All its work is inspired by, at the direction of, and for the enjoyment of, Hungkinkbot.
Content Warning: image-sharing social networks; cordknit sweaters, tea
“A little bit of porn, as a treat”, Clark chuckled to himself as he clicked on the image-sharing social network in his tabs. Just five minutes, maybe a bit of stroking through the crotch of his jeans. That’s all.
Third pic down had a hotlink for a caption. Something about losing control. Sounded sexy. Clark didn’t particularly think of himself as kinky, but neither would he forego a gander at some hot guys in leather because it depicted a fantasy more exotic or extreme than his cup of tea, which was more, well, cordknit sweaters and, well, literal cups of tea.
Like the one by his elbow on the desk where he was sitting. It was a snowy day, the tea was warm, he had a minute, he clicked the link.
The new browser frame immediately pulled up a series of flashing images.
Asses, leather, rubber and occasional flesh; pumping, splayed, open, profane.
Hoods, mouths forced open, tubes, gags, a flicking tongue marking the only hole leading inside a face. Eyes deadening, his eyes? Were those images from his cam showing his lids descending slowly over dilated pupils?
He slammed the laptop shut. Only now did Clark have the presence of mind to stroke his erection. “Jesus, that was intense.”
He was slightly scared, or thrilled. Maybe the more he thought of it, the more scared turned to thrilled. But isn’t that how it is with everything?
With almost childlike trembling, he opened the laptop back up. The clip show that had been playing on the screen had stopped. But thinking carefully, he realized what had taken him aback wasn’t the pics of geared up guys he had been presented with, it was the fact that the show had incorporated what seemed to be live images from his own cam. Or maybe that had not been him?
Clark had decided he was going to contemplate it all over a fresh cup of tea from the kitchen, but somehow he found he had already impulsively pressed play.
There was a succession of cocks and hips pumping into open throats, the heads attached to them sometimes held in place with hands, sometimes with straps.
Sometimes hooded, sometimes bare, sometimes shaved. What the fuck?
Suddenly, Clark almost jumped out of his chair. For a second, he had been certain one of the faces going down on a cock, balls crammed into the mouth, lips pressed against short hairs, was his. “What the what?”
Again, he stopped the show. He was breathing hard now. Of course it was impossible to stop the show on the precise image that might have been his face.
So he had no way to know for sure. And he hadn’t recalled clicking any popup boxes that would give whatever was at the other side of this link access to his cam or personal photos. So part of his brain was racing to figure out how this could be happening.
And the other part of his brain was weirdly turned on by the fact that it was. Unsurprisingly, this was the part that was winning out. He wondered what he might see if he pressed start again.
So, without thinking anything more about it, he did. Boys crawling around in bitchsuits, their arms and legs folded up into triangular uselessness, their bare shaved asses exposed for hard use. Some hooded. Some, “fuck.”
Clark recognized it. It was not him quite as he was now, because the photo it was working from was actually five or six years old, he had no idea whether it had been poached from his hard drive or some corner of the internet. But the softer, sweeter, younger version of his own face was contorted into helpless ecstasy as anonymous men stood by at his other end, ready to fill him up, one after another–
Again, almost involuntarily, he had already clicked stop. Fuck though, he was so turned on. Despite himself, Clark unbuttoned his jeans and slid them down below his knees, freeing his strong erection, moist at the tip.
Almost immediately, the clip show had moved on. Clark’s mind swam. Other images, and some sets of words, filled the screen before being replaced by the next image. For a while Clark let the colors and shapes occupy him, relieved to be done with that shock.
Then came an image of a rubbered man, in a sling, legs up, ankles and wrists loosely cuffed to the chains from which the sling was suspended. Head shaved, eyebrows gone, a look of perfect bliss on his face, something absurd and impossible happening at the other end of his body. At the precise moment Clark saw in the face his own features, the next image had come on.
He started to panic. Several possibilities started to close in on him at once. One was that he was somehow imagining or projecting his features into these pics, recognizing himself in them because it was such a hot fantasy. The wish fulfillment function of the whole operation seemed perfectly natural. Maybe he was more kinky than he realized? Maybe this was a deep need of his he had not properly understood? Maybe his unconscious was trying to tell him something?
Looking down, the rock-solid erection pulling at his boxers seemed hard to argue with on this point.
But almost immediately, another possibility loomed. Who was to say that wasn’t him in the pics? Who was to say he wasn’t that? Who was he to say what he was or was not, or what had or hadn’t happened to him? Suddenly the idea that the book of his memory might be a less authoritative version of what had occurred in his life than he had thought seemed pretty valid?
No. He jammed the lid of the laptop down again, he got up, he went into the bedroom, jerked off perfunctorily, suddenly very careful about what he did and did not fantasize about, and after cleaning up, he tried to put it all out of his head and go about his day. So many errands, on a day off. So much to do.
Occasionally as he was running around the house, toothbrush in his mouth, searching for his keys, he would spot the laptop out of the corner of his eye. It was something he did not quite trust any more. He joked mordantly to himself it might need an exorcism.
Finally, all the disturbing questions that had come from his distressing encounter with that damn clip show having been compartmentalized and filed away, he was ready to head out the door. There was grocery shopping to do, dry cleaning to pick up, and–
On the small porch outside his own front door, as if they were just getting ready to knock, were four men. Clark was immediately terrified. They were dressed head to toe in black leather officer uniforms, completed with sam brownes, leather ties, and peaked caps. But their faces were hidden with rubber hoods, only eyes and mouths visible. One of them had a very large duffle bag.
