Asset stripping 02

At 6.00 Lyle received an email from Schulz's personal address:

"The password to the Executive Elevator is 6969. 5.00 sharp".

The Executive elevator was double width, with expensive mahogany panelling and full-length gold-framed mirrors on every side.

Lyle emerged on the 40th floor walking into a luxurious hallway decorated more like a Gentleman's Club than the executive office that he remembered. Crystal chandeliers, wood panelling and portraits adorned the Baronial style room. So this was where all the company profits (or losses) were going, thought Lyle...

Suddenly a young servant appeared, squeezed into a tight Butler uniform, and nodding reverentially, silently indicated for Lyle to follow him towards the bronze double doors on the other side of the vast marble hallway. As Lyle followed the muscular servant, he noticed the portraits were all of "Chief" in what looked various types of military uniform. Lyle also passed a desk where Chief's the equally handsome young PA sat, seemingly not doing very much. Yes, thought Lyle, he was definitely one of the workmen "Foreman" Schulz was enjoying berating this morning...

The servant opened the grand doors ahead of Lyle, revealing a site that almost made Lyle's already excited dick shoot a load. At the far end of a vast office, In the shadows under a cloud of cigar smoke Lyle could see the muscled mass of "Chief" Schulz seated at a vast executive desk raised on a raised plinth. The outline of Chiefs distinctive brutal flat-top towered above a double width wing-backed leather executive chair. The gold trim of Schulz's tie-clip was picked out by the single light above the Chief Executive Officer, his broad shoulders towering over the desk, the glowing nub of a large toxic cigar jutting out in front. The light above made the shelf of Chief's huge pec shelf cast a shadow onto the black leather-topped desk, making his barrel-chest appear even more massive.

Chief's over-developed arms were spread out wide either side, gripping the edge of desk, showing off the silhouette of his lats and his heavy triceps that hung low below his biceps. Chief's bowling-ball delts were forced up by this pose, almost touching Chief's ears...

"Come!". Schulz barked through cigar-chomping gritted teeth, signalling the thrilled subordinate to approach the altar-like desk.

As Lyle approached the steps that lead up to the desk to sit on a tiny stool, he peered in the dark to the right. What he saw made him even harder: a huge, photo-realistic portrait of a smiling Schulz flexing insane, glistening muscles in a most muscular pose, wearing tiny leather competition posers, with a winner's trophy at his feet.

"You like that, Lyle? One of my best placings. FIRST, that is."

Lyle became dizzy with arousal by Schulz's arrogance, as much as the intoxicating cigar smoke that reminded him of the almost equally muscular Cop who had him last night.

Schulz slowly lifted a heavy ham-sized hand, and wastefully removed the near-finished cigar, stubbing out the thick butt in a large crystal cigar-ash-tray. Suddenly the butler appeared from out of the dark, with a large humidor.

Schulz picked a huge Casablanca.

"SIR, May I, SIR", as he offered a cigar cutter.

Schulz handed the heavy dark stick back to the servant, who trimmed the cigar, and swiftly returned it, offering a military designed heavy table lighter. Schulz sucked in the costly fumes and continued talking, not bothering to acknowledge the servant...He did not offer Lyle a big-man cigar.

"Whisky?". He asked through his cloud of smoke, signalling to another servant, who presented two crystal glasses of pale 30 year old whisky on a silver platter. All the while the cigar servant was standing, head bowed. "Dismissed" SCHULZ barked as the Butler backed away into the dark.

Lyle had got used to the dim club-room light, nothing like an office, and could now see looming above Chief's head another life-size portrait of a magisterial Schulz in ceremonial, heavily armed, decorated black leather militia uniform, with peaked Officer cap, mirrored glasses, signature cigar in mouth, and quad-high cop-boots. The intimidating, unsmiling leader of men in the portrait looming over Lyle, brandished a gleaming Kalashnikov, as if pointed straight at Lyle. Lyle faintly recognised the decal on this unusual police uniform, and wondered what Force Chief commanded in his spare time...Suddenly flashes of gunmetal, lashes of the whip, the taste of cigar ash - the sharpness of cop boot - flashbacks haunting like suppressed abuse - his pussy now gaping, hungry to serve the powerful Chief Executive Officer Schulz...

"So, you want a tour of the building works, Lyle?" CHIEF teased, knowing Lyle's answer - the same answer as every man who Schulz had enjoyed subordinating under his jack-booted will...

Schulz started to raise his considerable bulk from the chair, first fiddling with something under the desk - almost as if doing up his fly...

Schulz now towered above his desk, above Lyle and above everything he surveyed - 6'5" of pure muscle. As Schulz slowly came round the side of the 10 foot desk, Lyle swore he heard a cough or a gagging sound from underneath the desk that Schulz had been gripping so hard on...

Asset stripping 01

The Board had received an email 3 months ago announcing the sudden transfer of ownership to this unknown relative of the ageing, childless CEO Mr Webber. They had heard old Mr Webber's penthouse office suite was being re-modeled under secrecy, and a list of demands, staff changes and extravagant expenses had already been claimed. And the repeal of the smoking ban was merely the first of many changes.

"Chief" Schulz (as the memo had instructed he was to be addressed) strode into the Board meeting 30 minutes late, smoking a Casablanca Jerry, ignoring the old office smoking ban.

As the new Chief Executive Officer walked to the head of the boardroom table the Board were faced with a staggering, muscular spectacle. "Chief"'s X-shaped physique was clothed in a costly midnight blue silk mohair bespoke suit, made by the finest Savile Row tailors. Tapering dramatically from padded barn-door shoulders to a narrow waist, and flaring back out again over tightly fitted quad-hugging pants the suit was tailored in such a way to show off "Chief's" massive physique - and little to hide an engorged package. A narrow satin-fine leather tie served to make his bulging neck look even thicker, straining the pure white starched silk-cotton collar. A gold tie-pin displayed some military looking emblem, as did an identical lapel-pin. What looked like glistening leather biker boots jutted out from the bottom of the pants. Schulz's deep posing tan set off the squared-off perfection of the gun-metal glint of steel-gray flat-top.

Schulz slowly walked up to the new double-width black-leather winged-back chair that had appeared at the head of the boardroom table. The new male secretary, who had been waiting nervously for 30 minutes proffered a large crystal cigar-ashtray, relieving the new CEO of the stogie, then stood behind CHIEF, suddenly obscured by the 60" chest of his BOSS. Before sitting, CHIEF unbuttoned the jacket, and shrugged of the tight-fitting sleeves, as the secretary gently pulled the jacket from behind revealing Chief's rippling torso, encased in a short-sleeved military-cut shirt tailored so tightly that it showed Schulz's eight-pack. The Board were amazed by the revealed huge physique looming over them. The cuffs of the short sleeves dug into the gap above the cap of his his ripped biceps, bronzed veins visibly pulsing. The shirt silk above Chief's traps was cut so as to show off the separation between his neck beef and delts that stretched at least 2 feet either side of his pin-head. Mammoth pecs bulged outwards and the shirt material bulged upwards, his upper pecs touching his bearded lantern jaw.

Lyle, the Legal Officer who had had to sign off these mysterious expenses, tented his pants under the boardroom table, and was on the brink of shooting his miserable load as he recognised Chief Schulz as the muscular Foreman from this morning - now his Boss, who had been playing some strange, arrogant game, spying on his new employees. Now he really was showing them who Boss. (And was that secretary one of the two other workmen...?)

"So, if Lyle could come to my office at 5.00 to go over the P + L...". Schulz barked, suddenly staring down the boardroom table right into Lyle's eyes, just like "Foreman" Schulz had before. Lyle's heart started to pound, as he tried not to blush. Lyle crossed his legs, and tried to hide his hardening wood...

Asset Stripping: Prequel

Lyle stumbled into his chair, and quietly slid the seat under his desk, quickly opening his screen - late again after last night's marathon session in the Eagle's darkroom and his strange adventure bound and shackled till 6.00 this morning in the basement of a Cop Station, somewhere downtown.

