Last Known Address-ch9
LAST KNOWN ADDRESS
9. Le Papillon
Usually coming out of the Queens Midtown tunnel, if you wanted to go back down to their neighborhood in Manhattan, you’d make a left on Lexington, or circle back to Second Avenue and then head south. The FDR was also an option. Manetti ticked off the possible routes in his head, none of which they were taking. Jamal, the one driving the black Camaro back from Fire Island, exited the midtown tunnel on Thirty-Ninth Street, drove to Park Avenue and then made a right, taking them north.
Manetti sat up instantly. Leaning in from the backseat, he asked why they were heading uptown?
“We need to make a deposit,” Drax responded from the bucket seat ahead of him. The sports car charged up Park, careened around Grand Central Station and raced up the wide roadway through the tall canyons of office buildings and apartment complexes. They zipped along Park Avenue with its meridian of summer flowers. It was approaching sunset, and the light of the late afternoon reflected a kaleidoscope of orange suns off the myriad glass towers. They passed a church whose late day service was just letting out. Chris spotted two twin girls in matching blue Sunday dresses wearing white gloves alternating secrets in each other’s ears.
“Christian,” Drax began in a happy, singsong voice, “Do you remember our first night together?” Jamal looked over at Master Drax with a toothless grin.
“Not really, Master Drax,” Chris replied. He looked out his window at the center divider’s hundreds of flowers--red begonias, white tulips, blue lilacs. “I remember up to where Jamal peed chem piss in me, but I don’t remember much after that.” He cracked his window enough to let some of the lilac aroma stream into the car.
“Pity,” Drax said, looking back at the boy. “We had such fun. You laid on by chest and played with my nipples, while I fed you poppers and showed you how much fun it was to stick needles in your penis. We had a whole ladder running up your shaft. You cried at the beginning, scared of the first needles, but after a while I convinced you that you liked it. You don’t remember any of this?” Chris shook his head emphatically. “Pity.” Drax’s attention drifted back out to the street observing a young boy being led by a priest entering the Waldorf-Astoria.
“I remember something hurt,” Chris said staring at the back of Jamal’s head, reviving a vague stinging sensation that sent a shiver down his back. Manetti watched him. The kid was finally wearing his own clothes he’d brought with him--torn jeans with rips in the knees and a grey tee-shirt with a yellow, flaking Adidas logo on the front. He put his arm around Chris and pulled him into his black vest. Chris inhaled the leather and looked up at Manetti’s troubled face. “I did see Ben last night,” Chris said softly.
Manetti held him out at shoulder length, and searched his face. “Yeah? How’d that go?” he asked concerned. Chris shrugged looking down at his hands.
“Apparently,” Jamal said over his shoulder, in his Caribbean lilt, “he went and beat the boy senseless with a sword not knowing it was his little brothah. He fist him and he fuck him for everyone to see, up until the boy pass out.”
“I didn’t pass out,” Chris stated flatly.
“Yes. Ben confessed that he abused the child not knowing who he was,” Drax said. He twisted around to confront Manetti. “He got back to your apartment at dawn, came over agitated, had been up for four days. He said he’d done some outrageous things to the boy to which the boy refused to surrender even a whimper. I tell you, Christian,” he said to the boy, “you have the making of a true star, you just need to have a little more experiences to draw out your true nature.” Drax watched the boy looking out the window, craning his head to take in the heights of the tall buildings going by. “The child purportedly was resourceful enough to take out two associates. I should be upset, but he probably did me a favor.” Chris kept staring out the window, silent. “When I sent you to wrap things up,” Drax admitted to Manetti, a hint of anger creeping in, “I called to find out if the job was finished. The last voice I expected to hear was the boy’s. It took me quite by surprise. Christian, please,” Drax said, screwing up his nose, annoyed. “Roll your window up. The air smells like an old cunt’s boudoir.” Drax pointed to a street up ahead. “This one, Jamal.”
