POW's Fiction – Gay S&M Stories

Anger Management Therapy

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Disclaimer: the following story is a purely fictional account. Any relationship to any real person living or dead is coincidental. The narrative contains sexual content, non-consensual torture, and death. It is intended for mature readers who wish to view such material, and for whom it is legal to do so. The author in no way condones or promotes such acts in real life.

Copyright © 2018 by POW. For spam prevention, an animal name has been added to the author’s e-mail address. Remove the animal name to get the actual address: POWauthor zebra at yahoo dot com. This story may be freely copied and distributed so long as it is copied in its entirety, unchanged, including the author credit information and disclaimer. Other POW stories are available at https://powauthor.wordpress.com. The author welcomes feedback.

Anger Management Therapy

— Three months ago —

“Thank you, Jeremy,” Dr. Forrester said, extending his hand. It hung there in the empty air while his twenty-two-year-old client shrugged his jacket on and fumbled in the pockets for something that apparently did not exist. The therapist smoothly covered over the awkward moment with patter. “I think you’ve made some real progress, taken some meaningful strides that will serve as a strong foundation for your next steps. And you know you can always come back for another session or more if your circumstances would warrant that.” It was drivel, and he knew it. He allowed his unshaken hand to slide smoothly back to his side.

Today marked the last of six months’ worth of Jeremy’s weekly court-mandated counseling sessions with Dr. Sidney Forrester. Despite his previous record, Jeremy’s lawyer had been able to negotiate a plea agreement that would keep him out of jail after his most recent run-in with the law. It was not his first violent outburst, not by a long shot. Most of his previous arrests had resulted in no significant penalty, although there was one fight in school that had landed him in a juvenile detention facility and a bar fight later that had bought him an overnight stay in the city jail. According to Jeremy’s now-ex-girlfriend (no saint herself), during this latest incident he choked her almost to the point of unconsciousness and very nearly raped her before she recovered enough to grab the TV remote, jab him in the eye with it, and flee. Jeremy claimed he hurt his eye by bumping into the edge of a door. Given Jeremy’s prior history, the DA’s office was inclined to prosecute harshly but found the evidence against him to be suggestive rather than conclusive; the most serious charges would be dropped if Jeremy agreed to therapy designed to help him channel his violent impulses into more productive anger management strategies.

What a load of hooey, Forrester had thought on learning his client’s back story.

Sid knew on day one that this was not a man who could be tamed. Jeremy was a menace, and the only thing that would civilize him was time. Perhaps by the age of fifty or sixty, Jeremy’s temper and testosterone levels would mellow enough that he wouldn’t fly into a rage at every casual slight, but for the next thirty years he would be a land mine on a hair trigger just waiting for one wrong step to set him off. No touchy-feely program of anger management therapies would ever stand a chance; Jeremy would always respond first with fists, then only later – maybe – with words and thoughts. The doctor had tailored his therapy program accordingly.

At five feet ten, Jeremy had to look up from under his raggy mop of black hair to meet the doctor’s eyes, which he did for only a moment before grunting something that might have been “yeah, sure” and turning to leave. His muscles were evident even through his jacket, and Sid allowed his eyes to flick to the tight blue denim covering his ex-patient’s backside, admiring the stretch of the fabric, then moving on to take in the thick thighs and then the veined tendons along the backs of the hands leading up under his sleeves.

It wouldn’t happen the way the authors of the plea agreement had expected, but the end result would be the same. Soon enough, Jeremy’s violent impulses would be contained and he would no longer be a threat to society.

Finally. Last one, he was done. He could finally forget about that pinhead shrink with the geeky goatee and the whiny mosquito voice. An hour a week with that dipshit for six months was a bad enough sentence. True, it sure beat what he might have faced if any actual charges had come up from that lying bitch’s faked-up story, but he was still glad to have it over and done with.

First thing he was going to do was celebrate. Go hang out at Staley’s, get shit-faced, try to not beat the crap out of anyone no matter how much they deserved it ’cause he needed to stay unarrested for a while.

Staley’s was mostly empty – not unexpected for a Wednesday afternoon. Jeremy sat at the bar and had two beers and a shot of Jack Daniels. After that, things got a little hazy. By the time his thoughts were clear again, it was Thursday morning and he was in his own bed without any trace of a hangover. That was somewhat surprising, but he didn’t question good luck when it came by in his life; it so rarely did.

Waiting was difficult, but Sid forced himself to be patient. There was no safe way to verify that the therapy he had performed would actually do what it was supposed to do. Either the sessions had been successful or they hadn’t, and there was nothing he could do to change anything now. All the trial runs had worked well, which was reason for optimism, but then successful rehearsals were no guarantee of a successful live performance. Showing up himself at the site where the show would take place to check on things beforehand was not an option – it would just implicate him later. Sid found himself left with an uncomfortable element of uncertainty that he would just have to live with until the show actually either ran as intended or it didn’t.

He passed the weeks tending to patients and playing softball two evenings a week and hoping that Jeremy managed to make it through three months without getting himself arrested again and locked away someplace where all those therapy sessions would do no good at all. For Jeremy or for society.

Or for Sid.

— Six months ago —

“Tell me, Jeremy, have you had any more of those ‘lost time’ episodes? Last time you were quite concerned about them.”

Jeremy sat a long while before responding. He should never have brought up the “lost time” episodes a few sessions back. And yet, those first few times it happened, it had been pretty disturbing, so it had seemed like a good idea to mention. Now, though, the doc asked about them every single session and never had anything useful to say. “Once,” he finally replied. “Just once.”

“And what happened that once?” Dr. Forrester prompted.

“How the hell should I know? That’s what ‘lost time’ is, right?”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” The doctor’s tone was gentle and soothing. “What I should have asked was: what do you remember from the time before and after the episode?”

Somehow, even scoring points off the doc was not completely satisfying. The occasions when Jeremy could catch Forrester out in an error were rare, so he enjoyed when it happened. Still, the doc’s constant mild passivity, even when he fucked up, meant that rubbing his nose in his mistake did not deliver the rush that it should have. “It was after work,” Jeremy grumbled. “I clocked out, headed for the bus stop. I’m pretty sure I got on the bus, but next thing I know, I’m at home. How’d I get there? No idea. And it’s 8:00. I’m usually home at 5:30.”

“Mmm hmm,” the doctor replied. “No unexplained injuries, no physical symptoms like a headache or dizziness?”

“Naw. Nothin’.”

“All right. Well, as before, I would say these episodes are nothing to be concerned with. Lost time happens far more frequently than most people are aware of. The classic instance is ‘driver’s trance’, usually on an empty highway, frequently at night. Just a few weeks ago, when I went to a conference in Chicago, it happened to me. I was heading north on 55… long stretch of farmland… thirty whole minutes…”

The doctor’s voice faded in and out of Jeremy’s awareness, eventually settling into a steady, gentle hum like the sound made by the machinery at the warehouse. Background noise, totally ignorable. Jeremy had heard this speech a couple times already. No point in paying attention through it. He’d be able to tell when the doc started to wrap up. He’d pay attention then. For now, the gentle buzz droned in his ears and he felt himself beginning to relax into the soft sofa…

“… nothing at all to worry about, Jeremy. It happens to everyone. Nothing to be alarmed about. Nothing to disturb your relaxation with. You are feeling very relaxed, aren’t you, Jeremy? You feel calm and at peace, totally relaxed. Nod your head once if you are feeling relaxed, Jeremy.”

The pale face beneath the unruly black hair dipped down, then back up, the eyes almost completely closed.

