Ashley’s Idea

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Session

By Brewt.Blacklist

May 2015

"AH, YES. Please. Come in. We’re so very glad to have you back."

"Thank you."

"It’s been, wow. Months. You do know that the rules in insurance have changed, and that this is covered now, don’t you?"

"I don’t think I knew that."

"Oh, yes. Completely. Once you’ve met your deductible, this is all covered, and for you….yes. You can come back every day for the rest of the year, if you’d like."

"Really? Is that for everyone?"

"Absolutely."

"Bureaucrats finally did something right, eh?"

"Indeed they did."

"I would think you would be much busier, then. I had no trouble getting in at all."

"Well, we’re not convinced the insurance change is common knowledge yet; regulations are unnecessarily cryptic, you know."

"You’re telling me."

"I don’t know why they are so allergic to plain language. We had to hire someone just to figure the darn things out, if you’ll excuse my French. Anyway, if you want to set up a schedule, you might want to do that before you leave, before we do get booked up."

"Yes. Yes, of course, thank you. I’ll, uh, I’ll do that."

"Very good. So. I do have to ask a few things, as it’s been such a while since you’ve been to see us. Have you been getting this taken care of at other facilities?"

"No."

"Right. Consequently, I’m afraid I do have to ask: have you been getting private help?"

"God, no."

"And you will have to forgive the intrusion but…have you been taking care of it yourself?"

"Absolutely not."

"Hence, it truly has been since you were last in to see us in December?"

"I’m afraid so."

"Well, we certainly don’t try to tell you how to live your life, but, would you agree that isn’t perhaps the best lifestyle choice? Research shows tha—"

"—It wasn’t a question of choice on my part. I’ve just been absolutely buried at work, and there are only so many candles I can juggle and burn on both ends at the same time."

"Oh, no, there’s no judgment. I’m not trying to make you feel bad about anything here—we all do have lives that are busy—and we do appreciate your business. But you do have to take care of yourself fir—"

"—You mean I should let you take care of me."

"Yes, of course. That’s what we’re here for, sir. Now, if you’ll come with me, we can get things started, and begin to make things back to how they should be."

"Sure. Listen, I didn’t mean to snap at you ther—"

"—Nonsense. Frankly, it’s been rather long, and I’m surprised you haven’t done anything about it yourself until now. It’s best you came in. It isn’t the least bit surprising that you’re a little cranky, if you’ll forgive me for saying so."

"Well, it’s not right of me to lash out at you like that. It’s not like it’s your fault."

"Please, think little of it. I am a professional, as are we all here."

"And I do appreciate that; thank you."

"Ah, here’s your room. After you."

"Very nice. Should I start getting undressed?"

"Oh, you can wait until after I’ve left, sir. As usual, if you would start out face down on the table. Your therapist will be in momentarily."

"Alright."

"Now, there have been some rule changes since you were here last, what with the way insurance works these days. The very first one is that you are not allowed to speak with your therapist at all."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Given the nature of the procedure, insurance has dictated some terms to deal with coverage issues that they—I’m so sorry to say—didn’t want to contend with."

"Then how will I tell her if it’s going alright?"

"I assure you, sir, all of our therapists are the very best at what they do, and can read you better than you can."

"Good lord, I wasn’t quite prepared for this. What if something goes wrong?"

"Nothing will go wrong. I can personally guarantee it. You will be very well monitored. Heart rate, blood pressure, electro cardiogram, electroencephalogram, you name it, you’ll be hooked up to it. What’s more, we videotape it all, to make sure everything is on the up-and-up, should the question get asked."

"That sounds…invasive. So why can’t I talk to her? Can’t I even say hello?"

"Good heavens, no. It is precisely those sort of attachments that insurance wants to avoid. It isn’t a question of courtesy or pleasantries or even secrets. We all know what you’re here for."

"It just seems so impersonal. So inhuman. Clinical."

"Which is part of the point, here, sir. This is being covered under the necessities of basic physiological needs, therefore there can’t be any remote hint of any kind of offensive emotional impact or attachment, as that would put what we do here under an entirely different clause on your insurance contract, which will accordingly land everything back to not being covered…hence costing you more."

"I’m not sure I like that."

"Unfortunately, it is what it is. Your trepidations are completely understandable, but I should stress that if you simply cannot abide by this procedure change, we will have to gag you. We can’t allow ourselves into a position to have this not be covered any more than you can. So it does put me into the position to have to ask: given the risks for default on coverage, would you accept being gagged from the start? Just to be safe?"

"I…I never have been."

"No, I didn’t see that in your chart. But it would be for everyone’s benefit if you would consent to that from the very beginning."

"I just don’t know."

"It’s certainly not something I can force you into. However, I would need you to sign this waiver to proceed if you decide to go without the gag."

"What is it?"

"It says that, if you speak during the procedure, that you will be held liable for the costs."

"How much are we talking about?"

"An estimate is on the second page."

"Good heavens! Why so much?"

"We’ve upgraded a lot of things around here, for compliance reasons."

"I can’t possibly afford that."

"Which is why insurance is such a blessing."

"Good lord. I will take the gag."

"Very good. Don’t worry; they’re not so bad. You will not be entirely helpless or incommunicative while you are in it. You will simply not be able to use words. You can still nod and shake your head, and you are free to make whatever noise you wish from under the gag."

"What about sign language?"

"Well, that does bring up the next point here. You will be bound."

"Excuse me?"

"Well, I think that would be almost obvious. So you couldn’t interfere with the procedure."