Jamal turned, and they proceeded down a street of pink and cream-colored townhouses, most with small ivy gardens lining the narrow sidewalks. Chris rolled up his window watching an elderly lady with a cane walking her Toy Spaniel and another lady walking toward her with her little Pekinese. As the ladies passed each other the Pekinese leapt at the Toy Spaniel and bit its neck viciously tearing it from side to side. A tremendous high-pitched scuffle broke out. Chris whipped back around and watched out the rear window. The two elderly ladies were screaming at each other, pulling their dogs apart by their throats. The Spaniel lady took her cane and harshly jabbed the Pekinese. It yelped, wounded, and the Pekinese lady pushed the Spaniel lady who fell backward onto the sidewalk hitting her head on a cement planter. Other pedestrian came over to the skirmish until he couldn’t see the ladies anymore, or their dogs, covered by the crowd that surrounded them.
“This one,” Drax called out, pointing to a townhouse that had a small garage door. Jamal pulled up to the door, and Drax reached over and honked the horn.
Chris looked up at the four-story building. The façade was white carved stone. Tall arched windows, three across, spread across the second and third floors. The fourth floor windows were smaller with bushes and trees peeking from the roof. Heavy, ornate iron and glass French doors were set back at the entrance, with a shiny brass placard next to the garage door. Dr. Pierre Bichon, MD, it read, Plastic Surgeon. Despite its understated elegance, there was something fortress-like about it that Chris didn’t like.
The garage door rose electronically and Jamal descended into the townhouse bowels. Once they were in, the garage door lowered and the afternoon glow dimmed to that of a dark cave. Two large orderlies waited alongside Drax’s door. One of them, a bald man with no chin, opened the passenger door for Drax to get out. He did and pointed into the backseat.
“Him,” Drax said, pointing to Manetti.
Built like a tank, the bald orderly jerked the bucket seat forward and reached in for Manetti. His shiny chrome head reflected the Camaro’s ceiling light. Manetti used his boot and, with an enormous roar, kicked the guy with all his might up into the air and cracked the dome light. A second kick sent the orderly reeling backwards, bouncing into Drax and the basement’s elevator door. The second orderly, taller and meaner looking with dark, close cropped hair, a narrow face that displayed too many teeth, growled and charged into the backseat shoving Manetti into Chris. Chris climbed on the guy’s head, swinging his fist wildly against his head and ears, while Manetti sent a fist flying into the guy’s throat. The guy fell back choking. Jamal swung around, pushed Chris aside, and covered Manetti’s mouth with a white rag. The bald intern came barreling back into the car again and pressed his enormous gut over Manetti’s face, pinning him against Chris. Manetti swung wildly, but crammed in the backseat, the gut punches he threw had no power to them. He flailed until the effects of the rag’s chloroform took effect. Chris felt him weakening and even though Chris struggled trying to get Jamal off him, seconds later Manetti fell like a rag into his lap.
“You’re the deposit I needed to make,” Drax said to the unconscious Manetti. “As are you, child,” he said to Chris. “It’s time your experience with needles and other devices rose to the next level.” The second orderly reached in and grabbed Chris by his tee-shirt and tore him out of the car.
***
The six of them were packed like sardines in the small elevator, Manetti held up by the two orderlies in the back, Chris between Jamal and Master Drax in the front. It was hot in the slow-moving elevator, and reeked of sweat, antiseptic and cheap aftershave. Chris watched the elevator buttons change from G to 2 to 3. The elevator dinged on 3, and the doors opened. Drax nudged Chris out with Jamal following. Chris looked back, watched the doors close with Manetti out cold in the hands of the orderlies.
The townhouse was richly appointed, designed for very high-end clientele. Chris had never been exposed to this kind of luxury. The house in Queens was lavish, with its pink marble kitchen and its thick shag carpets, but this was understated, posh, had the eerie sense of being a museum after hours. The elevator had deposited them across from a large waiting room with a heavy mahogany reception desk. The waiting room stood empty. The stillness felt like the whole place was deserted except for a soft shuffling on the floor above. Two black and chrome couches faced each other with mahogany end tables on either side, each topped by lamps with shades made out of stained glass in the shape of dragonfly wings. A tall grandfather clock chimed softly six o’clock as they plodded down the hallway. Thick oriental runners covered polished walnut floors, while white high-gloss molding ran the length of the vaulted ceiling. Stark black and white photographs in large black frames lined the ivory walls. A black naked dancer; a single white calla lily; the singer Patty Smith, with her dark hair and white shirt he recognized from his brother’s record collection. As they walked down the hallway he peaked into a series of small dazzlingly lit examining rooms. The townhouse was opulent in its details but the emptiness made it feel creepy. There also was something fake about it, like a veneer so thin you knew it was covering a structure built on rot. Without warning a great commotion exploded upstairs. It made the three of them jump. There were a couple of soft thuds, and the house went back to stillness disturbed only by the soft ticking of the grandfather clock.
