AI art by hongd542 - Part 2

Read Part 1 First?

 

 Jerry was pleasantly surprised by the bedclothes the Clinic gave him to wear.

They were top quality, stylish and made him feel sexy, which wasn't what he had expected

after the court sent him here to have his anti-social behaviour surgically corrected. 

Whatever that meant.

 

 

 The Doctor explained what he planned to do in great detail using medical language.

Ben didn't really understand what he said, but he didn't like the look of it.

 

 

 Downstairs, the glitzy comfort of the private Clinic transformed into a starkly utilitarian reality.

James was dressed in a protective one-piece suit, restrained, gagged and then drained by hand. 

That was troubling, but he wasn't prepared at all for followed.

See the devastating dénouement at Hong's DeviantArt site, it's too hot for here.

 

 

 The Doctors were troubled. 

The procedure had been an exciting challenge.

But was it ethical?

 

The boys in the gym would never be the same again.

 

~

 

 

Officer Sutherland had an unconventional approach to 'persons of interest'.

He insisted that they took off and handed over their clothes to be searched,

so that they would not be embarrassed by clumsy, groping hands. 

Of course, if no little plastic bags containing dubious substances were found, 

A common alternative hiding place was then already available to be searched. 

Sutherland often found that the mere suggestion of a deeper probe, in private,

would prompt an involuntary, urgent disclosure by the suspect. 

 

 

 

The disciplinary hearing had not gone well for Curtis
But at least he still had a job.

 

 

 Being assigned to 'Pride' duties felt like a crushing rebuke to Dexter.

But at least he didn't have to venture into that cauldron all alone.

Still, he wasn't sure he liked the sound of his colleague's offer

to familiarise him with gay culture so he'd feel more comfortable. 

In fact, he was sure he would feel just the reverse. 

 

 

 

 

Officer Bergman had a large portfolio of informants,

which embraced all sections of the community, 

He often went way beyond the call of duty,

but did sometimes lose focus when exchanging favours.

(Uncaptioned Original)

As they say, there's no smoke without fire.

 

~

 

more Hong542 next time 

Read Part 1

Targeted

Colin's in a fix after being kidnapped at gun-point on a quiet country road.
Not only abducted but his tighty-whitey's ripped to shreds in the process.
Now, collared and chained, he finds himself up for sale to the highest bidder.
The solid gold collar they gave him suggests these are very wealthy buyers
It's scary, but kinda exciting too. All these people want to buy him!

They'll never believe it when he tells them about it, back at work. 

 They've even promised he can keep the collar, no word about new briefs, though.

 

~

This photo-manip is by Herodotus, whose work can be found at Telemachus 12 
Telemachus 12's site boasts an incredible collection of gay art with edge

Targeted Hunk

 

Brock checked the time for the hundredth time that morning. Where were they? The Pick-up Squads had a reputation for strict punctuality and woe betide any man who wasn't ready for them, exactly as stipulated, when they called.

Officially it was called 'The Agricultural Levy' but ordinary people knew it as 'Farm Slavery'. Five years of work in the fields of the South for any man who was a 'burden on society'. Brock had been unemployed too long and accepted this would be his fate. His wife and kids would get his wages while he was away. He just had to be ready for the pick-up at the designated time wearing nothing but underwear for decency's sake. They'd probably strip him of that too once he was in the van and shackle him, along with the rest of the men on that morning's list.

Hardly anyone volunteered for the Slave Corps, so discipline was necessarily tight to keep them all in line. Stories of harsh punishments for the smallest infringements circulated in the social media. Brock didn't intend to make waves and hoped to avoid that fate. He'd kept himself fit and healthy and didn't mind hard work, which ought to get him a good, straightforward posting. In five years time, he could make a new start.

He jumped as the doorbell suddenly rang and quickly went to the door. Two men in dark uniforms were there and immediately pulled him out. They twisted his arms painfully up behind his back and frog-marched him down to the street. “What's this?” one of them said, “A wristwatch? You were told to bring no personal possessions!”.

“I thought this one looked like a trouble-maker” the other one said, “That's the third one I've had to sort out this morning”. As they hustled Brock roughly into the darkness of the van, he heard his kids calling “Bye Bye Daddy” from the windows above. 

~

Click on the labels below for more tales of enslavement and hairy hunks @mitchmen.

