I decided to start out easy on him.
Alvin looked pretty groggy. His head was slouched down -- at least as far down as it could be with what he had strapped onto him. His eyes fluttered briefly open now and then, but it didn't look like very much was registering. "Am I hungover?" he must be thinking, each time he starts to regain consciousness, "What did I do last night?"
It will probably be a good hour before he regains total consciousness and becomes concerned about his predicament. It's no problem, though. I have all the time in the world to wait and watch.
Slowly, he was coming to. I wonder what he noticed first: the smell? the grime? Not likely. Probably something more immediate convinced him he needed to be conscious. He probably noticed something about his body. It might have been the cold air on his skin, but not necessarily. Alvin was no stranger to nudity; waking up naked -- even somewhere unfamiliar -- would not be too out of the ordinary. Likely the thing that he sensed that urged him to focus on being conscious were the cold metal clamps that kept his mouth wide open.
Then... yes, he would form a clearer picture. That cold metal on his face and in his mouth. That same cold metal on his shoulders. That same cold metal on his wrists.
He was leaning up against a wall. Sitting, his back to the wall. His arms were chained to the wall above his head. An apparatus sat on his shoulders, ran along his jaw, and stuck into his mouth, keeping his head in position and his mouth wide open. What could he move? His eyes, yes, but... what else? Quite quickly, Alvin must have realized his legs were dead weight. They did not move at all.
The room. It smelled rank. It was covered in filth. Natural light came in from windows very high up on the wall, just below the ceiling. The windows were high; Alvin could not see out. Even standing, one could not see in or out of those windows; it was meant for light and nothing more.
The walls were blue and needed desperately to be repainted. They were a grungy white where the paint had peeled away. Grimy subway tile lined the floor.
Before making these observations, however, Alvin's eyes must have been drawn to the door. Alvin was sitting in middle of a wall. On the opposite wall, on the far left side, there was an opening that looked like it led out of the room. "Escape," Alvin must have been hoping.
Buck naked, shackled to a wall, paralyzed from the waist down, head fastened in one position, mouth uncomfortably kept open by invading metal bars in a rank, grimy place with no memory of how he got there. I wonder how long it will take him to recognize the room? No one has seen it before from this perspective, but he will learn this perspective well. This is his new home.
He is conscious; he is concerned; he is confused. Good. Now I can start.
Faint voices could be heard. They were carried as an echo. Someone must be somewhere outside the room... not too near it, but close enough for their voice to be carried to it. No, wait -- not just one voice. Many voices. A din of many people talking, shouting, laughing. Not too near, but louder.
A bell rang. His first clue.
There was shuffling... a moving of feet. Voices still, too. Then, a single one, closer. A man's voice, deep: "Yeah, I'll see ya there, man."
Footsteps echoing near. The man's deep voice finishes its sentence: "I just gotta piss first."
The man with the deep voice entered unceremoniously. He was tall, young. Maybe 17? Still maybe more a boy than a man. But, he had a man's voice and a man's position; Alvin did not. All Alvin could muster were wordless noises from his throat -- speech was not possible. Alvin's voice was not a man's, but an animal's. His position was not a man's, either.
The man with the deep voice was handsome. Tall. Dark hair. Broad shoulders. Strong build. Maybe he played football. He wore an unspectacular grey hoodie and baggy jeans.
I doubt Alvin noticed many of these things. The man with the deep voice did not spend a lot of time in Alvin's total view. He walked into the little room, Alvin grunted: "Help me." It came out as guttural noise: "uulll eee." The man showed no shock or surprise at Alvin's presence. He walked up to Alvin, stood in front of him. Alvin grunted: "Help me"/ "uulll eee." The man unzipped his fly. Alvin was silent for a moment. The man reached into his pants, pulled out his limp cock, aimed it towards Alvin's mouth.
I saw the horror dawn on Alvin's face. Everything fell into place. The grime, the smell, the voices, the colour of the paint and the height of the window. He was in the men's room. He was buck naked, shackled to a wall, paralyzed from the waist down, head fastened in one position, mouth uncomfortably kept open by invading metal bars and sitting where the urinals should be.
Alvin began to grunt: "No! No!"
No telling if the man heard or understood. All Alvin could see was the man's crotch in front of his face, his dick aimed directly at him.
Warm, stinking, yellow piss shot from the handsome man's dick towards Alvin's helpless, gaping mouth. He struggled, shook his shackles, tried to move away. Despite screaming and shaking, despite trying to resist, almost all of the piss still went right into Alvin's mouth.
His eyes were closed tightly and his face was scrunching in terrible ways as another man's piss streamed into his mouth. I am certain I could see another, slightly different reaction the moment Alvin realized he had to swallow the piss that was filling up his mouth to stop from choking. It was the moment his state changed from disgust to shame: in a millisecond, he went from someone being pissed on against his will to someone who chose to swallow that piss. His eyes were not closed as tightly; I could tell he had relaxed them, accepted that it was happening, and was trying to think of something else until the stream of urine stopped flowing into his mouth and down his throat.
Of course, not all of the piss went into his mouth. Some dripped down his chin and onto his chest, where it started to soak into his chest hair.
Alvin, too, was a handsome man. It was a defined jawline that the piss dripped down along. It was a hairy, manly chest onto which it fell. It was a pronounced Adam's apple which moved up and down every time Alvin was forced to swallow a stream of piss that kept coming and coming. They were broad shoulders on which the horrible metal apparatus sat. They were strong arms that were shackled to the wall. Manhood should have been just around the corner for him; handsome at 19 and set to be handsome for life.
Dark hair and fair skin, Alvin had turned heads. He had been popular among the ladies and and envied among men.
The man with the deep voice shook the last few drops of piss from his member, zipped up his fly, and departed, paying no attention to Alvin.
The taste will stay in his mouth.
This is my first submission to Nifty. Please send feedback to: ahmedmehra@rocketmail.com
Definitely considering continuing the story if I've got a readership!