Descending the staircase ahead of them, making it creak loudly with each footfall, the out of breath bald orderly met them at the bottom. He told Drax the doctor would be there shortly.
The only room that wasn’t open was at the end of the hall. When they got to it, the orderly pulled a set of keys from his retractable keychain on his belt and unlocked the door. Drax pushed it open and brought Chris inside. The orderly stood at attention to the side of the door, and Jamal, frightened, hesitated from following them in.
The complete opposite of the other examination room, this one was painted mint green and looked like a set from a fifties horror movie. A grey metal examination table with stirrup that raised by large silver wheels cranked to raise or lower them stood directly across from the entrance. Thick brown leather straps were around all the edges. The cabinets that lined the walls were white painted metal inlayed with greenish pebbly glass with copper wire running crossways. One forty-watt bulb lit the room so it felt somber and grave, that is, until Drax switched on a standing lamp in the corner on tripod legs. Its big bulbous light was blinding, focusing its beam solely on the examination table. A dark grey tray next to the table shined with a selection of medical instruments. Chris recognized a set of sounds right away, but the other instruments were foreign and frightening: pointed clamps that ended with flat pink rubber tips, other clamps that ended with jagged pinchers; spreaders of various sizes, some long, some wide, one the size of his arm; an assortment of wheels with various lengths of sharp pins around their circumference.
In the corner next to the door he spied a green painted metal and glass cabinet standing freely. Its contents sent a chill down his spine. Lit within by a dull interior light, a selection of black masks and blindfolds were on display sitting over mannequin heads, one with zippers for eyes and mouth, one with no eyes but a long tube that made it look like a fly’s head, one with no eyes, no mouth, only two small holes at the nose. Who thought of these things? On second thought, he didn’t want to know.
There hung, opposite the door above the metal examination table, a single photograph in a large black frame similar to the ones in the hallway. In the photo a bearded leatherman stood over a boy in a wingback chair who was encased entirely in leather and chains. The formality was almost comical, and yet almost normal looking, like a father and son relaxing in their den, except for the fact that the boy was locked in leather and chains!
From the hallway, Chris was aware that Jamal’s eyes were wide and wary. He seemed to be familiar with the room and wanted no part of it. Drax saw Jamal was unsettled, and told him to wait in the car, that he would be down shortly. Drax then closed the door. He pulled Chris’ grey tee-shirt off him, and instructed him to hang his pants and underwear on the hook on the door.
“Where’d they take Mike,” Chris said, unwilling to move.
“Quick, before doctor comes,” Drax said, annoyed the boy hadn’t obeyed. “Do I need to get the orderly?” he asked archly.
Chris thought about that for a moment, then began removing his shoes and socks reluctantly and hung his jeans and underwear on the door hook. Drax patted the exam table and Chris grudgingly climb on it. There was a small knock before a man opened the door. Chris was shocked. The man appeared identical to the leatherman in the photo. Bearded, tall, with dark hair, deep-set eyes, trimmed black brows, no, not in leather but wearing a white lab coat. But what was most shocking was, in a split second, Chris realized the lab coat was all he was wearing. His bare chest was hairless, and his well-defined legs were hairless, too. He wore black leather lace-up boots, but beside the lab coat, that’s all Chris could see he had on. His eyes glistened maliciously, and the moment he saw Chris, he flashed a wide, white smile that emitted lust and absolutely no joy.