“Good. Stay like that, stay relaxed. Stay at peace. You’re in a safe place. There is nothing to fear here. Stay calm, stay relaxed.” The doctor kept up his soothing tones as he moved softly about the room, gathering a few pieces of equipment.

“Now, Jeremy, I’d like you to stand up. Would you stand up, please?”

The subject complied.

“Very good. Now, open your eyes. Good. Now look down at the table on your left. Do you see the wristbands there? Put the wristbands on, Jeremy.”

Jeremy reached down and, with a practiced motion, picked up one of the two suspension cuffs and strapped it around his right wrist, then put the other on his left.

“Very good, Jeremy. Now, put the locks on the wristbands.”

Two tiny padlocks went into place, preventing removal of the cuffs.

“Well done. Remember, the keys are right here. You can always unlock them any time you want. Still feeling relaxed? Nod your head if you are relaxed and ready to continue. Good. Very good. Now, pick up the other locks and step over to the wall, please. Stand with your back against it. Stretch out your hands, yes, that’s right.”

Sid kept up the soothing stream of words as he directed Jeremy to lock each cuff to eyebolts set in the office wall. They were right about at the height of Jeremy’s shoulders. The first one was easy because he could use one hand to lock the other in place. The second was more difficult; he had to stretch hard to reach the second bolt with one arm already locked to the first. It took a couple of minutes, but he was able to slide the second lock closed and then stood, arms stretched out to either side, eyes staring blankly ahead.

“That’s terrific, Jeremy, very well done. How does the stretch feel, Jeremy? Nod your head if the stretch feels good in your arms and shoulders.” The black hair bobbed again. “That’s great. That stretch will help you calm your thoughts, focus your energy. So. Stand here as long as you want. When you feel like you are ready to resume, nod your head once more, then we’ll use the key to unlock the wristbands.”

Sid watched as the young man remained in a standing T position, standing nearly motionless for almost ten minutes before dipping his head once more, indicating he was ready to be done. Sid slipped the key into his hand. “OK. Very good, Jeremy. Use the key to release the lock. Stretch your wrist a little more… a little farther. That’s it. Now turn the key… and out. Excellent. You did that very well.”

Removing the other locks and the suspension cuffs was easy once the first lock was open. In no time, Jeremy was back on the couch, the gear was stowed away, and the hooks on the wall were once again supporting baskets of blandly tasteful office plants.

“In one minute, you will come up out of your trance. You will remember that we talked about lost time and how it is nothing to worry about. You will feel calm and refreshed. Begin to come out… now.”

“… if it happens again, don’t be too alarmed. Just take a note of your surroundings. Get yourself oriented. Check for injuries – that’s the only time to worry, is if you find yourself injured. Headaches or dizzy spells can indicate possible trouble that we should refer you to a medical doctor for, but you haven’t experienced any symptoms like that so far, so I don’t think there’s any cause for concern.”

Jeez, the clock on the wall showed two minutes to 4:00. Had the doc really droned away almost the whole hour?

“So. We’re almost out of time. Is there anything else you’d like to talk about?”

“Naw. All good.” Jeremy was already up off the couch and headed for the door. He felt strangely light on his feet, confident and ready for anything. Maybe these sessions weren’t a total waste of time…

Sid still could not believe how receptive the kid was to hypnotic suggestion. Pretty much anything he asked, the kid would do! And then he would conveniently forget all about it with the only symptom being these mysterious “lost time” episodes.

As soon as he had discovered how susceptible the young man was, wheels began turning in Sid’s head about how best to use this gift he had been given. The first priority, of course, was removing the threat that Jeremy posed to the next girl he persuaded to date him, the next stranger who jostled him in a bar, the next friend who committed some act that Jeremy perceived as betrayal, whether or not it actually was. Protecting society had to come first.

But wouldn’t it be great if, in the course of doing his duty to humanity, he could also indulge in a bit of satisfaction for himself?

Sid had six months to work with. One had already passed by the time he discovered how easily hypnotizable young Jeremy was. That left five months of once-a-week sessions to get everything ready. So they trained on how to lock suspension cuffs to eyebolts, how to set up cameras and lights and wireless networks, a bit of carpentry, made some audio recordings with Jeremy’s own voice… oh, and Sid needed to camouflage it all with enough actual therapy that Jeremy had at least a few real memories alongside all the planted ones!

Three months to go. That should be plenty of time to wrap up the therapy. Then he figured he needed to wait another three months after therapy ended. That should be long enough to ensure that there would be no suspicion cast toward Dr. Sidney Forrester when Jeremy’s programmed plan unfolded.

The time absolutely crawled by.

— Present day —

“Oh, hello Jeremy.”

Jeremy looked up from the bar. Staley’s was packed pretty full tonight, as usual for a Friday. It took a moment, but then he recognized the shrink he used to go to… what was his name? Started with F, F-something… eh, he couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter. “Hey, doc.”

Why would a fairy like Foster… that was his name, Foster. Why would he be in a working man’s place like this? He didn’t belong. Jeremy turned back toward the bar. He tried not to notice Foster ordering a six-pack to take home, but the guy intruded anyway while he waited for his beer to arrive.

“Things are going well, I hope.”

“Good enough,” Jeremy answered.

“Glad to hear it. Well, I won’t keep you. Stay here, enjoy your beer, and when you’re finished… elegant crescendo hyacinth.”

Jeremy blinked.

He blinked again. The doc had said something… something… he turned to ask him to say it again, but the doc was gone. With a puzzled frown creasing his forehead, Jeremy turned back to his beer and took a long pull. The doc had told him to stay here and finish it. Well, that’s what he planned to do anyway.

When the beer was gone, he paid his tab and headed outside. It was cool but not cold, a light drizzle falling. Perfect night to head home and warm up in the shower. He started walking that way, thinking of how good the hot water would feel on his skin. Walking through the dark mist, the city was unexpectedly quiet. The rain must be muffling the sounds of the traffic and the trucks because he walked in a bubble of calmness all the way home.

Only when he looked around again, he wasn’t at his apartment after all. Instead, he was at the old turkey processing plant, closed for five years now and starting to decay. He found himself walking around the back side of the building, watching his hands pull a gate aside to create a gap just large enough to squeeze his body through. Now why would he want to do that? He let the gate swing back shut again and turned around to go home.

But.

Somehow, he was on the inside of the gate, going deeper into the factory, even though he knew that really he was on his way home. He was vaguely puzzled as to his own actions, but not too worried. He’d be home in no time. His feet knew which way to go, his hands knew exactly what to do. It was easier if he didn’t overthink things. Just go with it.

Sid hurried home, set the unneeded, unwanted six-pack on the counter, and fired up his computer. Assuming all went as rehearsed, the video feeds should turn on in ten to fifteen minutes, depending on how long Jeremy had taken to finish his beer and how fast he walked. Sid opened four browser windows and pointed them to four different IP addresses, each using a different non-standard port. All four showed black “no signal” screens, waiting for the streaming feeds to start flowing.

His heart pounded as he waited, setting up each of the four streams to record to a different file, all time-synched together so they could be played back together at some future point. So much could still go wrong, Sid tried to refuse to allow himself to believe that everything would turn out according to his plan. But like a kid before Christmas, he just couldn’t convince himself that Santa wasn’t real, that there would not be a great big, beautiful present there for him if he could just get through the impossibly long wait until it arrived.

At least if things did go wrong, the worst that would happen would be: no show. Nothing could be tied back to Dr. Sidney Forrester, responsible upstanding citizen.