Mercenary Nick - Part 2

Start reading at Part 1

 

Day 4

8

After a night of humiliation at the hands of the Guards, I had to face my torturers the next day clad only in underpants. Even they were not my own clothes, for my guards had either destroyed, or taken for souvenirs, every item of clothing that I had on. As a sop to my modesty, they gave me a pair of underpants taken from another prisoner. He had no further need of them, they said and out of spite, they told me his name. It was one of my comrades who had disappeared some 3 months earlier, while on the same mission as myself. I was trained not to react to barbs like this or dwell on the truth of them, but the symbolism of losing the last of my possessions did hit me hard. 

I felt like I had been condemned to extinction.

Having been suspended by my wrists during those long, cruel hours of darkness, it was a perverse pleasure to be taken down and spread-eagled on an X-cross instead. I was still tied up and defenceless, but able to stand on my feet again. It was obvious that this restraint would enable the interrogator to attack all parts of my body, if I continued to deny him the information that he wanted. However, he surprised me by producing, not some ferocious flesh destroyer, but an incongruous, small batten of wood. It looked like it was fresh from a DIY shop, an unwelcome reminder of the normal world that was carrying on outside the walls of my prison, oblivious of my plight. 

The Interrogator complimented me on my physique, running his hands over my abs and acknowledging that I had been well-trained. Then he proceeded to apply his stick to my torso, landing vicious blows on it from all angles. That batten might have been small, but by heavens it stung! As time went by, the cumulative effect of hundreds of blows from it, switching between the flat sides and the sharper edges, generated a fiery furnace of pain all over my body. He beat me with it patiently, conserving his energy, so my agony might last as long as possible.

 

 

9

After a while he stopped, looked at my bruised body and sighed, as if in regret. Then he went to his bench and returned with a second batten. He used them simultaneously to beat both sides of my body. The effect of the wood smacking my abs had dulled by them, but when he switched to my ribs, the pain was excruciating. I'm ashamed to say that I gasped, quite loudly. My torturer smiled, then hit me again. I managed better control of my responses the second time, but it was difficult. My struggle to remain silent was obvious. That made him smile again, for it was a sign, a small one, that I was losing, and he was winning. We both knew that, and I trembled inside. 

Before he left to take his lunch, he signed off with the battens by rasping their rough cut edges across my body like a saw. My bruised skin was repeatedly pricked and punctured by splinters, with many of them breaking off and sticking in me. He was playing a childish game, but left me with widespread soreness that returned every time I stretched to relieve the stress of the prolonged restraint.

After he had gone, to my surprise, the Guards took me down and gave me a small but nourishing meal. I ate it appreciatively, imagining that someone, at least, wanted to keep me alive. But for what? As soon as I had finished, they tied me up again.

 

10

When the torturer returned, the games continued. It was clear he was beginning to enjoy the task of wearing me down, waiting for me to crack. He was relying on time and repeated attacks to persuade me, rather than extreme wounding. This time he took up a wooden paddle with which to torment me. 

I'd experienced the paddle before. It looks slightly comical, but its flat surface produces a wider spread of pain. The holes in it ensure that air making way for its delivery do not impair the impact. It is most effective on large muscle groups and so is widely used for buttock spanking. Naturally, my Trainers hadn't spared me that experience and humiliation, although they claimed to think it beneath them. I wasn't convinced about that after experiencing their efforts, but my torturer seemed to share their view, he made no move to turn me round to feel its sting on my behind. Instead, he applied it to my pecs and thighs, two areas which had largely escaped his attention in the morning.  

Vast new areas of fiery pain erupted to torment me.

 

11

 It was a long, long day and it left me raw, bruised and physically exhausted. My borrowed underpants were sopping wet from profuse perspiration, but thankfully, the relatively low level of brutality had spared me the humiliation of losing all control of my organs. I was glad it was over, but, tomorrow would be another day of torment and before that, I faced another night at the mercy of the Guards.

 

 Day 5

 

 

12

 

My Guards must have lost interest in me that night, for I slept right through. There had been visitors, I could tell, for when I awoke, my underwear was round my ankles and there were deposits on my skin. But I hadn't been treated badly enough to wake me up. Perhaps some other unfortunate soul had claimed the attention of the brutalisers. 