“You must be Christian,” he said to the naked boy on the exam table. He carried a clipboard in one hand and extended his other to Drax. The two men shook. “So much more youthful than I had imagined.” The doctor put down the clipboard on the counter and cranked the two metal stirrups. “Please place your legs in these, mon cher,” he requested. Chris hesitated, but a stern look from Drax prompted him to comply. Chris had to lean back on his elbows to get his legs in the stirrups. The doctor came to his side and encouraged him to lay back. The metal table was ice cold, so Chris laid back carefully. The doctor shined a light in his eyes. “When was the last time he was medicated?” Drax looked at Chris to answer the question.
“Uh, Mike slammed me last night before the party,” Chris answered. “Is Mike okay?”
“At least once every twelve hours. I thought we were in agreement that for first week all new boys would be on a regimen of twice a day treatments until they were dependent,” the doctor scolded Drax.
“Michael absconded with him, which is why Michael is now upstairs,” Drax responded. “Christian, this is Doctor Bichon. He’s a very important man with whom we have a very special arrangement. You’ll be staying the night here in his charge. He’s going to take good care of you, and you must do everything he says no matter if you want to or not. Do you understand?”
Chris got out of the stirrups and sat up. He’d had enough being ignored. “What’s going to happen to Mike?” he asked Drax sharply. “Are you going to skin him alive? That’s what the bad men in Queens said you do.”
“Christian,” the doctor said, putting his hand on the boy’s bare shoulder. “Christian, we don’t skin people alive. Not here.” Chris shrugged off the man’s hand. The doctor turned to Drax. “You see, this is what happens when they’re not properly indoctrinated after you take them in. I recall a few years ago you were lax with Michael, too, and you see where that leads.” Dr. Bichon looked up at the ceiling. “Christian, I’m going to inject you with something that Master Drax says you liked very much.”
“No!” he said emphatically, jumping off the table and going for his clothes.
“Barkley!” the doctor shouted. The bald orderly came in quickly and grabbed the naked boy. Chris kicked and fiercely fought to get away, but the orderly was much bigger, and inevitably got him back on the table. While he was being held in place, the doctor strapped his wrists above his head and, with his legs over the stirrups, secured him in place. Chris was seething, breathing angrily through clenched teeth.
The orderly stood to the side of Chris’ head, and Drax by his right foot. Out of a drawer the doctor pullout out a large metal syringe, then riffled through a shelf looking for the vial he wanted. While he searched he asked Drax casually, “If you want him to retain this youthful look, I should like to castrate him. It will also make him much more docile.”
This caused Chris to start struggling even harder in his binding. He looked at Drax who was mildly angry, but also amused by Chris’ ornery, helpless resistance. “It would be a shame,” Drax said. He reach over and picked up the boys testicles weighing them in his hand. “Beautiful sized walnuts, aren’t they, doctor?” He put one testicle between his thumb and index finger and pressed down hard, making the boy yelp in pain. He let go of his ball sack and gave it a smack.
“A good five centimeters, I’d say, maybe slightly more.” Bichon put down the hypodermic needle and started massaging Chris’ ball sack. “If they were grape size I’d say why not get rid of them, but I can see why you’d want him to keep these. Much less fun to play with if he were neutered. What about if I give him a subincision, not a full one, just perhaps starting at his piss slit here,” Bichon suggested, running a fingernail down the boy’s rising shaft. “Just enough to get your finger in his urethra. Raw accessible flesh anytime you wanted. You could urinate inside him. Use your largest sounds on him. Tear him downward, bit by bit, over time. There’d be so much you could do to drive him wild.”
Drax examined Chris’ face closely. He read his defiance and his fear. Chris eyes started to well up despite his best effort at controlling his growing terror. “I think,” Drax said, pausing to emphasize to Chris just how much his fate rested in his next few words, “for now, doctor, I’d like to keep Christian intact. Feel free to use him however you wish, though, but no permanent alteration tonight. If you’re inclined add some decorative touches. I do think two small nipple rings would be attractive on such small boy titties. Even a wee Prince Albert, ten or twelve gauge, perhaps. Whatever you think would look best.”
“Rather than a P.A., what about an apadravya,” Bichon suggested, holding the top of Chris’ semi-erect dick head, “just like his brother’s, a stud straight through the glans, top to bottom. A matching set of Prior boys.” The two men laughed.