There. Camera 1 flickered to life, followed quickly by 4, 2, and then 3. He typed passwords into each one, swiftly and without stumbling over any keystrokes. As the decrypted bit streams resolved themselves into videos, images appeared. The lighting was poor, the images showing dark grey blurs on black backgrounds. Come on, Jeremy, remember the lights! Sid needn’t have worried, for seconds later, the four screens flared like daylight before adjusting to the new illumination levels. There wasn’t much to see, just a bare wall with vertical wooden beams exposed and a folding metal chair propped in front of it. If he looked closely, Sid could see the eyebolts attached to two of the beams. These were set higher than the pair in his office, but were just about exactly the same distance apart. Jeremy should have no trouble replicating the necessary motions while standing on the chair.

And now the star of the show came onstage himself, walking into view from off to the left in the display from camera 1. The other three cameras either showed blank walls or a confusing jumble of images as Jeremy moved around. Looking calm and relaxed, he began to remove his clothing. Jacket first, tossed aside onto the floor offscreen. Shirt next, giving Sid a view of what he had only imagined up until now. Jeremy had a lightly-furred chest, just a dusting of black hair really, with a thicker patch on his flat belly. Shoes, socks, pants… Sid had to pull his own pants down to make room for the bulging mass of his swollen cock. And then off came Jeremy’s underwear, the last stitch of clothing he had on. Sid couldn’t make out details yet, but wasn’t worried. It looked like there would be plenty more opportunity in the coming hours, because Jeremy seemed to be following his programming perfectly.

He dared to think it was actually going to work.

The bathroom was chilly, but it would warm up soon enough once he got the water on. Maybe he should have started the water warming up before taking off his clothes? Ah, but he had to have his clothes off before he could put the wristbands on. And he needed the wristbands on because… because… he couldn’t recall exactly why, but he knew they were necessary. Both slipped on easily over his wrists and he tightened them down, then bent down to put the matching set on his ankles. Bands in place, he sealed each one on with a small padlock, just like he had done dozens of times before, though he couldn’t recall ever actually doing it. Still, his fingers knew exactly what to do and went through the motions fluidly.

The room was bright. He must have replaced the bulb at some point, because usually showers were a much dimmer, dingier affair. Here he was under the glare of four separate bulbs from both ceiling and floor level, which made it hard to see the rest of the room behind the lights. That must be where the shower was, and he would head over there and stand under the gloriously hot spray just as soon as he finished climbing up on the folding chair. Again, this was not anything he remembered doing before as part of his shower routine, but his body moved with the comfortable ease of long practice. He reached over to the right and used one of the heavy padlocks to fix the right wristband to the bolt there. Even though he was right handed, somehow it was easier to lock the right one down first and finish the left one on its own.

Left one next. He had to really stretch to be able to reach enough to get the padlock through the eyebolt, through the D-ring on the wristband, and then squeeze the lock until it snapped shut. He had to pull hard on his fixed right hand to be able to do it, but again, his fingers knew the motions without Jeremy having to think about what he was doing. He found that if he kept his mind on the soothing hot needles of spray that would soon be sluicing down his body, his hands would do what they needed to do without him having to think about it.

The lock snapped shut. Almost done, then. The next-to-last step was to lift his left leg up off the chair and hook the D-ring on the ankle band into a hook on the vertical beam that ran straight down behind his spine. There were two hooks, one on either side of the board, the kind that had a spring-loaded lever built into it. You could press down on the lever and open up a gap to press something into the hook, but then it would snap shut again and the only way to open it back up again was to press the lever down again with your thumb or finger. Jeremy’s face creased a bit as he wondered how he was going to open the hook up again with his hands stretched out to his sides, far away from his feet. He hesitated before pressing the D-ring on his ankle band down against the hook… but only for a moment, because – DUH! – he could release his hands any time with the key, of course! He mentally slapped himself for overlooking something so obvious and pressed down with his foot. The D-ring slid right into place and the spring-loaded lever snapped shut behind it while Jeremy thought of soothing hot water cascading down over his shoulders.

Right foot next. He put all his weight on his left foot, now supported by the ankle band hooked to the vertical beam, and in one smooth motion, caught the toes of his right foot under the seat of the folding chair, kicked high and hard, and brought his foot down to lock the D-ring on the right into place just like the one on the left.

The metal chair folded itself up as it flipped through the air and clattered to the floor, and suddenly, Jeremy wasn’t thinking about a shower any more.

He did it. He actually did it. Sid had managed to convince Jeremy to crucify himself, entirely through hypnotic suggestion. There he hung in all his muscular glory, splayed wide open for Sid’s hungry eyes to devour.

Camera 1 was a full-frontal body shot. Every inch of Jeremy’s beautiful body was visible in the display, with only the black leather of the wrist and ankle cuffs covering any skin. He had his weight on his ankles now, standing as erect as possible given the constraints of the position he was in, with his heels fixed behind his center of gravity. His legs were as straight as they could get, but he was unable to lock his knees. This was not a problem for him at the moment, but over time, it would definitely become one.

Camera 2 showed a side view, also from head to toe. There was a great view of his massive thighs, muscles taut as they held his knee joints straight. Jeremy’s cock and balls protruded out nicely in this view, compact from the chill of the basement where they hung exposed to the air.

Camera 3 showed those same cock and balls from the front, zoomed in close and filling the screen. Sid peered in close, satisfying more than half a year’s curiosity about what those organs might look like. The dick was smaller than he had hoped. Nothing to be ashamed of at all, but it wasn’t the porn-star caliber monster he had fantasized it might be. The balls, on the other hand… now those were porn quality! Fat and full and just begging for Sid to squeeze and prod and slap them… ah, if only he could be there to take a more active role in the proceedings! But no, that would not be possible. He would have to enjoy from afar.

He pulled his gaze over to the display from camera 4, a close-up of Jeremy’s face. And oh, this was the perfect time to be watching the face, because the sound of the metal chair clattering to the floor was the trigger for all of Jeremy’s suppressed memories to come flooding back. Well, not quite all. He would never have access to any memories that might tie Sid to his current condition. But he could now recall coming to this isolated basement room of the abandoned factory on multiple previous occasions, running power cords for the lights and the cameras and the wi-fi transmitter, rigging up the hooks in the beams, practicing how to get into them using dummy padlocks that would not stay shut. The only thing he had never rehearsed before was kicking over the chair.

Sid watched as the realization spread across Jeremy’s face that he had done this to himself. He watched Jeremy’s bafflement as he tried to reconcile the imaginary motivation of wanting to take a shower with the reality of having hung himself up on a wall, stunned at having gotten so confused. And he watched as the inevitable testing of the bonds came as Jeremy tried to get himself out of the predicament he had put himself into.

This was the most delicious part of all, and Sid’s cock pulsed in his hand as he shifted his gaze back to camera 1. Jeremy pulled on the arm restraints, which had no give whatsoever. Those metal padlocks were not going to come loose, but it was ecstasy to watch Jeremy try anyway, yanking furiously several times before giving up and focusing on his legs. Those, likewise, were going to be very difficult to get out of. Jeremy fumbled at the spring-loaded clasp a few times with the toes of one foot, but only managed to get in his own way when he tried to lift the other foot out of the hook.

Finally, after perhaps two minutes, he gave up and just hung there, staring straight into the lens of camera 4.

WHAT THE FUKKK??!?

How the hell had he done this to himself?

More important, how was he going to get out?

A confusing jumble of memories had flooded over him all at once. In random order, he saw flashes of himself drilling holes in the beams to screw the bolts and hooks into. Of using a prepaid card (from where?) to buy lights, routers, other electronics, and of running wires to bring power to them. Of putting an antenna up on the roof of his slowly-crumbling building, running more wires for power and signal… Why the hell would he do that?