As he sat on his office chair signing off the latest batch of invoices Lyle was reliving the painful ass rape he received from the cop he had to address as "Officer Amberson, SIR". Flashes of gunmetal, lashes of the whip, the taste of cigar ash, the sharpness of cop boot - flashbacks haunted him like suppressed abuse - his pussy still gaping, still hungry to serve the powerful Officer Amberson.

A loud commotion broke Lyle's reverie. On the far side of the office two construction workers were making a noise, scoping out measurements. This must be for the penthouse office suite Lyle was costing for the mysterious new CEO. Lyle peered over his cubicle to see what the noise was all about. Lyle did not remember hiring any builders for this week...

Filling the doorway a huge muscled construction worker, presumably their Foreman, was barking orders at the two smaller construction workers. The muscled workman's X-shaped physique, tapering dramatically from barn-door shoulders and flaring back out again over tightly fitting, quad-hugging lycra gym-shorts which did little to hide an indecently large, engorged cock-package. Glistening leather biker boots finished off the workmen's clothing, more like workout gear than work-gear. The Foreman's musclemass filled the doorway, the other two workmen obscured by the 60" chest of their Boss.

Lyle was amazed by the huge physique looming before him. The foreman's massive torso was encased in a wifebeater so tight that it showed the Foreman's eight-pack and ripped biceps, bronzed veins visibly pulsing. The wifebeater showed off the separation between his neck beef and delts that stretched at least 2 feet either side of his pin-head. Mammoth pecs bulged outwards and the shirt material bulged upwards, his upper pecs touching his bearded lantern-jaw.

What looked like a deep bodybuilder posing tan set off the squared-off perfection of the gun-metal glint of a steel-gray flat-top. And an unlit stogie jutted out of the big man's bearded mouth.

Lyle was already damp again with the jizz he had been forbidden to shed the night before by the Leather Officer. Getting up carefully from his seat, checking his pants didn't show his pre-cum, Lyle had to check out the blue collar hulk.

Lyle gingerly approached the doorway, clutching a pile of invoices in front of his crotch, unable to avert his gaze from the muscleman. The big Foreman suddenly caught his eyes, and, recognizing the inevitable lust of men like Lyle, teasingly bounced his massive pecs under the straining fabric, as he stared back at the drooling office worker. Lyle turned bright red. It was as if this man was looking right into his mind.

Lyle had to suddenly turn round, and rush to the executive washroom, which was mercifully empty, run into a cubicle and slamming the door behind him, whack out the aching load Officer Amberson had forbidden him...

Good Thug/Bad Thug Part I

For Sarge Dehner on the inauguration of his 30 hole Grinders

Dehner was getting ready to slip out of the Cellblock in the dead of night, swapping the PR24 for the bat, to ride down to Crack Alley to check out on one of his "business interests".


Dehner squeezed into his black Fred Perry, with yellow trim and bleachers, the muscle he had amassed since his street fighting years straining the fabric to impressive extremes. And the 30 hole Grinders; it felt good stamping their print on the back of a vic...


Sarge Dehner looked back on his skinhead days, stalking the backstreets in a skin gang, battling with the other gangs on his turf, bloodying the baseball bat...


Sarge was caught short in the locker room changing into his bleachers. Hearing Bullitt's Chippewas coming through the security door, Dehner quickly zipped up the chaps over the Corcorans and bleachers, holding the Langlitz in front of his crotch. Dehner was barechested, and hadn't got the Fred Perry shirt on yet. In the dark entry corridor that passed for a locker-room Bullitt didn't notice Dehner's lack of Cop boots, or the outlaw uniform hidden under the chaps.

"See you at the Cigar Night tomorrow, Sarge" Bullitt barked, already in full Langlitz, fresh off his issue Hog, as the internal security door buzzed him in. This got Dehner thinking.


--------------------------------------


Sarge Dehner pulled up to Crack Alley where it crosses the City limits, kicked the Harley stand down, and lit a Casablanca. Dehner was on his decommissisoned cop bike and in full dress Langlitz, uniform, Officer Cap, gauntlets and shades. With one exception - leather chaps disguised bleachers darkened round the crotch, and covered his skinhead Grinders. After finishing the half-Jerry, Dehner unsaddled and unfastened the chin-strap on his cop-helmet. He took off the Langlitz armour and unzipped the chaps, revealing his skin-uniform bleachers and 30 hole Grinders. Dehner squeezed the Langlitz into the Hog's panniers, and reached inside to replaced the PR24 with a baseball bat. One final adjustment: swapping cop-issue Aviators with wrap-around Oakleys.


Dehner enjoyed the sound his 30-holers made on the sidewalk as he turned down crack alley, the only signal to his whores that Boss was coming for his money.


From the far end of the alley, Dehner could see two of his hookers picked out in the dark huddled under a street lighting, strutting their stuff. A jock rent-boy, and another, larger musclesub: these two reprobates had been kicked out of so many clubs they now resorted to turning tricks in back alleys downtown for Senators and Preachers...And on the other side where the meth heads who turned tricks to pay for their habit - usually their pimp was their dealer. Dehner wasn't interested in keeping these losers in his stable...

Dehner's stopped to refresh his cigar, and looking back up the alley noticed a large man approach the whores, say some words, flash a knife and then cash exchanged - but no services rendered. "Fuck, that pimp from the docks is muscling in on my patch"...


The pimp turned round at the sound of Dehner's baseball bat tapping against the leather of his Grinders - just too late...


"Fuck off buddy, they ain't sellin to TRASH tonite." The pimp lunged at Dehner with the knife, but Dehner swung the bat knocking the blade out of his hand.


Dehner slowly cupped the weapon it in his gloved fist. "SAY WHAT?".


"Shiiiit....!". The pimp whispered, making a run for it. But Dehner grabbed the fukka by the collar and wacked the low-life in the guts with one, hard blow of the bat. The pimp crumpled in front of the skinhead. Dehner followed through with a kick of one heavy 30 hole grinder to the groin.


"Now YOU gonna pay ME FUKKA".


Dehner threw the pimp up against a wall. "Gonna pay ME to fukk YOU, asshole".


Dehner ripped the perp's jeans down.


"Enjoy the show, boys. See how an ass should be fukked..." Dehner laughed to the two whores, as he unleashed his cock and banged it into the pimp's virgin ass...

The two whores crowded round their BOSS as he humiliated the competition.


"Fuck you man" the pimp screamed as Dehner enjoyed breaking the scum's ring.


"Fuckin YOU now boi" Dehner laughed smashing the pimp against the wall with the brutal ass-stabbing.


When Dehner pulled out the whores knelt to suck the big cops cock and any splashes of jizz off his Grinders. The pimp slumped in front of the Skin cop's boots. As Dehner relit his Casablanca, he thought he saw a form disappear into the shadows....

THE SCHWARZENEGGER DREAM: PART III

FLEX and WOLF squeezed their bulk through the cell door.

"Follow us bro". Oldman got up, still unused to his new weight. He walked behind the two cops into the dimly lit gym.

"You work hard, bro, real hard. Time to see da muscle" Sarge Flex smiled.

Oldman knew what he had been wanting do for the last eight weeks. He grabbed the sweat shirt and tore it off his chest.

The smiling buzzed pinhead perched on top of a v-shaped wall of muscle staring back at him did not shock him. Oldman wasn't even surprised: what he saw suddenly felt natural as he walked towards the mirror, inspecting his melon-sized pecs that reached up to his chin, twitching with every motion. His arms were pushed out sideways by thick lats, his two pumped biceps covered in veins. His bronzed abs were like bricks, with his distended pec beef hanging over his ribcage.

Even his face had changed, but this did not faze Oldman. His mandibles had widened his bearded jaw, now sunk into his even wider neck, all but disappearing into his traps that seem to reach up to his ears. This made his buzzed skull look even more pin-headed. Prolonged roid and GH abuse had swollen his lips, brow, nose and eye sockets, making him look a neanderthal throwback. His hardening cock told him this was the real him, the man he should be, the man he saw in his dreams. Oldman was not shocked, but pleased, satisfied, vindicated.