“I leave that to you, doctor. I’ll come by around noon tomorrow to see how the patient upstairs is adjusting, and to pick up the boy. Enjoy your evening. Pierre, Barkley,” said Drax. “Christian, be good. Or if you can’t be good, be compliant. I’ll learn from doctor either way.” He closed the door behind him.
“Barkley, his head to the side, please.” Bichon watched Chris fight but he had no choice once the orderly pressed his ear to the table, leaving his neck exposed. “Just a booster, mon cher, a quarter gram. I want you to enjoy yourself as much as I will. I want you compliant, not comatose. Relax, breathe normally. This might sting a bit.” The doctor swabbed the point of entry with alcohol, and then stuck the plunger in and slammed Chris directly in his brain. No middleman. “Now how does that feel?”
“Oh fuck. Oh shit,” he said through gritted teeth. “I can’t, I can’t,” Chris said, panicked as his body twitched on the table. The orderly, seeing him thrash under his hands, released him mildly concerned.
“He’s fine. Just relax, my angel. Enjoy the power released in you.” The doctor and the orderly observed the naked boy, now sporting a large erection, twitching and writhing on the table. “Thank you, Barkley. That’ll be all for the evening,” he said, excusing the bald man, who tried to hide the small lump rising in his white trousers.
Once he’d left, Bichon took a key from his pocket and locked the inside of the door. Bichon undid his lab coat revealing a black leather harness over his hairless chest. A thin horizontal line of pubic hair rode above his long, curved cock. The doctor hung his lab coat over Chris’ jeans and approached the boy. His balls, large as limes, swayed as he walked. “You feel good?” he asked. Chris nodded. “Good. You want cock?” Chris nodded again. “Very good. Why don’t you start by sucking my cock, chéri.”
He’d heard from Drax the boy was an excellent cocksucker, and it was true. Such a soft, wet mouth swallowing his member. Ever so slowly he humped Chris’ face, feeling his long curved shaft ride down the boy’s esophagus deeper and deeper with each thrust. Such a smooth face, only peach fuzz for a beard, light brown narrow brows, wide-set eyes like his brother. Like his brother, his teeth were uneven, but unlike Jamal, the boy knew when to cover them with his soft, luscious lips. It was difficult for most cocksuckers to get his bent dick all the way down to his pubic bone, but Chris seemed not to have a problem at all. His brother Ben never did. He held his dick down the boy’s throat, holding the back of Chris’ head until his trimmed pubes rubbed against the boy’s watery lips. Once the boy started gagging, Bichon held his head more firmly until the boy started retching. He released him all at once, with a large pool of saliva spilling off table.
Chris was rushing trying to catch his breath while his brain spun out of control. Energized, stratospherically high, unable to focus, feeling good and bad and nervous and angry, and most of all wanting that big dick back in his mouth or any orifice--his emotions bounced all over the place like they were in a pinball machine. He couldn’t think straight, couldn’t remember where he was. Lived only in the Taoist moment of now. A mint green room. A tall, naked man in a leather harness, playing with his nipples, causing them to be erect. Cold cotton balls drenched in alcohol made them even harder. The man took an instrument off the tray, long slender clamps with hollow tips, and pinched the shit out of his left tit. Through the hollow ends of the clamps, the man swiftly jabbed a needle through his nipple. He hollered while the man thread a thin ring replacing the straight needle. The man placed his long thin fingers on Chris’ chest, telling him to lie still as he clamped his other nipple. Chris struggled as the clamp locked down on his right tit, but ceased moving when the man holding the needle aloft waited for Chris to calm down. Once he did, the needle pushes through his other nipple, causing Chris to scream again, as the man slipped another small ring into place, completing Chris’ first set of tit rings.
The man released the clamps and stepped back to admire his work. “Magnificent,” he said, and stroked his curved dick admiring the slick, hairless boy tied to the table who now sported glistening rings heaving on his narrow chest.
He then brought out a wooden object shaped like a paddle that had its center cut out. He put Chris’ penis through the center hole and then forced his balls to also pop through. Around the paddles edge were a series of quarter inch nails. Bichon took small rubber bands and crisscrossed them so his balls protruded, tightly swollen, in two large separate spheres. He took out a wheel that had small sharp pins and ran it lightly over one testicle. Chris jumped in surprise at how painful yet fleeting the sensation was. Bichon treated his other ball to the same sensation. Again he jumped.