 

As usual, the Guards took me straight from my cell to the interrogation room after I had eaten. This time, however, instead of tying me to the cross or a post, they simply shackled my ankles, tethered my wrists to a dangling chain and left me standing in the middle of the room. I stood like that for about an hour, puzzling over this turn of events. Had something happened? Was my torture ended?

 

These foolish thoughts were immediately extinguished when my tormentor returned to resume his painstaking exploration of my inner reserves. To my horror, he was brandishing a bull-whip which made the reason for the changed restraints perfectly clear - he was going to work all over my body and wanted no obstacles to impair his lashes. The ploy of keeping me waiting had softened me up nicely, for I immediately began to tremble with fear. He gleefully used the stock of the whip to lift my chin and make his usual request, was I going to talk?

 

13

 

It took all my courage to refuse once again. 

Seconds later, the whip fell across my body and all the previous bruises re-erupted.

It was just the start of a slow-paced barrage of lashes that spared no part of my body. 

14

 

Before long, I was on my knees blubbering. 

But I had the strength to refuse to give in and tell them what I knew.

 

15

 

My reward was a barrage of kicking and whiplashes which sent me sprawling. 

I lost consciousness.

 

16

 

I can recall very little of what happened after that. I woke up in a primitive, wooden shack with 3 other prisoners. They nursed me back to some semblance of health, until my captors decided I was fit to work in the quarry, which was just outside our hut. This is the place I now call home.

As soon as I was able, I searched for my missing comrade, the man whose underpants I still wore, but I did not find him, only more strangers, most of whom did not speak my language. As I became better acquainted with my new companions, I was able to join in their secret, nightly intimacies, which were unexpectedly tender and comforting. Necessarily so, because of the patrolling guards who might otherwise hear us. 

In reality, though, my only real bond with them is our experience of the Orange Room, of which none of us ever speak. Whether I broke and talked or kept my silence until they gave up trying, I cannot say. It doesn't matter, because I know for sure that my mission ended in failure. It gives me no comfort to have escaped death when my other comrades may well have perished, for I have still paid a terrible price for my failure.

 

17

It's hard work, breaking the stones and carrying them to the collection point where the lorries come to pick them up. I soon discovered that slackers quickly feel the whip, and that invoked such terrible memories for me that I take care not to provoke the overseers if I can help it.

I think about escaping sometimes, but the fire in my belly has gone out. The fear of more, remorseless punishment has finally quenched my spirit. My comrades seem to feel the same, although none of us talk of our past lives or what we endured to get to here. I am one of the lucky ones, supposedly. 

So I wield my sledgehammer and count the hours 'til the next meal, which is usually quite nourishing and designed to keep us alive and working. The alternative would be starvation rations until we die. 

I'm not sure which is the worse fate of the two. 

 ~

Imagery for this story is from 'Mercenary Nick' at Real Chained Heroes.

The star is 'Robert' flaunting his fabulous physique. 

Go to Part 1

 

Leather Art by Nerone 2

Read Part 1 of this article

 

Nerone - Fast Drip 065

 

 Today's images are from Nerone's 'Fast Drip' series, it's an apt tag for this image.

There's a great sense of skin to skin contact and sexual tension.

His simple, black and white sketches are greatly enhanced by imaginative colouring 

 

 

 

 

 

Nerone - Fast Drip 056

 

This artist's characters often seem to be very clearly delineated as tops or subs,

 but for the avoidance of doubt, he's brought out the ropes here.
This image exists in another variant where the top is not bearded (below).

 

 

Nerone - Fast Drip 056 (clean-shaven)

 

The warm colours here enhance the sense of intimacy.

 

 

 

Nerone - Fast Drip 066

More delving into dark, moist places here, 

a lucky dip that's caused an element of surprise.

But if you must wear white underwear.....well...

 

Nerone - Fast Drip 089

 

 Snuggling from behind is enormously comforting,

 even though it leaves everything up front unprotected.

He's too busy to care about that, right now.

 

Nerone - Fast Drip 091

Sleepy lovers greet the day with closeness and warmth,

The sense of hairiness and bulk here is so masculine.

A two gun salute would seem to be in order next. 

 

 

Nerone - Fast Drip 104

 

There's more edge here, with a grip on the throat demanding submission.

The glimpse of boots and pants tell us this is men at play, acting out their fantasy.