"What d'ya think Oldman?" Asked FLEX, surprised by Oldman's quiet normality. Usually the guys freak out at their big reveal. "You..DO like what ya see, yeah?."

"Hell yeah, bro - as big as you guys now" Oldman barely smiled as he inspected his new power.

FLEX mimed a most muscular at Oldman: but he hardly needed to ask, as Oldman punched out a double bi like he had learned all those years back from Arnie. Oldman nodded with self-satisfaction at his 20" bis balling up to his ears, crowding his syntholed delts for room.

"What am I now, 240, 250?"Oldman asked, matter of fact...

"255".

"Got more work to do then" grinned Oldman, as he banged out a most muscular, every new muscle jostling for space under his skin, threatening to tear through the gold posing tan. Oldman's skull seemed even more tiny, engulfed by trap muscle right up to his ears. Oldman held the pose, slowly flexing every separate group, savouring his pure mass, as he deserved.

"And the legs man" said FLEX.

Oldman didn't hesitate to rip of the flimsy jogging pants. Oldman was so self-satisfied with his image, so busy inspecting each striation that he forgot, or didn't care that FLEX and WOLF where there or that his pumped 9 inches jutted out over massive quads. Oldman slowly massaged his inches, pleased with the heft of his cock that looked even bigger than before.

"You ready for your passing out, bud?". WOLF asked, realizing that Oldman was more than ready - like he'd been a Cellblock Officer all his life.

"Bring it on bro."

SARGE FLEX opened the gym door, and group of shorter, smaller men - some kind of servants or (cadets, maybe?) in plain black leather shirts and trousers filed in, and stood to attentiotn, heads bowed. Each held piles of clothes or wooden boxes.

FLEX signalled a gauntleted hand to the nearest, who swiftly unfolded a gleaming pair of striped Langlitz horsehide Rangers breeches, with wide legs and even wider "balloons" tapeing to an impossibly narrow waistband.

"Try them for size. You were measured last week in your sleep."

Oldman slipped the cold, stiff leather over his heavy 30" quads. A cadet instantly dropped to its knees to fasten the side-zips. They fitted like armour. However Oldman struggled to cram his cock meat into the satin-thin leather cod.

"Have to leave the top snap open bro"Oldman grinned as his cockhead prised open the fasteners.

"Yeah, that happens a lot". FLEX smiled...

Another servant knelt before him and placed before Oldman a large, heavy gleaming pair of Dehner size 12s, and held them in place with white dress gloves for the cop to step into. The bootservant then quickly whipped out a cloth for a final shine. The bootboy looked up at the musclecop for a sign-off. Oldman nodded approval as the servant backed away on its knees. Oldman was instinctively assuming his natural role, calling the shots...

Another servant unfurled a v-shaped tent of a uniform shirt in the costliest thinly tanned horsehide. Oldman slipped it on, as it snapped neatly round his biceps, already straining the 20" sleeves.

Oldman was then handed an issue Sam Brown, and regulation Glock, PR24 and bike keys to put on the belt. "Your Low-Rider's waiting for you in the pound, Cop".

The two cadets with boxes were next. SARGE FLEX nodded to one, who opened a large box, full of money. "These are your business earnings - let's say from some of your debtors." OldmanB grinned guessing this was from one of the shake-downs he had seen on the CCTV.

FLEX nodded to the other cadet, who opened a large box of
cigars. Oldman chose the largest Martinez, which the cadet asked to take from Oldman, cutting and preparing the fat stick, and offering the stogie back to his Cop Boss, then lighting the big man's gar. Oldman inhaled the costly, chocolate fumes, and felt more and more part of this new elite force, more powerful, more superior with every breath.

Oldman was then handed his Officer cap. "Don't put it on yet, Cop. Now You gonna meet your men."

FLEX signalled for the shutters between the gym and the Mess to be opened, revealing ranks of Officers in full dress uniform each with a cadet by their side.

"I give you Officer BOSS". WOLF announced, handing the newly crowned Officer his badge. The ranks of leather cops hooted loudly in approval of BOSS's newly gained muscle, as he placed the peaked cap on his head, neatly hugging the roll of muscle on the back of his skull, the visor sitting tightly right down on the thick bridge of his nose.

"Come on, Cop, show us ya new beef".

"Yeah, come on, DO IT."

"Flex em COP!"

Oldman banged out a quick, unsmiling most muscular, turning to each side of the Mess to the adulation of his men.

"Fuck Man, awesome" shouted the gang of cop goons.". The thick smokey atmosphere was electric with testosterone. Officer BOSS felt good, hell, he felt like he'd been here on the platform with the men below him all his life.


"Got something here to complete your passing out"WOLF shouted across the rabble. "The final part of your initiation. Know you'll like THIS bro".

Suddenly a path was cleared through the mass of leather uniforms and smoke by the leathered bulk of Sarge FLEX dragging a naked man by a leash, cuffed and hooded.

FLEX kicked the vic up on to the platform with a heavy boot and onto its knees.

"Know you'd been wantin to try ya hand at interrogation."

FLEX pulled the hood off and with one paw round its neck pointed its face up towards its new overseer.

BOSS smiled, as he saw through the cigar smoke, his ex-wife's meathead husband grovelling before his boots, with a jawbreaker clamping his mouth wide-open. The vic, now nowhere near as muscular as BOSS, had no idea who the leatherclad, bearded muscle bully was. BOSS BOSS's transformation, or rather his assuming of the powerful legacy that was rightly his, completely confused the vic, who did not recognise the 255 pounds of ugly uniform muscle towering above him, or what kind of police these were.

The pack of men started to chant. "Fuckthacunt. DO IT COP!!!!! Fuckthacunt"

As the pack of copthugs banged on the floor with their copboots, WOLF grinned at BOSS as he unhooked a tool of his cop belt.

"Use this bud, don't wanna leave any evidence hehe" WOLF laughed handing BOSS a heaby rubber cocksheath.

The newly inaugurated Cop simply nodded back, as he unfastened his cod. His pumped inches jutted up from his breeches.

"DO IT COP!!!". BOSS's men hollered, as he crammed his meat into the heavy cockclub.

As WOLF raped the vics clamped mouth BOSS split the perp's shute with one brutal cockpunch.
The troop of men hooted, cheering their new Officer recruit on, as he pounded the ass of his wife's husband. With every scream, every blow and every mouthful of cigar smoke, BOSS took on more and more of the power that was rightly his, his ego inflating to the natural, pumped, roided, brutal level of an ALPHAMALE and leader of men.

As the cheers and adulation reached a deafening sonic boom. BOSS shot his junk in unison with WOLF. Only the curl of cigar smoke from the corner of his mouth showied he'd cum, that he'd completely humiliated the vic, completely achieved ALPHACOP staus.

BOSS roughly unsheathed from the perp's ass, and WOLF unplugged his weapon from its skull.

BOSS kicked the moaning, broken perp on its back.

BOSS towered above his uniformed troops, more muscular than ever. Through his cigar smoke BOSS looked down, over the top of his pecs admiring the girth of his thick 9 incher jutting out of his leather breeches. BOSS flexed a double bicep to the adulation of his kneeling troops, as his roided semen splashed out of his cock down onto his cop boot and the slave's face under it....

THE SCHWARZENEGGER DREAM: Part II

PART 2

Oldman looked at his physique in the mirror with disgust. Damn, Mack's new muscle and Hog had put him to shame. Reaching to his bookcase, he picked up Schwarzenegger's Encyclopedia of Bodybuilding, and remembered how he used to follow the exercises in High School to the letter, bulking up for the team. But nothing like the mass Mack had put on. Maybe he had some secret technique...

Oldman opened the first page and read Arnie's introduction:

"When I was young I used to have a recurring dream. I was a powerful leader or dictator. I could see the whole world below my feet...".

Oldman realised that his dream was Arnie's dream, but did not know why it was haunting him now. But Oldman knew one thing - he wanted that dream more than ever. Maybe WOLF might hold the answer...Maybe he could ask him if he comes back this way again.