"How can that possibly work? With me tied face down on the table?"

"Believe it or not, the table has a very clever rotation mechanism in it. Upgrades, you know. We’re quite proud that our methods and equipment are actually from this century now. Your therapist—when they have gotten what needs to done with you on your stomach all accomplished—will be able to quite simply turn you over and finish it all up. It works like this. See? Less physiological impact on you than if you were to roll yourself over. You’ll hardly even know it is happening."

"This is almost too much. I’m beginning to think this was a mistake."

"I see. You are, of course, free to go, sir, and simply pay the consultation fee. Page three."

"This is outrageous. What if I went someplace else? Some place less advanced?"

"This is how the industry works now, sir. Assuming you can even get in somewhere else, it will happen pretty much the same way everywhere."

"What if I went with a freelancer?"

"As we’ve discussed, you’d be hard pressed to even find one any more, never mind trying to get it covered. They have been all but regulated out of existence. And doing it yourself, well, I think you know as well as I do how well that will work out."

"Christ. You’ll forgive me if I’m struggling with this. I just…Damn it!"

"No need for that kind of language, sir."

"Sorry…I’m sorry."

"We are trying to do everything we can to make you as comfortable as we can for this."

"This is a lot of adjustment. This is nothing like it was last year."

"Yes, of course. I understand, it is a lot of change. The future has a way of sneaking up on us. Would you like a moment?"

"No, I don’t see that I have any options here. Are there any other little changes I need to know about?"

"Only one that might be meaningful: we will have to blindfold you."

"Imagine my surprise."

"To avoid any kind of emotional issues, over attachment and the like, as we’ve already discussed."

"As we’ve already discussed. Gad. This is a bureaucratic nightmare."

"Personally, I wish it didn’t have to be this way; I’m a bit old-fashioned myself. But it’s not like we can offer you any kind of alternative, and I do apologize for that. What do you want to do?"

"I don’t have a whole lot of choice. Go ahead."

"Excellent. I will take my leave of you to go wrangle paperwork, and send in the technicians to bind you to the table, and apply the blindfold and the gag. Your therapist will be right with you."

"We do what we have to do."

###

"THANK YOU, yes. I have a question. Can I see the admissions person before we go any further?"

###

"YES, SIR. Is anything wrong? They haven’t tied you too tightly have they? Not cutting off any circulation? You can’t see anything from under there, can you?"

"How will I know if it’s a man or a woman?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well, we—or at least, I—have been talking about the therapist as though it was going to be a woman. If I can’t see or move, and they don’t talk—now, hold on. Is the therapist going to be gagged, too?"

"I…well…"

"It seems to me that if my speech is a problem, theirs is, too. Which means they pretty much have to be gagged as well."

"You make a valid point. And yes, that would probably be wise."

"Which makes me wonder how well they are going to be able to do what is necessary with their mouth otherwise occupied."

"Well, that goes back to your question as to whether it’s a man or a woman. It doesn’t matter."

"It matters to me."

"Which I do not understand why it is you don’t know this. We don’t facilitate your, uh, needs, with hands or mouths or any other messy ways into the human body any more."

"What?!?"

"No, of course not. It’s a machine. The therapist simply sets it up."

"Are you trying to tell me—"

"—Absolutely. It’s perfectly normal. You masturbation session is going to be facilitated by a machine. Programmed prostate stimulation, penis milking, the whole nine yards. I swear, we’re going to knock your socks off. Now, we are still going through some transition around here, but in another month or two, we’ll have the virtual reality simulators in place, and we’ll be able to put you into the middle of a real-time 3-d rendered pornographic movie simulation, as nothing less than the star who gets the girl, and we’ll be able to facilitate any kink you might want to explore. Even the nasty ones. All completely safe, and best of all, all completely covered. Your body won’t know the difference, and it won’t take long before you won’t know, either."

"I don’t wan—mgluphmph!"

"Thank you. Sometimes we just have to take charge of the patients. Now please call the therapist in; get this gentleman going. Standard five expenditures. Mmmm. I am quite sure this will work out well for you, sir. I’ve already taken the liberty of booking you in every day for the rest of the year, and…I’m sure you can well imagine how insurance views missed appointments. I hope you don’t mind: the phone has been ringing off the hook. Apparently, word is getting around. Good luck, and thank you again for your business. We do so very much appreciate it."

 

Posted with Blogsy

The Agenda

 

By Brewt.Blacklist

March-April 2015

I’LL TELL you what I’m afraid of. I am deathly afraid of what I so deeply hate. Or maybe it’s the other way around, I’m not sure. I am afraid of that movie. What happened in it, in that one part. The one of the men going down the river in canoes one last time before it gets flooded into a lake, and how they ran into some bad men who made the fat one do things. I can’t even bring myself to say the line of what they told him to do, how they wanted him to act, what they wanted him to say, let alone what they did to him. And if it were to happen to me, I’m afraid the hero won’t be there to save the day, to kill the bad men, to tell me it’s alright, and that we will never speak of what happened again.

I know. It’s just a movie.

###

I AM afraid of being kidnapped. Crazy, huh. Grown man being afraid of that. Of being taken out someplace I don’t know, blindfolded so I can’t find my way back, and forcibly stripped. I will be embarrassed over being ridiculed about my body which I know isn’t that great. Then, in my fears, I will be tied facedown to a bench of some kind, with my legs spread out wide, and my arms pinned, with a gag or something in my mouth so my captors don’t have to listen to me complain. I will be blind, defenseless and silenced, and it will be awful and terrifying. Oh, I will fight for as long and as hard as I can, but the truth is that they will outlast me in my efforts to struggle against the inevitable. They don’t even have to do anything at this point, they just have to wait for me to expend all my energies against ropes that will not let go. When I have no strength left is when they will start in on me, and I will be completely helpless to do anything about it.

