H003

He was to find there were no street clothes in the bureau doors or closets—just various bits of provocative temporary-use wear—and he was made to strip and his clothes taken away by the men who had escorted him to the room and who closed and locked the door to the outer corridor when they departed. Except when he was told to dress in something provided, Conner was naked for the next eight weeks.

His next and subsequent meals were slipped in to him through a slot in the door. There was a well-appointed countertop refrigerator, he found, in one corner of the room by the bureau, though. He had all of the drinks, including liquor, and snacks he—or his guests—could want. And the meals he was served were good, the food plentiful. They obviously wanted to keep him fit. The closet contained workout equipment, and he learned to used the various sex paraphernalia dangling from the ceiling to aid improvised workouts.

And there was the other vigorous working out he got over the next eight weeks.

His first visitor was, he decided, the installation commandant. He was middle-aged, maybe even late fifties, but he was as fit as any of the younger prison guards there. And he was just as much in the need of sexual release. He was a particularly cruel man. Conner thought “former Marine” again.

Just as Lieutenant Preston had, the commandant leaned back into the desk and asked a naked Conner to pose for him and then to kneel in front of him, with only the commandant’s dick exposed, and suck him off. That’s where the experience with him parted from what Preston had done, though.

The commandant was more sadism inclined. He hung Conner from the chains in the middle of the room and flogged and zapped him with an electric prod and squeezed his balls and edged him in rounds of frustration in jacking him off before stripping fully—he’d already taken his shirt off, revealing a barrel chest and an abundance of salt-and-pepper chest hair—and fucking Conner from the rear.