Track’s head pounded, and he twisted his neck to further press his head to the mattress. He blinked hard, remembering the last thing he’d seen when he was conscious. The woman, the one who had him strapped in the chair, had injected him with something that sent him careening back into oblivion, and now he felt as if his body had been pushed through a ringer. Joints ached, his muscles felt like they did in the aftermath of an over-exuberant workout, even the tips of his fingers hurt.
The only thing that didn’t hurt was the part of his anatomy that had gotten him in trouble in the first place. His dick was hard, achingly so, and an exploratory grasp of his member made him moan with the pleasure of it. In addition to the dull pain he felt all over, Track wasn’t sure if he’d ever been so horny, though his arms ached too much to entertain the idea of masturbation for long.
He managed to right himself, rewarded for his efforts by a new wave of pain. His eyes burned with the bright white light emitted by the LED bulbs overhead, hidden away by metal grates. A heavy-looking door stood across from him, a bureau with a wide mirror beside that and a television mounted on the wall to the right of the bureau. It was on, and a pornographic movie played with the sound turned down. He couldn’t hear anything from the movie (but what did that matter, really?), but even in his weakened state, his hungry cock kept him staring at the scene of a bouncy blonde with clearly fake tits being fucked from behind.
His bed was bolted to the wall, too, much like he imagined a prison cot would be fastened. Parallel to the bed was another door, this one open, and he could make out a bathroom beyond, including a sink and counter that was littered with bottles of varying sizes and colors. There was also a collection of cylindrical pill bottles. It was this that got Track motivated enough to rise from the bed, noting he was bare save for a gray pair of boxer briefs.
The pills were labeled, but without any sort of brand names, only uses. One said “Hair,” while another was labeled “Pain.” It was the last that Track fumbled with, then opened, cursing child-proof bottles as he shook two small white pills into his palm. There were other pill bottles, too, with the cryptic monikers of “Face” or “Body.” He tossed his head back, grimacing at the spike in pain in his head and the joints in his neck, then swallowed down the small pills, lips curling at the sour taste of medicine.
He staggered back to the bed, even more conscious of the erection that tented his underwear, and he fumbled around on the bed for the remote to shut off the images parading on the television. The girl who had been taking it from behind was now on her back, hands on the balls of her feet as she spread herself wide for another man, an onlooker stroking his large cock behind the two of them preparing for his turn.
Track wasn’t one for pornography, usually, or at least not of this variety, but he was also not accustomed to feeling such an urge to cum, an aching need to bring himself to orgasm. He imagined there were cameras in the room, watching him, waiting for him to debase himself for the cameras. He would not give them the satisfaction, he resolved, a task made easier by the pain that still throbbed in every inch of him.
Rolling onto his side, he watched the screen, his hand finding its way into his briefs where he held and squeezed his cock, content to feel the pressure there if not to stroke himself to climax. Eventually, he slept, and he dreamed of the pair of men readying themselves for sex.