Chris’ mind raced unmoored from reason--he couldn’t focus on where or how or why these new confusing sensation were being forced on him. Bichon ran the spiked wheel up his shaft ending in his piss slit. The delicate interior of his urethra being stuck over and over, back and forth, with the wheel's sharp pins made him screech in panic, bucking his hips, trying to avoid the wheel. He knew he was higher than fuck. He also knew he didn’t have to understand pain to feel it.
“Let’s set some ground rules, Christian.” Bichon brought over a hood, one that looked like a fly’s head, and held it ready to put it over Chris’ head. No cutouts for eyes, and only a long tube to breathe through at the mouth. At the end of the tube there was an attachment, into which Bichon placed an open bottle of poppers. The doctor explained, “Words like stop and no, to me translate that you want me to do whatever I’m doing but harder. Screams also tell me to accelerate. Your job is to endure the pain, breathe into the pain. Desire it and you’ll overcome it. Ready?” the doctor asked starting to pull the hood over Chris head. Chris shook his head no. “But, son, look at your erection. It answers, mais oui.”
Chris looked down at his betrayer. His cock was at full attention, eager, it seemed, to be tortured. The hood slipped over his head and he felt the doctor pulling laces, tightening it at the back. He was still rushing from the meth, confused now in partial sensory deprivation, breathing through the tube in a state of panic. He felt the poppers taking over and soon wanted the doctor to touch him again in any obscene way he wanted. He didn’t have long to wait as the wheel, with its agonizing pins, ran over his chest from newly pierced nipple to newly pierced nipple. Each time he jumped, Bichon waited until he rested back down to the table, then ran the wheel again over the same sensitive tit. Then there was a long pause and the clinking of metal. A cold hard shaft ran its length along his piss slit before it invaded. Not like the smooth sounds that Mike had inserted into him, this rod had harsh ridges every quarter inch. His urethra was erupting, the jagged edges felt like glass slicing him open from the inside. He screamed in terror and agony. “Which means he wants a bigger one,” the muffled voice of the doctor said in the black void. The rod came out and he soon felt a larger diameter rod take its place. This brought even greater torment. He tried to breathe through the pain, taking in deeper hits from the bottle. With each huff, it wasn’t that the pain no longer resonated, it’s that he desired it, started humping the rod, wanting it to ram into him, tear his cock to ribbons. Bichon’s greased hand gripped Chris’ penis and sensually masturbated him. Chris felt tormented but also he was in the throes of lechery, pumping his hips into Bichon’s fist, call out yes, through the tube.
He was just about to cum when Bichon release his erection. Chris still poked his hips in the air but with no resistance, his desire to orgasm receded after a time. The rod was pulled painfully out of his dick and replaced with a very narrow smooth rod. Curiously it just floated easily down his shaft simply resting against his prostate. Bichon let it lie there for some time. So long of a time passed that Chris thought the doctor had left, when suddenly he heard an electronic buzzing and the rod came alive inside his shaft. A vibrator touched the tip of the sound and the million vibrations hammered not just throughout his shaft, but beat directly against his prostate. Pre-cum formed and Bichon played the vibrator all around the wet glans, moving away, down the shaft, vibrating between his balls, finding where the rod was buried deep inside his body, never letting Chris get used to any one area for more than a few seconds. Bichon knew how to continue to stimulate him, tease and torment him, shred his libido apart until he was putty in the doctor’s lubricated hand. Again, he felt close to cumming, breathing yes into the tube. And Bichon again released him before he could release.
He heard the doctor rise, a drawer opened, and then what sounded like rustle paper. The doctor return to his stool with a metallic squeal across the linoleum. Chris heard rubber gloves being snapped in place and then hear the sound of ripping paper. The ripping repeated maybe twenty times. His dick was still erect but not as fiercely as before. Then he felt Bichon pull the rubber bands off the board that held his cock and balls so his scrotum, unrestricted, relaxed into a fleshier bag. He felt Bichon lightly pinch the bottom of his scrotum, pull the skin down, and then felt a sharp needle pierce his skin and pin the flesh to the underlying board. He cried out in distress and shock. He wasn’t in agony but it did hurt. Apparently his ball sack didn’t have as many nerve ending to torment. He then felt the right side of his penis pressed down flat against the board and another pin impaled that skin to the board. He let out a muted cry. Then the other side of his shaft was laid flat and another pin went through it, nailing his dick to the board.