 

 

Nerone - Fast Drip 114

 

Casual encounters are meat and drink (as it were) to gay men.  

The fallen pants here give some sense of the excitement of them.

There's normally no such thing as sub and dom in this situation, 

although you might attribute an ambition to top in the placing of the hand.

 

 

Nerone - Fast Drip 115

 

How different this encounter looks! 

There's a compelling sense of domination,

both in the gesture and the bulky build of the man in control.

But he isn't turned on that much it seems, it's power he craves.

Asking for a rise was never like this in my Office!

 

 

 

Nerone - Fast Drip 320

Hopefully this is just a token of submission, not the start of a protracted trial!

These images vary in quality, this is a good one. 

Nice characterisation, with Italian looks and a physique that looks real.

Notice that the ball looks compressed by the thumb.

Nerone - Fast Drip 351

Just a hint of apprehension. Maybe it's his first time.
The absence of leather paraphernalia might mean gentleness

 - or dangerous inexperience.

 

 

Nerone - Fast Drip 354

This rope-work is decidedly unprofessional.

An amateur DIY job? Unrequited longing to be tied up?

If you can help, please form an orderly queue

 

 

Nerone - Fast Drip 380

Just a pretty picture of an era gone by.

More Nerone in Part 3

Read Part 1 of this article

See more Nerone at his blog (inactive)

Targeted

 

 The mystery deepened when Ben complained to the manager. They didn't have a room laundry service, who might have taken his clothes, he said, but he would investigate what the CCTV had picked up. Meanwhile, Ben would have to vacate his room since it was already booked by someone else that night. However, he could stay in the resident's lounge for as long as it took, free of charge. That was just as well, since Ben didn't have money to pay his bill or even a phone to call anyone any more. The hotel had a phone, of course, but who remembers other people's numbers these days? Ben didn't. He just had to wait and see what the Manager came up with. The idea that this might take days rather than hours disturbed him.

It wasn't as though they were comfortable panties either, the lace felt very rough on Ben's nether regions. If he didn't keep still, it rubbed his balls mercilessly. The narrow string up the back did the same thing to his crack, because it was stretched tight by his efforts to keep his junk contained in the tiny pouch at the front. It didn't feel much more comfortable if he stood up and walked around either, and then he knew everyone was looking at him and probably thinking things about him, which he'd rather they didn't. 

 

The Resident's Lounge was surprisingly busy considering it was a bright, sunny day outside. The hotel seemed to have a disproportionate number of ageing gentlemen as residents, many of whom thought slapping his bottom playfully as he passed would cheer him up. When he was out of his seat, he had to keep a vigilant lookout to see if anyone was creeping up behind him.

He hovered around the Manager's Office for a while, hoping for a development. There seemed to be much jollity going on inside, but no news about his missing belongings. He couldn't even go for a walk to pass the time, and no-one offered to lend him clothes to wear, except one old man who offered an unappealing, dirty raincoat. There wasn't any shortage of people wanting to talk to him, of course, he constantly had to shoo away loiterers, but all the attention made him feel worse. He returned to his seat to find it occupied. None of the others were vacant either, although several gentlemen kindly offered him their knee to sit on. He thought it best to decline these offers and found a newspaper to read, leaning with his back to the wall.

As the day wore on, the prospect of spending the night in the lounge loomed larger and larger, and he became increasingly agitated and sought out the manager again, demanding he do something. Eventually the Police were called and one arrived an hour later - in plain clothes, surprisingly. Naturally, they had other priorities on a Friday night, he said. He advised him not to go out after dark. Folks round here don't go in for that sort of thing, he said, nodding at Ben's lacy bulge. Ben flushed with embarrassment. 

 

Ben had no choice but to reconcile himself to spending the night on a settee in the Guest Lounge. The room was still quite crowded with old men, but he found a safe seat and watched TV until 'News at Ten', hoping that when it finished, they would all disappear to bed. But they didn't, there was some sort of discussion going on, quite heated. Eventually, one of them approached him and offered him the chance to take a shower in his room. Ben accepted gratefully, taking the chance to wash out his G-string in the warm, refreshing spray. 

