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Brody’s hot, throbbing cock is tethered to the floor like an unruly animal. An elastic sound stretches it, long and thick, ending in a loop that goes through a ring in Brody’s prince Albert piercing, then coils tightly around his glans. A noose of thin nylon rope—long enough for him to stand, but not much longer—attaches to the same piercing, impossible to undo without a sharp knife. Finally, a tiny steel lock secures everything, pulling the piercing’s arms closed.
Brody is not bound otherwise, yet he can’t escape.
Nylon is supposed to be light, but there are small steel beads strung on it in uneven intervals—swaying—so wide movements aren’t something Brody is eager to try. He much prefers sitting flat on the floor, his full, heavy cock weighted down with just the lock, the piercing, the sound.
His kidnapper comes in the door and stops.
Twisted inside the nylon, there’s thin electric wire; it goes into the sound then diverges—one electrode connecting to the loop and the piercing, the other going much deeper. There’s an e-stim unit buried under the floor, automatically activated whenever Brody tries to touch the tip of the cock plug, the piercing, or the wires. It can also be controlled remotely, and the only thing his kidnapper has to do to gain Brody’s undivided attention is press one button on his phone.
Deep pain spears through Brody’s entire cock—from prostate to glans—up-down, down-up, in fast pulses. He’s heard this could feel good, electro-stimulation, and there’s an echo somewhere, of the possibility of pleasure, but it’s drowned out by the intensity, the speed, the sheer power.
Brody curls into himself, but he’s not begging.
He’s not desperate enough for that yet.
His kidnapper is satisfied after a minute or two.
Brody breathes deeply, curled up on the floor. With his fingertips, he gently strokes his tender shaft. It’s still stubbornly hard, and Brody wants to whine; he grits his teeth.
“Hello, pet,” his kidnapper says.
He’s an unremarkable man, bulky but short, with thin hair of indeterminate color and a flat, pasty face bringing to mind a porcelain mask. There’s no emotion on that face, no anger, no sorrow, no glee—just empty nothingness.
That’s what scares Brody most of all.
Brody doesn’t try to talk—he’s learned early that the only thing that brings is more pain—and he doesn’t look at the man directly. Instead, his eyes skirt around the man’s form, over the off-white walls of the empty room, over the closed wooden door and the sky visible through the peeling window. His eyes are watering. His face gets hot.
“I brought you your breakfast.” The man’s hands are empty. “Eat it like a good boy, and I’ll let you pee.”
Brody looks down and blinks away tears. His bladder is full and uncomfortable, and he knows he could still take it—for an hour or two—before it becomes unbearable.
He also knows it will take his kidnapper much longer than that to check on him again.
He nods.
The man pulls out his cock and steps closer.
Brody swallows and takes him in his mouth.
Before this, he’s never sucked a man off in his life. He should be terrible at this, and he would be if his kidnapper’s penis was any bigger. But it’s smooth and comfortable, the glans just poking inside Brody’s throat—slick and thick enough to tickle his senses, but not enough to choke.
Brody works his tongue diligently, eyes closed. There’s still wetness under his eyelids, and his nose is a bit clogged, but he’s done this enough times to fall into an automatic, comfortable rhythm. He bobs his head, hollows his cheeks, swallows around the tip. Again and again, he tastes the bursts of salty pre-cum.
His jaw is sore before the cock on his tongue tenses and shifts deeper in.
Brody obediently swallows around it and is rewarded by a flood of cum. Compared to how unimpressive the man’s cock is, he sure cums a lot, and Brody has trouble drinking it all. He does his best—if he spills even a drop, his own cock will pay.
The damned man strokes his hair. “Good boy,” he praises; his voice is flat.
He never reacts much when he cums. What he gets from this—if he gets any pleasure beyond the physical—Brody still doesn’t know.
Brody kneels before him, not talking.
Waiting.
“Hands behind your back.”
Still looking down, Brody obeys.
The man ties his wrists with a zip tie. He stands up. “Legs,” he says, and Brody spreads his thighs as wide as he can. The man crouches in front of him, then takes a catheter bag out of the pocket in his cargo pants. He pushes the tube onto the top of Brody’s cock plug, then takes out his phone and presses a button.
Deep inside Brody, something releases.
The bag fills.
The relief is instantaneous, and Brody barely stops himself from moaning. Warmth travels down slowly through the thin hole in the sound, his own pee passively stimulating his already much too sensitive cock. He hardens some more—closes his eyes and breathes through his teeth.
“You’re being really good today,” the man remarks. “No whining, no nothing.” He’s still crouching in front of Brody, phone in hand. “You deserve a reward.” He detaches the bag, then presses something again.
Pleasure spills in Brody’s cock.
It’s the electricity again, but this time the pulses are gentler and slower. They roll through him, from prostate to tip, like molasses, thick and aching with tension. It’s like the best pussy ever, like he’s sucked and stroked at the same time—only from the inside.
He trembles.
He moans.
“Good, isn’t it?” comments the man in his flat voice. “Keep being obedient like today, and there’s much more where that came from.”
Mouth open, Brody pants. His hips strain forward, cock bobbing in the air despite the weight hanging off it. He wants these pulses to make him cum; he needs it so bad.
Since he was kidnapped, he hasn’t cum once. He can stroke himself, technically, but one wrong move, one wrong touch, and his sensitized cock is speared with unimaginable pain. Plus, his urethra is blocked—even if he manages to orgasm, no cum will be getting out.
It’ll probably hurt.
He’s been too scared to try.
“Please,” he begs.
Both the speed and the strength of the pulses increase.
Brody bends over and moans.
The pleasure almost touches the edges of pain now, almost brushes them on the upstrokes. Brody’s vision darkens whenever it pools in his prostate. It’s the strongest there, squeezing, pressing. It’s how, Brody imagines, getting fucked would feel like—if his kidnapper ever stooped to that.
It has only been blowjobs, until now. Brody isn’t all that eager to experience another form of rape, but staying in this room and waiting for the other shoe to drop—imagining it—is slowly turning him insane. And it’s not as if his ass is virginal; not anymore. The man is giving Brody regular enemas, after all.
Brody flushes and wishes for something in his ass now. His muscles keep clenching around nothing, prompted by the electricity, so deep inside. It builds. His body tenses and heats, and then—
He’s cumming.
It’s so wonderful for a moment. Broader than usual, harder, the pleasure explodes.
Then it meets the blockade.
Brody howls.
The ache is all-consuming, and the electrical punches don’t stop. Brody contorts on the floor, on his side, hands still bound. He writhes. He begs.
Oh God, please stop.
The man doesn’t stop.
Time loses meaning. There’s only the all-consuming pleasure-pain in his groin. It envelops him like a fire. Pools between his legs then spread to every nerve.
When it ends, Brody is almost insensate.
The man towers over him. “Thank me for your reward,” he says.
Brody blinks away the black spots.
He has to speak, but his throat doesn’t want to cooperate.
One more pulse shoots through his cock.
“Thank you!” Brody screams.
The man crouches over him, and a cold hand strokes Brody’s inflamed, sweaty cheek. “Now, was that so difficult?”
Brody closes his eyes.
The man cuts the zip tie on Brody’s wrists, and when Brody doesn’t react, he rolls Brody onto his back. He rearranges Brody’s still half-hard cock on Brody’s thigh—Brody has enough strength left to flinch when it’s touched—then unfolds a thermal blanket over Brody’s supine body, making sure that each limb is covered. Everything he does is done impersonally and without one word.
Brody swallows down tears. “Please, let me go.”
The man doesn’t respond.
He stands up. There’s the sound of steps, then the door clicks closed.
Again, Brody is alone.