“Le Papillon, mon cher. The butterfly. Agréable, no?”
“No,” Chris called inside the tube.
“Which means, yes you do. Do more, Doctor Bichon. Do my whole willy,” the doctor said in a mocking high-pitched voice. “Okay, Christian, I shall.”
The doctor pressed the skin between Chris’ shaft and balls and put a needle first on one side then the other. He pressed all around Chris’ balls placing a needle, alternating sides each time, until his entire scrotum was flattened to the board. He then worked one side of his shaft alternating with the other. Chris realized this wasn’t going to stop and breathed in the poppers until he looked forward to each pin’s pain. After a while he felt it didn’t hurt as much as it did at first. The doctor quietly spoke to him, “As you penis become more flaccid, the skin is pulled much less, alleviating the pain to a certain degree.” He was correct. As the doctor was finishing the last few areas of his shaft not yet pinned, he continued, “The warning I give to you--and you can reflect on this in the dark--that should you become aroused, your manhood will once again swell, and you will start pulling harder against these pins. As your erection has done before, this area,” the doctor floated his fingers across the top third of Chris’ phallus, “will try to rise off your belly anywhere between a thirty to forty-five degree angle. This will be the greatest area of pain, that is, unless of course you ejaculate. An orgasm will make you twitch from balls to tip. That twitching would cause you much suffering, so I would advise fighting against gratifying that desire. Resist, if you can for as long as you can.” He had finished the last needle along his shaft, the last wince of pain, when Chris heard one last paper ripping. It sounded like a much larger piece of paper ripping, which meant a much bigger needle. “Take a deep hit off your popper, Christian,” instructed the doctor. Chris felt the side the underside of his cockhead pressured, then stabbed, then pierced, as pain travel excruciatingly through the entire glans, right up through the urethra, poking through the rest of the fleshy cockhead and coming out the other side. This wasn’t soft flesh being pinched. This was full on damage-inducing pain that produced a horrid scream smothered within the mask.
“Which means you’d like another,” said the doctor. “Please, Sir, I’d like some more,” he said in the same mocking voice. Chris cried no in his tube. “Oh, yes. Another two then. I agree. Symmetry at all cost.” Chris clamped up as another lengthy needle came out of its wrapper. He breathed rapidly inhaling the popper, trying not to cry out, crawled into the head of a masochistic, rode the pain of the next needle bearing through the top of his cockhead, slightly to the side of where the first one pierced. Then, since he didn’t cry out, the final needle sliced through his glans, slightly to the other side of the first.
He felt like he was on fire. His fingers and toes clawed the air. The heat of hell raged inside his hood. A stream of tears silently ran down his temples. He felt his body sliding around on the exam table. Felt exposed, helpless, felt that mercifully the worst was over.
A piece of metal was struck and he heard a low tone brought to his ear. He was confused. A tuning fork? The sound went down his to his prick and he felt the tone touch the rod inside his urethra. He’d almost forgotten the metal rod was still inside him. Immediately the tonal vibration was picked up and rang throughout his shaft. It felt intensely satisfying sending waves of pleasure from his dick spreading throughout his body. His cock stirred, then he knew what the doctor planned. Another tuning fork struck the metal table. It was a higher frequency and was brought up to his ear. Again the sound traveled down to his genitals. Again it touched the tip of his penis and sent the rod vibrating. Two opposite and equal sensations traveled through his body: one, the ravishment of sexual delight as this quicker vibration beat against his prostate and throughout his meat; the other, growing anguish as the arousal began to swell his cock and it began pulling harder against the restraining pins. The more he was excited the worse the pain. As the tone faded, he anticipating an even high tone. But he was wrong.