Why the hell would he do any of this?

He gave his right arm a mighty yank, trying to break something loose. Nothing. There was hardly any slack at all. His arms were stretched out so far that he could shift barely an inch from side to side. He examined the leather cuff around his wrist, a cuff that he remembered locking onto his wrist for reasons that now made no sense at all. The tiny padlock was flimsy enough that he could probably yank it off by hand… if he had a hand that could reach it. Lacking that, the dinky thing was plenty strong enough to keep his fingers from fiddling with the strap that held the cuff on his wrist. He tried anyway – he could just barely touch the lock and the strap with the tips of his fingers. But there was no way he was going to have enough leverage to get the lock off the buckle so he could work the strap loose.

What about the larger lock, then?

He could reach it if he stretched real hard to one side, tugging even harder on his far arm to gain some slack for the near one. But all he could do was feel the lock, run his fingers over the cold metal surface. It wasn’t going to come loose, not without a key. How had he ever deluded himself into thinking he had a key in his hand? With a growl of frustration, he jerked again as hard as he could to no effect at all.

Feet. Maybe he could work his feet free. He looked down and tried to guide his toes to one of the spring-locked levers. He was able to push it down several times with one foot, but each time he tried to work the D-ring on the ankle cuff of the other foot out through the gap, he lost his hold and the gap sprang shut again. To get the necessary leverage, he had to support his weight with his arms, which was not a big deal but it was kind of awkward with his arms out the side instead of overhead. And even then, it was hard to move his feet in just the right way. “DAMMIT!” he shouted as the gap snapped shut for the fourth time.

A red light caught his eye, sparking another flash of memory from the jumble that had poured into his brain minutes before. That red light was a camera. It was pointed at him, and it was on. Because he had turned it on.

And now that he looked, he could see three of them, one atop the other. He didn’t even have to turn his head to the side to know that there would be a fourth there. He had set all this up and was… what? Recording it? Broadcasting it? What were those cameras doing? He stared at one of the lights, thinking.

Watching Jeremy’s reaction to discovering that he had crucified himself was too delicious for words. Anger, bafflement, determination, frustration, lip-biting concentration, and despair played across the display of camera 4 in a constantly-shifting parade of emotions. Whatever other emotions there were, though, they always yielded back to anger sooner or later. Jeremy was not a man prone to deep thoughts. His go-to problem-solving strategy all his life had been to lash out.

Well. That wasn’t going to be a particularly successful strategy for the problem of being pinned to the wall in a position that was going to grow steadily more painful with every minute that passed by. Jeremy didn’t know about the pain part yet, but Sid was looking forward to him figuring it out.

Jeremy stared straight into the lens of camera 4. Sid had the uncomfortable sensation that the crucified man could actually see him, was gazing into his eyes. Of course that was impossible. Jeremy was safely trapped in the basement and had locked the loose gate behind him to deter any other trespassers from following him. And Sid was snug in his own apartment, four blocks away from the decrepit former headquarters and main processing plant of Jameson’s Poultry, receiving the heavily-encrypted stream of bits that was being broadcast from the roof of that same processing plant. In theory, anyone else could have picked up the signal as well, but there was so much electromagnetic traffic in the air these days that the odds of that happening were very slim indeed. This was, almost certainly, a performance with a cast of one and an audience of that same size.

“Is anyone there?” Jeremy asked, still looking at the camera. After a pause, he continued. “Hey, if anyone can hear me, I could use a hand here. Uh. Help? Somebody? GODDAMMIT, GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!!!”

The voice trailed off into wordless shouts as he poured all his strength into uselessly testing his bonds once again. Up, down, left, right, he flung his body every direction he could, moving an inch or two each time and producing no change at all in his overall predicament. The frenzy of effort lasted perhaps a minute before he lapsed into stillness once again, hanging on the wall like a slab of beef.

Dammit, there was no way out of this. Pulling with all the force he could manage did nothing. This position was too awkward, he couldn’t get any leverage. He was stuck, and would just have to wait until someone came to let him out.

Jeremy started musing about how long that might take, and was not happy with what he thought up. No one knew he was here; no one would have any reason to come looking for him. How long might it take before someone wandered along here for some other reason? Days? Weeks? He remembered hearing that a man could last several days without water, a couple of weeks without food, so his rescuer would need to come along in the next day or two or Jeremy might start to get pretty uncomfortable. Stuck up against the wall like this he wouldn’t be able to sleep real well, but that would be fine, he could manage. It was the water he’d have to worry about first. What were the odds that someone would come along by chance in the next few days? Maybe some kids would sneak in looking for a place to smoke some weed or get laid? Only… only they would have to find another way in, wouldn’t they? Because he had locked the loose gate behind him. Damn, he had sure made it tough to get out of this fix, hadn’t he?

So maybe the cameras. The cameras might be recording, which wouldn’t help him, or they might be broadcasting, which meant he had a way to talk to the outside. That was pretty likely, actually, because it explained why he had gone up to the roof and installed an antenna there.

“Hey, I could use some help here,” he said, looking straight into the camera. He kept saying it every half-minute or so. “I’m downstairs at the old turkey plant. Someone wanna come gimme a hand? Li’l help, please?”

Maybe he could make himself heard by shouting? He tried that, but quickly gave up because his voice just got soaked up by the thick walls around him. It couldn’t even escape through the door because he had (of course) closed it behind him when he came in.

Dammit, what if no one EVER came? No one had any reason to come snooping around down in this lonely place. He could be in real trouble if he couldn’t free himself; he would have to rely on his own strength to get out of this mess. Fueled by the first hint of panic, he started struggling once more against the unyielding restraints.

Sid watched every movement, mesmerized by the motions of the man on the screen. He couldn’t actually go anywhere. All he could do was… writhe. And oh, how sexy his writhing was! Sweat was starting to bead on his upper lip, his forehead, his armpits. The basement room may have been cool at first, but the crucified man was heating up both from working his muscles and from hanging in the pitiless glare of the hot lights. Sid’s eye flicked from the front view to the side, to the face, to the cock, taking in multiple visions of the suffering that was just now beginning to ramp up.

Jeremy was strong. He could keep himself propped up on semi-bent knees and strapped ankles for several minutes before even noticing. But he couldn’t keep it up forever. At some point, those massive leg muscles would tire and weaken and he would want to rest them. That’s when he would discover how devious and insidious crucifixion truly was.

For now, he was still fighting to break free, though he had no chance of succeeding. The bindings were too secure. Sid enjoyed watching him try, yanking and tugging and working up even more of a sweat. The muscles bunched and tensed so appealingly against the background of unyielding wood. The flat abdominal muscles swelled and shrank in time with Jeremy’s breathing. But for all his struggles, he accomplished exactly nothing, producing nothing but the sound of his grunting voice and the clank of steel against steel where the locks and the bolts met.

It was perfect, everything Sid had hoped it would turn out to be. He kept his eyes glued to the four windows on his screen.

Jeremy let his arms go limp again. Well, as limp as they could go. He noticed that his legs were starting to get tired. There was no reason that should happen, he was just standing, which had never given him any problems before. And yet, now that he thought about it, he wasn’t really just standing. His ankles were behind him, so he was really more leaning forward than standing. And he couldn’t completely straighten his legs; he had to work his thigh muscles to hold his legs as straight as they could go. Maybe that explained why he was starting to get sore in his thighs. Just a little bit, it wasn’t really a problem. But he was starting to think that maybe it would become a problem if it went on too long.