They are going to tell me, over and over, how I have already spent more time with my own hands on a p-penis—my own—than I have ever spent with a woman. And it will be true. They are going to say that that alone is proof positive of what I really am, and that I am here, with them, to live up to myself. They are going to touch me all over, putting their hands on me everywhere, even where I don’t want them to. Especially where I don’t want them to.

The horror that keeps me up at night is the idea that in the midst of all this, one of the assailants will come up behind me, and force his penis into my anus. Just like that. I know it is going to hurt, and that is not the worst of it, no. I am afraid he will push himself in, and pull himself out, and go right back in, over and over, until he ejaculates semen inside of me. And that the whole band of villains who are with him are going to do the same thing, one after another after another. And it will feel like it will never end.

The entire time, they are going to watch me like a hawk, and if anything happens to me or my penis that even remotely suggests I feel anything but abject hate for what is happening, even to the point that I am just too tired to fight any more, they are going to point and laugh and carry on about how much I like it, not to mention how much they want me to like it. They are going to tell me that they accept me, that they want me to relax, that I am just like them, that I am among friends, that I don’t need to be afraid any more. To go with the flow.

Just to prove their point, one of them is going to get down underneath me, while all this is going on, and he is going to put his lips onto my penis. He is going to draw me into his mouth, and he is going to prove to them that I like it by making my penis become erect, and getting me to ejaculate. Now, make no mistake, I will do what I am supposed to do, and urinate into his mouth. The thing of it is, he isn’t going to care. Which will alarm me, because another message is going to get through to my reptile brain that I know is a trick, and it will say that he liked it, and that he accepted that—even that—about me, and I won’t know what to do. No one could possibly like that about anybody, could they? I will be confused, and the first chink in my armor will appear, and my descent and my fall will become inevitable. And when he is done having a good laugh about how I tried to defend myself by doing something horrid he actually likes, he is going to nestle in and stay there, licking and kissing on me until my penis is erect and straight and hard and long and deep in his mouth, with him going relentlessly at me, putting his hot wet lips right to my root, right to the very base of my penis no matter how far back into his mouth my penis extends, and when that is all I can feel, he will draw back slow, suckling on me, driving me insane with pleasure, going all the way back down and staying there, convulsing around me and letting me experience how good that feels, doing everything he can to make sure that it feels unbelievably wonderful there, right there in ways no woman has ever done for me before, not like this, until my penis pulses and my own semen flows that I won’t be able to do anything about. Which is only the beginning.

It will completely sicken me, sending waves of upset and fear through my belly. Just like it did the first time I was with a woman, and she let me put my hands on her breasts, and then between her legs. I was amazed that she didn’t slap me, that she actually wanted me to touch her, and to kiss her, and feel whatever I could with her, and it was like I couldn’t stop. She didn’t want me to stop. Unlike now, when I want all this to stop more than anything in the world. My face will flush and blanch and I’ll get dizzy and swoon, just like what happened the first time I made love to a woman—my wife—the first time I ejaculated into her mouth, her vagina, her anus, and my whole world changed.

What’s worse in all this, is that they are going to do it again. Someone else is going to end up down there, underneath the bench, and whoever it was that was in there first, beneath me, between my legs, is going to come around, and take the gag out of my mouth, and try to shove his tongue in, a tongue that is covered with my own semen. I will spit it out, and he will lap it up like it was good. The blindfold will come off, and I will be shocked to see that everyone in the room is going to be doing the same thing, and all the penises of the entire gang are going to be in each other’s mouths, deep and long and erect, going in and out of each other’s mouths, driving hard until they are all pulsing and thrusting and ejaculating with everyone collecting mouthfuls of semen, before they come around to force semen-covered tongues into my mouth before shoving the gag back in to make sure it all stays in there.

At some point, someone is going to come to stand in front of me with his pants down, and my face right there. He is going to rip the gag back out of my mouth and pull my head up by my hair, and slap my face, over and over, shouting at me about what he wants me to do, and present himself to me to do the same thing to him that yet another one of them is continuing to do to me, and I swear, I’m going to bite him. Even though I know it isn’t going to work out well for me. Because then they are all going to set in on me and start beating me. And I will hold out for as long as I can, keeping my lips sealed up tight, refusing to service anyone for as long as I can; I don’t want to do that. I really don’t. It would be the worst thing ever.

But somewhere along the line, they are going to figure out that they are going to have to do something drastic to me, to get me to cooperate, and they will. When they’re tired of using me as a punching bag, they’ll threaten to break bones in my hand—hand injuries always get my stomach to turn—and then they will squeeze my hand after they have shattered it and they will do it hard, and the very notion of that is going to overwhelm me and I won’t be strong enough. They are going to win. They are going to keep it up and they are going to torture me into it, until I give in, and give them what they want.

I am going to hate it. I am going to despise it. But somewhere out there, I am going to open my mouth, and a penis will go in, and I am not going to bite it, and it is going to get shoved in and pulled out and forced it back in again, just like has been going so relentlessly on behind me in my anus all this time, until, until I have semen in both ends of me at the same time.

