MetaDeprivation - 14. MetaPrompts 589: Hung (MW8)

‘Who is singing that?’ he asked himself, starting to wonder about his priorities. Being blindfolded, gagged, handcuffed, just in boxer shorts in an unidentified building underground in the middle of nowhere wasn’t enough, he chided himself. He just had to know who delivered “You think you're a man, but you're only a boy,” so convincingly. Disconcerting pictures of CE in drag made him mumble: ‘What the hell are you doing, you assholes? Get these things off now.’

“Oh, pretty boy is awake,” one of the wolves teased.

Rob wasn’t sure yet he could distinguish all the voices without any visual clue, given his slightly groggy state, and the odd echo around him, but he guessed it was Sam, the Italian hulk, with muscles he, Rob, would never have.

“Not sure he qualifies as ‘pretty,’” Brian commented with a snarl, nearly jealously.

“Agreed. His face is much too squarish, and look at those small hands …,” another one added; he thought it was the bear, CE.

“Doesn’t matter,” Prime intervened with his typical boss voice and ordered: “Warren, get going!”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” the policeman snapped to order.

And then a buzzing noise filled the room.

“Mmmmmmhh!!” Rob tried to scream through his gag. Of course, those perverts knew about gags. It wasn’t just a ball held by some straps between his teeth. This was a mini-dick protruding deep into his mouth. Spitting it out, or making any human-like sound was completely impossible. Fags!

The buzzing came closer.

And then he realized what it was.

Hair clippers.

“You better not move,” Warren nearly begged.

“Don’t want to cut off those tiny ears,” another voice added – could that be that stoic marine – Isaac? He made no secret of enjoying Rob getting the ‘boy being cropped by the barber at the beginning of marine boot camp’-treatment.

“Although, it might be better to rearrange them a bit anyway,” Prime added, “not sticky out enough currently for Colt.”

‘For Colt?’ Rob screamed into his gag, dick, or whatever. He liked that nerd guy a bit; he liked him even more for giving Bradley a home; but he didn’t like him enough to give himself to him. He didn’t want to be one of Colt’s ‘boys,’ wolves or ‘play toys.’ But his protests were ignored if they were even heard. And why the hell was it so fucking cold? It was in the middle of the summer; even up here the nights shouldn’t be so cold. He must be somewhere underground. ‘Fuck, that Bond villain has his own dungeon,’ he realized. Or maybe every polyamorous gay group had a dungeon. What did he know?

And then the machine started its job.

“Wanna keep your hair, boy?” Isaac asked meanly.

Rob nodded desperately.

“Then hold up your hands,” Gavin continued the oldest boot camp joke. “Oh, I forgot, you can’t. Bad luck then.” He giggled.

Rob wanted to protest, but the blade hitting his scalp made him stop. Hair would grow back. Not his ears.

“We should have left him some hair. Bald doesn’t become him,” Brian commented once the deed had been completed.

“But you know Colt’s rules,” Prime interjected and closed the discussion.

When he felt that no more hair was falling onto his shoulders and a rough hand checked for rebellious hair, he thought things would be over, they would all laugh at the White Wolf Pack’s initiation hazing and move on, but CE’s voice barked. “I’m opening your handcuffs now, don’t resist, or I’ll break your wrists!”

“But why?” Rob whined into his dick; the picture of CE in drag singing the Divine hit was long gone. He felt rough hands handling the cuffs behind him. Faster than he could imagine, his hands were brought high into the air and fastened to some device. ‘Oh my fucking god,’ he thought. A mechanic click-sound confirmed his dreaded suspicion. He was slowly pulled up. He adapted first his wrists, then his elbows, and finally his shoulders. Slowly he was lifted from the chair. Somebody removed it swiftly. He thought he smelled some gun oil – maybe that hulk. And like in a cheap gay sado-maso porn movie, his full body hung stretched in the air. The tips of his toes could touch the cold floor. Before he could get used to the new position, a brutal hand ripped off his boxer shorts, scraping his back and his balls in the process.

‘My dear.’

“Good thing our Meta isn’t into dicks,” Prime snorted.