Experimentally, he took his weight off his legs, lifting his ankles again as he had first done when he was trying to pop the cuffs free from the hooks. He started fiddling with the hook again, trying to hold the gap open wide enough to get the ankle cuff through it. Now all his weight was supported by his arms, and damn, that did not feel good at all. If his arms were over his head, he’d be able to hang from them more easily, but having them stretched out to the side was really uncomfortable. He had to fight against a force that was trying to pull him apart from the center out. Again, it was nothing he couldn’t handle… but it wasn’t something he wanted to handle for very long.

There. His left foot was free! Yes! It took him another minute to free the right and then he had both legs out and free to…

to…

Well, to do nothing useful. All he could do was kick. He didn’t even bother trying to reach the metal chair, folded flat and lying in an abandoned heap below him, far beyond where he could get to it. He tried putting his ankles on the hooks and standing that way, and it felt good for a few seconds to get the pressure off his arms and shoulders, but very quickly his feet started hurting pretty bad with all his weight concentrated onto two small points. He had to drop back down and support himself by his arms again. He reached around with his legs a few more times, trying to find anything he could use to get himself one step closer to freedom. It was useless. Without something to stand on, he would never be able to get the weight off his arms.

Slowly he came to the realization that the ankle cuffs were actually a blessing. Without them to lean on, he was forced to hold himself entirely by upper body strength, and already that was starting to get uncomfortable. Somewhat reluctantly he clipped the D-ring of the right cuff back into the hook, figuring now that he’d done it once he could always get it out again if he wanted to. Putting some weight on his right leg felt very good after hanging by his arms for so long, so he clipped his left leg back in place as well and savored the relative comfort of standing again, even in the bent-knee position that he was forced to assume.

His arms were starting to complain about being held in one position for so long. He needed to move them, shake them around. But he couldn’t.

“FUUUuuuuUUUUUUKKKKKK!” he bellowed. “GODDAMM PUSSY, GET ME OUT OF HERE!”

There was no reply.

Oh, he was magnificent, absolutely magnificent. Without having had a single lesson, he was doing the dance of the cross like an experienced pro. Up standing on the legs, down hanging by the arms, stretching left and right and forward and back, twisting his hips and “stepping” from one foot to the other, all in a vain attempt to find any kind of comfortable position. Had he figured out yet that there was none to be found? That he would never again find a position that did not cause him some sort of pain? That the only power left to him was the ability to shift the pain from one part of his body to another, to decide what part of him he wanted to grant fleeting relief to at the expense of three or four other parts?

Sid watched camera 3 for a while. Jeremy’s exertions had caused him to work up quite a sweat, visible in the dark pubic hair that his flaccid cock nestled against. No longer shriveled by the chill, his scrotum had softened up and his balls – those huge, meaty, delicious-looking balls – now hung down lower, rocking from side to side as Jeremy twisted to find illusory comfort. It would have been nice if the cock had showed even a hint of swelling, or better yet, stood straight up out and proud. There were men who got off on the sensation of being crucified – he had played with some before. Hang them up by their wrists and their dicks would spring right to life. Jeremy was evidently not such a man, which was a shame in one sense, but in another sense it made the scene all the hotter to know that the victim was deriving no enjoyment at all from his predicament.

Camera 4 also showed a superb view: Jeremy’s face, contorted with effort. Sweat was popping up all over his cheeks and forehead, threatening to drip down into his eyes. His mouth hung open as he sucked in air to fuel his struggles. He still occasionally remembered that the camera was there and looked straight into it to plead for help for a few moments before getting distracted again by his steadily-increasing discomfort.
He was working hard, forced to fight against gravity in a battle he was destined to lose slowly.

Another sound came through the speaker – Jeremy’s voice, but not coming from Jeremy’s mouth at the moment. Had it been half an hour already? Amazing how fast the time flew by…

“Jeremy, it’s time to come.”

The voice was strange, his own, and yet not his own. It took him a moment before another memory came clanging back with the explanation: he was listening to a recording of himself. It was on an old-style CD. He had made the CD for no reason that he could now remember. And he had set up a CD player to play it back while he hung here in this deserted basement room. It was sitting off to the side where he had forgotten all about it until now. There was just one track, and it was 70 minutes long. It was mostly silence, but about halfway through he had spoken a dozen and a half words. Just that one sentence that he had just heard, and then he would hear himself counting backward from ten to one. And he had no idea why he had made the recording, or why he had set it to play here, now.

“Ten… nine… eight…”

There was a long pause after each number, maybe a second and a half. Even though he knew what was coming and there was nothing magical about numbers, the words still had a funny effect on him as he heard them. He started feeling an odd sensation in the pit of his stomach.

“Seven… six…”

Now it was unmistakable. This was the sensation of building toward an orgasm. Yet that was utterly, totally, completely impossible. There was no way he could possibly get off under these circumstances. He was in too much discomfort, that couldn’t possibly happen.

“Five… four…”

The pressure kept building. He glanced down and saw his cock starting to rise all on its own and was horrified at the idea of being controlled in this way by a recording of his own voice.

“Three…”

The pressure was building. His cock was not going to have time to rise up all the way. Wonder what it’s like to shoot a load through a limp dick?

“Two…”

Guess I’m gonna find out.

“One…”

Nnnnnnnnnnnggggggghhhhhhuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhh

“Now shoot.”

Jeremy did. His hips thrust forward into empty space. His cock, barely at half mast, twitched and spurted. He heard the droplets splash wetly to the concrete floor. His arms and legs were locked, tense from supporting his weight against the gravity pulling him inexorably downward. Waves of pleasure swept through his brain, briefly blotting out the pain radiating from his limbs and filling his chest.

But as swiftly as it came on, the orgasm left. His dick twitched a couple of times more and a sticky smear oozed out to dangle from the tip. The brief wash of pleasure was swept away and the pain of his impossible position came rushing back twice as bad as before. Now he was past the point of discomfort; this was pain, he needed to get down from here, he had to get down, his arms and legs and chest hurt too bad, he couldn’t take it any more.

Then he thought of something that made him bark out a half-crazed laugh. The CD player is set to loop that one track, he remembered. Wonder what the next time through is going to be like?

Sid finished cleaning up from his own orgasm, trying to keep his eyes on the screen while wiping his hands and dick with a tissue. His goal was to match Jeremy load for load over the coming hours, and was curious to see which of them would outlast the other. It had been tough to hold back, waiting for the first one. He had almost spoiled the synchronicity several times earlier and had to force himself to think of cold showers, of cute puppies, of his mother, of anything besides the sweating, straining, trapped hunk of muscle slowly suffering on the screen before him.

Such a marvelous thing, Jeremy’s suggestibility to persuasion. Implanting the trigger for orgasm had been ridiculously easy to do. Back at the office, during several of the test sessions, Jeremy would shoot three loads during a single hour just from hearing his own voice tell him it was time to do so. Sid had wondered sometimes if Jeremy had ever found a girl or tried to jerk off on his own after being drained dry during therapy. Did he wonder why his cock felt spent already, unwilling to rouse itself to duty, totally unaware that it was actually going on round four?

Now the after-effects of orgasm showed on the view of his face. He was suffering for real. The brief bliss of sexual release had passed and had left him more susceptible than before to the aches and pains of his crucifixion. And yet he didn’t struggle to break free the way he had done earlier. Perhaps he had accepted the inevitable already? But no, he was only half an hour in. There were many more hours to go before he would give up. He still had plenty of fight left in him and was just taking a break before resuming his useless resistance.