I won’t swallow. Which won’t stop them from going at it again, and then again, squeezing my unbroken hand so hard it scares me, bellowing at me the whole time how I can make the pain stop, and they will probably threaten to break my other hand, too, and maybe an arm or a leg or a rib or even my jaw, grinding the bones, making me scream until I think that is all I can do—scream—and I let down the last of my disobediences as I do what they want. They will outlast my resolve, my conditioning, my own feelings. Torture works. Eventually.

I will swallow semen, and they will tell me that that wasn’t so bad, now was it, see, and some part of me I don’t want to acknowledge will start to believe, despite the fact that I am going to throw up, which will only give them something else to laugh at. They aren’t going to feed me or give me anything to drink until I do what they want, and my own body will betray me in its desire to stay alive, and I will cave in and do what they tell me to do and swallow semen right on down and keep it down. They will all line up, and they will all use me, in my mouth and in my anus, and it will never end. They will compliment me and pet me and reward me by suckling on my penis constantly until I expend semen, telling me what a good boy I am—that I am finally becoming what I am supposed to be—all along the way, whenever I do whatever they want, and I will begin to lose ground. I will begin to lose my sanity. I will begin to lose myself.

They are going to put their penises in my mouth after they have been in my own anus, and it will be covered with my own excrement, and they will make me clean them off. They will try to get me to expel all the semen that has been accumulating in my anus, and they will succeed in that, one way or another, so they can feed that to me, too. And then, every penis they have at their disposal will end up in my mouth no matter whose anus it has just been in, and I will be expected to clean them all. They will demand that I do so graciously, enthusiastically, voluntarily, and eventually, I will have to tell them how much I like it. I will lick and kiss and suckle penises all the live long day. Under threat of even more torture—like, say, with rubber bands wrapped tight around my penis that they will pull back and snap, from all directions at once, dozens of them at a time, until the rubber bands break, or with gallons of hot wax poured onto my penis and anus—they will expect me to convince them that I love doing this, and eventually, I will become convinced that maybe, just maybe I do.

The worst of it all is that through all of this, they are going to make me ejaculate. They are going to make me ejaculate constantly, into mouths, into the air, into anuses, and it will make them happy whenever that happens—they will be convincing—and they are going to reinforce verbally how obvious it is that I like it, that my penis likes all of the ways they are treating me, and they are going to wear me down. This isn’t going to go on for just a day or even two. This is going to go on for weeks. Maybe months. They are going to break me. And then break me some more. And then break me some more after that.

They are going to tell me that they love me.

And I am going to cry and I am going to weep and bawl like a baby, because they will have broken me. They are going to say and do whatever they have to to comfort me over the loss of my pride, of my arrogance, of my hate, and another part of me will believe. Somewhere along the line, whatever man who is doing that horrible thing to my penis with his mouth—that I must confess that until now, I have so liked to have happen to me, whenever a woman would do it—will stop, and somehow, I will continue to be erect before them all without him and his efforts.

They will also point and laugh and call me that shameful name that I use to be such a terrible insult to other men, and they will call each other that name and even worse ones, and it is all going to go on and they will do what it takes to make me laugh, too. There will be pleasant intelligent conversation that I would have never thought possible with these kinds of men, not with all the penises in my mouth, until they make mention of the idea that they aren’t even behind me any more, not with a penis in my anus but a tongue, and a finger finding its way inside me there onto the place inside a man’s anus that makes his penis erect and can even make him ejaculate semen without otherwise touching him, and they are doing that to demonstrate to me that they aren’t applying their lips to my own penis, and that I am still erect and that my own penis is throbbing and dancing around simply because one of theirs is in my mouth. I understand that they are trying to trick me into connecting the idea of having a penis in my mouth and having my own penis be erect, and, I’m sorry to say, that sooner or later, it will work. They are going to go at that spot inside my anus so I am erect all the time, and ejaculating all the time, until they can point out to me that just the very idea of applying my mouth to penises will make me erect, and it will be true. They will celebrate, and cover me with semen. They will urinate on me to wash it off. And they will cover me with semen again. I will be made to drink the urine that I am drowning in, with the promise that I will be punished if I don’t look like I like it. My mouth will fall open of its own accord, my anus will pulse and contract in anticipation of being penetrated by penises, and my very own penis will become erect without my permission and I will even ejaculate without anyone touching me over the whole idea of everything that is happening around me, all the time. The last part of me that can do so will despise what my own body will do for them, as even more of my resistances will collapse.

They will assure me that this is what is going to happen to me all day, every day, all night, every night, for the rest of my life. They are going to show me endless dirty movies that have men doing to each other what they are doing to me. I will be constantly surrounded by penises, erect and not erect, all touching me everywhere all the time, with the order being given to me that I have to do what is necessary to make the non-erect penises into erect ones, and for the erect ones, I have to do what it takes to get them to ejaculate, to emit semen which I will be expected to consume or welcome into my anus, until they are no longer erect, at which point I have to start all over again.

