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He can no longer remember his name.
There’s a hood pulled over his head. It blocks out all light and muffles all sound. Sounds that used to be screams. He used to scream once, but then it stopped. Even the attempts to plead stopped. The ring gag in his mouth is plugged up by a cork when he isn’t being used or attended to, so that his mouth doesn’t run dry. He is his captor’s toy, hole, and drain. A mere thing to be used.
It’s hard to paint a clear picture of the surrounding room.
Underneath him is the simple cushioned surface of a mattress, set low on the floor. The wall he leans on is covered in rough wallpaper. If he scoots far enough—as long as his restraints allow him—he can sometimes reach a corner or an edge of the mattress.
The way things vibrate around him—the taps of footsteps, the clanking of tools—make the room feel like a tiny space. Perhaps something squarish with only ventilation and no windows. He is hooked up to the wall and mattress with chains and straps. A straitjacket keeps his arms pinned around his torso and secured behind him. On the bottom, he wears nothing except for the dildos and tubes. A tube for urine, two dildos for his cunt and ass, attached to pistons of a machine bolted to the floor. The machine has a lazy rhythm as it plows in and out of his holes, raw and painful despite the lubricants leaking from the hollow tips and his own juice. They keep an alternating beat, punching through wetness that won’t stop.
The plowing dildos used to be more painful, but that doesn’t bother him as much anymore. They hurt sweetly, sore and arousing. When he is left alone for a while, the machine is his only company, plunging into all his sensitive parts, forcing through tender passages until he is raw and trembling. He drools and cries, but there’s no relief. There is never any relief.
Sweet-smelling gas surrounds his head, hissing through a tube connected to the hood. The hood is well-sealed, so none of the gas escapes. It enters his nostrils, smelling like strawberry cake, and it fills his head with this woozy, floaty feeling that isn’t all bad. Breathing it in is like something teasing the sex center of his brain, sending signals through his synapses to make his nipples and clit tingle and pulse. The scent gets into his bloodstream and makes his skin sensitive; so sensitive he thinks he might have an orgasm just by being touched. Every touch, every brush of his straitjacket, sizzles his skin. It often makes him whine and moan and roll his hips like a bitch, his pussy weeping its horny tears.
Blood pools in his crotch, making his cunt and clit throb unbearingly, making them engorged, making the pistons hurt worse because of the tenderness of his nether parts. His pussy drools like crazy, but he can never get enough stimulation from the fucking. It’s like there’s no friction from the plugs keeping him spread, not big or active enough to stimulate him.
The hood around his head is only removed when he’s being fed. At first, he was blindfolded during feeding time, but one day the blindfold never returned. He still couldn’t see the room clearly, though. All the walls and doors seemed to blur into the background. They didn’t matter; not anymore.
All he wants is to be fucked.
The man who comes to tend to him has a handsome face and a gorgeous smile. He wears black, but the tint of blue on his chest is a welcome change from the rest of the monotony. There’s the same electric blue striping his arms, ending by wrapping around the middle and ring fingers on each hand. He wears gloves, the pads cerulean and textured and feel solid when they caress his hot, sensitive skin.
“I like you better this way, little brother,” the man would say.
He would whine to get his captor’s attention. Would roll his hips or twist around. All in the hope of relief.
By now, he’s already forgotten who he was and how he got there. He’s been here for as long as he can recall, and he only knows one purpose in his life: to be prepared, be denied, and be used. Those were—are—his purpose, and after each round (the length varies, as it’s not his place to guess his captor’s caprices) the cycle would repeat.
The man would feed him with a tube. Liquid feed, the type that rarely produces waste, and the tiny amount it does produce turns into urine and gets drained from his urethral tube. The man would be gentle, and he would eat obediently.
He used to be less obedient. He remembers fighting and trying to escape every time. But it’s all so hard to recall now. Every time he tries, his mind will focus on his body instead, how hot it feels and how swollen his clit is, how much he desires something bigger, something rougher, to be shoved into his unsatisfied pussy. His raw, abused pussy will drench with juice, and the folds will tremble around the dildo that’s spreading it. His asshole will clench around its intrusion, as if not wanting to let it go.
Brother. Brother.
He starts thinking of his captor as Brother. Big Brother.
Big Brother always gives him release before feeding or relieving him of his other bodily functions. He will kiss him on the mouth until he’s moaning, run his hands all over his body, pinching his nipples through the boob windows of the straitjacket. Or he would pluck out the pistons and lick his pussy, stabbing his tongue inside again and again, mocking him with the wet stabs and flicks, making him writhe and moan until he’s drooling and sobbing.
But Big Brother never lets him come from that alone. He is only allowed to come when Big Brother has him lanced on his cock.
And when that time comes (only once in a long while), Big Brother’s dick spears into him and thrusts through the tender, clenching walls of his pussy, dragging along the tense surface, he almost always comes instantly. Sounds muffle from his gagged mouth as his body is overtaken with a strained spasm—hips twitching, pussy convulsing, clip pulsating with explosive pleasure. His cunt flows like a river, drowning him in his whore-juice, and he nearly cries out from relief.
But it finishes too quickly, and by the end, he’s sobbing and shaking his head as Big Brother plucks out his dick, trying to catch that life-saving column with the muscles in his cunt.
“Be still, Little Wing,” Big Brother says.
Then he pulls the hood over Little Wing’s face again, muffling the sounds in his ears and cutting off his light. That strawberry gas hisses through the pipes, seeping through his system as blood fills his clit and inner pussy lips, protesting their unfair treatment.
Big Brother shoves the dildo into him again, lining them up carefully so he’s always fucked in the cunt and ass by the machine.
Then Little Wing knows no more.
He floats in this suspended existence, this in-between place, where only one thing is true at a time—pleasure, or relief.