-----------------------

Oldman looked at the clock, and realized it was to time lock up. He went out back behind the pumps to put in some work on the wrecked Harley he'd found discarded on the highway. Only an old 1200cc Fat Bob - not like Wolf's 2500cc Low Rider . Damn, everything about WOLF was fukking pumped up. Sweet ride, stacked build, plenty of cash... HE was living the dream.

Just then Oldman heard the recognisable growl of a powerful Harley. Oldman looked up at the Highway and recognised Wolf's Hog. Just then the bike's growl turned into a sputter, as the bike stalled. The bike rolled up and over, throwing the big cop over the handlebars and onto the other side of the highway. Oldman dropped his keys. Damn that transmission: that tank's gonna blow!

He ran out to the road and saw Wolf was out cold. With all his strength Oldman pulled the 300 pound gorilla away just as the bike's exploded behind them.

The sound brought Wolf round. Dazed for a minute, Wolf looked up from the edge of the road at Oldman remembering what had just happened.

"Looks like no bones broken, Cop" Oldman chuckled as Wolf got up and dusted himself off. His leather uniform and muscled frame only had a few scuffs. "Looks like you had a lucky escape from that fukked up transmission".

"Fukk that bike...and fukk that staff mechanic..!!! . Fukk, man - you saved my life. I owe ya buddy. Anythin ya need just name it. Anythin at all."

Oldman knew exactly what he wanted. "Well you can give me your garage work."

"Sure thing bro, that other fukka's gonna get his ass broke".

"But one thing I really want".

"Name it bro".

"I wanna look like you. Hell, - I wanna BE you, man, and join whatever Force you with...".

WOLF looked at Oldman. What the hell, this guy needs a break, and he sure as hell as earned it.

"You sure about that, bro? Means going undercover, outside the law. Turning ya back on all of this - on your life."

"Fuck man i ain't got no life. I don't care what kinda police you are. From where I'm lookin, it looks like the sweet life".

"Only a chosen few can join, and the training's pretty tough - even if I recommend ya. And if you fail, there are consequences."

"Bud, if it's the same training YOU had, then I want it. All I got is this heap of shit - but I AM the best Harley mechanic this side of Santa Fe".

"We can sure use that bud. You got a phone, I'll put a call in". Oldman showed him the office phone.

"You'll have to wait outside".

"Hell, sure thing. I'll bring the bike in".

Oldman got the rescue truck, and loaded up the burnt out Harley off the deserted highway, and dropped the bike in the pound round the back. Locking the gate, Oldman heard the familiar sound of what must be at least two Harleys. Running round to the front, he was confronted with the sight of a blacked out Hummer, and two Harley outriders, ridden by two cops in identical uniform to Wolf. Another huge cop stepped down from the Hummer and shook Wolf's gloved hand. As one the bikercop's dismounted, Wolf nodded to Oldman.

"That one's yours buddy".

"Fukk yeah" Oldman hooted.

"And you'll need this" said the other Cop taking a leather uniform jacket out the back of the Hummer.

Oldman slipped the Langlitz on and mounted the still-running Harley.. "Fuck that's heavy. But it feels good". Oldman

"Get used to it", Wolf laughed, by now on the other Harley. Oldman followed the Hummer and Wolf's Harley down the highway where he was heading before the accident.


Oldman and Wolf followed The Hummer all the way till they arrived at an unimposing suburban brownstone on the edge of town. Bulllitt followed the cops through a side door, past the security desk into what looked like a smokey Officer's messroom. He could only see the backs of three massive muscled uniformed cops stood about smoking cigars.

The largest one approached Oldman and stretched out a massive paw.

Oldman recognised the massive leatherclad V of muscle approaching as a pro-bodybuilder. "You ready to start your training?" said Sarge Flex in broken German tones.



"What? Now?"

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
SIX WEEKS LATER

Oldman lay on the bed watching UFC on the tv in the small room that had been home for the last six weeks. He hadn't seen much outside, and had only met a couple of other big cops as he walked into the gym room next to his cell. The tv only showed WWE, UFC and occasionally CCTV of what looked like cop interrogations he realised were taking place somewhere in the police station. On one occasion he recognised Wolf brutalizing a perp. He didn't know on what grounds these people were being interrogated and didn't care. But as the weeks went on, Oldman found this channel more and more interesting, and wanted to join in.

WOLF however had told him nothing more about the covert police force, their activities, who they worked for, and who they were interrogating or why. He didn't even know where this cop station house was, as for the last 5 miles he was told to get off the Harley and blindfolded in the back of the Hummer. He didn't exactly know what he was letting himself in for, but what it had done for Wolf, and the power and cash WOLF enjoyed, he wanted that. Hell, he wanted it more and more every day. One thing was for sure, he was staying on through the training...

The "training" run by Sarge Flex had been like nothing he had expected. He went to the hospital with WOLF for his check up after his accident, but it was Oldman who had a feeding tube and two lines put in. Since then he'd been hooked up to a drip and fed 12 liters bags daily, of protein, amino acids, creatine, fat-burners and growth hormone, and a massive roid stack intravenously. The worst part was being force-fed through a funnel some wierd shakes that luckily he couldn't taste - except when he sometimes vomited. At first he protested, but "Sarge" Flex didn't give him much option, shoving the funnel down his neck.

Oldman could feel that his body was getting bigger and bigger, but was made to be clothed at all times in a loose-fitting t-shirt. Even in the shower he was blindfolded so he couldn't see. "Deprivation inspiration" FLEX called it. He could tell he was already heavier than he had ever been - with only a small roid gut. The mirrors in the gym were covered up though the other cops training felt like double his size and felt heavier as he briefly walked. The weight-training was short, brutal and hyper-intensive - powerlifting with no reps, twice a day, with FLEX shouting orders making Wolf max out on every exercise. He spent only about 3 hours a day awake, knocked out by the carb overloading, training and whatever else they were feeding him. Even during the night they continued to change the drip...

One night WOLF opened the cell door and threw something on Oldman's bed.

"Here use this, it keeps everythin in proportion, if ya know what I'm sayin. ALL the guys use 'em, hehe."

Oldman saw it was a cock-pump. Hell, he'd always wanted, like, 5 more inches...Oldman put on the pump, and fell asleep watching Wolf "interrogating" two skinny perps.

---------------------------------------

Oldman towered above his uniformed troops, more muscular than ever. Through his cigar smoke Oldman looked down, over the top of his pecs admiring the girth of his thick 9 incher jutting out of his leather breeches.

Oldman flexed a double bicep to the adulation of his kneeling troops, as his roided semen splashed out of his cock down onto his cop boot and the slave's face under it.

Bulllit woke up and realized he had shot a load into the cock pump he was now wearing for 20 hours a day when not training. Oldman took off the pump, and was tempted to take off his t-shirt...He wakked out another load massaging his growing pex, seeing himself powerful, in uniform, interrogating perps with his cop buddies.

 

This was week 8 and Oldman woke up. He felt his face. The beard he had been ordered to let grow had been trimmed while he was sleeping, or knocked out: sharply and severely trimmed right up to the cheekbones. His head had been buzzed to a brutal hintite, contrasting with his black beard - just like the style half the Officers sported. His feeding tube and lines had been removed. Today must be the day he finishes his training, and joins the Force. Oldman hardened with the anticipation...

The Scwarzenegger dream: Part I

Oldman exhaled a plume of smoke as he looked down along the shaft of the cigar that jutted out of his mouth and over his massively muscled pecs, bursting out of a straining uniform shirt. He looked triumphantly down over the platoon of men below him, with a slave's neck under his boot. The troops bowed in worship of Him, their Commander, saluting his Muscle, his Power and his Authority...

Oldman woke up from his recurring dream with a raging hard-on. He Jumped out of bed in front of the mirror. With the image still fresh in his mind he jacked out a hot load over the glass, roaring with arrogant satisfaction - then disappointment. Dammit, that fukking dream again...

Oldman showered off, and looked at his body in the mirror in the full light of day. He no longer owned the show-off muscle of the jock stud he used to be in high school. Life had taken a toll on his pride, his wallet, hell, even on his physique. He'd spent a spell in the big-house after he went into partnership with his team buddy and best friend in a chop-shop, who then framed him for tax evasion. And to top it all that bitch of a wife divorced him to marry the meathead bastard. Oldman's lean quarterback's frame had given way to a skinny pot-belied frame ravaged by the worries of time.

