Diagnosis and Cure Chapter 1

Author: lithium500mg
Title: Diagnosis and Cure
Date: 15 February 2015

Chapter One

I was warned not to bully, but humiliating faggots was almost a pastime for me. I was big and muscular, and they were often slight of build – or should I now say “we?” Face it; they were different, and most cultures equate “different” with a virtual invitation for persecution. It didn’t seem possible to me to lust on a man, or not to lust on a woman. This time, I picked the wrong boy to push around. Bruce was slight of build, but wickedly vengeful and resourceful.

I was, as usual, last out of the weight room after finishing wrestling practice at Kansas State, and last to the showers. Bruce is equipment manager, and locks up for the night. He issued me the usual sports drink as I headed to my locker. I didn’t make it. I fell first to my knees and then, grabbing a bench on my way down, softly to the floor. The dark quickly came over me.

When I awoke, it was still dark. It was several minutes before I came completely out of my daze, but when I did, I panicked. I was tied up – or should I say tied down – face up on a hard surface, and spread-eagled. I could move my arms and legs a little, and my fingers could just feel that the restraints on my wrists were thick hard leather. When I tried to cry out, I found my mouth was taped shut, perhaps with a small hole through which I could breathe, but only with difficulty. Most of my respiration came through my nose. Tape covered my eyes as well.

As I squirmed, I could feel I was still had on my practice singlet. The straps rubbed a little on my shoulders, and, as is normal, the spandex pulled up in the groin area, slightly compressing the goods. Because my legs were pulled far apart, I could feel my cock and balls separately pressing against the fabric, and I was starting to feel scared. Helpless and terrified might be a better description. I twitched and jerked but to no avail. I was, in fact, completely helpless and vulnerable. When I thought about what I was vulnerable to, I got even more scared.

After a few minutes I realized that it was very quiet, or at least I couldn’t hear anything. It occurred to me that my movement might attract unwanted attention, so I soon became still.

It was too late. I soon heard some muffled sounds, and reacted with a jump as I felt a hand touch my inner thigh. “Mmmmmmmm” was about all I could get out. The hand moved to my groin, and was soon massaging my testicles. “Nnnnnnnnnnnnn” was about all I could get out this time. Perhaps “massaging” is not the right word. Squeezing is more accurate.

Almost immediately, part of the mystery was solved. A loud voice, muffled by something pressed into my ears, called out, “Lance! This is Bruce. Remember? The Bruce you pushed into the lockers and ordered around. The Bruce whose nipples you tortured? We’re going to fix you for good!”

“Mmmmmmmmmm, Nnnnnnnnnnnnn” I uttered as I struggled against the restraints. Castration entered my brain and wouldn’t leave. “Mmmmmmmmm” was all I could get out.

“Relax, Lance. We’re going to set you free. Not only that, but you will be released from your restraints in a few days. We don’t want you to be missed. The coach thinks you are caring for a sick sister?”

“You are going to be as naked as a new born baby, Lance. It will be fun hearing you explain the full-body shave to the team! They might think you’re queer.” Bruce continued. “Then we’re going to clean you out with a good flush; we don’t want you to soil our clean table. And then we’ll begin the training.”

“Mmmmmmmmmm.” I continued to struggle and squirm. At the same time I wondered what “we” meant. It wasn’t only Bruce but others that had kidnapped me. They had a crew, they had a table. What else did they have?

I started to feel my singlet coming off. I struggled more, but I was just tiring myself out. Spandex cuts easily, and I was naked, arms and legs spread wide, in a few seconds. The surface, perhaps it was a rotating table, on which I was restrained was tilted so that I was more upright. The restraint was loose enough so that my feet now found support on the floor so that I was almost standing. This position tightened the restraints on my arms and stretched my chest.

It took a few minutes until they were set up, but pretty soon I felt pressure on my rectum that, at first, I resisted violently. A helpless and naked prisoner, however, doesn’t call the shots, and pressure on my balls and a cutting off of my breathing convinced me to relax the orifice that was previously only an exit. The slow insertion was followed by a cool water jet with the crap exiting by another tube. I jumped at the first impact of the jet. The procedure seemed to go on forever, but pretty soon, I became accustomed to it. Eventually, the apparatus was withdrawn. Urination followed, ordered by Bruce but also welcome.

Suddenly and without warning the table was rotated down past level and my legs were above my head. My spread-eagle was stretched tighter, my arms up and out over my head and my legs pulled apart even wider. I couldn’t move as much and I could feel tension on my joints. My groin felt particularly exposed.

By this time I was getting resigned to an unknown fate, and was starting to relax a little. In fact, I was feeling pretty good although thirsty and hungry. The enema made me feel good even though it wasn’t welcome. Soon, the shaving began. First my legs, then my chest, then arms and armpits, and finally my cock and balls. They even pried me up and shaved my butt all the way into the rectum.

The shaving around my nipples went rather leisurely, and I thought that there was a lot more stimulation than needed. Frankly, who doesn’t like their nipples scratched and pulled and pinched a little? We are to refrain from ejaculation before matches but even before practice. I hadn’t had release for several days. The nipple work started to confuse me. I knew these were all guys, and queers besides. Their touch should have repelled me just as the Monsignor said it would. I assumed that what I felt was normal, and no one would know I actually wanted more.

I was wrong. As soon as they started shaving my cock I knew I was hard. I was nowhere near the edge as the enema had initially disgusted and shocked me and my capture made me naturally tense. But hard I was. And the queers were talking about it.

“Seven inches? Six and a half? Yeah, six and a half” The thought of sharp blades scraping my cock and balls kept me off the edge as well, and an occasional (perhaps accidental) ball squeeze tended to soften the rod. After the shave, the spread-eagle was relaxed a bit, and it got silent. I was given some nutritional drink to suck on, and I must have downed a liter before I became fully calm. I was getting used to having my eyes taped shut, and soon I fell hard asleep.