Inmates of the Bunker

[scotty2]

At the centre of the cellblock stood the wooden pozzing table. Iconic, emotive, chilling, and ever present. It was there when they woke up and when they went to sleep, its presence never leaving them. There were ten cells in the block, each a cage with a bunk, a toilet, sink, and a small table. Here the men lived day in day out. They ate their meals in its shadow, shat and pissed in its presence and as evening drew in, unseen through concrete walls, they watched TV or played cards. This was no ordinary cellblock. It was built in the bowels of a secret Cold War bunker, deep in the countryside. Its inmates were no ordinary criminals. The men had volunteered to be incarcerated here. Each one, at different stages of their lives and from widely different circles had agreed to surrender his freedom. Each had different motives. One of them wanted to never see his bitch of a wife again, and was content to rest his weary soul in the strangely calming atmosphere. Another struggled with his own guilty secret, a crime long since committed and remembered only by him and his victim. Ten men, ten motives, one fate.

The block was staffed by three men, all uniformed, and all of them tough. They were not cruel men, and not kind either. They did the job asked of them and got no trouble from the inmates, the men docile and defeated, resigned. The guards lived in the secret bunker too. There was Thomas, a fifty-year old man who wanted to escape from his rat-race existence. There was Bob, a thirty-year old former plumber who smiled and joked with the inmates, and there was Arnold, a forty-year old ex-marine who had drifted aimlessly through his miserable years post discharge.

 

The guards reported to the governor of the bunker, a man none of the inmates had met other than by glimpsing him as he passed by their cells at night, his face hidden by a ski mask, his blue eyes evaluating each of them as he walked, secretly deciding their fates one by one. The guards knew him though, meeting him in his office daily, giving their reports, taking orders, and receiving their pay. Each guard had a small flat, but like the inmates their daily lives were lived out in the artificial halogen glare deep underground.

Andy was the newest inmate, and almost the oldest at forty-five. He lay on his bunk quietly, enjoying the quiet and savouring his cigarette. It was the smell of the place that he had first noticed when they had brought him here, a kind of damp, entombed raw smell. He hadn't minded. He barely cared about anything anymore. The advert had intrigued him and excited him for that reason. He had been happy to disappear underground. His car was parked in the field half a mile away, near the secret concrete entrance, its battery long since flat, the tax expired.

Through the bars, in the neighbouring cell was Jorge, a sweet lad from Spain. Jorge was an angel but one who suffered from huge doses of toxic shame and whose soft, brown eyes betrayed years of hurt. At just nineteen, Jorge was the youngest inhabitant of the bunker. He smiled at Andy through the bars. Andy returned the smile, and asked "Do you want some chocolate, son?"

 

"Sure," Jorge replied with pleasure.

 

They both stopped talking. It was Arnold, they could tell by his footsteps. Arnold was stood at the entrance to Jorge's door. "Hey, sonny," Arnold barked. Jorge knelt at the door. The guard pulled out his thick, ten-inch cock. Jorge's mouth was watering. He looked up at the handsome, well-built ex-marine whose fat uncut cock jutted so enticingly through his uniform. "You suck me nice and I'll bring you a box of goodies," promised Arnold. Jorge began to suck, his smooth cheeks dimpled, the head of Arnold's nasty cock jutting through the thin skin. Drool dripped over Jorge's chin onto his neck, soaking the light blue shirt, which all inmates wore.

"How come you never want me to suck your cock then?" joked Andy, watching from his bunk. His cock was hard.

 

"Can you suck like this lad can?" asked Arnold breathlessly.

 

"Sure," replied Andy. He smiled. "Is it because I am too old for you? Just like the twinks, do you?"

 

Arnold chuckled, his hands firmly on Jorge's curly locks. "No, I don't care. If you like, you can suck me tomorrow."