Oldman went downstairs to the gas station he slept over. Fukk, another day pumping gas for ungrateful customers on this piece-of-shit highway...

-------------------------------------

Oldman looked up from the under the hood of the Chevy at the recognisable growl of a souped up Harley approached the gas station. As the massive gleaming musclebike pulled up to a pump, a massive musclecop in gleaming black uniform unsaddled heavy leathered quads over the ironhouse. Fuck, that cop's built thought Oldman jealous as hell. Damn sweet ride too. Bigger than the old Fat Bob I've been renovating for years out the back...

The cop's heavy boots crunched on the asphalt as he slowly strode up and stood in front of the Chevy. Oldman had turned his head away pretending at first not to see the cop. But the massive muscled Officer's frame shadow loomed above Bulllit, his wide bulk blocking out the sun. The cop's thick pecs jutted out of a straining open-necked leather uniform shirt, a thick stogie jutting over twitching pecs as the Law Enforcement Officer looked down the shaft of the cigar on Oldman. The cop's black leather uniform wasn't like anything Oldman had ever seen before, Maybe he was from that vigilante police force he'd heard about somewhere downtown with Mob connections. Maybe this meathead's one of them...

"Fill her up, boi" the Cop grunted, not bothering to extinguish the stogie he was chewing, or to take off his cop shades. "Sure Boss" replied Oldman, reluctant to serve as it went against the grain, but hell, a buck's a buck. Fuck, Oldman wished HE was a big muscle show-off again, riding that Hog and calling the shots.

"I can fix that transmission for ya buddy" Bulllitt added. "Sounds like it's about to give up on ya".

The cop, surprised to be addressed out of turn, raised a heavy muscled arm to take off his shades, glaring at the station attendant for a few seconds, deciding whether or not to whack the cocky fukk. But free bike service might be cancel that out.

"Not what our Station mechanic said".

"Anyone can hear it bud" replied Oldman, who took the opportunity to stand up and get a closer look at the cop's badge. As he looked at the muscled cop without his shades, Oldman thought he recognised him under the heavy beard and peaked cap. Looking at the Cop's name badge Oldman's suspicion's were confirmed. Could this muscleman really be "WOLF" Mack from his high school, the reserve quarterback. He remembered he had a good lean physique, but fukk, nothing like the bull standing before him.

"WOLF?". Oldman asked reaching out an oily hand. The cop peered back at the greasemonkey in recognition.

"I was the quarterback for the Rangers, buddy!" Bulllitt continued, sucking in his stomach and puffing out his chest and laughed. "Yeah, that was a long time ago. Say hi to ya brother Mike from me". WOLF vaguely remembered the quarterback who was pals with his brother, but hell, he was better built back then. They had been on the team and friendly. WOLF could see things hadn't worked out for the quarterback since then.

"Fukk, you bulked up since then bud, and didn't know you'd joined the police" replied Oldman, fishing for information. Oldman noticed the expensive watch WOLF was sporting - hell the fine Cuban he was smoking would cost Oldman a week's wages "If ya wanna a good price for a service for the bike let me know bud".

"Cheers, er Oldman. WOLF got back on the bike, not wanting to talk about the Cellblock. "Well good to meet ya again - I'll get back to ya on that service". WOLF reached into his breast pocket and peeled a $100 bill from a roll, handed it to Oldman and kick-started the Hog and roared off back down the highway...

------------------------

---------------------------------

Oldman saw himself, commanding his men, standing tall in full black leather uniform stretched over straining, twitching pecs. Blue cigar smoke obscured his face, hidden by cop shades and a thick dark beard, the visor of a high-peaked cap pulled right down over his roid-thickened nose. Oldman looked down on the face staring up from under his boot - it looked like his wife's husband...

Oldman woke up as he shot his load immediately into his hand. Fukk I gotta find WOLF and find out about that Police force...

MEAT PUPPET II

PREQUEL


"Right, Yinori, whadya got for us?" CHIEF barked.

-----------------------

SIX WEEKS BEFORE

CHIEF enjoyed a subskull, a Martinez Methuselah and a Laphroaig in the Mess Room, observing an interrogation on the security TV with Sarge Wolf. It was good for the morale of the station, AND his popularity with his subordinates, to spend some time enjoying live cop porn with his command.

"This skullsub ain't as good as my Fleshlight" grunted WOLF, booting the kneeling slave over onto its back. WOLF signalled with his gauntlet to the duty Mess Duty Cadet: "Throw this one back in the cooler. And get one with a BIGGER throat".

CHIEF blew a lungful of stogie on the face of his personal cocksucker, one of his specially trained sword-swallowers. "Been wanting to get into the Fleshlight business and make some big cash".

WOLF was glad Chief had taken the hint, and continued. "I've been workin on a better idea that could make us a whole lotta money. You know we got a Yakuza Sarge from outta town stayin in hiding at the Block? He owes us BIG time... Well we've set up a little side-line with the help of his Yakuza Captain and his gym buds in Tokyo...

"One of the pimps I'm squeezin's got a great racket importin 'Love Dolls'. You heard of 'em?"

"What the fukk are they?"

"What loser wierdos buy when they can't get real pussy."

"What, like a fukkin blow up doll?"

"Yeah, but made of solid silicon - with real hair - talkin too. Even pussys that massage ya cock. Like one big fleshlight with tits attached! Which is what got me thinkin..."

____________________________________



SIX WEEKS LATER


Yinori nervously presented the intimidating cops with the samples. He had been told to follow their instructions by the Yakuza Captain he owed money to, and had brought as many pieces he could get on the plane without alerting suspicion. But he wasn't quite ready for the nature of the order he was about to receive. Or the terms of the discount.

"I require a meat puppet like THIS" Sarge WOLF started, showing a morphed shot on the CCTV screen of his favourite fuck pup and jakk-off material Jeff Long.

Yinori was amazed. He wasn't expecting to make guy dolls, and wasn't sure he had moulds big enough for all the latex needed.

Quickly thinking on his feet, out of sheer fear Yinori spluttered:, "I don't know where I can get anyone that big to cast a body mould like that in Japan".

"Thought you might say that - contact FLEX's bud Yamamoto - and then add some!"

"And this is what I require" Sarge Dehner interrupted, showing a favourite morfed shot of a bronzed Art Attwood, with pendulous beef boobs flexing a tit-roll. "And I want it with permanent posing oil. AND I want it to talk. Or rather beg HEHE".

"Right show us the pussies".

Yamamoto unpacked some prosthetic cnts - set in a latex pair of hops. "WHOA, let me try THAT for size" hooted WOLF always up for fukking any thing moves. Yinori was horrified when the big cop pulled a massive pumped cock in front of the other, oblivious men in the room, and started banging the pussy. Normally his clients use one finger to discretely try the prosthetic for size.

"Not THAT hole, dumbass, barked CHIEF at WOLF, whose cock had by now ripped the delicate pussy apart. "We meant the back pussy Yinori. And a LOT stronger than this. Show us some ass."

Yinori only had one, for his more perveted Japanese clientele. It was woefully small.

"Hell, I'll have a front and back pussy - 'cos I ain"t sukkin its cock HEHE".

..."And I want the ass to move, capisch? Like a massage chair on my cock".

..."And make mine flame retardant so I can, ya know, do a little cigar play..."

Yinori was bombarded with requests.

"Look Yinori, just measure us up, and get started. Six weeks enough?". CHIEF grabbed the confused puppeteer's tape measure, and whipped out his meat. "10 by 7. WOLF? Quit horsing around..."

"9 by 7"...

"9 and a half by 6"

YInori was horrified and intimidated, surrounded by the American musclecops, with the cocks, showin off.."

"Lookin forward to keepin Jeff Long in the Hummer trunk for those long journeys when ya need a good fleshlight jakk in the layby. Got me a livin doll I can fukk over the hood"

"That'll stop the traffic bud HEHE!"