Just to drive it home, to prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that I am in fact now responsive to men and their penises, they are going to bring women in when I am utterly exhausted and unable to do anything, and say that if I really wasn’t like them, my captors, that if, deep down, I didn’t love what was happening to me, that I could have the woman, right there, right then, and they would let me go, and I won’t be able to do a thing about it. Now, I know that part of this is a trick: they are going to pick women that are very unattractive, and nagging, and generally unhappy and nasty, and I won’t mind that I do not respond to them, that I don’t become aroused to them. It won’t matter; by hook or by crook, my captors won’t let my penis become erect whenever some horrid woman is in there naked before me, complaining, only to throw her out and go back to putting my penis into their mouths, telling me how much they enjoy having my penis become erect in their mouths, and easing their penises into my anus and my mouth, gently guiding themselves in and out of me on both ends at the same time, until I ejaculate, until we all ejaculate, and they will periodically bring another ugly woman in who will do nothing but criticize me for not being good enough for her, all to reinforce the idea that I will simply no longer become aroused to any of them. My captors will parade endless naked grotesque and appalling women in through before me who will be miserable and unpleasant, and the men will torture me hard when they do, making me sick by poisoning me if they have to, only to bring in naked men who are all erect, and sculpted and fit and beautiful, and they are going to pet me and coo at me and tell me how beautiful I am when my penis is erect and in their mouths, not to mention the loving compliments they are going to give me when a penis is in my mouth or my anus, or my own unbroken hands, being adored.

Eventually, they will bring in my wife, and show her. They will show her how my penis becomes erect for a man, and not for a woman, and then for a man, and not for yet another woman, until they send her in to take her place in line, and I will fail her. I will not become erect for her, at the sight of her, at her presence, not even if she touches me tenderly on my penis or even my anus, not even if she offers her breasts to me, her vagina, her mouth, not even her own anus. Then they will want me to show her what I can do to myself with my own hands, my own unbroken hands, all while I am suckling on penises, while I am getting penetrated by penises in my mouth and my anus, and I’ll do it. I’ll do it even though it hurts my very soul, and they will be rough and I will respond to that because they will have promised me something much worse if I don’t—something like wrapping my penis with stinging nettle leaves, and attaching them in place with needles driven all the way through my penis, that they will electrify—and I will ejaculate in front of her, and I will drink semen and urine and lick excrement with a smile on my face and she will be disgusted with me. She will sneer her contempt at me, and deride me for being so weak, so corrupt, and she will call me a filthy name, and she will leave me forever. After she is gone, they will comfort me and make me orgasm so long and so hard that it will hurt, and I will ask them to stop, and I will beg them to let me go back to having penises in my mouth and my anus and my unbroken hands. Then they will bring other people I know, other members of my family, and the exact same thing will happen. I will be shown to everyone I have ever met that I will allow myself be penetrated by men, and that my own body will betray everything I ever believed in before about how men and women should behave toward each other, and I will reliably respond by becoming erect and ejaculating as though I like having penises in my mouth and my anus. And I will not be able to deny it.

I won’t have any fight left in me by the time they finish untying me, and I will kneel down naked before them all, and crawl to them, one man after another, and I will put my mouth onto the first man’s penis until he is erect, and I will keep myself there, loving this man’s penis as if it was my own, keeping my lips all the way down to the root for as long as I possibly can, letting his blessed penis reach all the way into the back of my throat, staying there so I can convulse around him and empower him, with me suckling on him, going up and down, up and down, driving him insane with pleasure, until the man whose lap my face is in sprays semen, which I will not only swallow but make a show of being deliriously happy that I am swallowing it, staying there with my lips and my mouth and my tongue around his penis until he is no longer erect, kissing and licking him, staying right there with him until he urinates into my mouth which I will also swallow with a smile and a joy, cooing at him and murmuring how much I love him and his penis and all it can do and I will offer to put my tongue into his anus which he will let me do for him and I will thank god for that, with me remaining with him, encouraging him, assuring him how much I want him to ejaculate semen into my mouth again, as I gently slide my finger—on my broken hand, which will have happened by then over a ridiculous defiance in me to a word they wanted me to say—into his anus and then onto the spot inside his anus that will make his penis erect again until he is in fact hard and long and completely erect again so I can once again get his penis deep inside my mouth for me to adore and we will go through it all again and again until he doesn’t want me to do that any more for him for now and he dismisses me, before I go on to the next man and do the exact same thing for him, and I will so serve them all, my captors, my masters, all day every day, and all night every night, and that will be what I am from then on. A man who holds penises in his mouth as though they were important, who ravenously consumes other men’s semen; I will be what my wife called me. A c-cocksucker. A man who willingly offers his own anus up to be penetrated by penises. A man whose penis becomes erect at the very thought of men and cocks and assholes and mouths and tongues and sperm and piss and shit. And there will be no end to the torture they inflict on me, say, with rubber bands or hot wax dripped onto my penis and anus, no end to th-the derision they heap onto me, and I will choke on semen and urine and excrement and pain and I will retreat into myself and be surprised to find that I like it all and miraculously, I will bless my owners for doing everything they have to me, and I will insist that they do everything they can to me, no matter how much it hurts, no matter how degrading it is. I will plead with them to wrap my penis with sandpaper, and to hold it tightly in place by driving nails all the way through my penis, and to electrify them, every day for the rest of my life, so that hopefully, I can eventually learn to orgasm from that, too. They will tell me that I am finally what I have been all along, that I am at last true to myself, and I will believe. I will give everything I have and am to these men.

They will dress me up in women’s clothes, and put makeup on me, and make me put my mouth on every man’s penis they can produce, and my anus will get penetrated by penises continuously, and my own penis will continue to become erect how and when they want it to, and they will have defeated me. I will become one of them. I will have no choice in the matter. They will have conditioned me to say what they want me to say, about how much I like it all, about how much I love to have penises inside of me, ejaculating, urinating, doing everything that penises can do to me, and that I will feel what they want me to feel, and I will think what they want me to think, and I will believe what they want me to believe, and there won’t be any question about it. They will expect me to crusade for them, and to bring other men in to do to them what was done to me, and I will. Cheerfully.