Time crawled by. He found himself counting the seconds, trying to keep track of the minutes, to estimate how long he had been hanging here. Almost every time, he lost track somewhere between 30 and 60 and had to guess at when a minute had passed. He set goals for himself: hang for two minutes; stand for three; stretch left for one, right for one. But after one round he realized that, even if he had counted right, only seven minutes had passed and it felt like seven years. And he almost certainly hadn’t counted right, so either nine minutes felt like years, or five minutes felt like years, or some number of minutes in between, and it was too depressing to try to continue to keep track of the passage of time.

For the first time, it occurred to him that he could actually die here, hanging pinned to this wall by his own hand. The worst possible way to commit suicide, the most painful, long, drawn-out method he could imagine… hanging here until… until what, exactly? He realized he didn’t know what would finally do him in. Thirst? Hunger? Exhaustion? There really was nothing about the position he was in that would actually cause him to die. Nothing was going to stop his heart from beating, nothing was going to smother him or make him bleed out or smash in his skull. He was just going to keep hanging here for hours and hours… days, even.

Thirst would probably do it. Come to think of it, he was starting to get a bit thirsty already. He was sweating a lot now from working his muscles and from the hot lights. Dehydration would be what finally brought an end to his suffering…

No.

Stop thinking that way. He was going to get out of here, it was just a matter of holding on until either he figured out how to break loose or someone came to rescue him.

Taking his weight on his arms again, he worked his legs free once more to see if there was anything else he could do with them. There wasn’t. The second attempt was as unsuccessful as the first. He could kick and flail, he could stand painfully on the hooks that pressed hard into his heels, he could even try to grip the board behind him from both sides with the soles of his feet and press himself up that way. But that was harder than standing by the ankle cuffs and besides, there was no point. With his wrists locked to the eyebolts, nothing he did with his feet would ever break him free.

He once again pressed the ankle cuffs back into the hooks and sought what relief he could find from stressing his thighs to get his weight off his wrists.

Sid watched the dance proceed. Listening to the moans from his victim turn to whimpers was an aphrodisiac beyond compare. To see such a formidable physical specimen reduced to mewling cries by the relentless torment the cross inflicted was a rare and beautiful thing. His dick rose to full stiffness again barely twenty minutes since it spurted out its load, and now he sat, gently stroking it while his eyes flicked from window to window, taking in the panoramic view, the side angle that highlighted the forward-tilted angle of his victim, the close-up of the dangling balls, once drained but still containing plenty more juice to extract, the face shot that revealed the haunted eyes, now mostly squeezed shut from the sweat that constantly trickled into them but opening every now and then to show not a man’s mind behind them but that of a feral animal caught in a trap.

Sid didn’t think he could ever grow bored watching this. He was ready to stay up all night, and all through the next day, watching the show that Jeremy was putting on just for him. Somehow that made it even hotter: this was no random stranger acting in a porn flick viewed by thousands of horny guys; this was a private performance for Sid alone to enjoy. Every second of suffering Jeremy endured, every drop of sweat that dripped to the floor, every spasmodic jerking of his cock from unwanted involuntary orgasms happened because Sid had arranged for it to happen. The feeling of power and control was giddying.

The show repeated itself a lot. Jeremy didn’t have many options available to him, and so of necessity he cycled between them many times. He could only stay in one position for so long before it became unbearable, which forced him to shift to another until that too grew intolerable and he had to adjust himself again. Over and over and over, yet constantly worsening for him. With every minute that passed, the overall discomfort level steadily increased. The position that he abandoned now because the pain level was too much to endure would be the same position that he would eagerly seek out fifteen minutes from now because it would be the least horrible of all the horrible options available to him then.

Sid had to take his hand away from his crotch or risk erupting again too soon – Jeremy’s next scheduled climax was still more than half an hour away.

This was impossible. Had he really thought it would be no big deal to hang here for two, three days, maybe just having a little trouble sleeping but otherwise mostly just be bored until he died of thirst? What an ignoramus he had been. Here it already felt like at least two days had passed. Honestly, maybe it really had been two days – Jeremy wasn’t sure how quickly time was moving. He couldn’t think about anything. All he could do was try to hurt less, and that became harder and harder to do the longer this went on.

He had to get down. He had to. And yet he had tried everything. He couldn’t pull the bolts out of the wall; he couldn’t disconnect the wrist cuffs from the bolts; he couldn’t break the wooden beams that held him up. For a while, he had thought he might be able to slip his hand out through the leather cuff. His skin had become slick with sweat and he hoped that might just be enough to let him slide through to freedom. But no matter how he squeezed and contorted his hand, the opening was just too narrow. His hand would not fit through.

And so here he was, hung up on a wall with no way to find any relief for his aching muscles. His legs were getting tired, his arms and chest ached from the strain, his fingers were starting to go numb. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop it.

How had this happened? He could clearly remember every single step of how he had gotten here. Purchasing the supplies, bringing them here over multiple trips, practicing how to lock himself in place. He had not questioned his actions at all while he was doing them, and yet he could not understand why he would have done such things. Jeremy was no suicide! And even if he was, he’d use a gun or jump off a bridge, something quick and either painless or with pain so brief as to not matter. This, though… this was unending pain! And it kept moving around, his thighs, his ankles, his wrists, his shoulders, his ribs… even little things like the sweat stinging his eyes and the itch on the top of his ear that he could not scratch irritated him. There was no part of his body that was not suffering in some way, and it forced him to shift around constantly, trying to find some relief. There was no relief, and there was no end in sight, he faced an eternity of constantly-changing suffering…

“Jeremy, it’s time to come.”

Ah, shit. He had forgotten about that damn recording. He swore this time it would not have the same effect on him. How could he possibly shoot again, a little over an hour since the last one, and suffering like this? It was not gonna happen. No way.

At least he knew how long he had been up here now. 30 minutes plus 70 more, so a little over an hour and a half. Was that all? An hour and a half that felt like two days?

Oh, fuck.

“Ten… nine… eight…”

“… three… two… one… now shoot.”

They both did, together. The man on the screen tensed all his muscles. His cock started to rise but, like before, had no time get even halfway hard before the eruption was upon him. Thick white fluid spurted out again, splattering onto the floor while a wordless animal growl filled the air. A few blocks away, Sid shot his second load copiously and enthusiastically into a tissue, as captivated as ever by the images on his screen.

I wonder how many times that will actually work? he thought. Surely physics will catch up to him at some point and make further orgasms impossible?

He had easily been able to coax three out of Jeremy in the span of under an hour back at the office. Here Jeremy was getting over an hour’s break between each shot… but he was suffering immensely during that time. I’m thinking five, Sid finally decided. Maybe six.

Jeremy twitched with the aftershocks of orgasm, a sticky tendril once again drooling down from the tip of his dick. It was clear that each twitch brought extra pain, causing him to tug on muscles already strained taut. His face creased once again with the agony of post-climax hypersensitivity, every ache and pain magnified beyond what it had felt like mere minutes earlier.

His eyes opened and they roved about the room for a few seconds, then settled straight on the lens of camera 4, the closeup of his face, at what would be the highest little red light from the point of view of one crucified on the wall.

“You. You did this to me. You made me do this, didn’t you. Doctor… what is it? Foster. Doctor Foster. Somehow you made me do this. And you’re watching it right now, I know you are. DAMMIT, YOU FUCKIN’ FAGGOT!”