-------------------------------------------------

EPILOGUE


23 was lying silently in the dark, strung up between the two muscle dolls. All three were in their slings, hanging like meat in a butcher's cold storage. The meat-puppets, plugged into the mains supply, were charging their batteries.

Suddenly they both started randomly running their ass fuck programming, babbling louder and louder like sex-demented dummies.

..."SIR YES SIR fuck my cunt harder oh man punch this ass oh FUCK Sir"

"Drill this ass SARGE SIR thanks for not giving up on me Cop Sir AWWW FFFFFUCKK man fuck this cunt COP..."

Both robots begged, moaned and shouted louder and louder. 23 already ram-hard again, was dripping cock juice. Mind-fucked by sex, brainwashed by the authority, muscle and leather of the Officers, 23 realised he could hear himself moaning and begging along with the other muscle drones, as his humanity slowly ebbed away...

Suddenly No.6 starting twitching next to him. 23 freaked out as the brainless meat puppets, yelling praise to their absent Cop owners, starting shooting their Master's cum collected stored in their asses.

As did 23, now the perfect meat puppet alongside the others owned by its Sarge, SARGE WOLF.

Meat Puppet: Part 1

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

BOI's Wet Sheet Treatment

"Are you sure he’s ready for this?" DOC BOND asks, for perhaps the third time. "It’s quite severe. Almost a traumatic experience, for the wrong kind of patient."

"Oh yes he’s quite obsessed about it. You know how he is."

"Oh, I do," he agrees. Privately thinking that BOI was one of his craziest patients. And if you’re a shrink in Germany, that’s a serious challenge. BOI is intensely masochistic, a thrill seeker with little common sense, but one who plans elaborate and complex ordeals for himself, often at great expense. SARGE D, his business partner, and longtime master, is the one who gets to do most of the dirty work setting things up.

He’s happy doing business with DOC BOND. He’s a tall, graying distinguished generalist who specializes in patients with sexual dysfunctions. BOI makes a nice break from the endless parade of penis anxieties, erection problems and tubby men with a guilt syndrome.

He says: "Just for the record, let me make it clear then. I don’t think that this treatment has any therapeutic value at all. It’s been used as a kind of shock treatment for psychotics, but then, what hasn’t. I think it’s a pure piece of medical mischief. Something from the Middle Ages."

"And so?"

"So, uh yes, since you’re paying, I’ll do it for him."

SARGE D nods his approval. "Here? Or at the clinic?"

"Oh, no. They don’t allow that kind of thing there! And I'm not equipped at the office, of course. Let me call around, do a web search. I think there are some old-fashioned places in Switzerland or America, that will do it, if I refer him, and attend."

"Uh oh! I think I hear the signs of ‘getting pricy’!"

No, not really. And anyway, he can afford it. Don’t tell me he won’t film the whole damn thing, anyway, and sell it on the Web . . ."

What is the intensely masochistic BOI up to now? He had read this account on the Internet, and his fascination had been piqued:

"As many as 30 wet cotton sheets are individually wrapped about the limbs and body—as tightly as possible, so that only the breathing tube from the inflatable gag remains exposed. The sheets are then compacted and bound paralyzingly tight using several long roller towels. Once these have been wrapped and pulled very tightly round the patient, worm-fashion from head to toe, it is quite impossible to move—not even to blink or twitch a toe (unless a foot has been left exposed so that it can be tickled, or if electrodes have been attached, ‘below the waist’). Often panic has already set in, but the worst has yet to come.

"Since the patient is now rigid he can be picked up in an invalid hoist and lowered into a long water tank containing water, crushed ice—just as cold as I can make it. You probably cannot imagine the shock or agony as this ice-cold water seeps through the bindings and numbs the skin.

It is of no consolation that I hoist him out and strap him very tightly to a hospital type bed when he has been sufficiently soaked. The muscle contractions due to struggling can reduce the cold but this soon results in unbearable heat, especially if the patient is further wrapped in heavy rubber sheets. The patient can be immersed and the cycle repeated whenever my assistant or I feel like it. By the morning, after a sleepless night and only cramp and the fear of immersion to break the monotony, the patient’s power to resist is often broken (often, or always?)"

He’d masturbated to this text many times, and over the next few weeks had made SARGE D’s life a misery, trying to set it up. "We could use it for some psychological thriller," he’d argued. "And dammit, I just want to do it, that’s why!"

BOI arrives a little early from the scruffy inn, hoping to be shown round the grim hospital. He was happy to be out, after two days in isolation in the ratty single room, preparing himself. His camera crew is already in position, but they have been asked to be subtle, to avoid over-exciting the inmates.

They’re in a rural part of northern Germany, it’s November. Soon, it will snow.

Where he is, is grimmer still. A treatment wing for unfashionable hydro treatments. Not for burn therapy. No, just for schizophrenia, paranoid delusions, disorders of that sort. It’s restricted to patients rejected by other hospitals, from coast to coast. The buildings are run down, the staff is bored, surly.

Everywhere, the smell of chlorine, an absence of people, a quietness you associate with closed factories. He’s given a form to fill in—yet another waiver, another signing away of the right to sue. They just keep him sitting alone in the waiting room. The magazines are from over a year ago.

After fifteen minutes or so an unsmiling heavyset male nurse appears and says, in strongly accented English: "Ready? Zis vay please."

Slouching along in bored fashion, he leads BOI to a tiny changing room. On the way, he observes the green gloss paint, the tiles, the overhead fluorescents. Unappealing, like a morgue. A hospital from the 1930s.

"Everything off, please," BOI is told, with just a hint of a snaggletoothed smile. "Put your clothes in ze basket, and come out here when you’re ready."

BOI has not overdressed, and quickly strips. Naked he touches his nipples and hardening penis in a last regretful act. It might be a while. Then he steps shyly out into the hallway. The overweight nurse looks him up and down, expressionless, as though pretty tanned athletic men were an everyday sight here.

"Ze vatch and ring in zis box, please. And is there anything else ve need to know about?" BOI just shakes his head.

Then the nurse motions: "You’re ready, then. Come zis vay, please."

BOI had expected to be given a hospital gown. But there wasn’t one in the cubicle, and he’s not offered one now. He’s led down another brightly lit corridor, naked and barefoot, padding along behind. BOI is quite extrovert, an exhibitionist even, but is looking around anxiously.

He’s led into a large room, like a hospital laundry room, where two other grim-faced male nurses are waiting. They look at him with dour faces.

"Over here," he’s told by one. "Sit down."

There’s a clipboard, which starts off saying ‘Patient Preparation/Hydro/Salle Reservee: SARGE D's BOI.’ He can’t read what else it says, but most of the boxes on the form are checked.

The nurse who led him takes up an electric razor. He begins running it over BOI, making sure he shaves all his bodily hair including legs, crotch and armpits. There’s a lot to do, his trimmed pubic bush, was quickly removed with clippers. A straight razor finishes this job. Another of the nurses ruffles BOI’s hair.

"This too?"

"Well, that’s what the sheet says."

They shrug. BOI is shaved, bald.

The nurse with the clippers stares for a moment when he’s done, debating whether or not to leave his eyebrows. No, off they come too.

Then BOI is led to an old-fashioned pedestal toilet. It’s rather stained and dirty, with an old-fashioned wooden seat. It’s sitting forlorn in the middle of the room, with no screens around it. Next to it, there’s a deep sink with tubes, hoses, nozzles. One of the nurses has been busy, running taps, testing temperatures.

"Enema," he’s told with a fish-like stare. "It’s not a book by Jane Austen here. Stand just here. Good. Bend over, please."

BOI gives a start as a cold brass nozzle is pressed to his butt, then pushed into his rectum. They squirt him full, more than a gallon of liquid from a big bag of soapy water.

"Now, jump up and down. Good."

Then they make his squat, watching with detachment as he empties his bowels. This cycle is repeated, a half-dozen times, until he’s getting dizzy, feeling a little sick, and his stomach is aching from being pumped and dumped. He’s used to enemas and purges, but not so many or so big.