 

When he emerged, the gentleman was already in his double bed, asleep. Ben stole to the door, but to his horror found it was locked. "I wouldn't go back down there" his host advised sagely from the bed, "it's not safe for you". Something in his tone suggested he wasn't just talking about tactile sleepwalkers. "You'll be much safer staying here with me" he said, most emphatically, and his words struck Ben quite forcefully. "Just take my word for it" the man said gravely as he peeled open the cover on the unoccupied side of the bed.

 

Ben stared at him and the bed. But his courage failed him. He looked round for the door key but couldn't see it. He tried the door again, hoping it had changed its mind about being locked. Finally, thinking about the cold, dark lounge downstairs, he looked back at the inviting bed. 

"Come on lad, you must be feeling tired, get into bed", the gentleman said kindly, "I won't eat you".

 

But he did, and that wasn't all he did, but he did it so nicely, it didn't seem to matter to Ben.

The night sped by in the strangest manner. 

 

~

 

For other 'Targets' at mitchmen, click on the post label below

Dr Smith (Film 911)

Brody is visiting Dr Smith when he starts to feel a pain in his chest.
Smith is quickly onto it, undoing Brody's shirt to check him over.

 

In no time at all, he has Brodie on his table, stripped to his underwear.

He is ventilated and all sorts of cables are attached to his upper body. 

Brody is reassured, they look like sensors, but they are not.....

 

~

 

 

 

Tuco is a petty criminal, he knows what the cables do.

He was sent to Dr Smith by the local correctional facility to participate in 'experiments'.

Tuco was surprised when he was immediately ordered to strip down to his underpants.

 

He was even more surprised when the Doctor bolted him to a post by the neck. 

They didn't do that to him in the jail he had come from.

 

After that, the Doctor attached lots of those coloured cables to Tuco's torso.

Then he flicked a switch and immediately, Tuco was bombarded by electric shocks. 

The Doctor just stood and watched him.

Then he moved in, wanting the feel of the effects of treatment, hands on.

 

 

 Tuco told him it hurt, but he passed out before the experiment was ended.

When he came to, he was strapped to a gurney. 

And the Doctor was reattaching the electrodes........

 Tuco was so relieved when they sent him back to prison

~

 

This is the wacky, weird and decidedly sinister world of Dr Smith at Film 911.
He has an understandable interest in men and getting them out of their kit,

and uses a wide range of techniques for accomplishing that objective.

Drug injection, knockout drops and the like - plus hypnosis, sometimes deception.

After that it's gets strange, very strange, in many different ways. 

And no-one really knows what is real or imaginary

Except Dr Smith

~

 

 

Damon just came in as a model to do a shoot, he was great at simulating shocks.

But then he had an asthma attack or thought he did, fiction and reality blur so easily!.  

 

 

 

Damon looses consciousness, but the Doctor stays with him, giving comfort.
Anticipating further problems, he undresses him (as you do)

Then he attaches ECG electrodes as a precaution - and to pass the time.

 

 

With Damon still unconscious, the Doc drags him to the bedroom.

It's a route that many men follow without knowing it, after meeting Dr Smith 

There those nasty cables bring Damon back to consciousness, 

But there's a plug in his mouth, it restricts his breathing, but he can't spit it out.

This precipitates another asthma crisis.

 

 

 

Damon struggles but finds he is strapped down on the bed

He is under electrical attack and struggling to breathe

But the Doctor stays calm and delves into his underwear. 

Just checking his pulse, I suppose.

 

Damon's crisis grow worse, he may even be 'going',

so the Doctor brings out his defibrillator, just in case.

Predictably, he has to use it and Damon responds dramatically.

But it's not really clear by then what the Doctor is trying to do.

 

~

 

 

 

Nathan is a private detective who tries to find out what's going on at the Docs.

He gains entry to the Doctor's premises, but is caught by the surveillance system.

A specially designed, loud alarm has the effect of knocking him out.

 

 

 

Nathan too ends up in his underpants and strapped down on the gurney.

The Doctor administers discomfort to him via his air supply.

It's partly a punishment for his intrusion, and partly a tongue loosener,

but mainly to further his fascination with breath control.

  

It isn't long before the Doc decides he needs to apply the defibrillator.

It's very clear from Nathan's response that it's not really needed.

In the sinister world of Dr Smith at Film 911

It isn't just a matter of pain but life itself.

But there's more to him than cardiac arrests, more next time