The familiar buzzing of the vibrator clicked on. He rocked his head from side to side. Bichon touched him once lightly in the balls searching for the metal rod. Finding the small metal pole grew Chris’ erection significantly, ripping his flesh against the pins. Then the doctor touched the three needles pierced through his cockhead. It both stung and excited him with a sensation he could never have imagined. Against his will he felt his cock trying to flick up off his belly. The doctor ran the vibrator up and down his shaft, indistinguishable from a lubed hand not only jacking him externally, but jacking him inside as well. Drugged, sense deprived and sexually focused, unanchored from hope this torture would stop, floating within a midnight void, seeing nothing, he felt even more vividly each sensation. The thought of his body acting against him got him harder still. The rewiring was beginning. He wanted to scream against the anit-logic the doctor was forcing him to confront, the cognitive dissonance his body was putting him through, amplified, echoing within a world filled only of reasonless sensations.
It wasn’t fair! Bichon kept the vibrator coming back to his cockhead. Three needles pierced him, the middle needle touched the sound, so whenever the doctor stuck the vibrator on the tip of the sound, not only did it vibrate directly against his prostate, it also sent shockwaves through the needle vibrating directly through his glans. It hurt like hell and yet sent him into orgiastic heaven. Each time Bichon went there, Chris, despite himself, repeated through the tube that he was about to cum, and each time Bichon moved the vibrator away. Bichon wanted to see how long he could keep this up, to see if the boy would actually ejaculate after having explain in detail what an orgasm would do to his delicate member; to see if the boy’s mind would rule over the boy’s body. He knew the answer having performed la papillon so many other times on so many other boys.
Bichon left the vibrator sitting on the sound for minutes, moving it around only slightly, rotating around the head, always keeping it in contact with the rod, hitting the other three needles that pierced the glans, each one, when touched, sending new punishing waves of lustful bliss shooting out in all directions. Increasingly Chris couldn’t speak, no words, no thoughts to express, only guttural, animal urghs and unggs rose not from his mouth but from deep within his chest. It was as if his heart itself was crying for release. He was a creature trapped on the edge of eternally cumming, never able to get over the wall--two steps forward toward sexual gratification, two steps back in withering agony. Bichon finally, not for the sake of pity for the animal he saw on the table, but wanting to see how this boy fell off the cliff. He slipped in his middle finger into Chris’ anus. He poked and prodded the boy’s prostate, pushing it up against the vibrating sound. The world pushed in on Chris from all sides; he had no choice but to plunge headfirst over the edge. The ejaculation sent his stiff, long cock flying away from the board, pulling on all the needles, some popping off, stretching the skins with every round of ejaculate he shot. Sperm spewed in gushing rivulets around the sound with each relentless orgasm. He came and came and came, and each time thrilled and was punished for his pleasure. The last sound that he emitted was not a word but a sound of discovery, an ahhhh! that soldered his most pleasurable sensation to that of a wall of ceaseless pain.
“Very good, mon petite Chrétien. Très, très bon.” Bichon shut off the vibrator and the room became deadly silent, except for the sound of distressed breathing emitting through the tube. Bichon unpinned Chris’ dick and balls. Lastly he withdrew the sound. The doctor wiped down Chris’ dick off with alcohol which stung horribly--although, miraculously, little blood was spilt--and massaged the penis in a slow, soothing rhythm. He could tell the boy was fully spent, but the patient would lie awake for hours high the meth amphetamine.
The doctor took off his gloves and, from a cabinet, took out a black box with a large dildo protruding from it. He put the box on a tray at the end of the exam table and locked it in place. Christian was putty. It was easy to strap his knees up toward his ears so his hole spread open and vulnerable. Bichon twisted a dial on the box and the dildo slowly oscillated forward and back. He pushed the dildo into the boy’s rectum and turned the dial a little higher. The black phallus pushed in six inches and then pulled out. Christian moaned fervidly inside his hood. His mind was gone but his body reacted to the mechanical lover that he felt invade him. His fingers and toes curled in pleasure. The boy’s cock was withered and the new sensation of continually being fucked came as a relief. Bichon changed the bottle of poppers to a new one and let Chris stew in his sightless limbo for the rest of the night continuing long into the morning--the dildo mindlessly, robotically fucking his sleepless, mindless body.
Bichon put on his white coat and unlocked the door. It was time to prep his other patient. Manetti.