Chapter Six - Whisked to Chessu

Chapter Six

Yes, with the only sensory input being feel, and that which is felt monotonous and mechanical, the sudden human touch horripilates but also brings a sense of comfort. Comfort until the kneading fingers leave the buttocks and Jay Blaine feels the inflated nozzle of his anal tube being maneuvered. He feels it shift about, someone examining. Then comes a slight pull... then firm... then firmer. Extraction is attempted and his anus yields not to the well inflated insertion. He feels the connecting tube oscillate, someone continuing to inspect. Then the nozzle deflates.

Jubilation... but not for long.

The nozzle slithers outward. In place of the rectal tube Jay Blaine feels a finger... large, rough, far from the smooth well manicured digits which have so often explored there. Cavity searches in jail were frequent and brusk... but always female fingers and always quick. This ‘search’ lingers.

When a second digit works within, Jay’s heart sinks, wishing to be returned to his imaginary world of nothingness and dreams of women of authority. Instead, his imagination hears a sardonic chortle... a male chortle. The chortle of a lonely seaman, frustrated by forced chastity, bored by his only sexual release, his right hand. He has found entertainment... he has found joy... he has found pleasure... he has found Madam Soong’s secret cargo, somehow deciphering, decoding, unmasking the disguise... that the ‘refrigerated’ container is not in fact refrigerated.

As the digits withdraw, Jay Blaine’s gloom sinks his psyche. Lying stomach down, bent at the waist, thighs, calves and feet lowered, legs parted for the catheter and rectal tube, his rear aperture beckons. The tightness of his bonds make resistance impossible. He can only lie and take what is to be offered... and he has not long to wait.

Yes, the gruff fingers are soon replaced by a smoother but larger ‘digit’. It easily works past a rectum made pliable by lubrication and the many days of forced anal feeding and evacuation. Jay Blaine moans into nothingness as what feels like a log continuously works its way into his viscera.

Finally the slow motion stops as Jay is chagrined to feel warmth and tickling hairiness about his well shaven scrotum. The sailor is all in, balls greeting balls as he pauses, most likely to momentarily revel in his conquest. Such serendipity, being able to sodomize at sea, and to so facilely penetrate a tight sphincter which not only cannot resist... but cannot later complain, report, describe or identify the assailant.

But is he even being assailed? Jay Blaine lies naked, well trussed, his forced posture seeming to beckon. He is a gift.

The inevitable begins. The turgid phallus withdraws, then as the bulbous tip stretches the purse string muscle of the rectum, it exits not but returns inward... with force. The assailant is comfortable... and his lust broils.

Jay Blaine worked hard to avoid such ignominious encounters during his brief tenure in the Los Angeles County jail. He avoided eye contact, asked no favors, granted no favors, stayed to himself, conforming to the recommended conduct to elude any homoerotic encounters, perceived as consensual or otherwise.

And now, as the property of Madam Soong and the Province of Chessu, he is being fucked.

The assailant’s rhythm slowly increases. The penetration somehow seems deeper. The level of lust rises. Jay Blaine can feel the sodomizer’s warmth transition to steamy hotness, the man’s balls slapping his with every powerful thrust.

Meanwhile, what is the reaction of Jay Blaine’s neglected and catheterized joystick?

He hopes he is not firming. What more humiliation then to offer a signal of arousal, to send a message of acceptance? More than acceptance, really. A message of desire!

Well muscled thrusts inward... more leisurely withdrawals... the assault continues with the benefit of complete isolation and timelessness. A vast ocean. An indistinguishable cargo ship. A ubiquitous shipping container... one of hundreds... perhaps thousands, it is invisible amongst the mass of normal cargo... auto parts... clothing... canned goods... the merchandise of the world.

How is it that this man struck relative gold? Finding something he could take but that would never be missed.

A slow thrust... deep. Then comes a more notable pause before withdrawal. Jay Blaine feels fingers working about his hood. Such slink beneath. Ear plugs right and left are slipped away. There follows the sound of a human voice, seeming to blare with the many days of silence and hushed machinery.

“You’re a good fuck. Nice and tight.”

The voice is deep, masculine... and accented. Slavic? Middle Eastern? It matters not.

The anal assault resumes... thrust... thrust... thrust. Then Jay feels the culmination as a jet of hot seed spurts well into his colon... then another thrust and another spurt... then another.

The man rests and Jay feels a hand glide beneath to grasp his catheterized penis. To add to the intensity of the degradation, Jay for the first time feels his own hardness. Despite catheterization Jay’s penis signals desire and in a parody of accommodation the hand briefly manipulates in a momentary teasing masturbatory stroke.

“Yes, Dr. Ann speculated that you would enjoy.”

Jay would like to protest, deny his perceived homoerotic reaction... that instead his neglected organ is reacting to the manipulation of his prostate. But he is gagged... and bound... and well presented for sodomy really.

Thoughts run uncontrollably as the fingers replace the ear plugs. A now flaccid penetrating organ withdraws in satiation. The hairy balls slip away. The anal nozzle returns, replacing the marauding phallus and inflating... tight... tighter... well stuffed.

Jay Blaine feels awkwardly grateful that the machine which induces whatever to his bowels... sustenance, cleansing, hydration... will also rid him of male seed so deeply implanted with the final lustful thrusts.

Lastly, he feels the fingers slip once again beneath his hood. He is embarrassed to have his left cheek tenderly pinched in a mocking gesture of thanks and affection.

Then comes the thud of the container doors and Jay Blaine is relieved in finding himself entombed and returned to the tedium of dark silence... to confront nothing other than the monotony of the mechanical apparatus offering oxygen, sustenance, water and the evacuation of bladder and bowels... when the machine so decides.

The cloth hood absorbs his tears. Then he feels his bladder, the sensation of being overfilled masked by the trauma of sodomy, empty, his machinery gratefully permitting long over due relief.

Oddly, he hums words of thanks to the apparatus which offers such attentive care.