They have him squat over the sink and irrigate him with a powerful jet of warm water, pushing the tube deep into him until they’re sure they’ve really cleaned him out. He’s been on a two-day fast, and only taking liquids anyway.

BOI is shivering, looking anxiously at them. There are private grins being traded. They’ve done their work well, and like to see their patients recognize it. They prod him across the room to a big bathtub, already filled to the brim with warm, greenish water, steaming in the cool air. The three tie on big full-length rubber aprons and tug on elbow-length industrial gloves in a dull maroon color. They pick up rough dish scourers, sponges, one has a bristle brush of the sort you’d use on a stone floor. "Get in," he’s told. "Kneel down."

They thoroughly wash his body using an undiluted liquid detergent. Why? Because degreasing his skin minimizes insulation. His nipples are scrubbed, hard. Then he’s made to stand, and they scour his genitals with equal fervor. He’s glowing pink, sore in many places

A new, hotter-looking nurse appears. He’s very professional and pleasant to BOI. One of DOCTOR BOND's own staff. He sits BOI down, swabs, and inserts intravenous saline and nutrient drip taps in both arms. Several small silver plated electrodes are applied, with superglue: penis, nipples, undersurface of his chest, his underarms, between his ass cheeks. He’s also dotted with little sensors, and all the loose leads, color-coded, are gathered up in a bundle and taped together.

"Now it’s time for ear plugs," he explained. A pair of big molded things are produced, like an oldster’s hearing aid.

The first nurse holds up an inflatable gag. "Ready?" He slips it in, sealing BOI’s mouth with waterproof tape. The younger nurse carefully inserts nostril tubes, and tapes them in place and caulks the seal with some thick gel. BOI is breathing noisily through them, though it’s noisiest to him.

The gag has another small tube built in so they can let him breathe through it if he gets congested.

He’s led into another room, like a workshop, carrying his bundle of cables and tubes like an astronaut going to the takeoff. Now it’s time to strap BOI to the corners of his frame. It’s a strong rectangular aluminum frame about 11 feet by three feet. He’s held by waterproof cuffs at ankles and wrists. They pull on the straps, attaching the cuffs to the frame, as tightly as possible. He is spread-eagled, and his arms are drawn straight above his head.

Two fortyish, out of shape porters appear, and smirk down at the naked man. He’s showing everything. They could do anything with him. And with non-volunteer patients, they often do. Huge erections. Inches from him. He’s sure he’d be able to smell them, they look the unwashed type. But with tubes in his nose he’s only smelling neoprene rubber now. The two porters tweak his nipples. A hand roughly squeezes his shaved balls, and the two are laughing, nudging each other. He’s suddenly terrified. They won’t, will they? No, they lift the frame on to a trolley, and roll him out.

It’s a long trip, down hundreds of yards of corridors, lots of peering faces, because they are not at all bothered about his modesty. There’s even a stop for coffee refills in the cafeteria, and at one point he finds himself surrounded by grinning Asians in face masks.

Finally, they arrive. He sees a sign—Hydro Room #7 -- as the trolley turns, and beneath it a notice: ‘Reserved. SARGE D's BOI.’

He knows this is the notorious ‘tank.’ There’s a glass-windowed control room, like you see in big labs and recording studios, overlooking the room. It’s at the far end, on a mezzanine level.

At the center of the drab room, there’s a pair of hydro baths. Just huge flat-bottomed tubs lined with thick black rubber, and quite functional. Both about 12 feet by four, and four feet deep. One’s filled already, with lukewarm water at about 70 F. Various adjustments are made and they tilt the frame, hook it onto a hoist, and slowly hoist the frame and BOI into the water filled tank. SARGE D steps in at this point, and there’s just a hint of a smile as he stares into his frantic, blinking eyes as the water closes over him. A restrained little airport goodbye wave, mocking him.

Each end of the frame has a stubby axle at its center which slots into a corresponding teflon-lined bearing socket inside the tank. This arrangement allows the frame, and BOI with it, to be rotated about the long axis like a barbecue spit. They disconnect the hoist. The frame is now free to rotate beneath the surface of the water. They ensure BOI is breathing properly through the tubes provided and that they will remain kink-free and open during the next procedure. Through the rippling water, BOI sees Bud looking down at him. He’s speaking to someone, but if he’s good he’ll be able to lip read: "Voluntary . . . Crazy . . . Maximum severity . . . Who knows?"

There are several more nurses here now. Fresh faces, in white trouser outfits, masks. A more purposeful crowd than the reception committee. They take folded sheets from the soak tub and refold them to match their purpose. Each sheet goes through rollers to expel any trapped air.

The idea of preparing the sheets in this way, and applying the pack with BOI submerged is to see all air is excluded from the pack: Air acts as an insulator.

Applying the pack in the tank is easier because BOI is relatively buoyant. They carefully wrap the sheets around each limb as tightly and smoothly as possible. Cloth tapes tightly tie each sheet in place prior to bandaging. Bandaging the thickest part of the limb first tends to force the flesh to the thinner parts and make the limb more uniform in thickness . Each turn of the bandage overlaps the preceding one.

Pressure is applied as evenly as possible to reduce the probability of pressure sores. A lot of bandages are used, too. It seems extravagant, but no amount of wriggling can loosen this binding.

It may seem like a lot of work but, face it, BOI isn’t going to be unpacked for a while. To aid the wrapping operation, they rotate the frame and BOI like a spit. A great improvement over manhandling the enormous combined weight of BOI and his wet pack on a table.

They include his hands and feet in the wrapping process, removing and replacing the cuffs one at a time. To help speed the process several hydro attendants work at the same time on different body areas. The supervising nurse ensures that all the bindings are tight enough and that the pressure is uniform. When binding the head, they use pads over the eyes to minimize any gaps in the packing.

After a couple of sheets have been wrapped around the torso, a short corset compresses the waist and controls respiration. He’s getting the harshest treatment they carry out here, known as a Code Eight. They have folded his penis back toward his buttocks and holding it in position with pack sheets applied in the style of a diaper. They hold the sheets in place with a tightly strapped canvas waist belt and attached crotch straps designed to prevent erection.

He feels them fitting his butt with short stubs of plastic tube, over an inch in diameter, to hold the orifice wide open. Various extra electrodes are attached to his nipples, armpits, penis, butt. Once his limbs, trunk, crotch, neck and head are satisfactorily wrapped, then the next stage begins.

They hoist the support-frame from the bottom of the tank so that BOI is supported by it. They remove the ankle cuffs and place sheets between his legs to fill any gaps. Securely, they wrap additional sheets around the legs and the trunk and fasten them in place with bandages. At this stage stronger bandages are used, made out of cotton sheeting.

As the thickness increase, it is no longer necessary to bandage after every sheet. They splint his legs and body. The splint is an off-white canvas corset-like device, with stainless steel stays. It laces up the back and extends from the ankles to beneath the armpits with adjustable shoulder straps. Fittings are provided for a head-harness and shoulder brace to be attached. They lace up the splint as tightly as possible, using heavy-duty buttonhook devices and temporary straps.

Once properly applied, BOI is held in absolute rigidity. His feet are going to be held en pointe, but for now, the splint is anchored by a strap across the soles of the feet.

They release the wrist cuffs and remove the original frame altogether, leaving a waterlogged BOI bobbing, nearly all of him underwater.

They put each arm into a splint. Each splint has a mitt for the hand. They tightly lace each arm splint from wrist to armpit. They strap the arms securely to the side of the body using the special canvas straps built into the side of the body splint, passing the straps through the loops in the arm splints. Then, extra-large sheets wrap his entire body, from the crown of the head to the tips of the toes, as a single unit. As with any other wrapping operation, they pass each sheet at least 3 complete times around BOI to ensure that it cannot be unwrapped. After the last sheets are added they again bandage BOI from head to toe. The sheets are 100% cotton, they absorb and retain the maximum amount of water and provide the minimum insulation.