If they suggest to me that they want me to become a woman, to go through the treatment to change, to grow big breasts and to give up my penis and to have it turned inside out inside of me so men could f-fuck me there, as well as in my anus and my mouth, I would probably end up having to do that. I doubt they would give me much choice. I’m sure they will tell me that I have to become a woman so as to seduce more men into these ways, gleefully accepting whatever beating goes along with that when the reality of what I once was comes to light. It’s a powerful argument, my captors would say, to show angry foolish men the lengths we will go to to accept what they really are—men who would rather put their penises inside of other men than women, at least, certainly not real women—and it would take a strong man to make that case, especially as a woman, and they will tell me that I should pray that I may serve my true masters well. What else could I do?

###

THIS IS the plan, the strategy, this is how they do it, and it keeps me up at night, and it is why I masturbate to as many dirty movies as I can. Dirty movies with women in them—real women—just to make sure I don’t slip into what I am so afraid of. Filthy pornographic movies in which bitches and sluts and whores get fucked by cocks shoved all the way up into their assholes so that it hurts and hurts hard and then all the way down into their throats so they can choke on everything a cock can do to them, and sometimes even into their cunts that they will respond to as though they want that to happen to them all the time all day and all night, every day and every night, for the rest of their lives. An endless stream of beautiful women with big breasts, all being covered with semen and liking it, re-affirming that men do the very most right things when they present their penises to them, to allow the women to love them, carrying on about how they can always be there when a penis becomes erect and needs to let some semen out.

The women in dirty movies propagate the myth that they will love men forever no matter what those men do to them, and that there is never a cause or a reason for a man to let the sort of thing that I am so afraid of—to take another man’s penis into my own mouth or anus or hands until it ejaculates—to happen to them. To the men. To me. All of which I believe in so hard, that to help defend myself against that most alarming notion, I will even expend semen into my own unbroken hands over dirty movies and dirty stories and dirty pictures in which the woman doesn’t want any of that to happen to her, and she is made to accept it anyway. By being tortured, if necessary. Preferably ruthlessly. The women in dirty movies always give in to the men in the end the way I wish my wife would, and I have conditioned myself to want that, to need that, to desire that to the very core of my being. That’s how happily ever after works.

Should work.

The men who want other men to do to them what they should be doing with women, who want their own penises to spend more time inside another man than anywhere else in the world, are the very abomination the lord has said they are. They are evil, and they want all men to do as they do, and not to have anything to do with women at all. Obviously, they want the human race to die out because of that. These kinds of men don’t have children: no women. No real ones, anyway. I’m not sure where they come from. Somehow, they made a choice to be like this. It’s the only explanation.

If it were up to me, I would not be part of that, and I would not allow for anyone else to be a part of that, either. The men who want that kind of atrocity to happen to all mankind deserve to have happen to them what they want to happen to humanity, and they should die out, preferably in agony. For what they want is awful.

How could they do that to us? How could they do that to me?

Kill them all, I say. Like pigs. Squealing.

Because what I am really afraid of, is that somehow, deep down, they might be right. About me.

###

Posted with Blogsy

Amercement

By Brewt.Blacklist

March 2015

GOOD EVENING. Thank you all for coming. I know you all are busy, and I want you know how much I appreciate you taking to the time to come by here tonight. I pray you will not find it to be a waste of your ti—

I’m sorry. I am not trying to postpone anything.

No, you’re right. I am trying to stall.

Because I am frightened. You’d think I wouldn’t be by now, but I still am. It’s…a challenge to do this, and I don’t know that I will ever get used to it.

Of course.

Can I get anyone anything before we begin?

I would be delighted to. Anyone else?

Please forgive the delay. This will only take a minute. A hostess’s work is never done.

My pleasure. Anybody else? If anyone decides they need anything—food, drink, whatever—I would be overjoyed to stop the proceedings to take care of them.

No, I suppose that is not a very good joke, is it. My apologies. I’m not trying to be sarcastic. Forgiveness.

Alright then.

No, I am out of excuses.

Of course. Thank you, honey. Let me see you to the door. Love you. Later.

###

I HAVE asked you all to come here this evening due to direct orders. Every one of you was specifically chosen to come and see what happens here tonight. I pray this will be sufficient, and that my performance will be satisfactory.

I beg your pardon? No. I’m being punished.

Actually, I don’t know what all is going to happen, except that it will be awful.

No, no, for me. This is all supposed to be anything but awful for all of you. It will, I’m afraid, become a rather noisy affair, and I can very well imagine that I may become somewhat unladylike during the proceedings. I hope you will be able to tolerate the…hmmm…removal of my composure in all this. I do implore you all to stay until the bitter end, although I have been instructed to tell you that if what happens here tonight proves more difficult than you can bear—you all being gentlemen and all—to please feel free to leave in whatever huff you feel I deserve, knowing that I will then be under conscription to come to you individually to repeat as much as can be done privately, allowing for whatever variation or improvement on the business at hand you can come up with. Please feel free to make any suggestions you feel are prudent for this evening, and I will do my best to accommodate you here, tonight.

I understand. No, there actually aren’t any rules or restrictions when it comes to what happens to me here tonight, short of permanent disfigurement or death. If I can leave here still alive and basically intact, it’s anything goes. The only thing I ask is that you please take whatever frustrations toward any interference you may perceive toward your desires out on me, and not on one another. Please try to keep the peace between each other, as the whole reason behind all this is to punish me, and not to start any wars or breed any ill will amongst any of you.

