Every inch of Max's bare flesh was breaking out in a cold sweat as his heartbeat thumped in his ears and his legs -- despite how desperately he wanted them to stop -- conveyed him swiftly on his way to Clark's office.
Of course, the sweat was not a sign that Max was warm. To the contrary, Clark always kept the thermostat low, set to a temperature comfortable for a fully-dressed man but which, if not for the devices of torment attached to Max's chest and crotch, would most certainly cause the almost-always naked man's nipples to harden like diamonds and his dick to shrink up close to his body.
Nothing external was causing the young man's flesh to glisten with wetness like this; rather, it was instead an involuntary reaction to the panic that was seizing him to his core.
Max could barely think, Clark's cold and firm instruction from the Mastr app ringing in his head: "My office. Now."
If Clark had caught on to Max's plan, he knew he was well and truly fucked. To say nothing of how his weeks of strategizing (and fraternizing) would all be for naught, Max knew all too well that Clark would not hesitate to dole out a undoubtedly terrifying and unparalleled punishment for his disobedience.
He swallowed hard as his bare feet slapped against the wood floor on their way down the hallway to Clark's office. Only a few more steps separated him from his fate.
He asked himself desperately: Was there some way he could deny what he'd been trying to do? Could he spin this some other way and make it seem like innocent friendship -- or, hell, even a gay relationship, if that's what he had to say -- between himself and Mohammed?
Max -- who had once been an unshakeably confident man -- felt a hint of tears starting to well up in his eyes and realized (with horror and shame) that he would not be able to present any arguments, explanations, or rationales in front of Clark. He knew in that instant that, if Clark had caught him in the act, there was no escaping the nightmarish punishment that would ensue. He knew that, in a mere moment's time, when he finally stood in the doorway to Clark's office, he would start blubbering like a child, begging and pleading for his Master's mercy as he wailed pathetically before him.
However, in the instant Max reached the doorway and his eyes took in the man sat behind his desk (looking intently at the computer monitor which faced him, yet which mostly faced away from Max), he froze, the gears in his head turning in an attempt to reassess the situation.
This was not what he had expected to find. He had anticipated an angry Clark, standing tall and glaring at him, his phone in his hand about to send whatever order would start Max on his way into heretofore unimaginable punishments. Instead, Clark was sitting calmly, smiling pleasantly and nodding casually, evidently listening to someone speak. Since Clark was wearing his wireless headphones, Max could not hear any of the words, and the positioning of the screen made it such that he could tell there was a video-call in progress, though not tell whose faces that video showed.
Unsure of how to proceed, Max stood frozen in the office doorway.
To any outside observer, the scene was doubtless one that would cause all eyes to widen. Naked from head-to-toe and glistening with sweat, the in-best-shape-of-his-life Max now displayed a well-muscled, toned, and exquisitely sculpted physique that would put Adonis himself to shame. Moreover, even if Max's Greek-godlike physical form were not enough to make his appearance remarkable, the two accoutrements that adorned his body also made the sight of him hard to forget: the garnet-coloured dome that crushed his penis into a mere nub that sat shamefully atop shrunken-from-the-cold balls between his legs and the angry-red indentations all over his pectorals from the shark-tooth gold clamps that bit into his chest rendered him not as a "sexy man," but as a "sexual object" that appeared to belong to someone else.
Yet, that "someone else" barely glanced up from his computer screen to look at Max. After all, Clark was used to seeing this sight by now. Max's appearance was a perfectly ordinary sight for his Master.
Clark looked up only long enough to catch Max's eye, gesturing downward toward his own crotch before returning his full attention to whoever was on his screen.
Understanding immediately what Clark was telling him to do, Max let out a sigh of relief, catching himself and stifling the sound before Clark could hear it.
Lowering himself to his hands and knees, Max began to crawl over towards the other man on all fours. The Mastr order Clark had sent now took on a different meaning. Having thought that Clark had caught on to his disobedience, the "My office. Now." message had seemed like a furious demand. What Max realized now, however, was that the message had connoted something quite different: not anger, but urgency.
Apparently stuck at his desk in what must be an important meeting, Clark had not ordered Max to come here to punish him. Rather, Clark had another reason to summon his erstwhile bully: he had to take a piss.
Thank God that was all!
Yet, as Max crawled into place under Clark's desk and out of sight of whomever he was in his video-call with, the panic that had filled his body mere moments ago seeped out and another feeling began to overtake him instead: revulsion.
The worst part was that Max was not revolted by the amber liquid that was going to spray out of Clark's dick and into his open mouth shortly. In fact, the lack of revulsion towards that only intensified the revulsion Max experienced towards the feeling's primary target: himself.
Max was revolted by what he had become.
Rather than being disgusted, alarmed, or incensed, Max had been RELIEVED that Clark had called him here to use his mouth as his personal urinal. What made it all that much worse was that that had not even been a Mastr app hypnotic order, nor even something he had been verbally instructed to do. Instead, with only the most minimal of gestures from Clark, Max had instinctively dropped down on all fours and crawled into the space between Clark's legs. Acting without a second thought, Max had perfectly filled the role of a piss-drinking faggot.
If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck... Well, Max did not want to follow that thought to its inevitable conclusion.
Thankfully, Max's attention was diverted elsewhere, with Clark's voice cutting through his internal monologue.
"That's exactly what I was thinking," he said warmly.
Max hesitated for a moment. Had he said something out loud? Was Clark agreeing with his humiliating self-assessment?
"If you don't mind, I'll share my screen right now so I can show you," Clark added.
Oh, of course: he was giving his full attention to his Zoom call. The "mere receptacle" currently under his desk and crouching between his legs was apparently the last thing on Clark's mind.