Ha! The lad had figured it out! Sid had estimated the odds at about 50-50. He had gone out of his way to ensure that Jeremy would have no actual memories of the suggestions Sid had implanted while Jeremy was under, but the absence of memories was a clue in itself. Jeremy had managed to deduce what the most likely cause of the missing memories was. More than that, he had apparently also figured out Sid’s motivation. Clever boy…

Jeremy was yanking harder on the restraints than ever before, swearing and fuming in words Sid couldn’t always make out. “… FUCKIN’ FAGGOT… get outta here… not gonna take… little cocksuckin’ cunt…” He was really tearing himself up in his frenzy to rip his body off the wall by brute force. It didn’t happen. His body remained as securely pinned as ever. Finally Jeremy eased up and glared at the camera again.

“You get down here now,” he said, panting with exertion. “I know you’re watchin’ me, you know where I am. You get down here now or I swear I will come rip your fuckin’ head off.”

Oh, Jeremy. My sweet Jeremy. That’s not how it works.

“You get down here right now and you bring that key and you get these fuckin’ cuffs off me, you hear me? I know you’re watching me! YOU FUCKIN’ FAGGOT, GOD DAMN YOU!”

If he had arranged for two-way communication, there would have been no way Sid could have resisted using it at this moment. How could he not respond to the blustering yet powerless thug? It would have been so satisfying to be able to speak and have Jeremy hear his voice. What would he say? “Sorry, Jeremy, but that’s not going to happen.”? Or something more like “I really enjoyed your first two loads. Too bad there’s more than an hour to go until the next one.”? Or joke? “Hey, Jeremy, why are you hanging around down there?” It would have been impossible not to say something, and that was why two-way communication was not possible. That would have left a trail, exposing Sid to unnecessary risk.

For the same reason, he could not now go down into the abandoned factory’s basement, as tempting as it was to do so. The idea of walking up to Jeremy in person, of being able to touch his hanging body, to rub his hand across the crucified chest, cupping the helpless balls in his hand, squeezing them and pulling them, taking that sweaty, spent dick in his mouth and slowly coaxing it to new life… all of it was powerfully alluring, and completely impossible. He had no intention of getting caught or of living his life as a fugitive. He was too comfortable and would not throw it all away for a fleeting moment of fun.

Thus: the video. It had the two-fold benefit of keeping Sid safely removed from the action, and of being re-watchable ad infinitum. The only recordings would be in his possession. Really, the only risk factor was Jeremy himself. Now that he had figured it out, Jeremy was the only one who could plausibly tie Sid to the predicament he was enduring. His body would eventually be found, but all Sid needed was for Jeremy to have stopped using it by the time that happened. Then his death would just be a very elaborate suicide. There would be no DNA or any other evidence from Dr. Sidney Forrester to be found anywhere near the scene of what the police would decide probably wasn’t even a crime.

Sid contented himself with watching the ongoing show.

Cocksucking bastard… that ass-licking, shit-sucking little fuck… that cocksucking asswipe He knew he was repeating himself, but the litany of insults focused his attention – and the blame for his predicament – where it squarely belonged and took his mind, just a little bit, off his body’s unending agony. Just getting through a minute was an ordeal. One single minute. How was he going to endure what was likely to be hours more until his body finally broke down and gave up?

It made perfect sense. It all fit. Those “lost time” episodes… he had never had those before starting the court-mandated therapy sessions, never. And that snot-nosed, cocksucking troll had lied right to his face and told him it was nothing to worry about. And all the while, he was busily programming Jeremy to fuckin’ crucify himself. Because that’s what this was, Jeremy could see it now. He was crucified. There was no wooden cross, no nails, none of the other trappings that he had ignored back in that Sunday school his mom had tried to put him in for a few weeks when he was a kid. But the result was the same. He was crucified, and he was most likely going to die on this cross, but probably not for a long, long time yet.

And that rat’s-cunt-licking bastard was getting off on this! He was watching Jeremy right now, through those four cameras, getting off on Jeremy’s suffering! Oh, if he had that asswipe here right now, he’d slam the fucker’s head against the wall, he’d kick him right in the groin, send the faggot’s nuts straight up through his body and out his fuckin’ throat, that’s what he’d do. See how well the little shit could get his rocks off when they were sticking out his mouth where his tongue should be…

Only that wasn’t really going to happen, was it? No. Because he was stuck to a wall, hanging by wrists and ankles and unable to scratch his own nose, let alone bash in the head of the guy who put him here. There wasn’t going to be any vengeance.

Unless…

“Hey. Hey, if anyone else is watching this, if anyone can see this, I want you to know: it looks like I did this to myself, but I didn’t. The guy you want is Dr. Foster, Dr… what the hell is his name, David… Seymour? No… Peter…? Dammit, I dunno his first name. But his last name’s Foster. He’s a shrink and he’s got an office on… it’s that big building… in the… not Elizabeth, the other… in that big… he did this. Yeah… He did this to me. He used some kind of… I dunno… mind-control, made me think… I was taking a shower… in the lost time, so if you can see this… if anyone can… shit…”

The torrent of words stopped; Jeremy was out of air. He gulped in several deep breaths, straining his tired thigh muscles to lift himself up so his chest could expand until his legs could support him no longer and he collapsed back down, spitting out occasional garbled phrases like “nail the fucker” and “didn’t do this”, words that made no sense even to himself.

Sid’s heart had leapt to his throat when Jeremy first started his speech. What if the impossible had happened? What if someone else had found out how to tune in to the encrypted video stream and was listening as Jeremy blamed Sid for his situation? Even though the odds of that happening were infinitesimally small, the words of his victim made him shiver with dread all the same. But then, as the rambling, unfocused rant continued, he felt more and more at ease. Jeremy couldn’t even remember Sid’s name! The last name was close enough to accurate that a dedicated investigator would be able to find Sid from it by looking through Jeremy’s court records (even though his downtown office was nowhere near Elizabeth Avenue), but even if the worst happened and some investigator came by inquiring about the unusual death of one of Sid’s former patients, the accusation was laughable. Mind-control? A “shower in the lost time”? Bring on the cow-abducting aliens and the tinfoil hats! He pictured sharing a laugh with the investigator, then a pious moment to mourn the unfortunate but unsurprising passing of a troubled young man, and then life would go on as usual.

No one else would ever know that the doomed man’s raving, ill-expressed accusations were all true.

His cock had softened up a bit during his distraction, but it began to stiffen again as his confidence returned. There was no way this would ever be traced back to him. No one else was watching the stream, and Sid would keep the recordings in removable offline storage, encrypted and marked “patient confidential”. His secret was safe, and always would be.

So weak now. So hard to breathe. Hanging by the arms he couldn’t get enough air. But his legs… so tired.

But he couldn’t stop himself. His body was running on auto-pilot, beyond his conscious control. The hunger for air would grow overpowering, and he just had to gulp some in, even though that meant forcing himself up on his exhausted legs for the thousandth time, and they ached so bad when he made them move, like they had rusted in place and now he had to break them to get them moving again. He’d stand for a few seconds, sucking wind, and his arms would start tingling as the blood started flowing again, and then his legs would give out and he’d sink slowly back down, slowly because it hurt too much if he just let them collapse, and his chest would scream at being pulled apart again, and shooting pains would fly down from his wrists to his shoulders. And then he’d hang there, trying to keep the air moving, but the minutes would pass by and he would forget to breathe because it took so much work to stay focused on moving the air in and out and some other pain drew his attention, and then the cycle would start all over again and this was going to be how it was for the entire rest of his life, this endless cycle of pain and suffocation and strain all over his whole entire body…

“Jeremy, it’s time to come. Ten… nine… eight…”

Ah, shit. Not again. What was this, the fourth time?

“Seven… six… five… four…”

Impossible as it seemed, his body reacted just as it had every time before. He could feel the buildup toward orgasm forming in his head, and it actually was enough to distract him from his constant agony, enough that he felt almost pain-free in comparison.