“Human. What do you expect?” Sam agreed. “Oh, well, his ass seems to be firm enough.”

Rob wanted to protest. His ass was off limits; so was his dick, but especially his ass. But of course, nobody could understand his mumbling.

“Bradley, Warren, get started!” Prime ordered again.

‘With what?’ Rob asked himself until he felt foam hitting his body. It felt like the shaving gel he used … shaving? Were they shaving his body? He wouldn’t have minded his chest. But when he felt the foam on his arms, under his armpits, on his legs, around his dick, he started to wiggle; desperately trying to avoid the foam.

Eight men laughed their baritone at his feeble attempts. “How cute,” one of them commented. The marine officer, he thought.

“Bradley, spread his ass!”

‘What?” Rob screamed.

Two strong hands widened his cheeks, and a generous amount of shaving foam hit him in places where the sun don’t shine.

He was mentally preparing himself for blades. Blades at places that had never met a blade, should never make contact with a blade. Until Brian spoke up: “In case you wondering, Robbie, …”

‘Robbie?’ Nobody called him ‘Robbie.’

“… this isn’t normal shaving foam. It’s an epilation cream,” he continued.

Rob resigned himself to not having body hair for some weeks. Good thing he didn’t have a girlfriend currently.

“… except it’s a special one, the effects are permanent,” Brian continued with all the schadenfreude a Beta wolf could muster.

Rob screamed into his dick gag and wiggled left and right hanging in the air to get rid of the sticky substance. But to no avail. Slowly it dried in.

“You know what a perv Colt is.” It was the first time Bradley had spoken. Nearly with sorrow. “He doesn’t like body hair on his fuck-puppies.”

Rob whined. Often enough he had called Bradley a fuck-puppy, or a boy toy, or a doggie-styler, or many other things. He would have never imagined finding himself in the same situation.

He was being prepared to be one of Colt’s pussies. And he had no say about this. They would never find him here. Lost in the compound of a right-wing Bond-like villain compound as a pleasure slave.

‘My dear.’

“We’ll be back in 30!” Prime ordered.

And Rob heard a light switch being turned off. A heavy door closed noisily.

And then everything was silent.

He screamed: “Stay! Get me off! Come back, assholes!” But to no avail. He hung there like half a pig in a slaughter house. And he felt like slaughtered pig being thrown to the wolves. To the nerd wolf.

He didn’t know whether it was sleep, tiredness from hanging ‘around,’ or something they had put into his drinks, but he had dozed off.

A frighteningly cold stream of water from a garden hose hit his jewels. He instinctively screamed and tried to lift his thighs to protect them; all under the testing laughter of eight men.

They commented any place where the water hit his tender skin; the cream had done its job. They teased his thighs were not big enough for Colt (in contrast to CE’s), his ass wasn’t round enough (in contrast to Bradley’s), his abs not pronounced enough (in contrast to Brian’s), his shoulders not wide enough (in contrast to Prime’s), his biceps not bulgy enough (in contrast to Sam’s), his pucker not pink enough (like Warren’s), his neck not powerful enough (like Isaac’s) – and his dick? That clit was nothing compared to Warren’s whale-sized appendix.

Whoever held the hose made extra sure, there was no cream left between his ass, on his balls, on his nipples, and under his foreskin. Given the arctic water temperature, he was sure he was clit-sized at the end of the treatment.

But he couldn’t lament on his fate, as he felt the pulley being lowered. He had to stabilize himself when his legs carried his full weight again. But two strong hands – Bradley’s? – intervened and pushed him forward.

‘No!’ Rob screamed into his dick gag. His asshole felt so terribly exposed when his upper body came to rest on a surface. He had watched the wolves being incredibly fast when playing sports, but the speed with which they attached restraints on his wrists and ankles to spread his extremities, was scary; not mentioning how a belt around the small of his back made also his midsection immobile. When Colt would fuck him, he couldn’t move a single muscle. Well, maybe a single one.

But he couldn’t mentally prepare for this invasion because another mechanic buzzing sound broke the efficient silence.

At the same time, he heard a glove snapping.

Would they fuck him with a machine? To loosen him, the human without wolf powers, up?