. Crimson in the face, shaking so badly the cup rattles on the tray,
eyes clouded with unshed tears of shame and anger, I finally find a table
with only a few guys, two in uniforms and one in street clothes. I sit and
hang my head, unable to look up, much less think about food.

The voice is calm, authoritative, masculine and stern, "Excuse me? It's
polite to introduce yourself and ask permission before just butting in at a
tableful of strangers."

I look up, abject dismay plastered across my face. My mouth works like a
fresh-caught fish but no sound comes out. All three men are now frowning at
me, awaiting a response. "Well?"

The tears that had clouded my vision begin to streak my face, but I manage
to stutter, "I'm Pee-Pee Boy. C-c-can I sit here?"

One looks at me with disgust and the other with contempt, but the authority
figure who spoke first simply says, again in a singsong,
slow-kid-playground voice, "Are you likely to live up to your name here at
the table, Pee-Pee Boy?" One of the other two laughs as I shake my head,
looking down at my plate, beyond the reach of degradation. "Then you're
fine. Let us know, please, if you need to pee-pee. We'll get an attendant
to help you to the potty." Another raucous laugh as they return to their
breakfasts.

Perhaps ten minutes pass, and the only thing that changes about my tray is
the occasional teardrop hitting it. Suddenly, there is an Attendant, female
by the voice, at my shoulder.

"You will eat your breakfast, son. You will always eat what you are served
as long as you're here. We know everything about your body's needs and take
great care to keep you fit and healthy."

I don't look up, but just give my head a small shake. "Son, don't do this."
I feel my shoulders shake as I sob silently. The woman sighs deeply and
taps something into her pad. I stifle a groan as the thing in my ass begins
to twist and throb. It goes on long enough for me to come to full,
mortifying erection, blood rushing to cock and face in equal measures.

It stops just as suddenly. "Come on. Are you going to eat your breakfast
like a good little boy or do we need to...?"

I grab my spoon and begin to shovel the porridge-like stuff in, swallowing
when I actually want to retch. The taste is actually delicious, but I can't
notice. It could have been ashes. The attendant leaves with a final, "Good
boy," in the exact voice one would give a dog who'd just fetched a
stick. My stomach clenches but I keep the stuff down. There is a small bowl
of nuts that I don't recognise and a large glass of apple juice, the last
item on my tray. I am halfway through it when I realise there is a second
taste. Piss.

I come as close as I've ever done to vomiting in public, just barely
holding it. The three men had left at some point. I am frozen mid-swallow,
glass still to my lips as my belly writhes and recoils. I finally am able
to finish the drink and simply sit, staring at the glass, lost and broken.

An Attendant notices and instructs me on clearing my tray and dishes. He
checks his tablet and calls "Runner!" One magically appears and the
Attendant recites "Code 73764. I've beamed the itinerary to you."

The Runner causes my wrists to snap together and walks me to a gym, similar
to but different from yesterday. A half-dozen naked, straining men are at
work on a variety of equipment that are strange but probably
cardio. Another Trainer, this one clearly a dyke, takes charge of me. I
look her spandex-covered form up and down. She's got a hell of a body. Hips
to die for, nice if compact titties that beg for a rough touch. Do
something with that lesbian haircut and add some makeup and she'd be
hot. She sees my eyes roving her.

"Your name?"

My leer vanishes like smoke. I about die as I realise my lip is trembling
and my knees are shaking like a little girl. But I know there is no
escaping it. "I, I, I am p-p-Pee-Pee Boy." She barely blinks as the shame
washes through me.

"Okay. Before we can get to building you up, we need to get your body back
on track. Like a lot of patients new to the programme, you've spend too
much time in bed and too little exercising, Pee-Pee Boy. That ends today."

She leads me to a space-age contraption of black and steel. She steps me up
onto platforms like individual treadmills and fastens my ankle restraints
to a pole beside each. This allows me to move them like I'm walking, but
there would be no way to step anywhere but the treads. My wrists restraints
leap to some handles slightly above head height.

The Trainer attaches some sensors around my upper arm and I jump hard when
I feel her attach wires to the thing shoved up my ass. During the process
she is explaining what will happen, stopping frequently to make sure I
understand.

"The sensors monitor damn near everything about you, Pee-Pee Boy, and your
training will adjust accordingly in real-time. Today is easy. It's a
climbing runner. Pull down with one arm and push up with the other. The
machine will guide you. Same with the feet, just keep up as the programme
takes you through the paces. Fair warning: slack off and the machine
knows. Treat this like a carnival ride, Pee-Pee Boy, and you will very,
very quickly regret it. Okay, the programme will start when I walk away. If
you need me, call out for Train Wreck, that is my name."

She's true to her word. The machine begins to move and I pull and push and
walk at the pace it sets. As I feel my muscles loosen and get the rhythm
it's setting, I just let my mind go onto Gym Rat mode. I tune out
everything and simply live inside the private worlds of my muscles and they
flex and tense. Before long, the machine is changing things up. The angle
of the platforms change so it's a steep uphill or equally-challenging
downhill slope. I begin to notice the tension on the hand-poles changes;
sometimes it is as bad as pulling the string on a bow, others it is like
lift free weights. This is a fucking cool machine!