 

"It's a deal," replied Andy. He stroked his erect cock longingly. He was not allowed to cum. None of them were. Only one a week were they taken one by one to the medic's office. The medic was an attractive Sikh man of thirty, bearded and handsome. He would take their cocks in his hands, stroking them, gently rubbing their glans, feeling their balls, sticking a latex-covered finger up their asses until they came. The medic collected their spent cum in a saucer, later pouring it into a mould and freezing it for later.

Andy heard Jorge choke softly and then Arnold gasped and moaned. Thick jets of cum filled the teenager's aching mouth. Arnold's cum was clean. He'd been tested. They all had. The governor had insisted. Jorge swallowed obediently, the creamy, bitter liquid sliding down like medicine. Arnold zipped up his trousers and handed the young lad his box of gifts. Later Andy and Jorge discussed the contents. There was chocolate, cigarettes, some fresh fruit. Jorge shared a jar of peanut butter with Andy.

 

"How's it going?" asked Ted, an attractive thirty-year old American boy from New York. Ted had been in the bunker over three months. He looked good in his light blue shirt, white t-shirt and grey jogging pants.

 

"Good," replied Andy. "You?"

 

"Yeah, good," replied Ted. "Listen, you guys finished eating yet, cos I kinda need to take a dump."

 

"Yes," replied Jorge. Ted, still self-conscious after all those weeks, switched on the radio. He pulled down his jogging pants and his red briefs and sat on the metal toilet in his cell. Secretly Jorge watched him, intrigued by the American's dark beauty and his most intimate of acts. Ted looked at the floor. Andy read his book, diplomatically ignoring the tell-tale sounds. Soon it would be his turn and communal life demanded a degree of mutual consideration and discretion.

The evening was going quietly. The inmates watched their small TVs, earphones on, the outside world ignored. No-one heard the footsteps. Four sets of feet walked along the corridor, until they came to the door of Jorge's cell. Jorge was dozing, his sweet, innocent face smiling in sleep. "Him," said the governor, his blue eyes filled with lust, his face hidden. "It's to be him." Arnold nodded, sadly.

To be continued.......

This is a work of fiction. It is not real, is not intended to be real, and is not an endorsement or promotion of deliberate risk-taking. It's a personal fantasy.

[scotty2]

Jorge awoke and instinctively looked at the men in the corridor. He knew. He sat up, nervous, shocked. Oh no, he thought. He had grown used to his cozy cell and his light-less life. He had begun to think this day would never come. But it had. "Follow me, Jorge," said the governor, his face hidden.

 

"Can I take my things?" asked Jorge, trembling.

 

"We'll get them for you. Just come with us." Bob, the youngest guard held his hand towards the cowering teenager. "Come on, son," he repeated. Jorge stood up. Arnold, whose cum Jorge had so recently imbibed, looked away.

Jorge was led to the holding suite, a group of rooms near the pozzing table. "Undress son," said Bob firmly. Jorge stripped down to his tight red briefs. His eight-inch cock was hard, tenting the cotton material. "When?" asked Jorge. "When will it be?"

 

"Soon," replied Bob, "in a few hours."

 

"Take down your panties, son," said Arnold softly. Jorge peeled off the red underpants and handed them over. He was smooth, shaved, his fat teencock rockhard and dripping precum. Bob beckoned him over to the metal toilet, where he stood with the pointed metal shower attachment.

Jorge sat miserably on the cold metal toilet as the water jetted out of him. Bob sat at the table reading the newspaper and Arnold made tea. They'd been at this for over an hour now. "I think I am finished," said Jorge.

 

"Stand up and show me," said Bob. The guard looked over the rim of the toilet. He nodded. Jorge sat on the edge of the medic's bed, his mouth open as the doctor examined his throat with a torch. He winced as the man probed his throat with latex-covered fingers. Without a word of explanation the medic then pulled a a needle from his bad, and took a sample sample of blood from Jorge, afterwards placing a sticking plaster over the tiny wound.

 

"You can go and have a shower now," said Bob. "When you are finished you can have your special dinner. Anything you like.  Okay?"

 

Jorge nodded.

[Elof]

Interesting start

[BBCumPigGA]

definitely hope you'll keep going with this! Pretty good start!