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The Bet
Mike Pastori
Peter sneered as Mike attached the chains keeping him spread-eagled against the wall, "so I lost a bet. So I have to serve you for 3 days. So do your worst. My turn will come again; remember last year?"
Each New years Day the two tops, good friends over a long period of years, bet on the Bowl games. The overall loser had to serve the other until 2359 the following Sunday, be that a day or a week in the future. Mike did, INDEED, remember last year. In fact, he spent his entire year silently planning for just this comeuppance.
Mike didn't enjoy water sports. He certainly didn't enjoy being on the receiving end of repeated "golden enemas" following a series of rough fuckings. Now it was going to be Peter's turn.
Peter had received a series of "clean-out" enemas before being chained to the wall, so he hardly moved at all as Mike inserted and inflated the double enema tube now blocking Peter's asshole. Peter looked with feigned indifference as Mike attached it to a nipple soldered onto the bottom of a large coffee can and attached the can to the wall, a little above Peter's head. Clear plastic tubing ran from the can to the enema tube.
Peter DID squirm as Mike--gently and with sterile technique: the punishment was coming later--inserted the Foley catheter into Peter's bladder and inflated THAT cuff to keep it, too, in place. The straw colored stream of Peter's piss--the Bowl games had been accompanied by a lot of beer--flowed into a bag that Mike attached to the ring on the leather ball stretcher holding down Peter's nuts. The weight pulled only slightly--for now. Leaving LOTS of slack, so the bag could hang WAY low, Mike used grey duct tape to fasten a tube from the bag to a point on Peter's cheek where some minimum struggling would allow the boy to get it into his mouth.
Peter pouted. Was this going to be a drink your own piss on orders sort of thing? If so, Mike proved even less imaginative than Peter expected. It was a lot of preparation for a simple task. Peter didn't enjoy it, but he honored his bets. If Mike said "drink," Peter would have done so.
But Mike knew that, too. He moved an easy chair a pile of porn magazines, and a riding crop in front of the bound and helpless boy. Then he left the room to return with six six-packs of beer on a wheeled platform.
"I'm going to be nice to you," he told Peter as he activated a countdown timer on the platform and popped the top of the first can. "Over the next 18 hours, you're staying right there. You get a can of beer every half hour." So saying, he emptied the beer can into the coffee can, knowing the air bubbles would cause some minor cramping but the real punishment would come as the beer began to recycle. Because as sure as Bud's a beer, Peter would HAVE to piss. And, if the weight on the balls wasn't enough to cause him to drink, once the bag was full and there was no place for the full bladder to empty itself, Peter would have no choice.
"No choice at all," Mike mused aloud as he hit Peter's already stiffening dick with the riding crop and picked up the first magazine.
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