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DISCLAIMER: The following work of complete fiction contains topics & actions that some may find difficult. Non-consensual sex, t0rture, bondage, imprisonment, brainwashing, abduction, violence, and sex-slavery are all part of the story.
Choosing to proceed with that knowledge and warning is your own choice.
Ch. 6 –
Ben couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think, he couldn’t see, he couldn’t move his head at all. He’d stopped struggling an hour ago, utterly exhausted, no longer pulling against the restraints holding him to the table, but the chamber still pounded away at all of his senses. His hamstrings ached from his legs having been spread for so long; his shoulders did too. But the overwhelming pounding behind his eyes matched his heart, and he felt every single beat throbbing in his rock-hard cock as well.
Constant images of sexual arousal, people having sex, guys getting pounded in the ass and loving it, orgies of dozens of hot young men, all of it flashed through his mind even as his eyes were screwed tightly shut.
It just.
Wouldn’t.
Stop.
He’d never known sexual arousal like his. His cock had been painfully hard for hours, and the white spandex bodysuit he was wearing was thoroughly soaked with sweat; a puddle of it collected on the platform below him. The sweat ran down his face and into his eyes, blinding him. He was sure he’d pissed himself at least twice, but it was the least of his issues. His balls ached as if they were in a vice in that cup, but each thrum of the room’s beam emitters around him accompanied another pulsing swell of horniness emanating from his swollen scrotum.
He tried humping the air, just to see if the movement of his cock against the fabric of the suit could bring him some relief. But it only made his arousal worse, as no amount of thrusting, his slick cock sliding between his taut abdomen and the pre-cum soaked fabric, being directly stimulated by the weird cup-like machine affixed over his crotch, would bring him to orgasm. His mouth was parched from hours of deep, constant, gasping breaths.
In the control room, Chapman looked at the panel readouts with worried concern. The Level Two protocol that St. John activated was something that should take days to work up to, if it even needed to be used. It was much more brain invasive than the Level One, which relied more on hormone production and physiological fine tuning. Level One broke a subject in more than half of all applications, he’d done it dozens of times; immediately engaging Level Two just 15 minutes into the indoctrination, well… Chapman wasn’t sure what the effects were going to be on the boy. To his knowledge, it had never been attempted.
Sure, it might break Ben’s mind and turn him into the perfect sex slave-boy. But it could easily turn him into a raving, psychotic nymphomaniac. It could leave him a drooling, mindless vegetable with a permanent boner. Guess we’re going to find out, aren’t we?
The technician muted the feed from the chamber an hour ago after the boy’s constant, pathetic mewling finally got to him. Normally, he liked watching the process of these youngsters being mentally turned inside out and made into horny slaves. Hell, it was his process – he was the one who perfected it, and started using it to build up a secret harem of previously unwilling subjects. It was St. John, a wealthy alum and donor, who found out about his secret project at the university and paid him to start this much more expanded venture.
But something about the boy in the chamber now, he was just uneasy about. He didn’t know this boy’s readouts well enough to predict what engaging Level Two so soon would do. So far with previous subjects, the procedure had a 80% success rate, which was satisfactory in his book. The few times it hadn’t worked had been more about flaws in the subject than the process. One subject had an unknown heart defect, and died on the platform after two days of strenuous conditioning. Another had been killed by a guard while trying to escape, THAT had been a nightmare fiasco.
He wondered what Ben’s future held in store. The boy was extremely fit, a hockey player and athlete despite his exceptionally lean build. He should be able to take a lot, despite the fact that the kid was loudly and openly sobbing up in the chamber.
A quiet alarm went off on one of the readouts. Testosterone level at 450% normal. Oh, that’s not good. Chapman twisted one of the emitter dials to reduce stimulation, but the levels weren’t dropping. The boy’s heart was racing, he had stopped crying and was now staring blankly at the ceiling through the brain induction halo.
St. John reentered the room, evidently summoned by the alarm.
“Everything okay?” he inquired.
“Don’t know yet, still figuring out what’s going on,” Chapman replied, initiating a few new scans and looking at the readouts. “His testosterone production is off the charts, and he’s having one hell of an adrenaline spike.”
The boss man flipped a switch to activate the chamber’s microphones, and the boy’s ragged panting filled the control room.
“His heartbeat is at 180 beats-per-minute,” Chapman continued. “We need to take him down a notch, or he could be damaged.”
St. John let out a derisive snort. “Like hell,” he chided. “Look at this kid. He’s a college athlete, he can run marathons in his sleep. This is nothing. He can take it, keep going.”
“Mr. St. John, if we keep going at this level, the stress on his system could kill him.” Chapman stood up from the chair and faced the shorter man. “Do you want him converted, or dead?”
“I’ve seen kids like this come through here a dozen times, William,” St. John growled. “This one is no different. You will maintain Level Two.”
The staring match that occurred lasted a full ten seconds, and ended when Chapman sat back down in the chair, dejectedly.
“Good. How much longer does he have in this session?”
“About three hour–”
Chapman was abruptly cut off by a shrieking alarm from the console, red lights flashing on several readouts.
“Shit! He’s having a seizure!”
In the chamber, Ben began convulsing in the restraints, his eyes rolled back into his head, mouth slack and open. Chapman slapped the emergency stop on the console, and the chamber’s emitters snapped off, the head halo, chest restraints, and crotch cup all retracting into the table. Lights came up in the chamber from above, illuminating the room. The two administrators leapt up to the glass, which dropped into the floor, allowing them access into the room.
“Easy, easy boy,” Chapman whispered, cradling the sweat-soaked youth’s head as the seizure began to ebb. Guards appeared at the back access airlock with a stretcher. Chapman helped them unfasten the restraints, allowing them to lift the limp boy onto the gurney, wheeling him off down the corridor.
St. John stood next to the platform, looking up at the younger man in the lab coat, his expression one of disgust. He stomped out of the room after the guards, down the hall to the infirmary.