I suppose you can look at this as a kind of a party, and it would be nice if you did not destroy my home.

Oh, wait, I guess there is one rule. I am to obey. You. All of you. You say it, I do it. That’s the rule. Ironclad, set in stone. And that I am to be punished for disobedience, however you may interpret that word. Those words. Simple, right?

I believe that is up to you.

Absolutely. It is entirely expected that you will make suggestions that are contradictory to each other to put me into a bad position, to have to choose one set of orders over another, knowing full well that any failure on my part to fulfill any and every one of your interests here shall be met most harshly.

Hmm? Oh, I think we are going to leave it at "I sinned."

Actually, no. I am under fairly strict orders to elaborate no further on that, with the idea being that it can serve as a starting point. You can try to make me answer whatever you wish to know about me or my situation, and throw down whatever action you deem necessary to get me to cave in to your demands. I’m not that strong of a person; I can confirm you that I probably will. Yield, that is.

Because this all scares the shit out of me. But please, don’t let that sway you or deter you from what needs to happen here.

Does anyone want to begin? Go ahead. Tell me to do something. Make a suggestion, a demand, anything.

No?

I don’t mean to be rude here, but will no one take up the cause? Perhaps I can offer something that may put you all at ease. How about I take off my clothes?

Well, for starters, it’s embarrassing. I had the very same impositions toward shyness put onto me that all of you have had, and so, yes, if all things were equal, I would prefer to stay dressed. Save some shred of dignity for myself. But then you couldn’t see my body and judge it as being lacking in some way, as is deemed so relentlessly necessary by our fucking society.

Oh, I assure you, it is. I may have too many moles or blemishes to be appealing, or I may slouch just the wrong way that clothing succeeds in covering up, or my breasts or my waist or my hips are too big or too small to induce your own senses of lust that is surely my fault, according to the messages we are all beset with every day.

Well, for example, I suppose you could complain that the curtains don’t match the drapes, and I guarantee you, they don’t, even though I was commanded to make that assessment difficult at best. No curtains, or drapes, or whatever it is that refers to what is between my legs.

Because it makes me feel more naked. More exposed. More vulnerable. It strips away a hard-won maturity, and it…reduces me. It’s amazing how much pride and ego is centered on that region, in both men and women.

My bad. Carpet.

What, wasn’t that clear? Yes. Sex—in any way, shape or form—is definitely on the table tonight. Trust me, you’re all gonna get some.

You should probably tell me to move my hands, don’t you think? To put them down to my sides, and not try to cover myself up in any way? So you all can see.

Yes. Of course. Thank you. I obey.

The answer to the next question is yes. You can touch. Don’t be shy.

Please don’t put me in the position of having to make suggestions throughout the evening. I need to be able to report that I didn’t try to influence things, that I didn’t try to make it easier on myself by taking advantage of your timidities.

Yes, of course I’ll spread my legs. I am yours to command. Would you like me to put my hands behind my head?

Sorry. That was the very sort of thing I was talking about, with me nudging things down one path or another. Because I can vouch that I have experience in these matters; I know myself well enough to tell you that I will try to manipulate the situation to my advantage. Which is part of the point here: to take that away from me. To strip me of power, as it were. Make me more…docile.

Yes. I have done this before. And yes. I hated it; apparently, though, not enough to suit. Punishment, you know. I’m a bit of a bad girl.

I must confess, I’m not all that fond of being touched. It’s invasive. But don’t let my quiverings present any barrier to your interests, assuming you have them. Which, in its own horrible way, is worse if you don’t. Suggests I am not good enough for you, and that I need to change whatever I have to to make myself more to your liking, and that I am somehow to convince you of my sincerity on that. Rejection is exceedingly hard on my sense of self-worth, if that little tidbit is of any use to any of you. There is honestly no end to how bad this all can go tonight. The whole design of it is that it is to be a challenge. For me.

Oh, I should say that if any of you have ever seen anything in any pornography anywhere, that you can rest assured that I will go out of my way to re-enact it to the best of my ability, no matter how raunchy it was, no matter how outlandish it was. And I am to remind you that, as this is punishment—for me—you should see to it that your pleasures are catered to, and mine are not, and that if you ever wanted to hurt and humiliate a woman and get away with it, this is your opportunity.

Yes. Of course. I obey.

No, I can attest to you, it is enormously humiliating to make a deliberate effort of displaying my asshole to you individually. Can you see? Do I need to arch my back more? Perhaps I should get down on my hands and knees, putting my face to the floor, and reach around behind me and spread myself apart. No, you can each look as long as you want. Do you…do you want to touch me there? Get me to flinch? You have full permission to handle me any way you want. No, you don’t need to be gentle. Yes, I did clean myself out in preparation of this. I would like to think none of you have any real interest in seeing me shit, but if you do, I will eat something and take some laxatives so you can watch me do exactly that. It will just take some time, which we have an excessive amount of.

Yes, I am ashamed to admit that I do enjoy getting fucked in the ass. It is dirty and shameful and exceptionally intense, and whatever it is in my psychology that makes me like that sees to it that I have a violent orgasm from it, much more so than usual if it really hurts, and at the same time it leaves me feeling like I had done the very most wrong thing I could, letting a man fuck me like I was a man, and I hate that it hurts.