I have always been more for strength than cardio, and I am quickly huffing
my breath and pouring sweat. I find that I am actually getting winded and,
being in Gym Rat mode, moved to deescalate and start a cool-down cycle. The
machine is with me for perhaps four paces before it becomes increasingly
insistent. I slow further, letting the machine do the work.

That is my first truly horrifying mistake. It takes a moment for me to
recognise the sensation with the sweat running down my crack, but the thing
inside me has come to life again. It begins a rhythmic pulse timed with the
machine's motions. I groan as it intensifies and suddenly recall Train
Wrecks' words. I launch back into the routine, doing everything that
machine wants me to, but the persistent throbbing remains.

I get to 'the wall' and feel my thighs and biceps begin to shake with the
unaccustomed strain, and take a moment to pull back until I can push
through it. Apparently, that is *not* what the machine has in mind. The
throbbing in my ass changes, pulsing and probing against my prostate now. I
cry out as I feel my cock bound to full erection and throw everything I
have into the exercises as quickly as possible to prevent any more
escalation.

As before, though, the new level of torment simply plateaus. It doesn't
fade as I return to full-power. I live in torment, muscles screaming and
ass throbbing and mind reeling. It goes on forever. Eventually, I reach my
absolute limit and know there is not another ounce of energy left in me. I
am weeping, knowing that whatever is next can neither be prevented nor
escaped. I am suddenly a muscle-weary rag doll being manipulated by this
monstrous machine.

It senses the change instantly and the pulsing and throbbing changes
again. Now it is rhythmically pummelling my love nut, fucking me tirelessly
and relentlessly. I cry out with each thrust, but cannot make my arms and
legs respond to save my life or what tatters are left of my soul. The
machine doesn't care. When I fail to return to the programme, I feel
something new and revoltingly-wondrous.

Where the thing penetrates my ass, the thin little stem that keeps the
whole unspeakably evil thing where it should never have been, a tickling
begins. Suddenly I realise it is the sensation of zapping and zinging from
yesterday, the electric sparks. Except now it is attacking the lips and
rings of my asshole mercilessly. Far, far worse is that it is *not*
synchronised with the pseudo-fuck inside. The jolts are random. I jump or
cry out or squeal with each, then await in mounting horror not knowing when
the next will strike.

I think it that suspense that drives me insane and toward an inevitable
completion. I try, I really do, to move arms and legs again, but fail. The
machine seems patient, waiting to see if I am really going to rejoin the
programme. When it realises I'm not, everything -- jolts, thrusts, throbs,
pulses -- escalate until I scream, throwing my head back in a howl even as
my arms and legs are flung about. My cum erupts, painting the steel of the
machine in front of me as the thing in my ass forces me to rapture. I wail
in misery but my body is alive with the orgasm, revelling in the sensation
even as my mind is tormented and my soul rended apart.

I have finally reached my limit when everything, ass and legs and arms,
stops. I hang there, sobbing and utterly, irretrievably broken.

Train Wreck is suddenly in front of me, her voice amused and stern. "Sorry,
Pee-Pee Boy, but I warned you. Maybe you'll take it seriously
tomorrow. Now, clean up your mess." I still hang sobbing until I feel a
lunging jolt against my abused prostate and I stiffen. My restraints come
free suddenly and I fall back, caught by Train Wreck, her strength evident
as she handles me easily.

"Pee-Pee Boy, I'll give you sixty seconds to recover. If you aren't
cleaning up the mess you made by then, you'll have two messes." I suddenly
hear the jeering laughter around me, "Do you really want to put on
*another* show for the room, Pee-Pee Boy? Hmm?"

I pull my weeping self together quickly, horrified at the thought of that
punishment. It had been torture, but the idea that the next time I'd
realise that everyone, EVERYONE was watching and laughing make the concept
unbearable. I look around for a rag with which to wipe down the
sweat-soaked and cum-drenched machine. Train Wreck notices and sighs
deeply, exasperated, almost broadcasting the thought, 'Why do I get the
terminally stupid ones?'

"Suck it up, boy, literally. Use your tongue and lips, Pee-Pee Boy, but you
want to make damn sure it's clean. There are worse things that anal
orgasms..."

It takes me perhaps 15 minutes, lapping and slurping up a mixture of my
sweat, my cum, and my constantly-dripping tears. Train Wreck is finally
satisfied and yells, "Runner!" I am barely aware and can look at nothing
but the floor that I'd so recently been licking.

"Code 73764. And he reeks. Get him hosed before lunch, please."

<eof>

Ideas and suggestions are more than welcome; they are driving quite a bit
of Pee-Pee Boy's rehabilitation: orson.cadell@gmail.com - Bear Pup

*****

Active storelines, all at www.nifty.org/nifty/gay...
Karl & Greg: 17 chapters .../incest/karl-and-greg/
Canvas Hell: 14 chapters .../camping/canvas-hell/
Beaux Thibodaux: 6 chapters .../adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/
The Heathens: 7 chapters .../historical/the-heathens/
Mud Lark Holler: 6 chapters .../rural/mud-lark-holler/
Turntable Rehab: 6 chapters .../authoritarian/turntable-rehabilitation-services/