“Three… two… one… now shoot.”

And he did. And it was a pathetic little spark of an orgasm, but while it lasted nothing else mattered and he actually felt good again because he didn’t notice his flaming arms and his wasted legs and the constant burning of his lungs, he only noticed the happy surges of pleasure as his limp dick spat a few more drops of his sperm down onto the floor.

Then it was over, and all the pain came surging back, stronger than ever. Ten seconds after the orgasm’s peak, Jeremy’s body convulsed. He had to move, he had to break free, he could not stay trapped in this horrifying position for one second longer or he would die, he would go insane, his head would explode, he absolutely had to get down right this second.

But the second passed, and he stayed pinned, still hanging. And the next second passed. And the next.

Jeremy rose up on his legs, took in as deep a breath as he could muster, and screamed at the top of his lungs.

Sid’s fourth orgasm wasn’t quite in time with Jeremy’s. He was not a young man any more! When Jeremy’s cock was dribbling a thin pale stream onto the floor and his face was lost in a fleeting moment of ecstasy, Sid was still working his dick toward its peak, trying to catch up. It was a few seconds later, as Jeremy’s brief moment of pleasure was ending and the agony washed back over him stronger than ever before, that Sid was able to reach the crest himself. The scream pushed him over the edge, the deep, full-throated bellow of a man enduring the unendurable.

Oh, the man was suffering most exquisitely! Physically, he looked no different now than he had four hours earlier when he had first ascended his cross and kicked over the chair, permanently trapping himself in place. His arms were stretched out to the sides, his legs were slightly bent beneath him. There was very little difference in appearance from the start of his ordeal to now. And yet, clearly four hours had made a great difference in what he was experiencing.

On a whim, Sid pulled up an image from the beginning of the show and set it side-by-side to the full-frontal shot. Ah, there was a difference, very subtle. In the early shot, Jeremy’s body made pretty much a T shape, the arms more or less straight out to left and right. Now he had sagged a bit more toward a Y. Part of that could be due to him taking more of his weight on his legs in the early shot, but Sid scrolled around until he found a frame from when Jeremy was giving his legs a rest, taking all the strain onto his arms. There was definitely less slack in the earlier image. Conclusion: Jeremy’s tendons and ligaments had stretched in the past four hours. Every joint would be feeling the effect, all up and down his arms, shoulders, chest, and back.

The facial cam revealed an even more visible difference. The face at the beginning had been pain-free, untroubled, a bit puzzled but not yet experiencing any worry or suffering. The face now, though, was haunted. Pain showed in every sweat-stained crease of muscle, in the stiff, frozen angle of the neck, in the eyes during those brief moments when they were open. Even if Sid were to walk in and set him free right now, this was a man forever changed. There would always be a memory of this relentless pain visible in those eyes, no matter how many years may pass. But that would not happen; there would be no release. This show would go on until its inevitable conclusion. The face knew it. The face was that of a man who knew that every single one of his remaining minutes would be exactly like this one, only worse.

Hurts so bad… can’t stop hurting… just gotta die… gotta stop breathing… pass out… hurts everywhere… gotta end this…

Jeremy had tried… hours ago, days ago… to hold his breath, to stop his heart, to swallow his tongue and choke on it. Nothing worked. His body refused to not try to go on living for as long as it could, genetic programming for survival embedded so deep in his cells that he could not consciously override it. Even though he had lost all hope of ever getting down off this wall, his body continued to fight for survival, mindlessly prolonging its own agony.

His fingers were completely numb. He could not move them at all. His hands were blocks of wood attached to the ends of his arms, not a part of him any more. His arms were numb in places, too, except when fiery lances of pain shot through them when he moved. His legs didn’t feel like a part of him either. They had frozen in place and literally cracked and creaked whenever he moved them. So he tried not to move at all because the only thing movement brought was pain. But then he would find himself moving anyway, sending fire crackling up and down his spine, even as he told himself he wouldn’t. His body overrode his will, just as it had through this whole ordeal. It had hung him up here without his consent or even his awareness; now it kept him alive, surging upward so he could bring in air, continuing to exist for no purpose other than to experience agony. And he couldn’t stop it.

He wondered if he had ever been in control. Of anything.

A voice sounded in his ear. It was sort of familiar. He couldn’t make any sense of any of the sounds, but as the voice went on he felt an odd sensation, distant and remote, like it was happening to someone else. All of this was happening to someone else. There was a twitching convulsion somewhere in his belly, a brief flicker of something that wasn’t pain, but in a moment it was gone and the universe continued on as it had always done, a universe of agony, a universe of pain, a universe filled with the suffering of one man, buried and alone, suffering that would go on and on and on until the end of time.

Eight orgasms. Eight! It was incredible. Far more than the five Sid had predicted hours ago. He himself had given up after four; there was no way he could keep up with a hypnotically-programmed 22-year-old. It was amazing how, even in extreme distress, the programming continued to work. Sid suspected that Jeremy was past the point of understanding language any more; he hadn’t spoken a recognizable word in over an hour. And yet the particular combination of sounds that used to represent certain meanings in his brain still served to trigger the same autonomic response from his limbic system, even after the part of the brain that converts sound to meaning had broken down. Hypnosis operated on a level deeper than consciousness, deeper than awareness.

The lad truly was astonishingly susceptible to suggestion. It was almost a shame to burn him up in only one use. The adventures Sid could have with such a pliant tool… but no. Trying to keep him around for multiple sessions was too dangerous. This was the way it had to be. One glorious, all-too-brief moment.

The entire night had passed; the light of morning was starting to filter in through the windows. Jeremy had been hanging for eight and a half hours. Dehydration was setting in – Sid had seen no fresh sweat on the crucified man’s skin for some time now, and he hadn’t urinated at all during his ordeal. His body was recycling its water, mindlessly going through the motions of another useless survival strategy ultimately doomed to fail.

He – Sid – was getting tired. Jeremy was too, of course, but it had been a long time since Sid had last pulled an all-nighter. It would be a shame to miss his victim’s final moment, but then, how would he know when that moment arrived? There would be no dramatic last words, no full-body tension abruptly falling slack like in the movies. Jeremy’s end would be long and slow and gradual, and from this remove there would be no way to be sure when it actually arrived. There would be no easy way to tell which lurching, pain-wracked climb upward for breath would be the last, or to detect when the heart had finally stopped pushing blood through the pinioned limbs.

Sid stood and stretched, sore from sitting so long hunched over a screen. It was time to do something else. He was too keyed up to sleep, and he certainly didn’t need any coffee. Maybe go for a run? That seemed like a good plan. All the feeds were being recorded – he could come back at any time to see what Jeremy was up to. A strong ox like him might last all the rest of this day, maybe even make it through part of tomorrow before finally succumbing to the inevitable. Sid didn’t need to watch the whole thing. A few hours from now, he could start at the recordings’ current position and work backward until he saw movement. That would tell him whether the hopeless fight for survival was still underway. Maybe zero in on the every-seventy-minute moments to see if there was any tell-tale dribble from the dick that would indicate autonomic brain function was still taking place even if Jeremy’s conscious mind had ceased to exist.

Sid finished tying on his running shoes and bounced on his toes. Heading out the door into the dewy morning, he found that yesterday’s gloom had passed and the sky was clear and filled with the promise of bright sunshine to come. He set off down the street at an easy lope, not looking at all toward the north where a certain abandoned processing plant would have been visible behind its sealed chain link barrier, instead admiring the golden pink glow ahead of him in the east, feeling charged with energy, as if he could take to the air and fly.

Truly, this was a glorious day to be alive.

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