Yes, of course. I obey. I am more than happy to turn around and lie down on my back and roll my hips up so there is no question as to what I am doing as I slide my own finger into my asshole and fuck myself there before you all. Do you want to see me suck on my finger, after it has been in there? No tricks; I’ll probably grimace. I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to stop that. Ugh. Again? Alright. Ugh. Still ugh.

Yes, I blush like this when I do this very thing to myself when I am alone, when I play with myself.

Just this morning.

Not quite every day, but pretty close.

Of course I will. But, need I remind you, this is punishment, and my own orgasm should not be catered to. I mean, if it were up to me, I’d be thrilled to lay here and masturbate all night long for you all. That would be much easier than what I am quite convinced will happen instead. But that kind of misses the objective here, and if I were to make a good report on all this—the kind that will get this punishment I’m undergoing to end—if anything, you should force me to cum when I don’t want to.

By doing something to me or making me do something I don’t like, and making me cum anyway. There is nothing much more degrading than that. Don’t you know—for example—that if a woman has an orgasm while she’s getting raped, that she will question everything about herself for the rest of her life? It’s horrifying.

Uh, yeah. I do know.

Oh, where do I begin? I despise urine, and as I’ve said, I can’t stand pain, and I can tell you that being made to suck the cock of a man I don’t particularly like is quite awful.

No, I’m sorry to say that you were all especially chosen to be here tonight for that precise reason above all others. Not one of you is someone I would want to be caught dead being seen with, let alone to have to cater to the childish needs you all have between your legs that you constantly end up having to take care of by yourself, all to some pathetic vision of some poor whore who has to suck your disgusting little cocks like a slut, making all the little murmuring sounds and gasps men so like to hear women make so very much that you’ll tolerate bored bitches faking that and everything else that goes along with the act that you think about way more often than you participate in—because you are all fucking losers—until you splootch your little spurt of jism that you, no doubt, will expect the naïve little dream-cunt to lick up with relish and swallow and look like she fucking likes it, cooing about how much she loves swallowing your stink like a brainless little porn star, despite the reality that you have to clean it up yourself so you don’t get caught. I wonder how many of you lick your own aching jerk-off hands that end up hurting from how hard and how fucking often you rub your feeble little wieners to get a good solid taste of your own sperm into your mouths like fucking fags. Maybe it’s something you all should learn to help each other with. No offense.

I don’t think so.

Well, clearly, you are going to have to make me.

What, you can’t figure it out, you stupid assholes? You’re definitely going to have to hurt me. Hard. And of all the ways I could possibly hate any which way you could come up with to do that, the absolute worst is if you whip me.

Because, over and above how much it fucking hurts, it is demeaning beyond the telling of it to be treated like a dumb stock animal, like something less than human, like a fucking fuck-slave.

Nonsense. Every one of you carries one with you all the time. It’s around each and every last one of your pudgy fat-ass waists.

###

NO PLEASE stop I’ll do it I’ll do it it hurts so fucking much I’m sorry oh dear god in heaven I’m so fucking sorry I swear I’ll suck your cocks all god damn night long no please fine I’ll do it tomorrow too I’ll do it every day from now on you call me I’ll come and I’ll suck your cock no matter where you are no matter what you’re doing each and every last fucking one of you and I will love your semen your load I will be your own personal cum slut yes yes yes yes I’ll drink your piss too I’ll be your fucking toilet I will kneel right down and take off my clothes and open my mouth and I’ll swallow I swear I’ll swallow I’ll guzzle it down in front of whoever you want to show off to like it was something good like I fucking like it and I’ll smile like a fucking piss whore and I’ll convince you that it’s special to me and that I want to do it all the god damn time what no don’t make me do that don’t make me masturbate while I’m swallowing piss I won’t be able to do it I won’t be able to cum I can’t I’m sorry I just can’t I’m trying god fuck that hurts shit you motherfuckers all of you I hate you I hate you no wait no please I’m sorry I’m sorry I didn’t mean that I love you I love every last one of you and I’ll be your pain toy your fuck toy your toilet toy you can fuck me in the ass and I’ll be your asswhore wherever whenever yes yes yes please stop hitting me please let me suck your cocks please let me swallow your blessed cum your piss I’ll lick your assholes I want to I want to please let me cum for you let me cum for you so you can laugh at what a filthy cunt I am please please please I’m begging you oh dear fucking god have mercy please kill me it hurts so god damn fucking much please let me suck cock please let me suck cock I want to that’s all I want to do please please please please please…

###

YES, THANK you for coming. Thank you. Good night. The truth? No, I did not have a good time. Of course; if you want me to say I had a good time, then I had a great time. The best of times. Ow. I’m sorry; I deserved that. Oh, no, thank you. Sure. Good night. Master. Master. Sir. Please don’t worry about the lamp; it’s just stuff, Master. Lord. Sir. I don’t know if it was sufficient or not. I pray it was, but I’m sure I’ll be calling you if it wasn’t. Thank you. Good night, Master. Of course I meant it. Any time, any place. You have my number, right? Thank you. Yes, good night, Master. My Lord. My King.

No, no, you don’t have to go. Yes, if you wish. I would be honored if you painted me white. Right here, right now. Make whatever mess you want on me. Are you up for it?

Ow. Sorry. It still all hurts a lot. Allow me.

###

WELL? DO you like the marks? I thought they were fairly outstanding this time.

Thank you, honey. Love you, too. Ow. Sorry. Can I suck your cock for a while? You know I’d love to.

I see.

So was this enough? No? Imagine my surprise.

Now who do you want me to call?

###

Posted with Blogsy