Now, BOI is bound with canvas cinch straps and slid into a heavy canvas security-bag. Remember, BOI is still immersed in the tank. The staff fiddle around to make sure there is no air trapped in the bag. They tightly lace and strap the security bag and then perform a final heavy bandaging to prevent any possibility of air entering the bag when BOI is raised out of the tank. BOI is then securely refastened to the support frame with a number of canvas straps. His feet are forced into an exaggerated en pointe position using a ballet strap.

BOI and his frame are hoisted out of the tank, and the excess body-heated water drains off. As the water drains out of the pack no air can pass back through the pack-sheets to fill the voids previously filled by the water. BOI not only feels the oppressive weight of the wet sheets, but also feels the pack draw tighter as the sheets ‘shrink’ to fill gaps previously filled with water. It is rather similar to being vacuum packed, BOI has told SARGE D. The canvas straps used to secure BOI to the frame are retightened as any excess water drains from the pack.

Now they lift the hoisted frame and BOI clear of the tank. Slowly, it’s moved to the cold tank.

It’s right alongside, but this one has just been filled with cold water, and will be kept that way by a continuous stream of ice from a dispenser, and a recycle through a refrigeration loop. In winter, it just gets fed from melt water off the roof, but now they need a little help. There’s ice on the surface, which breaks as they gradually lower BOI into the tank.

So all the warm water is removed from the pack, they hoist him out and allow the pack to drain again, before re-immersing. This is done several times in quick succession. As the freezing water gradually passes through the pack they hear BOI desperately trying to inhale more air through the breathing tubes. The seeping cold water is making his oxygen requirement shoot up.

He’s making a pitiful moaning sound, but DOC BOND shrugs off SARGE D’s worried glance.

"We could give him a little shot of anaesthetic in the neck and stop that noise you know, numb his vocal cords," a beefy male nurse suggests helpfully.

"No, let him sing." BOI is trying to inhale all the air he can as his metabolism increases to combat the cold. Seeing this, and aiming to make him suffer, DOC BOND has a nurse fiddle with the air tubes, attaching a clamp squeezing them partly shut. As his air supply is reduced, it forces him to stop wasting effort on making a sound, and reduces his breathing to an asthmatic wheeze.

"He’ll think he’s asphyxiating," he says.

After the initial immersion, BOI is left to soak in the tank.

"Now the auto-immersion cycle starts," DOC BOND explains. "We use a timer to determine when BOI will be hoisted out of the tank or immersed. It’s automatic. The timer has a random setting so he cannot anticipate the next hoisting or immersion."

"That’s mean," SARGE D says with a little smile.

"The period between immersions may be long enough for BOI to become uncomfortably hot," he adds. "But, maybe not. The various sensors will tell us everything we need to know. We can make sure he doesn’t die, but I think he’ll come close a few times."

SARGE D is pleased, because BOI will be too. They can make him suffer more this way. BOI will be left without any contact with the outside world. How long? Maybe for as much as a week. They’ve left it vague with the hospital so no one will be asking questions.

The hell endured by BOI is hard to imagine. Itching, cramps and fear of immersion are his only companions. The timer switch also activates the white-noise speakers in the hydro room, which effectively masks any outside noise that BOI might otherwise hear. Since the white noise is very loud, the staff wear hearing protectors while in the room. BOI is protected by the ear plugs and layers of pack.

The next day. DOC BOND is talking to a group of German pre med students, SARGE D is there too. He’s shown a video, explained the wrapping process.

He says: "A wet-sheet-pack is clearly a fearsome method of discipline. Our patient, BOI, has been transformed into an absolutely helpless and rigid worm, without even the slightest hope of escape. Even his fingers, toes, jaw and eyelids are immobilized. Even shivering is reduced to a minimal level. I’m sure he has been reduced to a state of blind panic, but is of course not able to communicate that panic to anyone or get any form of comfort."

"Why?" a young male student asks, wide-eyed.

"Because he longs to endure the extremes of human sensation. This man has been locked into a gimp suit for 46 hours. Mummified and tubed for 72. He loves it!"

"Oh." The student is stunned, but licks his lips, and looks around to see if anyone can tell that this excites him. They don’t, but SARGE D does. He makes a mental note to find out the potential boi's name later.

"Eventually all he’ll feel here is the intense restriction, and his thoughts. This is the torture that breaks the strongest, and produces religious visions, acid trip nightmares, and even normality in loonies."

The students chuckle uneasily. Many know that their governments want them to learn this technique.

BOI is alone! He is being crushed and needs to move to relieve the screaming cramps in his limbs and body.

BOI cannot possibly lie still any longer - but will!

BOI has no idea when he will be released or how much time has passed.

BOI knows beyond doubt that he has entered a living hell - if this can be called living.

BOI is not catheterized, so the question of urination soon arises, since they are keeping his fluids in balance.

He’s thinking, "Can I hold back until I am released?"

"How long will I have to wait - just a few minutes, more?"

Eventually BOI succumbs to the urge and is forced to urinate.

"See all the yellow in the water? Check the monitor. Yeah, he’s pissing. Okay, I guess we need to turn up the recycle," an operator says, looking up from an X-Men comic book.

Later the issue will become defecation. They gave him some glycerin suppositories. Oh, BOI will eventually be forced to succumb to this, too, though he’ll merely be leaking after all the enemas, the earlier low-solids regime, and the saline and liquid drips. In addition to the shame of fouling himself—he’ll have visions of lying in his own waste, even if he isn’t—he’ll be concerned about what "treatment" may be meted out to him if he messes the tank so horribly. Something to worry about.

"How much longer?" SARGE D asks.

"Up to you."

"Well, it could be days, you know. He’d want that."

"Um. But I’m new to this and I want to avoid the possibility of serious mental imbalance. Watch those dials. See how he’s REMing? And watch the heart rate, see how it’s been zooming up and down. The temperature, skin, deep body? He’ll have some vivid memories of things that never even happened, his dreams will be so real."

"You sound like you’ve overcome your dislike of this technique, doctor." SARGE D observes. "In fact, you’re almost enthusiastic."

"Well, under certain circumstances it might have its uses, yes . . ."

"Such as?"

"Oh, training a submissive man for his master. With the right subliminal messages masked in the white noise in the tank, kind of post hypnotic stuff. Yes, this could have potential . . ."

"Wasn’t there a lot of trouble the last time doctors liked playing games with cold and helpless people?"

"Ahem, yes, so I’m not going to make a big thing of it. I don’t think I’ll publish this."

Don’t panic, Doc. You’re safe with me. I’m as unethical as you, and just as self-centered as him, so don’t worry."

"But if either of you have any patients you’d like to refer. People who call you about the film? Well hey, a euro is a euro. . ."

"When is this going to end?"

"I must have been here for hours!"

"Is it night or is it day?"

"Have I been in here for 6 hours or 24 hours or 2 days or a week?"

"Nobody told me how long this treatment would last - they implied it would only be a couple of hours, but I know it s been longer than that!"

"Are they ever going to release me?"

"The cramps keep getting worse and my muscles feel as if they are being torn apart."

"Are my arms turning blue?"

"Oh god, please let me out."

But BOI is not released—the treatment continues. Life remains a living hell of alternating heat, cold, immersion, fear of drowning, claustrophobia, suffocation, cramps and unimaginable boredom. Nothing to do but lie there, nothing to hear, smell, control or feel except the cycles of immense cold. And every now and then, piercing pain in his penis or ass. Hell, on earth. There is no way to know when the next immersion will come, or if it will come, and no way to judge the passing of time.

BOI dreams on, his visions and fantasies becoming more bizarre with each minute. It’s late on the third day, but he doesn’t know that. In the control room, SARGE D dumps his takeout Vietnamese food in a wastebasket, drops his pants, and begins to gently stroke himself, reading a novel as he samples the wetness of his dick. DOC BOND is down on the floor of the room, fiddling with leads, administering shocks, his erect prick in his hand. They wave to each other. He’ll be up soon, and in the mood for SARGE D.

And BOI? He dreams on.

(A version of this story has as been available on the Internet since the earliest days of the web. Original authorship is unknown and it is reposted here with minor modifications and no claim of authorship. Sarge D.)

CELLBLOCK DUTY DESK.