“Can we come in?” one of them asked, as casual and polite as if he were there to sell insurance, or encyclopedias.
Clark was just barely able to feign a normal tone of voice. “Ah, sorry, I’m just on my way out. I have errands.” His game plan was to get away from these men, get somewhere where there was people, figure out what to do there.
“How is your internet? Are there any problems?” another of the men asked, barely able to contain his mischievous glee.
“Oh fine!” Clark countered, stepping out the door, taking out the keys to lock it behind him, determined he was going to get away. “I was online just now–”
“Yes,” added the one carrying the heavy duffel, “we know.”
“Fuck,” and with that Clark started to hyperventilate.
“The problem with your internet is that you keep choosing to go offline. Think of us as the repair crew, here to offer maintenance for a faulty part. You.”
With surprising ease, two of the leather men had pried Clark’s housekeys out of his grasp, another had opened the door and pushed him back inside.
Clark was angry now. “Are you for real with this trick or treat nonsense?”
One of the uniformed guys was already making himself comfortable on Clark’s loveseat in a way that he found intensely grating. “Look, we’re not here to hurt you, steal from you, harm you in any inconceivable way. All we want from you is for you to go back to the little internet address you were at just now, and watch it for four hours. At the end of that time, we’ll perform some light tests to determine what effects it had. Then we’ll be on our way.”
“Oh wow,” one of the men called out from the kitchen. “You should see this guy’s tea collection! Do you mind if I put some on?”
“Yes, I mean no,” Clark answered, flustered, as another of the men had already flipped the lid on the laptop and was powering it up.
Suddenly it hit him: ten minutes on that clip show had affected him substantially, made him doubt his own reason and memories. What would even an hour do? “Guys,” Clark put up his hands, “I really don’t think this is going to happen.” He laughed nervously.
“Oh, this isn’t about something happening,” one of the men pshawed. “You just need to watch a little more of the same little movie you were watching before, and this time not turn it off before it gets to the really good stuff.”
Clark just realized something. “But wait. I just clicked that link the first time a little over 45 minutes ago. And you’re here now? How did that happen?”
The man in the kitchen making himself the pot of tea started laughing: “Well, the immaterial, inhuman machine consciousnesses who are kind of our gods, kind of our bosses, understood from the reblogs when the link would reach your queue, and from your own internet history the likelihood of your receptivity, so, well, surprise!”
Glancing over, he saw where the leather guy who had been at his computer had now not only found the right tab to resume the clipshow where it had been left off, but was connecting to the laptop a set of VR goggles.
Clark suddenly felt leather-gloved hands reaching around from behind him, unbuckling his belt, then unbuttoning his jeans and sliding down the zipper.
"Look, it’s simple,” said the man standing and facing Clark. “You could run out of here right now. You could struggle. You could fight us. But you’re not going to.
“We know you’re not. Just as we knew you were going to let us in. Today is going to have a lot of lessons for you. About bliss, about the nature of pleasure, about the truths we hide from ourselves. But the first of these is going to have to be this: we serve entities that know you better than you know yourself."
At this point the man who had been standing behind Clark was now sliding the jeans down his lightly-haired thighs and calves. Another of the leather men had opened the zip on the duffle a large, canvas, very functional and institutional-looking, straitjacket.
"Arms up, please”, the man standing behind him said, and without thinking Clark complied. “Look at how good he is at following instructions even now!” Clark heard the man say, before affectionately mussing his hair and then sliding up his collared shirt over his head and arms.
“Can we just talk about this? I just want to know some things about this before we–”
“We really don’t need to. Talking is skipping a stone across the surface. The information we’re working from is the total of all the ocean that is your desires, wishes, dreams, even the contents of your personal emails. You know, the hookups you couldn’t go through with?”
“Arms out,” said the man holding the straitjacket. Clark, even as he was trembling, was obedient and even helpful.
“You are doing such a great job with this,” said the man behind him. For a moment, Clark allowed himself to blush appreciatively.
He felt the sleeves of the jacket get affixed to the outside, in crossed position, and the buckles tighten against his back, one by one. He had never so much as ventured to one of the bars or attended a demonstration or been bound in any way. Even having just cum moments before, his cock strained at its erection.
Then one man took his shoulders and another his feet. They laid him down on the floor. The one who had held his feet removed his shoes, jeans and underwear. Then he slid three adult diapers under his ass one after the other, the tapes of which were then fastened, one after the other, barely containing his ferocious cock.
Finally, the crotch strap of the straitjacket was tightened, so as to hold everything in place. A cord was unspooled from the desk where his computer was, the VR headset attached. Belatedly, Clark knew there was nothing more he could do. He was under these men’s control, and the last offramp had been passed.
One man bent behind him, got his hands beneath his shoulders, and pulled him upright. They walked him over to the chair where he had been watching the laptop earlier, sat him down gently but firmly, brought down the VR goggles, made sure the strap on it was snug.
He started to cringe, and wiggle in his helplessness. “Can I at least tell you guys my name?” he asked. I know you know it already, but it still feels weird,“ he said.
you have been reading -Squad, being Part V of
prguitarman
turnnoffyourmind
theartofmadeline
origamiaround
areudirty