"As you'll see, the data from the past few months is overwhelmingly positive," Clark continued, a couple clicks audible to Max as the other man called up whatever window he wanted the others on his call to see.
Meanwhile, Max knew his role, having performed this far, far, far more times than he could count. He reached up and undid the buckle on Clark's belt slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible, lest the others on Clark's call catch on to what was happening off-screen (something which, Max was certain, would earn him a swift and not-easily-forgotten punishment that -- if past experience is to be trusted -- would likely involve a croquet mallet, his testicles, and a hypnotically-implanted inability to close legs as the former connected with the latter).
"Although there were some early setbacks," Clark continued to say as Max continued his task and unzipped the other man's fly just as quietly, "the latest data shows 98.5% effectiveness once the audio-neural mapping is complete."
Max had just been about to pull down the waistband of Clark's briefs and find his cock when he tuned in to what he had been saying. "Audio-neural mapping"? Wasn't that what Mohammed had been telling him about?
Max resumed his task, now listening in closely as he delicately withdrew Clark's manhood from his underwear. Even distracted in trying to pay attention to what Clark was saying, Max had been well trained in exactly how to handle Clark's dick: he had to hold it with respectful tenderness and treat it with loving reverence, as though it were absolutely the most important thing in his entire world.
Maneuvering the appendage into his mouth -- with all the respectful tenderness and loving reverence Clark demanded for it -- he wondered, not for the first time, how others had treated Clark's cock in the past. Was it possible that others had been in awe of it by their own free will? Max had always thought Clark was a loser: chubby, nerdy, and not particularly manly. No doubt Max was therefore not the only one was shocked to discover what Clark was packing below the belt, his one-eyed snake having a length and thickness that would, in fact, rival some actual snakes out there in the world.
"With additional funding from you," Clark said as he began to unleash urine into the orifice his cock-head now sat in, "we'll be able to increase the sample size of human subjects from our initial dozen to several hundred in the coming months."
Drinking down the acrid liquid streaming into his mouth was such second nature by now that Max barely thought about it as he absorbed Clark's words. "Increase the sample size"? Max might not be the brightest bulb in the box, but he could put two and two together.
If Clark was talking about what Max thought he was talking about, he also knew what the man currently pissing into his wide open mouth was suggesting: Max was one of the "initial dozen" and -- if Clark were to get further funding -- what Max had been subjected to for countless months was, very soon, going to happen to hundreds of others.
This wasn't just about himself anymore, Max thought as he dutifully swallowed what was filling up his gob. Who knew what other unsuspecting individuals Clark might inflict his fiendish control upon? What totally innocent people might end up being tormented and reduced in exactly the same way Max had been?
"Yes, that's right," Clark said enthusiastically in response to a question Max had not heard. "We've already received approval to try it in three separate prison populations."
As the stream going into Max's mouth subsided, the young man's thoughts also changed direction. "Prison populations"? He was now mentally walking back what he'd just been thinking, the "innocent people" characterization of soon-to-be test subjects now seeming harder to sustain.
Clark chuckled good-naturedly, again in response to something Max could not hear. "Well, that's really the point, at the end of the day," he said warmly. "To make the world a better place for everyone."
Clark had now finished unloading the contents of his bladder, but Max had yet to remove his Master's manhood from his mouth. The thick head of the other man's member still sat there such that, when Clark looked down at Max -- finally giving him some modicum of attention -- their eyes met with his dick still resting on Max's tongue.
"I'd never try anything like this on someone who didn't deserve it," he said, holding Max's gaze just long enough to ensure he got his point across. It had only been an instant -- whomever Clark was on his Zoom call with no doubt just thinking he was glancing at something on his desk -- but it had been long enough for Max to get the message.
Max knew he'd been a bully. He knew he'd spent four years of high school making life into absolute hell not just for Clark himself, but for everyone who was even a little bit like Clark. He knew that that was why Clark was doing this to him -- that Clark thought turnabout was fair play, that it was only fitting that Max, who used to use his own fists to give black eyes, break glasses, and land punches firm in the stomach of everyone lower on the social hierarchy than he was was now getting fisted up the ass almost daily.
Max knew he'd been a bastard. He'd been a fuckboy who'd used women left, right, and centre. He'd been a scoundrel who'd fucked married men's wives without a second thought. It didn't matter to Clark that he and his own wife had all-but-separated when Max started fucking her behind his boss's back -- it was the principle of it all, the fact that Max would so readily, eagerly, and repeatedly cuckolded Clark the first chance he got. Max knew that that was why Clark was so intent on changing everything about his sexual being -- on making sure he never used (or even saw) his dick ever again and turning every hole in his body into an entry point for absolutely anything Clark fancied shoving into it.
But Max refused to believe he deserved this.
Calmly, Max finished his duty. He carefully removed Clark's cock from his mouth as the other man listened to those on his video-call. He quietly zipped up Clark's fly and did up his belt. He silently crawled away from his place under Clark's desk and between Clark's legs, his belly now full of the other man's urine.
When he reached the doorway and stood back up -- standing to his full height, rolling his shoulders back and giving the confident stance of a man who would not be beaten -- he left the room and strode back to his own workspace with a renewed determination.
He would escape Clark's clutches. He would get his old life back. He would get so far away from this place and this time where he'd lived every day as fist-taking man-cunt and piss-drinking faggot that it would seem like nothing more than the faintest memory of a nightmare.
And he wouldn't do it alone.
Clark had given him new information. He was one of an "initial dozen." That meant that there were at least 11 others out there who were unjustly suffering the same fate he was.
Max still didn't fully understand everything that was happening and still didn't know exactly how to end it, but he did know that -- as Clark's "personal assistant" -- he could find the allies he desperately needed now that he knew what he was looking for.