The incoming chief, CAPTAIN SIR, reached into the top case of beer, popped a tab on a can and raised the frothing brew in the air in a salute to the room. "To the captain," he said and the room responded in kind. He handed the cold brew to CAPTAIN JACK and walked with him to two chairs set up on a small plywood platform which had been temporarily set up alongside the medical table. A dais of sorts, although calling this makeshift structure in a basement dungeon a dais might be more than a little pretentious.
A tall wooden chair – rescued from an old church being converted into a community centre – had been set up for him near the medical table in a soft halo of light, and he sat down heavily into the padded seat. It had been a bishop's chair when it was in the church, and looked appropriately royal – ornate curlicues and carving decorated the high back and arms, and its' backrest and seat were lined with rich burgundy leather cushions.
The wood creak as it accepted the old captain's 248 pound frame, but held firm. He looked regal seated here, and he knew it. The king of his domain. The master of ceremonies. A LEATHER GOD. He knew that quite a few of the inmates gathered here to mark his final night as captain were drooling over him, and not a few of the leathercops too for that matter. He was frigging hot and he was in his element. This wasn't going to change after tonight. In the morning he might not be captain any more, but he'd still be one hot fuckker.
A smaller wooden chair sat next to his, and CAPTAIN SIR took his place in this one. It too had been rescued from the church, along with some of the pews which had been recycled into beams, a sling and even a solitary confinement box. The two chairs usually sat in the captain's office upstairs, but they'd been manhandled down here with some difficulty earlier in the day for just this purpose. The two captains, the old and the new, were the guests of honour at this event, and were prepared to watch – or direct or participate in the entertainments if they felt the desire – in the evening's activities.
First on the program was a Synthol demonstration. Several inmates/clients with medical fetish interests had volunteered to be Synthol guinea pigs for the evening, and BIG ANGUS passed his Muir cap in front of this little group of men clad only in small white bathhouse towels tied around their waists.
Each willing participant dropped his locker token into the cap. BIG ANGUS shook the cap to mix up the tokens then held his cap out to CAPTAIN JACK who randomly selected a token and handed it to ANGUS.
BIG ANGUS read the token and then turned to face the waiting line of boys. "165, step forward" he called out, and one of the bois stepped away from the others.
BIG ANGUS looked at the unselected line of towel-clad bois. "Thank you for volunteering for this challenge, but we'll have to find other uses for you elsewhere tonight. Unfortunately, this is the only scheduled medical scene, but I understand some of the men here tonight may require your services in a clinical capacity after tonight's formal activities. For the time being you are to stand quietly and watch only. As usual any sound or movement from any of you will result in punishment for all of you. Is this clearly understood?"
"YES SIR," the bois replied in unison and as one assumed an at ease posture as they had been trained to do - legs apart and hands clasped behind their backs.
BIG ANGUS now turned to the nervous toweled boy chosen by lottery to become a Synthol pincushion.
"You understand the ordeal you are about to undergo and you have willingly agreed to allow this process to be done to you. You have agreed to be held in bondage and injected with Synthol anywhere and everywhere on your body, and you have agreed that this can be done to you for the duration of this dungeon session. Additional consent is neither requested nor required, and where the injections will be made and how large a volume will be injected will be determined by your SYNTHOL MASTERS."
As if on cue, two heavily-Syntholed leathercops stepped into the light beside BIG ANGUS. Now ANGUS was a pretty big man himself – a 50 inch chest and close to 20 inch arms on his 230 pound frame – but these guys were MASSIVE compared to him. Cartoonish huge, in fact.
BRAD wore only a shiny red lycra posing suit and thigh high WESCO laceup boots. With his shaved head and gleaming oiled body, he looked a lot like the famous American Synthol rentboy right down to the BASKETBALL SIZED SYNTHOL-LOADED BICEPS and SHOULDERS. BRAD might still pass for normal – almost. He was just a little too big to be real, and not all of his web audience knew that half of his flex came from a clear liquid pulled with a syringe out of a bottle.
KLAUS on the other hand could never be mistaken for natural. He wore more traditional gear from the waist down tonight – flared black leather Langlitz breeches with a white strip running down the outside of each leg and Dehner cop boots. But from the waist up was another matter. The Sam Browne belt he wore at his waist and over his shoulder protruded out over IMPOSSIBLE PECS, BLOATED BEYOND PHYSICAL REALITY and HEAVY WITH SYNTHOL. PILLOW-SIZED, pecs that could never exist outside a chemist's lab, How could his pec flesh even hold it's shape with this much oil pressing against it? His arms were like BARRELS, losing all distinction between bicep and tricep into a SINGLE MASSIVE THIGH-LIKE DEFORMITY. Long lace up leather gauntlets on each forearm tapered to normal sized wrists, making his whole arms look like SYNTHOL BALLOONS tied to his hands.
Like BRAD, KLAUS thought his look was hot and was proud of the injections he'd undergone to achieve it. Now he was prepared to do the same to a willing vic and see where his size fetish might take him too. Also like BRAD, he thought it would be better to try Synthol options on someone else before he tried them on himself.
Earlier in the evening the two SYNTHOL FREAKS had entertained the waiting men by injecting each other with Synthol. First one would jab a Synthol-loaded hypo into his partner's bloated flesh, then the other would take a fresh stab at his partner, slowly increasing their size into inhuman proportions, each egging the other on to even greater volume.
Shoulders. Deltoids, Triceps. Biceps Pecs. Balls. The Synthol freaks matched injection for injection, and were cheered on by watchers in the room, who gradually grew silent as the men achieved monstrous proportions. becoming more cartoon like than human with each additional shot.
The vic looked fearfully from one SLAB OF SYNTHOL LOADED BEEF to the other. Was this going to happen to him? Is this what he'd volunteered for?? Frack! But at the same time he was excited too. He really did want it, and he wanted to be bound while it happened to him.
As though they were reading his mind, the three leathercops hoisted the towel-clad boi onto the medical examination table and began fastening padded leather restraints around his neck, wrists and ankles. BIG ANGUS roughly shoved a huge leather padded gag into the table-bound boi's mouth and forced it in as deep as it would go before buckling it behind his head. The gag contained a hollow tube in its centre which stood out from the gag about four inches. A similar amount of tube pressed against the inside of his mouth. It was uncomfortable but – almost – bearable.
Out of the corner of his eye the boi could see that somebody was unlocking a glass-fronted cabinet and taking out assorted shiny metal pieces and equipment - kidney dishes, clamps, syringes, needle tips, Synthol vials, MANY Synthol vials - and placing them on a wheeled cart which was then brought over to the side of the examination table he'd been strapped to. BIG ANGUS reached up and turned on a huge overhead examination light that bathed the entire area in a brilliant white light.
CELLBLOCK DUTY DESK.